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Behavior vs. character

Some people judge and react to you mainly by your behavior.  Others react primarily to your character.  Is it about doing, or being?

In the case of children at nearly all times, the primary reaction is to behavior.  (Not always.  We’ve all known children with character way beyond their years.)  In adults, behavior is usually the first evidence we have of who they are, so there it begins–but typically gives precedence to character in time.

This is why a child will try to rack up some good deeds to cancel out the bad deeds, or presume eternal forgiveness for all errors and misbehaviors; life is a ledger to them, gold stars and black marks, reward and penalty.  An adult–at least one who thinks like an adult–will seek to correct wrongdoing going forward as well as making amends or atonement.  After paying the bill, a child looks forward to getting by with the deed (or one like it) again.  Plenty of adults in relationships lapse into child thinking, or never actually grow out of it.  Entire segments of society have it as their foundation.  Most families would have no idea how to intrarelate without it, because family is most people’s refuge for bad character.  If you have people who will never reject you for lack of character, why bother to show them good character? For many, that really is what family boils down to.  Paradox:  that’s the low character response anyway.  In short, if one is of low character with family and high character with non-relatives, maybe it means one is of basic low character and just puts on a better front to the world.  Maybe it also means character can be situational, and that the entire subject is more nuanced and complex than I have thought through.  You tell me.  I don’t pretend to be an authority on this.  Dissect the fallacies in my thinking, and I will thank you.

Does behavior reflect character? Not always, but that’s really the fundamental question, is it not? If my wife says something cruel and unjustified to me, does that mean she’s of low character, or that she’s simply having a bad behavioral lapse? If she is of high character, such an utterance is out of her character, and doesn’t reflect who she is.  Of course, if she is of high character, it won’t be long before she’s pretty embarrassed by it, because it is not who she really is.  But while her words may have offended me, my fundamental reaction to her is to her character, not one action.  It would take more than one bad behavior to convince me her character had altered.  Hope she sees me the same way.  She must, because she has self-respect and she stays married to me.  Surely there’s something about my character she likes, because it certainly isn’t because of my mighty deeds (or mighty misdeeds never committed).

What got me thinking about this is a period of watching a child in an adult body, experiencing the world from one unsustainable pleasure or toy to the next, seemingly contrite over black marks and happy over gold stars, happy to do the minimum to get by.  The individual never fully grasped that it wasn’t about bookkeeping good and bad acts, but the development of personal character. And when it became clear that this person’s priority was not the same as my priority, there was nothing left to do but turn her/him loose to find it as s/he might.

Or might not.

Looking back at this, I am alarmed how much I sound like a mediocre Andy Rooney knockoff.  But I’m posting it anyway.  The disappointment hurt, and maybe talking about it will help.

Ice

Now it’s in the air at night.  True of me:  I love ice.

It does help to be highly resistant to cold, with some sort of insane internal heater that fires up the minute I feel ice in the air, or on my skin.  Sure, I have a fast heart rate and more than my fair share of insulation.  But I don’t think it’s just that I seem to be so resistant.  I’m not immune.  Not many people alive can describe what it feels like to be dying of third-stage hypothermia, and I can.  It almost got me that time and it could again.  So it’s not just the resistance factor.

Rather, it feels spiritual.

Some people feel closest to the divine on a beach with their feet lapped by surf.  Others feel it in deep forests.  Many feel it near lakes, and some out on prairies.  For some, it’s the altitude and the sight of mountain crags.  Perhaps some find it everywhere.  I could easily see feeling spiritual in a nice hot tub.

For me, it is the pitiless slap in the face of a gusty wind when the mercury is in the teens.  It is the muffled calm of a world struck soundless by a foot of fresh powdery snow.  It is ice in my mustache and beard.

It is midnight walks at -5º F, with no one out (and for once, no stray dogs).  It is hauling firewood in periods of sustained cold, bulling the wheelbarrow through the snow and feeding the fire with snow-crusted hunks of pruned apple branches.  It is shoveling snow, feeling it on my flesh, or hacking a path up the cul-de-sac’s packed ice.

It is scraping my wife’s windshield, feeling ice shavings on my wrist.  It is gripping the steering wheel when it feels like a well-cooled beer bottle.  It is chaining up the truck, hypercautious driving, the controlled fishtail turn I must throw in order to climb a 17% cul-de-sac without those chains.

Most of all, it is interdependency, a nearness to others, rare and dear for us natural loners.  It’s making sure Mrs. Anderson’s walk is shoveled and icemelted.  It’s helping push stuck cars, palms on frigid metal.  It’s putting out a little food for the birds, and giving the dogs as much as they want.  It is being gladder to see others.  It has a religious quality, a sense of good cheer and all being in this together.

Perhaps it’s the time when I most feel the gods like me.

I empathize with Linus

Every year I go Linus.  Not Full Linus, but partial Linus.  Just as adults gave me candy at Halloween, I look forward with great enthusiasm to the chance to perpetuate the tradition and have fun with the kids.  I put on an ogre mask and some sort of hat (this time a fishing hat from Puerto Rico), and speak only in monster growls:  bluuueeeagh, blluuuaaaaagh!  I tone it down slightly for the real little ones, but most of the kids think it’s great fun.  “Thank you!”  “Blueeeeaaagh!

Unfortunately, correct trick-or-treating (which involves the children coming to your door and saying ‘trick or treat’), is on the wane.  It’s being replaced by the bubble-wrapped-kid option of trunk-or-treat, taking away 100% of the adventure and 90% of the fun.  Can’t have Precious learning to take care of him or herself while walking around in the dark, because as we know, the density of lurking pervs is about four per square yard.  Those not brutalized by the lurking per patrol will all be given a razor-blade-loaded bit of candy by the ten psychotic homeowners per block.  Step outside the bubble wrap, certain death.

No wonder so many of them can’t handle adult life when they reach it.  They never got the opportunity to learn or adventure.

Anyway, these days I feel much like Linus, with my bowl of candy and my lit pumpkin clearly displayed, lights bright so it will be obvious someone is home and would probably hand out candy.  One year we got zero.  Three is about average.  This year, three trick-or-treating groups, and one of them produced the funniest thing that has happened to me on Halloween in living memory.

We have some great neighbors to the north and west, Mary and Bill.  (We have great neighbors in all directions, but these are the droids we want.)  They have two daughters and a son:  Kate, Nathan, Sarah.  Kate is now married with an adorable one-year-old daughter; Nathan’s giving mice diabetes in med school.  Sarah I used to hire in high school to help with work; now she’s out in the working world, doing well.  Over time we have all become friends.  Kate, hubby Thomas, Sarah and little Clara stopped by, kind of a tradition, Clara in a tiny Princess Leia outfit with the danishes hat for her head.  I did my usual thing:  bluueeagh!  Little Clara smiled happily at the noisy monster in the fishing hat.  Of course, I invited everyone in, and removed my hat and mask to beam friendly greetings at the tiny Princess Leia.

Faced with my true countenance, smile and voice, the child bawled out a wail of shocked disgust.  Right on cue.

I actually had to lean against a wall to compose myself, I was laughing so hard.  So were my visitors, except for the tiniest one, who glared at me and wept frustration throughout the visit while parents, aunt and neighbor chatted.

Someday it will be a hilarious story to tell her, when I am near retirement and she is a young teen.

Sprint taken for a huge ongoing scam

First, I refer you to this fascinating article:

How Sprint loses millions monthly

The amazing thing here is the utter toxicity of the culture there.  There are so many people in on the game that they can undo the efforts to stop it.

Deb and I can relate because the last time we renewed with Sprint, it was such a complete goat rodeo that we swore to fire them as soon as our contract was up, which is not far away.  I really cannot wait to be rid of this outfit, especially when I realize that my costs are higher because of losses from internal scams Sprint lacks the intellect or will to prevent.

“I have sex for money!”

No, not me.  Someone else.  Patience.

Back when I was in high school, we had an exchange student from Finland.  Her name was Paulamaria, and she was a wonderful young lady, a year or so older than me, tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and (at first) terrified.  She spoke okay English at the start.  Anyone could sympathize with her plight, sent to live for a year in a tiny lumber town very far from all she knew.  In hindsight I respect her courage and sense of adventure just to do it.  She lived with us for part of the year, and with a couple of other families later.  But she got our dysfunctional household first.

The budding language junkie in the family already spoke some Spanish and Russian, but no Finnish.  Paula taught me some, and how to pronounce it, which itself is fairly challenging.  In listening to her accent, I came to understand that Finns have terrible trouble with our consonant blends.  It takes them extensive practice to articulate the sounds at all.  Finnish is a very tough language, but it’s not that hard to pronounce.  Great:  a language where you can easily be understood, but knowing what you said is not so easy.  Paula would never call herself a Finn; she would say she was a ‘Feeneess person.’  She spoke ‘Svediss’ and ‘Zerman’ in addition to ‘Eengliss’.  I am not making fun of her at all, just illustrating her pronunciation issues.  She also had guts.  When my mother, on the way home from picking her up, made the absolutely horrifying blunder of asking her if Finns were related to Russians, I saw her eyes flash fire before she had even seen her new home.  “Ve are not Russan people!” she exclaimed.  I had winced.  Good one, Mom.  They take that one real bad in Finland.

Of course, hardly anyone in town even knew where Finland was, except me (who spoke no Finnish) and a lady up the street (who remembered enough from her youth to converse a bit).  Didn’t matter.  Paula picked up English quickly enough, while teaching me how to swear (perrrrrrrrkele!), be grossed out (oooooouuuck!) and be wheedled (ollahyvää???? (please)).

Paula had some resources, enough that she could pretty much go shopping whenever she wished.  She often wished.  We helped her set up a checking account, which made that easier.  So one day my mother, my biological sister, my Finnish sister and I were all riding to town together.  Paula and I were in the back seat.  Now, our household was very religiously conservative, with my father’s interpretation of the tenets of the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church and the Bible as the law.  We were self-righteous snobs about it all.  I had only somewhat begun to rebel.  Paula wanted to go shopping with some friends, and asked to do so.  My mother, always keeping an eye out for the details, asked from the driver’s seat:  “Now, Paula, do you have enough money?”

“Oh.  I have sex for money.”

My mother’s very Lutheran head snapped around.  “You do what?”  I attempted to suppress some laughter.

“I have sex!  Oo know, sex!”

Mom spluttered, not angrily but in vast consternation:  “Paula, I have no idea what the customs are like in Finland, but they are different here, and we must have a long talk before you go anywhere.”

For her part, Paula couldn’t understand what the issue was.  Why was everyone reacting this way? Her American mom was discombobulated; her American sister was doing I’m not sure what, and her American brother was snickering like Muttley.  There followed a discussion of much confusion and some concern, but the language junkie finally figured it out.

I pulled out a checkbook.  “Checks, right, Paula?”

“Yes!  Sex!”

You may imagine my mother’s relief.  Once Paula knew she was properly understood, she too was relieved.  Time to shatter that relief, like a proper brother.  I told her what exactly she had been saying.

It’s amazing how pink a very white, Nordic face framed by a bunch of light blonde 1970s hair can get when its owner gets a little uncomfortable.  Almost magenta.

The gift of the Lakota

This was some years back, when Deb and I drove to Kansas to visit the tribe. (Not the Indians; my family.) We travel together very well, and this trip was no exception. On our way back, we crossed South Dakota and went to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial (a work in generational progress).

Mt. Rushmore itself didn’t really do much for me. Whatever upwelling of nationalism I was supposed to feel, I didn’t feel it. Paha Sapa (the Black Hills) were sacred ground for the Lakota (Sioux), and unfortunately, they contained gold. That they would be appropriated and exploited, in the 1800s, was foregone. That this place was chosen to carve sculptures of Great White Fathers, well, to me that’s just washing the Indians’ faces in it. It’s not like there aren’t other mountain ranges in the West suitable for sculpting, after all. Why choose this one, if not to hammer the nail deeper?

It bothered me, and I had come prepared.  Now, I am not an enrolled member of the Hiotna (Honky Injuns Of The New Age) tribe. (Credit to my bro John L. for the hilarious phrase, fairly typical of his main-gauche wit.) Their cultures are theirs, and mine is mine; my sliver of Indian heritage is the social norm for American whites today and signifies nothing. I did, however, desire to do a small observance, as a visitor to Paha Sapa. I had brought tobacco and cornmeal, offerings one might give to a holy man in some Indian cultures. And if they weren’t exactly right, I supposed that whatever called Paha Sapa an ancestral home, it would get my drift.

One tradition my bride and I share is the collection of heart-shaped rocks. Wherever we go together, we seek them out, and somehow we always manage to find one. We have dozens. Usually I do the looking and finding; it is a marital joy.  This autumn afternoon, we really weren’t thinking of that. We headed off down a side road, parked, and walked off into the woods together. I love remote forests and feel completely at ease there, the mirror image of the big-city denizen who feels at home walking on concrete, and who would quiver in terror at the mere possibility of wildlife. In their comfort zone, I would be as they are with a timber rattler, so I get that.

While I did my observance, Deb wandered off into the forest a bit. (Alaskan and Western, she is as much at home there as I.) She was at that short distance where I can see her, but not clearly, when she cried out: “Oh my god! Jonathan, come here!”

When you’re out in the woods and your wife hollers for you, you get the hell over there. I ran toward her. She was standing before a boulder, but not just any boulder.

It was about the size of a washing machine, sloped on top, in our direction. Atop the boulder, a piece was broken off, like the edge of a top layer crumbling. It was fine-grained, probably metamorphic, charcoal-colored, covered with lichens. The broken piece was very recent, to judge by the lack of lichens where it had snapped off.

This piece was a near-perfect heart shape. Except for the upper left corner being a little pointy–imagine a home plate shape with a perfectly located notch in the upper middle–it called to mind nothing so much as a heart. Much larger than our usual heart-shaped pebbles: maybe ten inches across and six inches thick.

I suppose it’s possible that we just happened to pick that particular road, just happened to wander into the woods at that particular (unremarkable) stopping spot, just happened to blunder into the forest at just the right spot, and it just happened to break off very recently, and we just happened to notice it. That level of coincidence is less credible to me than the alternate explanation, which is that we were meant to find it. Of course, I didn’t come expecting to take anything away with me. If you had asked me beforehand whether I was planning on grabbing a souvenir rock from the Black Hills, I’d have said “Hell, no.” But what else does one conclude? What would you conclude?

Seemed to me that, for whatever reason, Paha Sapa had a gift for us of the kind only Deb and I would find, notice and care about. I took it up with care, examining it; probably weighed eight pounds. I think I was too awed to say anything more profound than “thank you.” Much moved, we took it to the car with us and went on our way. (We had a safe and easy trip home, except of course for the bone fragment through a front tire sidewall just outside Butte.)

The stone resides on our mantel, with all the lichens still covering it. (Early on, Deb suggested I clean those off.  No way, I said. We keep it as we got it. She did not demur.) And every time I look at the gift of the Lakota, I feel like they are my friends. Whatever we did or did not do, something noticed, and we felt a token of welcome and camaraderie.  And if there’s an issue, and there’s a Lakota side to it, I admit to a bias their direction.

I want to go back to Paha Sapa in the future, just to say hello. It now feels like a place I am not such an interloper. Not a native, of course, but at the very least, someone with a visa to visit, a safe conduct. I wonder how it will feel.

Grandmother’s Land

For our anniversary, we went up to Canada.  It was a great pleasure:  marital togetherness, great hosts, all the scenic beauty Canada has to offer, the basic warm goodwill of rural Canadians, and Tim Horton’s.

Did you know that Indians of the northern Rockies referred to Canada as the Land of the Great Grandmother? We’ve all heard, of course, about the concept of the Great White Father in D.C., though I suspect a few of the Indians realized how utterly paternalistic the reference was (among its other detracting characteristics).  Anyway, since Victoria I was Queen of Canada during the white invasion of the West, and Canada was often thought a refuge (often it was anything but), some Indians called it after Her Majesty.

One of the best parts was our success at smuggling by full disclosure.  We were bringing two six-packs of Ice Harbor IPA to our friends, plus some homemade salsa.  Problem:  you cannot bring in alcohol as a gift duty-free.  If it’s for your own consumption, yes; as a gift, no.  You also can get in trouble bringing in homemade food.  Bozo, our navigator and planner, put the salsa in with the beer in bubble-wrap to keep it safe.

So we get to the border.  I won’t name the crossing lest it get the guard in trouble.  Customs Canada, which isn’t called that anymore, asked most of the usual questions.  They are more inquisitive nowadays, and make an effort to catch one in a fishy story.

“Do you have any alcohol?”

“Yes, two six-packs of beer.”

“For your own consumption?”

“No, it’s a gift for our friends.”  This was an answer so retardedly honest it was plausible.

“In the future, you may want to reconsider that.  The duties are fairly punitive on alcohol, unless it is for your own consumption.  Please pull around to the left and stop, remaining in your vehicle.”

I was pretty sure we were going to be in trouble, at least to the tune of C$50 for the duty.  When I saw a sign about a C$1000 fine directly before us, I assumed the salsa would be found when they inspected.  We would be asked why we had not disclosed it, and there would not really be a very good reason.  Ouch, ouch.  However, I have an inkling that when they have you pull around, in part they are watching to see if you hurriedly dive back into the back seat and start trying to rearrange things/cover up contraband.  That would have been very unwise, so we just sat cool. After a few minutes, the officer brought back our passports and wished us a safe drive.  No duty, and no trouble for the salsa!

When we reached Jenn and Marcel’s (our wonderful hosts), Jenn advised me from the description that we’d gotten the border guard she considered a ‘douchebag.’  Well, all I can say is that in our case he combined taking his duty seriously with a sense of fairness and goodwill, which is a great combo in a border guard.

Score one for giving a response so self-adversely candid and true that it is believed, since no one would make up something like that.   And thank you, Customs Canada, for not being rough on us.

The dumbest sport there is

My father and I didn’t have that many great father/son moments.  We did, however, try a lot of father/son activities. Fair is fair: he’d have spent all the time with me I wanted, had I only wanted to.

We used to hunt and fish a little, though I was never really gung-ho for either. One year my father decided we should go duck hunting.  (I never asked whether he knew how to cook a duck.) Dad borrowed a bunch of decoys and obtained permission from a farmer way over near Roosevelt. For those not familiar with Roosevelt, WA–and that includes most Washingtonians–it sits out in an emptiness. There’s not much there, nor is it near much. We got up well before dawn on an October morning, drove out to the guy’s wheat stubble field, and made ready to shoot ducks.

While my father distributed the decoys in some pattern which he assumed would be irresistible to ducks, I got busy ‘preparing a duck blind.’ It couldn’t be called digging; we had to hack a hole in the frozen ground, large enough for a husky 5’10” adult male and a husky 5’6″ teenage male. Think of coal mining without the coating of ebony dust. We didn’t finish until the sunlight approached in the east.  Dad loaded his .12-gauge, and I loaded my .410.  We got into the hole, knees drawn up, pulled a piece of plywood mostly over us, and watched the skies for the expected waterfowl.

None came.

An hour passed, a dull and chilly hour sitting in a frozen hole in the wheatfield.  No ducks even came within sight of our location.  (You’d think we were a Rose Bowl victory.)

Another hour, and the sun was up by now.  Didn’t do us much good.  Still no ducks.  (You’d think we were a national championship victory.)

Now, I was not the smartest hunter in the county, nor even in that hole, but neither was I a complete idiot. I was about ready to bag it, but I didn’t want my father to resent me for asking to quit early.  I didn’t have much finesse, but it was clear enough to me he was as uncomfortable as me. This called for diplomacy and a voice of good humor. “You know, Dad, of all the father-and-son activities you and I have tried together, this has got to be the dumbest sport there is.”

The thunderbolt did not come. So help me, the old man looked at me, smiled, and laughed: “You know, son, you’re right.  Let’s fill up this hole, pick up our stuff and go get some breakfast.”

From that day forward, such ducks as strayed into Washington were safe from my father and I.

Why the US Postal Service is sinking

Today we had a perfect metaphor for why the P.O. can’t get any revenue and why the private sector is eating its lunch.

I had to mail some valuables to Seattle.  I wanted to insure them.  I could have gone to the post office; my route took me right past it.  Why did I not want to do that? Because the postal employees there make it quite clear that my personal satisfaction is not a priority.  The rules are the rules, they take pleasure in articulating them, and they seem to enjoy when it turns out to be a lot more expensive than one imagined.  Plus, you cannot get angry at them; the slightest action that could even be imagined by the most paranoid mind could be construed as one of the various felonies against the postal service which are punishable with heavy fines and long imprisonment.  In short, one has to just take it.  Or go elsewhere, which I prefer.  So already, we are with me preferring not to deal with the option that should be easiest and cheapest.

So I go to my usual mail place, where they are helpful and friendly and offer a variety of shipping options, including USPS, which is probably what I’ll use anyway.  (My complaint is not that they fail to carry the mail reliably–at that, they do fairly well.)  I explain what I want to do, assuming it’ll cost a little extra, which is fair.  They regretfully inform me that they can’t do insured mail anymore.  Why? Evidently the USPS took that option away.  Brilliant!  Force people to come to the dungeon since you can’t entice them with pleasant helpfulness!  So I ask what my options are.  My mail place makes three phone calls on my behalf (try getting the post office to do that).  Short version:  I could send it registered through them, for a hefty fee, but if I want it insured I must go to the post office.

I think about this possibility.  I could do that.  Then I do mental math, and based entirely on past experience, figure out that it will be significantly more expensive than my most irrational upward estimates.  Plus, no one there has any incentive to be helpful–I’m just annoying extra work to them, a pain to be endured, one more person in the long line.  I decide that insuring it just isn’t going to happen, and I send it UPS with a tracking number.

So, let’s recap.  Basic aversion to cold indifference and apathy sent me elsewhere, where I learned that in order to do what I wanted to do, thanks to the PO trying to force people to go to its facilities to use its services, I have to go to cold indifference and apathyland.  And I get disgusted enough that rather than do that, I choose to do without the service.  It bothers me that they get to be the government when they want to make rules, and a corporation when they want to advertise and make money, able to punish the competition by fiat on a whim.

What’s more, I’m one of their few remaining customers who actually buys stamps and mails first class letters (specifically, paying my bills).  I buy the stamps from someplace other than a P.O. and choose to pay more rather than go there.  I’m one of the holdouts who refuses to bank online, to have a debit card, to allow automatic withdrawals from my checking, or to make payment online at the company’s website.  I am one of their last old school customers.  And I don’t want to go to their store and transact business.  I would rather pay more and go to some other vendor.

That isn’t the only reason the USPS is in a state of fail, but I can’t believe I am the only one, and it’s certainly one reason.