King_Toe's Xanga

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 04:14:31 GMT

I'm a sleepy junior at Wheaton College, computer science major, member of Workout, living at home, helping with Bird and Baby Theatre, and generally finding good people to be around.

I FOUND MY LAPTOP which pleased me greatly. Then I got Windows 7 at the $30 student price and it's been absolutely brilliant.

On my laptop was an old journal entry I'd been working on last spring, before I lost it. I'm gonna put it here...

__________________________________________________________________
May 7, 2009
THE BEST DAY OFF EVER

Hey, journal. It's, uh, been awhile. A year or two. I'm not sure what I've done, exactly, but I did have a jolly time.

I'm in Reno, Nevada, with Paul Vandervoort. I found Paul online a couple months ago, and he agreed to let me into his shop for 2 weeks. This fellow is an piano/vocal virtuoso, somewhat in the Billy Joel pop flavor, who has spent much of his life in piano bars and band gigs. No one made the keyboard he wanted, though, so he decided to invent it himself. Thus, he is now the sole founder and CEO of Daskin Mfg. which currently consists of himself and (for now) one spacy intern. This keyboard's been in development since 1986; the plan is to release it this year.

I was welcomed into Reno with open arms and a delicious, spicy italian dinner. The morning found us in a splendid shop, chock-full of supplies and exciting gadgets. I could write pages about the project details; suffice it to say I'm learning a lot.

We spend every day at the office, but we arranged one day off, which has just ended, and is the subject of this whole entry.

In boundless generosity and true "work hard/play hard" spirit, Paul and Lisa scheduled our day off as--can you guess? That's right--A SKI TRIP, HOLY COW to Squaw Valley ski resort (home of the '60 winter olympics), which gave us an unforgettable day of brilliant late-season skiing, (complete with a hot-tub located OUTSIDE, ON TOP of the mountain) which we enjoyed with gusto.

Then to a upper-crust dinner overlooking lake Tahoe, where I ate--literally--the best beef of my life; a heavenly slow-roasted short-rib cut, in the richest sauce imaginable. Then up to the 19th floor of a casino overlooking the lake, in a very, very classy restaurant, for dessert. The best creme brulee I've ever tasted, in classic, orange, and chocolate flavors, with a dazzling apple dish and more....

I am sunburned and very very happy right now. Everything is going my way. In Paul and Lisa I have found two truly kind, good people. I really hope I can eventually get a bunch of his computer work done for him, and see that his piano is delivered on time. I also really hope that the day might someday come when I can obtain a keyboard like that. And I hope very much that this isn't the last I see of him.

In a broad sense, I don't know what to do; but for the moment I'm doing everything to try and narrow things down. I am really enjoying programming computers and writing software; I'm also floored with the prospect of learning piano if I have a decent keyboard to practice on.

I am very worried about my personality. I do so many things that I don't think are like me at all. I mean, case in point; it's not like me to worry about stuff, or be self-conscious, but here I am.

I am far more mechanical-thinking than before. My sane, organic, intuitive brain seems to have been amputated, and I miss it terribly. My brain is becoming more and more frightfully insane, rational in the very worst sense. Like "The Maniac" in Orthodoxy, I have lost everything but my reason. My Faith is beefy as ever, and the Vine keeps me whole and well-fed, but I speak only of my brain. I have awful difficulty making day-to-day judgements, or compromises, or any decisions in general. Now obviously, in such a state I should naturally enjoy talking to machines, but I'm not really sure that machines are the best people for me to talk to in this state. You know? I mean, does any of this make sense, or am I just nuts?

I remember being a really fabulous human being in freshman/sophomore year at WA. If anyone knows or guesses what made me so cool then, please let me know.
______________________________________________________________
END OF ENTRY

Huhh.... *looooong sigh of great weight*

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Today I ate an enormous delicious dinner at one of the 10 best-rated college cafeterias in the world.
My life is heaven.

Maybe next semester I'll run away to the woods and write software. We'll see.

Buzz

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 17:26:33 GMT

So I’m in this Barbershop chorus, right?

Well, back on my first visit, this summer, I was sitting and watching in awe as the boys dress-rehearsed their brilliant piece for the international competition. I didn’t watch alone; in the chair in front of me sat a wizened army veteran, flat-topped and in uniform. At the break, my buddy Bruce introduced me to him: Warren “Buzz” Haeger. He came off as one of those delightfully warm, tender chaps who wouldn’t hurt a bug, but could break all your teeth if he needed to.

After we’d exchanged pleasantries and parted, Bruce muttered to me: “Buzz is one of the biggest names in Barbershop; he’s arranged our best pieces, he won the international quartet championship back in the day… we’re VERY lucky to have him with us in this chorus.”

I glanced back at the quiet figure, with his big eyebrows and grateful little smile. I asked myself, for the tenth time that day: “How did I get here?”

Fast-forward five months.

I dressed up Saturday morning for the memorial service. I didn’t know the three songs we were singing, but there was no way I was missing this. I couldn’t interpret the outfit requirements in the e-mail, so I’d found a three-piece suit and tie the night before, then threw khakis, a polo, and my choir tux in the car just in case. I slipped on my cowboy boots and was off.

I found the church with some difficulty, and hustled in, late for our call-time. The Lobby tables held up picture-boards covered in black-and-white photos of a young and spectacularly handsome Buzz, in quartet after quartet, in yellowed newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping, wearing and holding medals and trophies beyond number. I was hailed jovially in the lobby by two of the guys who I usually count on to know what’s going on. I shuffled to them. “Hey, uh, sorry I’m late… I wasn’t sure what our uniform was supposed to be, does this work?”

They gave me a joking look-over. “Hmm, I dunno, Bruce, would Buzz accept him?”

“Dunno, George, what do you think?”

They both laughed. “Buzz would accept you, Tom. Get up there.”

We ran through our songs, made some last-minute notes, then sat down as the organist took over and the people trickled in. Soon the sanctuary was filled with buzz’s many friends and family, and a few barbershop dignitaries. Though well-dressed, the crowd looked mostly inconspicuous but for the conspicuously huge medals worn by about half the men.

The service began, and Buzz’s business partner gave us a long and exquisite portrait of the beautiful man: a jack-of-all-trades who gave his all to everything and everyone he touched. A man of whom everyone recounted: “Buzz was my best friend.” I listened keenly, devouring story upon story of this shining soul who changed everything he could, for the better. At last he finished with Hamlet’s sendoff “Good-bye, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” It was like the Gettysburg address; nobody clapped.

Kids my age, we really have some tough acts to follow. I hope you all realize this.

We sang “I’ll Walk With God,” then finally Buzz’s own gorgeous “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” ‘Till I die, I’ll never hear anything like the sound, in that big, wooden, sanctuary, of that final ringing tribute to our old pal; I doubt Buzz even needed to lean down from heaven to hear us.

After the service, everyone shifted over to the afterglow reception, with yummy tuna sandwiches, blue cheese, and the like. We listened to a few old superstar quartets, and a few anecdotes from old friends. We learned a few tags. Then our chorus was called up to sing one of Buzz’s finest pieces, “Lost In The Stars.”

“I don’t know it,” I said to a section leader as he stashed his food and headed to the front.

“C’mon up anyway and stand with the basses; it’s fine.”

We invited everyone who knew the song to join us (i.e. virtually every male at the reception). The walls shook as we neared the end:

Now, I’ve been walkin’ through the night and the day,

‘Till my eyes get weary and my head turns gray,

AND SOMETIMES IT SEEMS MAYBE GOD’S GONE AWAY,

FORGETTING the promise that we heard him SAAYY…

My eyes are misting even as I write, recalling all 100+ of us belting out the classic song to its beloved author.

Then more quartets, more tags, more singing, more stories. And what stories… I couldn’t believe what I was hearing about this guy.

I kept piecing together Buzz’s achievements, from what I was hearing. He was able to hear all the parts to a score before ever putting pen to paper. Apparently, he basically pioneered the modern barbershop style that everyone uses now. He arranged about 400 pieces, and his quartet “The Four Renegades” had been a household name back in the day. World tours, big record deals, and it seemed like all these old guys at the party had shared that golden world with buzz.

Wow. And there’s me, who didn’t know that barbershop had ever been popular… see, that’s the sort of info we oughta be learning in U.S. History class.

One fellow recounted when he’d been in a quartet with Buzz’s brother Moose in the ‘60s. They had a show in El Paso, but Moose got sick. Moose called and said, “Don’t worry I’ll send Buzz instead.” “But Buzz has never sung with us.” “You boys worry ‘bout your parts, he’ll be fine.” Buzz flew in just in time, and without rehearsing, he did the show, the afterglow, the late-night show, and the breakfast show next morning, and never missed a note.

Wow.

Another guy described Buzz’s conducting style: Now ordinarily, a good barbershop conductor, with concentration and coordination, can use his hand to illustrate the pitch of your part, and teach it to you visually. Thus they demonstrate any one of the four parts, as they conduct. Buzz, however would use his right hand to show the Baritone part, and his left hand to show the Bass part, all the while singing the Lead part, as he conducted. Then, for the tenor part (you ready for this?), he would be using his EYEBROWS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?! Yes indeed, he put his massive eyebrows to work, and was able to communicate any song perfectly, to all four parts, the first time through.

Wow, wow, wow.

Even more of his old quartets. More stories. After many hours, our time in the room was up and we were ordered to vacate, which we only did sluggishly and grudgingly. But not before one final story.

“During those last weeks, I was in the hospital with Buzz frequently, always trying to get him to eat; ‘Buzz, you’re looking more and more like a scarecrow every time I’m here.’ Or, ‘You better watch yourself if you go by anyone whitewashing their fence, ‘cause if you turn sideways you’ll get painted up just like another picket.’ At the end, it was to no avail, and I sat by him after he’d gone unconscious. We didn’t expect him to come around again, and he didn’t until one day: He abruptly opened his eyes and sat up straight. I said ‘Buzz? What is it?’ But he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. He just reached out his arms toward the wall in front of him, staring intently. After a moment, he leaned back, and never moved again. We were confused by his gesture, though, until I realized what must have happened: See, Buzz awoke that morning to see the hospital wall open up to a grand, golden light. And he heard the angels singing. The heavenly barbershop quartet was singing their best song for him. Then he heard ‘em hit a few clinkers and went up to correct them.”

As I started my car, I asked myself for the hundredth time that day:

“How did I get here?”

www.rememberbuzz.com

I Checked My Facebook And Laughed

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 22:42:56 GMT

Decisions, decisions.

You'll See A Big Parade

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 00:04:49 GMT

As a brand-new member of The West Towns Barbershop Chorus, I am currently working on a jaw-dropping piece called “The South Rampart Street Parade.”

Do you hear the beat? Way down the street?

Do you hear the neat little rhythm of the happy dancin’ feet?

Well look, there, the people are runnin’

And right now they’re gonna have a lot of fun!

Make way, ‘cause everybody’s comin’ and you’ll see a big parade…

Also being a brand-new painter, I’ve been humming snatches of this tune while whitewashing a big picket fence in Wheaton the last couple days. And thinking about parades. As far as I can see, a parade is the greatest institution created by man. You can watch it go by, and cheer for whoever or whatever the parade is honoring. Or just cheer for the parade. No one cares why you’re cheering; that’s the best part. The second option, of course, is to join the parade. Everyone who really really wants to, will figure out a way to jump into any good parade. Crashing a parade shows the sincerest support possible. It says “I will make a complete fool of myself before I even consider standing aside to watch.” This takes courage and humility. You are exposed and vulnerable; they can throw you out; this is why no adult can do it, and why no child can resist.

A week ago, I followed Molly out to tend the horses. In the waning sunlight, we noticed a large and rather warlike company of crimson clouds. When I pointed them out, Molly recounted: “I was on a trail ride with Rosie when I was little. It was a brilliant sunset, and there were all these huge fiery clouds. Rosie said to me ‘See those clouds, Molly? One day, Jesus will come back here, and he’ll be riding on the clouds. So if you look up in the sky one day, and you see him coming down, and he asks you to ride with him… which horse are you going to ride?’ I just think that’s so cool.”

“Which horse was it?”

“What horse did I pick? Oh, I don’t remember… I probably picked one that’s old and fat now, like RB. Today, it would be Caspian; he’d be so cool and nothing would faze him.”

“Which horse can I ride?”

“You should ride Lady; she likes you.”

“Sounds good.”

Every boy’s got a girl (They’re doin’ it, Soft-shoein’ it)

The town’s gonna whirl (They’re tryin’ it, Untyin’ it)

Tonight’s (They’re drivin’ it, Revivin’ it)

The Jamboree (I TELL YOU)

And if you come along, (They’re struttin' it, Rug-cuttin’ it)

You'll join in the song…. (They’re shakin’ it, And breakin’ it)

Hey Dad (Hey Dad)

Not bad (Not bad)

I’m glad that (I’m glad)

You’re diggin’ all those TROMBONES….

And so on. As I painted, I thought with a smile what it might be like, to ride out with the Good Lord, from the back of the old barn… all the while with this “Parade” song stuck in my head.

Every boy’s got a girl, the town’s gonna whirl

Tonight’s the Jamboree

And if you come along, you'll join in the song….

I noticed that the beauteous vision of a little kid finding a makeshift disguise and slipping into the marching band of the grand, rambunctious parade, beaming at his shy and jealous friends on the sidewalk, made my eyes burn in the same way as Molly’s “little apocalyptic equestrians” story did. When they were side by side, their similarity surprised me. Now someone would ask: what do these two crazy ideas have in common?

I might suggest that they have everything in common. I suggest that the only way to ride out with the Great Teacher and Judge is to screw your inhibitions and go for it. I suggest that to ride to the Kingdom, you must take yourself lightly. And I suggest that to enter it, you’ll have to become like a little child.

It ain’t fast (it ain't fast) and it ain’t slow, (oh, it ain't too slow)

But oh, that

[CLAP]

Glory, Hallelujiah!

Sway, sway, sway (Ain’t it funny how they sway)

the way they play, the way they play (Just the way they play)

Makes a body wanna stay (Makes a body wanna stay)

Wanna stay all day (Wanna stay all day)

Hush my mouth, hush my mouth, yeah! (Hush my mouth, yeah!)

That’s that South (They’re struttin’ it, rug-cuttin’ it)

Rampart Street, Rampart Street (Revivin’ it, they’re drivin’ it)

PARADE!

Hush my mouth! Lordy, that’s the South (Oh, my Lordy, that’s the South)

Rampart

Street (How I love the beat)

That beat (The beat of that Rampart Street)

Parade, (They’re shakin’ it,) Parade, (and breakin’ it)

Parade, (They’re swayin’ it) Parade, (I’m sayin)

I STILL HEAR THE BEAT! THAT SOUTH RAMPART STREET PAAAAAAA-

RAAAAAAAAAA (Lordy, how I love to hear ‘em play!)

AAAAAAAAAAA (Makes a body want to stay all day!)

AAAAAAAAAAA-AAA-AAA- (South rampart street PAAA-AAA-AAAA)

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!

I really like this song.

So then, shall the World end with a bang? A whimper? Or a big, bloody parade? Food for thought... we’ll find out soon enough anyhow. See you there.

I GOT A CONCERTINA I GOT A CONCERTINA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Wed, 17 Oct 2007 19:25:18 GMT

It came in the mail Monday night. And it is amazing.

As you can see, Anthony is as excited as I am.

So... I might be, er, indisposed… for a week or two, while we get to know each other. :) I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I am happy. In not too materialistic a way, I hope....

Thank you again, Dan, for ordering that. I owe you.

Reflections on A Wheaton Academy Yearbook

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 17:32:44 GMT

Well, I went through the new yearbook just now. The exotic variety of emotions raging inside me (mostly negative) compel me to make this list of advice to all current High School Students. Most of these (though not all of them) are very strong opinions, so do not take them lightly.

Words of Experience

Or, “Veiled Confessions of a Recovering Wheaton Academy Student”

By Thomas Ritchie

Go to your class events and gatherings. Now. Learn about how cool your classmates are. Now. You won’t find anyone like them ever again.
Show School Spirit. If you don’t have any, then act like you do, and it will come to you. Trust me, it will.
If it is at ALL possible, quit school. Ask me for details.
If you must go to school, NEVER let it get in the way of your education.
NEVER let your education get in the way of your school relationships.
If it’s a snow day, GO SLEDDING. With classmates.
NEVER put homework above anything that’s at all worthwhile.
NEVER put laziness above homework.
Put order your life. Know that "Order" does not mean "Schedule" or "Routine." It means that there is a time and place for everything that is important to you. And you need that.
To have order, you usually have to remove all the things that are NOT important to you. This would seem pretty obvious, but somehow it is easy to forget.
All electronic entertainment is really, really, really, really overrated. Don’t be ashamed to just tell someone that you want to watch less TV or play less video games, and make a plan to stop. It’s easier to do than you think, and it’s SO worth it.
Don’t worry about your stupid High School Resume! Just do what energizes you, and you’ll quickly find that you have energy to do way more stuff, and it’s way cooler stuff. And there WILL be a cool college—or better, an employer—that is looking for someone exactly like you. So be as “You” as you can. (I know of many high-paying, successful employers who won’t even look at most Ph.D and ivy-league resumes, and a great many of the great colleges are looking for people with fun resumes as well. There is a place for everyone. Think of it this way: Imagine your dream employer. YOU are their dream employee). Again, ask me for details.
If you ever see an accordion for a cheap price, get it and you won’t regret it. You wouldn’t believe the brain work those things will do for you; I could literally feel myself getting smarter since Junior year. If you can't find one anywhere, then save up and get one of those $20 Cracker Barrel accordions. Ask Glen Pearson for details.
It’s never too late to get in on the Wheaton Academy Homeschool Partnership Program! Get rid of your pointless classes and learn the stuff on your own. Then you can sleep more, read a book, or learn about something you actually like! What fun!

High-schoolers: as much as you've ever valued my opinion, really seriously consider these things. Heed them and you will avoid a lot of regret.

I meant to only write this to make myself feel a little better, but this is serious stuff, and I urge you with utmost urgency to listen. I usually don't ask that of people, but I do now. So... thanks.

The Home Stretch

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 12:22:22 GMT

I've been listening to "Kilkelly" over and over for the last few days and it's really beautiful.

I’m at the café of La Palma Hotel. I was told It was on the road to Bishop John’s, but was NOT told that it was in fact far beyond Bishop John’s, a good mile down the road away from town… so, after walking all morning to find this place, wearing a hoodie in 75 degrees, I’m hot, tired and stuck for the afternoon at a fancy hotel with about 5,500 Rwandan Francs (10 bucks) to my name on which to live for the next four days. This’ll be fun. I’m blowing 3 bucks on some little goat snack to avoid rudeness here, so... more fun yet. Jungle Jack is on Rwanda TV right now, giving two cuddly panther-looking felines to some Rwandan place. Yeah, go Jack…. Hoo boy, I’m tired.

A few days ago, in a departure from the ordinary school-day routine, I was sitting on the porch and talking politics with two fellow Sonrise teachers. Now Francis, the math teacher, is a great fellow; he recently guided me in negotiating the daily delivery of this delicious fresh milk from a local lady at 40 cents a litre. This is good milk.

Anyhow, we were talking about America. Quoth he:

“I think the best thing about you Americans is that you understand when the Bible says ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ Look at the African leaders, and you’ll see that they are all trying to gain the most for themselves. But Americans are always happy to give to others. Your country is generous, and that is why you have been so blessed.”

I can’t say I ever thought about it that way before.

The Bus

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 15:43:09 GMT

The Bus is a good, good thing.

While in Rwanda, I’ve taken The Bus thrice now, between Ruengeri where I now reside, and Kigali where the rest of Africa seems to. I remember each of these several-hour excursions quite distinctly; such prolonged pressures tend to leave imprints like that…

I remember the first trip out here, squinched up with Tom and Dayton Rinks, and Maggie; mostly spent in a prolonged discussion of the Rwandan radio station, and my more prolonged attempt to write a letter to the French Class entirely en francais… that was interesting.

Then a day or two later, the return trip was on an even cozier, junkier 10-person rattletrap that Maggie, Dustin, Vaughn and I shared with about 20 Rwandans. We all got to know each other jolly well through that endless evening, rattling o’er the moonlit mounts and valleys. I made the acquaintance of an old but current soldier, a one-eyed clothing merchant, and another fellow who, after the rest stop, was passing around a large plastic bottle of the local wine (Banana wine, in fact! I think it rounded the bus three times before the fellow gave up. Maggie didn’t seem too disappointed to see it go, but man, that stuff was G-E-W-D lip-smackin’ tas-tee).

Then today, The Bus’ path crossed mine once again, to return me from a weekend in Kigali. This was a luxurious bus like no other (now that I think about it, all I meant by “luxurious” was “big enough to fit us all”). I brilliantly found that one seat that’s right behind the rear axle, so my feet were at hip-level throughout the ride. That was OK, though, because on this trip I’d brought reading material! That’s right, things were going my way. I decided I’d dig up some G.K. Chesterton from my lappy, this time finding his ideas of politics and economy, particularly about his “distributivist” thing that—more or less—pushed for the ideal of local commerce and concrete, private, property, and generally most of the traditional, commonsense views of property that have been out of fashion in his time as well as ours. I was monstrously entertained and impressed by his Illustrated London News column “May 12, 1923-Capitalism and Industrial Deadlock”. Just now I’m retrieving it, to throw a exemplary quote up here. But now as I re-read, I realize that pulling a phrase out of the essay would be much like choosing one panel to represent a hilarious Sunday comic strip: the disgrace to the piece would be too much to bear. It can’t be summarized. If you want it, please ask me. I kept reading anyhow, and as my hunger grew I watched more and more restlessly for the obligatory rest stop, where people get out for a minute to stretch and negotiate the vending of tiny breads, dirty banana beers, and other tasty comestibles. The night descended and still on and on we drove. My folded quads were beginning to cramp, boil, and crumble, when we finally pulled over and stopped. The bus emptied, and I wandered down the row of shops for any nice bread/beverage. I was bewildered to find nothing of the sort for sale, and more so at the generally “closed” look the street had about it. I wound at length down, then at length back up, then turned and saw with horror that my bus had vanished. I scurried about to collect my wits and some information (imagine a headless chicken trying to look cool and nonchalant; that was me), and it wasn’t ‘till another quarter-hour went by, that I realized that we were, in fact, already in Ruengeri, it was just the corner of town that I’d never gone to, and the bus was in the station around the corner. Ahh… ha ha... I breathed, headed for home, got lost, wandered back, found my bearings, and headed for home again.

Keen to never touch bum to seat again for life, I shunned the 20-cent motorbike taxis that swarmed me on that black half-mile to the house. While walking, I was still toweling off from my dip into Chesterton’s literary pools of fun. As is usually the case, I was thinking pretty abstractly about the implications of these political strategies and criticisms. I stewed about how inhuman our systems are, but of course I wasn’t at that point thinking very “humanly” myself. More intellectually and “priggishly,” really... I grabbed a big bag of dry muffins for 50 cents. As I walked, two students my age right behind me heard me singing “Workin’ On The Railway” and struck up a brief but lively chat as we walked; that was nice. They were nice. We parted ways at the Mosque, and I walked down the stony mud lane to the house. On our corner, there’s a narrow little covered stand where this guy sells little bags of bread, bananas, and generally all the various grains, household items, and knickknacks that are sold at all the other little stands. As I passed, he was in animated conversation with some neighbors, who were at the moment leaning on his table and laughing heartily at something one of them said. Something about the moment felt significant, but I didn’t know what. I waved to them as I passed (as Muzungus do). I caught his hopeful eye as I passed and politely indicated my disinterest in his wares (as Muzungus do). I glanced back over my shoulder at the motley, happy—dare I say beautiful—group. My brain made a loud noise just then, and I realized this is what Chesterton meant. His abstract-sounding “Distributivism” really deals with nothing more than the sacred God-given right to know the name of the man you buy groceries from. I took a moment to digest it, and let all the flying ideas settle. I looked back at the stand. Then I looked down and laughed, quietly, as I walked, my whole spirit tinkling with the lightest of joy. Ha ha haa. I was very, very happy, for some reason. Maybe it was just the sort of defiant “they haven’t yet licked us all” sort of feeling. Or something like that.

As I neared our gate, I passed by our gatekeeper/night guard (a.k.a. “The Old Man”) unawares, for he was, sure enough, in an involved discussion at the front door of our next-door neighbor. The Old Man saw me though, and he caught my attention as he rushed apologetically back to the gate to open it, shake my hand, and generally give me the warmest welcome back that he could by chattering away in Kinyrwandan. I spoke to him at length in English of my appreciation for him, for which he uncomprehendingly thanked me in his own tongue. After that I went inside, where my host (the Canadian computer teacher, Jodi) had made some banana bread. Life is good.

Oh, yeah! And a second ago, I stepped on a lizard in the bathroom while looking for the light switch. That was special.

P.S. Hey, so a lot of these priceless nuggets I’ve been finding are giving me a hankerin’ for perhaps another Chesterton party sometime. Yes? No? Anyone? What I’m saying is that a party’s happening, whether or not I’m the host, and whether or not I’m also the sole guest. Someone ask Mr. D. what his schedule openings are; he’s the busiest.

Ooh! Ooh! We could combine it with an Irish Session, too! Like a big long Saturday thing, or something? I’m liking the sound of this; Tell me your schedules.

----UPDATE FROM THE CAFE ON FRIDAY---

I'm thinking the 6th. That's a Saturday, right? How would that work? Whoever's in town and feeling up to it, spread the word for me please, and I'll give you a big kiss when I get home. Thanks.

Foriegn Aid Will Never Work

Sat, 22 Sep 2007 13:38:55 GMT

As the bikers, crossed the finish line of the big Road event at the Wooden Bike Classic, all the “Friends Of Rwanda” moseyed to the roadside to watch, eat and chat at the patio restaurant of the “Hotel Ibis.” We cheered the riders one by one as they arrived, then we cheered the winners one by one as they were decorated, then we continued our eatery and chattery for the best part of the day. As evening wore on, however, our crowd began to thin, and retire to our hotel. I was left with my father and a couple friends, at the pathetic little nub of the long, grand “party table” arrangement. As I sat alone toward the empty middle of the table, two unfamiliar Muzungus (White) asked if they could sit. I welcomed the company, and they welcomed mine. Chris, a kind and humble USAID engineer from Michigan, was very interested to hear about “Project Rwanda,” and I was delighted to tell him the little that I knew. I gushed on about the brilliant concept, and how it was looking to transform Rwanda, how revolutionary it was, all the problems with “foreign aid” that we’d found all these brilliant solutions to…

“Of course, that’s what everyone says.” Chris tossed into my sentence.

I halted: “Eh?”

“Everyone says that they’ve finally gotten Foreign Aid to work, but it never does.”

“Wha… oh, well, yeah, but, of course…” My train of thought was now tottering from rail to rail. “Yeah, these guys though, these are all brilliant businessmen that HATE foreign aid. They spend most of their time talking about all the ways that it destroys everything. And they talk about why it does. And They’ve got some really good ideas on how to fix it.”

“’Course they do, everyone does. It’s the same story with all these organizations. For the last forty years, Everyone’s ‘finally fixed it,’ but it always ends the same.”

“But see, we’re not even about the aid; we put relationships first…” I was thrown. I tried to make the man understand. I railed on and on about the evils and far-reaching damages of NGOs in particular and intervention in general. I wanted to show him that I was just as disillusioned as he was, and still had good reason to like this plan. He resonated when I spit fire at NGOs, but just smiled and shook his head when I brought up my star-eyed optimism for our particular team.

“Yeah, they’ll try, but it won’t happen. The problem is with foreign aid. It just doesn’t work. If it was doable, someone would’ve done it by now. I don’t mean to disenchant you, Tom—”

“Haha, no, don’t worry; my dad’s plenty cynical when he talks about this kinda thing too.” I couldn’t leave my pathetic struggle to convince him (and myself) that Project Rwanda wasn’t stupid. Of course it wasn’t stupid. These guys are good. Why can’t I sell the idea like the others can? How are they batting 1000 to recruit all those top American CEOs to the team, and making it look easy? I was, unfortunately, at a loss. Chris gave me his card, and we parted ways awkwardly. I stewed awhile. My head played Marco Polo with the answer, swimming hard and reaching blindly. Are we special? If we are, why can’t I think of why? I had more and more frantic fun organizing, shifting, and reorganizing my ideas like a Rubik’s cube that’s had an extra color added. Then I had it.

It was very simple, as most things are.

Foreign aid doesn’t work. Ever.

It never has worked. Ever.

And we’re not foreign aid.

YES! I did it! My exhausted brain dove in relief onto its quarry, and was flooded with endorphins in reward for bringing home the blindingly obvious.

DUH, foreign aid’s never worked; why should it? Really, think about it: Foreign aid??? I wouldn’t think to try it, and neither would any other sane person. Everything about helping someone's pain is founded in the pain being mutually understood. Our sole objective of working on relationships, and letting work come out of relationships only as a byproduct, doesn’t help foreign aid; It eliminates it. Friends Of Rwanda, by its name, gives a clue to the point. A friend isn’t foreign. If a foreigner comes to help, he won’t help. If a foreigner comes for friendship, then he won’t be a foreigner. Yahaa, it works! Chris and I are both right! And now I understand better why it makes so much more sense to spend a pile of money on my friends, family, and neighbors, when it mathematically could be better spent elsewhere. I now understand my hatred for the silly, silly “Charity by Numbers” advocates who can tell you exactly where your money can do “the most good.” Fools, the lot of them; after all, the more “good” you do, the more bad it can become. Oh, happy day! To finally have real ammunition against those wicked ideas I up to now only had vague animosities against! I am so pleased today.

It’s mysterious, when you think about it, how help so easily turns sour unless it’s helping somewhere familiar. It really doesn’t make sense… And how could we have known? Surely it is a cruel world where our good intentions wreak havoc on innocent lives, and we are left to learn from them as best we can. It would seem only fair that the Powers That Be should send us some teacher, that would tell us all that we’d do best to love our neighbors. See, if THAT happened, it would really clear up a lot of things… Oh well, one can’t ask for too much.

So The "Wooden Bike Classic" Itself Was Unreal

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 14:35:57 GMT

My lack of connection, in case no one's noticed, is building up a logjam of writing, so everything's delayed a bit. I'm just gonna paste what I wrote, one at a time, so it's easier to follow. I haven't written much on my status because there's not a whole lot to say. I'm living in Ruengeri, teaching Physics and Computers at SonRise High School. I taught my first class (a double-length class, mind) yesterday with about ten minutes of warning; I wandered unprepared into the room, asked the kids what they were learning about, and attempted to summon what Mr. Eblin taught me at WA about heat conduction, convection, and radiation. It wasn't pretty; 1 1/2 hours of A.D.D.-style rambling, chicken-scratching illegible drawings of irrelevant analogies as they spring to mind. The kids were great though; I think they found it funny.... The Primary school just asked me to do some computers today, too, so we'll see.... I'm generally having a ball, roaming the thronged streets like a sultan, smiling and waving to shouts of: "Muzungu! Muzungu!" And eating great for about a dollar a day... Ah, what a life.

So the "Wooden Bike Classic" itself, as I said before, was unreal:

We started the road-race event outside Bourbon Coffee, and I finally met the fabled Tom Ritchey, the incredibly incredible and fun bike-maker who started the whole project. He had his “breakaway” bicycle in a suitcase (his own invention), and he slapped it together at the starting line. I met all the guys on Team Rwanda, and their coach. Now those guys are another, better, story. A sweet story. The kind of story that people make movies about. I won’t go into it, but suffice it to say that, as I heard it told by Dan Cooper, watching the team waiting at the line, those “great moment” tears were hard to hold back…. They took off, and we hopped in an SUV and drove maybe 40 or so miles over what seemed like all 1,000 hills in the land, which was the bike-route to Butare. In the race, Tom R. had a 50-mph crash, flying off the road into the huge concrete culvert (they don’t do “curbs” here, the road just sheer-drops into a yard-deep concrete gutter on one side and a cliff on the other); it was the first time in 50 years of biking that he’d ever hit his head. But then he got right back up and zoomed past the others like they were standing still; it was sweet.

We drove through the rural towns, passing big groups of kids who sit along the road to watch cars go by. At the sight of us Muzungus, they all jumped to holler and wave; I badly sunburned my right arm from constantly waving to the jolly roadside folk. Much of this was, as one would guess, quite beautiful, moving, etc. as we drove onward. They were the simplest of places, with lots of glad things, sad things, and very, very bad things. There was a lot to digest. Now, a few hours into this, as we passed another little village, I did the usual wave/shout/make-funny-face routine, all the while thinking about the kids’ lives, feelings, dreams, and all that, trying to soften my heart and raise myself to their level. I was pretty deep in thought at this point, grinning as we passed by the main mob, and then I saw something completely ordinary that completely caught me off guard.

Five yards behind the group, a three-year-old girl, in a cute, worn, pink dress, was running back along a little path, towards the doorway of a house. I glanced passingly at her, my soul skipped a beat, my eyes glued to her, and the next second the car rounded the bend and she was gone.

I never saw her face. I will never forget her.

She had no particular feature to get my attention/sympathy, she did not act happy or sad towards me. She didn’t know I was there. She was just running, on little 3-year-old legs, to do something or get something. Or get someone. I’ll never know.

I freaked out at my own reaction; my insides were wrung and folded, I was ready to burst out bawling, and I had no idea why. There had been hosts of other—more noticeable—3-year-old girls on that long road. I was buried in my thoughts and feelings for a good while.

It was then that it occurred to me what we learned about acting in the Black Hills this summer: To tell a real person’s story, you can’t try and feel something or to think something. Because no real person has ever done that. You have to go onstage and do something.

This girl was doing something. And in the moment of doing, she opened her entire soul and story to me in broad daylight. Which I was not ready for. Every other ragged orphan and one-legged grandpa knew that I was driving by. They communicated with me intentionally, with their eyes, bodies, or words. And I heard what they wanted to say.

But she, she said nothing. She ran—for 1½ seconds—up the most familiar little path in the most familiar little way, with her back to me. And that said everything. She’d run that path all her life; I could tell. She ran to do or get something she had all her life; I could tell. And that’s what moved me.

She’s the only person I remember from that car trip.