Eat out and take in at Amerigo's

Amerigo Nashville. Broadway & West End. Me in coat and tie at a business dinner, a meet and greet with Dr. Cardia from California. I arrived late. Interstates in Nashville are just suggestions planted here and there on whatever strip of asphalt seems to be heading in a similar direction. Just because you are on I-65 S right now doesn’t mean that the situation will remain so. Most likely, you will split, merge, turn, and split again into a half-dozen other highways, some lesser and some greater, and each one may or may not continue as I-65. The atmosphere was hushed in deep, black leathers and earth tones, lit by hanging, oversized ambient globes. People’s voices crowded into close seats and intimate booths, thrumming and hustling each other for aural prominence. White napkins. Couples celebrating engagement; young men and women laughing at each other’s stories heard for the first time; mature couples out with friends; and business dinner people. “Thom!” I turned to see my table.

“So nice to meet you Dr. Cardia,” I said, he rising slightly from behind a bruschetta al pomodoro. No memory of the handshake; he’s trying to figure out who the heck I am. I scrunched into the seat opposite, beside The Storyteller and his wife, Anne. Across the white linen, Dr. Cardia, and to his right, D.W. The conversation was of the bruschetta, of the flight – introductions still being made while I fussed over the wine list. “I’ll have a glass of the house Pinot Grigio and a water, please.”

I really had no idea what I was doing at this meeting. The Storyteller and D.W. are both my superiors, the former by several degrees. I resolved to play conservative, but simply couldn’t help myself: “Now what is anhedonism?” Dr. Cardia opened like a collector given leave to bring out his rarest finds. He talked for 20 minutes at least, and I couldn’t help smiling at him, enjoying the pleasure of being in the presence of someone talking about what they love. (My heart laid its hand on theology.) We were all leaning in, and asking questions. The rising rate of pastoral infidelity; the American ADD phenomenon and its drug of choice, Ritalin; the inhibition of pleasure centers in the brain by a culture addicted to serial melodrama and hedonistic bombasts. Ultimately, he concluded, we so deaden our pleasure centers in the brain that we can no longer enjoy anything. We become like zombies, feeling nothing, enjoying nothing. A kind of depression sets in which is not sadness but emptiness. Real pleasures, good company, ripe fruit, beautiful sunsets, and especially delayed pleasures such as those achieved in listening to good music or acquiring a foreign language, become impossible without treatment. And what kind of treatment? This sounds so much like the consequences of gluttony and greed, I thought, “So are you saying, then, that a spiritual discipline like fasting, rather than be an avoider of pleasure, actually re-awakens our pleasure centers and opens a door to the experience of legitimate and authentic, rather than manufactured, pleasure?” Yes, he said, and then talked about some studies with recovering cocaine addicts. Hmmm…now that would be an interesting book. One that addresses not only the spiritual reasons behind the ascetic disciplines, but also supplements that with good scientific-and-brain research demonstrating their impact upon the whole psychosomatic person.

The Storyteller took over, and the conversation turned to the children of famous Christians. No gossip here, just good, wholesome stories; human life together, whether one is an author or international speaker or no. When everyone ordered coffee, I thanked God that Dr. Cardia ordered a cappuccino, as I did the same. Oh, you cannelloni al forno, only that cappuccino could have done you justice! “I have to bring L. here.”

It was a pleasure to meet Anne. Sunday school teacher, philanthropist, business woman and mother who opened a story with the descriptor “infancy narratives” – a beautiful woman with a young and wonder-full soul, I could see why The Storyteller married her. And, as he told tale after tale, I could see why she married him. I liked being around them as a couple, it made me feel good about being a human being. It made me feel good about my own marriage, and I missed L. There was a sad note, though. Anne looks so much like George Eliot, aged a bit. “Here is what she would be like if she were a Christian,” I thought, and my heart felt the loss.

Afterward, we stumbled out into the cool and neon Nashville downtown. I walked and whistled to the truck and climbed inside. Checked the messages. QE, still struggling with a cold. Sir Walter Raleigh answered the phone, and Oh the happy news: a boy! A boy! A boy (and, I’m told, quite apparently so!) I’m still excited and thrilled. John G. and I wrapped up the evening, where I blabbed far too long but he got to talk library speak and H. said a few words. This day was a table of the Lord, and I ate and was satisfied, and, even now at the end of this post, please understand that there are baskets left over.

Finding Beauty in Middle Tennessee

There is a beauty to Middle Tennessee. It isn’t the beauty of the ocean. Nor is it an architectural beauty; most of the buildings around here – the one’s that aren’t strip malls – are made of brick. It isn’t the charm of European walking distance, the library, the grocery store and a playground all within a few moment’s walk. It would take an hour or more to get anywhere here on foot. Yet, there is a beauty to it.

I first noticed it one morning when everything was shrouded in fog, laying thick and quiet along the slope of the land. Myself and the other commuters sped through these earth-bound-clouds cautiously, making deadlines, going places. And then, as I crossed over the Cumberland River, I looked across the rail at the water below. The sun glinted off the strange water and refracted through the overhanging fog. The scene was strange and mysterious, and flowed with memories of the frontier.

A few days later, I saw something else. Construction is everywhere in Nashville. The city has grown so fast over the last decade that public roads and other facilities have burst against rising demand. In an effort to make up the difference, nearly every road in Nashville is being widened, and new connections are being made. Thus, cars share the roads with construction machinery and their handlers. It was just such a situation that gave me another glimpse of the beauty to be found here.

Just off highway 155E, in a knot of trucks and pylons, a group of construction workers had gathered before starting their daily labor. They stood together in a loose circle. Tattered shirts and old jeans, gloves and hard-hats, dusty hands and faces, they gripped coffee or a biscuit from Jack in the Box or McDonald’s and greeted each other. It reminded me of my warehouse days. It reminded me of the feel of the warehouse first thing in the morning. Muscles just warming up as hands and feet took up new tasks. In their faces and postures, in the work that waited all around them, I saw something else that is beautiful in Middle Tennessee: its people.

And, finally, a third thing – quickly said as this is getting long. We visited a Baptist church yesterday. A congregation of perhaps 120 in a not-unattractive sanctuary for 350 people. Just before the sermon, a man of about 45-50 years sang “Special Music”. It was a gospel song of gratitude for being a “child of the King” filled out with pre-recorded percussion, bass and background vocals. Cheesy, that’s what I thought as a kid. But, as this man, this bearded grown man, got into the song, and could barely choke out his real gratitude for being such a one, I didn’t think it was cheesy at all. It was grace. Southern religiosity takes some getting used to, and I’m not sure if I will ever totally trust it, but that doesn’t mean that it is false. It certainly wasn’t to this man. And as he struggled to sing in those last few bars, I saw something else beautiful, beautiful and beyond beauty.

The other habit

Watching TV the other night with Kara, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had her fingers up near her face. Thinking the worst I said, “Kara, stop picking your nose.” “I’m not picking my nose Daddy,” she whined, “I’m doing the other habit!”

Fifty-or-Fit

So the lot of us were at Friday’s a week or two ago to celebrate Mary Shelley’s birthday. Mary is on my right, Dolley Madison on my left. Opposite are Idgie Threadgoode and Alypius; Mr. Darcy at the head. Little by little the subject turned to New Year’s resolutions, and, from there, weight loss. “I need to lose weight this year,” said Mr. Darcy. Dolley agreed, and in a flash Mr. Darcy’s hand was out. “Let’s make a bet out of it,” he said, “50 dollars apiece to see who wins the most by…” Dolley laughed and shook on it. Discussion followed. Alypius threw in. Do it! I thought. You need to lose weight big time. Plus, this is a great way to do that and be a part of things! Now $50 is a lot of money, and I’m normally not given to wagering anything. When the powerball was up in the 200 million, I didn’t even buy a dollar ticket. Just do it! I went back and forth, and then finally shook on it. The date set was April Fool’s Day. Whoever loses the most weight, measured as a percentage lost, wins the pot at $150.

The next morning, Dolley sent an email to the rest of us. “….one mile, x sit ups, y push ups….GAME ON!” Mr. Darcy’s shot back: two trips for beer. My strategy hasn’t so far been as aggressive. Slight, incremental changes are my forte, harnessing the power of caloric compound interest. Park further from buildings. Drink water. Cut out sweets. Take the stairs. I lost 20lbs doing just this a few years ago, and I wagered these would make a good sortie toward the goal. That is until Alypius started getting up early to work out. Now I’m thinking a good deal about that fitness center in the new apartment complex.

Lynn-nore was a little shocked when I broke the news. $50 is a lot of money! (Did I mention that?) If every couple has a spendthrift and a tightwad, then I am most definitely the former. Still, the health benefits of having me a bit lighter, coupled with the prospect of winning enough money to cover the cost of a new wardrobe sweetened the deal. Also, we have since figured that the money saved by acquiring our apartment, thereby negating the need to pick up a Y membership, is none too shabby. I even think, having been at it for over a week now, that she is a little proud of me – and that feels good.

Catching Z's

The sun is going down, and from the window next to my cubicle, I can see the tips of trees, yellow and brown. They stand on the dock, and wave to the Sun as it sets out to the west. Inside, someone is on the phone. Another is chatting to a co-worker, in this case Dolley Madison. The rat-a-tat of ubiquitous keyboarding joins the hum of ventilation. A quiet afternoon that is soporific in the extreme.

I have been trying to read a galley copy of Brian McClaren’s The Secret Message of Jesus (IMHO largely a colloquial popularization of a better N.T. Wright lecture) but keep wanting to nod off. Most days there is a good bit to do, but todays “to do” has caught fast in the wheels of others.

Domestically, we found an apartment. We went from 1250/mo for a simple 2brdm with < 1000 square feet of space to much less $/mo with 1200+ square feet + fitness center/2 pools/volleyball/tennis court AND - perhaps more importantly - a dish washer! L. and I are pinching ourselves! Caleb has begun teething. 3 little white incisors are starting to peek out on his lower jaw. It is a good thing, too, since he’s anything but covert about his desire to chomp into real food. While his sister chants “Meat! Meat!” at a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, Caleb has to make do with rice serial and bananas. He’s ready for more. This, unfortunately, has made him a very light sleeper. Suddenly we are up 2 and 3 times a night again (I say “we” but poor L. takes the brunt of it.) Once he goes down around 8, it is tiptoe time for the next 12 hours. Alas, Kara can’t help herself but shout and groan and make all sorts of noise when we’re putting her to bed – no matter how many references to the Spanish Inquisition one makes by word or sign! Kara is in her first full-week of a new Kindergarten, and she is really enjoying it. Thanks to a visual method for sight-reading, she is sounding out words and simple sentences in a leap of ability bordering on the miraculous! I am very proud of her, and sensitive to the face that spelling doesn’t always mean you keep the secret. Gramma spelled out “Z-O-O” last Saturday, and Kara had no trouble at all deciphering it on the spot.

Coming up: $50 or a pound of flesh.

Santa came to Manchester

Going through some papers, I came across this article that L. cut from the Manchester Cricket. File this under "only in New England"!

SANTA IS COMING TO TOWN AGAIN!
Mark your calendars for the annual Jingle Bell walk, co-sponsored by the Community Center and the Manchester Mothers Club. Set this year for December 3rd, Santa will arrive at Masconomo Park via lobster boat. Santa will lead children on a Jingle Bell Walk to Singing Beach, followed by an Open House at the Community Center from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm. Refreshments will be served and Santa will be available for pictures. Put on your best holiday outfits and come join Santa!

I gave Max Lucado a Cold

I gave Max Lucado a cold. Who? Max Lucado /loo-KAY-doe/. As comfy as a fireside chat, as pastoral as your favorite Uncle, as best-seller as an Oprah book club discount card. That’s the Max Lucado I’m talking about. I met him my first day on the job. Who? Max Lucado. White like sunlight glancing from whitened sandstone. Tall like the A in Antonio. Downy and pastoral, a tenor with a sweater-vest, a heath-hearted fire. That’s the Max Lucado I’m talking about, and I gave him a cold on my very first day.

Unlike my last foxhole, my new cubicle is open and spacious. Wide writing surfaces, with a slide-away file cabinet and drawers are topped by under lit, lockable shelving. The first day, this space was still full of K’s stuff: the accumulated junk of years of shuffling and re-shuffling. Wires, plugs and bags of materials, dusty and unkempt gave the whole a transitory feeling. There were secrets, too.

It is a premium in my new position to keep an eye on the details, details intricately bound up with judgments and manipulations of time. Underneath the dusty leftovers and boxes were a few archaeological bones of K’s own astrology: a file with a color-coded dot; the way she organized the folders in her C:\ drive; different-colored pens. I was left alone for an hour that first day like an acolyte in the temple, looking past the standing stones at the moon and the setting sun and wondering at the question of time. I squared off the site and began sifting and diagramming each of its treasures.

“Excuse me, Thom,” said Mr. Darcy, just as I was about to empty a stack of antiquated emails into a bin, “Max is in the office today, and we’re going to have a meeting with him. We’re going to pray for his upcoming book.” “Pray! How does that work?” I wondered. Not that I don’t mind prayer, but in a corporate setting. Since coming to Nashville, the borderline between religious expression and, to speak existentially, the street, are always crashing into each other in unpredictable ways. And, here on the Outlook tasks: prayer.

Fumbling with names, and coated with new-guy inapproachability, I followed the rest along toward a good sized meeting room. Suits were already there, sitting in a closed square around the center. We pulled chairs from stacks and assembled respectfully along the wall. I bumped along to the right, and found myself sitting alone beside two late-middle-aged women who took no notice of me. I barely noticed myself. And then everyone stood up, and next thing you know up comes Lucado. He takes my hand, looks me right in the eye and says, “Good morning, I’m glad you are here.” Normally I never shake hands with anyone when I’m ill, but Lucado just sort of took it. Surprised, I still managed a smile, “Thanks, I’m glad to be here.” After that he milled through the rest of the crowd, finally ending up at the head of things. Then there was a half hour or so of prayer. I wondered whether only the important people could pray. I wondered whether anyone in the outer ring would pray. What sort of “prayer dynamic” was at work? Who felt as if they had to pray? Then it was over. Time for the Christmas party.

“I hope you like the party we threw for you!” I heard this about half a dozen times as I bummed a ride from some co-workers, still strangers but probably friends. We climbed into an SUV, and climbed out into the grand ballroom of the Sheraton Inn. Our group had a table reserved, right up front. I was seated beside Mr. Darcy, who gave me a “whose who” of the room and fired off well-meaning insults, giving as good as he got, from the rest of the table. I still felt cold and new, like brittle glass.

Around me, the room, opulent and red velvet, was loud. People were having a good time, shouting and jostling each other in friendly greeting. Patsy Clairmont was the speaker. A little, graying woman with a booming voice (or were we sitting in front of the speakers?) she spoke about Jonah, and I was glad to note that she’d obviously read a commentary or two before she wrote her standup. Lucado took the stand to talk about his book.

I was taking in everything. One thing I wanted to know about this group all seated at the same table was whether they liked each other or not. In my last employ, a few hellos would go around, and small talk would be attempted, but there would be little in the way of non-office friendliness. I was pleased to discover that this was largely not the case. This group was more like a cluster of teens at a youth convention than a bevy of suits who came for the food. It is normally very difficult to get any sense of personality at functions like these, but in this case, each person seemed to own themselves. Each person shone in their own color, more along the lines of a church assembly than a collection of co-workers. I marveled at this while wondering with the rest of the table what we were to do now that the wait staff had taken our forks, when the music started.

One golden-voiced executive, with two others drawn from other departments in the company, had taken the microphone and the three men began to sing Christmas carols. The second man played a giant, black Gibson Epiphone hooked to a jazz amplifier. They sang two songs, and then asked the audience to sing one together. They chose “Silent Night” and began straightaway:

Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, all is bright

I joined in, lifted up by the room. Missing worship with my church, and the move having taken advent out of the December weeks, I was hungry for carols, hungry to sing, and here was a company singing together, singing in all sincerity about Jesus. And lest you think only the first verse was sung, no, they launched out into the remainder, and by the time we got to

Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace

I knew that I wasn’t the new guy any longer. I felt it all the way through. It has been a long time coming, but on this day, I said, here is exactly where I belong.