I've just experienced a great reversal of the creation story in Genesis--6 straight days of rest with virtually no work accomplished at all! It was grand--indeed, rest is good for the soul--and it helps if you throw in an ocean and some beach and about six days of nothing but an NCAA basketball tournament and a couple of good books and some Scrabble.
We just spent a week at Pawley's Island on the coast of South Carolina. My wife and her family have been going there for at least a week every year for something like 50 years. I have to admit that the experience is hard to beat. We rented one of those old Pawley's Island houses right on the ocean and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
Here's my top ten for the week!
10. That morning cup of coffee walking down the beach--and especially the last few cold swigs.
9. The New York Times read thoroughly with few interruptions--to the extent that you even get beyond the first section--and live for a moment with the illusion that you might finally finish the crossword puzzle.
8. A full moon directly outside your bedroom window and right over the ocean, with moonbeams playing off the waves.
7. Three cheap paperbacks with really good plots that are already forgotten.
8. A few hard-fought games of Scrabble and rummy.
7. Some great steamed oysters at Nance's in Murrell's Inlet.
6. An evening of shrimp and crab arond the dining room table.
5. Tossing the football around the beach while vainly compensating for the stiff breeze.
4. Turning "Out-of-office assistant" on knowing that it means you don't have to check email at all--for a week.
3. Louisville vs. Tennessee capped by a Louisville win.
2. Long bicycle rides from one end of the island to the other.
1. Good long talks that wouldn't happen otherwise and that are made special by the fact that it is the last Spring Break from high school that we will ever share with our children.
I wonder if the surf and sand don't grab something elemental deep within me. After all, God drew the lines between land and sea pretty early in the week and then he hung the sun and moon in the sky almost immediately thereafter. Perhaps this is why there is a certain peace that comes with standing on the beach with my toes in the water and the back of my feet on the sand while a full moon tugs gently at the water or a bright sun warms my face. Animals and people come along much later in the week--and they certainly complicate matters.
Oops--excuse me for a second! My cellphone is ringing.
It must be the seventh day.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Dinner--with Friends
I knew they were Filipino by the way they held their forks and knives and, I must confess, if I hadn't been dining alone, I probably would never have spoken to them. But there I sat in a restaurant by myself on a Saturday evening in Richmond, Virginia, more hungry for some good conversation than I was for the tapas that I had just ordered.
Twice I almost took the plunge--but then bailed out. It isn't easy to start a conversation with absolute strangers even if they are sitting just two feet away in a cramped dining room and even if you are convinced that you spent thirteen years as a child in the country that they hail from. We like our walls, after all--and separate tables generally mean separate conversations. It's just the way we're wired.
Finally, I caught the man's attention for the briefest moment and the words spilled out.
"Excuse me," I said (with as big a smile as I could muster). "Are the two of you from the Philippines?"
I was relieved when they smiled back--and covered their mouths with their hands as Filipinos always do when attempting to speak while chewing food.
"Oh, yes," they said in unison--and, of course, they wanted to know how I knew.
"I knew it by the way you were eating," I said, "You were pushing the food up onto your spoon with your fork." And I mimicked the action.
They laughed out loud--and covered their mouths again.
We talked for a long while--about old Filipino songs and television commercials, about Filipino food and friendliness, about what it is like to grow up in a culture far removed from home. They were newly-married--less than a year. And they wondered about the impact that growing up in the US context might have upon their children some day. Would they still appreciate the rich heritage of the Philippines?
I tried to reassure them. "It really is up to you," I said. And I encouraged them to give their kids the advantage of being bilingual. I admitted that my Tagalog was much poorer than it should be--and they complimented me on my accent when we did talk briefly in that national dialect.
Then . . . it ended. It was a single meal out of the thousands that I will share with other folks across my lifetime. But it was a dinner to remember.
It was such a small thing--the way they pushed their food up with their forks onto their spoons. But it was that small thing that enabled me to recognize them for who they were--and that encouraged me to take the risk of engaging them in conversation.
Such moments don't happen often. I've generally got plenty of people around to talk to at dinner. And there is very little reason to risk a conversation with strangers . . . who actually wind up not being strangers after all.
Twice I almost took the plunge--but then bailed out. It isn't easy to start a conversation with absolute strangers even if they are sitting just two feet away in a cramped dining room and even if you are convinced that you spent thirteen years as a child in the country that they hail from. We like our walls, after all--and separate tables generally mean separate conversations. It's just the way we're wired.
Finally, I caught the man's attention for the briefest moment and the words spilled out.
"Excuse me," I said (with as big a smile as I could muster). "Are the two of you from the Philippines?"
I was relieved when they smiled back--and covered their mouths with their hands as Filipinos always do when attempting to speak while chewing food.
"Oh, yes," they said in unison--and, of course, they wanted to know how I knew.
"I knew it by the way you were eating," I said, "You were pushing the food up onto your spoon with your fork." And I mimicked the action.
They laughed out loud--and covered their mouths again.
We talked for a long while--about old Filipino songs and television commercials, about Filipino food and friendliness, about what it is like to grow up in a culture far removed from home. They were newly-married--less than a year. And they wondered about the impact that growing up in the US context might have upon their children some day. Would they still appreciate the rich heritage of the Philippines?
I tried to reassure them. "It really is up to you," I said. And I encouraged them to give their kids the advantage of being bilingual. I admitted that my Tagalog was much poorer than it should be--and they complimented me on my accent when we did talk briefly in that national dialect.
Then . . . it ended. It was a single meal out of the thousands that I will share with other folks across my lifetime. But it was a dinner to remember.
It was such a small thing--the way they pushed their food up with their forks onto their spoons. But it was that small thing that enabled me to recognize them for who they were--and that encouraged me to take the risk of engaging them in conversation.
Such moments don't happen often. I've generally got plenty of people around to talk to at dinner. And there is very little reason to risk a conversation with strangers . . . who actually wind up not being strangers after all.
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