Ugly

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 01:13:28 -0700

I’ve never seen an ugly flower.
I’ve seen ugly mornings, ugly days, ugly nights, ugly
truth and uglier lies, but never ugly flowers.
Why are flowers always beautiful?
I’ve seen ugly dogs and cats, ugly women and uglier
men. Iʼve held ugly babies, but Iʼve never seen an ugly
flower.
Skies can be ugly and weather, too. So can intentions
and thoughts. I’ve seen ugly colors and heard ugly jokes
like, “Beauty is only skin deep but ugly goes all the way
down.”
There are ugly books and magazines and also ugly
words, like ugly. The dictionary says “ugly” is an adjective
without a root word. There is no listing for “ug.” The clos-
est is “ugh,” an exclamation of disgust or horror. “Uglify”
is listed. It means to make ugly. I’ve been guilty of that in
my life.
Still, I’ve never seen an ugly flower.
Weeds are ugly but flower in a pretty way, and ugly trees
have been known to produce beautiful blossoms and fruit.
Even at a funeral, amidst great loss, flowers maintain
their beauty. How is it so?
I’ve seen ugly parents with beautiful children, ugly art-
ists with beautiful art, ugly writers with beautiful words
and stories to tell, that make you laugh or cry.
How does beauty come from ugly?
If I had one wish, I would eliminate the word ugly, not
to be spoken by anyone at anytime in anyplace.
And with the word gone, out of sight and out of mind,
perhaps people would see beauty. And flowers of all shapes,
sizes and blooms would have room to grow.

Sanctuary

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 01:45:42 -0700

This is about potty. But itʼs also about solitude and
peace, deep thoughts, meditation and, at times, prayer.
Let me back up.
My dad reads on the toilet. I was puzzled as a child
when he spent thirty minutes or more sitting in the bath-
room reading the newspaper. I mean, cʼmon, do your busi-
ness and get outta there!
Bathrooms are for potty, right?
I assumed people like my father sat on the toilet for ex-
tended periods because it took that long to get the job done.
It had never occurred to me he wanted a little quiet. With
eight kids, why would Dad need quiet?
In all those years, I never contemplated he found peace
on the john.
Now flash ahead 20 years.
Iʼm a father of three, a far cry from eight, but itʼs still
crazy at times. Yet, I donʼt find solitude in the bathroom.
But my wife does. And please donʼt tell her I told you.
Sheʼd kill me. Sheʼs the one who clued me in to necessary
private time in the bathroom away from the kids. It helped
me to better understand my father.
So one day Iʼm at the gym. Thereʼs a row of seven stalls
in the menʼs locker room. My favorite is the fourth from
the right. Itʼs mostly clean when I enter. I always wipe the
seat before sitting.
The stalls are off the beaten path, practically in a sep-
arate room. Itʼs a quiet place where sweaty, toweled and
nude men typically do not come.
Iʼm sitting in my favorite stall. Just finished my business.
Iʼm surrounded by tile and porcelain, solid partitions, a
strong latch and tiny cracks on each side of the door so no
one can peek into my privacy.
And it hits me, just a feeling of peace, like being on
top of a mountain with no noise of modern life; like the
moment before you awake, when youʼre in semiconscious-
ness and all your brain knows is the warmth and softness
of bed; like lying in the grass under a large, shady tree on
a warm day with a gentle breeze blowing, and you donʼt
have anything to do but sit there and smell the grass. It was
like someone cleared a path in my brain and I could think,
without distraction or outside influence, just me, myself
and free-flowing thoughts, all in one bathroom stall.
Sometimes when Iʼm in the stall, I think trivial thoughts:
Why donʼt bathroom stalls extend to the floor or up to the
ceiling? Why is there always space below, allowing your
feet to show from outside the stall?
The answer comes: So the custodian can mop the floor
easily and so one overhead light can illuminate all stalls in
a row.
I think about my wife. How can I make our marriage
work better? Answer: Be better.
I think about work and projects. When will my boss pro-
mote based on merit? Answer: Do your best without envy
and you will succeed, regardless of your boss.
I think about lifeʼs problems and possible solutions.
How can I save money? Answer: Spend less.
I think about the kids. “Why doesnʼt gum stick to your
teeth?” my daughter asked the other day. Answer: Saliva. I
wish I had thought of that when she asked.
“What color is the wind?” my three-year-old wants to
know. Answer: No color. Thatʼs why you canʼt see it.
I think about church and God, in my tiled sanctuary.
And sometimes in the midst of a hard day at work, feeling
pressure and stress, I enter a favorite stall and breathe easy
for a few minutes. Occasionally, Iʼll pray in a bathroom
stall. I donʼt think God minds. At least weʼre talking.
Do they have plumbing in heaven? Maybe just for
peaceful moments of meditation. Maybe all celestial be-
ings have stalls of their own where they can work out re-
fined matters of eternity.
And in this world, perhaps the great minds of past ages
found peace and enlightenment in outhouses or water clos-
ets, or maybe squatting on chamber pots in the middle of
the night. What if St. Francis de Assisi, Auguste Rodin, Al-
bert Einstein and the Beatles received answers and inspira-
tion in private moments while their pants were down?
St. Francis might have been squatting in the woods
when he first thought of a vow of poverty. Rodin may have
modeled The Thinker after his own moments of inspira-
tion. E=MC2 could have been inspired by the idle flush of
a genius, and the song All You Need Is Love probably came
after a trip to the loo.
Who knows?
At the least, you have this story, inspired while I was on
the john at the gym.

Cuomo

Sun, 29 Oct 2006 01:45:01 -0600

A reverent hush fell over the small passenger terminal
as New York State Governor Mario Cuomo disembarked
at the Greater Buffalo International Airport. Less than ten
local Democrats waited at a private reception within the
terminal.
All eyes watched as Cuomo stepped from the plane and
trod across the tarmac, followed by a small group of staff
members. The November election was fast approaching
and he had come to dispel disillusion among voters. His
promises were many and great: funds to resurrect the wa-
terfront and fight urban decay, grants for business develop-
ment and neighborhood revitalization.
As I studied the man, I felt pity and guilt. My profes-
sion, journalism, helped make Cuomo who he was, prais-
ing or damning each step he took. He had come to believe
all that had been written about him.
He was the son of Italian immigrants in New York City.
His father was a grocer, and Cuomo had studied, worked
and persevered to take one of the highest offices in the land.
He had been elevated to a national icon, a political deity.
His speaking ability was nationally acclaimed.
As I listened to his words and looked in his eyes, as I
shook his hand and met the thickness of his skin, I saw
little of a grocerʼs son. The reality of what my profession
and I had done began to set in. I viewed Cuomo as a vic-
tim, always on the defense or offense to defray criticism, to
protect his political image.
“What would you say to the voter who supported you in
the last election but was resigned not to in this election?”
I said.
He looked at my face, tilted his head to supporters who
flanked his left, and said, “Why?”
“Due to poor economic conditions,” I said.
Rhetoric flew from his lips.
“The upstate economy is leading the recovery,” he said.
Jobs created, income taxes reduced, prisons built, higher
education improved, minorities appointed to the courts.
Blah, blah, blather.
I had hoped for more.
At one point, Cuomo referred to his lead in election
polls.
“I donʼt follow the polls,” I said.
“Iʼm surprised, since youʼre a member of the press,” he
said.
I wanted to tell him polls are for the faithless. You ei-
ther believe something or you donʼt, and polls and surveys
make no difference. I always will regret not voicing those
sentiments.
He spoke of the Buffalo Bills, of Roswell Park Can-
cer Institute, of a local Catholic order, the Vincentians, by
which he was married.
“I couldnʼt get a divorce with dynamite,” he joked.
Surrounded by sycophants and mythmakers, Cuomo had
become a legend in his own mind, spewing forth crowd-
pleasing sound bites and phrases.
There was one moment, however, when humility en-
tered the governorʼs words.
He admitted failure to achieve equal education in pub-
lic schools across New York State. As the confession came
forth, within the fast-paced tirade of blather, I looked up
from my notepad. Cuomo returned the look and our eyes
met for a few seconds.
Perhaps he was surprised I was listening or afraid I
would grab hold of his confession and magnify it in the
newspaper. Or maybe we both were stunned, as people of-
ten are, by truth, spoken plainly and without guile.
From his mouth to my understanding, connected for one
brief moment, I met the grocerʼs son.

Topsupa

Sat, 28 Oct 2006 01:45:21 -0600

When first we entered the gate of the high school in
Topsupa, Ecuador, we were awestruck by the crowd that
awaited us. It was 9:00 in the morning and already 800
stood in line for free care, to be seen by a doctor or den-
tist, to receive childrenʼs medicine, prescription drugs or
any gift. They possessed little more than the clothes they
wore.
My job was in the makeshift pharmacy, set up under
the sweltering equatorial sun in a twenty-square-foot Red
Cross tent in the center of the schoolʼs walled compound.
My companions and I were ready with pills to destroy
parasites; packages of baby blankets, clothes, diaper cream
and washcloths for pregnant women; over-the-counter cold
and flu medicines; toothpaste and toothbrushes; vitamins,
ibuprofen, aspirin, eye drops, nose drops; toys, colored
pencils, stickers and more.
“Here, give these away,” said Jenine, a nursing student
who handed to me a king-size bag stuffed with tiny plastic
trinkets. I took the bag, walked from the tent into the sunlight
and began to give away toys.
In less than a minute, I was mobbed by 200 children,
all with their hands out, clawing for a toy. I raised the bag
above their reach and began handing trinkets to each child.
After five minutes, the crowd had only increased and I
couldnʼt give toys fast enough.
I stopped and told them in a loud voice to form a line.
“Hagan una fila,” I said. “Tienen que estar en la fila para
recibir un juguete.” (Make a line. You have to be in line to
get a toy.)
Parents saw my determination and began telling chil-
dren to get in line, but only half followed the direction.
Then an idea struck: Line the children against the wall. A
physical wall at their backs would help teach the concept of
a line. I would bring American order to this unruly mob.
“Junto a la pared,” I shouted. (Against the wall.) The
parents joined in “La pared. La pared.”
Many children stood against the wall, but not all. I con-
tinued to be thronged. Finally, at the advice of one of the
Ecuadorian doctors, I stood by the gate of the school and
with assistance from a teacher, gave each child a toy and
sent them out the door.
“Vaya a la casa,” I said. (Go home.) Within four min-
utes, the toys were gone and we began to give toothbrushes
or tubes of toothpaste. After 15 minutes, the throng of chil-
dren had left the compound.
I returned to a steady crowd of mothers, sick children
and elderly at the pharmacy. They had waited in line for
hours to see a doctor, who had given them prescriptions
and sent them to the pharmacy.
We distributed all the medicine we had and still they
came. Then, we distributed tubes of toothpaste or tooth-
brushes, soap or washcloths, and still they came. We tried
to ensure that each received something, with an apology
when we didnʼt have the medicine they needed.
“Lo siento,” I said. “Tiene que comprarlo en una farma-
cia.” (Iʼm sorry. You have to buy it at a pharmacy.) Always
they sighed, frowned, took the toothpaste or other gift and
left.
At 3:00 in the afternoon, the Ecuadorian doctors and
dentists stopped taking patients. Hundreds of people were
left in line. They shouted, complained, argued, pushed and
pleaded, but the doctors were unmoved. They shut the
doors and those left outside did not see a doctor. No apolo-
gies. No excuses. No appointments on another day. It was
Latin American order. Treatment for all was not a consider-
ation. Equal time was an unproven concept. And fairness?
Fairness was for those who could afford it.
Slowly the crowd dispersed and left the grounds, sigh-
ing and shuffling as it went, while the doctors and volun-
teers moved to a large classroom for a bountiful lunch of
chicken sandwiches, fresh fruit and ceviche.

Fishing

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 01:45:36 -0600

A father and son fish on the shore of a slow-moving
creek. The boy is eleven.
They wait patiently, bobbers gently bobbing, bait dan-
gling below the surface of mud-colored waters. The after-
noon sun shines warm in the sky.
The boyʼs bobber goes under, then rises. He stiffens his
grip on the fishing pole. The bobber goes under again. He
yanks the rod the way his father had taught him. He feels a
fish on the line and begins to turn the reel.
“Reel him in slow. Don’t lose him. I think it’s a whale!”
says the dad.
The boy cranks the reel faster. The bobber comes clos-
er.
Anticipation turns to glee as a tiny sunfish rises to the
surface. It nears the shore and at the last moment, as the
boy readies to lift the line, the fish gets off the hook and
swims away.
“I almost caught him,” the boy shouts.
“Almost doesn’t count,” says his dad.
“I almost had him. Right up to the shore,” the boy says.
“Almost doesn’t count,” repeats his father.
The boy is silent. The words sink deep within.
For the first time in his life, he knows his dad is wrong.