Uncle Mick: An Encomium

On the thirteenth of November last year, a retired successful and wealthy businessman and entrepreneur, by the name of Michael Lampkin, passed away at his home in El Dorado Hills, California, after a long bout with leukemia. He was eighty-seven years old, surrounded by his five children, and the sounds of Neil Diamond's greatest hits.

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The first time I met Uncle Mick, he wasn't my uncle yet. My Aunt Shirley brought him to our house on Christmas Eve in 1960. I was only in kindergarten, but Mick sat down with me, and together we speculated how long it would take for Santa Claus to deliver his goods. According to the math (in some detail for a five-year-old), the United States alone would take the entire year.

Mick married my Aunt Shirley the following year, and Mick became Uncle Mick.

He always called me "Rocky." I had no idea why. He was different from all the other uncles. He was educated, sophisticated without the attitude, and didn't treat me like a little kid. Most people did, because that's what I was. And it was small wonder. I was also a bit of a nuisance. Today, they would have said I was “on the spectrum” and put me on Ritalin for life. But to him, I was more. One time I went with him to a baseball game, and he explained the players, the strategy, everything, in detail. That was unusual in the world of an obnoxious little boy. Obnoxious little boys could only be taken in small doses.

He owned a Volkswagen "Beetle." No one I knew owned anything but an American car. But he wasn't like anyone else I knew. It was small, it was cramped in the back seat, but none of that mattered. Everything looked different; the knobs, the buttons, the arrangement, all so ... European. Imagine something that exotic, that unique, in a world of plain vanilla and white bread.

Eventually, he took his wife and five children from their home in Cincinnati, to the city of Winchester, in Virginia. He left a promising career at Procter and Gamble, for an even more promising career at Rubbermaid.

This was 1968. Virginia was in the South, and the South in those days was still very much ... well, the South. Interracial marriage ceased to be illegal in Virginia and other southern states only in the previous year, but other things took longer. It seemed that there were "no public schools" in that part of the country, only private non-sectarian schools. Only years later did I learn that racial integration was still several years away, not because of the law, but because of hearts and minds. Uncle Mick never explained why there were "no public schools" there, but on the front window by the door was a sticker that said "Open Housing Is Morally Right."

Maybe some things never needed explaining.

One night while we were staying at the house, I woke him up in the middle of the night, and asked him what he did for a living. I had little in the way of social cues back then. But instead of yelling at me to go to sleep, he stayed awake and explained to me what he did for a living. I understood little of it, but what mattered was that I mattered enought that he would stay awake long enough to explain.
Virginia was a great place to visit. I learned to play tennis that summer from the kid across the street. I listend to the radio at night, but WINC-AM, and listend to reports of riots in Chicago, and the Russians invading Prague. I couldn't imagine living in Virginia. Not yet anyway.

After a few years, Virginia wasn't enough for Uncle Mick either. He took his family and moved once again to ... Seattle, Washington! Clear across the country, to take ownership of an office supply company named Ruggles, Inc. Seattle was even farhter away. I knew nothing would be the same; not us, not him, not his family.

I was crushed.

The years went by, as they usually do. The next time I saw him was in 1986, when he and the Lampkins came by the house. I was with my first wife then, and Paul was just a baby. We sat in the living room. Well, most of us did. He was upstairs on the phone. Something was up, and there was no rest for the weary, the indispensible man. Eventually he came down and apologized for it. He was different somehow; too busy, too ... let's just settle for "different." It was a difference that affected their marriage, and after twenty-two years, Uncle Mick and Aunt Shirley divorced. Eventually the marriage was declared null and void by the Church, which left them both free to marry again.

I stayed in touch with Aunt Shirley for many years, especially during my divorce in the early 1990s. She understood me and what I endured. It was only in recent years that I renewed my contact with Uncle Mick.

As far as I was concerned, he was still my uncle. He remarried and was living in northern California. He continued to work into his seventies, possibly because he had to, but definitely because he loved his work. Not every man can say the latter, but he could, and so could I. In nearly half a century of my career, I wouldn't have settled for less.

But this love of his work was tempered in later years by regret. He wished he hadn't been quite as driven, that he spent more time with his family. His final years were not only a time of healing between himself and the children from his first marriage, but an admission that, even the breakup of a marriage declared null and void was "the biggest mistake I ever made."

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My uncle Mick taught me that I did not have to settle for less. "1) Decide what you want in life. 2) Decide what you're willing to give up for it. 3) Go for it." It was a three-step plan that made for my best and brightest moments. It was how I became an Eagle Scout even after my father was unfairly kicked out of the troop. It was how I completed my internship in spite of gross mismanagement by the "career counselors." It was how I left the complacency of Cincinnati for a steady job in Washington. Finally, it was how I was practically alone in a room with men and women apointed by the President, and being taken seriously, of earning their respect. There were always my parents behind all this, of course, but there was still room on that short list for Uncle Mick.

As this is published, there is a "celebration of life" happening in Seattle. I was supposed to be there, until I was (shall we say?) taken over by events. But wherever he is now, he knows I was there in spirit.

He was then, and will always be, my Crackin' Rosie, my Song Sung Blue, my Sweet ... uh, you get the idea.

My Not-So-Epic Graduation

Thirty-five years ago today, I was awarded my degree as a Bachelor of Science in Design from the University of Cincinnati. Looking back on that evening, I can still remember ... how little there was to remember.

I had made a decision during my junior year, in lieu of any prospect of an academic minor in multimedia, to enroll in two film classes. One was a "Film Design" class in my own graphic design department, the other was an "Introduction to Film Production" course taught by the fine arts department. In the former, I did an animation in Super 8 format, while the latter was more ambitious, requiring a one-minute live action or animation piece in 16mm. I got an A in the fine arts class, but the sum total of workload was more than I could handle, and my academic advisor allowed me to take an incomplete with two of my courses. The price of the department's indulgence came a year later, when I did not graduate with the other twenty-six students in my graphic design class, but had to finish during the summer quarter.

We assembled on that August night in the basketball arena on campus. There was the usual jocularity amongst the tasseled masses, of course, to listen to a keynote speaker whose name I forget to this day. (My already-departed classmates were treated in the spring to the "boy mayor" of Cincinnati, one Jerry Springer. I met him once. He was just as obnoxious back then.) At the end of the proceedings, we were to line up and receive our degrees. It was then that the students from the College of Design, Architecture, and Art, were directed the other way, to the back of the room, where a folding table was being hastily assembled for the dean of our college, who arrived with an assistant, each of them carrying a cardboard box. Our names were called, and we received our "sheepskins" in about as unceremonious a fashion as one could imagine.

When it was over (such as it was), I met my brother Steve and sister Mary, and we headed uptown to Pleasant Ridge, to my Aunt Marge and Uncle Bill's place on Grand Vista Avenue. Their house was just down the street from where a scene from "Rain Man" was shot in 1988 starring Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman -- yeah that's it in the picture -- but that's another story. Anyway, we arrived at the porch, and Mom came out. That's when ...

She hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Now, Mom's parents were not much with familial affection, especially Grandpa, not because they were cold, but it was just their way. It tended to rub off on Mom. In fact, Dad tended to be more affectionate towards us kids than Mom. The thing is, she had never done that before that I could remember, and I don't know what I did to make her start then and there.

It certainly wasn't relief that the expense of college was over. I paid half my way through college through my internships, and Dad financed the other half. While other kids went to Florida on spring break, I spent my breaks doing production work for a free-lancer named Tom Newsome. He taught me a lot that I didn't learn in school. I also got to be a teaching assistant that summer, in lieu of Independent Study. I learned a lot there too, like how being a teaching assistant wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I put my plans for graduate school aside.

And with that, the tradition of an anticlimactic college graduation was begun, one continued by my son Paul earlier this year, when he graduated fere cum laude from the über-prestigious Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta, with a 3.4 grade point average. Naturally, he carried the tradition a step farther than me. he didn't bother showing up. (My GPA was 3.0, by the way. Don't ask.)

At the end of the day, I might have been better off considering the experience I gained from both the delay, and the circumstances that caused it. I was aspiring to a specialty that was yet to be invented, one that I only could conceive in vague terms, and would only be realized with the advent of the personal computer, the graphical user interface of the Macintosh, and the advent of the internet. With a bit more nerve, I could have been Nick Selby before there was a Nick Selby.

But that's another story too.
 

FAMW: The Best Best Man Speech ... EVAH!

My cousin Jerry Rosselot and I are about the same age, and in December of 1973, he and I went on a road trip from southwestern Ohio to Topeka, Kansas, to visit a few out of the other four dozen cousins out there.

Closer to the present, his son Jared just got married. Here is the best man paying tribute to the groom, as well as his family. (MILD CONTENT ADVISORY: Hey, it's a wedding, what can I tell ya?) The camera "died" before the song could be finished.

Maybe it's just as well, if only for this week's Friday Afternoon Moment of Whimsy.

(H/T to Johnny Cash, and to Jerry's adorable wife, Debbie, who aged more gracefully than he did.)
 

Show Us Your Rosaries!

This is a follow-up to our piece last Sunday to honor the Feast of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary. I got the idea two years ago from a correspondent in the Philippines, 100% Katolikong Pinoy, who invited Catholics around the world to show off their own personal rosaries. Meanwhile, at Chez Alexandre, featured here are a few rosaries thrown together from my personal collection, each with a story to tell. (Mind you, these images taken together are not quite to scale.)

The first is the one most dear to me. It belonged to my Grandma Rosselot. It is more than two feet long stretched end to end, and is made with beads of what appear to be stained walnut. When she passed away twenty years ago, everybody was fighting over the good china and the cedar chest, and I told them, “All I want is Grandma’s big-@$$ rosary. You know, the BIG one!” So my dear sweet mama got a big stick out of the garage to take with her, and was able to fight off my other aunties to get it for me. What a gal!

This next one is a little bigger, nearly three feet laid end to end. This one is made of various polished stones, with large ornate devotional medals attached. It is usually kept in a display pouch with the rest of my stash. and is more of a collector's or novelty item, if there is such a thing for rosaries. One could hardly take this one to church on a Friday night, never mind Sunday morning, but it's there to contemplate nonetheless.

Speaking of one to contemplate, you might be thinking, “Yo, Black-Hatted One, there’s too many beads. Duuude! What’s up with that?” Well, duuude, you may remember how we described the origin of the rosary as inspired by the Book of 150 Psalms. Well, this one is the genuine article, a fifteen-decade rosary. The one in yours truly's collection is made of black plastic beads, but cannot be found at the moment, so I borrowed this one. (Saint Anthony is up to his old tricks again, that rascal!) Also known as "habit rosaries," they are typically at least three feet from one end to the other. They are typically worn by being clipped to the girdle (which is to say, the belt) of a friar or nun, usually a Dominican.

The next time you see a Dominican in full habit, if you can find one, count the decades for yourself. But remember, it's impolite to stare.

Our next item is not really a rosary in the strict sense, but is inspired by the little "decade rosaries" that the Irish secretly carried with them during the British persecution. This one has the opening phrase of the Angelic Salutation, in English on the obverse, and in Latin on the reverse. Also known as "ring rosaries," this type is usually worn around the finger when used. I actually found this one in the 39 cent bin of my favorite thrift store. It is about an inch and a half at its longest.

Amazing what you can find when you're not looking (which is probably how I'll eventually find my own fifteen-decade number).

Finally, there is the "everyday" rosary. Everyone has at least one of these, the one we carry with us in our pocket or purse during the week, for those stolen moments in the park during the lunch hour, or at our desk when we think no one's looking. This is the one I carry in the pocket of my suit coat during the workweek. It is about a foot long, made of olive wood imported from Bethlehem (or so they say), always a favorite at the typical Catholic bookstore. They cost less than ten dollars, and with plain wooden beads strung on a sturdy cord, they don't break easily.

Well, that's all we could throw together for now. Not to be outdone, Sofia Guerra of AlwaysCatholic.com has been thrown the gauntlet, and is certain to come up with a few devotional delights of her own. We challenge the rest of the Catholic blogosphere to do the same. Like the title says ...

SHOW US YOUR ROSARIES!
 

Return To Seattle: Day 5

The morning began, of course, with Sunday Mass.

Usually, when I travel, I look for either an Eastern Rite Catholic church, or a Roman church that offers the Traditional Latin Mass (TLM). It may be a sign of getting on in years that I have lost any patience with novelty in Catholic worship. If some twit pastor wants to make the Sunday experience akin to watching a game show, and if his lackeys that pass for parishioners cannot get enough of it -- well, I have had enough of it, so they can have the rest.

The Seattle area is served by the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter (FSSP), which administers North American Martyrs Parish, using the physical plant belonging to Saint Alphonsus Parish in Ballard. They give the choir the summer off, and the High Mass becomes a Low Mass. Personally, I could have done without the organist; not because they played an instrumental during the Offertory, but because they kept it up through the Preface, the Sanctus, and up until the Hanc Igitur (shortly before the Consecration). This made it difficult to follow the liturgical action from a distance, by obscuring any distinction amidst the various parts, thus impeding even interior participation.

Aunt Shirley decided it wasn't her cup of tea. I cannot say that I blame her if that was her re-introduction to it, but it's still mine. I had heard that these people were real tight-asses about anyone in the pews responding to anything, but those reports are somewhat exaggerated. And the people we met after Mass, who drove for over an hour with their six children, were very nice.

There was more writing during the afternoon, and in the evening, Paul let me take him to this great Japanese restaurant in the International District. This is a shot of the feast of the evening, followed by a lively discussion of Paul Ryan, the health care mandate, the origins of the power to regulate interstate commerce, the difficult choices in balancing the Federal budget, the pros and cons of tort reform, and why Obama is a big disappointment even for many liberals.

Who knew?
 

Return To Seattle: Day 3

Today I returned to the Pike Place Market for a closer look.

The Pike Place Fish Market was first opened in 1930, and has become a legend both within and without the market. This notoriety happened after nearing bankruptcy in 1986, when the owner decided that the only way to save the business was to become "world famous." And so, as many as 10,000 visitors a day come to the Fish Market to watch the fishmongers throwing fish that customers have purchased, from the far end about twenty-five feet to the cashier, where they are caught by another fish guy carrying open newsprint in his arms, to catch the goods and quickly wrap it.

The above simply isn't the same as seeing it, so we found this 2008 video. Calamari, anyone?

I was ready to purchase one of their dried smoked salmon boxes, when one of the staff recommended I go down to "Yuri" at the other end and try the real thing. It was good alright, but the smoked variety with pepper and garlic seasoning was even better. So I had them shrink a one-pound piece of one of those puppies for dinner tonight.

Then I went down to one of the produce markets, where it happens that a number of laid-off game developers and programmers were moonlighting. While talking shop on behalf of Paul, I picked up a pound of cherry-sized potatoes in three different colors; I have no idea what they're actually called.

I rummaged through Capitol Hill for awhile, stopping at a favorite thrift store and finding nothing, including my reading glasses which I always kept in that one special pocket. (Grrrr!) On the way to catching the bus, I found an Enterprise car rental outlet. This should save me some trouble, I thought. But like most people, I carry my official proof of insurance in my car, not on my person. They wouldn't even call my agent to verify it. That was odd, since my carrier does business with that company. It cost me an addition to my deposit, which I'll get back anyway. But I drove away with a Toyota Corolla (which has a good history in my family, if not with me personally), ready for the trip to Mount Rainier tomorrow.

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Today, all of Christendom, both East and West, celebrates the Feast of Saint Lawrence, Deacon and Martyr, and the patron saint of yours truly. We found this poem to mark the occasion.

Today is the feast of Saint Larry
who towards death did not tarry
in his memory we grill
and merrily trill
"it's done on that side" as was Saint Larry!

Tomorrow's the feast of Saint Clare
who led a life quite austere
by Saint Francis sent
to found a convent
of simplicity exceedingly rare.

August is a Marian time
The Assumption a feast sublime
Saint Bernard praised her deeds
and Saint Dom prayed her beads
and Saint Max ... wait, I've run out of rhyme.

(H/T to Kate at Peace and Pekoe. Adapted for the present circumstances without permission or shame.)

Now be sure and go outside tonight, if it's a clear night, and watch the remainder of "Saint Lawrence's tears" in the form of a meteor shower.

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By now you've all heard of Secretary of State Hilary Clinton's night on the town in Colombia earlier this year. Well, she's taking it to the next level in South Africa.

Brace yourselves, 'cuz here it is, your Moment of Whimsy.

By the way, the salmon was to die for!
 

Return To Seattle: Day 2

Those of you who are familiar with Seattle would know of Interstate 5 leading north from downtown, with State Route 520 making its own way to the west, across Portage Bay. Over a narrow water passage linking it to Union Bay known as the "Montlake Cut," there crosses overhead Montlake Boulevard, which links the University District to the north, to the Montlake neighborhood to the south. Getting off 520 and going south, the boulevard becomes 24th Avenue East.

Just to the right at the juncture of the name change is East Louisa Street, where halfway up the hill on the right is a Tudor-style house, the home of a distinguished professor of physiology, who still goes to work on his bicycle for twelve-hour days at the age of eighty-two. His wife is my Aunt Shirley, still very spry at seventy-two. For the next week, I have the couch.

When it comes to either public or private transportation, there is no better place to be.

In the morning, you can take the bus from the end of the street, as it ventures down 24th Avenue, then over to 23rd. As it turns down East Madison Street, the downtown area comes into sight, as one is surrounded by all manner of retail establishments, enough of which are to remind you that this is the West and not the East Coast. At the bottom of the hill, at the end of the line, there it is.

Pike Place Market was first opened in 1907, and is one of the oldest continually operated public farmers' markets in the USA. Many small farmers, craftsmen, and other purveyors of local goods make this their home. This writer wasn't there for very long today, but several of the photos shown here in the days to come were taken at the Market earlier today.

I also took a photograph of these guys, but none could do justice to this video. I listened to The Millionaires' Club for three minutes, which was all the convincing I needed to "give some of that energy back" and buy the CD. Their brand of classic jazz and early swing, with no small amount of that jug band jive, was the kind of music my Dad used to love.

I caught the bus to Capitol Hill (not to be confused with the one in the other Washington), and walked a mile or so to the house where Paul was staying. After lunch at the Vietnamese place, we engaged in a lively discussion of the gaming industry and his future prospects, which evolved into a debate over quantum physics, the theory of evolution, and the yeas and nays of the Uncreated Creator vis-a-vis the Big Bang Theory. (It was a draw, for the moment.)

Upon leaving, Paul showed me how to use the iPhone to get a bus home. I knew that Google Maps could give me directions, but I had no idea it could find the proper bus route and schedule for the user. I could get used to this century.

More about the Pike Place Market tomorrow (which is also my feast day, and it makes me wanna cry).
 

FAMW: “I’m Farming And I Grow It”

Just when yours truly thought his day job wasn't busy enough this week, along come The Peterson Farm Brothers from Kansas. We sure know all about life on the farm in this writer's family, enough to know that the guy who gets up at seven is at least two hours behind his neighbors. He'd better work on that. Meanwhile, check out their Facebook page, buy the damn tee-shirt, and keep on rockin' with this week's Friday Afternoon Moment of Whimsy.

I'm in post-production and I know it. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.

(H/T to Fred Smith of Tipton, Kansas.)