The push

Today I'd like to tell you a story about war, and about the things we do to save other people. I know most of us are sick to death of hearing about war right now, but today -- March 10 -- is an important holiday in our family, in part because of a different war that happened a long time ago.

You see, on this day in 1967, four very young men got into two very fast planes to complete a dangerous wartime mission: a bombing run of an enemy steel mill in North Vietnam. But someone tipped off the North Vietnamese that they were coming, and as a result both their planes were heavily shot up with anti-aircraft fire. Both were leaking a lot of fuel. One of the pilots, Earl Aman, soon realized that he wouldn't have enough fuel to get back to base, and that he and his weapons system officer (aka the GIB, or "guy in back") would have to eject over enemy territory.

This state of affairs didn't sit well with the pilot of the other plane, a guy named Bob Pardo. Bob's plane was leaking fuel too, but not as much as Earl's. And Bob refused to leave anyone behind. He thought fast and came up with a crazy idea.

"Don't eject just yet," he told Earl. "I'm going to try to push you."

The F-4 Phantoms they were flying were originally Navy jets, so they had tailhooks to help them land on aircraft carriers. And after trying unsuccessfully to push Earl's Phantom using the drag chute in back, Bob had Earl lower the plane's tailhook. He flew up carefully behind the plane and just kissed his windscreen against the heavy tailhook, and somehow, even with turbulence and slipping and a windscreen that kept cracking every time they came in contact, managed to push the other plane far enough that they made it to Laotian airspace -- closer to safety. With barely two minutes of flying time left, all four men ejected from their planes.

One of those men had his back damaged by the ejection seat, and his parachute got caught in the trees as he came down, so he was in a lot of pain. But there was no time to rest, because once he got free and was on the ground, he heard the shouts of some local villagers looking for him. They shot at him a few times, which suggested to him that they weren't friendly, so he started running (as well as he could with a damaged back). He ran for a long time, but eventually his strength gave out. He leaned up against a tree, gasping for breath, and wondered how bad it would be if they caught him and put him in a POW camp.

And then a thought came vividly to his mind. He thought of his new son, who had just been born three months earlier. He thought, If I'm killed or captured, I'll never get to see my little boy. He'll have to grow up without a father. And so, leaning against a tree in the middle of the Laotian wilderness, he prayed. He prayed for help and strength and the ability to evade the unfriendly people who were looking for him. He prayed to be able to see his son. And somehow, he found the strength to keep running. Not long after that, he and the other pilots were picked up by rescue helicopters and brought safely back to base.

Now, why do I tell you this story? Two reasons. First, our family celebrates what we call "Pardo's Pushday" because if Bob Pardo hadn't decided to give that other plane a push, there's a good likelihood we wouldn't be a family. See, Earl Aman's "guy in back," the man who leaned against a tree and prayed for strength, who had never seen his new son, was my father-in-law. The little boy whom he'd never seen was my husband, the intrepid Captain Midnight. And if Dad hadn't been rescued, he certainly would have been either imprisoned or killed. My husband would have grown up without a father. He would never have had a younger brother. Had the circumstances of our lives changed only a little, CM and I might never have met and married.

Here's the other, more important reason. Most of us aren't going to use our incredible flying skills to push a damaged plane out of enemy airspace. But the things we do -- the little pushes of encouragement we give people -- ripple outward in space and time and touch others in ways we couldn't possibly imagine. Because Bob Pardo saved those three men, they and their families would go on to influence so many other lives in so many countries. Likewise, because one of us puts a jar of peanut butter or a few cans of tuna into a Little Free Pantry, someone else might be able to make ends meet until payday comes and won't be kicked out for non-payment of rent. Because one of us donates money to a charitable organization dedicated to helping refugees, a family fleeing Ukraine or Somalia will have a hot meal and a place to sleep tonight. Most of us will never really understand the full impact of the small things we do to help push people to safety -- but it's important to do those things, to send love and help out into the dark, with the faith that they will make a difference for good in the world.

So, happy Pardo's Pushday. It’s traditional to have a donut (whatever flavor you like best) and toast Bob Pardo with it.

(Thanks for the push, Bob.)

Daruma!

So for a long time now, I've wanted to get a Daruma doll for good luck.

And here he is! I picked him up in Uwajimaya yesterday while I was out and about with my sister Jenny.

In Japan, the tradition is that you get a Daruma doll with empty eyes, and when you have a goal in mind, you color in one eye (as seen here). Then Daruma hangs around your place, encouraging you to keep your eye on the goal and achieve what you desire. When you've accomplished your goal, you color in the other eye (and, if you wish, write what you accomplished on the back of the Daruma).

Daruma is a symbol of strength in adversity, because like the old Weeble toys from the '70s, he is weighted to right himself when he's knocked over. Daruma dolls also embody an old Japanese proverb, "Nana korobi ya oki," meaning "Fall down seven times, get up eight." (Or as the Sherman Brothers might have put it, "Up from the ashes grow the roses of success.")

So, what's my goal? I'll tell you when I color in the other eye. :)

An odd thought

I've been thinking recently about the Law of Attraction. (It goes by a number of different names, including The Secret, affirmations, luck, etc.) I don't agree wholeheartedly with every aspect of the concept, most particularly the idea that every bad thing in your life exists because you thought it into place -- that's just blaming the victim, and I find that appalling. But there does seem to be something to the idea that if you focus daily and consistently on a particular goal, you will increase your chances of making it happen. I've discussed it before here, with the supposition that it works because it puts your brain into a state of looking around for possibilities, and you're more likely to notice and go after opportunities when they appear because of this heightened mental state.

Today I thought of something else, perhaps a bit more off the wall and definitely colored by religious belief. If we are, as I believe, children of a Creator who can organize the universe by the power of His word, should we be all that surprised if we display the tiniest seed of that same ability in ourselves? We have an inherent desire to create, to shape beauty and meaning from what we find; we seek out and create order in chaos; and, I suspect, we can to a very limited extent bend the universe to our wills -- because of who our Father is. So maybe part of the reason why the Law of Attraction works has to do with who and what we are.

This thought should NOT give anybody a power trip. For one thing, we're all unimaginably puny compared to God, so this inherited quality -- if indeed it is one -- is too insignificant in us to do much damage. But if we have in us the tiniest spark of the same power that allowed God to say "Let there be light" and bring it into being, that should give us pause. I suspect that the power to create and the power to destroy are one -- it's all about how you choose to use the tool. So if indeed we have a modicum of power to speak a word and change the world, we should try to be wise and consider very carefully how to use that power for good.

Ah, the stuff you think about at 1:15 in the morning.

Postcard call!

(That's right, since I'm asking y'all for postcards, it seems only fair to return the favor.)

O if you comment on this entry with your snailmail address, I'll send you a random postcard from my overflowing stash. (Don't worry, all comments will be privately screened; I don't disclose other people's contact information.) What will you get? Professional? Handmade? Ad card? YOU DON'T KNOW! It's the luck of the draw; that's the fun of it.

And now for a virtual theatrical trailer.

Note: For best effect, you must read the italicized text in your deepest, richest, most dramatic Don LaFontaine trailer voice.  Right?  Go!

There is a place...

...deep in the heart of the city.

To some it is known as a place of peace and goodwill.

But to others...

...it's the end of the line.

[cue dramatic clanky-percussion music]

It is a place where everything has its price... and everything comes cheap.

A place where only the strongest survive.

A place where all who venture inside must cast aside their fears, and dig deep...

...to find what truly lies within.

A place of hidden treasures...

...as well as hidden dangers.

It's no place for the timid...

...but if you have the daring to seek it out...

...the courage to brave the dangers...

...and an industrial-strength bottle of hand sanitizer...

...you might have what it takes to survive...

[music swells to crescendo, then cuts off]

THE BINS.

Yeah, we went to the Bins again today. AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE, I'll have you know.  Miss V found all manner of secondhand goodies by the pound. (The photo of that shopping cart was taken AFTER she'd picked through it and discarded some of her finds.) I even found a few things, though my secondhand shopping tends to be limited to books, craft items and accessories; I got some all-wool pieces that should felt very nicely, and some cotton clothing I intend to take apart for the fabric.

This is the Goodwill gulag--the place where they send all the merchandise that didn't sell at the area Goodwill stores. If it doesn't sell here at the outlet, it gets recycled or destroyed. Perhaps you'd think such a place would have only the dregs, the thrift-store rejects.  And yes, there is certainly some of that.  But there are also awesome things: designer label jeans, deadstock accessories, adorable purses and bags, kimono and salwar kameez, quirky T-shirts, amazing costume pieces, beautiful shoes. You just have to be willing to dig, and to cultivate an attitude that's open to serendipitous discoveries.

V has a Mysterious Awesome Powah! when it comes to finding stuff at the Bins.  The first time we visited, we arrived just ten minutes before closing time.  Before we were shooed out the door, V used her Thrift-Score Fu to yank a pair of designer jeans out of the closest bin; she bought them without even trying them on (there are no fitting rooms at the Bins). They fit like a glove.

By the way, there was a Neil Gaiman lookalike at the Bins today. (There's a blurry pic of him in one of the photos.) Tall, thin, leather jacket, messy dark hair, prominent nose.  I almost struck up a conversation just to see if he might have a British accent... but I never do very well talking with strangers.

Becoming a cyclops

I've always had good eyesight -- at least 20/20 -- but my last full checkup confirmed something I'd already been noticing in everyday life, which is that it's starting to go a bit downhill. I squint to focus on the microwave oven's digital clock from across the kitchen, and I can't read all the titles on the spines of our books as clearly as I once could. The doctor discovered that my right eye's functions are up to speed, but my left eye can't quite seem to focus on that teeny little bottom line of the eye chart. It's a side effect of getting older, I suppose.

Covering one eye to stare at the chart, I thought briefly of the cyclopes of Greek myth. A lot of stories are told about the cyclopes. The one I remember clearest is sometimes told of the first cyclops, who was originally a two-eyed giant. This first cyclops sought out Hades, and offered to give up one of his eyes if the ruler of the underworld would, in exchange, give him the preternatural gift of knowledge of the future. Hades accepted the eye as payment, but in exchange he gave the cyclops, and all his descendants, more of a curse than a gift -- a very specific knowledge of the future, the ability to foresee their own deaths.

Today my checkup blood test results came back. In a way they've made me feel a bit like the cyclops -- not that I'm one-eyed, or even close to being one-eyed. But today I discovered I have an illness, one that's most likely to end me in future.

I have diabetes.

Now I can hear some of you saying, "Jeez, Soozcat, quit being such a drama queen. It's just diabetes. I've seen those TV ads with Wilford Brimley saying 'diabeetus.' Poke your finger, take your meds, watch what you eat and you'll be perfectly healthy."

Well, that's what the TV ads make Type 2 diabetes look like, don't they? I'd probably be a lot more likely to believe the ads if I hadn't seen how it actually works with real people. In real life, when you have diabetes, it's more like a constant juggling act, trying to keep multiple balls in the air all the time -- life, medication, blood sugar, diet, exercise -- and as they fall, because inevitably they do, things start to go wrong. The first thing is usually neuropathy, or nerve damage. You start losing your eyesight, or the sensation in your hands and feet, or both. You're likely to get cataracts or uncontrolled bleeding in the vitreous humor of your eye. Decreased nerve sensation makes it difficult to tell whether you have a serious injury, and if you aren't vigilant, secondary infections like gangrene can lead to amputation. Then you start losing your kidney function; that eventually leads to full renal failure and dialysis. The cherry on top is heart disease and congestive heart failure, which is what ends up killing most long-term diabetics.

It won't happen tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. But it's going to happen, no matter how careful I am. I know how it works. I watched it slowly kill my aunt Kathie, and I'm seeing it take my mom piece by piece. It's a chronic, incurable disease. The best I can hope for is maintaining my health as long as possible.

It's not all bad news. At least I've been diagnosed. Undiagnosed diabetes would have a chance to do a lot more nasty to me. I do have some options for maintenance, including the aforementioned changes to diet and exercise, monitoring and medication. Proper maintenance is likely to increase my life expectancy. And frankly, everyone dies sooner or later -- now I just have more insight into how it's going to happen. I don't have unlimited time, but I didn't have that anyway. And I have enough time to get the most important things done. So I recognize that I'm fortunate.

I can't quite bring myself to fill my prescription today, though. I keep thinking about what happens if you take the whole bottle at once, and I want that train of thought to pass first.

How cooking cinnamon beef noodles caused the Snowpocalypse

For the last several days we've been hearing dire weather reports about how awful the coming snowstorm is going to be.

Look, even the tree stumps are covered in knits.

The crows, however, seemed just as cocky and devil-may-care as ever.

They strutted and stalked around the school's back lawn...

...mostly foraging for food.

Eventually, though, even the crows scattered for greener pastures.

But although it grew colder and colder, it didn't snow. Not for a while, at least.

Here's why (apologies in advance for the crappy video):

The story to tell, however imperfectly

Still plugging away at the Sketchbook Project. I'm pretty sure now where I want to go with the narrative. Yes, the "sketchbook" has to have a narrative, because deep down at my core is something that wants -- has always wanted -- to tell stories. This particular story, I think, will loosely chronicle my journey from self-proclaimed jinx to sype.



I hold off creating things, and my go-to excuse is that I'm afraid they won't turn out as beautifully as I've imagined them. What I keep forgetting is that a) that's pretty much par for the course for all creative endeavors, so why should mine be any different? and b) if I don't allow myself to make the imperfect stuff and get the experience out of the way, I'll never progress to the stage where my creations more closely resemble what I first imagined.

Oh yeah, and c) it's now officially too late for me to be a wunderkind, so there's no point sweating it, right?

Who wants to be a millionaire?

That would be me.

I have come to this conclusion because I got up this morning at the crack of dark and drove dazedly over to Seattle, miraculously managing not to destroy any cars, pedestrians, trees or power lines along the way. Jenny came along, hanging on for dear life.

The auditions were held at the Bell Harbor Conference Center, right on the waterfront.


It's much more comfortable inside than out, and although the Millionaire people were quite nice and friendly, the staff at Bell Harbor seemed more interested in denying us access to their pristine venue whenever possible. We had to wait outside the building in a long line for over an hour on an unseasonably cold and overcast July morning, shivering, cracking jokes...

...and staring at the cruise line passengers who ambled out onto the balconies of their staterooms to stare curiously back at us.

Finally, the line started moving. We went into a large room where we were given #2 pencils, manila envelopes and Scantron forms, and answered a battery of general knowledge questions. Then they passed out a second set, this one for movie trivia. After a bit of a wait, during which time they started flinging out T-shirts to appease the masses the way folks fling beads on Mardi Gras, the numbers of those who had received a passing grade were announced. I was a bit dazed to find out I had passed. So they took my picture (ugh) and gave me a sooper-seekrit pass to return around noon for an interview.

Meanwhile we did what any self-respecting folk with time to kill would do in Seattle: we went to the Market. Bought some luscious stone fruit, had breakfast at Lowell's, picked up some new cheeses at DeLaurenti...

...(where Jenny discovered, to my great glee, that they stock Amano chocolate bars! Yay), window shopped at Market Spice, did some people-watching, and by then it was about time for me to head back.

So Jenny peeled off for some serious shopping at H&M while I wandered back to Pier 66. Once again we had to deal with the wily guardian trolls of the Bell Harbor Conference Center, who this time would not even allow us to queue up outside the building. Yes, I'm serious. You'd think we all had ebola or something. They deigned to suffer our presences only grudgingly, when the Millionaire crew arrived.

I think the interview went well, although individual perceptions are always so subjective. By the way, just to make it clear: this does NOT mean I'm guaranteed to be a contestant on the show, merely that I could be selected from the pool of possible contestants. I should know one way or the other in about three weeks.

Anyway, after all that was done we gathered our belongings and went off to the Bite of Seattle (which is going on the rest of this weekend, if you're anywhere near the area).

It was, as always, Seattlicious, although the bands performing on site were almost uniformly crappy. We tried a number of bites and noshes: deep fried mac & cheese (too greasy), mango lemonade (nom), Thai fresh rolls (needed peanut sauce), cinnamon almonds (too much coating), beef pel'meni (delicious, but they were so hot I burned the roof of my mouth), chicken satay (mmmm)...

...and coconut prawns (mmmmmmm) and a couple of crêpes, one with sweet strawberry filling and one with savory vegetable filling (OMNOMNOMNOMNOM).

Then we fled the sound of "music," did a bit more shopping and called it a day. Now I'm back at home, savoring a bit of dark purple plum (which tastes like unadulterated childhood to me) and wondering what will come of this whole experience. Even if this is as far as it goes, it's interesting to know that I passed the test; I wasn't sure I could.

Also, Jenny is the cutest thing EVER. The end.

Do you feel lucky?

Over the last few days I've had several people contact me by phone, email and instant message and remark how fortunate it was that we took our trip to England when we did.

It was a stroke of pure luck, to be honest. Like all the unfortunates currently stranded at European airports, I had no idea a volcanic eruption was in the offing. (If I had, the choice to go over Easter vacation would have been very much like Eddie Izzard's classic "Cake or death?" -- not much thought required.)

When I was younger, I often thought of myself as a jinx -- the way I saw it, if something could go wrong for me, it probably would. It seemed that, in the words of the corny old country song, "if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all." Since then I've read many words about luck -- who has it, who doesn't, and the concept of changing one's luck via attitude adjustment. Turns out, if you believe you're lucky and act as though you're lucky, looking around for possibilities, not only are you more likely to be the recipient of fortunate circumstances, but your reaction to life's experiences will alter subtly so you will perceive your experiences as more lucky.

Since my attitude adjustment, I've won several contests, managed to get into sold-out Broadway shows, actually fulfilled the lifelong dream of going to England (despite British Airways' best attempts to scotch it), and now been accepted into a juried craft show (yay!). I can see that part of this change has to do with the change in attitude and the increased opportunities that accompanied it; in times past, I wouldn't even have bothered to apply for the juried show and thus would have had no chance of getting in. (Likewise, when British Airways cabin staff went on strike, I would have simply thrown in the towel on going to England rather than looking for and finding alternatives to my original flight.) But I've also realized that I had several episodes of luck even before the attitude adjustment, and didn't recognize them for what they were.

Example: back in the early '90s, before I met Captain Midnight, I worked for a while at an appraisal company in the Bay Area. It was a good place to work, but I began to get this little feeling that it was time to move on. I gave notice to my boss only days before the word came down from the parent company that our office was considered redundant and would be shut down; most of the other employees were fired. It had only been a year or so since the Loma Prieta earthquake hit the Bay Area, and one of the girls in the office observed that I'd just made it out of the firings unscathed, "like the last car out from under the Cypress structure" (aka the Cypress Street Viaduct, which collapsed catastrophically after the quake). After that my nickname around the office was "Sype," short for "Cypress Structure" and referring to my crazy luck.

I didn't have any insider knowledge, or even any free-floating anxiety about the job. I just had a little feeling, and rather than ignoring it, I listened to and acted on it. But at the time I didn't recognize this as luck, because after all, I wasn't lucky. (!)

Though it isn't always a sure thing, I'm beginning to realize that it's possible to influence one's own luck -- by remaining open to other options, by continuing to look around rather than immediately conceding defeat in opposition, by reinforcing a goal through repetition of a single, simple daily statement (i.e. "I, Soozcat, will complete this film script by the end of April 2010") and then exercising the faith to act on it. It goes against everything I once believed about luck, and yet I've seen it work... there's got to be something to it.