Now We're Cooking...

Since being home and looking for full-time work -- a project, by the way, that is just about to hit the six-month mark, which has me on the outer edges of either absolute panic or absolute dread -- I have become chief chef of the household.

Eileen cooks well -- very well, in fact -- but her schedule now puts her home late in the afternoon, whereas I am home for the major portion of each day.

So I have taken over KP duty. And I'm okay with that.

When my mother, an RN, went back to work nights (I was in fourth or fifth grade), after her shifts were over, she bundle us off to school and sleep during the day. When we arrived home, there were chores to be done that she couldn't do, owing to her sleep cycles. So she taught her sons -- all three of them -- the finer arts of cooking, laundry, vacuuming, bed-making (hospital corners!), and other household skills.

They have all held me in good stead.

Truth be told, cooking was not Mom's strong suit. She was very much into culinary convenience, and the shortest distance between an empty table and a full belly often meant a trip through leftover-land. 

When the Crock Pot entered our lives, Mom was in heaven. She could assemble a meal, set it to bubble, go to bed, arise late in the afternoon, and have a hot dinner ready for when Dad got home.

Trouble is, she fell into ruts.

The Crock Pot came with a recipe booklet, and one of the dishes was some kind of bean and ground-beef concoction that was supposed to have a hint of BBQ flavoring to it, thanks to a dash of Liquid Smoke. Recipes for my mother, however, were best-case scenarios, and in a pinch, she found it perfectly acceptable to substitute. Especially if the substitution meant she could clear a leftover from the refrigerator.

So sometimes the ground-beef was supplanted by remnants of a pork loin that we'd had a few days prior.

Or some chicken, shredded off the bone.

All of which were fine variations.

Until they got out of hand. Occasionally, we'd find resurrected spaghetti in the pot, swirling in Liquid Smoke. Sometimes it was veal. Or Scrapple in there.

Also in her vein of recipe-as-suggestion-only mode, she stopped measuring seasonings like salt and pepper. And Liquid Smoke. I guess she thought that the more Smoke, the less likely were were to notice that we were really eating the Lo-Mein that we hadn't finished the weekend prior.

Gradually, we began to dread this dish. Upon coming home from school and finding it burbling in the pot begat sighs of resignation. And then eventually out-and-out protests.

I think the end of this dish in our weekly rotations came when we re-christenened it from "BBQ Burger -n- Beans" (or whatever its original title was) to "Bean Crud" a name that sticks with it to this day, even though we haven't had it in years.

In all fairness, though, my mother was magic with a pie. Using a "recipe" that was never written down (I suspect it was her mother's), she could weave fruit and dough into the most delicious pies imaginable. Apple. Peach. Strawberry. And my favorite in summer: Rhubarb.

But entrees? Not so much.

So I think to protect himself from biweekly servings of Bean Crud on the menu, Dad started cooking.

And interestingly enough, he was darned good at it.

So at his elbow, I learned a lot about seasoning and braising and savory flavors. Sunday afternoons, with Mom asleep upstairs, was our time to cook together.

The adventure, however, wasn't without its challenges. He got the notion one weekend for us to make homemade soft pretzels. We worked on the dough for hours, kneading and yeasting and dusting with flour. And I don't remember exactly what the problem was (I suspect some issue with the rising process), but when we were finished, we had exactly two pretzels to show for our labors.

He ate his. I ate mine. End of cooking session.

One other of his culinary pursuits was Pepperpot Soup, which his mother used to make. The recipe for this Philadelphia staple was a long and complicated series of steps involving tripe and little balls of dough, and by the time he finished making it, he had already declared the effort to be futile, not as good as his mother's."Maybe it's the water," he suspected. "Needs to come from those City reservoirs."

Christmas meant Springerles, a complicated and time-consuming German cookie that his grandmother used to make. I've inherited his love of these -- and the special molds necessary to create little images on their puffy surfaces. Their creation has been made a little easier thanks to an industrial mixer we purchased a few years back, but they still require a lot of attention and can go wrong at any number of points along the way.

But when they're right, oh, they are delicious. Springerles remain one of our most treasured holiday traditions.

So I'll be cooking tonight. I'm thinking Fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken. Maybe a small salad to go with. And a simple but sweet dessert. Later in the week, I'm looking at chili, especially as the weather turns damp and cold in these early days of fall.

Anything but Bean Crud!

An Unlikely Spokes-man

I finished the entire 75-mile length of the 2012 MS City-to-Shore ride on Saturday. Despite my fears beforehand; despite my thinking that I was ill prepared; despite the notion that at almost 50 years of age, I had no business attempting such an endeavor.

Despite all that, I crossed the finish line with my team, the Spoke Busters, at about 4PM.

It was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done.

As I blogged about before, I underwent a total attitude change with regard to this ride. All summer long, I kvetched: Am *I* ready? Am *I* fit enough? Do *I* have what it takes?

Until Eileen reminded me: It's not about me. It's not about me, not in the least. It's about people who don't have the physical capacity to climb onto a bike at all. Ever. Or the physical capacity to stand. Or even move from a bed.

So my worries about sore muscles and epic fails were misplaced, on multiple levels.

It was an unforgettable day.

I awoke early, at 5AM. Took the dog for a quick walk, with the full moon still in full view. It was chilly, and the grass shimmered with dew in the milky light.

Eileen was dropping me off at the home of our team captain, and I was travelling to the starting point with her and the other Spoke Busters. Still dark, we arrived at her home, stowed all the bikes onto the cars we would be taking, and were off. I hugged Eileen tightly and said that I'd see her at the finish line.

We arrived at the PATCO station outside of Cherry Hill, NJ, where this odyssey would begin. It was swarming with people. The organizers were using a cattle-chute arrangement to send riders out in packs rather than in a throng, which was probably a good idea even if just from a safety standpoint.

I was shivering. A lot. It might have been the cold. Or the adrenaline. Or both.

8AM was the cutoff time; teams not prepared to leave by then would be bused to the first rest stop and their rides would be automatically shortened to 50 miles. Not wanting to incur that penalty, we hurried along and got to the start. By this point, it was possible to just enter the course in a steady stream, so with little fanfare, we were off.

The initial miles were through neighborhoods and residential areas. Police support was everywhere, holding back traffic as we needed and gauging congestion. There were also numerous volunteers along the way, showing us turns and route info. Mile one. Two. Three. Each one was marked by a roadside sign. Four. Five.

I was feeling good. The flow wasn't too crowded, and those I did feel the need to pass were politely moved aside with my calling "On your left." I was, at first, very cognizant of every mile, but after a while, I fell into a zone and just let my thighs and calves take over and do the work.

I retreated. Completely inside my own thoughts. All worries went away: Would I finish? Would I be okay? Would it rain? Would I get lost?

The bigger issues I've been carrying around all summer long -- the job concerns, the financial  woe, the depression associated with repeated rejection -- all that faded, too.

I remember looking up sometime later and coming across mile marker 17. Wow! How did that happen?

Rest Stop #1 was around the 20-mile mark, and I glided in. Support staff were everywhere, and anything a rider could need was there for the taking, from medical assistance to mechanical repairs. Water. PortaPotties. Snacks. Music. Dancing. Encouragement. All there.

We Spoke Busters agreed on a system by which we could each ride at our own pace but wait for the entire team at each stop. It was an effective way of allowing each rider to go at his/her own speed but also not to feel totally alone during the ride.

Back on the road, I found a very effective strategy for maintaining progress. I positioned myself behind a rider whose pace I felt comfortable with. Not too slow, but not so fast that I was chugging to stay close. And in that slipstream, I would just crank it. The miles piled on one another, and I definitely felt the thrill of making progress: I was actually doing this!

The countryside became much more rustic the further we went. Housing developments and stop lights were replaced by wide open farmland and the scent of horses. One home we went by was fully decorated for Halloween, with plastic ghosts and ghouls having a spree in the front yard. From behind the front gate, the homeowner screamed and bellowed, wearing a monster mask and wolfman gloves to spur us onward.

There were steady reminders of why we were doing this. Every now and again, stuck in the dirt, were lawn signs provided by MS listing the name of a patient: "Joe McDonald. Age 44. Diagnosed in 2001." There were also hand-lettered signs: "My Sister Thanks You for Riding" and "MS Sucks. You ROCK!!" Several homes had people on their lawns, cheering, clapping, bell-ringing, horn-blowing.

One of the stops had an MS patient onsite. She lay on a gurney, with a control room of equipment around her, just outside a vehicle that clearly had been designed to transport her. Her family held signs: Thank you for Riding. Thank you for Caring.

No, miss. Thank *you*. For reminding us how lucky we really are.

It was a very good feeling.

The fellow riders along the way were all so courteous. Upon passing, they would remind: On your left. On your left. If anyone was aside the road, cyclists going by would ask if he/she were okay. And there were little conversations that would pop up between strangers: "Keep it up. We're doing great. Nice weather for this, isn't it?"

The terrain began to flatten out. Several of the curbs had dustings of sand in them, indicating that we were generally making progress toward the beaches of Ocean City.

One of the rest stops served lunch. The Spoke Busters filled up on chicken sammies and veggie burgers and got back on the road.

The last leg was the one that intimidated me the most: Before crossing into the Gardens section of Ocean City, it would be necessary to cross two imposing bridges over the bay. They were long. They were high. And we would be tired.

As the ride wound down, we left the mainland town of Somers Point and, turning a bend in the road, faced the bridges head-on.

It was now or never.

I clanked down a few gears to make the pedaling easier and dug in. More. More. I passed a few riders who decided to walk their bike to the crest, but I was determined not to resort to that method of crossing. Eventually, the gravitational pull began to draw me forward, and I knew I was at the top. The view was spectacular, and with a whoosh of excitement, I flew down the opposing side.

'Round a bend. Travelling on the roadway through a marshy area. And then: Bridge Number Two.

It was shorter than the first, but the rise was steeper. Again, I shifted down and dug deep.

We agreed as a team to wait for each other at the top of this hill, and just as I was starting to really pant, I reached it. I was with one other member of our team -- someone whose pace matched mine nicely -- and we enjoyed the view. And the victory of having defeated these obstacles.

Before long, my remaining teammates joined us and together, we sailed down the far side and into Ocean City. There were cheering squads on just about every corner now, and we zoomed through the north end of the island and off to the finish at the high school.

Turning that last corner, I heard some particularly rousing cheers. There were Eileen and the girls, clapping and hooting at my achievement. Kristin held a sign on neon posterboard: Way to Go Dad!

I pulled into the bike parking area and basked in the glow of goodwill. I accepted the congratulations for the achievement and smiled from ear to ear.

The City-to-Shore Ride was one of the most gratifying things I've ever done. I was sore the next day for sure (walking the dog that night was a real lesson in tiredness). But my aches and pains and slow steps would resolve themselves in a day or two.

The people for whom I rode?

Theirs would be there the following day. And the day after that. And the day after that...

I am so blessed.

Fear of Failure

I am setting out Saturday on a rather wild adventure.

I am participating for the first time in the City-to-Shore ride for MS. My leg will comprise a 75-mile bike ride from Cherry Hill, NJ, to Ocean City, NJ. Riders can choose more mileage than that, including a whopping 150-mile ride in which, after arriving at the Shore on Saturday, they turn around and ride the same 75 miles back on Sunday.

There is also a 25-mile loop along the way, in case any riders want to log a full 100 on their odometers.

I'll be content finishing 75, thank you very much.

I am participating as part of a team. The captain, a good friend of ours, has made this ride maybe four or five times in past editions of the event. We have supported her in the past (the ride is a fundraiser, after all), but this is the first time I've ridden with her.

It is something I've thought about for a long time -- yes, it is a "bucket list" item -- but I never quite mustered the courage to try before.

And now, I'm questioning my sanity.

I have had all summer -- jobless --  to "train," an activity I engaged in with regular outings on my bike. During the summer swelter, I would dutifully pedal a couple of miles, grateful for the breezes that cut the humidity. And best is when Claire, our middle button daughter, would join me.

At my best, I traveled 30 miles in one ride. I took the nearby Schulykill River Trail 15 miles toward the city of Philadelphia, turned around, and came back the same 15 miles. I fell into a groove of pacing myself, and frankly, the test wasn't as bad as I had imagined it.

But looming in my thoughts is the knowledge that that ride represents less than half of what I'll face on Saturday.

I'm dreading failure. Being still without full-time employment has made me very sensitive about failure. I feel like I've let down my family in the fact that I was let go from my former employer in the first place. I have also felt the sting of rejection in the numerous job interviews that resulted in nothing -- no offer, no job, no hope. 

So failing at this ride will leave me very deflated.

I am therefore making every effort to cross that finish line.

I was discussing all this with Eileen, and she brought me a new perspective. She's good at that. One of the reasons I love her so deeply.

She re-framed my outlook by pointing out that this is a fundraiser. For a charity. To benefit people with MS.

In that light, it's really not about me at all.

And then there's this. Owing to the generosity of friends and family, I have been fortunate enough to raise a considerable sum for this outreach. Each rider is required to raise $300 to be able to participate. I began trolling for donations back in may, and to my utter shock (and deepest gratitude), I've amassed more than $1,000 for MS.

A generous outpouring from friends. Friends who believe in me. Friends who are there for me.

My favorite film of all time, It's a Wonderful Life, hinges on the message that George Bailey finds written in his copy of Tom Sawyer at the end:

No man is a failure who has friends.

It rings in my head as I consider this ride and my ability to finish.

No Man Is a Failure Who Has Friends....

In that respect, I've already crossed the finish line.

Emotional Keys

I went to a funeral this morning. I didn't know the deceased. I went there as organist, playing music to ease the pain of the family's final farewell to a loved one.

I have long ago lost track of how many funerals I've provided music for over 35 years of being a church organist. It is a lot, I imagine. When I think of my own passing -- someday a long time from now, God willing -- I hope that among those greeting me on the other side are the souls of those I helped bid goodbye. After all, when it comes to passing through the Pearly Gates, I figure I'm going to need all the help I can get.

This morning's funeral was the second one I attended this week. The first was for my Aunt -- my mother's sister -- who passed away from complications of Alzheimer's. Just like Mom did.

Funny enough, the music director at my Aunt's church is my former music teacher; he was the one who opened the doors to me for reading, interpreting, presenting, conducting, and praying with music. We caught up a little and then he asked if I'd like to play something for my Aunt at the Mass.

I declined. I was there as a mourner only and wasn't interested in taking the bench.

Playing a funeral requires a deep level of emotional distancing from the tears, tissues, hugs, and remembrances. That distance requires a totally separate frame of mind for me to competently play. It's about focus; it's about brain-power; it's about attention. All of which fly in the face of being able to grieve myself. Or share in others' grief.

I describe it this way: When I play, I am in work mode. Which means I am in a totally different realm, necessitated by the faculties needed to play the organ in the first place and to monitor continually what's going on liturgically.

It's the difference between helping to lead worship and simply participating in worship. It's also the reason I chose not to play Mass for either of my parents' funerals. Or my Aunt's. I wanted to participate in those liturgies. Not help lead them.

I'm asked a lot whether playing funerals bothers me. Not really. The ability to take myself out of the sadness and grief and operate in that work mode comes very much in handy.

But it's not 100%.

I can recall playing for the funeral Mass of the pastor of my first "true" church job. Despite its questionable use in Catholic Liturgy, the "Our Father" by Albert J. Malotte was a favorite of this priest. It's here, if you need a reminder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HblbMFvWyIM

It was included in his funeral Mass, just as it was at every Mass he celebrated. But midway through the introduction, it all hit me: He was gone; the piece's unorthodoxy would come to light by his successor; and this was likely the last time I would play it. And so in a wash of emotion, the tears crept down my cheeks as I maneuvered through the measures.

The only other time I can recall having difficulty with a funeral liturgy is when I was serving as music director/organist at a nearby Protestant church.

The choir there was very small but very dedicated, and I clicked in a big way with one of the baritones, Neil. Neil was a handful of years older than I, but he had a quick wit and a generous laugh and a heart as big as all creation. We became fast friends.

He was a man of quiet faith, but his belief ran deep. And perhaps never was it more tested when his 20-something son was killed accidentally, shot as a mistaken burglar by an overly zealous neighbor.

Neil and his wife Marion and his other children were understandably shattered. And the church family was rocked to its very core, hit in the spiritual solar plexus with an out-of-nowhere wallop.

The the date was set for a funeral service and naturally I would be playing. I assumed work mode would take over and I would be fine...

And for most of it, I was.

The sanctuary was packed. Neil's son had a wide net of friends, and the seats quickly filled to capacity. So they stood in the back. And the aisles. And took up just about every square inch of space. I remember clearly that some of the youthful mourners sat cross-legged behind the organ bench itself, so eager were the bereft to share in this family's pain.

I don't recall exactly what triggered it. Maybe it was at the very end, watching Neil and Marion leave the church, shadows of their former selves, hunched over as if their pain was a great weight that they were trying to bear on frail shoulders.

I know the music in my vision blurred and then washed out completely. I couldn't see anything through my crying. But somehow, I pressed on and finished the service.

As bad as it can be for me in these few instances where emotion takes over on the bench, I do consider myself lucky. I can hide behind the console. And fall back on memorization skills to get me through when the score turns watery by my quiet sobs.

But the singers in these situations have it far, far worse. They are front and center, depending on the geography of the church itself. And they've got to sing -- they've got to be able to use their voices and breath control to form the words that bring comfort.

Lucky me.

All I need are fingers and feet. Neither of which turn quivery or crack under duress.

So if you ask me to play a funeral and I accept, fine. But if I politely decline, know that it isn't because I don't want to give you that gift. It's because I'd rather stand with you. Lean my shoulder into yours. And grieve right along with you.

Purple House

Ah, another political season is upon us. Once more, a slate of hopeful candidates leave their corners and engage in one verbal donnybrook after another, hoping to send the other guy to the mat. Or at least the ropes.

We are now in the throes of convention season. Followed by debate season. And then survey season. Which will be followed up by attack-ad season. And then counter-attack-ad season. October surprise. November comeback. Cue the marching bands.

Hm...

Forgive me for being rather blase about the whole thing.

I think after a certain number of elections, it becomes easier and easier to yawn through all of it. From the primaries to the exit polls, the rhetoric from all sides just piles up on itself in a growing heap of promises, half-truths, fuzzy explanations, sketchy details, spin, finger-pointing, baby-kissing, flag-waving, and thumpy-happy theme music.

Wake me when they've swept Pennsylvania Avenue clean of the confetti and let me know how it all played out, willya?

It wasn't always this way for me. My roots were planted in fertile soil for healthy, meaningful political debate.

Mom was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat. She was a depression kid who lived with a steady fear and distrust of financial institutions and believed that the best form of government is one that supports the everyday social needs of its citizenry. She saw the manner in which FDR saved the nation from financial ruin through his alphabet soup of recovery plans, and she continued to believe that it was the government's responsibility to ensure that the poor would never suffer in that manner again. As a nurse, she wanted a President who felt people's pain and did his level best to ease it.

She loved the Kennedys, hated the Nixons, and pulled a straight-ticket D-lever her entire life.

Dad operated from the right, having been attracted to the Republican way of thinking, especially in its support of the military. He was a Navy man, serving during the Korean War, and made his career as a Naval Engineer, drafting aircraft carriers. Budget cuts from the peacenik Ds in Washington took bread and butter off his table, so he voted consistently with the GOP. He felt the role of government was as protectorate on a global scale. As a civil servant, he wanted a President who was strong against all enemies, both foreign and domestic.

He disliked the Kennedys, but he grew to dislike the Nixons as well; in fact, his vote for Nixon was the last he ever cast in a presidential race, declaring them "...all crooks." His views drifted more moderate after his retirement, but none of the subsequent candidates ever caught his attention enough for him to pull the curtain on a voting booth for the rest of his life.

Mom and Dad talked politics a lot. And when they would argue -- sometimes heatedly -- they would retreat to our basement laundry room. There, they would square off, putting a pair of sneakers into the drier so that the metallic clumping noise of the Keds careening off  the inside drum would cover their shouting.

I think that was for our benefit -- the boys -- so that we wouldn't hear them at odds with each other. What they didn't know is that we would huddle above the heat register in the dining room and eavesdrop.

And when it was over, it was over. They would calmly re-climb the stairs and go about their business.

So our house growing up was neither red nor blue. It was red and blue. Purple.

Dad used to say that neither one of them should bother to vote at all, as all they were doing is cancelling each other out. He'd tease Mom: "I'll stay home if you stay home."

And she'd eye him suspiciously...

"No," she'd say. "I'm going."

"Okay," he'd counter. "So am I."

There is no such political divide in my own household. Eileen and I both lean right, mostly from a pro-life point of view, given our Roman Catholic faith. But I am altogether aware of the hypocracy that stance can sometimes represent: Pro-life, sure, but I was thrilled to see Al Qaeda blasted to smithereens and cheered with the rest of the country when Osama Bin Laden ended up with a bullet in his temple.

If a baby's life is sacred, isn't al-Zwahiri's as well? I struggle with these questions.

I do get a kick out of hearing/reading other people's reactions to the stumping and the speechifying. As an undergrad, I took a class in the U.S. Presidency, and the professor -- a former pol himself -- noted again and again the purposeful limits on what the C-in-C could actually do. Or not do.

For instance, I'm fairly sure the President of the U.S. cannot set or re-set the price of gasoline on a nationwide basis. Or the price of raspberries. Or loose leaf paper. Or weight loss pills. Or anything else, for that matter.

Not sure he can create jobs, either. Unless he hires a Georgetown teen to cut the White House lawn.

But I think that job is taken.

Facebook has been an interesting canvas on which to watch all this play out.

I am a recent participant in the Facebook phenom, and this is my first presidential election cycle there. The notion that someone's viewpoints will be changed merely by the post of an article -- amid a steady stream of chatter, baseball score updates, high school reunion news, and other digital blather -- is amazing to me.

"Thank you, friend, for posting a link to this <article/video/blog entry/podcast> on <insert Candidate A/B name here>. I had no idea before <reading/viewing/listening> to this information that he was such a <philanderer/fatcat/greedy SOB/scum bucket/schnook> and that his opponent is exactly the kind of <political genius/visionary leader/caring individual/devoted American> that we need to lead us through our most challenging challenges. I am totally convinced now to vote for <Candidate B/A>.

"And with that decided, let me give your post a big, thumbs-up LIKE

"And go vote for my America's Got Talent faves!"

I just don't see it.

I'm not a Tea Bagger, although I'd like to see government on a federal level become less invasive. And yes, that's another point that can be at odds with a pro-life outlook. Hands off guns; hands on uteri. I get it. I get it.

I also know that nobody is going to balance the budget. It is probably to the point that no politician could balance it even if he/she wanted to. But none of them will dare say that.

Nor the words term limits.

Nor the words flat tax.

But I'm getting into my own biases for things I'd like to see from Washington.

I'm also not so into the GOP that I can't see its faults.

For one, the GOP seems to have ceded to the Ds the rights to all the cool and hip candidates. Barack Obama is cool and hip. In fact, he may be all cool and hip and without substance at all.

I did not vote his way, as I found him inexperienced -- a charge I still lobby at him -- but there's no denying that he's glib, friendly, funny, confident, charming, and an excellent speaker.

All the GOP seems to put up cycle after cycle is a slate of BWGs. Boring White Guys. C'mon, Right. Bob Dole? Really? John McCain? Meh! Even Mitt is on the bland side. 

I liked Reagan (he was the first presidential candidate I ever voted for) but do not worship the ground he walked on. I did hate Bill Clinton and could never quite forgive him for being a liar and a cheat. And for what it's worth, I consistently found many of George W. Bush's mutterings to be absolutely cringe-worthy. "Mission Accomplished." Insert foot in mouth.

It's a Washington tradition, seemingly. Exhibit B: our thick-tongued, loose-lipped, rattle-brained VPOTUS Joe Biden.

As for the rest of it and where we go from here, I'm sorry to say that it really won't matter to my day-to-day existence. Wednesday, November 06, 2012, I'll still rise, dress, take the dog out for a walk, put on the coffee pot, and sludge off to my day's work, such that it is. And the day after that. And the day after that. I'll pay taxes. I'll go to church. I'll buy groceries. I'll get my hair cut.

President Obama. President Romney.

Excuse me for this, but does it really matter?

 

The Write Stuff

Before delving into today's topic, just an update: My last entry was rather gray, reflecting the stark reality of the  four-month anniversary of my departure from the world of the working and the frustration I am/was experiencing at moving onward.

It's an up and down process, hunting for work, and I see now that I wrote in a very down frame of mind.

Suffice to say that my mood has lifted since that post, and although I'm not singing and dancing every time I electronically apply for UC benefits, I'm not quite in a bottomless pit, either.

So if any potential employers are monitoring my online presence and are concerned that, faced with a difficult situation, I'll be prone to burn a superior's eyebrows off, hair by hair, with a hot poker, let me offer the assurance that that is wholly not the case.

Okay, moving on...

Yesterday, I volunteered at our church for a major writing project. It's a daunting task, probably calling for initial caps, so that it's more of a Major Writing Project. It's not the length that will cause me some sweat, but rather, the breadth.

But I'm eager to get going and look forward to a new challenge.

In the process of gathering info about what I'm supposed to do and how I'm supposed to do it, there was a lot of back-and-forth talk between me and the project leader, who knows of my music abilities but not really my writing ones.

At one point she casually asked me: "So, what kinds of things have you written?"

And it got me thinking. I've been writing for a long, long time. I remember creating stories in the sixth grade, where, ScoobyDoo-style, I and my friends would enter creepy houses, run from ghosts, and inevitably uncover a smuggling ring or a counterfeiting operation; I routinely cast myself, yes, as the leader of those "meddling kids," without whom the thievery would have been a snap.

And I've written all kinds of things: business writing, marketing, public relations. But also fiction, profiles, feature stories, and columns.

Along the way, there were some notables:

Top Nine Really Cool Writing Accomplishments

Most of these still exist, either on well-worn paper (loose leaf, in some cases) or electronically. I'll list them and tell you a little about how they came to be. They're chronological, just for convenience sake.

• 1977 Parish Anniversary Celebration Address, Sacred Heart Church, Manoa, PA

In 1977, the parish to which our family belonged celebrated the 50-year anniversary of its founding. As part of the celebration, a grand and glorious Mass was offered, followed by a parish-wide reception in the school hall. This latter affair was a catered dinner, at which various dignitaries would speak.

It was decided by the organizing committee to solicit three parishioners to offer addresses, one reflecting on the parish's past, one on its present, and one on its future.

I was in eighth grade that year, on the cusp of moving onward to high school. And somewhere along the line, someone had the idea to enable the eighth graders to submit essays on what they thought the future of the parish would look like 50 years hence.

Cut to the chase: I won. My essay was selected, and I got to deliver it at the gala affair. What I remember most about that evening is that my parents and I were comped tickets for the meal; you see, my mother's sense of frugality had put the dinner out of our budget, and we weren't intending to go. The committee was rather horrified at this revelation, and we were given seats gratis.

The speech elicited the intended chuckles, especially as I mentioned the sale of jet packs, ala The Jetsons, as a fundraiser. And my theory that confession would be administered over the telephone, 1-800 style.

None of my predictions came to pass, except one: I did envision that girls would be welcomed eventually as altar servers. How prescient!

• 1984-1985 Columnist, The Hawk, Saint Joseph's University, Philadelphia, PA

In January of 1984, I took advantage of the opportunity to study abroad, travelling to London with 25 other SJU students for a semester. It was a six-month period that I'll never forget.

The 25 of us naturally got very close, as we lived in a large residence together. Among them was the E-in-C (that's Editor in Chief, by the way) of our college newspaper, The Hawk. She was looking for writers to encapsulate the London experience for a special edition of the paper back on campus.

I wrote a very lengthy and in depth piece on what it was like to leave Philadelphia on a blustery January day, fly across the ocean for the very first time, and try as best as possible ton integrate into British culture. It was the ultimate fish-out-of-water story that touched on all our experiences: the school, the surroundings, the history, the food, the people, the academics, the pubs, even the bouts of homesickness. All of it.

I told her that it could be cut. That it probably should be cut, especially if it covered ground that was already covered by others who were tackling the assignment.

What I didn't know is that nobody else was tackling the assignment.

My article, therefore, was the lead story in the paper that edition. It started on page one, jumped inside, and ran four columns.

Upon returning home, the E-in-C tapped me again. I was offered a role of columnist.

I wrote on anything I felt like -- parking issues, study pressures, current events -- and my material appeared in every issue.

This was the first time my writing was recognized by readers I never really knew. I was shocked after the appearance of a piece to be stopped on campus and acknowledged as not only being read but being enjoyed.

• 1985 Entertainment News, Berwyn, PA

In an attempt to bump up the content of an eventual resume I would soon be needing, I undertook an internship my senior year of college.

I landed a job at a small entertainment-themed newspaper. It was about 75% ads and 25% copy, so I had no aspirations of Pulitzer-style investigative reporting.

But I did manage a very memorable and interesting interview that resulted in one of my favorite articles.

Gone with the Wind was coming out for the first time on videocassette. I pitched a story idea to my editor to track down, find, and interview Cammie King, who, as a girl, played the role of Bonnie Blue Butler in the film. I knew that in all likelihood she was still alive, and it was just a matter of finding her.

The editor agreed that it sounded like a good story, and I began the hunt.

The exact details of how I found her -- especially in a pre-pre-pre-Internet world -- are lost in my memory, but find her I did. She agreed to a phone interview and, at the appointed time, I called her, she answered, and we talked for quite a while.

She spoke of her memories of the film and the cast (barely recalled Vivien Leigh at all; remembered that Clark Gable had a scratchy beard in the scenes where they had to hug) and her excitement at its revival on video.

Cammie King (Conlon) is gone now. But in my memory -- and my portfolio -- she'll never be gone with the wind!

• 1989-1996, The Montgomery County Post, Film Critic, Valley Forge, PA

I took my interest in movies and married it to my interest in movies and pitched to a slew of local newspaper editors the idea of joining their staff as a film critic. I wanted no salary, just enough of a stipend to cover expenses.

The Montgomery County Post, a small, local paper, bit. The editor agreed to give me space and a byline, which is all I really needed, and reimburse the cost of movie tickets and gas to/from a theater.

I was in heaven. Eileen and I were newly married and not exactly rolling in dough, and the opportunity to enjoy entertainment on someone else's nickle was truly appreciated.

Plus I got the chance to play Roger Ebert and write about the movies and my reactions to them. It was a dream job if ever there were one.

Eventually, the paper began to pay me for these reviews. Not a princely sum, as I recall, but something in recognition of my efforts. We began receiving comps to attend movies at their critics' screenings in some of the larger theaters downtown, and it all became very heady, sitting with some of the film reviewers from The Philadelphia Inquirer and The Philadelphia Daily News.

Sadly, the plug on this assignment was pulled quickly when the paper changed management and the new owners wanted to purchase syndicated film reviews -- along with crossword puzzles, horoscopes, and marital advice -- from a service.

• 1990-1994, Editor, Robert Morris Associates, Philadelphia, PA

This was one of my first legit jobs out of college. Robert Morris Associates is a trade association -- now called the Risk Management Association -- for commercial bankers worldwide. I was hired as its newsletter editor.

As such, there were three assignments that really stand out among all the banking and lending issues I covered.

The first was an interview with the Ombudsman from the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency (OCC), one of the regulatory agencies that oversees banking in the U.S. The mind-blowing thing about this interview is that it took place in conjunction with a speech he made at the National Press Club.

So yes, I traveled to Washington, attended his speech, and questioned him as an official member of the press. Just seeing that podium -- as I had seen it on MSNBC and countless other news shows -- was a thrill

The other story at RMA that has stayed with me involved the Meridian Bank Fire in February of 1991. The bank building had its 38-stories gutted by a fire that claimed three Philadelphia firefighters. Couching the story as a reminder to readers about the importance of disaster recovery, I was invited by the bank's director of security to the site (weeks after the fire was extinguished) and shown some of the less-damaged, more secure floors. 

The third was an interview with one of the presidents of Mellon Bank in Pittsburgh. I flew out and back the same day for this interview, which led to some nail-biting scheduling at the airports. But the real challenge was that he scheduled the interview during a lunch at an exclusive downtown club (think The Union League in Philadelphia, folks). And one of the rules a this club was that while at the table, there were to be no recording devices and no note-taking.

So I prepped all my questions in advance and memorized them as best I could.

And during the interview -- while trying to eat -- I did my best to lock his responses into my brain as he was talking.

When it began to become a little too much for me to handle, I excused myself and went to the men's room. Shuttered in a stall, I took out an errant scrap of paper and scribbled some of his more interesting quotes then and there.

The article came together and was published with his blessing. But it remains one of my most difficult assignments.

• 1996, Provident Mutual Life Insurance Company, Philadelphia, PA

I was hired as a communications supervisor by Provident Mutual, where my responsibilities included two monthly newsletters, one for in-house employees and one for the sales force across the country.

Provident Mutual had, at that time, a tutorial program with a nearby (and very needy) Catholic elementary school. A few days per week, the company provided employees and transportation to go to the school and work 1:1 with students who were struggling with math and reading skills.

It was an incredibly rewarding experience. I was sucked in by its benevolence and migrated from merely reporting on its successes to participating in them myself; within a few visits, I became a mentor, helping a sixth grader who was struggling to read. It became one of the most rewarding professional experiences I've ever had.

When Provident Mutual began a similar program in its Delaware Service Center, the effort caught the attention of then-Governor Tom Carper. He came to our offices and spent the day talking to our participants and students, culling ideas to plant these seeds with other local companies and schools.

I was there as a representative of the company newsletter and as a principle in the tutoring program myself. So I spent a day talking to, interviewing, joking, and eating with Governor Tom Carper. It remains my only touch in the world of politics -- and a fond memory.

• 2004, Just Labs Magazine, Essay Contest Winner

In 2000, we welcomed Wesley into our home, our Black Labrador Retriever. Succumbing to my renewed interest in dogs in general and Labs specifically, I subscribed to Just Labs Magazine, a monthly publication of articles, photos, columns, and information all centering around these magnificent animals.

In 2003, the magazine announced an essay contest. It was open to all subscribers, who only had to write something memorable about their Lab, sticking only to a pre-determined word length. The winners would be published and receive a year-long subscription to the mag.

That first year, I passed by the opportunity to participate. I'm not even sure at this point why. But I did not enter.

And I didn't give it much thought until I read the winners' writings in a follow-up issue. They were good -- heartfelt and touching and funny and engaging. But I knew I could do better, and I resolved to keep watch for Year Two's competition.

Eventually, it came around. I knew if I wanted to do well, I needed to take my entry in a different direction. Most of the previous year's material centered on glowing prose about the bond between an owner and his/her Lab. If I wanted to stand out, I needed to do something different.

I read the rules. And re-read them. And confirmed that my idea would work. There was nothing stating that prose was a requirement.

So I rolled up my sleeves and wrote in poetry. I riffed on Longfellow's "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" and came up with "A Midnight Black Lab that I Revere."

I also made sure to include some of Wesley's more challenging episodes with us. Owning him was not all rainbows and butterflies, and I made sure to mention, in rhyme, some of the moments he truly tested our patience.

I submitted. I waited. I received a letter back. I had won.

Out of all the entries across the nation, mine had been chosen. A truly proud moment indeed.

For what it's worth, though, Wesley was completely nonplussed at the news. Leave it to a Lab to put you in your place.

• 2006, 2008, 2010: Saying goodbyes

In 2006, very suddenly, my dad passed away. It was a devastating loss on a number of levels, not the least of which was how quickly he left us. 

I knew one thing: At his funeral, I would not and could not handle the music. It was just beyond me emotionally to spend his Funeral Liturgy up in a choir loft, attempting to do something worthwhile on the organ bench. But I was committed that it would be I who delivered his eulogy.

I chewed on this writing assignment for a long, long time. Many of my early-morning walks with Wesley were spent crafting what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it, and when I would dissolve in tears brought on by grief, Wesley never judged, never scolded, never jeered.

Eventually, it all came together and made its way to paper. I delivered it during the Mass --fighting that hitch in my voice -- and was grateful to bring him so clearly one last time to the memories of those who loved him most.

In 2008, we lost Mom. Her's was a more lingering departure, which made us a bit more ready with the goodbyes. But again, I was called upon to write a reflection of her life. Combining her work as a wife, a sister, a mother, a friend, and a nurse helped us say our farewells.

In 2010, Wesley was felled by a massive tumor that ruptured his spleen. No eulogy was required, but I wrote a very fond reflection of his life for an online Lab forum to which I have belonged for years.

That one's online, here: Godspeed, Wesley Matilda Murphy

All three of these writings were among the most difficult of my life. And the most heartfelt. And the most gratifying. 

• 2012, Ebook to Be Named at a Later Date

I've been contacted by a friend who is professionally involved with an e-publishing business; she queried me about any fiction I have or could produce, wanting to know if I have any interest in publishing online.

As luck would have it, I had a short story, written many years ago, that could possibly fit the bill. I sent it to her for her reaction.

She likes it. It needs work -- especially expansion to a publishable length -- but she sees great potential.

Stay tuned....

Prospects Are Dim

This weekend -- August 19 to be exact -- I will have been away from full-time employment for four months. That is 120 days. 2,880 hours.

During that time, I have concentrated diligently on re-finding full-time employment. To that end, I have answered more than 100 Internet postings for jobs in my field, corporate communications, marketing, writing, PR, etc.

In response, I've had exactly four interviews. Two were by phone. To which there was no follow-up face-to-face interview.

One resulted in a first interview, which failed to get me the position.

The other resulted in three face-to-face interviews, all of which resulted in my not getting the position.

Job hunting, I've determined, is one of the most soul-sucking, psychologically crippling, professionally humiliating exercises on the face of the planet. Adding to the entertainment is the knowledge that the longer it goes on, the more you get the unique thrill of watching your savings ebb away to nothingness.

Nest egg? Cracked open months ago! We're now slurping the yolk, sopping it off the plate as if we're holding an piece of economic rye toast.

Retirement fund? You're next, meaning that we'll be eligible to retire, oh, somewhere around age 105.

The pursuit of employment basically comes down to this:

Hi, Biggity-Big Corp. (BBC). I see by your ad you want someone with exactly my qualifications. To launch my candidacy, I've got to survive your electronic screening process, which is basically a computer program designed to look for keywords you've pre-entered -- marketing, writing, editing, success, management -- as essential for your opening. Ping on enough of those and I'll advance to the next level.

Where I'll then be subjected to automated searches on esoteric concepts such as social media marketing, Search Engine Optimization, best-practice communications counsel, strategic advancement, skill leveraging, and stakeholder maximization.

And then and only then do I stand a chance of human interaction in this search, albeit over the phone.

And glory be! Should that go well, I'll stuff myself into a suit (have these pants gotten tighter or did I pack on a few pounds from the stress of being unemployed?), drive like mad to the BBC headquarters (Mapquest directions clenched in my teeth), wait in your antiseptic anteroom, and, at the appointed time, finally shake your hand and look at you eye-to-eye.

A period of waiting follows. And waiting. And waiting. During which time I am knock-knock-knocking on other doors, hoping to advance with some other Biggity-Big Corp.

If all of this sounds incredibly time consuming, it is.

It is said that looking for a full-time position is a full-time position. If that's true, the pay sucks. And there are no benefits.

Actually, that is not entirely true. There have been some benefits to the mountains of time this period of unemployment has afforded me. True, none of them involve a traditional paycheck, at least not yet. But hope springs eternal.

The most significant plus to this little adventure has been the additional time with my family. Being summer, I am now home with my girls in a Mr. Mom arrangement, as my wife earns our daily bread working as a bank teller. I am, thankfully, able to supplement her income (and our Unemployment Compensation) with my musicianship, which has had me covering for vacationing accompanists as requested. The time home with my girls has been enjoyable; I know that I will never again recapture them to such an extent in their present realities: Sophomore in college, Sophomore in high school, and sixth grader.

In addition to looking for work and attending to parenting duties, I have spent this summer:

• Putting the finishing touches on a music composition that has sat fallow since 2010, with the eventual hopes of getting it published

• Embarking on an e-book publishing project

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

• Attending to a number of household repairs and fix-its that have been hanging around

• Placing an American Kennel Club (AKC) rally obedience title on our dog, with the goal of further competitions

• Training in earnest for the 75-mile bicycle trek for charity, for which I volunteered to ride

• Serving as taxi-driver to my non-license-holding offspring, supplying transpo to movies, mall trips, and swimming outings

• Wasting far too much time on Facebook

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

• Volunteering for some copywriting needed by my church

• Volunteering an additional night as an assistant at a dog training class

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

But as I watch daylight recede in the mornings and evenings, I realize that the summer is quickly ebbing away. With September in the wings, it is time for the girls to return to school.

And me to return to the world of the working.

I'm trying to keep a positive outlook on this dilemma. To trust in the Lord. To remain prayerfully faithful and faithfully prayerful.

But I may have been talking to the wrong guys.

Rather than the Lord Himself, it may be time to ring the bell of St. Anthony, finder of the lost.

Or, when I'm feeling really blue, St. Jude.

Patron of lost causes....