Joel the Organist

Upon completing the previous blog on Joel, I realized most of the attention was on Joel as a listener and appreciator of music, but mention should be made that Joel is also a performing musician with his choice of media being the pipe organ or the electronic organ. In many ways, it is difficult to explain why he prefers the sound and style of the organ over other instruments and it is equally difficult to understand his desire and almost need to play hymns on an organ, and yet, there is no doubt, that Joel loves playing hymns on the organ.

The organ is considered the "king" of all the instruments with its almost infinite combinations of sounds and possibilities of range and dynamic extension not to mention the requirement to use both hands and feet in a complex display of virtuosity and musical comprehension. Organists are generally highly intelligent, detail oriented, multi-dimensioned, with a quiet strength and self-confidence born from playing an instrument with the capability of dominating all other sound.

Unlike a piano which relies on a pedal to provide for a sustained quality, the organ has a smooth, sustained quality that requires a special playing technique of connecting the notes by pressing the next note at the same moment the previous one is lifted. The result is a beautiful non-percussive approach to playing that allows for great expression and elision of musical phrases.

As was mentioned in an earlier blog, Joel's propensity to see the world "non-percussively," optimistically, and harmoniously, and his preference for smooth music without the harsh angles often found in music is manifested in the type of music he enjoys hearing and performing. Related to this is his speech which often lacks definition, articulation, and even volume. He intends to speak clearly, enunciate accurately, and loudly enough to be heard, but the result is often somewhat slurred, hesitant, and at a low dynamic. In an odd, but not necessarily negative way, Joel's speech patterns resemble that of an organ: connected, non-percussive, rich, pleasant, and congenial.

In conclusion, I believe that Joel's preference for hymns and marches is indicative of his general positive demeanor, total tolerance, and acceptance of all things good. I also contend that his desire to practice the organ is an extension of his own unusual approach to speaking and his preference for connected sounds rather than angular, sharp sounds. This is, of course, difficult or maybe impossible to prove, but nevertheless Joel continues to enjoy playing hymns on the organ and he is very happy to practice for several hours a day. His tendency to repeat the same hymn in the same way will be dealt with at another time.

Joel the Musician

To define the character traits of a musician is to limit and even endanger the creative individuality of the human spirit that creates, interprets, and expresses the many facets of what music means, and the emotion surrounding the creation and enjoyment of sound. But, indeed, and rather strangely, there are some general characteristics often found in many musicians, such as emotionalism, spontaneity, complexity, that are not displayed by our son Joel who loves music as much as anyone.

Most musicians, performers, composers, appreciators, scholars, have an element of creativity and expression that require emotional demonstration in some form or another. According to Aristotle, music helps purify and organize unwanted emotions by reaching into the brain and beyond and into the soul of the human, and then clarifying and sometimes systematizing those feelings that are difficult to put into words. Music, and the arts in general, allow for expression of emotions which in turn purify or provide catharsis for the human spirit.

Joel may not have all the typical characteristics of autism, incidentally, in fact, very few autistic children have absolutely all the qualities that traditionally define autism, but he does have two distinguishable traits often found in children with his disability. Joel displays a marked lack of emotional personal creativity, and connected to this is an unusual objective expression of truth without emotional coloring. This enchanting and unusual quality requires him always to tell the truth in all situations without any additional human interpretation or supplementation of the situation. Joel seeks after joy, goodness, and light in all things and in all people without an awareness of any darkness that may exist in the world or any kind of hidden agenda. He finds the good in everyone and everything.

Because music demands emotional expression, it becomes a difficult but not impossible medium for Joel to understand and to apply. And yet, music is very meaningful to Joel in many ways despite the fact that he is unable to sing. His two favorite styles of music are the hymn and the march, both of which are organized, clean styles of music without the romantic, emotional excesses found in other genres. A majority of hymns are in 4 to 8 measure phrases with a repeated chorus, in a balanced poetic meter, with emphasis on the text, and mostly a singable tuneful melody. Similarly, a march with an introduction, first strain repeated, second strain repeated, trio, break strain, repeat trio, maintains a sense of balance, tonality, rhythmic energy, and melodic tunefulness. Both genres are organized, obvious, clean, enjoyable, uncomplicated, and musically pure.

Joel's inability to pass negative judgment prevents him from criticizing other types of music such as jazz, country western, rock, or atonality, but he does display marked appreciation and emotional response to hymns and marches. He furthermore loves hearing the organ playing almost anything. Psychologically, Joel seems to desire a consonant, dissonant free existence without the edginess and discomfort that are often a part of the ups and downs of normal living. An extension of this desire is the smooth, non-percussiveness of the organ playing hymns and the light enjoyable quality of marches.

Harmonically, most marches and most hymns are in a major key, giving them a buoyancy and unbounded optimism that easily match Joel's world-view and desire for a harmonious existence. Since most people tend to respond and appreciate music that matches their own philosophy, personality, and value system, it is easy to understand how hymns and marches played on the organ are a manifestation of Joel's own charm, warmth, and positive outlook on life. In Joel's world, the more hymns and marches heard, the better off we are! Maybe he has something there.

Lessons Learned from the Goats

Although far from being an expert, my limited time as an unsuccessful, inconsistent but zealous goat farmer has given me a new perspective on priorities. Theirs is a simple existence without the complexity of making choices and having to analyze every situation. At times their lack of intellect and creativity seems almost enviable, but in the end, they are just goats. Still, maybe there is an element of charm to their simplicity! Some of these are lessons the goats still need to learn as well.


10. Every now and then, go run and play.
9. Eat the right things and avoid the indigestible.
8. Rest at night.
7. There is safety and comfort among friends.
6. When you get butted, which happens often, don't give up.
5. Protect your children, they are worth it.
4. Stay clean and keep the germs away.
3. Express your happiness at the simple joys of life.
2. Seek cover when it rains.
1. Don't stick your head in a fence, it is hard to get out without help!

The Volunteer

Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew it was time for her nightly journey to fulfill the promise she had made. She looked in on her children before heading out of the door to her 1957 Mercury that although it had some scratches and some dents, it was the only car they had. The old car was far from perfect but to the family of five, it was a limousine of the highest order.

Before leaving the house, as she had done countless times, she made sure her youngest, a little girl of 3, was warm and comfortable, glanced at her other daughter, a 5 year old in the nearby bed, walked across the hall, smiled at the poster of the motorcycle that her 8 year old son kept on the wall, kissed her husband goodnight, whispered in his ear that she loved him and that she would be back in time to make him breakfast, and left the house for the center.

It had all begun a few years before when her good friend from grade school had shown up at her house with their 6 year daughter. The little girl was severely mentally handicapped and the family could no longer take care of her. The physical and emotional strain had eventually been too demanding on the family and although a difficult decision, it was time to put her in an institution. But the fear of leaving her there among strangers was too great for the loving family who lived far away, and on the way, they stopped to see their good friend to ask her a question that would change the woman's life forever.

"We are going to place our child in the school for the severely handicapped. Would you check on our little girl and make sure she is okay?"

These words would both haunt her and comfort her for the rest of her life. She often recalled that moment of hesitation as she considered her answer. What did this mean exactly? What did "check on" require? Did she want to do this? Would it take much time and energy? Could she really make a difference? These thoughts and more ran through mind rapidly before hearing herself say, "I promise to look after her."

Now the words "I promise" are often used haphazardly in today's world as a way to placate another person or to demonstrate a pretension of sincerity with no intention of keeping the promise. But to the woman, a wife and mother of 3, the words "I promise" represented a verbal commitment to long-term responsibility.

She recalled, wryly, her first time to visit the center. Instead of the sweet, learning disabled children she expected to see and to spend effort helping by reading to them, playing games, and telling stories, she found a crowded room full of severely handicapped children whose limitations were beyond the scope of her imagination. As she stared in astonishment at the scene before her, every part of her being wanted to run out of the room, never to return; and yet, she continued to stare, frozen in place, with a mixture of fear and determination as she recalled her promise to watch out for the little girl whose mother was a friend. Would it matter to the little girl? Would the people ever truly know whether she kept her promise or not? Strangely, these questions never entered her mind.

She found the child among the others and began the process of helping her, not trying to remake her, as she originally intended, but simply helping. She helped her wash her hands, eat her food, get dressed, put on her shoes, walk across the room, sit down, stand up, share her toys, play a game, hold a book, smell the flowers, throw the ball, hug a friend, hold hands, and mostly to love the life she had been given. As the woman helped the little girl, she felt herself change, and with the same grit and determination that gave her 3 children, a husband, a home, a life that although not always easy was filled with over-flowing love, she embraced her promise and her responsibility and began volunteering on a regular basis.

Each night when all had turned in and with her family safely in bed, full from dinner, relaxed and happy, her husband asleep, she would go to the family car, drive to the center and begin her work as a volunteer. Cleaning, gathering materials, counseling, redirecting behavior, sewing, washing, hugging, praising, encouraging, and doing everything she could to help the institution and the clients within. Her own children never knew of the woman's efforts since all took place while they were sleeping. They did know that each morning they saw their bright, happy mother and ate of the delicious breakfast before them as they prepared to go to school.

The years eventually became a full-time paid position for the special woman who had remained dedicated to her calling and fulfilled her promise. While she did earn her degree and became a leader among social workers, garnering respect and admiration everywhere she went, she did so without fanfare or self-accolades, but always with excellence and uncompromising devotion. The initial promise resulted in 45 years of making a difference in the lives of thousands of special children.

A heart-felt thanks to the volunteer for sharing of so much of yourself, your time, and your gifts.

The Rose Bush--Pt. III

Our friend, the little rose bush, sang merrily, walking along, touching various plants and participating in the natural joys of the world in which he lived, including the soft fuzziness of the dusty miller, the gentleness of grass beneath his feet, the sensitive and lovely petunias, the rich orchids, and the dedicated tomato plants which preoccupied the humans' attention more than anything else in the garden. Because the conduct of the humans was not to the liking of the little rose bush, he elected to ignore them and continue his journey and exploration of the garden without allowing his curiosity to be emotionally inhibited by their callous behavior.

He was amiable to all he encountered, except for those odd humans who remained rude and oblivious to the little rose, and he attempted to strike up conversation with the caterpillars and the plants who would converse. An outsider might consider the dialog to be banal, lacking in depth, and providing no sense of goal-direction, but to our walking rose bush in the garden of joy, it was exactly the preferred content for relaxed enjoyment. "Hi! Are you having a good day?" To which the caterpillar would answer, "Yes, I am happy and feeling good!" The little rose bush would smile and ask the bunny rabbit, who had returned to the garden after noticing the rose bush was no longer singing, "Hello! It is good to see you again. How is life treating you?" The bunny rabbit said with hidden irony, "Much better now, thank you." The rose bush smiled and decided not to think about why things were now better for the bunny rabbit.

All in all it was a happy day in the garden until he noticed that the dirt beneath his feet felt rather....well, rather dirty. Where this thought came from, he was not sure, for this was a new and unpleasant situation to our little rose bush having spent most of his life in dirt and never thinking anything negative about it. Previously, dirt had been home and something to enjoy and something in which to be prideful and something created for a sense of permanency and foundational for beauty in nature. Now, however, the dirt had become corrupt, diseased, a habitation for bacteria, a barrier to cleanliness, and the source for all things bad in the world. Suddenly the little rose bush felt a desperate need to get rid of the dirt and avoid it at all costs. In some ways, he did not enjoy these new and disturbing emotions, but at the same time, they seemed to be natural and out of control.

Dwelling on the dirt led him to think about the other ugly objects that surrounded him. He noticed the blotches on the flowers, the inconsistent and knobby bark on the trees, the worms seeking to destroy the tomatoes, the dark weeds creeping their way around the plants, the sharp rocks residing in the dirt, the despicable odors of the bugs and the fertilizer. What once had seemed joyous and blissful had become tension filled and frightening with very little redeeming qualities. This led him to question his unusual appearance of having arms and legs with 7 fingers and 7 toes, and in a rare, but poignant moment, he knew beyond any doubt that within him resided the 7 virtues and the 7 deadly sins, which although he could not define them, he was frighteningly aware of their existence. With this realization of light and dark, he hoped the virtues would overcome the sins, but more than that, he began to wish for an earlier time when he knew neither good nor evil.

Staring at the dirt and experiencing great queasiness in his stomach caused him to double over and to try and rid his feet of the clods that were touching him. But as he began to sweep the dirt away, he saw that his hands with 7 fingers and the tiny thorns on them that pained him on every touch, were causing a sharp almost metallic irritation that increased with each additional touch, and reached down into the core of his being. He looked, and for the first time realized that there were thorns all over his torso, and each thorn had an ugly, hideous appearance exacerbated by a surrounding flaming infection. A moment of reflection reminded him that the thorns had at one time been a normal part of his life and caused no pain, no sensitivity, and required no emotional effort. This moment lasted but a few seconds as his fear of the thorns returned, only to realize the thorns were growing quickly and threatening to stab everything in the garden.

Suddenly he heard an awful noise, similar to clap of thunder several octaves higher, and whirling around to find the source of the terrible sound, he saw something he would never forget and could not completely comprehend. He stared, frozen in place, hoping the terror in front of him was not real but knowing it had indeed really happened, and knowing beyond any doubt that his witnessing of the event had changed him forever. Too ghastly for description, the horror caused the little rose bush to lose his sanity to a world nobody should know.

Without cognition and in an emotional cyclone, he felt himself whirling around and around, spinning out of control, losing his legs, losing his arms, losing the horrid, growing thorns, and feeling the 7 sins as well as the 7 virtues leave his body, and returning to his former state as a sweet little rose bush in the garden. It had happened over a period of years in the space of a second.

All was well in the garden by the house with a family, a dog, and a white picket fence and since there is no such thing as unicorns, the little rose bush was still in the same spot as always, looking regal, and glistening with dew, and feeling that old feeling of contentment and joy. The frightening journey had not really occurred and he smiled as only a rose bush can smile and relished the upcoming day. Yet, for the first time, he was aware that around his stem were thorns, thorns that caused pain. To rid himself of such dark thoughts, he sang a song as our story ends.

"I am so happy here in my world,
Shining in the sun so bright.
It is fun to be simple,
And I do not enjoy the night.

Forever will I be content,
And never seek to know,
I am a little rose bush,
With my petals all aglow."

Knowledge is gain. Or is it?

The Rose Bush--Pt. II

Our little rose bush had never been so ecstatically happy with his new appendages that allowed him great freedom to walk about and touch and learn so many exciting things, to assuage his new curiosity, to discover the joys of the world, to feel the other flowers, to experience the emotion in the environment, and to know what was previously unknown, to love and to be loved, to bask in the bakery of life's desserts, and mostly to partake in all the pleasures presented on the plate.

It was not that the little rose bush had been unhappy with his life as a typical rose bush, rather he had always known contentment and total acceptance of his position in life, not in a sense of resignation as to his own constrained existence, but, since he knew of nothing more, there was no desire for anything greater. Awareness of the other hill often leads to curiosity, which leads to desire for the grass on the other hill, which leads to a lack of satisfaction, which leads to envy and anger. Our little rose bush, however, did not know those emotions since there was no need to experience them and no reason for those feelings.

Walking and touching, the little rose bush found so many wonderful things and even some friends he did not know he had, including worms, caterpillars, spiders, crickets, aphids, and a small but lively bunny rabbit whose goal was to eat and hop, eat and hop. At first the other animals looked at the little rose bush rather strangely, but given the limited capacity to process information, they shortly accepted the oddity of a rose bush with arms, legs, and hands with 7 fingers. Soon everyone not only tolerated each others' differences and respected each others' strengths, each character seemed to draw abilities from the other to create a type of commune not unlike the balance achieved in nature's ecosystem of checks and balances.

The garden was a rich culture of plants, flowers, vegetables, and small fruit trees, all in various stages of growth but all equally healthy displaying the kind of personal attention and love necessary for vitality and beauty. The colors, with green being the prominent hue, were varied and included red, blue, pink, tan, orange, white, and many variations in between. The plants stood tall and received an appropriate balance of sunshine, water, shade, and the occasional natural fertilizer provided by wandering animals. It was a garden deserving of awards and a garden that projected love and physical and emotional health. A place to read, to sleep, to meditate, and to learn, both the plants and the animals. A place of rest, beauty, grandeur, and magnificence. A place for Everyman or in this case, every rose bush.

All were very happy especially the little rose bush who was full of the bliss of newness having never experienced anything so glorious in his previous life as an immobile, albeit beautiful rose bush in a garden by a lovely home in which resided a nice family. Strangely, the family continued its usual activities of checking the garden, leaving the home to run errands, and eating food appropriate to humans but not appetizing at all to the little rose bush. Yet, he was shocked that no family member acknowledged his new look, almost as though each person considered a walking and touching rose bush to be a common occurrence in the garden. Not only were they oblivious, they also seemed rather rude as they pruned, raked, pulled, and organized the garden.

What had henceforth been accepted by the rose bush as human behavior beneficial to the continued existence and success of the garden, now was invasive and violent. He was a little concerned about this and asked his new friends about it, "Why are those people who used to be nice, attacking our sweet garden and being mean?" His friends the insects said, "They are doing what they always do. It is neither nice nor mean." This answer confused the little rose bush who decided to ignore the humans and the insects and walk around some more touching all the things he could see. He sang a pretty song as he strolled through the garden,

"I am a little rose bush,
With brand new hands and legs.
In the garden I walk along,
And avoid the dirt with dregs.

It all seems rather new,
As I learn about what I see,
I am nervous about the future,
Hope I don't hit a tree."

He noticed that the bunny rabbit had run away and he wondered idly if his voice was unsatisfactory or if he just wasn't a good song writer. Since he had no way to compare the quality of his voice or his song to anyone or anything, he was perfectly contented with it and continued singing regardless of the lack of an appreciative audience.

The Rose Bush--Pt. I

Once upon a time there was a rose bush in a beautifully landscaped garden whose purpose was to provide lovely decoration for the nearby building, a home with a family, a dog, and a white picket fence. All was well in the garden and the little rose bush lived a contented and often pruned life of leisure without ambition, without curiosity, and without fear of destruction. Happy, yes but complete in awareness of what happy really could mean, no, and yet it was an enviable life for it had no knowledge of good or evil, truth or lies, joy or sorrow.

But as chance would have it, there lived a unicorn who, sadly, got lost from his family, wandered off many miles across the plains, which were not really plains but more like rolling hills with many wildflowers, but plains seems to be understood as a general term for the terrain, and arrived in the garden of the home where recognizing the need to relieve himself, he selected a nearby rose bush and promptly fertilized it, left the area, and went about finding his way home. Unfortunately, he never did find his way home but instead made a new life in a cave by the ocean inhabited by fairies who enjoyed sharing their home in the cave by the sea where strangely enough they lived anonymously for many years until their non-physical state eventually took its toll and all of them vanished never to be found nor even acknowledged for having existed.

Meanwhile, back home our little rose bush fell asleep and had a nightmare about a man on a horse who was jousting in the garden and accidentally stabbed the little rose with a long spear. The initial stab was shocking in that it was unexpected and was a new sensation that seemed both wrong and right at the same time and resulted in a confused state not unlike those pruning times that although necessary and beneficial were not necessarily pleasant and inevitably caused a feeling of loss and gain each time. After the shocking stab, the little rose was removed from the bush and began to rise in the air and grew ugly and fat as it looked down on the rest of the garden with undeserved pride and arrogance. In the air, the fat, ugly rose changed color and became gray with scars all over its petals in a suspended state of horror that caused the rose to quake and scream. The aberration began to grow in its core, but also lose its outer covering. Petals began to peel, fall off, and as the thing neared the implosion point, the little rose bush woke up confused but also relieved that it was just a dream, a silly dream at that, not even worth another thought.

It was early but the little rose bush decided to go ahead and begin the day. Each day normally began with the rising of sun, an opportunity to glow as the sun rose and shone on the mystic dew that gently glistened on each petal, providing the rose bush a chance to blush with pride about his beauty. But today, as the rose bush waited patiently for the sun and smiled with anticipation, he realized he had changed. He had grown arms and legs during the night.

Now the little rose bush did not know about the unicorn that had fertilized it during the night. All he knew was that he went to sleep a rose bush and had awakened a walking and touching rose bush. He jumped with joy and began to walk around, gingerly at first, and then more boldly and aggressively, without any kind of sense of tenderness or compassion for the ground beneath its feet. But the newly found legs with feet and lots of toes did not have as much interest as the new hands, hands with 7 fingers and tiny thorns that gave each hand a special strength and an appearance that on any other object would be frightening but on our little rose bush seemed rather charming. The hands were fascinating to the little bush and he couldn't seem to stop touching things everywhere he went.

He began to explore the garden where he lived, reaching out and touching everything he could see. He had never had so much fun, so he sang a little song:

"Life is now so very grand
For a bush that holds a rose.
Attached to me is a hand
As well as 14 toes.

It is all so very fun
As I walk in the dirt.
I look up at the sun
And may I never hurt."

Finding Your Niche

I could hear the crowd cheering wildly as I once again crossed home plate, a common event for me that summer, having hit a home run and driven in several runs to take the lead, becoming the hero of the team, the leading hitter, and the greatest over-achieving 8 year old in baseball history, at least for that day and perhaps for that entire season. It was a summer of success and monumental meaning for a skinny little kid without much talent.

I was an average player in many respects, a decent fielder, a good arm, good instincts, quick reflexes, alert intellect, knowledgeable on the rules, and a lover of the game with an analytical mind, but I could not seem to hit the ball. At age 6, I began a batting slump that lasted for many years and guaranteed a strike out for the opposing pitcher and the promise of an automatic out for the team with no hope of anything more. I could almost hear the groans from my teammates as I stepped up to the plate, hoping that the pitcher would hit me with the ball (not too hard), or would throw 4 straight balls out of the zone. I was kept on the team possibly for my fielding ability, but mostly because my dad was one of the coaches and besides, when has an 8 year old ever been fired from little league baseball?

The question in your mind should now be, how in the world could I, of average ability, be a successful hitter in an interminable batting slump? The answer is easy, the bunt. I was the bunt king. A slight shift of the body, the bat laid out parallel to the ground, a gentle touch of the wood on the ball, and I was off to first base. What followed was a fielding disaster of major proportions. It was a veritable error-fest to be experienced by all present--players, spectators, and umpires. First was the falling down by the fielder, next the overthrown balls, third the wild yells of different instructions from many people, and last the running into each other as the players scrambled for the ball. All in all a sad but comical display on the field as I ran around the bases to home plate.

The famous bunter, Robert Lee Tucker, continued his unbridled bunting success all season long and into the next year. Although teams did improve their fielding skills by working on throwing and fielding, it remained difficult to manage these skills in the heat of the battle. It seemed that when I squared off for the bunt and everyone ran forward to deal with the situation, once again the next set of events were worthy of the national baseball bloopers award. Unfortunately, as the players matured, the bunt became less successful and with that went my amazing but short-lived career as a professional bunter.

Yet for a time I had found my niche on the team as a valued member, and I belonged as an integral part of the unit, and it felt good. Maybe not respected by everyone, and not exactly the means I would have selected, and my success was mostly based on other people's flaws, and it is a little disconcerting to create humor in what should require a serious focus, nevertheless I found my niche, my role, and my purpose on the team at least for awhile! Out of weakness grew strength and out of flaws grew success.

What is your niche? What role do you play? It may not be what you intended or expected but I believe everyone fills a needed void either in an event, or a relationship, or an idea, or an institution. That niche may change and might be temporary or permanent, and it may be misunderstood or not appreciated, but whatever it is, it is valued by many, making you connected in so many special and vital ways. Find your niche and capitalize on it. Maybe you too will be the bunt king!

Ravel's Radiance

It is Saturday morning and I sit here at my computer listening to Bolero by Maurice Ravel and reflecting on the forthcoming events of the day, emotionally encompassing for many reasons, and I place my mind into a loftier world, one without ugliness, despair, fear, or tragedy, into a world of music replete in its grandeur, hope, joy, and energy. Ravel's music is the right sound to create this emotional transformation, this sense that all is indeed "right with the world" (thank you Robert Browning), this need to see things through stained glass windows, and mostly to hold desperately to optimism and promise of better things, beautiful things, and in Ravel's case, beautiful sounds.

Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) was of French descent whose father was a well-known inventor of that time having invented the combustible engine as well as a circus style somersaulting car for entertainment. Trained under Gabriel Faure at the Paris Conservatory of Music, Ravel was committed to and steeped in the classics with emphasis on the precision and craft of Mozart and Couperin. Ravel's extensive study and dedication to musical scholarship was ultimately manifested in great knowledge of each instrument, making him one of the greatest orchestrators in history.

His compositions ranged from chamber works, piano works, to orchestral showpieces, operas, and vocal works. Although considered a leading composer of the "Impressionistic" period--not really a period of music at all, but rather a style of music primarily represented by master composer Claude Debussy--Ravel never felt restricted by one style and considered himself more of a structured, formalized composer with tonal innovations including the use of modes, unresolved suspensions, and layers of harmonies.

Ravel's music was meticulously conceived with strict adherence to his prescribed rules for the chosen language of each particular work. Not unlike Mozart, who rarely changed his mind, or made any errors in his manuscript, or Stravinsky whose fastidious precision comes through in his music in a systematized or ordered manner, Ravel was a very careful and thorough composer who made great intellectual and scholarly demands on his own knowledge, including counterpoint, harmonic depth, other composers' styles, capabilities of each instrument, and potential for colors and sound.

It is difficult to narrow my favorite Ravel pieces to just a few, but for this writing, I want to mention one of Ravel's least favorite pieces which he considered trivial, but one of my personal favorites, Bolero. This marvelous orchestral showpiece was written as a personal challenge to depart from the German tradition of thematic development. To accomplish this goal, Ravel limited his piece to two contrasting but similar themes used alternately and effectively on top of a recurring rhythm pattern drawn from the dance of the same name. The result is an amazingly powerful work that ironically does a form of development in its orchestration and in its dynamic growth. Like all Ravel's music, Bolero is emotionally charged, shimmering in energy, glossy in colorful sounds, intellectual in scope, and gushing in expression. One cannot help but respond to the repetition and continued growth of this work, which some consider the earliest example of minimalism. Yes, trivial in its complexity of thematic usage but powerful in its scope, Bolero remains an audience favorite around the world.

Other great works include the beautiful and touching Pavane, Daphnis and Chloe, Rhapsodie Espagnole, and the two piano concertos one of which is for the left hand only, and the marvelous orchestration of Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. The music of Maurice Ravel is magical, beautiful, scholarly, energetic, poetic, poignant, and memorable.

Camp Mission Possible

We followed the young man, one of the "commanders" assigned to our son Joel, to the dorm to help him get settled in his new, and very temporary location. We looked in the room that contained several beds already occupied, and I felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement for Joel that he would be staying in this dorm for the next two nights. We opened his suitcase to remove his fluffy, warm sleeping bag, got out his favorite pillow and placed them on the unoccupied bed which happened to be approximately in the center of the room, and looked around the room.

We were comforted to an extent by meeting some of the other campers, similar to Joel in that all had some kind of disability, mental or physical or a combination of both. My first impression was that Joel was among friends of various ages and various disabilities, but all of whom were charming in their limitations, special in their hunger for life, and warm in their joy and excitement. This thought created an emotional sense of confidence in the camp as we completed the introductions and prepared to leave the dorm and the center. We hugged Joel goodbye, with that same feeling that all parents have throughout their lives, not unlike the mother letting her daughter off for the first day of kindergarten, or saying goodbye for the first day of college, or perhaps even that odd feeling of elation mixed with loving concern as the young couple heads off on their honeymoon. Will Joel be okay? Will he have fun? Will he learn? Will he need us? Will he eat right? Will he sleep? All normal parenting thoughts.

It was Camp Mission Possible, not impossible as Joel reminded us countless times, located at the 4-H Center at Lake Brownwood. A camp complete with a playground, climbing wall, swimming pool, shooting range, cafeteria, offices, dorms, canoes, and plenty of space for playing and learning. There were plenty of sponsors, adults, and students called commanders to ensure the safety and success of each attendee. The schedule was rigid in its specific details on expectations, including bedtime, meals, events, rules, discipline, and code of conduct; but the love and compassion seemed to have no boundaries, for it oozed freely and unconditionally from the directors, sponsors, and commanders (who were not really commanders but rather facilitators or care givers).

Two days later--it felt like two months in many ways and two hours in others--we returned to the 4-H center to pick up Joel and see the final event, a video of all the campers and their experiences. It was easy to see our tall son in the front row as we enter the large but darkened room. The music began and included inspirational music and even more inspirational pictures as we watched photographs of each camper climb, shoot, run, dance, fish, and swim. Among the most touching pictures were the shots of the campers as they were carefully strapped in for the climbing wall and reached to the stars with each step and each grip--and were gently pulled up by the attached ropes to ring the bell at the top of the wall.

After the video, we gathered up Joel's belongings and following many thanks and hugs for and from many people, we returned home with our son the hero who had rung the bell. The bell rings loud and clear for all the special children in the world and those who help them achieve the impossible.

As I read the paper, watch the news, and learn about bombs, death, suicide, drugs, terrorism, and destruction, I remind myself that the darkness of the world does not come from hearts of the special children. The light of the world shines brightly for them and for the many who reach out to help them ring the bell. Thank you 4-H Center and Camp Mission Possible for making the dreams come true. May your bell ring loudly, clearly, joyfully, and beautifully for all to hear.

Brownwood Benevolence

He had lived many years among his own in a constant blissful existence with no apparent purpose other than to exist and to share his existence with others of like appearance and thought. Having changed locations frequently due to external circumstances, he had put no roots down--having none anyway--nor had he any desire for permanency, preferring to live in an egalitarian world where all changed at whim but nothing in fact had ever changed. According to Emerson, "the more things change, the more they stay the same," and stay the same, he did, for although subject to quick change of venue, his mundane world remained mundane, trivial, and sadly purposeless. He had no name, no character, no history, no future, and no meaning for his life. He was a grain of sand, tiny and bland, and his purpose was to live devoid of purpose and simply react to external events such as wind, or earthquake, or the most exciting method, human interference.

As the rain progressed in the city of Brownwood, the fear of flooding grew rampant particularly among business and home owners with a history of flooding, but unlike other communities where individuals find themselves in a state of panic and unable to make any decisions to lead to a solution, the city of Brownwood made a large amount of sand available to its citizens. Which takes us back to our friend, the grain of sand.

Sitting among his other friends watching the people shovel sand in the bags, he realized that his life had meaning and if all went well, he would soon be on his way to fulfilling his purpose as a grain of sand, to help someone else, to be selfless, altruistic, and vital to prevention of a potential disaster. Soon his turn came, and he was placed among other grains of sand where they all gathered for their brief journey to a home or business. Although weak by himself, there was great strength in numbers, and his confidence grew quickly that they, working together, would be able to stop the excess water. He was placed quickly but gently in a location to serve his time as a block against the flooding.

His life journey and life purpose occupied his thoughts as he sat there reflecting on the recognition that the City of Brownwood had provided a remarkable tool for self-preservation, and he realized that, although it took some individual effort to fill up bags, many people working together could and did make a positive difference. Ironically, the floods never came, but the spirit of cooperation and compassion remained intact. The benevolence of Brownwood found fruition that day as a community came together for the good of the whole. As John Donne said:

No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main
if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.

Our little grain of sand found meaning due to the wisdom and efforts of the people of Brownwood. We live in a community of great charity, benevolence, and kindness.

Clones in a Shallow Vein

After a rather difficult morning of dealing with difficult, but wonderful people and all with difficult, but not unusual problems, and all of them valued colleagues necessary to the success of the unit, I ate a quick lunch, returned to the office and saw my friend Sol-Fa, a 6 month old burgundy colored sofa with 2 matching pillows, sitting in the middle of the floor with a sweet smile on her inanimate self, asking for attention and a gentle moment of partnership, and with a book in hand by my favorite author Philip Roth, I sat down to escape my current state of stress and began to read. Several illustrious and thought-provoking sentences later, not unusual for the Pulitzer prize winning author, I reflected on how I wished the people around me saw things the way I see them. A funny thought for sure as I closed my eyes.

Awakening a few minutes later, I did not feel rested. Although I did not yet understand why since there was no real reason for my anxiety and nervousness, the brief nap had left me feeling anxious and frightened, a false emotion with no bearing on truth but nevertheless real to me. My agitated state increased with a sense of foreboding of what existed outside my office door.

With great timidity, I got up, left my office and saw myself down the hall. Not just one of me but many of me all dressed similarly but each one unique as well. Some of my selves were taller, some shorter, some with hair (I liked those!) and some without. Many were women, and many were children. Each one was dressed differently than my normal slacks, shirt, and tie, and in fact were dressed in pastel plastic, without seams, creases, buttons, and anything distinctive other than being plastic. Some were peach colored, others yellow or off-white, or light green or baby blue or any of the various light benign colors that exist. But the plastic appearance did not give pause and instead looked entirely normal. I looked normal to myself and quickly looked at my real self only to see the usual attire of tan pants, shirt with a tie, and sports coat.

I immediately wanted to be confused for it's not everyday one steps out of one's office and sees lots of himself dressed in plastic, but for whatever reason, it felt completely normal and even joyous, a welcome emotion from the earlier fear experienced only a moment before. To take it another step, I have rarely if ever felt the kind of complacent joy and peace that was overtaking me as I watched myself interact with myself in a false sense of euphoric happiness perhaps similar to a drug trip (although I have no knowledge of what that means), or heavy anesthesia before a surgery.

As I approach one of my many selves, I smiled warmly and asked how things were going, only to get a similar smile and a nod of acceptance. I then shouted playfully at all of the clones to talk and have fun, but each one simply nodded in agreement, remained silent, and kept walking that oddly quick paced, deliberate walk of mine. The walk, however, was aimless, almost in circles and strangely robotic but very similar to my own style without the goal-direction and purpose.

I began to talk more rapidly and more expressively as my initial fear returned in a flood of anxiety and concern, similar to a brewing storm, darkening clouds, or incessant repetitive sounds such as a pack of coyotes advancing to their kill. I began to scream contentious statements to try to get a response from the clones, even a raised eyebrow, or a downward turned mouth, or a tensing of the shoulders, anything that would signify anger rather than passiveness. The clones did not react to me at all, entirely oblivious to any external stimuli.

Walking faster and faster and finally running from clone to clone, I decided on force in the hopes of getting a reaction. I struck hard and then harder with all my human strength, but the clones remained in plastic with frozen smiles on their faces as they continued their purposeless pace. Soon the clones multiplied until there was very little space for me to move, and though I tried to escape, there were more and more of them and I realized I had become smaller with little to no significance or presence. I was disappearing rapidly among the horrible, smiling, shallow, but ever increasing plastic clones. It was like being smothered by mirrors on all sides as the clones continued to pullulate around me. I screamed in terror, kicking the evil reflections, but all in vain as my world threatened to implode.

Sweating, pulse rapid, and shaking, I woke up in shock wondering where I was and wondering if the world had ended. I slowly got up from my friend Sol-Fa, recognizing I had simply had a bad dream of some kind, and walked out of my office, down the hall hoping to see anything besides myself. Not surprising, the world was as it used to be and the people, thankfully, were once again themselves, some difficult, some pleasant, but each one unique and special.

I returned to my desk reflecting on my dream.

What a plastic, shallow, and frightening world it would be if everyone looked and thought like me!

Comic, Cream, or Cards

I just couldn't decide. My friend and I walked the mile down to the local store which was next door to the donut shop where they kept the ultimate in food pleasure, the cream puff, a pastry similar to a donut but much fluffier with a fancy design and filled with delicious cream. The walk was not necessarily dangerous but was an adventure for a 7 year old boy who had worked hard that very morning to earn the 50 cents from his Dad.

Every Saturday morning, Mom would wake us up early to help Dad with the latest project, yard work, cleaning the garage, washing the car, or maybe even pouring concrete for a little sidewalk, or putting up a basketball goal, or maybe cleaning out the duck pen (Yes, we owned 2 pet ducks that we eventually had to get rid of due to the incessant quacking. I recall one strange but true event where the ducks drowned, an unusual occurrence for many reasons not the least of which we were in El Paso, and Dad brought them back to life by resuscitating them and pumping the water out of their lungs), or fixing the broken sprinkler head. For our efforts, although meager at best, we would be given our weekly allowance of 50 cents.

So my friend, who lived around the corner and had also spent the morning helping his Dad, and I walked to the store trying to decide how to spend our 50 cents. It was a serious problem for me because I could only afford 2 things but wanted 3. I wanted a comic book, perhaps Spiderman or Superman, or the Green Lantern, or Captain America or maybe Richie Rich or even Archie, and I wanted some more baseball cards to add to my growing collection. I needed to complete the 1967 teams especially the San Francisco Giants with stars like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Juan Marichal, and I was always hoping to get a better picture of Red Sox slugger Carl Yastrzemski. In addition to the baseball cards, which little to my knowledge would become worth thousands of dollars someday, except in my case they were all thrown out in 1972 to make way for my Charlie Rich, Ernie Ford, and Tom Jones records, there was the stick of gum. But, in spite of the excitement of the comic books and the baseball cards, there hovered over both of us the glorious taste of the cream puff.

So the choices were a comic book, baseball cards, or a cream puff. All the way to the store, we discussed what we were going to buy. Somewhere in the recesses of our young minds, we knew that the comic book had much more lasting value than did the baseball cards or the cream puff, but the comic book was falling in third in the battle to decide what to buy. We even considered the old "trade with your friend" concept and share the puff, but that was difficult for a 7 year old and besides who really wants to share a cream puff.

We arrived a little out of breath, our legs hurting from that walk-run that boys use everywhere they go, I suspect I still adopt that system today, and went directly to the store where the same old gentleman, he must have been at least 25, waited for us with a knowing smile on his face. We went immediately to the baseball card exhibit hoping to see a new package we had never seen, but unfortunately, nothing new had arrived during the week. We owned all the cards currently on display. Our momentary sadness was quickly replaced with boyful glee as we realized the difficult decision had been made for us and we didn't even know it!

We hurried to the comic book rack where I bought a new Spiderman comic book and my friend bought a new Richie Rich (incidentally he is now a multi-millionaire, and I still enjoy Spiderman). We paid for our treasures, hurried out of the store, (We were always in a hurry back then. Things have not changed), and ran next door to get a cream puff.

We sat down outside the store to eat and read and enjoy the moment. I looked up when I heard the sound of a car horn, knowing it would be my Dad as he drove by. Funny how he always drove down that road when we were outside eating and reading, and funny how he took care of his errands quickly enough to be home by the time we arrived. Full from a cream puff, full of comic literature, and mostly full of fun and enjoyment, we waved and headed home. Maybe we could get in a game of catch later on. We were able to save a nickel each that day which we realized could add up. Maybe one day we could buy all three--comics, cream puffs, and cards!

Today my choices are: buy a book, eat a steak dinner, or buy some more dollars on my Starbucks card! Have things really changed?

Competition v. Contentment

When the game was over, a mindless game with little to no skill or application of intellect, a game of luck devoid of strategy or planning, and the final scores were tabulated, and it was revealed that I had won the game by a small margin, I began my typical celebratory, symbolic victory dance of cheers and whoops in a way to bring attention to myself, which must be the primary reason for the excess emotionalism of victory yells, and laud my own magnificence at beating the other players. But in the midst of this inane display of immaturity and pettiness, as I looked around the table at the tolerant smiles of the losers, I saw one person sharing in my joy by clapping his hands, shouting with me, and responding genuinely to my excitement. He was equally happy that I had won, and did not demonstrate any anguish at his own loss. He was totally undaunted by the realization that my victory, a foolish word in light of the completely luck oriented game, was the cause of his and every-one's defeat.

Joel's autism has side benefits not found in those of us who are normal (there I go again, throwing in a word that could result in another blog entry filled full of philosophical meanderings and resulting in a plethora of comments in wild disagreement of my weak, albeit sincere definition of the word normal), with our "normal" and probably cliched human reactions to events such as being happy for being the winner in a silly competition. Joel does not have a competitive spirit the way one might expect. His winning is the act of playing, for to play is to win regardless of the outcome.

Autism carries with it a characteristic of emotionless objectivity, a quality of exactness and precision that is not to be tampered with nor to be concerned with another option. With this comes a refreshing honesty and behavioral prescription to follow the rules. The other day we elected to eat at a local pizza restaurant. As we got near the door to enter the establishment, I noticed another door that said "Take Out" on the front. Using my amazing deductive logic, I realized both doors took us to the same location and the "Take Out" door was actually closer to our goal. Seeing nobody else in line for the take out, I naturally used that door to enter the restaurant. Hearing a noise behind me, I turned to see Joel pointing at the other door. We looked at each other, shut the "wrong" door and used the correct door. We did not break the rules.

Joel does not experience an urge to get ahead or to win, those qualities that can serve a person well in this modern culture of success and acquisition; conversely, without the competitive urge to win, he does not suffer from a loss of self-esteem, a darkness and dolorous confusion that often goes with losing. But not only does Joel not know the sadness of losing, he also cannot fully empathize with this emotion in other people, resulting in a perplexed reaction to disgust, anger, or depression often displayed by the losers in a game. A game is simply a game, and it is the playing that provides the entertainment. Winning or losing is not something on which to dwell, it is merely what it is: somebody wins and somebody does not. Why waste any emotional effort on this fact?

Joel is contented to live life in the immediate rather than the future, and to live life satisfied (satisfied is not accurate since satisfaction is primarily an emotion drawn from current feelings) with the current state. He plays the game of life so as to enjoy the moment and to relish in the accuracy of the events as they present themselves, to reflect and represent the truth as it makes itself known rather than to manipulate or design events according to the goals presented. For most of us, the goal, as defined by our personal motives, is the goal and the aim is the aim (Philip Roth, American Pastoral), but for Joel the goal is the accurate portrayal of events in the game. His goal is to do it right not to win. If he does win, then that is the way it is.

He values the winner and the loser, and he does not expend energy dwelling on the mental state or personality or self-esteem of those in the game much less his own emotional reactions to the end. Joel's objectivity prevents perceived values from playing a role in his world-view, thereby resulting in an accurate appraisal of the events and an acceptance and equanimity of the conclusion. This in turn causes an unusual and non-threatening acknowledgment of the emotional reaction in the other person. When I was happy at my victory, Joel responded in kind, not sharing in my joy for being the best but simply enjoying my enjoyment. Had I lost and responded in tears of shame for being the worst, Joel would have been sad for my sadness without having an understanding of the deeper sense of loss of esteem. The facts are the facts, there is a winner and a loser and this fact is not deserving of emotion.

Yes, no doubt competition, from sports, academia, cognition, philosophy, defense, and aggression, has created our current world of skyscrapers, books, technology, restaurants, automobiles, and institutions. We thrive and improve due to our human competitive spirit and without the inherent desire to win, stagnation and mediocrity could invade our being.

And yet, there is something refreshing and even magical about playing the game to play the game, to accept the truth without manipulation and without the reaction, to live a life in contentment of result. Once again, I must say that if the world had more Joels, it would be a better place.

Violation or Appreciation? Your Choice.

Once again, the age old question has arisen: Does the end justify the means? If your intentions are noble and only good can result from your behavior, does that in and of itself give you the freedom to behave according to your own prescription? I suspect that most of us, in abject honesty, would say yes depending upon the circumstances. And yet, I have to wonder a little about this, for there is something suspicious about making our own ethical decisions, in deciding right from wrong and forcing others to share our view of virtue, in governing our own behavior based upon our own selfish, albeit honorable, concepts, and imprisoning our fellow man to see those concepts the way we do. So the question is more how do we determine right from wrong, moral from immoral, and is our mode of behavior a personal choice or should we consider a broader more collective view of ethical purity, and with this broad view, how do we then insure that others share in our perceived truth of values? At what point is your freedom another person's straitjacket? I will let you decide!

I received the jury duty notice, placed the date on my calendar, planned accordingly, gave some thought to my personal time schedule, and wondered somewhat idly who was on trial and for what purpose. The morning of my duty, I went through my usual routine of prayers, exercise, choosing clothing for the day (usually an easy decision), got in my truck, drove to the coffee shop, drank some coffee, and headed to the courthouse to fulfill my civic responsibility. I arrived on time and stood in an extended line of fellow prospective jurors, eventually entering the courtroom to await the arrival of the judge, who would begin the process of selecting a jury for the upcoming court case.

I was dismissed early in the process for a legitimate reason, made my way out of the courtroom, down the stairs, and out to the truck where I drove to my office as though the day had begun anew. I entered the building to my office, routinely put my hand in my right pocket to make sure the pen I had placed there earlier was still there, and was surprised to find an additional item in my pocket that had not been there before.

I pulled out a small booklet with a happy face on the cover. This booklet was tiny, pleasant in appearance, contained several pages of text, and seemed overall benign. Glancing through the pages, I quickly recognized several Biblical scriptures and some words of salvation and inspiration. I smiled, returned the book to the pocket, and went to my office, comforted by the knowledge that someone, most likely while standing in the line to enter the courtroom, cared enough about me to give me the booklet; someone wanted me to read these scriptures, and someone zealously and actively desired to spread the news about Jesus Christ.

But as the day continued, I began to wonder about the ethics of placing a book in the pocket of stranger. What if the book had contained anthrax or subversive language such as terrorist activity or pornography or a threat of some kind, or perhaps a statement of blackmail or a hostage situation or a tip of an impending crime? Or maybe the sweet little booklet may have contained some quotes from Aristotle or Goethe or Benjamin Franklin or maybe some heart warming stories about a dog or a pony, or perhaps the little book simply had blank pages for taking notes or giving one an opportunity for self-expression? Or perhaps the book with the happy face contained a small mirror for self-actualization and affirmation? Instead, the book contained words of religious inspiration with the intent of helping a person find Christ.

Please understand, I am not against evangelism and I do believe if more of the world believed in God and led a Christ-like life, this would be a better place, a place where more people would be contributing, positive citizens without the myriad immoral decisions made each day by so many. I believe that we need God and that we, as weak humans, often substitute God with addictions and poor behavior. Yet, somehow I resent the fact that a person I do not know felt free to slip something in my pocket without my knowledge, without any notification, and without knowing anything about me, my world-view, my value system, my personality, my profession, or even my name!

What gave said person the right to violate my privacy? Should I be upset or should I accept the honorable intentions? Although a part of me is happy to see a servant of God working hard to share the news of Christ, most of me would prefer that my personal space and private property be respected. Next time, please ask me. So back to the original question: Did the end justify the means? Should I react in appreciation or should I focus on the violation? Your turn to comment!

Canine Capers

After I became a father of three boys, I wanted to own a dog. A dog is one of those important pets that a boy can enjoy, play with, talk to, spend time with, do retrieve games, or fetch, or learn responsibility of feeding and care. A dog loves his owner and has a boundless optimism that can give a young man a lift. In short, a dog may indeed be man's best friend, but at the Tucker household, a dog is not a friend, he is not even an acquaintance!

Our first dog was named Johnny. We got him as a puppy and he was adorable in all respects. Energetic, cute, and demonstrated those warm characteristics associated with dogs. We played with him for an hour until it was time for the little guy to take a nap. We then loaded up the car with the boys and headed about a mile away to the store to get a little house, bowl, some food, and a couple of toys for the cute little thing. We picked out a green bowl, a charming little house, some puppy chow, and the kind of chewy toys that would provide hours of endless puppy pleasure. Driving home, we discussed responsibility and various dog behavior to expect, the jumping, chewing, waste management, food needs, and the necessary occasional hug; but the boys, although they listened to an extent, were mainly overcome with excitement of having a new dog. We arrived home about an hour after we left only to find no dog. He was gone. Perhaps stolen or escaped to another yard or whisked away to dog cyberspace, forcing us to spend the evening and part of the next day searching. But, no surprise, he was never to be found.

Several months later, it was time to try again. This time we elected to acquire a large dog, one that could not squeeze under a fence and one that would be easy to find if he were to escape. His name was Smokey and he was a friendly, lovable German Shepherd. The first week (yes, we kept this one more than an hour), was rewarding and fun as we got to know him. Jacob, who was 4 at the time did become concerned with Smokey's tendency to run in the house when we opened the door, and developed a method for keeping him outside. Jacob placed cough drops on the back patio, opened the back door which caused Smokey to rush in, but Jacob quickly threw some sand in his face which resulted in a coughing dog. Smokey then exited the house to find the cough drops. Although this method did not go entirely as planned, it certainly made sense to all of us!

But, alas, Smokey became unmanageable. After a couple of weeks, he began to jump on every person who entered the back yard. His sheer size was overwhelming and the boys were knocked over by the crazy dog. Soon it was my responsibility to feed him and care for him but my heart for doing so was not in the right place. A few days later, Smokey chewed through the air conditioner wires and nearly ruined our air conditioner, resulting in a repair bill of several hundred dollars. The shock he received from that experience could not have been as great as the shock to my wallet. I then, wisely, found another home for him.

About two years later, we acquired a small but full-grown cocker spaniel and enjoyed her company quite a bit at first. Her name was Dolly and she was adorable and pleasant to be around. We were told that she had most likely experienced some tough times in her first few months but she was now doing well. We loved and cared for her. My first inkling of a problem, problem may not be the best term since most problems have a solution, or least a plan, occurred one night when I heard constant and voluminous, a shocking fortissimo that in retrospect seemed remarkable considering her small size, barking that kept me up most of the night as I tried in vain to encourage her to keep her opinions to herself. After struggling several weeks, and trying different options, including a collar that makes a high, uncomfortable sound when the dog barks, and after receiving several complaints from neighbors, I finally realized Dolly, like Smokey, was nuts. We found another home for Dolly with some country friends.

We then enjoyed a brief spell with a one-eyed brown cocker spaniel who was undoubtedly the finest dog in my experience. We found her shivering on our driveway on July 5, apparently frightened from the fireworks of the previous evening, and named her Jessica. She was calm, friendly, quiet, cordial, didn't eat much, and stayed in the backyard, endearing herself to our family and to the boys who loved her. Unfortunately, three weeks later, I was reading through the newspaper and saw an ad from some people searching for a missing one-eyed brown cocker spaniel who answered to the name Lucy. I said the name Lucy to Jessica who responded the same as always, called the number, and waited for the original owners to come pick up their dog.

We are now on dog number five named Freddy. He was purchased to guard and herd our massive, okay not really massive but twelve goats is massive compared to one goat I suppose, goat herd and mostly to protect them from harm. Like a father who is firm but loving to his children, the expectation was for Freddy to guide, direct, and discipline the goats into goat excellence. But Freddy, and I wish our other dogs had this same quality, loves humans. He will not stay in the fenced area and therefore is not fulfilling his specially designed purpose. He is useless as a goat dog and useful as man's best friend. We do not have a yard for him,he is much too large for the house, nor do I want a best friend who is a dog. Freddy's days at Tuckerland are numbered. We found another family anxious and set up for a people dog.

So after five dogs, it may be time to give up. I do wonder if the world is going to the dogs! Their many capers are beyond my comprehension.

Academic Leadership

Having recently spent four days in a Baptist leadership conference, I feel compelled to discuss several issues related to Baptist institutions, as well as to extol the virtues of the conference, the material, the presenters, and the overall content of this first of its kind event, a gathering of young Baptist college administrators from schools across the state of Texas. From deans to department chairs, from program directors to future administrators, a committed group of Christian leaders joined together to learn, grow, examine, listen, and discuss the many ways we can help our Baptist schools not just today but for tomorrow and for another generation in the future.

Born out of the Center for Ministry Effectiveness and Educational Leadership located at Baylor University and lead by Provost Emeritus Donald Schmeltekopf, the conference was located at the beautiful University of Mary Hardin-Baylor campus in Belton and supported in part by the Baptist General Convention of Texas. The conference was a stellar opportunity to learn and grow from various experts in the fields of Christian education and institutional leadership, men and women who have struggled with difficult issues and arrived at positive conclusions, people who have published in these fields and are well-respected for their accomplishments, for their personal insights, and for their vast experience in Christian leadership.

We, the participants sat enraptured by the appropriate blend of practical suggestions, suggestions that can be applied to the daily challenges presented, and the highly sophisticated and academically robust philosophies that give us a greater reason for our activities and our practice. The conference included an examination of our personal leadership styles as well as personality profiling, and was intended to provide enough knowledge of ourselves to find success as we deal with people in our various disciplines. The thorough psychological and leadership examination included comments and assessment from our selected peers in a personal look at how we deal with and react to the challenges and situations that come our way in our leadership positions. I found this to be most revealing and enabled me to recognize my strengths and, perhaps most importantly, how to deal with my weaknesses and avoid the inevitable stress times.

This portion of our conference was enlightening, slightly frightening in an entertaining way, a little too revealing, and overall enjoyable as we studied ourselves and read how others view us. I am reminded of Longfellow when he said, "We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done." Our dreams of our own capabilities should remain in the forefront of our thinking but those dreams may need to be colored to an extent by the knowledge of how others see us. Would we truly want the gift to see ourselves the way others see us? I think not!

Several sessions ensued dealing with faith and learning in private institutions with conclusions being made that faith should be a natural inclusion in the curriculum and in the educational process. A private institution has a responsibility (a term that is often tossed around rather casually but in fact is a term with great power and meaning, a word that implies action and commitment, a word that represents both short and long term objectives and a goal-directed existence without wavering) and an obligation to define itself and set its own parameters as regards curriculum, personnel, clientele, purpose, and, most importantly, mission. The practice, in other words, the daily operations including hiring, curriculum, behavior, and events, should be a manifestation of the institution's overall mission.

When a flaw or a breakdown occurs, it is either the result of antithetical application of the mission, or the mission itself, leading to a thorough examination of the mission and its comprehensive intent. One must examine the mission statement of the institution and work diligently and relentlessly to apply the principles set forth in all situations or conversely to change the mission to fit the purpose, resulting in a marriage of philosophy and practice. Subsequently, it becomes equally valuable therefore to communicate the mission of the institution to the constituents involved in the overall process, purpose, and objectives that lead to a fulfillment of the mission.

As leaders charged to uphold the mission of the institution, we must also provide the kind of excellent academic environment that allows faculty and students to grow and develop within the established framework. With this in mind, leaders should encourage faculty development, keeping in mind that development can mean a wide variety of activities, and continual program review with regards to curriculum, advising, assignments, and committee work.

Equal to the careful yet expansive examination of institution leadership were the poignant, sensitive moments of spiritual advancement, moments that began each day, moments of reflection, and moments that gave positive Christ-like purpose to the rest of the day. The scripture and prayer, delivered by a particular participant of the conference, were apropos to the topics for the day, providing a sense of goal-direction and a pathway on which to direct our steps, a purposeful guiding light that while immediate also had an underlying long-term relevance for living.

Overall, the conference was vastly rewarding, enlightening, and posed a rare opportunity to combine philosophical, global thinking with pragmatic, personal application. It was a time to learn about ourselves, our strengths, our weaknesses, our abilities, and give us a decided framework of objectives to consider as we continue in the quest for academic and spiritual excellence in our selected leadership professions. In addition, a surprise I did not anticipate emerged from the conference: a new set of friends and acquaintances familiar with the joys and challenges of Baptist Institutional Leadership; people driven to academic excellence but retaining their love of life, Christian commitment, and dedication to the ideals and principles of Godly leadership.

The Nature of Art--Theater

Back to one of my favorite subjects--the human responses to the arts. Recall that we have worked to establish music as a human need based on the requirement to cleanse and to express the endless supply of emotions. This holds true for visual arts and for theater arts as well. One could argue that in theater we find the greatest potential for human expression, and that theater can occur in a moment in any kind of established locale. According to Shakespeare, "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players..."--Best, Michael.

Shakespeare's Life and Times. Internet Shakespeare Editions, University of Victoria: Victoria, BC, 2001-2005. . Visited 6-8-07.

A theater is a building with a stage and seats for experiencing drama, but a theater can also be the drama of life, and the walls--there are always walls--represent the limits designed by the personal profile of the human psyche. Your theater was designed by you, for you, and your theater is your own personality, traits, ethos, and preferences. For example, my theater does not include professional wrestling, a popular sport that for me has no redeeming qualities and provides no personal satisfaction either as a viewer or a participant (okay, I'll admit that I suspect if I were a participant I would not last very long), and therefore does not play any kind of role in my theater. Wrestling exists outside the walls for me.

I have a friend who has a personal aversion to country music. When he hears a country western song on the radio, his pulse quickens, he becomes angry, and immediately responds in disgust as he changes the station. In a way, his abhorrence is funny and maybe quirky but in other ways it is real and most likely represents his own value system, world-view, priorities, and an establishment of his personal framework. The theater he has built that works for him is remarkably unique, as is everyone's, and is designed for him, by him, and the plots in his theater fit the nature of who he is. Country music is outside of the walls. Why? This is conjecture, but my friend is a committed time-keeper, a man who always knows direction, space, distance, and a man who lives with precision. He is not obsessive, does not display any characteristics of neurosis, is intelligent, a good conversationalist, a committed Christian, a hard-worker with a pleasant demeanor, a thinker, and has a warm, kind heart. He loves the arts and in particular music. So why this physical aversion to country music?

Most music, notice the qualifier, has a specific rhythm, melody, harmony, and system. Music on the radio, in particular, begins with a bass line, a background rhythm, a guitar or other instruments, followed by a singer. In country music, however, there is a random quality to the performance. The beat may be precise, but the freedom of performance of the rhythm gives it a flexibility that can be unsettling, inconsistent, and even discomfiting. This is then made worse by a singer who sings from his or her heart by adjusting the prescribed melody according to personal feelings and expression. For many people, this makes the music ideal and wonderfully earthy, but for others, it makes the music disturbing and imprecise. When a person seeks order in the arts, he will most likely find it in classical and even some rock music, but he probably will not find it in aleatoric music, jazz, or country western. Quality, of course, is not determined by order or by a system, but one's preference for order and discipline will not find fruition in some types of music. This means that my friend's theater does not include country western music. His preference is determined by his nature; to ask him to do otherwise is to deny him his own theater.

Yet, there is no doubt that art, and in particular theater, is not an exact science, the term science meaning "systematized knowledge in general." All our efforts as artists to avoid the randomness that we see around us each and every day still result in a certain flexibility, a freedom of expression, and a representation of the complexity of feelings that surround us each day. The arts are a manifestation of emotions, and emotions change often by the minute and certainly are subject to intrinsic and extrinsic experiences, including environment, history, fear, worry, joy, sorrow, anticipation, humor, and list of emotions is infinite.

Theater is one of the most complex of the art forms and probably the most inclusive of the arts, for in theater we often find music, visual arts, literature, and drama. It is in theater that we work diligently as performers to be precise and to apply scientific principles to our performance, to make each performance the same, and to be markedly disciplined as we seek perfection. But it seems that no matter how strenuous is the attempt to be precise, to have the exact tempo required, to have the delivery the same, to have the volume balanced, to place the feet in the same places for every performance, there is always a hint of the imperfect human struggling to systematize and order himself to do it the same way.

Ah, but in the end, regardless of how dedicated we are to objectivity, how much we work diligently for order, and how desperately we seek consistency and we always want to make our theater a science, and we desire to apply self-control to our art, ultimately, if truth can be found in the subjective, the arts are flexible and flexible they will remain. As has been pointed out many times, however, the journey, the personal theater, and the endless quest for perfection is the reward.

Zak--Oklahoma I

In a charming but telling story by Dr. Seuss, there are two Zaks each heading a different direction, one south and one north. Their trek takes them directly in each other’s path resulting in the need for one or both to step aside, thereby continuing their journey toward their unknown but certainly valuable destination. Perhaps they are returning to their loved ones, or toward a new career, or maybe to a restaurant for a bite to eat, or to an art museum, or to move mountains, build bridges, or merely to save the life of a pet. We do not know, nor do we ever find out for these two Zaks refuse to budge. In their stubbornness, the world grows around them and their personal goals are never attained. Why couldn't they just be friends?

In Oklahoma, the marvelous musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein, one of the most entertaining moments occurs in a light-hearted production time when the people sing about the Farmer and the Cowman. The resentment toward each other is cleverly masked by funny words, earthy dance movements, big smiles, couples finding love, and a melody with robust rhythm, wide energetic range, and country style fiddling in the orchestration. But no matter how red those roses may seem, there are painful thorns beneath them, or more specifically, the farmer and cowman may be having a good time but it did not happen without difficult compromise from each group.

Time and love may be the answers to the plethora of problems facing people unable to agree. In the odd case of the missing colony of Roanoke, a colony founded by Sir Walter Raleigh, scholars suspect that over a three year period the colonists bred with the Indians in a beautiful acceptance of differences and ultimately a melding of cultures through propagation and interbreeding. They simply formed friendships and relationships to the point of unification. The missing colony was not missing at all but rather became a part of an existing culture which may have, and probably did, take on its own special ethos.

In some ways, this may appear to be an extreme solution to contentiousness, but imagine our friends the Zaks who may have brought their children with them on their journey. The children grow up, fall in love and the parents recognize their own foolishness and begin to work together. In our song about the farmer and the cowman, the final statement says "Territory folks should stick together, Territory folks should all be pals. Cowboys dance with farmer's daughters, Farmers dance with the ranchers' gals."

I am not necessarily advocating such a lumpen and prolonged solution to disagreement, for the result could be a kind of figurative epicene of characteristics without strength of identity, a loss of the core culture that propels a community toward progress. The greater method is, of course, to find a way to work together. It is not always easy and it requires a bending of the will and a flexibility that most of us find difficult, a sacrificing of self for the greater good, with a perception of loss that in reality is a victory. Had the South going Zak simply taken one step to his left and continued toward his goal, both Zaks would no longer be stuck in the same spot glaring at each other. Would he have lost the fight, given a part of himself that he could not regain, relinquished his personal confidence? Or would the gain have been an injection of compassion and selfless altruism?

At what point do we lose the battle to win the war? Can the farmer and the cowman coexist? Are the Zaks still in the same spot? The victors in the battle are the territory folks who saw both entities cooperate in progress and unified development. Maybe there is a lesson in this song for everyone.

New Chapter of Conversation

In this new chapter, my wife has gone to pick up Joel and to spend a day and half with her mother. Suddenly I am alone in the house. I must keep the kitchen clean, do some laundry, feed the goats, cats, dog, empty the dishwasher, straighten the living room, sweep the back porch, check the mail, clean up the desk, vacuum the floor, and the multitude of other chores that seem to pervade the owning of a home. Don't misunderstand me entirely here, I do many of these things anyway, however, I must admit that most of them are at the encouragement of my wife. This probably means that were I to live alone, I would not be near as conscientious of these valuable needs, matters that make a house into a home, and details that may cause me some consternation and complaining but in fact provide stability and organization.

At the same time, I am somehow energized as I take care of these many things and anticipate settling down and reading another book by Philip Roth, who some consider the greatest living American novelist. I am not in conversation with myself, lest you fear I am no longer in touch with my personal faculties, but I am in conversation with my home, our animals (no, not at all like Dr. Doolittle, but rather in a solve some of their problems mode), and a book. Yet as I dwell on the many blessings and gifts of life and enjoy the quiet solitude of this moment as king of the castle, I also recognize that the castle means nothing without the people. The people give it warmth and give it meaning, and the people, with all their idiosyncracies, make it complete and make it a family.

Once again, I look forward to the return of my family to our humble domicile where peace is not found in silence but rather in love and compassion for each other. Each of us is a valued part of the whole with Joel and his smile, Jordan with his creativity and expression, Jacob with his objective pragmaticism, Clairissa with her domesticity and love of her family, and me with my...not sure what I offer but it must be something!

So I conclude this oddly personal conversation and will abruptly spin back to essays of philosophy for the future. Thanks for this brief opportunity to romanticize and embrace the Tucker family. My journey into Tuckerland has been short but rich in purpose. It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder and in this case, the saying is so true.