Competitive Sports

     I grew up pushed into competitive sports, had great fun with them early on, and took for granted their benefits and inevitability in nearly every boy's life until twelve years ago when my college buddy Norm said he was agonizing over which extracurricular activities to sign his kids up for.  I suggested baseball, soccer—.
     He said, “Ehhh.  I'm trying to avoid organized competitive sports.”
     Stupefied, I asked, “Why?”
     He said, “The sports themselves aren't the problem.  It's the everything else that goes along with them that are bad.”
     I thought a moment.  “Like bad coaching?”  I had had baseball coaches in Pony League that made it a point at times to ridicule my ineptitude and awkwardness.  I was a pitcher used only once or twice a season against Panaewa—the worst team in the league.  At a practice once, we held a scrimmage with me pitching and they bluffed steals while I was in the stretch.  (“Stretch” means the pitcher is standing sideways to the batter with his back foot on or immediately in front of the white rubber board (called a “rubbber”) on the pitcher's mound.  While in the stretch, if there are runners on base, any sort of jerky movements of shoulders by the pitcher without a throw to either home or to one of the bases is considered a balk—allowing each base runner to advance freely to the next base.  Pitchers may make all the jerky movements they want or chase after runners if they first “step off the mound” by stepping their rearward foot backwards a few inches to a position behind the rubber.)  As I peered over at Coach A or B at first or second base, he'd suddenly bound off in a mad dash toward the next base.  Alarmed over the eminent steal (whereby the base runner moves to the next base before getting tagged out with a gloved ball), I jerked around to get a better look to see what I should do next—throw to my teammate on first, second, or third base, or give chase on foot.  I balked every time.  Kyle shouted, “When you're in trouble, step off the mound!”  I nodded and yet, whenever it happened, I jerked.  “Balk!” Kyle shouted while his sidekick Doug shook his head with disdain.  “What are you supposed to do when you're in trouble?”
     “Step off the mound,” I mumbled.
     “What?”
     “Step off the mound!”
     “OK.  Try again.”
     Jumpy, I went back into the stretch and peered over only to see him jerk right in a feint, then take off like the Road Runner.  I was so jumpy by then that all my movements appeared jerky.  Balk!
     Kyle had me spend the rest of the afternoon in the dugout shouting, “When I'm in trouble I will step off the mound.”  Humiliated, I eventually mumbled the mindless phrase, only to have Kyle shout, “I can't hear you!”
     Decades later, I realized this was awful coaching.  (They also insisted that everyone hit off their front foot—the foot nearest the pitcher—with a pronounced weight shift that way—bad advice.  And they never let me pitch submarines—low deliveries—or knuckle balls—my best pitches.) 
     The reason I kept balking is I had never before stepped off the mound.  No one had taught me how or why I should do it or when or had me even attempt it.  Virtually all sports involve calling upon “muscle memory”—skills ingrained through repetition, until they become so familiar, they're second nature.  A good free throw shooter in basketball concentrates only on the basket and executing set ritual—everything else comes automatically via muscle memory.  What Kyle should have done was take me out of the scrimmage (and its attendant pressures to win or not embarrass myself) and have Doug tutor me on the side lines.  Doug should have had me step off an imaginary rubber dozens of times from the stretch until it felt sooo comfortable, I practically enjoyed it.  Except for the rare blessed few, all new sports skills feel awkward and uncomfortable at first.  I never, ever got over that discomfort and never, ever stepped off a mound during a real game or practice.  (Thank God no one ever bluffed or attempted a steal while I was in the stretch again.) 
     Getting back to my conversation with Norm, he responded, “The bad coaching; the must-win, beat-the-opponent-to-a-pulp at all costs mentality; the star-worship; the bad actors; the bad parents; the bad attitudes; the only-the-best-get-to-play priorities; the politics; the favoritism; the bullying, put-downs, and hazing; the conceitedness;... need more?”
     I saw his point.  Even though I had witnessed all these first-hand as a player, I had never before thought of them as faults.  They had all just seemed part of the game and culture and therefore inevitable for anyone who played.
     Reflecting back, I remembered my years post-Little League when due to my ineptitude I rarely got to play, and even the Little League year when I was assigned to the second-rate team that consisted of all the lousy players, unable to make the first-rate team that eventually had all of my most talented classmates.
     And I also remembered witnessing during games some of the most disgraceful parental behavior ever—fortunately in games in which I wasn't playing (because I was too lousy to be in championship games the really mattered—one of the few benefits of being less talented).  The Little League championship game (which featured the first-rate team I was too lousy to make) was temporarily suspended over a near riot precipitated by an umpire's errant call in the last inning.  It took minutes for most in the stands to quit hooting and hollering and even then, a team manager had to step out of the dug out onto the playing field and point out and shout down the most demonstrative of his player's parents, shaming him and others to finally sit and settle down.  Although play resumed, the atmosphere was charged with an uncomfortable tension—rare in sleepy, laid back Hilo.  As a side-note, my dad recently told me that a lot of the stars from that game have not done so well as adults—some were in and out of prison, some battled addictions, one died in a tragic accident, others were unemployed, divorced, or had other legal problems.  His point was that although they seemed so all-together back then, there may have been hidden problems that we only found out about later.  I said I doubt their problems related to their playing. He said no, but we held them in such high esteem, unaware of what would eventually befall them.
     And I remembered getting tormented by an older teammate in Colt League who even mocked me repeatedly during a game allowing fans in the stands to hear.  After that season, I quit.  It's amazing I lasted as long as I had.  In my last few years I averaged about zero hits and two strike-outs per game and all season I got on base twice, both on walks, and played in less than half the games.  As a second base in-fielder, I averaged about an error per game.
     At our Big Island high school championship basketball game, which Hilo High won, the awards ceremony was canceled over fear of riot.  One delusional parent taunted Hilo High supporters by gesturing dismissal of Hilo High's win and repeatedly signaled St. Joseph's number one status, shaking her head to their boos, shouts, finger points toward the score board, and jeers.
     In hindsight, I don't believe I gained any of the reputed benefits ascribed to team sports:  confidence, leadership ability, teamwork, work ethic, sense of belonging, or discipline.  Well, to be fair, there may have been times when baseball did help build my character, but, in general, there were far more avoidable negatives than there were only-available-through-competitive-organized-sports positives.
     Regarding our children’s participation, today's youth competitive sports teams can be very time-consuming—for both them and us, what with practices, games, travel times, pot lucks, snacks, refreshments, and set-ups and take-downs.  Since none of them have expressed interest or shown unmistakable natural athletic talent, we have yet to enroll them.  Sure, they (and we) miss out on some of the fun and excitement of doing well and maybe winning an award or two, but then again, they also “miss out” on the early disillusionment and ego issues and exposure to all-too-frequent bad behaviors and attitudes, including excessive pressures and unrealistic expectations.  Though they do lead lives less activity-filled than others, they’re fine with it and so are we.

Budget Travel

     As an accountant, I am aware that there are three things that are impossible for our middle income family to save enough for: our children's college educations, my retirement, and long-term health care insurance. But we try to do our best with the former two. As for the latter, in my opinion, only the extremely wealthy can afford it. (The only “affordable” long-term health care insurance plans cover approximately five years of nursing care—hardly long-term—which would only delay the inevitable spend-down of personal assets before Medicare kicks in.)
     And because we've lived for years with a five percent salary reduction due to The Great Recession (full pay recently got restored) our family has limited our travels to occasional outer-island trips of two or three nights each. The last time we traveled out-of-state as a family was to Seattle over five years ago. (Deanne did recently fly back twice to East Asia—once to visit her ill dad, the other for his funeral.)
     So to get the most out of our short stays, we packed frozen veggies and precooked rice; Cheerios; powder milk; empty water bottles; home-made scones; and preheated lunch boxes (sans meat) in our carry-ons, plus breakfast to eat before boarding the plane (we caught the low-fare first flights out at 5:30 a.m., which were still expensive compared to a few short years ago.) Each family member self-packed his or her own carry-on with clothes, toiletries, swim gear, a few plastic grocery bags (for wet clothes, dirty laundry, or footwear), and other necessities, all stuffed in a large plastic bag to keep things clean, dry, and organized. Upon arrival at our destination, we filled our water bottles, picked up our rental car, dropped off our luggage at the hotel front desk for safekeeping until check-in, then headed straight to a supermarket for fresh fruits for succeeding days' breakfasts, and luncheon meat and poke (seasoned raw fish) as supplemental proteins for our lunches and dinners. Sight-seeing followed with planned stops before noon to pick up a hearty protein (gourmet pizza, local beef burgers, or lunch counter entree) for takeout and to eat along with our pre-packed lunch boxes at a relaxing scenic spot. More sight-seeing and activities followed until late afternoon when we again picked up a protein (whole roasted chicken, ethnic or local food, or ribs) from somewhere affordable and tasty.
     Checked into the hotel room, we heated our rice and veggies in the microwave, ate dinner, cleaned up, bathed, and prepared for the following day, in which we basically followed the previous day's pattern.
     Another thing that helped our family to stay on budget were comprehensive daily itineraries, detailed to quarter hour increments including travel times, destinations, directions, restaurants, bathroom breaks, down-times, meals, relaxation, and play, which we followed and revised as necessary as the vacation progressed. Such scheduling avoided wasted time and frustration looking for fun, suitable, and inexpensive take-out food; play and rest areas; sight-seeing stops; and driving directions.
     We sought free activities and destinations that included something for everyone, seeing and doing things unique to the locale and with perhaps special historical, personal, or cultural significance. Thus, we avoided generic eateries, shopping malls, and activities such as bounce houses, movies, or water parks.
     Internet sites such as Yelp and Tripadvisor (among the internet's finest) generated excellent suggestions. The first-hand accounts of visitors and their photos can get overwhelming to review, however, due to dozens of conflicting opinions written in anywhere from wonderful to awful English, and hundreds of photos burdensome to click through to find just the one with the information you're looking for (menu, shoreline access, parking area, scenery, safety, navigability). But discovering hidden gems that even I, a lifetime Hawaii resident, had never seen or heard of before, got me excited well before the trip.
     On Kauai, there were the swinging bridge, Lindsgate Park, Kokee, Taro Ko Factory, Kalalau Trail, Poipu Beach, Ke'e Beach, and Hanalei Pier.
     On Molokai there were the farmer's market, Halawa, Murphy Beach, The Kite Factory, Three Mile Beach overlook, Dixie Maru beach, and One Alii Fishpond.
     On Maui there were Kanaio, Makawao, Kepaniwai Park, Kapalua Labyrinth and Village and Beach trails, and Spreklesville Beach.
     On Hawaii there were Laupahoehoe park, Kalopa, Kapoho, Honokaa, Kamuela, Keaukaha, and Panaewa.
     All of the above—free of charge—provided among the best these islands had to offer. Of course we also visited the more famous low-cost destinations too, such as superlative Waimea Canyon, Haleakala, and Volcanoes National Park.
     But the best part was seeing the kids excited doing something new—exploring Dry Cave; hiking summit and coastal trails; fishing off the state's longest pier; walking a swaying bridge in high gusting winds; eating live opihi (limpets); catching misty sprays in their mouths at overlooks; chasing kite shadows in the sand; knocking low hanging coconuts off trees with pebbles; drinking the sweet, acrid water from these coconuts; petting wild horses that approached on their own; running through huge wooden playgrounds; lying in ocean-side hammocks; leading us through ancient ohia forest trails; climbing high up ironwood trees; and sleeping overnight in a backyard tent hitched at Grandma and Grandpa's house.
     Notwithstanding their inconvenience and expense, these trips were well worth it. We learned a lot, bonded, made lasting memories, worked as a team, and enjoyed every last minute of them. All islands were beautiful and special, but being averse to crowds and traffic, I probably enjoyed them in reverse order of their population densities: Molokai first, then Hawaii, Kauai, and Maui in that order.
     Thumb nail sketches: Molokai—deserted paradise; friendly, generous people who love to talk. Melt into the surrounding lassitude. Hawaii—pockets of interest among vast, unchanging landscapes. Fun to drive. Laid-back. Primitive feel encourages introspection. Kauai—fun with lots to see and do outdoors. Best beaches. Great, unfolding vistas. Maui—beautiful horses on Haleakala, wild nene geese, and awesome views of neighbor islands Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, and Molokini. Best air for workouts.
     FYI: all inclusive, each trip totaled less than one thousand two hundred dollars, the vast majority of which went to airfares, accommodations, rental car, gas, and airport parking.

NCLB Politics – Part IV (or Common Core Standards – Part I)

     I have nothing against standardized tests.  They're tools like any other tool—a gun, hammer, knife, or saw—and can be used both appropriately and inappropriately.
     That said, I think it's a huge mistake to use standardized test scores to grade primary and secondary schools or teachers based on arbitrary cutoff measures of supposed minimum levels of student proficiency or academic achievement because standardized tests do not measure such things, what they do approximately measure is each student's ability to take standardized tests.  And that's about it.
     I have had numerous friends, relatives, and acquaintances that were ninety-plus percentile whizzes at these tests who did mediocre to horrible in classes and ended up with run-of-the-mill jobs and careers.  Conversely, many academic super-stars and/or those with thriving careers had been very undistinguished standardized test takers.  The problem with these tests are their narrow subject matter focuses and scopes, with over-emphasis on memorization and simple one-way-to-solve problems.  Complexity; human factors; individual creativity, compassion, communicative ability, social skills, motivation, perseverance, confidence, shortcomings, irritations, dysfunctions, morals, appearances, perceptions, social acceptance, family and other connections, frailties, desires, feelings, aptitude, attitudes, upbringing, and personality; the general social, political, and economic environments; local politics and interactions; and all other “soft” factors are virtually excluded from these tests simply because they are too difficult to measure objectively.  Yet these are the very types of real world problems, opportunities, situations, responses, and interactions that most determine probable future success of students in school, work, and life in general.
     In other words, predicting a student's success in school or life is far too complex to reduce to simple, straight-forward fill-in-the-bubbles or scroll-and-click there's-only-one-correct-answer per question standardized multiple-choice tests.
     According to various studies, employers make decisions within the first fifteen seconds of each candidate's employment interview (obviously unconcerned about computer generated test scores plotted on comparative scales).  Further, success at work (one hopes) depends mainly on productivity (including working well with others and learning on-the-job), not standardized test-taking ability.
     In my opinion, the main and perhaps only usefulness of these standardized tests might be in screening outliers—ultra high and ultra low scorers.  The former may be whizzes in other academic pursuits, but then again, maybe not.  Conversely, the latter may indicate extreme problems in comprehension or motivation.  (A bright, wise, and compassionate adult friend of mine with an excellent work ethic and respectable career said that as a child he used to fill in the bubbles of standardized tests to create pretty patterns—zigzags, checkerboards, etc.  I'm sure he could have scored within “normal range”--however that is defined—but just didn't care.  Healthy, normal kids will act out at times, balking at mindless repetitive hypothetical after hypothetical question, or artificial comparison after artificial comparison construct.  “In the long run, who cares?" may be their understandable response.  “It's just a number on a sheet of paper.  It's not who I am or what I'm capable of or what I'm worth.” 
     Indeed, careers are not made or broken based on such test scores as the average person goes through greater than ten job and a few career changes in a lifetime and prospective employers don't ask to see or talk about them.  (The only times I was asked to provide them were on college or scholarship applications.)
     Yet, standardized tests continue relentless for my kids who take from one to four such tests (reading, math, or science) two to four times a year (sometimes taking the same test thrice), totaling two to eight tests per child, a few hours each.  This doesn't even include on-line IXL math and Kidsbiz reading assignments (practice tests) of about two each per week.  So many hours on these that might have been better spent on productive, engaged learning—especially hands-on activities such as science experiments, PE, art, or field trips.
     In an earlier essay titled NCLB Politics – Part I, I said I looked forward to NCLB's repeal.  Yet, though this has in essence happened via a waiver granted to Hawaii and forty-four other states for adopting common core standards—required to obtain access to billions of federal Race-to-the-Top grant dollars, the high-stakes testing continues and will probably be expanded, resulting in possibly even more tests of greater difficulty.  Things for my children—as far as frequency and intensity of these standardized tests go—have not improved.  Neither has their curricula changed from memorized word lists, Kidsbiz, IXL, and other teaching-to-the tests techniques.  Alas, to date, common core standards appears indistinguishable from NCLB and my kids continue to suffer as a result.

Life's Risks

   Risks abound. A car ride. Inadequate sleep and exercise. A poor diet. Or a bad economy. Yet, we get by, confident that we'll be okay, at least for now.
   It's when we step outside life's normal routine that things can begin to feel a bit more dicey. A sky dive. A bungy jump. A trip to a lesser developed country. Or a heart-felt letter presented to an impressionable teen.
     This past Christmas, with some trepidation and tons of trust in her and God, I did the last, the recipient being my thirteen year old niece Janice. I had written the letter when she was but an infant, newly adopted and brought over to Hawaii (from Asia) by my sister Joan and her husband Aldwin. It described their lack of success in conceiving, their medical issues, and a one-time unsuccessful medical procedure. Joan's refusal to seek further medical intervention left them bereft until they pursued adoption (see related essay entitled Adoption Option.)
     The letter also described the couple's trip with my parents (Joan was recovering from a surgery at the time) to and from Korea and the immediate aftermath: The friendly fellow traveler at the airport—a Korean national—who offered to take them around during their three days before the pick-up date but who eventually became a pest due to her “Let's get together again,” persistence until they finally stopped answering their hotel telephone. The emotional meeting with the foster mother, a veteran of several foster children. The first meeting (the foster mother had discretely withdrawn) with the baby when Joan burst into tears of joy, yet the baby held firm, alert and self-composed. The harrowing taxi trip to the airport when Janice, realizing that Mom wasn't coming along and that she was being taken somewhere by a group of strangers, shrieked inconsolable, a crying jag that lasted the duration of the half-hour taxi ride plus most of the hours-long flight to Hawaii, only interrupted by short naps induced by physical and emotional exhaustion, Joan weeping joyfully and pityingly while seated on the floor beside her, comforting her and refusing (unlike the others) to take a sleep break in another section of the largely vacant plane. Janice's quick adjustment to life in Hawaii with her new family where she became happy, hungry, and even-keeled—“just fine”, so said my parents.
     The letter foresaw Janice's inclination and curiosity to one day want to learn more of her birth parents and past and that how far she goes with it is hers alone to decide. I described my father-in-law's awful experiences when tracking down his birth mother and the way he suffered and self-destructed as a result. (His birth father's identity and whereabouts remained vague and untraceable.)
     But the overarching tone of the letter was one of love, and although I envisioned presenting it to Janice upon her reaching adulthood or her late teen years, possibly as she struggled through identity issues virtually all adolescents sooner or later face, I changed my mind because of her family's recent ten-day trip to Korea with other adoptee children from the same adoption agency. No one explained to me the impetus for the trip, but I reasoned that obviously Janice must have expressed interest. (Joan said she'd planned nothing for the trip, which suggested it wasn't her initiative; my brother-in-law is a go-along type. Joan said that they were “playing it by ear” whether or not to visit Janice's foster mom but were counseled against it by an agency worker because it takes lots of preparation for something like that, at which point Joan dropped the idea.)
     Deanne was very concerned that Janice might take the letter the wrong way (as was I, but to a lesser extent), and perhaps that Joan and Aldwin might hold it against me if things went poorly. But I felt that this was between Janice and me—I didn't want to have to or believe it necessary to filter the letter through Joan or Aldwin because as parents, they are personally vested in the outcome whereas I have a certain detached perspective that perhaps allows me to focus better on what's potentially best for Janice. And her parents and I surely agree that we all want what's best for her. And once she reaches eighteen she can and will do what she sets her mind to anyway.
     Christmas Eve I raised with Joan, Miley Cyrus's music video awards show performance. I had read about its raunchy simulated sex acts, the skanky outfit she wore, and the shocked reactions from fans who bemoaned what had become of their once sweet, innocent child. Janice had been a big fan of hers from her Hannah Montana days and had an autographed copy of one of her earlier posters. Joan said her performance was no big deal—no worse than any of the other stars'—and that the backlash was identical to the flack Brittany Spears took the first time she broke out of her sweet, innocent childhood mode.
     Janice interrupted and asked which performance?
     I said, well, I don't know if you saw it.
     She said I saw all of them, which one?
     I looked at Joan who had walked away and said the VMA show.
     Janice smiled and said, “I saw some, but when she started doing some weird stuff, I walked out of the room.”
     I held an arm out to hug her, she came to me, and I said, “Good for you. You know what to do.”
     She said, “My friend watched it over and over again. She tried to get me to watch it but I told her I don't want to.”
     I again praised her for her good judgment.
     Later, she, my kids, and my brother's son had a nice time together outside on the balcony decorating a prefabricated ginger-bread house. When the kids were eating dinner that night on the same balcony table, I took a break from the adult table inside and stood around and talked with Janice and the others and found her to be a fine and engaging girl. However, when she mentioned stressing out over exams and taking awhile to calm down so she could think, I counseled her to concentrate more on having fun—straight A's all the time shouldn't be the top priority at her age.
     With the letter, I enclosed a cover letter saying to discuss with me before reading and if she wants to stop reading, to return it to me for safekeeping until a later date.
     Christmas afternoon she looked at me, letter in hand, in the midst of the present-opening festivities. I had been thinking maybe I should sit in a separate room with her, Joan, and Aldwin while she read it, but instead I asked, “You know the facts of life, right?”
     She said, “Huh?”
     I said, “You know where babies come from?” She nodded. “And how they are made?” She nodded again. “Then go ahead.”
     Joan said, “Sheesh, this letter... I wonder...” but she laughed as she said it.
     Janice sat quiet, hunched over as she read the twelve-plus pages, intent and serious, while I continued to shoot photos, stay engaged, and check on her from a distance from time to time.
     I relived Joan's tearful joys and Janice's childhood ordeal and sorrows as she turned the pages and her eyes began to glisten and redden. Later, she left the room, and when she returned, her mood was somber and her eyes were puffy and red. She reclined into the folds of Joan's arms—a rare display of public affection. I went over and whispered, “If you like, you can share the letter with Mommy.”
     She said, “Thank you for the letter, she knows what's in it already.”
     I thought a moment and said, “She might have forgotten some. I forgot a lot and only remembered after I reread it.”
     It was a big change from a year ago when Janice had danced about the room exuberant over her new acquisitions: fluorescent soccer shoes, a soccer ball, electronic devises, fashionable clothes, dress shoes, and a pair of flip flops. And I felt good for having done the right thing.

(To Joan, Aldwin, or Janice if you are reading this: I love you all dearly.)

Art – Creating and Acquiring

     One thing that separates man from the beasts is art.  Others—morality; spirituality; and rational awareness of self, time, symbols, ideals, and the meaning of life—exist, but to me, appreciation of beauty and art and the desire to create them  seems a huge part of man's unique essence.
     Birds, whales, baboons, and cats sing, but do they find such music beautiful or compelling?  Can it cheer them up, depress them, make them laugh or cry, or put them in just the right mood?  Do they obsessively strive to improve their craft seeking ever greater beauty or perfection?  Or is art intrinsically good to them because it adds beauty to an imperfect world?
     Every culture everywhere has its history with art.  Usually two- or three-dimensional depictions of nature can be found among the world's most ancient works of art.  (No where in the animal kingdom can such artifacts be found.)  Later depictions often contain spiritual representations, birth, death, fertility, or languages—all parts of many cultures' ancient arts:  offerings to deities, warnings to the observer, fanciful handiwork of the bored, or factual depictions of the present.
     So it's in our genes, I believe, to create and appreciate art.
     My tastes are diverse:  rock and roll and classical music (happy or relaxing); black and white photos with dynamic range (humorous or insightful); literature that is more real than real; humble, down-to-earth memoirs; artsy foreign films; and sculptures with visual puns.
     But the real fun comes in creating.
     I love playing guitar and singing (I've led worship in small-group settings), shooting black and white photos, sculpting clay, writing fiction and creative non-fiction, and on rare occasions, fooling with paints and permanent markers.  Some of our best family outings have been to arts festivals—free to the public—at the Contemporary Art Museum, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Hawaii State Art Museum, and Windward Community College.  They all put on good shows and allowed much hands-on participation and souvenir-making.
     What sets activities apart at these are the artists who guide them, whose enthusiasms are palpable.  I love to get them talking about the origination of their art forms, techniques, tools and materials, and their professional or academic statuses.  It's also fun to let my creative side take over and see how my abstract scribbles turn out, or sculpt some mundane silly thing (tooth brush, toilet, a thumb) and see if the kids can guess what it is (they usually can't, even though it looks exactly like the object depicted—my wife can always tell).  One thing that the kids got to do that I always wanted to (but adults weren't allow to) was spin clay.  I later kiln-fired their bowls in town for a small fee, sprayed them with acrylic clear coats, let the kids decorate them with acrylic paints, then sprayed them with acrylic clear coats again—perfect gifts for the holidays.  Another fun activity was carving wet plaster using wood carving tools.  We ran out of time but were told how to finish them at home, which we did using blunt tools and knives, then painted with acrylics.  Jaren, too young to carve, enjoyed gluing scrap wood blocks together, then painting them, instead.
     As an art collector, I love originals.  We can't afford expensive works, so usually it's through happenstance that I discover some affordable artist whose works I love.  The first of these I discovered at my old apartment in Kakaako.  Beautiful paintings were displayed in the lobby front office, propped upright on the floor against a desk front.  I inquired about them and was told that the artists Cece and Fabio were tenants allowed to set up shop in a garage storage room.  I went over and was immediately hooked—everything they produced, I appreciated (including painted flat board cut-out standing sculptures).  I commissioned them to do a painting—anything they wished—for eighty dollars, and they did one on canvass, the wood frame of which was also painted and incorporated into the piece.  I ended up buying four more pieces from their inventory (all sold at steep buyer-appreciation discounts), including one print which I gave to my brother, plus a number of postcard prints of originals.
     The young Brazilian men with heavy Spanish accents were nascent artists striving to attain commercial success without “bastardizing their work.”  One of them—handsome, studly, and full of fire—had paralysis from the waist down and got by with arm crutches.  Their stories and our rapport and goodwill added substantially to my enjoyment of the pieces.
     Another artist I came upon was Robert Kelsey, who displayed his works on Saturdays on the Fence by the Honolulu Zoo.  His fine abstract acrylic paintings were on stretched canvass and extended all the way to the tops, sides, and bottoms—no frames required.  A sign encourage customers, “Please DO touch the paintings.”  I told Braden, then a toddler, “Look what the sign says.”  An elderly gentleman with kind, gentle disposition approached, took a painting off the fence, stroked it, and held it for Braden to feel.  The man joked about his wife from South-East Asia and explained how his mother-in-law, who was such an encouragement to him, gave him Chinese calligraphy brushes that he used in some of his paintings.  She promised him that her daughter would take good care of him in his old age, so when his wife neglected him once when he had sore hands from stretching canvasses, he reminded her of her mom's promise to which she responded, “My mother was wrong!”  Throughout the years, I purchased five pieces from him from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars each, two given away as gifts.
     In acquiring art, I always seek the story—either of the artist or within the work itself.  Yet, the main thing is always the way the work makes me feel.  To paraphrase Duke Ellington, to me, if it feels good, it is good.
     Whereas in creating art, the fun is in the doing.  I don't teach my kids how to play guitar well or shoot compelling photos, instead, I just let them see me have fun doing it, show them the basics, then let them go and have some fun.  If they enjoy it they'll stick with it longer and automatically improve over time.  For a huge part of the fun in doing is improving.

Acquisitions:

 

Creations: 

 

 

 

Adoption Option

     My family has a long history with adoption, so when the time came for my wife and I to explore various options due to medical circumstances, I felt comfortable with this possibility.
     Both my paternal grandparents had had younger siblings adopted due to parental deaths.  Grandma shared how her dad, a sugar plantation worker in Kihei, gave up the family's youngest for adoption to a family in Kula—where she eventually disappeared and was later found dead, drowned in a cistern.  When Grandpa was a child and both his parents died in close succession—his father by drowning when thrown by a huge wave off a commercial fishing sampan off Hilo and his mother from disease—his uncle, a barber in Lahaina decided he could manage to care for but one of the two children.  He therefore sent Grandpa's sister to live with relatives back in Japan.  As an adult, Grandpa, a Kula Sanatorium yard man, sent her money because her family was so poor, World War II ceasing all correspondence for a time.  Many years later, they resumed correspondence, and decades later, reunited in a sorrowful reunion at which Grandpa's sister couldn't stop crying.  Their second reunion, however, went much better as she had found peace amidst all the painful memories.
     My maternal grandmother died when Mom was a child so Grandpa, a farmer with a fifty acre plot in Honokaa and seven daughters to care for, gave the youngest up for adoption.  Though Aunt Mae seldom was included within the close, tight circle of all our other aunties (partly because she lived in Chicago and other faraway places), my mom and aunties corresponded with her and met up with her in recent years for vacations and other gatherings.
     My sister Joan adopted her sole child from Korea.  The two couldn't stop crying on their trip home together to Hawaii—my sister for joy and pity at her daughter's tears; my one year old niece due to fear of the strangers taking her away from her beloved foster mom.
     My sister's husband's twin sister was given up for adoption shortly after birth due to their mom not feeling up to the task of raising them both. I met Samantha at my sister's wedding—a beautiful, confident woman who is included in numerous of my brother-in-law's family gatherings back east where he grew up in New Jersey.
     And my half-Scot, half-Siamese father-in-law was as an infant adopted by a Chinese family in Malaysia.  He grew to six-foot-four and played for his future country's national basketball team as center, but quit when he saw the United States' team in which their shortest player was taller than he was.
     Our personal encounter with adoption came over a year ago when routine ultrasound images showed abnormalities in our eight-weeks-old fetus my wife Deanne was carrying.  Our doctor made us an appointment at a fetal diagnostic center and offered to later test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Down syndrome and spina bifida—early notice apparently to give us time to decide whether or not to terminate the pregnancy.  I told Deanne, who later brooded over the prospect of caring for a special needs child that if we didn't feel up to it, we could consider giving it up for adoption.  But if we did give it up, we'd have to do so at birth, because once we brought it home and cared for it, we'd become so attached, it'd be too painful to give away after that.  She didn't like the adoption idea because when her dad, as an adult, tracked down and talked to his biological mother, she outright rejected him and told him to never bother her again, which devastated him.
     Abortion was something neither of us felt comfortable with, so that left us with planning to keep the baby, possibly skipping the test, and praying everything would be fine.
     Two weeks passed and the next ultrasound showed the baby fine, clear, and healthy, but also an abnormal bulge in the uterine wall that the doctor said the fetal diagnostic center may better be able to identify.  Three days later, the fetal diagnostic center's high-tech ultrasound showed the same size fetus with no heartbeat, and multiple chromosomal abnormalities—possibly Down syndrome.  The fetus had apparently died in the intervening period.  We opted to wait for a natural discharge of the fetus' remains (or a miracle recovery), but ten days passed and Deanne seemed increasingly less pregnant.  At the next doctor's visit, the ultrasound confirmed no growth and no heart beat or blood flow.  The doctor recommended a procedure to remove the fetus, placenta, and other baby-related support systems to prevent infection, which Deanne and I agreed to.
     The miscarriage shocked and disappointed us.  We had been buoyed by the prospect of a fourth child yet stressed at the same time by the logistics of planning a preparing for its arrival and funding its future.  What eased the pain and emptiness was knowing God had decided for us.  It was if He said, “No, not now.  I want this child with me, chromosomal abnormalities and all—it doesn't matter to me, I love it just the same.”
     Deanne had a dream a couple days later of her deceased father (who recently died after a prolonged bout with colon cancer).  She placed a baby in his arms and said, “Here's Jen.”  Dad had never met our youngest child Jaren, who just turned six, and Jen was the name we had preselected from six-and-a-half years ago to name him, had he been a girl.
     A part of me wondered:  If God blesses us with another daughter, will we still feel comfortable naming her Jen?  It took us awhile to come up with that name (not her real name, by the way, we don't share that with anyone until after birth).  But after Deanne again got pregnant, we realized, no, Jen would not do.  So we came up with a different name.  God again called the fetus to Him (after two weeks).  It had been such a short pregnancy, and we had guarded our hearts just in case, so the shock of disappointment was not quite so severe.  God's will be done in all things.  He has been good to us beyond compare.

Date Nights

     Deanne and I have been married for fifteen years—the fifteen happiest years of my life (and hers too, so she replies sometimes more convincingly than others).  Most everyone agrees that a key to happy spousal relations, especially for couples raising kids, is continual courtship-style dating.  One Christian counselor advised that in economic terms, spending one to two hundred dollars every other week and enough for one “big” thing (trip to Europe, week in a ski lodge, etc.) every other year or so is a bargain to keep things alive because the cost of divorce is magnitudes higher (in terms of alimony; child support; duplicate housing, utility, and insurance costs; etc.)  Fortunately, my wife and I don't have such expensive tastes and manage to date on much less (and have yet to do, post-kids, a “big” style thing—we travel as a family; our budget and baby sitting options don't allow the two of us to disappear for days at a time.)

     We find that the best dates don't involve shopping (especially not for necessities) and rarely involve movies.  All too often, these get us into tunnel-vision mode, detracting from attentiveness toward each other.
     Dates we enjoy involve concerts, eating, scenic walks (highly recommended) window shopping, plays, shows, and a variety of music forums.  When I think about it, it's shocking how limited the variety of our dates have been.  But due to physical limitations and preferences, we discovered early on that our dates wouldn't be about skiing, skating, golfing, bowling, dancing, scuba diving, or hiking, or about adrenalin-rush adventures (crowded festivals or group-oriented activities).  We prefer our alone-times to be about anticipating then sharing a slow-cooked meal sans the hassles of preparation and clean-up, which always puts us into wind-down mode.  Or sitting quietly to witness a live performance (with plenty of hand-holding, whispered conversations, people watching, and discussions before and after.)  Or walking after a meal or show at my slow, preferred pace (man takes the lead, like in ballroom dancing), looking, exploring, and doing whatever catches our fancies, spontaneous and free.
     Fondly remembered shows included Altar Boys, Spring Awakening, Rain—The Beatles Experience, Loggins & Messina, Diane Shuur, Manhattan Transfer, The Nutcracker, Die Fledermaus, and The Odyssey.  Fondly remember restaurants included Chai's Bistro, The Chart House in Haiku Gardens (where we married), Canton House, Empress, The Olive Garden, Maharani, and countless others.  Pleasant walks included Waikiki, Fort deRussey, Ala Moana, Downtown, University, Puck's Alley, Waialae, Kapahulu, strip malls, Ward area shops, Honolulu Waterfront, and Aloha Tower Marketplace.  Only now do I realize how urban our walks have been (we're not much into picnics due to the burden of preparation and clean-up and we hate long drives), yet, they've never felt hustle-bustle, perhaps because our focus had been on savoring the child-free moments.
     Deanne is from a big city, so man-made scenery tends to comfort her.  Although I'm from Hilo and sometimes still long for a more open-air environment, I've adapted and learned to enjoy doing simple, fun, and easy things together even if in high population density locations.  Though often surrounded by people, we still feel alone enough—unrecognized and left to our own private intimacies—to reconnect as man-woman friends.  As another pastor once said, couples rarely fall out of love.  It's when they fall out of friendship that trouble begins.
     It's up to us, then, to keep our friendship alive by continuing to court each other (dress up, bathe, primp, and offer gently courtesies), making the effort to be attractive and sexually desirable.  Dating offers the opportunity, yet it's up to us to make it happen.  Fun and romantic?  Or painful and boring?  Usually it's the former or at least part of it is.  Total bombs, though rare, are learning experiences.  What went wrong?  Poor planning?  Bad attitudes?  An over-busy schedule?  In the midst of such a bomb, I start praying, and God always comes through—even if it’s just a pleasant surprise restaurant at the end of a long, hot walk through an unpleasant neighborhood.  And such memories tend to stick—the good within the bad, which makes it sometimes seem even better than it really was.  But that’s okay—it’s all good when you’re dating your spouse.

Serious Stuff

     A friend of mine and his wife—who I'll call Douglas and Sharie—have been missionaries in China (where foreigners may not wish to openly disclose their missionary status) for the past three years, in a western, modern, technologically advanced, and comfortable city that is getting startlingly expensive. Tuition for their son's highly rated preschool shot up over a hundred percent to several thousand dollars a semester. They struggle to make it on Douglas' meager side-business income and minimal financial support from Hawaii (their small, young church meets in a community center).
     Within a few short years after marrying, they chose to deliver their first child, a boy, in Hawaii; their second, a girl, in Japan (where they stayed near Sharie's missionary parents, who live there); and their third, another girl, in China.
     I received a jubilant newsletter e-mail from Douglas last year describing the birth of Theresa, their last child. Sharie had suffered terrible bouts of morning sickness with all three babies, requiring intravenous drips administered at home, even, for the final pregnancy, and frequent dosages of anti-nausea medication just to be able to hold solid foods down. He hadn't stated this as the reason for stopping at three (she had originally wanted more), but I guessed it may have been a factor, the decision sounded so definite and sudden.
     Within the week I sent him a congratulatory e-mail, rejoicing with them, and again marveling that here he was, a China missionary, finally, after twenty years of having longed to go.
     A week passed with no reply—which was no surprise, they were so busy and he rarely corresponded with me personally, anyway, he had so many other contacts, commitments, and responsibilities. The next mass e-mail I received gave me the same shocked chill of disbelief as the TV images did the morning of 9-11: Theresa had displayed symptoms (quick, shallow breathing; paleness; low temperature; vomiting) the day before (a Saturday) and they were told to bring her in that night, and by Sunday, she was in an incubator in the intensive care unit with a tube to help her breathe and constant monitoring of her vitals. CT scans and blood and other tests revealed serious problems in her heart beat, brain, respiration, blood pressure, and other bodily functions. Despite her critical condition, they were allowed to see her only once a week for two hours on Wednesdays. His e-mail was urgent, asking for prayer, but not at all panicked.
     I received that e-mail Monday and, already dreading the worst, sent an immediate response saying I had and would continue to pray and that no matter what happened, God would take excellent care of Theresa, she was so sweet and innocent. Days passed and no e-mail updates of a miraculous recovery or stablized condition or even further concerns came, so I dreaded even more—Douglas was always good about reassuring those that might worry for them. The next news of Theresa came through a friend who had heard of it through another: Theresa died Sunday evening.
     I don't know how Douglas and Sharie did it, but they immediately posted a web-based tribute to Theresa. The photos depict as healthy a baby as I have ever seen—alert eyes, strong neck, responsive face, and well-formed limbs. A photo of ultrasound images of Theresa as a fetus suggested the doctor's close monitoring of her prenatal development. Douglas described the hospital's newborn care in glowing terms, in certain respects superior to that at Queen's, where his son had been delivered.
     “It doesn't make sense!” kept popping into my head, reminding me of what a gentleman at a church I once attended said of his wife's premature demise: “It doesn't make sense. No matter how much I go over it, it doesn't make sense. It will never make sense.” Yet Douglas and Sharie's web tribute showed their faith and thankfulness, even joy that they had been blessed by Theresa during her short three weeks of life.
     Would this have happened in America? I can't help but wonder sometimes. Theresa, I noticed, was conspicuously delivered the modern, Chinese way, unlike her two siblings and brother in particular, who had received the full western-style medical treatment. Is that what caused it? An infection perhaps? A missed congenital birth defect? Their hospital—reputedly the best in west China—was located only a mile away from their home and their doctor had excellent recommendations from other expatriots whose babies he had delivered. Our modern western and natural human tendency, perhaps, is to want to know, a need for assurances that no matter what happened, it couldn't have been avoided as it was God's will for it to have happened that way. But such closure has not happened for Douglas and Sharie, not that it matters much because nothing will bring back Theresa, which is all they really want even now.
     I didn’t question in my mind anything they subsequently did or did not do—stay, leave, curse God, or love and praise Him more—it was their decision. But I did pray for God to bless them with peace and rest in the midst of turmoil and that they would continue on, day by day, knowing God would bless them for their faithfulness, and that all they hoped for for Theresa and her legacy would come to pass.
     They recently had a get-together in Honolulu—they had come back for the delivery of their fourth child. They were glowing and flush with joy for the reunion as they gave presentations of their missionary experiences. As Sharie started to sob as she described the birth of Theresa and the subsequent build up to what fallowed, I left the room with Jaren and Penelope—the impressionable ones—and we waited outside. Fifteen minutes later, Deanne and Braden came out and we left together for home—it was an informal gathering and we had already exchanged our well-wishes with the upbeat couple who had a ways to go with their presentation. They knew our hearts and it was enough for now.

Analog vs. Digital

     When I was in college, I splurged on a high quality Thorens manual turntable, which produced excellent sound through a Scott amplifier and Marantz speakers—far from top-of-the-line, but plenty enjoyable.
     A few years later, post-college, I rented a room in a house in which the owner allowed me to use his stereo system with CD player.  I did a side-by-side comparison of vinyl album vs. digital CD—same song playing at the exact same time through otherwise identical equipment and switchable at will between the two, convinced analog was superior.  To my disappointment and surprise, digital won, hands down:  it's highs and midrange were crisper and livelier, and its lows a lot less muddy.  Henceforth, whenever I had the choice, I always selected CD over albums.  But my listening pleasure didn't increase, it decreased.  I attributed it to nostalgia and grief over my obsolete equipment. 
     But after I moved out, I went back to my albums and found them as enjoyable as ever.
     About that time, I bought my first camera—a Pentax SLR—that shot great photos and was fun and easy to use.  I got into black and white photography, and did my own developing and print processing in a rented darkroom.  Some of my photos taken on grainy tri-x film blew me away—forceful, timeless, and immediate—no Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier Bresson, but plenty satisfying considering my humble amateur hands and equipment.  I still use the camera as backup to a Pentax Super Program I purchased used a few years back, and they still produce great shots.
     The digital SLR hype was something I wished to avoid for the remainder of my life—too expensive—and their photos looked too fakey, with hyper-kinetic colors.  Even the digital black and white photos from the white house looked flat and disappointing, especially compared to those of the Nixon and Kennedy eras.
     While browsing Pentax camera reviews on the internet I finally, finally, finally found digital black and white photos with the snap that I crave.  Turns out that for these, Pentax digital color photos were converted to black and white via a PC software that mimics black and white (and color) films.  And they were all set to mimic my all-time favorite:  tri-x.
     Why is it that superior doesn't always equal greater enjoyment?  Why is it that we are sometimes drawn and attracted to the imperfect in art or beauty?  Marilyn Monroe's mole?  Venus de Milo's missing arms?  JFK's distinctive accent?  Hemingway's clipped prose?
     The human mind has the amazing capacity to fill-in-the blanks—to complete a sentence before someone has finished saying it, to read into a poem more than was written, to feel more deeply about a painting than the subject matter alone.  It is this filling-in-of-the-blanks that I believe often draws audiences in, involves them, and increases their enjoyment.  Because, after all, nothing is more boring than in-your-face perfection.
     Digital is here to stay, but there will always be room for imperfect analog—and by that I mean that which mimics the imperfect in art or in the world.  Regrettably, vinyl records and photographic film will soon enough disappear, but pens, pencils, paintbrushes, and traditional musical instruments will stay for awhile longer—perhaps until the arrival of suitable digital substitutes.  Although I donated my record player and will probably one day do likewise with my cameras and other analog devises, a part of me will always prefer the warmth and personality of phonograph albums, film photography, handwritten letters, original paintings, and live musicians.  Old fashioned instruments, no matter how technically superior their microchip-enhanced replacements may be, will also always trigger fond memories for me.

Public Appearances

     Success has its price.  Back in the 1980s when I was a brand new “E” staff accountant at a Big Eight CPA firm in Seattle, rumor had it that one of the firm's former partners had been fired for disreputable behavior:  mowing his front lawn while topless.  I doubted the veracity of the story and deemed it a ploy to get us new E's in line with the firm's prestigious, straight-arrow image. 
     Then, at a lunch break during a training seminar, the office's managing partner graciously asked if he could join a coworker and I, already seated at a small table eating our hand held cold cuts sandwiches enfolded in elegant paper napkins.  We of course said yes, please do, so he sat and to my surprise, began to use a fork and knife to arrange the sliced meats on open bread slices and to eat as if an open-faced hot sandwich lay on his plate.
     I glanced at my fellow E, who continued to hold his sandwich in hand before him.  The rest of the accountants in the room that I could see from the corners of my eyes did likewise, so I relaxed, continued to eat as before, and refocused on our conversation.
      But the managing partner, perhaps sensing my momentary hesitancy, appeared self-conscious and ill at ease with his informal steak eating technique (upside down fork lifted prongs-down to mouth with left hand) and managed to eat only a half sandwich (and this was thin, light fare) before dismissing himself early.  I marveled that we lowly E's enjoyed a full and satisfactory meal, whereas our office's top official (a fine man, by the way) had to suffer and go hungry because his lofty position precluded him from hand-eating sandwiches like everyone else.
     Comparably, at an office party many years ago, a coworker and I were standing near the buffet line waiting for later arrivals when the then chief executive strode up to us in full suit and tie regalia and after obligatory hand-shakes and greetings said in true local fashion with a smile and much gusto, “Ay, I no can eat this food,” gesturing toward the modest (we paid for it ourselves) but ample catered and donated offerings.  In true local fashion I shot back with a smile and much gusto, “Why?  What's wrong with the food?” gesturing back toward the serving trays and tables, expecting a response recounting doctor's orders, diet restrictions, or some other food-related limitations.  Instead, a wall went up, as if he'd caught himself, and, back stiffened and hands gathered together in front, he said with measured temperament and cadence, low and even, eyes fixed henceforth on only my coworker, “I had a bowl of oxtail soup this morning.  It was a big bowl.”  Coincident with the word “big”, his head went forward for emphasis.   Then, wishing us well, he departed.
     What price success? I later wondered.  Can't successful people even be themselves at a business gatherings or in public?  Do they always have to watch what they say or do lest someone say this or that about them?  Can't they just do what they like without fear of others' opinions—as if they even cared?
     A wise man once said, “When you're twenty years old, you care about what others think of you.  When you're thirty, you don't care.  And when you're fifty, you realize they weren't thinking of you at all.”
     I have been blessed to date by kids who are not overly obsessed with fitting in or looking or acting like their peers, though they do have their own fashion preferences.  My oldest son has at times preferred long, disheveled hair and scuffed-up shoes.  My daughter wears girly active wear and nary a dress (she who once loved summer dresses).  And my youngest son enjoys T-shirts, polo shirts, and shorts, comfort being his prime objective.
     And I?  I wear standard business aloha attire and bring home lunch (a big no-no at most CPA firms) to work.  In public, I just try to relax, be myself, and enjoy, knowing no one's really looking at, or thinking or talking about me anyway--just another middle-aged man in the crowd who sure looks skinny.

Modes of Communication

       My wife is from South East Asia. Our first encounters were two brief conversations during her short stay in Hawaii for her brother Gerard's graduation from H.P.U., but since I knew she was heading back, I left it at that. (Gerard and I were friends from church.)
     Three years passed and Gerard was at Texas A&M pursuing an MBA degree when he wrote me a letter that mentioned in passing how Deanne still remembered me. I wrote back and mentioned in passing that I remembered her and would love to hear from her again. Five months later, I received a letter from Deanne and thus we began our correspondence.
     We started with snail mail—the best—then moved on to faxes to speed things up. She had a work e-mail account (rather high-tech at the time), but since I hadn't an e-mail hookup or even a computer at home, I sent faxes, which I transmitted from fee-for-service businesses at about a dollar per (handwritten) page.
     And we made phone calls, eventually, that averaged five hundred dollars a month. I hadn't yet heard of phone cards, still in their infancy, so I lost out on substantial savings but never regretted it since the phone bills came in handy when it came time to establish the legitimacy of our relationship when I later applied for a fiance visa for her to come over for us to marry.
     My first personal e-mail account came about a decade later—required of all parents of cub scouters. My son had been acting out in school, so we decided he needed outside interests, so I signed him up for something we both could enjoy. (As a kid, I had enjoyed scouting's fun, life-enriching experiences.)
     I immediately detested the medium. Fifteen plus messages would regularly appear in my in box, ninety percent of which were unnecessary and wasted my time to open, read, and discard. Some parents made a habit of “responding to all”, so I had to open all these irrelevant side conversations, FYI's, and links to items of (dis)interest. And computer face-time, which I always deemed a necessary evil, became even more burdensome. “Lazy correspondence” is what I consider e-mails. Rather than a nice, friendly phone call or hand-written personal letter (remember that?), I stare at hard-to-read colored lights on a cold, partial screen that has to be scrolled down just to view an entire message which is nearly always poorly written, and full of grammatical and spelling errors and misinformation. And rarely do thing get settled timely. There's all too often a back-and-forth, trying to decide on good dates, times, activities, facilities availability, and other have-to-get-it-right minutia. (Who will bring a starch? I'll bring Costco pizza. Do we have cups? I can bring juice syrup if someone has pitchers. Will we need ice? I have ice chests if...)
     I've thought about this some and rate e-mail to be about the lowest form of communication, based largely on the well-established fact that over ninety percent of communication is non-verbal. The highest form of communication is, thus, in-person, face-to-face. Being a visual person, I love it the best. Everything's out in the open, no hiding behind a screen or off in a room somewhere. Facial expressions, body language, even scent, dress, demeanor, and eye contact all count.
     Quite a bit lower on the scale (not counting Skype and teleconferencing, which I have never done) is telephone communications. At least you can hear the person's voice, cadence, pauses, and breathing and thus, perhaps, decode some emotions (angry? happy? chipper? down?), although I suggest never, ever to fight with a loved one over the phone where it's much too easy to get carried away and act far worse than in person. Some of the worst conversations in my life have been over the phone. Just remembering the angry hurt and bitter exchanges—it's hard to believe how uncivil things got. And being hung up on is like having a door slammed in your face—it's difficult to take and recover from.
     A bit lower on the scale but sometimes even better, are hand-written letters. Here you actually can see, touch, feel, and smell a piece of original art (even if it's just scribbles) that the other created. It may include tear or ketchup stains, lipstick smears, or even perfumed fragrance. The space, neatness and size of alphabets and words, and the paragraphing and corrections can suggest speed of writing, thoughts, and emotions. And they make wonderful keepsakes (e.g. love letters and birthday or anniversary cards). Handwritten letters also allow time for and almost force thoughtful composition—you can only write so fast, which tends to improve expressiveness and eliminate hurtful words and passages.
     Last of all are the cold and all-too-often impersonal mass e-mails. The worst correspondences I have ever received were through this medium. My best friend misinterpreted an e-mail response I sent him that ridiculed his taste in a certain book (we talk on the phone this way all the time and share guffaws) and he shot back one of the most insulting, belittling invective filled harangues I have ever received. I almost shot back an equally belittling counter-offensive when I realized this is not worth losing our twenty-five year friendship over. With angry, thumping heart, I gave an even, measured response that allowed us both to save face (retain our self dignities). We haven't exchanged an e-mail since and it's just as well as there's been no further hard feelings between us.
     A recent study found that electronic communications (including e-mails, twitter, and facebook posts) topped the list of things that can cause marital discord, meaning, don't use it as a substitute for face-to-face communications.
     I'm not surprised. If I had my choice, we'd eliminate the medium. Life wasn't any worse without it. As a youth, we'd have scout meetings every Tuesday, seven o'clock. You'd be told at each meeting what to expect or prepare for the next meeting. Occasional friendly phone calls settled last minute details—even these were seldom urgent: if someone couldn't be reached, we'd just make do and be prepared to improvise. Doing without may have required a bit more planning (a good thing) and sometimes more individual interaction (phone calls, usually), but isn't improved interpersonal relationships worth it?