The house I live in is a small twin. We're renting this house as are the people who live next door. We share a set of steps and a party wall.
I grew up in a twin and lived in rowhomes my whole life. Having a whole different family on the other side of the wall is not new to me, but there seems to be a serious lack of insulation in this particular house.
Sitting here at my computer I can hear the family next door as though they were standing right next to me.
This would be okay except the father is not a nice guy.
In some ways I can give the guy some slack because on the day they were moving into the house, he fell down the front lawn and broke his leg. So he was pretty cranky the first several weeks, and understandably so.
His attitude is also somewhat understandable because there are too many people in the family to be living in this house comfortably. It's a small, very small, twin rancher style house. They have 3 children. Mother and Father have the main bedroom in the back of the house, and the three kids sleep in some sort of arrangement in the finished basement.
The living room/kitchen area is quite small. In my house, two adults in the kitchen is one too many. One adult and the dog in the kitchen is one too many. Put three adults in the living room, and it's full. How they manage to squeeze two adults and three kids and a cat in there is a mystery to me.
Given the lack of space, the stress of a temporarily disabled parent, and a new move, I am not unsympathetic to the fact that people are going to get short-tempered with each other.
Even so, it also not hard to miss what is standard behavior for this family. They could be living in a mansion with plenty of personal space and comfort, and there are certain things that would not change.
For example, fathers who regularly call their children (including the four year old) "moron" and "stupid" and "*#$*(@ idiot" and who daily threaten to "kick your #$#(@ ass" don't change. There is a fundamental dysfunction that cannot be fixed with money or space when days begin reasonably pleasantly, but deteriorate within the first 60 minutes of waking into episodes of crying, shouting, cursing, and insults.
I've seen this before (unfortunately). I lived in a small Fishtown rowhome for 5 years before the neighborhood allegedly began to "gentrify". The realtors might be able to sell it as an "up and coming" place to live, but I can tell you from personal experience there's a lot to overcome.
There is no such thing as worrying about a child's self-esteem or development. Their future will be determined in 30 minute intervals, and if they can get through those next 30 minutes without being hit, belittled, or threatened, then life is good.
So it is with the kids next door. I have not, thankfully, heard anyone being physically abused, but the emotional and mental abuse is staggering.
This is when I realize there are precious few options to combat this tide of psychic destruction. I introduced myself when they moved in, and offered assistance because of the father's broken leg. I offered to baby-sit the youngest child if they needed help. I offered to pick things up from the store for them. I offered to cook for the kids if the mother had to work late. All of it was refused, and I can understand that. They don't know me. They have no reason to trust me. And they certainly don't want a stranger in their business. But I made the offer anyway because I thought even if they accept help just one time, maybe it will lead them to consider getting even more help, like maybe some family counseling would be nice.
Beyond making the offers, there isn't anything I can do. They're not doing anything illegal. Their crime is being less than stellar parents and the father especially is a bully. All that can be done is be as friendly and supportive of the children as I can be when I see them and hope they learn that not all adults are jerks and that they don't own guns.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
A nice thing happened at church yesterday
Yesterday was the fourth Sunday of Advent and for the fourth week in a row we sang a communion antiphon (or song, if you prefer) that was set to the same music every week. Only the words would change and the melody remained the same.
When it comes to getting a congregation to sing, simple, memorable melodies that can be used repeatedly are ideal because it means the vast majority of people sitting in the pews will catch on and sing along. It's the same rule of thumb applied to commercial jingles and TV show themes, and church singing is where they got the idea.
Anyway, for four weeks we've been singing the same melody at communion time with the words changing each week to reflect what was being read in the gospel and the readings for that particular week. The director of music at the Abbey wrote the music and set the text accordingly. The result was a large congregation of several hundred people singing along with us, and in the acoustically sublime space that is the Abbey, the sound was joyously uplifting.
The really nice thing that happened was when the head of the Norbertines (who reside at this Abbey) stood in front of the congregation and explained how the words they had sung at communion each week tied back to the readings and to the gospel. He then publicly thanked the music director who is one of the few in the area able to compose pieces and set text according to the rules of the liturgy. There have been new guidelines circulating and this emphasis on singing text specifically reflective of the gospel is one of the new guidelines. The Abbey, due to our director's considerable talents, is one of the first churches in the area to accomplish this.
It was a good moment for two reasons:
1) it is a rare - sadly rare - thing for the priest to give the congregation a solid explanation for why we do or sing what we do or sing at Mass. Things happen for a reason and nothing in liturgy happens by accident. Every word, every action, every song has meaning, and unfortunately, many people are not aware of those meanings. It felt good to have someone explain at least part of it because I think the more you know WHY something happens, the more you can appreciate it.
2) it is also rare - sadly rare - to hear the person directing the liturgical music recognized publicly beyond a "thanks for all your hard work". In this instance, the priest took the time to explain that the liturgical music director does more than pick songs and rehearse with the choir once a week. I directed a liturgical music group, and it's a job that takes hours and hours every week if it's going to be done well at all. The music director has to read the readings and the gospel beforehand, reflect on them, understand them, know the Vatican guidelines for liturgy, select music that is not only appropriate, but is also within the choir's ability and within reach of the congregation. I had one group that was responsible for one Mass each week. The director at the Abbey has the choir and the folk ensemble and assorted musicians to coordinate. Then there's Sunday Mass, daily prayer services, and assorted special services througout the year. In other churches, there may be as many as 5 Masses per Sunday plus one on Saturday night with different groups and cantors providing the music for each one.
It's a tremendous amount of work and it was a pleasure to hear the church acknowledge not only the effort, but the expertise required to do it well.
When it comes to getting a congregation to sing, simple, memorable melodies that can be used repeatedly are ideal because it means the vast majority of people sitting in the pews will catch on and sing along. It's the same rule of thumb applied to commercial jingles and TV show themes, and church singing is where they got the idea.
Anyway, for four weeks we've been singing the same melody at communion time with the words changing each week to reflect what was being read in the gospel and the readings for that particular week. The director of music at the Abbey wrote the music and set the text accordingly. The result was a large congregation of several hundred people singing along with us, and in the acoustically sublime space that is the Abbey, the sound was joyously uplifting.
The really nice thing that happened was when the head of the Norbertines (who reside at this Abbey) stood in front of the congregation and explained how the words they had sung at communion each week tied back to the readings and to the gospel. He then publicly thanked the music director who is one of the few in the area able to compose pieces and set text according to the rules of the liturgy. There have been new guidelines circulating and this emphasis on singing text specifically reflective of the gospel is one of the new guidelines. The Abbey, due to our director's considerable talents, is one of the first churches in the area to accomplish this.
It was a good moment for two reasons:
1) it is a rare - sadly rare - thing for the priest to give the congregation a solid explanation for why we do or sing what we do or sing at Mass. Things happen for a reason and nothing in liturgy happens by accident. Every word, every action, every song has meaning, and unfortunately, many people are not aware of those meanings. It felt good to have someone explain at least part of it because I think the more you know WHY something happens, the more you can appreciate it.
2) it is also rare - sadly rare - to hear the person directing the liturgical music recognized publicly beyond a "thanks for all your hard work". In this instance, the priest took the time to explain that the liturgical music director does more than pick songs and rehearse with the choir once a week. I directed a liturgical music group, and it's a job that takes hours and hours every week if it's going to be done well at all. The music director has to read the readings and the gospel beforehand, reflect on them, understand them, know the Vatican guidelines for liturgy, select music that is not only appropriate, but is also within the choir's ability and within reach of the congregation. I had one group that was responsible for one Mass each week. The director at the Abbey has the choir and the folk ensemble and assorted musicians to coordinate. Then there's Sunday Mass, daily prayer services, and assorted special services througout the year. In other churches, there may be as many as 5 Masses per Sunday plus one on Saturday night with different groups and cantors providing the music for each one.
It's a tremendous amount of work and it was a pleasure to hear the church acknowledge not only the effort, but the expertise required to do it well.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
And so this is Christmas.
Almost. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. My shopping is done. I'm wrapping gifts. My house is messier than I'd like and I hope to correct that problem before the New Year begins. I played flute for the last Sunday of Advent and will play at the Christmas Eve Vigil Mass tomorrow afternoon. I'm looking forward to it. There were some marathon rehearsals involved, but the music deserves that kind of attention and it will pay off in the end.
Spiritually though, I am a bit more sad than I'd anticipated and there is no one else responsible for that sadness except myself. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.
Friday afternoon I sent an e-mail to a colleague in another office. Copied on that e-mail were at least 5 or 6 other people from the same office. I knew what I wanted to say. I was fully confident that I was going to be found justified in everything I said, but I managed to say everything in an offensive, arrogant, and belligerent tone.
It was not until I received a hotly worded e-mail back from one of the recipients that my eyes were even opened to how badly I had worded the message. I read and re-read that e-mail several times before hitting the send button, and not once did it occur to me that someone might consider it to be rude.
Adding to the injury is the fact that there is a misunderstanding of what I was actually referring to in my message. I wrote my words with a very clear vision in my mind and every word was relative to that vision. Unfortunately, the people in the other office read those same words with a completely different vision in mind and their vision cast my words in an even worse light than had our visions been the same.
Consequently, there are some very angry people in the other office who immediately brought it to the attention of my boss who is now also very angry because I have unwittingly damaged some very important relationships.
Then because of the impending holiday, everyone left early on Friday and there was no opportunity for me to correct any of the mistakes I made or to smooth out the ruffled feathers or to offer any kind of relief to the injured feelings. Friday ended, for the 7 or 8 people involved, on a very bad note that will no doubt carry over into the holiday. Perhaps not for all, but for some, and for me.
Spiritually though, I am a bit more sad than I'd anticipated and there is no one else responsible for that sadness except myself. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.
Friday afternoon I sent an e-mail to a colleague in another office. Copied on that e-mail were at least 5 or 6 other people from the same office. I knew what I wanted to say. I was fully confident that I was going to be found justified in everything I said, but I managed to say everything in an offensive, arrogant, and belligerent tone.
It was not until I received a hotly worded e-mail back from one of the recipients that my eyes were even opened to how badly I had worded the message. I read and re-read that e-mail several times before hitting the send button, and not once did it occur to me that someone might consider it to be rude.
Adding to the injury is the fact that there is a misunderstanding of what I was actually referring to in my message. I wrote my words with a very clear vision in my mind and every word was relative to that vision. Unfortunately, the people in the other office read those same words with a completely different vision in mind and their vision cast my words in an even worse light than had our visions been the same.
Consequently, there are some very angry people in the other office who immediately brought it to the attention of my boss who is now also very angry because I have unwittingly damaged some very important relationships.
Then because of the impending holiday, everyone left early on Friday and there was no opportunity for me to correct any of the mistakes I made or to smooth out the ruffled feathers or to offer any kind of relief to the injured feelings. Friday ended, for the 7 or 8 people involved, on a very bad note that will no doubt carry over into the holiday. Perhaps not for all, but for some, and for me.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I'm supposed to be working
I have a lot to do. I've fallen behind on some things and deadlines are looming. But I can't work right now. The work will have to wait a little longer.
I received word that my best friend's father passed away this morning. It was a long hard fight consisting of various illnesses, debilitating treatments, nasty hospital food, and invasive procedures.
Mr. Walsh was diagnosed with multiple myeloma last year after his kidneys had already started to fail. He was put on dialysis three times a week, started chemotherapy, had some good days and some bad days, but still the deterioration was unrelenting.
Slight of build, Mr. Walsh was a mail carrier for almost his entire working life after getting out of the service. He hauled sacks of mail up and down his route in the hills of the Far NE of Philadelphia every day in all kinds of weather. He was a congenial and gentle soul to all the people on his route and during the Christmas season he would be swamped with gifts.
By the end of his life, he became an even smaller frail person whose body was so weakened by his illnesses that he could have disappeared in front of our very eyes and no one would have been surprised. His spirit, on the other hand, was superhuman in its power and he defied the doctors' prognosis of death again and again and again and yet again until he finally had to let go of his beloved family.
Mr. and Mrs. Walsh were married for almost 50 years. Maybe more than 50. I've lost track over the years. Their oldest son is nearing 50, so it must be close. I've spent countless hours with this family and watched as Mr. and Mrs. Walsh went through good times and bad times together. They were a living testament in my life to the power of love and the value of commitment. There were years when they fought and bickered with each other, times when they perhaps weren't sure about how they felt about each other, but they considered the wedding promises they made to each other immovable objects and everything else had to be adjusted to fit around them. I remember seeing them through the years still holding hands when they walked together. Marriage was sacred in their eyes and as such, it would and could endure through every mortal problem. Mortal human problems are, after all, transient and temporary just like the mortal humans who create them. What is sacred is eternal.
I think many of us forget the value of holding something sacred in our lives. Too often we claim that "nothing is sacred!" as though that were an honorable phrase and a symbol of independent thinking. I suspect recognizing the sacred in ourselves and each other and having the courage to preserve it might be the far more honorable and independent thing to do.
Mr. and Mrs. Walsh had five children. I became friends with their oldest daughter, MaryRose, when we were in 7th grade and we were soon inseparable. This was two years after the death of my own father and within moments of our meeting I became part of their extended family. My home life was in as good an order as it could have been under the circumstances, but I found a stability and comfort in their midst that I did not have anywhere else. They included me in many family functions and family vacations. I've been to their weddings, their funerals, and was introduced many times as their "other" daughter.
Even so, it's a difficult relationship to describe. Mr. Walsh never sought to replace my father. He was not my surrogate parent, but he was easily one of the most influential male figures in my life. As I entered adulthood, he went beyond being a father figure and became a good friend. We didn't have nearly as many opportunities as I would have liked to really talk heart-to-heart, but those rare times when it was just me and him, I got to know him as a deeply faithful, moral, loving, and kind hearted man. There was not a shred of pretense in him anywhere and it was always the inside of a person that counted with him, and never the shallow trappings of money, prestige, or appearance.
He had a strong sense of justice, and I think it is in this regard that I felt closest to him. Slow to anger and even slower to show it, the one thing guaranteed to rile him up like a shaken hornets' nest was when he believed an injustice had been done. He was my hero.
I know he left this world without regret and without fear. He said so himself when he was diagnosed. The doctors did not spare him the truth and he knew that his illness was terminal. He had plenty of time to consider the prospect of leaving this world, and he told me, "I have no regrets. Sure, there are always things you might have done differently, but this is my life and I have no regrets about any of it."
He was a quiet and stalwart warrior for good, and I am honored to have known him.
I love you, Pop. Say hi to Daddy for me.
I received word that my best friend's father passed away this morning. It was a long hard fight consisting of various illnesses, debilitating treatments, nasty hospital food, and invasive procedures.
Mr. Walsh was diagnosed with multiple myeloma last year after his kidneys had already started to fail. He was put on dialysis three times a week, started chemotherapy, had some good days and some bad days, but still the deterioration was unrelenting.
Slight of build, Mr. Walsh was a mail carrier for almost his entire working life after getting out of the service. He hauled sacks of mail up and down his route in the hills of the Far NE of Philadelphia every day in all kinds of weather. He was a congenial and gentle soul to all the people on his route and during the Christmas season he would be swamped with gifts.
By the end of his life, he became an even smaller frail person whose body was so weakened by his illnesses that he could have disappeared in front of our very eyes and no one would have been surprised. His spirit, on the other hand, was superhuman in its power and he defied the doctors' prognosis of death again and again and again and yet again until he finally had to let go of his beloved family.
Mr. and Mrs. Walsh were married for almost 50 years. Maybe more than 50. I've lost track over the years. Their oldest son is nearing 50, so it must be close. I've spent countless hours with this family and watched as Mr. and Mrs. Walsh went through good times and bad times together. They were a living testament in my life to the power of love and the value of commitment. There were years when they fought and bickered with each other, times when they perhaps weren't sure about how they felt about each other, but they considered the wedding promises they made to each other immovable objects and everything else had to be adjusted to fit around them. I remember seeing them through the years still holding hands when they walked together. Marriage was sacred in their eyes and as such, it would and could endure through every mortal problem. Mortal human problems are, after all, transient and temporary just like the mortal humans who create them. What is sacred is eternal.
I think many of us forget the value of holding something sacred in our lives. Too often we claim that "nothing is sacred!" as though that were an honorable phrase and a symbol of independent thinking. I suspect recognizing the sacred in ourselves and each other and having the courage to preserve it might be the far more honorable and independent thing to do.
Mr. and Mrs. Walsh had five children. I became friends with their oldest daughter, MaryRose, when we were in 7th grade and we were soon inseparable. This was two years after the death of my own father and within moments of our meeting I became part of their extended family. My home life was in as good an order as it could have been under the circumstances, but I found a stability and comfort in their midst that I did not have anywhere else. They included me in many family functions and family vacations. I've been to their weddings, their funerals, and was introduced many times as their "other" daughter.
Even so, it's a difficult relationship to describe. Mr. Walsh never sought to replace my father. He was not my surrogate parent, but he was easily one of the most influential male figures in my life. As I entered adulthood, he went beyond being a father figure and became a good friend. We didn't have nearly as many opportunities as I would have liked to really talk heart-to-heart, but those rare times when it was just me and him, I got to know him as a deeply faithful, moral, loving, and kind hearted man. There was not a shred of pretense in him anywhere and it was always the inside of a person that counted with him, and never the shallow trappings of money, prestige, or appearance.
He had a strong sense of justice, and I think it is in this regard that I felt closest to him. Slow to anger and even slower to show it, the one thing guaranteed to rile him up like a shaken hornets' nest was when he believed an injustice had been done. He was my hero.
I know he left this world without regret and without fear. He said so himself when he was diagnosed. The doctors did not spare him the truth and he knew that his illness was terminal. He had plenty of time to consider the prospect of leaving this world, and he told me, "I have no regrets. Sure, there are always things you might have done differently, but this is my life and I have no regrets about any of it."
He was a quiet and stalwart warrior for good, and I am honored to have known him.
I love you, Pop. Say hi to Daddy for me.
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