Take some time today to remember those who have served our country, those who have died in service and those continue to serve our country.
And, if you’re lucky enough to be like me, call your grandpa and thank him.
In Flanders Field: Lt. Col. John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Those who know me know that singing is a HUGE part of my life. Since I was seven, I’ve been in a choir every year of my life, save one. So naturally, I joined a choir here as soon as I set down some semi-permanent roots.
My choir of choice was the Congressional Chorus, a 70-person co-ed ensemble dedicated to singing American choral music. And most importantly, to me, the chorus dues and fundraising also support the American Youth Chorus, an ensemble for DC children ages 8-14. Youth choirs are a big deal for me.
Are youth choirs a big deal to you? Is beautiful music? Because if you answered YES to either of those questions, come see the Congressional Chorus sing at the beautiful Church of the Epiphany on Nov. 13 at 8 p.m. David Simmons, our music director, puts together a heckuva program.
So, to recap, that’s:
Saturday, Nov. 13, 2010,8 p.m. Church of the Epiphany, 1317 G Street NW
Washington, DC 20005
Today I did something I’ve been meaning to do for ages. I culled my Google Reader feed.
Things were getting ridiculous with 343 subscriptions. Instead of staying informed, I was piling on the guilt of choosing ignorance as I clicked “Mark All as Read” again and again. Streamlining Reader taught me three simple lessons, a lot about my media consumption habits and a thing or two about myself.
I didn’t pre-write a post last night because I was so wrapped up in election coverage (it’s like a second World Series for me), so I don’t have a lot of time to say anything. (Temping = half-hour lunch break.) I did, however, come across this somewhat ridiculous but amusing clip about what movie high schools would be the worst to attend:
I have to say I’d hate to go to the Election high school, and I’m pretty sure I went to The Breakfast Club’s high school, so there you have it.
Also, to anyone who’s upset about the election, I remind you it could always be so much worse.
I don’t care how you fall politically, it’s always worth remembering that we have it pretty good here.
WASHINGTON, D.C. — No, I didn’t get a job. (I felt I should say that at the outset.)
No, dear friends, today is a day to celebrate small and incremental victories with the cautious optimism that more are to come some day.
Yesterday (or actually “today,” since I’m delay-posting), after months of nagging and whining, my property management company finally patched the hole in my ceiling.
For those of you with whom I don’t have happy hours, I’m essentially living in an apartment from hell. I realize that’s a strong statement to make, but I stand by it. Case in point, there’s been a three-square-inch hole in my shower ceiling since I moved in this past July. Since then, I have managed not to get ceiling rot on me while showering by taping a plastic bag over the hole and ignoring it with the exception of several, several calls to my landlords to get it fixed.
They also patched a hole in the wall, which was nice. We’ve had a lot of heated discussions, the property company and I, and I’m hoping this is the start of a beautiful — or at the very least, more efficient — friendship. Now all I need is a working stove.
But in a good way. Check out Charlie Pierce’s touching tribute to Maurice Lucas. We should all be so lucky to be remembered like that when we go.
Obituarites are, I think, the hardest things to write, and I’m certainly no expert. You’re trying to get and process information on one of the worst days of your interviewee’s life. I’ve heard it’s easy to get too wrapped up in the emotion of it — and just as easy to go the other way and completely cut off emotions like a sociopath.
I’ve written one, for Dr. Donald Kausler at the Missourian, and was terrified I would dishonor his memory somehow. I was fortunate. Despite their terrible loss, Dr. Kausler’s family made my job easy and the thing just wrote itself. The only hard part was when I tried the family at one of the contact numbers they’d given me, and reached Dr. Kausler’s voice on his voicemail message. Ghosts are more prevalent in the technological age, I suppose.
When I was done, I drove home, made myself some coffee, looked up his articles and cried. I didn’t know him, but I mourned him.
I’m sure it makes me look like a wimp and a bad reporter — and maybe I’ll handle it better in the future — but I hope I never end up on the obit desk. With all other kinds of journalism, even the horribly depressing pieces, reporters can advocate for change, call attention to problems, and show why these things should never happen again. Obits are different. They’re sad, human and universal and the narrative arc as we can report it just…ends.
I’m fortunate enough to only imagine how hard it would be to write an obituary for someone I knew. I’m not a basketball fan, and so didn’t know who Maurice Lucas was before his passing. Thanks to Charlie Pierce, more people in this world know not only about the athlete, but the man. That’s really the best way to celebrate a life, isn’t it?
This is what I mean when I say I can’t ever quite put up blog posts. This was a finished blog post on July 4, and I didn’t publish it…why?
HONOLULU — Aloha!
Many of you have asked (in various mediums) for me to talk about Hawaii and what it’s like. Since today is Independence Day (Eds. note: it is no longer Independence Day) I thought I’d take the time to talk about my time in the nation’s youngest state.
I do think I have to say that visiting Hawaii is way different for me than it is for others I know who have gone. For one, we only go to Oahu. For two, if you say “Hawaii” to most people, they picture something like this:
(Hawaii Five-O is the property of composer Morton Stevens and, well, probably CBS, but certainly not me.)
And for a great many people who go to Hawaii, that is probably what they see. There are a whole lot of ways to be in Hawaii without ever seeing a non-planted local, and I’m not going to go off on that particular rant. People are on vacation! Hawaii runs on tourism. Go for it.
To me, though, Hawaii means this:
(That’s “the kids” after we went crabbing and generally got our butts kicked by stand-up paddling.) Just as most people can do Hawaii without seeing a local, we do our best to avoid seeing other tourists. We stay with family, go to neighborhood beaches (what a concept for a girl from MN, by the way. Neighborhood beaches, public PARK beaches!) and eat the amazing local food that’s tucked into strip malls and office buildings all over Oahu that you can’t get anywhere but Hawaii. And I get to practice my Japanese, which, let me tell you, is so rusty you can see through it. It means I can hang out with my grandparents and only worry about what we’re eating next and wonder idly where I put my shoes, cause I’ll need them in a few weeks.
I could give you a day-by-day breakdown of what we did, but it’s mostly seeing family and eating great food, often together, often on or near a beach. For three weeks.
WASHINGTON, D.C. — I ‘d keep apologizing for not posting, blogging, but it’d ring hollow. We both know it’s not our busy schedules that keep us apart. I’m just not that into you.
Look, I like you. Especially in politics/policy reporting, a blog is ideal to talk about what those wacky politicians are up to (Yelling at constituents! Getting covered in pennies!) or what laws are actually being made. You’re great for posting follow-ups and other interesting tidbits; to highlight a good story that’s slipped off the front page; or to connect with your audience on a more personal level — truly a shocking idea. Sure, I have my problems with you, but you’ll work those out as you get older.
As I go on job interviews, I mean it when I say you’re a great addition to the traditional reporting arsenal — and not just because I’d be totally out of touch if I didn’t think so. But, still, I like you as a professional concept, which is like telling a boy that I like him as a friend.
Oh, blogging, it’s not you. It’s me. Really. It’s not your fault that I don’t cook and bake. Or that I don’t have aspirations toward better health. Or that I’m not blessed with a muse and a wicked sense of humor. (Seriously, though, go read all of those. My friends rock.) I’m plenty interesting, if I do say so myself, but when I try to blog, it just doesn’t work for me. Whenever I think I’ll post about a Twins trade or the agonizing fall of Don Draper, I find somebody else who’s posted exactly what I wanted to say instead.
Look, I’m not cutting you out of my life. I’m willing to keep trying. We can be better friends, you and I. I’ll try to stop avoiding you because you stink of failure on my part. I can be less of a jerk.
Emerging from my serious case of the grumps can only do good things for my mental health and my job search, so I’ve started writing down at least one small thing every day for which I am thankful.
Today it’s “cats who crawl into your lap when you’ve been fighting with InDesign for an hour, purr and then fall asleep” — itself a sub-thankful item to “friends who let you crash at their place while you regain your hold on solid ground.”
I don’t know that I’ll blog one of these every day, but today’s seemed worth sharing.
