Mitch, We Hardly Knew Ye

Mitch Miller died Monday. He was 99. Truth be told, I thought he died years ago. I think I must have confused him with Mantovani, another of those who took music to the mainstream.

Mitch was the one with the goatee. Mantovani was Italian. Leonard Berstein was talented, but such a mess of emotion when he conducted. Miller seemed, as I recall, "cool."

While I may have hummed, I don’t think that I ever “Sang Along With Mitch.” I know some folks who did and they didn’t seem worse for the wear. Mitch’s music was not exceptional or complicated; there were no challenging harmonies; it was after all, unison sing-a-long.

Despite the simplicity of it, I did call upon Mitch a lot over the years. Maybe not “call upon” but evoke him.

You see, I have conducted a volunteer church choir since I was around 14. Yes, that is correct. I was a precocious nerd. The Baptist’s were in need and I answered their plea. This was along about the time when my father decided that our family was going to go to church together rather than roast in hell. Up to that signal event, his weekly Sunday “headache” had put our souls in peril. But that was an earlier blog.

Invariably volunteer choirs are small. That is, unless you are in a large mega-church, and then they are large and sloppy and sound a lot like a Mitch Miller group except for the “Blood of the Lamb” part. Mitch usually dealt with the Bossa Nova. I think the Astrud Gilburto, “Girl from Ipanema” was far too-wordy for Mitch to tackle, but I could be wrong.

So back to the volunteer choir.

Most volunteer choirs have been garnered through a lot of coercion and applied guilt. Growing up as a Baptist, I know volumes about applied guilt. Only in about 23.8 percent of the cases of “volunteerism” does the singer actually come forward and proclaim, “I want desperately to sing in the choir. I have a passion to do so.”

Many years ago, I had an alto who had a passion for singing in the church choir. She also had a great talent for being “way off pitch.” Her passion was so great that she never missed rehearsal or Sunday worship. She was friendly and the type to jump up and get a copy of music for another. But she was always a “tonal irritant.” But the choir was her outlet. The choir was her expression of her faith.

You just don’t mess with a person’s expression of faith.

With volunteers, you learn that you endure their faults and rejoice in their contributions. Mary Franklin filled a robe and a seat on the second row. She also contributed to my prayer life since week after week I pleaded, “Dear God, help MF to find the joy in arranging the altar flowers or being a greeter.” Had I had more of an entrepreneurial bent and had Mary Franklin more of a sense of humor, we could have pre-empted “Jonathan and Darlene Edwards” or gone “downtown” ahead of Mrs. Miller.

But, I digress.

With the 76.2 percent of the volunteer choir who have been recruited through coercion and guilt, they generally come with a sense of timidity.

Do you know how many times I have heard, “I only sing in the shower.”

We had a sprinkler system installed over the choir loft.

Over the years, I have often reminded my volunteers that 20 people singing sotto voce (half voice) does not garner the same effect as 80. Hence, the reference to Mitch. “Choir, this isn’t ‘sing along with Mitch time.’” I am big on mental images when I work with the choir. Ask my tenors and basses about Betty Lou and the St. Ignatius Boy Choir.

Oh, the mysterious ways of the volunteer choir.

I keep waiting for Susan Boyle to appear in my congregation and following a “rip roaring”sermon come forward and say the words that a choir director longs to hear.

“Would you have room for another singer in your choir?”

But since our sermons are more beige than “rip roaring,” I have to continue with the coercion and the guilt. Thankfully, my Baptist mother taught me well.

Years ago, I had a great teenage soprano who volunteered to sing in my Youth Choir which met on Sunday afternoon. She had an amazing young voice. However, I discovered soon afterwards that "choir" was a way to meet a rambunctuous boyfriend. Her mom would drop her off in front of the church and observe her enter the building. She missed her exit out the back.

While I could threaten to post something on the internet, I never would.

Rest in peace, Mitch.

Round Objects

Image courtesy of FRONTLINE, a PBS program

Today I am thinking about round objects: wheels, balls, spheres and how they are propelled! They come in all sizes and compositions. I am even including “air-heads” and inflated egos in this collection.

So here goes.

I am over the guilt that I felt when I really didn’t give a flip where LeBron James was going. To be more precise, I didn’t even know who LeBron James was and why he was going anywhere that would cause such speculation. Given all that was going on in the world, I was shocked that this was about an air-filled sphere and a bit of beach in South Florida.

My concerns for the beaches of Florida do not involve Mr. James or the Miami Heat. (Nor the Miami heat.) My concerns involve the ominous slick of oil hovering both above and below the surface of the beautiful Gulf of Mexico. BP has plugged the flow it seems, but the disaster continues. Tar balls behave differently from basketballs and despite what Cleveland thinks, with far greater consequences.

Cleveland is having a bad run. Not just in the sports arena, but also in the lofty Severance Hall – home of the Cleveland Orchestra. Their resident conductor, Franz Welser- Most, an arguably mixed bag of talent, was quoted at telling Swiss media that Cleveland was an “inflated farmer’s village.” This was reported locally by the Cleveland Plain Dealer music critic, Donald Rosenberg. Mr. Rosenberg has not been Mr. Welser-Most’s most ardent fan.

As a result of the leaked Swiss interview and other criticisms by Mr. Rosenberg, the editor of the Plain Dealer has reassigned the 16-year critic to covering other arts events but not the orchestra. He is even been warned to never use the word Cleveland and orchestra together.

Mr. Rosenberg is suing just about everybody – most especially the “big wheels” of the orchestra association and the newspaper. There is a lot of air being traded about as the trial is in progress. Welser-Most even tried to put a spin on the “inflated farmer’s village” remark as an intended compliment. Was he coached by Blago?

And the world keeps turning.

I have no guilt at all over the fact that I wish Mel Gibson would shut-up, head back to Australia, and tend livestock somewhere very remote in the outback. Talk about something filled with a lot of air! I do hate to impose that on the outback, however. So there is some guilt there.

Other transistions are taking place.

Rush Limbaugh is reportedly giving up New York City. This is entirely appropriate since most of NYC gave up on Rush years ago and it is bad manners to go where you are not wanted. I wish Rush would be more expansive in his moves to bow out. Maybe join Mel in the outback and banter about their prejudices. Enough hot air between them to kick up a dust storm in Alice Springs.

George Steinbrenner gave up New York City this past Tuesday. I felt I got to know Mr. Steinbrenner over the years. But in reality, I only knew the blustery voice of Larry David and the back of Lee Bear as “he” attempted to give a degree of direction to the hapless George Constanza on “Friends.” Misdirection is arguably still a direction. Another bit of air moving about between the George’s.

A cephalopod named Paul became a sensation at picking winners in the World Cup. Yet another headliner about an air-filled sphere.

Susan Boyle is “trending” on my Yahoo mail page. No wait, it is Larry Hagman. Susan’s “air” seemed so much more palpable than J.R.’s. However, J.R. ran in bigger circles.

Everyone is breathing a sigh of relief now that Bristol and Levi are going to make things right for the hapless Palin household. A hockey puck is a flat-sided sphere and certainly “Mama Grizzly is full of it. Do you really need to have me say it?

As I read this, I fear that I sound like I am tweeting. (You know, making a log on twitter.) But I neither tweet nor twitter; at least not in public.

I wish that the world’s problems could be solved by a sphere of air or a spnning wheel.

One extreme would have a scenario where the round object is a hot-air balloon and everyone is floated effortlessly about the potholes of life. But you are viewing reality at a safe distance. Nothing is totally within your grasp of scale. This leads to decisions made “out of context” with facts.

The other, of course, is the small sphere which is kicked by kids all over the world – even in the most depressed outposts – as a temporary escape from their realities. Many, in the poorest countries, are never out of touch with the scale of their existence. The soccer ball rolls “out of bounds” into a world of harshness.

Decisions in this scenario are “life and death.” The ball is merely a momentary diversion.

So how do we balance our worries about LeBron or Mel or Rush with the problems of wars, poverty, illiteracy, and the other serious situations besetting this globe we inhabit?

Trevor Field came up with an innovative idea called the Play Pump. It was variation on the “merry-go-round” found on public playgrounds all over the world. However, in this case, as the wheel turned, it pumped water into a holding tank affording a supply of water for the village. The wheel was working for great good.

However, in the rush to expand, technology failed and the idea fizzled as village after village in Africa was left with an inoperative PlayPump and no drinking water. A surprising turn in a great idea. Did the “wheel” at the “wheel” get too caught up in becoming a “bigger wheel?”

"How easily things get broken," sings the celebrant in Mass by Leonard Berstein.

Things seem to spin unexpectedly out of control.

A curious folk-artist, Buffy Sainte-Marie, sings a haunting song, “Little Wheel Spin and Spin, Big Wheel Turn around and around.” In one of the verses, the lyrics say:

Turn your back on weeds you’ve hoed,
Silly sinful seeds you’ve sowed.
Add your straw to the camel’s load.
Pray like hell when the world explodes!

When I searched online for why balls in sports are shaped as they are, I received the following: the most reasonable object to use due to the fact that they do not take any unexpected bounces.

But for many, the very definition of life is “an unexpected bounce.”

Roadways

I have just returned from the hinterland.

I am back in Chicago after a visit to Alabama and then on to Dallas. At both locations I was treated to great times with family – most especially “the little people,” my three grandchildren.

The smallest one, the two-year old from Florida, came up to the Alabama house with her parents. She taught me a very provocative hip sway to the Sunday School tune, “If you’re happy and you know it.” It makes you wonder what is going on during the Bible story time. She also is quite taken with the “blessing” before mealtime. She insisted we have nine or so at dinner. Since she is the “deliverer,” she would interrupt you mid-bite to pronounce yet another.

Thankfully, it involved only a bowed head and folded hands and not the adornment of a shawl and kneeling upon a prayer rug. We would have never made it past the salad.

Aside from Baby Jesus riding around in a Humvee (see December 8,2009), the Texas Two have not yet embraced organized religion. It’s not that their parents are infidels, they have just not reached the exit ramp on the highway toward discovery or re-alignment following some bumpy patches within their faith. It will happen.

I grew up in a family on the “road to discovery.” Before it occurred, I was often snatched from my parents by a rabidly fundamentalist aunt and taken to services with the Pentecostals. I have “marched in the infantry” in the “Lord’s army,” with many righteous and some "not so" souls.

My most vivid memory is a tent meeting in the country where the music was accompanied by Willie Mae McDonald’s string band – a group with a Saturday-night reputation. Willie Mae punctuated the music, on those painfully hot Sundays, with her chewing tobacco that she could aim accurately at 20 paces.

The Pentecostals always seemed to do a lot of “rebuking.” Of course everyone was “Sister” or “Brother.” That was somewhat confusing to a 6-year old. We only saw them at church, not when we had a family gathering. The most alarming expression was “Press the Lord.” It was actually “Praise” but in their charismatic fervor and their attempt to emulate the likes of Amiee Semple McPherson, it came out “press.” I thought they were taking a hot iron to Jesus.

Some pathways are confusing.

My parents discovered the local church near where we lived, so I eventually settled with the Southern Baptists until I could no longer stomach the music as they discovered the “contemporary Christian songs.” (Shades of Willie Mae.) Gone were the great hymns of the faith which were replaced with tunes that seemed like an excuse to sing Saturday-night bar tunes on Sunday. Just say Jesus instead of Robert or Sally.

I tried the Methodists and the Presbyterians before discovering the UCC. It is actually the United Church of Christ, but there are those who see it as “Utterly Confused Christians.” (Or the other scenario: Unitarians Considering Christ.)

Along the way I have heard the best and the worst – both in sermon and in music. I have been “high” and I have been “low.” Neither having anything to do with drugs but in approach to liturgy and worship.

Some of my worst experiences with “church” have had to do with ministers who perceived their role as shepherd as that of browbeater: “My way is the best.” That must derive from a concept that their sheep are not very smart.

In those situations, the roadway can get really rough.

Maybe that is why I enjoy flying so much.

A great silver-bird lifts you effortlessly above all the potholes of life for a few minutes. Aside from the fact they lose your “things” and subject you to body patdowns when you have a pacemaker, it is generally quiet and smooth. Yes, I know that you will always use the back of your hand when you go below the waist.

In contrast to the streets of Chicago, I have yet to have anyone gesture with their middle finger in the airport. Like Bernice Clifton on Designing Women, “you can only have that happen so many times until it begins to hurt your feelings.”

I seem to be “in and out” of a lot of airports.

My Texas Two have begun to believe that I live at the airport since each time they drive with their mother to DFW, Granddaddy appears or disappears.

The oldest asked his mother, “Does Granddaddy live at Departures?”

An Old Box Of Accreted Stuff

I am sitting in the early morning quietness of the house in Alabama. There is only the sound of ceiling fans and some crickets – they are actively chattering. The rooster from the distant neighbor has yet to decide to announce the dawn. I should be asleep, but instead I am awake with the sounds of my thoughts. They are a bit louder than usual this morning.

I am considering a phrase from one of The Dream Songs of John Berryman: “sometimes in the dark of night I am forced to perform operations of great delicacy upon myself.” Ok, this blog may get a bit heavy – be forewarned!

I flew down to Alabama on Tuesday and arrived, as you may already know, without my luggage. It has since been reunited with me and that has eased some tensions with my person and the world outside. Visits to Alabama are always tense only because it brings together two worlds that sometimes feel to me like polar opposites. I want to belong to both and would like that to be a seamless merge. However, there are lifestyles and emotions which make the merge more difficult.

I read a column by Dick Cavett in the New York Times. I am not always a fan of Cavett. I find him to be very “full of himself.” However, I was drawn to the column today by the mention of Arthur Godfrey in the online pitch. Arthur is distinctly tied to my past and my life in Alabama since it was to see him that my father decided to broach the world of television one Monday of my childhood.

But I am not thinking about Arthur Godfrey but of a bit of wording Cavett used in his column. I was struck by the phrase, “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is an apt description of my life: “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is most appropriate in the concrete since my visits to Alabama often mean looking through photos and documents that are stowed in various drawers and closets of the house there. Just last night I was looking at photos that will remain forever a mystery since my only link to their identity was my parents – both now gone. Who are these people? What is my debt to them?

It is also appropriate in the abstract, since thoughts, memories, directions are shaped by the “stuff” of our past. Alabama often jars me; jostles my equilibrium.

This has been a weekend of reunions – you might even say it has been about being re-united with extremes.

The easiest was, of course, the visit from my son and his family. Remember this means time with the youngest of the “Little ones” – the granddaughter who is now two. I had not seen them since February.

When she was told she was going on a trip. She immediately thought she was going to Bethlehem since her concept of a journey involved a donkey and Mary and Joseph. Her book of The Christmas Story is one of her favorites, the other being Curious George. Talk about extremes.

Her father hastened to remind her that this journey was to see her Granddaddy, not the Baby Jesus. The only donkey that would be involved would be at the zoo on Friday. I know what you are thinking - do not even go there!

It has been fun to watch her become acquainted with the Alabama house; roaming through its spaces, beginning to form her own memories. I have even attempted to begin a toy chest for her.

The beginnings of her accreted stuff.

Even as I did I remembered the toy chest in the ill-used attic of my grandfather’s house in Mississippi. There was a drum and an old bugle. There was other stuff that has escaped my memory, but I recall the trek upstairs on each visit.

It is generational. My son discovered toys from his childhood tucked away in the back of the closet of the Alabama house and began sharing them with the little one.

I visited with my sister and her family. We recalled the past often. - remembered stories of our parents.

I lunched with friends from my college days on Friday. Most I had not seen in over 45 years. Time has been good for some; less so for others. I am probably in the “less so” group since I recently had a birthday that was so significant it frightened me. My looks in the mirror each morning reveal an old man.

The reunion was a congenial gathering: thirty or so people who had a shared admiration of a particular professor. One or two seemed ill at ease. The rest of us just laughed it off at the time. But this morning, their discomfort has become part of the “box of stuff.” It is an eye opener to discover that there are old acquaintances – yes, old girlfriends – who requested to be seated as far away as possible. And to think, I was looking forward to catching up on details of lives that had diverged. But instead, I encountered a wall of obvious awkwardness. I was not a cad in college, I promise.

I had thought of returning to a brunch today, but I remember the wisdom of my purple-haired mother. “Don’t impose yourself, it is bad manners.”

I have always regarded myself as inconspicuous on the horizon of life, even shy.

Of the thirty-six or so present, only one or two would be uncomfortable, but that is enough to make me think that my time would be best spent with my granddaughter.

Her box of accreted stuff is relatively empty.

Growing old is no fun! The body sometimes aches and the mind oftentimes does a lot of dissecting. However, if you think about it, the other alternative has far more serious ramifications.

Flying South

I am still waiting for my underwear. It is somewhere, probably in the belly of DFW, missing me. Of course, it is more than the “unmentionables” that have gone astray. Khaikis, shirts – a particular favorite madras one – a camera, pills that I stashed at the last minute, and a bottle of some cologne that was no more than three ounces. You know how it is with TSA.

I hadn’t intended on checking luggage. I am cheap.

However, the plane from Chicago to DFW was miserably small and the overhead would not accommodate my “Fruits of the loom.” So, despite my better judgement – knowing that the departing flight was almost an hour late in leaving O’Hare and I had only an hour layover in Dallas with a departure from a different terminal than the arrival – I checked luggage. I had no other choice.

The gate attendant suggested “repacking” to make the Briggs & Riley accommodate the unders without the expansion option. Give me a break! It is embarrassing enough that the TSA looks at my stuff on a screen as the bag meanders slowly by an inquiring eye. I refuse to air my “linens and things” among the masses at the gate.

I have not mastered the Rick Steves packing method.

I am a miserable assembler of my clothes. Nor have I mastered the “wash, air dry, and go while traveling Northern Italy” habit. I have even been guilty of taking dirty things home to wash when I was in college. My mom could not understand why I owned 250 pairs of underwear at the end of freshman year. “Mom, I just don’t enjoy doing laundry.”

So, I arrived in a hot and humid Birmingham while my luggage remained in an even hotter part of Texas or on some plane going otherwise.

The airline has given me a code in order to track where my underwear is.

I don’t know why I needed a code. I would think “JB’s personal stuff” would suffice. But no, I have THAGHS. It is close to “things” but not quite there. Just as my luggage is not quite here.

It would have been comforting had the code been "in the top drawer on the left." At least that way I could feel some progress toward a solution. Could THAGHS be an acronym for "This harks of a great horror story?"

Years ago, the same airline lost my luggage and when it arrived it was in a cardboard box with two additional nametags enclosed: a doctor from Wilmette, and a lady from Merced, CA. I have no idea what happened that caused this kind of marriage between my “things” and the luggage of two strangers in the air. It almost as if there is another parameter of existence called “Luggage world.” A place of mad partying and cavorting on carousels and ramps. Calvins mixing it up with “cross your heart bras.” Just imagine what the toiletries are doing. Heavens!

So, maybe before I leave the provinces, my “things” will wend their way back to my care.

I would hate it if my stuff wound up in Guatemala. Not that there is anything wrong with Guatemala.

Brothers of Re-Invention

My maternal grandmother, Miss Bessie, had a very inventive memory. She imagined “balls of tornadic fire” approaching her home during a violent storm. (She was a “weather worrier” – always watching cloud formations during summer storms and phoning to tell us to take cover. She seemed about as accurate as the TV guy on Channel 6, maybe a little more so.)

In her later years, she invented a “boyfriend” from California. He was dashing and was totally smitten with her. He had wealth, great charm, and drove a Cadillac. She was resolute in the fact that he was going to whisk her away in his convertible and drive into the sunset toward a better life.

She would often remark that “Harold” had phoned and they talked for hours. He was arriving any day now and she just wasn’t prepared.

Of course, Harold was “made up.” It probably happened to impress the ladies in her Sunday School Class at the Methodist Church. Maybe Mabel Calloway had “one-upped her” with a cake recipe and she had to get things evened out. However, it was of no consequence. Harold never appeared and eventually dropped from conversation.

Upon her death, she had arranged for Lucille Brown, the leader of her Bible study group, to deliver what was a very eloquent and glowing eulogy. At the graveside services as we made our way to greet those who had come to pay their respects, I happened to pass my mother. “I hardly recognized the woman described in Lucille’s remarks,” she whispered.

Miss Bessie had “one-upped” Mabel yet again.

This years political stumping has lots of inventive and often imaginary information being proffered as “why you should vote for me.”

There are two interesting examples by men seeking Senate seats. I think of them as “Brothers of Re-invention.”

One is patrician.

Something I have always wanted to be. I don’t know why, maybe for the same reason that I like the title “Metropolitan” (as in the Greek Orthodox way). But, I am neither tall enough, thin enough, nor wealthy enough to be “patrician.” I don’t think the “patrician types” perspire.

The other is baby-faced and Republican. He has a look of innocence.

Neither of which I could ever be. Despite the fact that I always say that my eyes are not just blue, “they are virgin blue,” I could never convince anyone of such innocence, most especially my purple-haired mother. Her response was, “for that to be the true, you must have kept a sack over your head most of your life.”

The reason I could never be a Republican is an issue of morality.

The Patrician is Blumenthal of Connecticut who has admitted to some “misplaced words” in his re-invented resume; all in an attempt to convince the veterans of war that he was one of them.

The other is Mark Kirk of Illinois. Same reason.

It seems you cannot be a serious candidate for a spot in Washington without having been shot at. Remember Hillary’s famous tarmac incident?

So this has got me to thinking about my own resume.

It could do with some serious updating. No, I am not going to run for political office, but I will croak one day and I want the eulogy to be as eloquent as that of Miss Bessie and I do want my children to think their father has accomplished something.

So we add the following:

“Consultant in Cardiology, St. Francis Hospital.” When I go to rehab, they ask me about my heart, my pacemaker, and my general sense of well-being. I respond in kind. We consult. And in the UK, a consultant in healthcare is considered the same as a physician in the US.

“Internationally read author.” Hey, this blog is followed by a guy in Abu Dhabi.

“Family Therapist.” I spend a lot of time on the phone with my kids, and my grandchildren.

“Advisor in Economics.” I caution my sister on how much she is spending at fast food restaurants and how much less it would be to cook at home.

"Media Consultant." I tell everyone about the great Farsi flick I just discovered.

“World traveler.” I landed once in Dubuque, Iowa.

And not to forget:

“Spiritual Advisor to Oprah.” I pray daily that she will discover the joys of anonymous altruism.

You know, I sound pretty good. If I had 70-million, I could probably convince some group somewhere to elect me to high office. And, oh yes, I was required to take two years of ROTC as a college student, so hey, I guess I am a veteran. Andy Culberson shot me with a BB-gun.

I'm on a roll to a political career. Is this not a great country we live in?

With proper "parsing" anything goes. Even Blago is innocent. It is just missplaced words.

When "I'm Sorry" Isn't Enough!

Where the Gulf of Mexico meets the sand at Panama City Beach .

When I was in college – about a century ago – I had a prized Pontiac sedan. It was a “hand me down” from my parents, so it wasn’t very sporty, but it did have good clean lines. (It was before the design trends had embraced the look that made an automobile appear to be going 100 mph even when chained to a tree.)

One Thursday morning, on my way back to college from an overnight with my parents, a large dump truck made a left turn into the passenger side of my vehicle as I was attempting to pass. They had not signaled any intent to turn. The result was considerable damage and I was without the car for several weeks.

I was excited to pick the vehicle up when it was restored to its original pristine look, even newer in appearance than before the accident. I had the car for about three weeks when the residence across the street from where I lived at college had a dinner party and three different guests, heavy into Jack Daniels, backed into the side of my parked car. (Dealing with three separate insurance companies is not easy. "No, I do not know who did what to my car!")

Again I was without the vehicle during the repair.

Once more I was happy to have the car back. As I left the parking lot at school, I inadvertently ran over a low concrete post and caused damage to the area below the back doorway on the driver’s side. (I was the responsible party this time!)

Again to the repair shop. By now, I had not had my car for three of the past four months. It seemed an eternity.

Finally, it was all mended. A few weeks went by. Then the inexcusable occurred. You already know what is about to happen, you merely lack the gory details.

First let me set the stage.

My parents home sat on a large plot of land. The driveway was the width of a 2-lane highway. There were no obstructions alongside the edge of the drive save for the single lamppost beside the front walk. There were no visual impairments.

My sister, the one that always made me wonder if I was adopted, was enjoying being a newly licensed driver. She also liked my car, since she had inherited my old one - a much older Pontiac.

One evening, after dinner with the family and some friends, I decided that I would spend the night at home instead of driving back to school. My sister, seizing the opportunity, offered to move my car so that a friend could depart.

You are already ahead of me. You know what happened.

In all the vast expanse of where you could choose to drive, she elected to drive so close to the lamppost as to leave a large gash in the rear fender of my beautiful, multi-repaired beauty.

This is the car that had been the target of a dump truck in early February, three cars in late March, and a concrete post in May. And now its three-times painted back fender had a foot-long gash from the only vertical object within 100 feet. Plus it had a 150-watt bulb marking the spot.

She was profuse in her apologies. There were even some tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.”

But, owing to my frustration with the series of events involving my car, “I’m sorry” just didn’t seem to help. It was woefully inadequate for the enormity of her crime.

Cars are replaceable; machines wear out. The world in which we live in is not so resilient.

The human race is proving daily that our demands on our planet are taking a great toll. We are pitiable caretakers. Yet, we are arrogant in our belief that we can accomplish the seemingly impossible. We believe our technological prowess to be without question. We believe our expertise to be limitless.

Yet, on a day in May, Deepwater Horizon became a household word around the world and sent a searing message that perhaps we are not as proficient as we thought.

No result of our arrogance is more evident than the daily videos of the ruptured pipeline 5,000 feet down in the Gulf of Mexico. For days this disaster has poured an alien substance into a pristine environment and all the best minds have yet to achieve a viable solution.

People have lost their life, families have lost loved ones, jobs are lost, economies which depend upon the Gulf have been severely impacted, and the consensus among the scientific community is that the environmental impact will be felt worldwide and not be remedied within the foreseeable future.

For those who do not know the coast of Northwest Florida and South Alabama, or have made the trek along the shores of Mississippi toward New Orleans, you have not experienced that special beauty (and charm) which is the Northern Gulf Coast.

The sands are sugary white and dotted with patches of sea oats. The water is clear with a special hue that takes your breath away. The freshness of the air brings you alive. Dolphins often swim near the shoreline. Seagulls are abundant. It is a breeding ground for sea turtles. The brown pelicans float on unseen air currents before diving into the water for fish. Trawlers depart from marinas spotted along the way to bring back seafood that is without equal anywhere.

You may now read the previous paragraph and place everything in the past tense because all this has now changed; it seems for the rest of our lives. Oil is both above and below the surface of the water. There is no good end to this in sight.

In the midst of all this, BP - the group responsible, has launched a 50-million dollar advertising campaign to try to salvage their image.

I want to say, “BP, I’m sorry is not enough.” It is woefully inadequate for the enormity of your crime.

When I was a child on one of our family trips to the Gulf, we brought along our housekeeper. It was her first trip there. When she saw the bright, emerald green waters lapping against the pure white sand, she exclaimed, “how high does it get when it rains?”

Her fears were based upon her sphere of reality. What about ours? How much has to happen before our sensibility demands, “Enough!”?

Can we muster the same enthusiasm as those who chanted "Drill baby, drill?"