Presentation pie

Pie: what unexpectedly lands on your face when you’re trying to be cool.

I was the “preacher” stand-in on Sunday, speaking at a Unitarian church about 60 miles from here while their minister was on vacation. It was the second time I’ve presented this particular sermon. The first time, about five years ago, was at my home church and it went over very well.

In the ensuing years I have gotten much more skillful not only at speaking but at crafting a tight speech/sermon. I reworked the old speech, lightened it up with some humorous quips and images, and added a rousing call to action at the end. It was definitely improved, so I felt confident all would be well.

After what happened on Sunday I can tell I need to go back to improv class, because those skills would have been handy.

Before I was to speak, the Sunday School director invited the kids to come forward for story time.  She started telling them a tale that seemed surprisingly similar to what I was about to talk about. At first I thought, “This is good - I can refer back to a couple of her ideas when I speak.”

But she went on and on, pretty much summarizing in kid’s language what I was going to talk about. As she finished she looked back at me and said, “Heheh, I hope I didn’t spoil your story….”

In Toastmasters we are warned in our introductions never to give away the speaker’s main points. For example you might say, “Today Mary will tell us the story of Goldilocks.” But you’d never say, “Today Mary is going to tell about how a little girl happened into a bear’s home while they were out and had to try every chair, bowl, and bed before she found one that was just right. Mary?”

OK, this woman’s version of the story lacked the depth, detail and brilliance of mine, and she missed some of the juicy parts, but still, she left me holding a half-eaten sandwich.

So I got up to speak and noticed that this was a crowd that likes to keep its distance. Most folks sat as far back as possible; the front five rows were empty. I thought I was in Missouri with the “show-me” congregation. Crossed arms, implacable faces.

Still, I wasn’t worried because most audiences respond fairly quickly to the warmth of my manner (not bragging; it’s true).

Ah yes. The congregation soaked up my words like a sponge. That is to say, my words landed on the congregants and disappeared without a trace.  It was like talking to acoustical tile.

I plowed on regardless and I guess it was all right. Next time I’ll bring bagels to toss into the crowd at the end of every page of text. That would get a rise out of them. But if it didn’t I’d add lox.

Afterwards I talked with a friend who had belonged to my church before she moved to this community. She noted that there were a lot of old folks in the group and said that this was their usual “response” to the sermon.

It made me really appreciate the pleasure of speaking to a responsive audience.  My home congregation really hangs in there with the minister or any guest speaker.   At Toastmasters we are totally attentive to and appreciative of the speaker, even if it’s crap. We know that soon enough we’ll be up front and want that kind of support for ourselves.

On behalf of speakers and teachers everywhere, the next time you’re in an audience, do your part by giving the person up front the gift of your full attention. Laugh, frown, cry in response. You’re there anyway; might as well be fully present.

Play! Prescription for the puritan soul

Like many introverts, I take life pretty seriously.  What I do must be purposeful, practical, productive.

Or so my inner critic likes to remind me.

It’s only now that I’m “of a certain age” I realize life’s way too short not to play.  So in recent years I’ve joined Toastmasters, taken up swing dancing, learned to yodel, tried my hand at improv comedy, beefed up my blues guitar chops, and in general decided it’s OK to enjoy making a fool of myself.

This morning, thanks to a comment from Scatterbrain who blogs at Splodge-plog.com, I found a link to an article about the SF Regional Air Guitar contest that took place last week.

Talk about purposeless play! You have to watch the video (the larger image, please) of the winner Alex Koll (stage name: Awesome Shred Begley, Jr.) explaining and demonstrating his extraordinary talents at Air Guitar.

Now this guy puts his heart and soul, body and hair into PLAY!

Pat Patterson: a torrid teen tale

The June I graduated from junior high was hot and steamy, as only New England weather can be. It was also hot and steamy in my adolescent heart as I contemplated the social possibilities ahead of me once I got to high school.

In my town, junior high took you all the way through 9^th grade. It was a social wasteland for a girl. My male classmates were short, their voices cracked like yodeling gone awry, and they were clueless about dating.

To celebrate our exit from junior high one of my friends hosted a party and invited some friends of her older brother. These high school boys were as anxious to meet us as we were to meet them because their female classmates had just deserted them in favor of the young college boys who had come home for the summer.

At the party I quickly set my radar on a guy who was nearly six feet tall– blonde, blue-eyed and adorable. “That’s Pat Patterson,” my friend whispered to me, “he’s on the football team and very popular.”

I was thrilled when he asked me to dance several times during the evening. Even more thrilled when he asked me to the movies the next night.

He walked me home after the movie and kissed me goodnight at the door. Wow! I was in love.  I knew we’d be engaged in no time.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was leaving the next morning for an 8-week girls camp in Maine, where I was a counselor-in-training. Pat and I exchanged addresses and promised to write each other.

In my hyperactive imagination my romance with Pat grew more intense the longer I was away. I relived our dances over and over. And the movie. And that kiss! I poured my fantasies onto the pages of my diary.

He wrote me only once – a letter I kept under my pillow and kissed every night. I wrote him every week.

Shortly before camp ended I wrote him one last letter telling him EXACTLY when I’d be getting home: Wednesday, August 26 on the 4 o’clock train.

The first thing I asked my parents when they met me at the station was, “Did Pat call?”

“No…”

Wednesday night passed. No call.

Thursday night. No call (back then girls did NOT call boys).

Friday night came, the first night of the weekend when EVERY self-respecting teen goes out. Still no call. I was miserable. To make matters worse, we were having a torrid sticky heat wave and our house had no air conditioning.

By Saturday night I was so distraught that I couldn’t even eat my dinner. When my dad asked if something was wrong, I burst into tears: “EVERYTHING!” and stormed from the table. I ran into my bedroom, slammed the door HARD, and threw myself on the bed sobbing.

About 7 o’clock I heard the phone ring downstairs. I ran to my bedroom door and it was STUCK, swollen from the humidity. Nobody appeared to be answering the phone. I screamed hysterically, “SOMEONE PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE!!!”

My mother finally got it and yelled up the stairs,“It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“I think he said it was Pat,” she said.

But I still could NOT get my door unstuck. I wailed pathetically…“Pleease… will someone help me get out??”

My dad finally worked it open and I raced to the phone, trying to compose myself.  “Uh, hi,” I said, as if I were totally bored with pesky boys calling so much.

“Hey, glad you’re back,” the voice on the other end said. “Want to catch the 8 o’clock show?”

I paused… just long enough to make it seem like I had other options. “Well… ok.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” he said.

I looked in the mirror. My hair was matted with tears. My eyes were red and puffy. I had a lot of face repair to do in that half hour.

At 7:30 on the dot the doorbell rang and I bounded downstairs to get it.

I opened the door and there was my short, geeky, pimply classmate from next door, Matt Harmon.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Go where?”

“The movies…

“I can’t. I already have a date with Pat Patterson.” I said.

“But I just talked to you a few minutes ago and you said you’d be ready.”

By this time my mother was standing right behind me and I knew I was stuck. The only thing that could have made it worse was to be seen with Matt by someone I knew.

Turned out that callow Pat Patterson had been dating another girl most of the summer.

At my 25^th high school reunion I learned that as an adult Pat hadn’t amounted to much. Matt Harmon, however, had become a very successful attorney. He had also become tall, charming and acne-free. If I’d stuck with him I’d now be living in a Manhattan penthouse during the week and spending the weekends at an elegant cottage in the Hamptons. Who knew?

Poodle problems

My dog looks young and perky. She is still lean and bouncy. However she is 14, deaf, and foolish.

Once upon a time I could let her out in the back yard when we woke up in the morning and she would do her business and come back inside.  My yard covers a third of an acre, which seemed to satisfy her need for exploration. She stayed within its bounds, even though it’s only partially fenced.

Lately she’s taken to wandering. Bored after years of the same damn dogfood every day, perhaps she seeks some hapless workman’s lunch? Bored after years of the same damn yard, perhaps she seeks new vistas? Bored after years of the same damn owner, perhaps she seeks fresh love?

Today she went too far.  Dangerously too far - like all the way to the main drag a couple of blocks away, where she was trotting up the middle of the road.  A neighbor chased her home and rang my doorbell at 7 a.m. with Molly in tow.

Whatever her reasons, I have to put a stop to it.  Legally speaking, we have a leash law and she’s not on one during these early morning meanders. But mainly she needs to be protected from cars, and cars need to be protected from her. She doesn’t hear warning honks so she just muddles merrily along.

I’m beginning to see the writing on the wall. Either I stagger out with her at dawn (in the dark…and in the winter in the rain) or I get a long lead and tie her up in the back yard while I come to consciousness.  (I could just stand there with her but it often takes her up to ten minutes to find the perfect poop place - you could say she’s a picky pooper and as I’ve said, patience is not my strong suit.)

One of the challenges of owning a dog…

Piles of possessions: George Carlin on “Stuff”

Inspire yourself to clear clutter with a comedy act from the late great George Carlin. Watch his routine on “Stuff” and see yourself reflected.

I love this line:”A house is just a cover for your piles of stuff !”

PocketMod, planner for a pauper’s pocket

Found the coolest little portable pocket planner. Write your notes on it, stuff it in your pocket and toss when done. It’s called the PocketMod.

It’s an easy do-it-yourself - where you add the mini-pages that suit your planning needs then print it, fold it. It’s a bit of an origami puzzle till you get the hang of it… - make sure you print out the assembly instructions on one of your demos so you can review the process offline.

To be a Paige: place and people of kin

I am a member of a family that has coalesced around one name, Paige. No matter that many of us were born with non-Paige surnames – we all consider ourselves Paiges. (We’re like the Kennedys — except for the Irish Catholic part, the political dynasty part, the dogged-by-tragedy part… oh, and the money. If you’re a Joe Kennedy descendant you’re a Kennedy, even if your name is something like Schriver.)

Right now I’m paying my annual pilgrimage to our family home, Pine Haven, on Cape Cod. My great-grandfather Timothy Paige bought Pine Haven in 1911 as a summer home when he came into some money from his uncle who had earned a bundle during the California Gold Rush selling pickaxes to the miners. Tim and the other Paiges had been farmers in central Massachusetts (Hardwick) for generations, so the inheritance was quite a shock.

Pine Haven -Paige haven since 1911

Some of the money went for infrastructure in the village of Hardwick and some was spent on Pine Haven, the house next door to it and the house across the street. Pine Haven’s current owners are my second cousin Patty, who was born a Paige, and her husband. The house across the street also remains in the family and other cousins have bought or built homes within a block or two, so you could almost say we have a family compound – although it’s hardly grand.

Patty has taken it upon herself to organize family reunions every few years. We come from all across the country to participate and celebrate our Paigeness. We make a day trip to Hardwick to see the Paige Library, the Paige pew in the Universalist church, the modest Paige Agricultural Center, the statue of gold-rusher Calvin Paige.

Paige Library, Hardwick MA

About ten years ago Patty’s husband instituted a suitably fake-solemn ceremony when their daughter Paige married. With a ribbon, certificate and pompous pronouncement, he inducted the groom into the “I married a Paige” clan. Since then, whenever a member of the extended Paige family marries, their spouse is inducted at the reception, witnessed by growing numbers of the in-law clan, and cheered on by the “birth” Paiges.

So here’s the question: why am I a Paige, and not a Kimball, Bachrach or Keyes? Although my dad’s mom was the Paige, I carry equal shares of genetic material from my other three grandparents. I’m just a quarter-blood Paige by that reckoning.

But if my grandpa had been the Paige instead of my grandma, my Dad would have carried the name as a full Paige and I’d be a half-blood. If I was my dad’s son my name would still be Paige and I could also consider myself full-blood.

At each generation, the blood of one family line is diluted by each new family into which the children marry. Over time the dilution of a particular family’s genes could be considered only homeopathic in strength. And yet, if the family has sons at each generation who pass the family surname to their sons, the name continues at full strength, no matter how many generations have passed.

When does a bloodline begin then? Who is the most essential Paige, or Smith, Jones, Epstein, Kennedy?

Why am I a Paige? Because we say so. Because the Kimballs, Bachrachs, and Keyes never got their familyness acts together the way the Paiges did.

The regular gatherings of the clan and sub-groups of the clan reinforce our Paigeness. Patty’s collection of Paige photos going back more than 100 years and her unstinting hospitality to family members reinforce our Paigeness. The wedding ritual certainly celebrates Paigeness. And finally, we are blessed with a connection to Place. Pine Haven is the place we’ve been coming to for a hundred years, and there are more of us across the street and down the road. We can also go back to a village in central Massachusetts and see our name on various plaques on buildings, headstones in the graveyard.

We are literally grounded, and in today’s quickly changing world I find this solidity comforting.

Purple prose prizewinner: the Bulwer-Lytton contest

The Bulwer-Lytton bad fiction contest is sponsored by San Jose State University, with the goal of finding someone who can write as bad a first paragraph as Edward George Bulwer-Lytton did in 1830 with the opener to “Paul Clifford.”

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

They get thousands and thousands of entries each year, many of which are positively brilliant pieces of writing, in the over-the-top style demanded by the assignment. I’m serious.

Take this, the winning paragraph from a couple years back from computer analyst Dan McKay:

As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in Chapter 7 of the shop manual.

Take about colorful writing! E.B. White would have applauded the extended metaphor, the specificity of the details, the action verbs, the images that pop off the page.

The 2008 contest winner will be announced in the next couple of weeks and I’ll keep you posted.

Poet’s prescience: pleasure takes a vacation

Prescience: foreknowledge of events

The poet Billy Collins has a droll sense of humor and often mirrors the pulse of the people. He wrote “Consolation” several years ago when America was flush, gas was cheap, and the dollar was strong against the euro.

Now he seems prescient. We don’t know why he didn’t travel to Italy that year, but we know why we‘re not going to Italy. We’re poor, fuel and fares are costly, and the dollar is in the doldrums. So enjoy:

Consolation by Billy Collins (enjoy him reading it on YouTube)

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

Plump Perfection with pterostilbene: blueberries

My plumply perfect blueberries are at an end. I get a solid month-long run from July 4 to August 4, give or take a day or two. The harvest from four mature bushes in a climate they love lasts me a full year.  My freezer is stuffed with them; overflow baggies are in my neighbor’s freezer.

I eat them on my cereal every morning.  Supposedly they are full of nutritional goodies - anti-oxidants. A study in 2004 says they’re also good for lowering cholesterol because they contain pterostilbene - which is similar to resveratrol, another antioxidant identified in grapes and red wine.

Of course the new nutritional darling is beets.   I have a few planted but not enough to keep at bay whatever ails they prevent for more than a month.