Wrigley Field, Monarchy, and the Weight of Tradition

Chicago: Wrigley Field - Scoreboard, a photo by wallyg on Flickr

A few weeks ago my son Jeff and I attended the home opener of the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field--a ballpark revered by baseball traditionalists like the two of us. Notable for going without lights until 1988, it carries forward to this day an antiquated scoreboard on which changes to the score are manually updated. Woe to anyone who dares to propose that it is time to get with the modern world.

Take for instance my home ballpark here in Kansas City. Known as The K (a tribute to the founding owner, Ewing Kauffman) the newly renovated stadium boasts a massive scoreboard which when installed in 2008 had the largest high definition video board in the world. To be candid the Kansas City Royals teams taking the field in recent years weren't scoring enough runs to make updating a labor intensive task. It is a malady that has also plagued the Cubs over a long time.  

KC Royals Scoreboard,photography.by.ROEVER on Flickr.

Since attending that game I have been reflecting on the feelings prompted by these two disparate images. I love the mystique of Wrigley Field. The opening ceremonies were strangely moving for a visitor like myself. There was a sense of family, genuine  community forged perhaps on the anvil of baseball ineptitude. But still...

That said, I know I am also sufficiently a product of this technological age (I blog, for gosh sakes) that I would hate to give up the vast amount of information provided by the video board at The K. I am sure all agree that it substantially improves the baseball experience if one knows that Billy Butler is hitting over .385 when facing left handed pitchers on cloudy Thursday afternoons. No way does one get valuable information like that from those kids flipping numbers on the Wrigley scoreboard.

I realize you may furrow your brow at the least, or perhaps call 911 if you're real excitable, when you hear me contend that all of this is why I got up at 3:30am this morning to watch the Royal Wedding.  Just bear with me, eh?

The Royal Carriage: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ray-Wise-Photography/135854966435337

Let's begin with this. I was born in Toronto, Canada in 1947, about a year and a half before Prince Charles arrived to considerably more pomp and ceremony, as I later learned. I sang "God Save the Queen" not just at the opening of every school day but also prior to the main feature in the local movie house. I was just a lad when the 27 year old princess was crowned Queen of England on June 2, 1953, ascending because of the death of her father, King George VI. 

I think it was 1957 when the Queen visited Guelph, my residence at the time. We Cub Scouts lined the streets as the royal motorcade passed by. We noticed that the young Queen had perfected the royal wrist wave (Princess Catherine still needs some tutoring--her wrist just flops around). I have often thought of myself and my Cub friends that day as something of a security detail. I take pride that the Queen made it safely back to Buckingham Palace.

I'm not sure any of that explains fully why I hauled myself out of bed at an unfamiliar hour, but I think it has something to do with it being "writ on my inward parts."

But here's the thing. My inward parts are also offended by unbridled opulence in a world of poverty, hunger, and homelessness. I dare say that one need not stray too far from Westminster Abbey to find people living in cardboard boxes. Likewise, I cannot abide a system of privilege whereby wealth and notoriety are seen as a birthright. I understand why some, perhaps even most, call the monarchy an institution that is no longer credible in the modern world.

And in a far less significant matter, neither does it make sense at Wrigley Field to change scores in a manner reminiscent of the pin setters I remember from the bowling alleys of my youth. It is silly to try to hold back the waves of modernity.

But even if we believe these things we still have to contend with why the streets of London were filled with massive crowds estimated to be a million or more (and I didn't spot a cynic among them). And what is it about Wrigley Field that leaves sophisticated Chicagoans declaring that only "over their dead bodies" will that stadium be modernized?

I don't pretend to know the answer to all of this, but I have an inkling or two. I think we all are searching for roots. Technology, for all its social benefits, comes to us in cold packages of brushed aluminum. People are losing faith in our primary institutions such as government, religion, business, public education, and others. An economy that almost collapsed left retirement savings at risk and a general sense of malaise throughout the land. Politicians are ridiculed and what is beginning to feel like a critical mass of people seem ready to believe almost any nonsense about their leaders. When that happens there is a loss of center, things we counted on seem to unravel. The ground beneath our feet seems unstable. Anger, fear, uncertainty begin to take hold.

Maybe one answer has to do with not railing against traditions but transforming them. Princess Diana's public work brought enormous credibility back to the Royal Family; the circumstances of her alienation and death squandered it. Perhaps this newly married young couple will find a way to make that institution relevant again. They seem able to stand in the midst of the traditions with a little twinkle in their eyes. Perhaps we all can learn from them.

"Tradition!" wails the fiddler from the rooftops, decrying the slow erosion of the values that frame the boundaries of his own life but seem not to be efficacious for his children or their generation.

Maybe we can first look at our traditions and see if they can speak to us with a new voice in a new time. Maybe there's a little wine in those old wineskins after all.

The monarchy, weighed down by centuries of rules and obligations and attitudes, still seems ripe for reform.

As to Wrigley Field, I just don't know.  That may be a tougher job.

On Tolstoy, Forgiveness, and the Waffle House

Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)

A while back I found myself at a local Waffle House, filling a little time between appointments with my orthopedist and my ophthalmologist.  Life is like that for me these days, requiring far more visits to medical facilities than I ever would have imagined.

That morning I was visiting the surgeon who had patched together the remnants of a knee that took the brunt of an ungraceful descent down the stairway in my home. That nasty surgery left me with a couple of months spent mostly in a recliner, my foot elevated and my ego bruised.

Later that day I was at the eye doctor, demonstrating once again that I could not make out the bottom row in the vision test. Never mind that I had long ago memorized the darn thing, although that knowledge seems a bit useless.

For some reason these medical appointments are often followed by visits to Denny's or IHOPs or such--the comfort foods, the brassy waitresses, the bottomless coffee pots, and the morning paper. On this occasion it was the Waffle House I visited. I learned a little history from the greasy menu--there is a Waffle House Museum in Decatur, Georgia at the site of the first restaurant opened in 1955. That was interesting to know, but hardly life-changing.

But never did I imagine that in the midst of the maple syrup, the buttered waffle, and the black coffee I would run into Leo Tolstoy. He came by way of a story in the New York Times which I was reading on my iPhone. I see a lot of irony in the circuitous route that connected me to Tolstoy that morning, but that is not the point of my musings today.

Waffle House Museum

The piece in the Times dealt with an effort underway in Russia to rehabilitate Tolstoy's reputation on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of his death. It seems that although he is fondly remembered among literary types, and is an important figure in Russian history, he is not beloved by the Russian Orthodox Church. A century ago the  church had excommunicated and blacklisted him because they believed he had supported the rise of the Bolsheviks.

Clearly Tolstoy had radical views and was a favorite of Lenin. But even those who abhorred his politics had to acknowledge that War and Peace and Anna Karenina, among others, were such a worthy contribution to the world's literature that he could be forgiven his political myopia. And so, a decade ago Tolstoy's great-great grandson wrote to the church requesting that Tolstoy's 1901 excommunication be "revisited." There was no response.

As the centennial approached the effort was joined by the literary establishment and a most remarkable request ensued. The president of the Russian Book Union wrote to the church and in effect asked for forgiveness on behalf of Tolstoy, something Tolstoy himself had never requested. The church's response, while praising his books and other literary accomplishments, noted that Tolstoy had never made peace with the church nor renounced his "tragic spiritual error" and as a result his excommunication could not be lifted. They did say that those who held him in high regard would be allowed to offer "sincere, humble prayer for his soul." (The full text of the letters are well worth reading and can be found here.)

At this point the waitress at the Waffle House asked if I would like my coffee refilled.  I did.

Russian intellectuals were appalled by the church's response:

“It’s as if in the 20th century the church did not survive persecution that made Tolstoy’s criticisms look like childish prattle,” wrote the literary critic Pavel V. Basinsky, whose new book examines Tolstoy’s final days. “It’s as if we have found ourselves in the situation that we were in at the beginning of the last century.”

As the waitress two booths over hollered "Two eggs over easy, hash browns, and bacon extra crispy," I shook my head in agreement and chuckled at the silly rigidity and narrow interpretations of those church officials unable to migrate to the modern age.  I poured a little maple syrup on what remained of my waffle.

And then a little chill rippled through my body.

I stared at the words. I wrote that statement by the Secretary of the Patriarchal Cultural Council of the Russian Orthodox Church, I thought, lukewarm coffee gurgling in my throat. Not that statement, of course. I had never upheld the excommunication of Leo Tolstoy. Never even knew about it.

But my entire career was spent in various roles in a faith community, eight of them as its president. In that moment in the booth of the restaurant du jour I started to wonder how many times had I written policies or responded to inquiries in a manner that leaned on custom or comfort or precedent but ignored the Waffle House test.

Does it make sense to the world as we know it, as it has become over time? Does it honor the past without being bound to it? Does it stifle or does it breathe with new life?

 My mind raced.

A few days ago I stopped by the Waffle House again after seeing the doctor. A little bladder problem if you must know. I had some things I have been wondering about since my last encounter with Tolstoy. Many things. I needed to know what he thought.  That same waitress was yelling something about link sausages. No Tolstoy though.

Maybe I'll check at Denny's, just in case.

Midterm Lament -- "If only..."

Day 100: I Voted
Originally uploaded by willowforlife

Those who know me will understand that I am not a happy guy today. I had long ago prepared myself for the outcome of the midterm election, but preparing oneself for hitting your thumb with a hammer does not prevent the screech that ensues when it actually happens.

I have done my fair share of screeching in the last 15 hours or so, not to mention gasping, guffawing, sniffing, and snorting. It really wasn't a pretty sight.

I am sickened by the orgy of disgusting television commercials leaping on every misstep or misstatement made by candidates of every stripe. It is as if being human is now a disqualification for holding political office. The end of those cursed clips is the one thing that makes this "day after" at least palatable.

I went through all that visceral stuff and insofar as possible shoved it out of the way. At that point my mind starting turning to regret more than anger. I am persuaded that it didn't have to be this way. My thoughts began to take the form of laments framed as wishes.  "If only...", I began to think. "If only..." 

If only... the promise of Election Night 2008 had been given a chance-- thousands and thousands of people in Chicago's Grant Park, pride in a country that could elect a man with the autobiography and ethnic heritage such as this, and a hope that seemed genuine and pervasive across the land. 

If only... the commitment to bipartisanship promised by the President had been even tried by the Republican leadership. Instead their policy was clear--oppose everything and propose nothing. To listen to those same leaders today calling for bipartisanship is almost more than one can bear. 

If only... the Democratic leadership had been wiser in managing the legislative priorities of the President. For example, having the draft of the health care legislation written in the Congress resulted in the same old "scratch your back, scratch my back" culture that was supposedly changing. Alas, not so. The Biblical metaphor for this is "new wine in old wineskins."   

If only... American elections could mirror the importance of the issues instead of catering to the entertainment value of the whimsical, the silly, and the stupid. 

If only... we could figure out how to do these elections without the poisonous injection of money without accountability--a candidate spending $160 million of her own money (I wonder how many jobs that could have funded), lobbyists who reward votes with money, trips, wine, women and/or men, and such other treats as the legislator may find helpful in deciding how to vote. No one believes in this nonsense; why is it we can't stop it? 

If only...Democratic candidates had shown some guts and campaigned on the legislative achievements of the past two years; things they had voted for but never mentioned since. The President and his administration failed to effectively explain their own successes. As a result, there was no substantive debate on key issues--Republicans had nothing to say and the Democrats somehow lost their nerve and more or less ran as Republicans. Makes us proud. 

If only... movements such as the Tea Party could come to understand that we're grownups and live in a complex society and that issues have subtleties that must be understood. Not all taxes are bad. Not all Hispanics are either illegal or alien. Witches have a right to be represented in the Senate too. (Okay, I made that one up, but the mere fact that a senatorial candidate went to the airwaves with a denial that she was a witch tells us more about the election than we want to admit.)

There are many other laments that could be issued, but these are genuine. I believe there are many things that could have been done to avoid this nasty, divisive process. It didn't have to be done this way. It does not honor the spirit of our country and it does not give us hope that we can pass to our children and grandchildren. 

All of the pundits are saying that the 2012 presidential campaign begins today. You know, it doesn't have to be done this way.

If only...

And Now Cometh Ayla

Big Sister Ashley welcomes
Ayla to her world.

I'm sure that most people who know me at all are aware that I am rather fond of my granddaughter Ashley. She is now well on her way to her third birthday and she has brought into my life unimagined love, heartfelt hope, and even a dash of redemption.

In this blog I have from time to time ruminated about this little girl's impact on my life, beginning with an extraordinary 2 1/2 months when I cared for her five days a week while her mom fulfilled a teaching contract. Ashley taught me so much without knowing it. One day I will tell her.  (Some of  what one might call the Chronicles of Ashley and Papa are posted here. Just enter the word "Ashley" in the Search This Blog box in the upper right corner.)

It would be fair to say that she has caused me to look at all manner of things--social justice, politics, humor, faith, family, even baseball--through a prism that persistently weaves her image into the fabric of my being. In a post a while back I wrote, "Her presence in my life has been transforming because it has placed a human face on the future." Rereading them recently, the words struck me much more powerfully than when I first penned them. Perhaps that is because I'm very worried about the future these days.

Blessed to have Lyda as her mom

All of this is to set the table for the arrival of Ashley's sister, Ayla Joyce McMurray, at 4:06 am on August 12, 2010.  She showed up a couple of weeks earlier than expected, but was a healthy 6 pounds, 15 ounces stretched beautifully over a 19 1/2 inch frame.

It's always a bit tough to join a family where the older sibling has been the center of the universe. I wouldn't know; I was the first born and I'm sure my sister, to whom I just sent a draft copy of this post, never experienced any problems like that.  (Hmmm! My phone is ringing and my caller ID says she's on the line. I think I'll take it later.)

But I'll tell you this, Brian and Lyda did an extraordinary job of preparing Her Royal Highness for the role of Big Sister. There are many stories to tell and we'll perhaps do that one day. I don't want to turn this blog from its usual hard-hitting social commentary to maudlin bragging about one's kids and grandkids. But just this once, dear reader, please humor me.

Brian is a terrific dad.  We love it.

Without question the presence of Ashley and the arrival of Ayla embody that slice of life that is good and true. Without them I can't imagine how I could cope with my anger as well as my fears about our world and especially this country.  I keep reminding myself about the "human face on the future," but many other faces I am seeing are hateful, mean-spirited, ignorant, and deluded.

So-called tea party activists find it humorous to put President Obama's image on a poster with his face crafted into a likeness of Adolph Hitler. A clueless pastor of a tiny "Christian" church announces a public burning of the Koran and then finds himself atop the 24/7 news cycle. Never mind that such actions in the past have prompted international protest that led to riots, fanatical bombings, and infringement of human liberties around the world. The promise that many Americans embraced two years ago has stalled and soured in ways that break my heart. The Democrats must take their share of the blame, but the Republican tactics of demon-making, policy-blocking, and fear-mongering are unprecedented in my lifetime. And I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday.

And so to Ayla and her big sister Ashley, I give you this broken country and invite you to love it. I hold before you those whose fear has turned to hate, and ask you to hug them. I point to those who are lonely or hungry or hurting and pray that you will welcome them with a smile when you meet them.

Some may consider me delusional, but when I look into a mirror each day I see the faces of Ashley, and now Ayla as well. For those of us who worry about the future that's a good thing.

So You're Canadian, eh?

 

Canadian Pride
Originally uploaded by N10Z

I rooted for Team Canada in the hockey finals of the Winter Olympics this year. There's a story about that.

In the summer of 1959, just before my twelfth birthday, I pressed my nose against the rear window of our car and watched my homeland disappear behind me. 

The circumstances of my family's relocation from southern Ontario in Canada to the heartland of the United States were kind of complicated.  I suspect that the four of us making that journey--my mother, sister, grandmother, and me--probably all had different ideas about what we were doing and why we were doing it. 

I knew it had to do, at least in part, with a perceived need for a fresh start for our family after several years of coping with an alcoholic father. It wasn't a flight from him, more like creating a new place for him in the hope he would eventually join us and begin anew. He never did.
 
I was born in Toronto. Our family situation had caused us to bounce around quite a bit. Prior to our move I completed sixth grade. I think that I matriculated in about seven or eight elementary schools just to get that far. I lived in Guelph and Ottawa but Toronto is the place I consider to be my birthplace and home town. 

Our move to the States was probably the best thing for our family. I wasn't so sure at the time. As I was walking to my first day of school in the U.S. I met a kid my age. Upon learning I was new here he offered to answer any questions I might have. I inquired as to whether they played much hockey here. He hesitated a bit, then said, "Yes we play hockey here. You play that on a horse, don't you?" I knew immediately that my hockey cards featuring the likes of Gordie Howe, Bobby Hull, and Maurice "Rocket" Richard were going to be under appreciated.

In 1965, shortly before I headed off to college, my mother, sister, and I became naturalized citizens of the United States of America. A strange notion that--to somehow be "naturalized" by court order.  Nonetheless, it appeared that we would be here for the duration and if so we might as well lay claim to the rights of citizenship. I don't recall having to renounce other loyalties, foreign or domestic, but it appears we did.  Hopefully that doesn't extend to Olympic hockey. 

I was in college and graduate school during the Vietnam War. A lot of my friends took much more interest in Canada than I had noticed previously.  I suspect Canada will always be thought of here as being a refuge for objectors to the Vietnam War, an image that is warmly received by some and greeted with snarls by others.  Mark me down for warmly received.

Once seen by many as almost a subset of the USA, Canada now has fashioned its own identity in the world. Never has that been clearer than in the Olympic Games. 

Here in the States these days it is front and center in the debate over health care reform, either derided by Americans as wild-eyed socialism or lifted up as an illustration of how national health care can effectively work for the benefit of the people. 

The nature of my career was such that I was able to return to Canada quite a bit on business, and our family made a few trips over the years. I was glad for them to see the Victorian row houses, the streetcars, Eaton's Center, the lakefront, and to experience the cacophony of images, smells, and sounds that pulsated through the remarkable city of Toronto.

One of those trips provided my kids their one and only opportunity to meet my father, a rickety soul by then, his body yielding to years of alcoholism, now cruelly compounded by Parkinson's Disease. "It's the only time anyone has ever called me 'grandpa,'" he said to me with misty eyes, those being among the very last words he would speak to me face to face. 
 

-

All of this and more ran through my mind as I watched the Canadians host the remarkable Winter Olympics. I felt pride not just for "them" but for me as well.  I sensed anew my own Canadian heritage, which I have embraced all of my days. It comes with a flood of memories, some bittersweet, even tragic. It encompasses place and people, life scenes of loss and redemption, times of beauty and meaning. 

And most of all, it is nurtured by beloved Canadian friends who always let me know whenever I am there that I am home.