New Pictures Loaded

Just posted up some photos from our Christmas, available by clicking here or on the links bar at the right.  New Uggs, a new pig, and more!

New Year's Eve 2012

Random thoughts as 2012 has but hours to go on the East Coast of the United States...

• Goodbye and good riddance.  This has not been one of my favorite years, with burglary, death, and generally depressing things far too commonplace.
• On the other hand, I am enjoying the new job I got, officially, last January.  And...let's see, there should be something else good here...  (Editor, please add something warm and cheery here...thanks!)
• In 2013 we have a Disney Cruise to look forward to.  I've already got seven books piled up on my reading table, ready to go with us.  I plan to sit.  Yes, I will explore places I've never seen before, but I also plan to just...ahhh...
• Last night we were up late; tonight we're up late; by 6:45am Wednesday the boy needs to be rested and out the door for school to resume.  Who came up with this schedule?
• The older I get, the less New Year's means to me.  Or, perhaps more accurately, the more melancholy I get about the whole turning-the-calendar exercise.  As Lou commented recently, each year it's getting harder and harder to pretend I still have half my life or more in front of me.
• Who had the idea to make shrimp a part of New Year's Eve?  Is it because they used to be so fancy and decadent?  On the same rant: why did the Pennsylvania Dutch decide it had to be pork served on New Year's Day?  Apart from some bacon at breakfast tomorrow I don't plan a giant pork menu.
• Say what you will, I still miss Pat Summerall calling the Cotton Bowl games...that was always something that meant "New Year's" to me.  Somehow I don't miss Dick Clark quite the same.  Guess if I were part of the "Bandstand" generation it might have meant more.

Whatever 2013 holds, may it be a better and brighter year for us all, and may God preserve us all until we can bid it farewell also.

I Will Praise You In This Storm

There has been entirely too much death in my life these last few weeks.  It needs to stop.

Beginning with the loss of Mary's grandmother at Halloween, continuing through the suicide of USMS Deputy Director Chris Dudley at Thanksgiving, and then the passing of a former colleague at work just after my birthday, I have had three noteworthy encounters with the grim reaper in fairly short order.  To say nothing of the immensity of the tragedy at Newtown, CT, this past Friday, or how death is striking at others close to me: brother-from-another-mother Glenn lost a cousin, Kerry Bowman, who died en route to see Ben perform on stage in Austin on Saturday.  It seems overdramatic, but I can scarcely turn around without news like this coming at me this fall.

I understand the passing of a nearly 96-year-old woman; I cannot comprehend the suicide of someone my age and to whom I felt such similarities; I mourn the fact that cancer can take a colleague so young, with unfinished business. In each case death has come and left a unique mark, as if its fingerprints changed each time, and so induces a sense of whiplash in its wake.

Perhaps I am just coming into a time in my life in which these sorts of things will, simply, happen.  After college we laughed about the "bubble" of weddings we all got invited to--the wedding wave, cresting then ebbing, as lives paired up.  Those faded away and then shortly thereafter we cooed at the wave of babies, as those friends began expanding their families, children who are now teenagers. Is the next wave to be one of funerals? Already?  I certainly hope not.  But here we are.

I don't believe it would be unusual for a mid-forties man to begin noticing death, and pondering it more.  The teenager is indestructible and so doesn't care, the 20-something too busy to notice, the 30-something too tired (by kids, job, etc) as well.  By this point, as my friend Lou points out, it gets harder to persuade myself each year that I have more than half my life still ahead of me.  The passing of others close to us in age certainly doesn't help reinforce the lie of indestructibility.

If anything, it has to be a reminder of our anchor, our one place of constancy, our hope.  Advent is meant to be a season of anticipation, of preparation, of celebration of the coming of the Christ.  This year Advent has a darker tone for me.  And yet it does provide the kind of opportunity to seek God through the adversity, to remember He continues to hold us even when we're no longer together.  Casting Crowns put it well:

I was sure by now
God You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen," and it's still raining

As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

RIP M. Judith Butler, 1962 - 2012

This past Monday, Carolyn at work forwarded to me a message that Judy Butler had passed away on Saturday, December 8, after a long illness.  At 50, she had apparently been fighting cancer, quietly, for the last few years.

Judy was one of the first people to welcome me into the Unit when I first came to work for the Bureau in 1992.  By then she had nearly eight years' experience and was one of the senior analysts on the account I joined.  When I left the Unit in 2000 to become a supervisor elsewhere, we stopped working together until 2004, when a reorganization brought her nominally into my ambit again until 2006.

We never worked together again.  I had not known she was ill; but then, it would have been entirely consistent with her sense of privacy and secrecy that none but her family and very closest friends would know: I understand she hid it from her colleagues until the hair loss from chemo became just too noticeable.

The difficult aspect of Judy's passing isn't entirely in her age (not far removed from my own), or our past collaboration for what is now a third of my Bureau career.  It's that, in our mutual work, we became two scorpions in a very small bottle, with a couple of arguments I can still recall years later, ones which never really reached closure.  And now, through--call it what you will--inaction, pride, stubbornness, or my own brokenness, I have missed any chance at mending that breach in this world.

I learned a lot from Judy.  I learned a lot about our mutual target, although I couldn't call her a mentor at the time.  I also learned a lot about people, and now she's taught me another lesson--the importance of seeking closure, forgiveness, whatever is needed.  John Mayer reminds us to "say what you need to say," and he's right: before it's too late, and you're left either continuing an argument by yourself, or saying "I'm sorry" to a casket at a funeral home.

RIP Chris Dudley, 1966 - 2012

The day after Thanksgiving, the Deputy Director of the US Marshals Service called Fairfax County police from his home two neighborhoods over, and told them they'd better come.  When they did, they found he had committed suicide.

Chris was 46.  It's not quite fair to say he was a friend of mine, as we'd met only once through the good graces of Kevin, a colleague at work, through whom I had the privilege of inviting Chris to come earlier this year as a motivational speaker on leadership to senior-graded employees in Finance Division.  But for the hours we spent that day, both at the office and over lunch, and then in the e-mails we exchanged warmly over the months since, I allowed myself the illusion that we had made a connection.

In Chris I saw someone my own age who was similarly possessed of the idea that people deserve good leadership in their jobs, and who had, through the strengths of his own leadership skills, risen to very admirable heights in a similar industry.  We shared a similar dry sense of humor over brisket and iced teas at Hill Country with Kevin, and while he sighed about the difficulties he was having in finding good people for key jobs at work, he didn't sound any differently about his stresses than any of a number of other people I eat lunch with.  In my last e-mail exchange with him, I signed off with an invitation, the next time he was downtown, to meet for more Texas BBQ.  He replied along the lines of how much he could really use some good BBQ.  But that was all.  Kevin told me later, Chris had talked with his sister that Friday afternoon and was due to meet her for dinner at six.  By four, he was dead.

When our CFO announced Chris' death at the morning staff meeting on the 28th I was stunned.  I sent a message to our teams to let them know, and to implore them to seek help if ever they found themselves feeling like they had no other choice.  I also pulled up his online obituary and saw with dismay photos of him with his young daughter, whom the article described as "the love of his life."  Our lives were to draw, uncannily, closer still:  On the night of December 5th, Sarah mentioned that at Girls on the Run that day, they had made cards for their teammate Abby, whose dad had died recently.  On a hunch I pulled up a picture of Chris and his daughter from  the obituary.  Is this your friend Abby, I asked Sarah?  It was.

I have a difficult time explaining why the suicide of someone I'd met only once should affect me so.  Actuarially speaking, the law of probability says that of the thousands of people I've met once in my life before, some proportion of them did as well; I just don't know it.  Why this one?  Why Chris?

Perhaps it's the similarities in working for DOJ; perhaps it's the similarities of lives in Fairfax Station and all that comes with it; perhaps it's because our daughters are on the same cross country team; perhaps it's as simple as our ages, our similar senses of humor.  Perhaps, in the stresses he described, it's all too similar to ones I've had.  And perhaps it's just the uncertainty of not understanding Why, and how he could come to make this choice knowing what it would do to Abby.

And so maybe the question isn't so much Why Chris, but, if I see such similarities between us...why not me?  Am I somehow vulnerable too, to that evil whisper of complete and utter despair, and just don't know it?

Of course not.  At least I don't believe so.  But sometimes it's the utterly axis-shaking act of a suicide of an acquaintance, that can induce such introspection.  And at the very least, it brings us to a stop, and to breathe the ancient prayer, Requiem in pacem; pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

May you have the peace you apparently couldn't find with us, Chris.

And God bless you and keep you, Abby.

RIP Virginia F. Keenan, 1917 - 2012

Mary's maternal grandmother, Virginia Florence (Farnsworth) Keenan, passed away early Halloween after a nearly 96-year life.  This past weekend was her burial service and memorial service, in West Barnet, VT, and Woodsville, NH, respectively.  I know the following post is unusually long, even for me, but here are the remarks I delivered at her memorial service yesterday.  Please join me in remembering a very special lady.

Good afternoon, I’m Eric Kleppinger; Virginia’s granddaughter Mary is my wife, and the family have asked me to offer a few remarks today on their behalf.  Although right up front I will ask your indulgence. You see, I had the privilege of marrying into her family, and she always treated me as family, and so after the 21 years I’ve known her, I can’t stand here and call her Virginia, or Mrs Keenan; instead, allow me to share a few thoughts about the woman I came to know as Grammie.

My job today is to offer a measure of the woman we come together to honor here today.  In ordinary circumstances that would be difficult enough: after all—how can we truly measure a life?  With one as long as hers, of course, we can certainly look through the lens of time.

Grammie lived 95 years—really, almost 96.  And in considering those years, they tell of a life lived in the broad sweep of time—the arc of her impressive life spanned fully 40% of the years since her ancestor, Josiah Bartlett, signed the Declaration of Independence.  She was born at the end of WWI, lived as a teen through the Depression, endured the Cold War and indeed outlived the entire Soviet Union by over 20 years.  She grew up in Barnet, on the same land on which she died peacefully 18 days ago; she completed studies at Peacham Academy, Class of 1934, and went on to earn her RN certification three years later, and one way or another had been working ever since she was a farm girl of 11.  She truly loved her 52 years of marriage to John, and was proud of her only baby girl. 

Throughout her 95 years, her faith in Christ was a constant, leading her to sing in the choir as a younger lady and to be active in her day in the church; even in later years, I still remember seeing fresh daily devotionals at arms’ reach by her rocking chair.  And yet, if I would ever mention with any admiration her long life, her humility would bring me right back to earth: “Well,” she’d say, “all I did was to keep breathing.”  I can still hear her solid Vermont accent; in Grammie’s passing, I feel the loss of a connection to a simpler Vermont—an era where schoolgirls would drive their horse and buggy to school—and I will miss hearing those stories by her hearth.

Ninety-five years.  It’s a long time.  It gets even longer, and even more impressive, when you look at her life in other ways.  A life of 95 years is 1,150 months; and for the wife of a farmer, attuned to the cycle of months that heralds the growing season in northern Vermont, it bred certain other characteristics.  As the wife of a farmer, she had a no-nonsense approach to life: little tolerance for anything frivolous or wasteful, and infused with a sense that there was a right way, and a wrong way, to do something—there was little gray in her world.  And as the wife of a farmer in these rocky hills, she approached life with a stoicism that saw her through the darkest times without allowing her ever to complain, about anything: even in her last days, she would never acknowledge the pain she felt.  If she and John could coax a living out of the mountains of Vermont, why, there wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle.

The months of growing seasons, and the life of a farmer, went well with her own love of plants and flowers.  I remember visiting her on the hill in Barnet when each of her various flower beds were simply bursting in colour, each in turn: delicate crocuses pushing through the snow, then the daffodils, the primroses…everything has its season, she knew, and eventually, their colours would fade and die.  But as she looked forward to the life eternal in Christ, she also looked forward each year to the cycle of growing coming again, to new life beginning each spring with those first tender shoots of the crocus; to new brilliance, month after month.  1,150 months…

That’s also 59,800 weeks—the week, the standard unit of time for taking a vacation.  Except she and John never really did: their work on the farm was always calling them.  Once, in the 1940s, she and John drove to Niagara Falls, but even then that was only a couple of days—scarcely enough to get there, admire the fact that, yes, that was a lot of water, and get in the car to drive home.  They would visit the coast of Maine sometimes, too, but always on day trips.  She believed firmly in being home, and especially being home by dark.  Home base was her source of strength, how she charged her batteries each day, and so she rarely left.  59,800 weeks…

Or if you like, 418,600 days: 418,600 sunrises from her perch looking east over the Connecticut River; 418,600 new opportunities to work, to do, to make something special happen.  And across those hundreds of thousands of individual days, she built herself a web of friends and family that wrapped her in love all the way up to her final day last month.  At the beginning of the month she spent 12 of those days in the hospital—again, under protest—but had each one brightened by multiple visits from friends and family such as yourselves, people who loved her and cared about her and wanted to be a part of her day.

Now the numbers really turn scary: 10,046,400 hours, give or take, in her extensive and impressive life.  Each one of those ten million hours, though, she would use: nothing ever went to waste in her house, certainly not time.  One of those hours she might use teaching her granddaughter Amy how to make popovers—the right way, the old-fashioned way, from scratch, warm and airy from the oven. Still more of her hours she would spend working her beloved crossword puzzles, which paid off in how incredibly sharp her mind remained to the very last.

Ten million hours…or 60.3 million minutes: in a life of seriousness and hard work, Grammie still found time for a few minutes of fun.  As a young girl of five or six, with her younger beloved sister Charlotte, they would accompany their mother to the general store, where she was working.  One day Grammie and Charlotte discovered some orange-flavored chocolates in the store’s candy jars…and for a few precious minutes, the girls had their own little picnic under the counter, sharing those little treats.  She really did love her chocolate, even back then.

Ninety-five years, 1,150 months, 59,800 weeks, 418,600 days, 10 million hours, or 60.3 million minutes—no matter your perspective, Grammie’s was a long, full, and fruitful life.  But beyond those 60.3 million minutes are the untold, the uncountable, moments—those instants we freeze in our memories, those snapshots of human interaction and those moments of pure Grammie.  We think then of the moment of the flash of a twinkle in her eye as she told a story about growing up with Charlotte.  We think of the moment we saw the hard set of her eye, as well, when someone was doing something of which she disapproved, a look that could bring you back to center in a hurry.  We think of the moment of the warmth of her hug, on welcoming us to her door or in wishing us well on our way out.  And we think of the moment, in the middle of the night, when she finally laid down her burdens of nearly 96 years, and came to rest, in peace, free of pain and welcomed home with the words she so longed to hear: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant; enter into the joy of your master.”

How do you measure a life?  In years, yes, but as we’ve seen, in so much more.  We measure it in seasons, of fragrant daffodils, riotous autumn leaves, and howling Vermont snowstorms.  We measure it in virtues lived and passed down, in words that may strike us as old-fashioned, but yet we know in our hearts are missing from our modern lives: words like duty, forbearance, sacrifice, temperance, fortitude.  We measure it in service, to her church, her family, and her community; we measure it in the literature, the poetry, the biography she immersed herself in to broaden and strengthen her mind.  And we very certainly measure it in the hearts of friends she touched, and in the family she led and loved.

How do you measure a life?  In the case of Grammie Keenan, we measure it in all these ways, and by every one, the result is the same: a life full to the brim, packed down, indeed overflowing with all that she valued: her home, her friends, her family, and her God. 

Her incredible time with us may have passed.  Her story here may have ended—but her Story goes on, with a new chapter we’re not yet able to read.  Eye has not seen, nor ear has heard, what God has prepared for those who love Him—in other words, we can’t even imagine the beauty, the glory she’s now able to behold, surrounded by all her ancestors, welcomed into that great cloud of witnesses gathered before the Throne.  But yet, I can imagine John, beaming at seeing his bride of 52 years once again, then showing her around the fields brilliant with wildflowers, an old stone fence and soft light shining through the massive old trees, and her, with that twinkle in her eye and that wonderful Vermont accent, saying “this’ll do just fine.”

“Don’t cry for me when I’m gone,” she would say.  And yet I think she would understand when we do.  It hurts.  We will miss her.  When you think about it, most often a funeral is an occasion for leaving: not only leaving the body of our loved one behind, but leaving here our flowers, our tears, our grief; here our memories of the departed often will end.  But what Grammie wanted was something different: for this to be a chance for us to take something away with us, to gather here in a spirit of celebration, of joy at her being reunited with God, of warmth and of remembering her fondly, and to carry those memories, those lessons of a life fully lived, back into our own lives.  Don’t cry for me, she seemed to be saying; this is not the end.  It’s only the end of the beginning, the first act, and so much more is awaiting me.  In only the twinkling of an eye, we will see her again, and be able to give her a hug and tell her thanks for setting the example of how to measure a very rich life.

Random Thoughts During Hurricane Sandy

In no particular order, things that have occurred to me today as Hurricane Sandy begins its slow march westward towards shore:

• It's 5pm and it has passed that indistinct line between being "breezy" outside and being "windy." They promise wind gusts up to 70mph later.  Right now it alternates between fairly calm and then gusty.
• Sarah, Mary, and to a lesser extent I, have spent the day, while we still have power, absorbing all we can: TVs, Amazon Prime movies through the Xbox, laptops, Internet, the whole thing.  David has been napping much of the afternoon.  I wonder how awake he'll be overnight, and if we've lost power, how he'll cope without being able to play Call of Duty.
• I swear, I really did clear the lawn this weekend.  You just can't tell now from the leaves all over the place.
• They promise up to 10" of rain.  If so, it's coming very slowly: the sump pump hasn't even filled once yet, and rainwise, it's been just a steady light rain or drizzle all day.
• I know there's something I'm forgetting by way of making the house ready for wind, rain, and storm.  I just can't think of what it is.
• At lunch with Glenn at the Glory Days in Lorton today, the power flickered three times.  While I was on the phone with David's orthodontist's office, they mentioned the power flickered.  We haven't seen that here at the house yet, knock wood.
• Solar lights on little hook-stands along the walkway could make pretty annoying projectiles in a 70mph wind.  Better get those inside.
• If the storm blows the last few tomatoes off the vines out back, (a) will the squirrels even notice, and (b) can I finally pull those vines out and get the porch ready for winter?
• I keep watching the Bradford pear out by the family room, waiting for it to go down.  Oh please oh please oh please.  (But only gently, and not towards the houses.)
• Winds should be coming predominantly out of the north or northeast.  So the tree between us and the O'Mara's might be at the most risk, but the windbreak his house provides might help.
• I remember the wind keeping me awake when Isabel came through in 2003.  I expect to be kept awake tonight too.  Both times it'll be thinking about what damage we're going to find in the morning.  Neither time will I be able to actually do anything about it.
• They've closed the government for Tuesday, and of course the schools were closed for then as far ago as yesterday.  I think it's an even bet as to whether it will open on Wednesday; at the least it will be "unscheduled leave" in effect.

Fun With Electricity, Part II

I made arrangements for Dave to come by one evening at 6, allowing me to pick up Sarah at school and still come home to see what it was afflicting our light.  He was right there at the hour, and after some getting caught up, we took a look at the offending light fixture.

He asked if the 60w bulb I had was the one that was in it; I said yes but it was a new bulb and I knew it worked because I'd tried it in another socket.  I screwed it into the kitchen light socket and then Dave flipped the switch.

The sink was immediately flooded with light.

"Oh, come ON!" I shouted.  "Come ON!  This isn't funny," I wailed, as my friend and electrician smiled slightly.  I flipped the switch on and off a few times for good measure; each time, the light responded as it should.

Dave patiently explained that the recessed light fixtures all have a thermostat, and when heat builds up (yes, we leave that light on overnight), it will eventually shut down and need to cool itself before it will work again.  A swirly-bulb will help since it doesn't throw as much heat, but really, that's about it.  He shouldered his bag again (never really opened it), and refused payment for his time ("took me longer to get here than anything I did here," he said), so I gave him one of David's football team's discount cards instead.  A few more "You have GOT to be kidding me"s and he was gone.

I am not mechanically inclined; electricity and I don't mix.  And yet I'm still enough of a "guy" to really, r-e-a-l-l-y not like having to call another guy over to do something I "should" know how to do.  I know I have to call someone when the furnace isn't working right; that's beyond what a "guy" ought to know how to fix.  But common plumbing problems, or basic wiring, it's hard enough to swallow what little pride I have and make the call to get some other guy over here to do my work.  And now, in that most classic of ironies, the problem has completely gone away by the time the other guy shows up.

Again, all I can say is it's a mercy to have an electrician who's also a friend and who, apart from some ribbing tonight at Bible study, probably won't mention it again.  I know him well enough that on returning home that night, he probably just told Krystal that "oh, it was pretty simple, no big deal" and didn't regale her, in full laughter, with my electrical humiliation.  And for that, more than his advice about recessed-lighting thermostat capabilities, I'm more than grateful.

Fun With Electricity, Part I

Church conveys many benefits: forgiveness, communion, fellowship, and a chance to experience the Divine each week.  It also might be a place to find a really understanding electrician.

Dave has been part of our Sunday evening men's group and, until switching congregations this summer, a regular member of our church.  Over the course of the last few years I've come to know and trust him, and so when we needed some electrical work done around the house a couple of years ago, he was there--on time, professional, and did a fine job for us.  We've since had him back for some attic fans and other projects.  So when the light over the kitchen sink failed to work a couple of weeks ago, I knew just what to do.

That's right...tried to fix it myself.

You see, I had done so a year or so ago; the light had failed to work, so I replaced the socket unit in the recessed light.  Hm, that wasn't it.  So I replaced the 20+-year-old light switch in the wall by the sink: bingo.  That did it, we were back in the light business, and I knew I had both the switch and the light unit good to go for years to come.

Until one day I couldn't get the @!#$%^ thing to come on.

Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me, I thought.  The switch is new, the socket is new....  And then I began wondering, had I done something wrong a year ago?  Maybe left something just barely connected, and now it's come apart?  I shut off (what I thought was) the breaker for the kitchen light and began taking apart the switch assembly, when a light buzzing sensation in my hand told me perhaps I hadn't quite found the right breaker after all.  I killed more power to the house, and tried again--and lo and behold, one of the wires to the back of the switch unit was in, but not as far in as its companion was.  Aha, I thought, found you.  I connected it even tighter, then buttoned up the switch assembly and restarted the power.

And still nothing.

Oh, come on, I thought....  I know electricity isn't my thing, but this is perhaps the simplest circuit possible--how could I have screwed this up?  But, in my inexperience with circuitry (see also the poorer grades in the electricity units in any of my physics courses), I figured there had to be something in the wall, or maybe wrong with the switch or socket, either of which I wasn't going to be able to identify, let alone fix.

Time to call in Dave.

(To be continued.)

Sixth Grade

Lest anyone think there's only one child in the house...

Sarah's first day of sixth grade was "amazing, stupendous, awesome," and several other glowing adjectives.  She's starting her fourth year in AAP, and by dint of being in sixth grade, she starts switching classes for science and maths.  However, she really likes her homeroom teacher, Mr Tagert, despite his being a Michigan Wolverines fan, because unlike her previous experience with a male teacher, Mr Tagert doesn't yell.  She sits in class with her friends Kassandra, Emma, and Christina; this is the first time all four of them have been in the same classroom, and but for a late-summer snafu, her BFF Giselle would have been in the room as well.

As a sixth grader, Sarah now thoroughly, completely, and finally o-w-n-s the school.  She has registered for Girls On The Run for the fall; she hopes to hear soon that she has been accepted to the team.  She serves this year as a hallway patrol (B/D pod staircase, east end, middle of the stairs) and has learned already that adding the polite touch of "please don't run" tends to achieve more than just ordering kids around.  But all the more, you can truly see the self-confidence, the self-assurance of a sixth grader who has arrived. 

Come the spring, there will be difficult times as she prepares to leave the only school she's ever known. There may be difficult choices ahead, depending on what she wants to do with her gifts in AAP and, crucially, where her friends go.  There will be tears, there will be awkward pain, but for now, the late-summer sun bears down warmly on a girl in her prime at the beginning of the awesomeness that is sixth grade.

"Did You Find Everything You Were Looking For Today?"

Our local Giant has been on a bit of a customer service kick these last few months; I can only presume the manager has instituted this practice.  Each time I use a checkout manned by a cashier, the cashier asks, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"

I don't remember them doing this in years past, and on the face of it, it's fine.  An innocuous question, really, designed to make the customer think that someone in the store cares whether they met all their shopping requirements.  Today, however, came a new wrinkle: On pushing my cart out into the parking lot to load groceries for the trip home, I came across one of the cartherds bringing empty carts together in the corral.  He asked me the same exact question: did I find everything I was looking for today?

I can appreciate a manager wanting his entire staff to be familiar with the phrase, and to deploy it liberally, to improve customer perceptions and general satisfaction.  But there's got to be some line beyond which it's not only unwarranted, but serves to show that it's not a heartfelt question.

Take my poor teenage cartherd this morning.  At the point at which he's interacting with me, I am not only past the point of paying for my groceries, I have wheeled them out of the store, down through the mall, out the door, across the parking lot, and loaded them into my car--returning the empty cart is the only thing left between me and leaving Giant completely.  Is it seriously thought that, by his asking me if I found everything I was looking for today, after all that physical and psychological space between me and their shelves, that I would suddenly stop and say, "You know, I had really wanted to find some left-handed kumquats, but was just too self-conscious to admit I couldn't find them; do you think you could walk me back into the store and show me where they are?"

I would argue that the same applies, but to a lesser extent admittedly, to the cashiers.  Their use of the line would actually mean something, since I haven't paid yet and could theoretically go grab those left-handed kumquats.  My biggest gripe about the line as delivered by the cashiers is that it's meaningless to me when there are three other people with full baskets in line behind me.  If it's slow and I'm alone, I might confess I'm missing the kumquats.  I'm not going to hold others up to admit, at that late hour, that I cannot find the kumquat aisle to save my life.  If anything, the question and its response have become not just automatic but autonomic: I can't say there's a whole lot of conscious thought that goes into my instant reply of "Yes, thanks."

If the line is to work, to truly have value, it should be the first or second thing the stock-persons and floor managers ask of folks while they're shopping.  "Can I help you find something?" is a common enough line from the stock-persons refilling the shelves, and they're great at dropping what they're doing to walk me to the kumquat aisle.  As an adjunct, "Are you finding everything you're looking for today?" makes a great question from the people in the aisles actually helping when purchasing decisions are being made.  Any later than that, it runs too great a risk of coming off like a forced management slogan rather than a genuine offer of help.

First Scrimmage: A View From The Bench

The South County freshman football team had their first scrimmage tonight, hosting Hayfield and playing very solidly against the Hawks for the first two-thirds of the scrimmage.  Unfortunately, David did not play.

His star-crossed efforts at being part of the team continued this week.  Monday he missed practice because we misread the starting time, and, arriving late, he was sent home.  Tuesday he made it on time, and instead of being a wingback, he began working as a strong safety for the first time.  He says he asked to make the change; he says the offensive backs coaches yelled at him all the time, and as one of ten boys repping at wingback, he didn't think he had a future there.  So they put him at strong safety and he began to learn that with John Eldredge.

Wednesday he skipped practice by his own choice.  He didn't get around to completing his fifth English essay of the summer in time, and so he chose to stay home and work on it instead.  On the one hand, I applaud his prioritization: academics, we have always said, come first, and he's chosen on a couple of occasions to miss some athletic endeavor in order to study.  However, I don't think he realized that by missing the practice of the day before a game, he exposed himself to being benched for the game.

And so tonight, when the freshman Stallions hosted the Hawks, David was part of the dozens of boys patrolling the home sideline.  When I realized he wasn't going to get in, my heart broke for him; on the other hand, valuable lessons are at risk of being learnt, about planning ahead, about doing what needs to be done, and about what kinds of levels of commitment it will take to be a student athlete for South County.  Perhaps some will take root.

Updating: Decisions At A Crossroads

In case you've been wondering how things are coming along with regard to David's football practices...

His hamstring injury kept him from practice on Saturday, and from the freshman scrimmage on Saturday night.  He also wasn't able to practice on Monday, and on Tuesday he could engage in light drills, but no contact.  Wednesday, he saw the trainer first thing in the morning, and was cleared to resume full participation--yay!

...and then Wednesday night, he announced he will, in fact, be accompanying Mary and Sarah to the beach trip to the Outer Banks with the Schiponos next week.

He remains one of ten (10!) wingbacks on the freshman team; he says he's enjoying it, but I don't see him being quite as fired up about it as he was when he played for SYC three years ago.  I suspect the allure of a week away from having to be up at 6:00am, and being at the beach, is still stronger than the allure of improving, day by day, as a potential wingback for his team.  Does that convey some deeper message about his commitment levels overall, or is he just a 14-year-old kid who sees a chance to sit on a beach for a week and isn't about to pass it up?

Just Becoming...Better

Earlier this month, my brother-from-another-mother Glenn posted in his blog some thoughts on the fifth anniversary of his dad's passing, in which he concluded that he's become a better dad in these last five years due to that loss.  It led me to wonder: has there been a similar effect on me in the three years nine months since my own dad's passing?

My inclination is, no, I haven't become a better dad.  I may have become a better son, though.

I don't mean to suggest I'm some paragon of dad-liness, or--heaven forbid--that I outshine Glenn in that department, and therefore have or had no room to grow.  But if I'm honest with myself, I don't see a dramatic difference between how I parented before, and after, Dad's death.  Since David's birth 14 years ago, I have always tried to be engaged and present with both the kids.  It was at Little League practices that Glenn and I first struck up a conversation about the (dis)Astros; I always made every effort to be at practices and/or games from T-ball through now for David, and have started taking him up on his offer to let me come camp with the Scout troop.  Similarly, I'm the one who's hacked through a total of 25km of races with Sarah--five 5Ks, one at a time--and brought her to Girl Scouts most weeks.  Losing Dad didn't mean I started doing more activities with the kids, or somehow changing who I was for them.  At least, I don't think I have.

But I do think I've become more attuned to my role vis-a-vis my older generation, though.  On a November Tuesday, as part of what would be my last time seeing him alive, I told Dad we'd be OK, and if he had something he had to go do, that we'd take care of each other, don't worry about us.  And so ever since returning home from his funeral, I've had a pretty good record of calling Patty to check on her about every week and a half or so, and stopping in to visit when up north.  I never used to call for her before; now I do.

I've also had the opportunity to become much more a caregiver to my Mom, of course, since her move to Virginia just over a year ago.  We joke about her doctor's appointments being sufficient to qualify as our "third kid," running her here and there, but in point of fact I'm what she's got locally available, and the progression of her Parkinson's has afforded me other opportunities to serve.  I always used to h-a-t-e going to "old-folks homes," such as when my Mom's dad was in one twenty years ago.  Now it's my Mom who's there herself, and the change of the last few years has allowed me to go into one without cringing.

I'm also enjoying an opportunity to be a better "son" to Mary's folks.  Over the last few years we've been able to be of some small service to them now and then, taking care of projects around the house that are harder for Dad T. to do anymore: last year it was digging post-holes, this year it was replacing the trim on the garage.  I can't do these kinds of things for my own dad anymore; but it does give me a warmth to be able to help out Mary's.

In re-reading the above, I recognize it can come off as incredibly self-congratulatory.  That's not what I'm trying for.  Instead--and here's where Glenn and I actually see eye to eye, I think--it's about the personal growth that a crisis such as losing one's first parent can inspire.  It is an ending, to be sure, and in the depths of the pain of that time it's all that seems present.  But in hindsight, it's also an opportunity to become more of what we're called to be in the first place.  Perhaps that makes some of us better fathers; perhaps some become better sons.  (And I do not even want to contemplate what sort of tragedy makes me become a better husband, thank you very much.)  Perhaps it is what C. S. Lewis described, in Sheldon Vanauken's excellent book of the same name, as "a severe mercy"--one that brings us to a point of grace through a most horrific ordeal, one which we might never have reached on our own, and one which leaves us better than the people we were at the start.

Decisions At A Crossroads

David's first full week of football practice ended Friday.  He had skipped nearly all of the weight-room sessions over the winter and spring, and due to church mission trips, SeaBase, Scout camp, and our annual summer trip to Vermont, he scarcely participated in any of the summer ones.  So he reported to combine on August 2 without much training or effort having been put in all year.

To his credit, he is not whinging about how tired he is, or how much it hurts, or anything I might have expected.  He spent his first full week of practice doing whatever the coaches asked him to do; it appears they had put him in the pile of boys who they were looking at as possible wingbacks, and he dutifully began learning blocking schemes and plays with the six others (really? how many wingbacks does a team need!) who were similarly assigned.

However, my "this can't possibly go this smoothly" radar was correct: Friday he pulled his hamstring in practice.  Was it because he's so raw and unprepared for practices?  Possibly; but it's not like he was completely inert all summer (c.g.: Kleppinger, Sarah).  It's not a bad pull; he's quite mobile still, although a notable limp can be seen (especially when chores are to be done, but that's a different blog post).  However, the trainers have told him it'll be several days, maybe even a week or more, before they'll clear him to return.  He said one of the coaches, apparently somehow aware of the fact that Mary and Sarah were going to the beach later this month, gave him a nudge in that direction--"you might as well spend time with your family," or something like that--for an event still a week and a half away.  Hmmm.

I had thought that the rigors of the practices, and his lack of preparation this spring, might consign him to a second-string role; I had also commented privately that I would not be surprised to see him, come the beach week, weigh the costs of getting up every day at 6am for a decidedly minor role vs. the benefits of going to the beach, and "cut himself" from the no-cuts team.  I just hadn't thought of a hammy as the genesis for anything.

And so tonight is the annual intrasquad scrimmage for the Freshmen, in front of their parents; he obviously won't play, and now has chosen to skip going altogether, even to cheer on his squad.  Hmmm.  Will he get up Monday morning at 6am to go and stand on the sidelines for another three or four hours?  We'll see, but my intuition is that a camel's nose is under the tent.

He wants to play, he really does.  The fact that he's not allowed to, in my opinion, really does bother him: he wants to get out there and show coach what he's capable of doing.  I can almost see the tug of war going on in his heart and mind over what to do next; what happens the rest of this summer could be a real bellwether event for him, much as the 1987 College Republican National Convention was for me (don't ask).  I only know that I can't make up his mind for him, nor should I, as the young man struggles towards his own path in his own way.

Glimpsing 2019

The last few days have been perhaps a sample of the future, and I'm not sure whether to embrace it or mourn it.

Since Sunday morning at 4:50am, David has been off with five other Scouts and two adults at SeaBase, the Boy Scouts' high-adventure site in the Florida Keys.  And since Wednesday morning at 7, Mary and Sarah have been off at Mary's conference in New England, making me all alone for the first time in, well, forever.  It left me thinking of what life may be like in another seven years when Sarah goes off to college and the nest truly gets empty--and if, at that time, Mary's career has her traveling even more.

Pluses: I've not had to worry about playing the radio in the shower too loudly in the morning, or turning the lights on when I get up.  I've been able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.  I could stay up until nearly midnight, as I did Wednesday night, working on the Quicken, and in all that time not be ignoring my bride, since she wasn't there.  I could stay late at the office, and go to a happy hour--ah, if only there was one this week--without having to make a SACC pickup time.

Minuses: Boy this house is huge and empty.  And quiet: I half expected the gerbils to go insane without the steady stream of life noise the kids and us usually generate.  (The radio makes a decent substitution.)  I miss getting Sarah hugs, or even having to get after David for the umpteenth time about will you please pick up your stuff off the floor by the door.  And I know it sounds like a cheap and easy point-scoring, but yeah, I do miss having my bride with me; the comfort, the reassuring presence, the quick glances, the sharing of some TV show...

When the kids do go off to college, and if Mary happens to travel at that point, it will be certainly different; I'm just not sure yet whether it'll be a good thing, or if this tinge of melancholy this week is but a sample of what's to come.

"Eight Minutes of Selfishness"

This past Sunday, I had the opportunity to bring the sermon at the 8:30 and 11:00 services at Sydenstricker UMC, and someone was foolish enough to record them.  Here's the file of how it came across at the 8:30 service; after the scripture, I sound a little faint for a couple of minutes because I'm walking around the congregation with a bent and twisted little brass plate to show them, but the bulk of it is loud enough. Let me know what you think.

Childhood Sites Revisited, Part II

Last week, on business, I found myself in El Paso, Texas, for the first time in 36 years, since we left it in a dusty June heading back to Vermont the long way (via NM, AZ, CA, OR, WA, ID, MT, WY, SD, etc...) at the end of third grade.  I surveyed the city on the approach to the airport, not recognizing it at all--appropriate, I suppose, for the intervening three-plus decades had to have some beneficial effect.

After business was done for the day, I headed out of the hotel and drove east on Montana several blocks until I came to Yarbrough Drive, and turned right.  The strip malls and gas stations of Montana gradually gave way to more residential neighborhoods, with the occasional mini-mart on the corner, until I got to the 2800 block and the Camino Real apartments.

Turning in, I recognized immediately the pool and community center in the middle of the complex; I remember many days spent there.  Clockwise around that structure, I passed a set of apartments before spying my old building in the corner.

I could still make out the last bedroom at the far end of the first floor, which had been mine; however, what stuck me the most was the fact that trees had gotten in the way in the meantime.  I remember a lighter-colored place; I remember the grass being continually brown, and certainly no trees.  And perhaps it was the late afternoon sun playing tricks, but I thought I remembered it a much more light tan exterior.

Not having a lot of time, I didn't get out to walk around, but instead proceeded to the rest of the complex, and then drove to East Point Elementary, where I had spent third grade with Miss Escobar's class 3-4 so long ago.  Coming upon it two blocks away from the apartments, I was struck by how close it was; 36 years ago the walk seemed so much longer.  However, much looked familiar: the curved outside of the building facing the playground, and the baseball diamond in the far corner were both familiar.  I stood at the corner that once had been the gate I walked out each afternoon (now it's closed off) and where Jacqueline Glass' maid used to wait to walk her home.  I wonder whatever happened to Jacqueline....  I did notice that the playground and the swing set where we used to play at recess had been moved; also that the playground now had an extensive canopy over it to protect from the harsh Texas sun.  No such canopy when I was there, I can tell you that.

The final stop was the East Point Park nearby, which in the mid-70s featured a playground with a jungle gym shaped like a rocket ship.  I loved that jungle gym and would play at it any time I had a chance.  However, the intervening years have done much to the park, which is now headed by a large rec center and covered in Little League and soccer fields.  The only playground I saw was far too new to have what doubtless was a rusty old jungle gym on it anymore.

While certain vistas brought back memories (the playgrounds at school, the pool, and the exterior of the apartment), so much time had passed that much of it had lost its immediacy and the strength of memory had gone.  Additionally, I was somewhat surprised by another thing missing: I had expected to have felt strong emotions about my Dad at these sites, especially the apartments, but that was not the case.  While the whole purpose of our being in El Paso those many years ago was for his assignment, somehow it didn't bring to mind the swell of Dad memories I had expected.  It's said that "you can't go home again," and at least in this instance I would agree, since these old sites didn't have the pull of "home" to me anymore.  I'm glad to have had the chance to see them again, but I'm also glad I didn't invest in a plane ticket there myself, as I think it would have been a waste.  Instead, I turned the car back north on Yabrough, and west on Montana, and finished out my business in El Paso without scarcely thinking of it again.

Childhood Sites Revisited, Part I

While in Easton for my great-aunt’s funeral in late May, I took advantage of the visit to go around to see old haunts.  It confirmed my view of Easton as a slightly desperate place that’s still not yet recovered from the 1980s, with signs of some life and hope.

On driving into Wilson Boro on Northampton Street, I was surprised to see the bank at 22d Street, long a fixture of this main street through town, had been shuttered; its sign broken out, and its yard littered with weeds.  The Shell station across the street likewise was shuttered, and many of the other homes and businesses along Northampton seemed untouched, unimproved, in the last thirty years.

Driving up the hill of 18^th Street, which seemed so much less steep than it did when I was younger, I was pleased to see the hair salon and the Broken Spoke bike shop were still there.  Parking at the corner of 18th and Fairview, I regretted that the Howard-Verna store, where I had snuck down to buy so many Tastykake blueberry pies as a boy, had closed, its blue sign pole barren and the building forlorn.

However, I was cheered to see 1825 Fairview, my grandparents Smith’s place; the new owners had installed a bright garden in front of the porch, and a lantern light on a pole at the end of their sidewalk; next door, at Mary Walters’ old home, a young child’s plastic play-house sat on the front yard.  These signs of new life and renewal were welcomed and warming on a difficult day.

Next I drove past the old Dixie Cup plant, a continuing symbol both of the town and of the town’s neglect and inability to move forward.  The stories-tall cup on the roof—the sign of the town that my sister and I would always compete to see first when driving to Nana and Pappap’s—shows streaks of rust and is in sore need of a paint job.  The windows on the plant remain shattered, advertising its abandonment to the ages; my grandmother would be ashamed to see the state of the building in which she spent her career.

Off to find my other grandparents’ home at 2416 Sycamore Street.  I started by trying to come from behind it, up the old alley that I remember driving down with my Pappap Kleppinger in his tan Rambler, and turned up two wrong ones instead.  Giving up, I turned onto the next street—which I soon discovered was the old alley, apparently widened into a named street.  Suddenly I found myself at my grandparents’ old garage, with the same wooden doors and the same rough stone blocks, and a view into their old back yard.  My grandmother’s rose bushes, that she loved so much, are long gone, but she would perhaps be pleased to see the azalea bushes in full bloom there instead.

Driving around to the front, on Sycamore, I saw that new gardens are a theme for my grandparents’ old homes: the concrete walk out front had been chiseled out and a small garden, bright with spring flowers, adorned the front of the home.  The front of the home seemed much the same as always; however, I noticed the front door had been replaced over the past couple of years, as it was still fairly recently that the weathered bronze plaque on the door engraved “The Kleppingers” was still there.  No more; one more sign of how things have moved on.

Having seen the last of these touchstones of youth, I stopped for lunch at the Burger King on 25^th Street—the one we used to nag our parents to take us to at a time when there was none in South Burlington.  Sated and more than a little melancholy, I then pointed the Lexus westward on 22 to begin the trip home.  I wonder if I’ll ever see these sites again.  But certainly, they'll never be the same again.

Doris Raisbeck, RIP

Somewhere in the night of May 21-22, Doris Raisbeck passed away peacefully.  My great-aunt, who had lived to the age of 93, was my last link with previous generations; as of now, I’m the eldest Kleppinger I know.

She was a woman of many gifts and talents; most notably to those who visited her, was her great skill at needlework, most often crocheting.  Afghans, various doilies, and kitchenwear (hot-pot holders, tea cozies) abounded in her home.  She was also a gracious hostess who ensured we always left happier than we arrived.

Some years ago, after Uncle Albert had passed, I had sent a note saying that if it came to a point where she were willing to do so, I would be happy to take Albert’s handmade train layout and give it a home in our new rec room.  At the time, she demurred, but a couple of years later, I received word that she had reconsidered, that the time had come, and if I wanted it it was mine.

Adam, Mike and I made arrangements to be there over a weekend, to dismantle the layout and to bring it to its new home to Virginia.  On arriving, they were as awestruck as I had always been at being admitted to the holy-of-holies, the basement with the train set; it was a glimpse into a level of craftsmanship that no longer exists.  Aunt Doris was gracious as always, and we were careful to respect how difficult a decision it must have been.  We took her out to dinner the first evening to a nearby Chinese buffet she enjoyed.  It was there that her wit was on display: at one point Adam made some remark about whether this buffet was where all her gentleman callers brought her.  She chortled and said that at her age, “the men are all like spaces in a parking lot.  All the good ones are taken; all that’s left are the handicapped.”

I drove up to the funeral on Thursday, May 24, leaving the house at 5am and made it to the Ashton Funeral Home in Easton six minutes before the 10am service. The dark woodwork, the faded Pennsylvania Dutch designs in the ceiling—nothing had changed since the last time I was there, my grandfather’s funeral months before David’s birth.  It was one of the quickest services I had ever seen: perhaps thirty minutes, then filing past the casket to our cars for the drive to the cemetery.  Intriguingly, many references to the need of the living to forgive the departed; I clearly had no idea about the extent of the feelings between her and her son from her first marriage.

Aunt Doris was buried in the same cemetery as the rest of my relatives, the Northampton Shrine in Palmer, right next to Albert.  Again, a very rapid graveside service, after which I wandered around looking for relatives.  Easily did I find Elmer and Helen Kleppinger; with more difficulty the Harry and Agnes Smith gravesite, at the foot of William and Laura, Harry’s parents.  It’s a lovely space to spend and eternity. Before I left, though, I saw how quickly Aunt Doris’ funeral had truly been: the dump truck was already filling in the hole with dirt.  I had to chuckle as they tucked her in one last time.

The day left me once again acutely aware of mortality; both my own status as the eldest Kleppinger I know, and also since Mary and I have made no arrangements whatsoever for our own place to spend eternity together.  It was in a rather grey mood that I returned to Virginia that afternoon.

Eight Minutes of Selfishness

On Thursday, January 26, 2012, something unprecedented happened: We were robbed.

Mary called me at ~12:30 in tears.  Her first words were that she had just had a call from Fairfax County Police--and instantly my heart leapt to, What happened at South County?  But no, we had been robbed; we both jumped in our cars and headed home.

What seems to have happened was that just after noon, one of our neighbors heard loud banging and looked outside to see a man kicking in our front door.  She and her husband called the police at 12:09 as he was kicking in the door, but before the police could respond at 12:17, he had already done what he came for and left.  Neighbors all around got a good look at him--yes, one guy, but what a world of hurt he's caused.

He shattered our front door by kicking the deadbolt out of the frame, and managed to split the frame on the hinge side as well, so much so that daylight shone through the crack.  The doorknob punched a hole in the wall behind the door.  He grabbed the Macbook laptop off my desk in the study, and opened drawers in that room looking for other valuables; luckily he didn't find, or take, anything.

However, the bulk of the damage he inflicted was upstairs.  He apparently dumped the contents of the top two drawers of Mary's and my dressers into one of our bedsheets and pillowcases, thereby making off with virtually every bit of our jewelry and cash in the house.  He took one of her jewelry boxes, and my valet box with all of my cufflinks and pins in it.  In cleaning us out, he took the Tiffany pieces I'd given Mary when each of the kids were born; the Swarovski necklaces I'd given her; the sapphire ring her parents had given her for graduating high school; Uncle Albert's pocket watch and onyx ring; every Scout pin David had earned and presented to me (including the God & Me Mentor pin); Pappap's silver cufflinks, and all the others Mary and Mom had given me over the years (except the pair I happened to be wearing that day); Nana K.'s pearls; and many of the kids' baby teeth.  He also looked briefly in my other dresser drawers and in the closet, where he looked in a suitcase for more goodies (but found only more suitcases).

The trio of police were very helpful; they processed for fingerprints, but were only able to confirm what a neighbor had said: he was seen pulling off black leather gloves.  So no fingerprints.  They imaged where he had kicked in the door, and loaded the missing laptop immediately into the stolen property database.  They were processing the house for a couple of hours, during which we calmed down a bit and went to thank the neighbors for calling it in.  We were talking with another neighbor out front when David came around the corner and saw, with evident alarm, the police presence and Mary and I home.  We explained what had happened; his first concern was for Piggy, who was home and still safe on the kitchen table (along with his Xbox and Wii controllers and iPod--so if the burglar'd actually made it that far into the home, those would have been gone too).  David observed the police a bit and went to watch TV, presumably to calm down some.  I went to get Sarah around 4 or so, and explained to her at school what had happened and that as far as we know, all of her stuff was safe.  She was more upset, sobbing a bit about it.  I'm sure we'll all have tears before this is done.  Later, after dinner, made arrangements to secure the door ahead of our flights to Vermont the next day--which we were determined to go ahead with; he wasn't going to win and change our lives.

In the end, most of what he got was just things we can replace.  Some of what he took, like my 10-year Bureau service pin, cannot be replaced.  Yes, I'll get my 20-year pin and a new laptop, but that's not the point: I'll never think quite as securely about our home and its vulnerability for Mary and the kids to the kinds of acts of unrestrained selfishness that ruled for eight minutes in our home that day.  The unease we feel, the tears that came to Mary in fits that night, are the most painful part of the legacy this one guy left us in a few minutes in our home.  But it's just stuff.  Nobody got hurt, nobody else had to come home and find it all.  Our real treasure is elsewhere.  All he got is stuff.

Book Report

I just finished reading the first novel by the sister of a good friend, and posted the following review to Amazon tonight:


As a general rule, I do not read a lot of fiction, having been burned by one too many obscure assignments in English class years ago. However, Lizz Lund's first novel, set in the uber-polite Amish country of Lancaster, PA, made for a very approachable and easily enjoyed story, in line with its Twain-esque disclaimer about being just a fun story with no moral for English majors to debate endlessly.

Lund describes a very full week in the life of Mina Kitchen, an expatriate New Joisey goil who finds herself caught in multiple layers of intrigue. The, um, fragrant arsons at the locations of her employer's main customers, her neighbor in a witness protection program, her errant love life, and myriad other adventures combine to make a memorable story. I do appreciate a good pun and a writer who honors that great Native American chieftain, Little Running Gag, and Lund does not disappoint: between her kitchen puns (Mina's employer is an acronym spelling EEJIT) and the recurring punchlines (look for "Bless you"), my internal snare drum was making frequent rimshots.

At 373 pages, it's a long book to read in a single sitting, yet readers might enjoy not leaving a lot of time between sittings: not only because the story reads engagingly, but also because the numerous characters that flit in and out of Mina's life in a week need a more focused mind than mine to keep straight (sorry, another pun for Lund's character, "K"). "Kitchen Addiction" makes for a very full stew of characters, plots, and even settings: a subplot at the end about a supper club in New York City felt almost superfluous to the rest of the story. However, the mix of flavors--from Vito to the Ratties, from Aunt Muriel to How-wierd (Mina's boss)--blends well into a picture of a very full life.

Lund, whose background includes acting and directing in stage productions, takes advantage of her new medium's ability to more fully display the internal dialogues and thoughts of her main character. Her writing flows naturally; one can imagine Lund sitting in her townhouse living room, with a Mug-o-Merlot and an odd neighbor at the door, just telling this as a story to a friend dropping by. Lund is already working on her second novel, a sequel to "Kitchen Addiction," and doubtless readers will not be content with merely a second helping but will look for thirds as well.