Papa Don't Preach

When Glee came on the air, I was completely smitten. A story of high school misfits finding community in their glee club? An hour of TV peppered with pop songs, Broadway anthems and a lot of silliness? I'm. So. There. If the show got too silly, too campy, there'd be a mash-up of Gary Puckett and the Police, and everything would be all right again.

To say I'm disappointed by the second season is an understatement. It's as if that misfit high school kid has now found himself sitting at the table with the popular kids and is using his platform to teach everyone a lesson. What was once escapist fun is now an after-school special with a random guest appearance by Britney Spears.

This season, instead of a fake pregnancy and an obsessive compulsive guidance counselor, we're getting schooled. God can't be trusted. The arts are undervalued. School administration lets bullying abound. Remember when Glee used to be joyful? Dare I say it, gleeful?

I see the change in the show's mood pretty clearly in Kurt. He's been my favorite from day one. His relationship with his dad moves me. But lately, he's been angry and bitter. He's been pushing away the people who love and accept him.

And that's what Glee is doing to me. It's pushing me away with its sermonizing and angsty story lines. I'm sad about it. All last year, I loved hearing my high school friends (the real ones, not the TV ones) singing Broadway tunes and old pop songs. They were being exposed to music I've known and loved for years. Suddenly, songs they skipped on my iPod were awesome (yes you, Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart). Now, when we talk about the show, we sigh and grudgingly admit that it wasn't that great this week.

Please, Glee, remember your old friends who loved you before you ruled the school. Broaden our musical horizons and remind us to be kind to the misfits without shoving us into an intellectual locker.

I Want to Go Home

Has anyone ever died from nostalgia? Were they so caught up in memories and reveries that they just burst open on the spot? I was driving along a particularly unattractive stretch of road that connects Harrisburg to the Pennsylvania Turnpike this morning and, I swear, it left me breathless. And not because of the tricky merge along that route, but because of the memories of driving home from Susquehanna and, a few years later, driving home from visiting my friend Ben. Something about seeing "Swatara" on an exit sign had me undone. (For the record, I've never been to Swatara.)

As I left the unpleasant road and proceeded east, I was driving through Pennsylvania farm country. The sights, the smells, and suddenly, I was missing my grandfather. (For the record, my grandfather was not a farmer.)

And so I found myself, as I often have lately, thinking about home. When I first moved to Carolina, it was still easy to call Philadelphia home. My parents were still there in the house where they'd raised us and I was able to make frequent visits. When my parents joined us in Carolina, the visits North became fewer, but it hasn't stopped feeling any less like home.

Which leads to the next series of thoughts...maybe I'm supposed to come back? And as soon as I think it, I'll see a face--Katie on a morning jog, Shannon in the classroom next door--and I'll think, "How could I leave?" Or I'll throw my Tim Keller book (that I'm studying in my awesome home group!) in my reusable bag (that I got at the State Fair with Emily!) and come into Panera to write a blog (that Tracey will read!).

I think my conflicted feelings about home are illustrating a spiritual lesson I need to learn. As Christians, we are called to hold dual citizenship: we belong here in the world, but we also belong in Heaven. As long as we are here, we aren't truly home. If I'm trying to find home in Philadelphia or North Carolina, I'm never going to be satisfied.

At the risk of sounding like a nerdy Presbyterian, I will quote C.S. Lewis, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

I suppose that means I should enjoy my weekend--the time with friends, the opportunity to buy Tastykakes, the memories that surface when I behold the mighty Susquehanna River. I should also be happy to go back to Carolina, to my comfortable house, to my circle of friends, to my overstimulating gym. What I must remember, though, is that neither of these places are where I'm ultimately meant to be and that my desire should be for something much bigger than an earthly home.

After One or Two False Starts

Laura and I are good planners, thus we are good travelers and even better travel partners. Both fed up with the structure and demands of our day-to-day lives, we decided to blow off some steam and head to the coast for a relaxing weekend at the beach. Our plans were set in sand, not so much in stone. So what happens when good planners cut loose?

Upon arriving in Carolina Beach we drove around to scope out restaurants. Finally settling on Havana’s, we got a table, opened the menus and realized we’d been had. High-top tables on a deck do not always mean casual dining. With nothing on the menu under $18.95, we scrambled out of the restaurant and back to the car before anyone could take our drink order.

A few laps around town later, we found The Dive. The help was not quite helpful when Laura asked what to do about getting a table, although our waitress really hustled once we were seated. A man with a banjo wandered through the place, picking aimlessly while his bluegrass band warmed up. The couple across the way had a rip-snorting fight while the cook shouted out to anyone who’d listen that he was working as hard as he could but there was no way he could keep up with the demand.

Bellies full, we proceeded to Carolina Beach State Park. Turns out “Park closes at 8” doesn’t just mean the staff goes home, it means the gate is locked. We parked outside the gate and walked along the entrance road a ways, wondering if it would be possible to get to our campsite on foot, but the empty darkness of it all was a little too scary for me. I was on Hotwire on my Blackberry before we made it back to the car. Too many Dateline pieces about hikers being lost/slayed in parks sent us back to Wilmington in search of a decent hotel deal.

Another 45 minutes of aimless driving passed until we happened into the Red Roof Inn that boasted “Great Last Minute Deals” on its sign. Great is probably something of an overstatement. The deal was mediocre, but it was 11:00 at night and we were done driving around with no destination.

On Saturday, we wanted to welcome the new day with a run on the beach. After making sure we got our free continental breakfast, we headed toward Wrightsville Beach where there was a triathlon in progress. So we sat in traffic, played “Don’t Stop Believin’” loudly to inspire the athletes riding/running alongside the car, and eventually arrived at a parking lot.

The next part of the day went very smoothly. We had a good run/walk, got back to the Red Roof for quick showers and checkout.


Next stop: the USS North Carolina in pursuit of Charlie the Alligator letterbox. No sign of Charlie, so we headed over to Oakdale Cemetery in Wilmington. We didn’t have a map to find our letterbox, but how hard could it be to find our way around a cemetery? Once Laura called her dad and had him looking at the map on his home computer, it wasn’t very hard at all. Mr. Eck helped us find the 400 unmarked graves of malaria victims, and from there we found a letterbox with a fun mosquito stamp. Since we were in the neighborhood, we also checked out David Brinkley’s gravesite.


From there, it was smooth sailing. We loved our lunch at the Front Street Brewery and took a lovely stroll along the river in Wilmington (just like Dawson and Joey). We logged a few late-afternoon hours on a Wrightsville beach, parked next to another Phillies fan/Susquehanna alum. After de-gritting ourselves from a windy day, we stopped at Rita’s where I enjoyed a Krimpets water ice. Three hours later, we were back in the ‘boro.

It was a fun weekend. It wasn’t as relaxing as I’d imagined, but it was good to be unplanned and unscheduled. It was good to think about things unrelated to my routines and to be on the road with Laura.



On our road trip playlist was the Jimmy Buffett song "Coast of Carolina" and we found these lyrics oddly appropriate:

From the bottom of my heart
Off the coast of Carolina
After one or two false starts
I believe we found our stride

And the walls that won't come down
We can decorate or climb
or find some way to get around

I, for One, Don't Turn My Cheek for Anyone

Dear marketers of toilet paper,

I am one person. I have one bottom. I am responsible for two bathrooms. I live in a relatively small house with limited storage. Given these qualities, it is completely unnecessary for me to invest in 24, 36, or 48 rolls of toilet paper at one time. I fondly recall the days when a single roll of toilet paper could be bought in a color to match one's bathroom.

Today, I found myself overwhelmed by the packages of toilet paper in my grocery store. The closet where I keep my toilet paper has a nook just the right size for an 8-roll package. Specifically, 8 normal-sized rolls of toilet paper. Not 8 double rolls (equivalent to 16!), not 8 mega rolls (enough to cover the Captiol Building!), not a 12-pack, not a fork-lift pallet of 96 rolls. So I abandoned hope at the grocery store and proceeded to Target. To my chagrin, the situation was no better. In order to use your coupon and save $1.00, I would have to buy 36 rolls of toilet paper.

Furthermore, while I like a little comfort in my toilet paper, I do not need anything soft or thick enough to substitute for a sweater. Surely there is a middle ground between chafing and feathery cherub's wings?

In the end (!), I wound up choosing toilet paper by the size of the package. I think there are 18 non-mega rolls of super-thin toilet paper now nestled in my closet. If there is one upside to this purchase, it is that, with 18 rolls on-hand, I will not have to buy toilet paper for quite a while.

As you consider future packaging for your products, let me remind you that there are still some Americans who have not super-sized. Please consider packages that can fit in a Honda Civic and that be stored in a townhouse. And, if it's not too much trouble, please mention this letter to your counterparts in the paper towel department. I'm afraid it's becoming impossible to buy both your products on the same day without making two trips.

Cordially,
JW

On the Coast of Somewhere Beautiful

I often joke with my friend Ben that he and I have two different memories of our shared experiences. Over the years we’ve shared several adventures, our most recent one being a long weekend in Costa Rica.





Ben’s the ultimate planner, organizer and harasser of customer service, so he remembers details. This weekend we had a debate about the color of the cape our friend Jerusha wore at her wedding. (Jerusha, feel free to sort us out in the comments!) I may not remember what the bride wore, but I remember what I was feeling that day. My memories are emotional and relational, with little emphasis on details.




I suspect the Costa Rica trip will go down similarly in history because there is something about being in another country, stripped of my Blackberry, that leaves me a lot of time for thinking. One of the things that I thought about this weekend was my Thursday night girlfriends and how deeply their influence goes into my life.






One night, out on the town of Manuel Antonio, I was wearing Michelle’s ring, Katie’s bangle and Emily’s purse—all acquired at one of our group’s accessory swaps. While I was gone, I had no worries about my house and my cat because I knew Beth had it under control. When I packed my backpack for the trip, and as we passed a few hostels, I was wishing Laura was there like she was the last time I wore a backpack in another country. Ben and his partner Stuart were talking about how much they loved their recent trip to Charleston and I so badly wanted to text Melanye and ask her for the name of the beach she camped on in the Charleston area for Melanye is always just a text away! The wine we drank, the Spanish we attempted to speak—they would’ve been right up Hannah’s alley.




It was wonderful to be in Costa Rica. It was wonderful to laugh and sightsee with these dear guys, but it was a pleasant surprise to remember just how good I have it at home.

There's Only One Place They Call Me One of Their Own

This summer, instead of renting a house near Myrtle Beach, my family decided to make use of our family’s shore house in New Jersey. My Carolina friends often ask me what the beaches in New Jersey are like and so, throughout our week, I found myself making mental lists.

Down the Shore



--Everything’s all right (couldn’t pass up a Springsteen reference, sorry).
--Boardwalks offer an evening activity. Rides, unique foods, all the t-shirts and beach stuff you might want to buy. Southern friends, think State Fair meets Wings/Waves/Eagles.



--Phillies shirts outnumber Carolina shirts 500:1.
--You pay for lots of things: parking your car, a pass to get on the beach, tolls on bridges and highways.
--Seagulls prowl the beaches relentlessly in search of discarded Cheetos. What they cannot find, they will steal from your unsuspecting hand.
--It’s crowded. New Jersey is the most densely populated state, and when you add in the vacationing Philadelphians, New Yorkers, and Canadians, it gets a little tight.
--You’re only 90 minutes away from Philadelphia, so you can get a decent cheesesteak or a water ice. You can also drive up to the city and catch a Phillies game.



--For me, it will always be a second home. The house my grandfather built all those years ago is not a beach-front palace, it’s not even air-conditioned. Inside its walls are many happy memories from childhood and young adulthood. The people in New Jersey are familiar, I know their culture, and I can speak with their accent. When I am down the shore, I have favorite places to go—a state park, a beach where I like to run, a pizza place I can’t refuse, a roadside stand that sells Jersey peaches.

At the Beach
--There’s plenty of room. Running on Carolina beaches is wonderful, low tide means lots of wide, flat sand for the exercise enthusiast.
--We can walk to the beach from wherever we rent. In New Jersey, we drive to the beach. If you forget something in Carolina, no big deal, you walk back and get it.
--There’s less hustle and bustle. Our Carolina beach vacations are opportunities for us to play the Wii, put together jigsaw puzzles, solve crosswords and read piles of books.
--The houses are bigger and renter-friendly.
--Seagulls go about their business peacefully. I have not known them to steal Pringles from my hand.
--If there was a famine, I still would not stop by the side of the road for a sandhill peach.
--Two words: outlet shopping!
--We are still finding favorite places to eat and visit. Even after several trips, it remains unfamiliar. We rely on websites and coupon books to recommend restaurants. We join the throngs at Broadway at the Beach because we haven’t figured out what else there is to do on a Tuesday night.

I’ve loved the beach for my entire life. If it’s got sand and salt water, odds are I will be happy there. But, I must confess a preference for the shores of New Jersey. If I spent the next 30 summers in the Myrtle Beach area, I would probably learn my way around and develop attachments to restaurants and parks. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to. It’s like Reese Witherspoon says in Sweet Home Alabama, “The truth is, I gave my heart away a long time ago, my whole heart, and I never really got it back.”

Something's Missing and I Don't Know How to Fix It

Today we interred the remains of my grandmother who passed away in March. Joining my aunt and uncle for the trip from Baltimore to the Philadelphia cemetery was my cousin Debbie.

Blonde and spirited, Debbie is a nurse and a mother of three. She was with my grandmother when she died and she was indispensable to us when we traveled to Maryland for the funeral in March. It is hard to be around her and not get the sense that family is her top priority. There are two Debbies in my memory—the present version and the hip, young beauty with a huge poster of Journey lead-singer Steve Perry above her bed. At some point, the Journey tour bus was exchanged for a mini-van, but I’m not sure when.

Meanwhile, on Facebook, my cousin Alison’s status is something like, “I need a ride to Philly area this weekend. Will pay gas and tolls. I will sleep a lot.” She is trying to head east from Pittsburgh so that she can join us for my parents’ 40th anniversary party. After graduating from Carnegie Mellon, she stayed on it Pittsburgh to do some intellectual job at some company. I don’t know the specifics.

I love my cousins, but there is a disconnect, and it bothers me.

When I am around my cousins, I have a great time. They’re funny, they have interesting jobs, they travel to fascinating places and, I like to think, if we didn’t live so far away, we could be great friends.

When my friends talk about going on vacation with their cousins, or casually getting together with their cousins, I admit, I’m jealous. Geography is one reason my cousins and I never got close as kids, age is another. Six of my cousins are significantly older than me. Three are much younger.

For the most part, though, we are all adults now. Age shouldn’t matter. We have Facebook and cell phones, so distance shouldn’t matter. So the question is…how do I pursue closer relationships with my cousins?

With Bill and Laurie—the amazing PTA parents and outdoor enthusiasts.
With Mike—who loves all the Philadelphia sports teams.
With Linda and Derrick—whose motorcycle adventures surely must bring them close to North Carolina from time to time.
With Alison—who has been known to read this blog and who was the first baby I remember holding (if only she’d been the last!).
With Kate—who is So. Much. Fun.
With Adam—who is the same age as some of my favorite people (see previous post).
With June and Louis—June with her stories of life in England.
With Debbie and Joe—who love family so much.
With Allen and Dawn—fellow Parrotheads.

There’s someplace to start with each of them, but where do I go from here? Comment away!