A hail of a storm

Windows are shattered in the bedrooms. The screens have been shredded. So much hail had piled up on the balcony in a matter of minutes that it looked like it had snowed. The hail stones pounded the roof of my apartment building so intensely I had to shout to be heard on the phone.

And that wasn't even the worst of the storm that blew up in the atmosphere Wednesday night and savaged sections of Wichita. Hail the size of baseballs struck downtown and in neighborhoods around the city.

There's something poetic about baseball-sized hail falling at the baseball stadium...unless it was your vehicle that had its windows crushed by the onslaught.

My car took a pounding in its own right. My front windshield has a handful of cracks, which spent a steamy Thursday lengthening. I'm going to have to replace the windshield...and I may have to replace the car.

"The coldest beer in town"

How many times have I heard that phrase in beer commercials?

Don't they all have coolers? Don't they all keep the brewskis at about the same temperature? Come on.

When I hear a store advertise "the coldest beer in town," that sounds like, "the beer we offer sucks, so we'll brag about its temperature instead."

Tell me you have more varieties than any other store.....or more of our local favorites....or more shelves of good beer than anybody else.

But "the coldest beer in town"? Really? Why? Is it frozen? Does it come in bricks, not just 6-packs?

Chill.

Where's the cheese?

"The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win you're still a rat."

- Lilly Tomlin

So the Oscar for Best Song goes to a song not even in the movie????

Just watched "Slumdog Millionaire" tonight. Yeah, I may be one of the last people in America to see it, but what can I say? Just never got around to it before.

The film's power was enhanced by my knowledge that the children who played the youngest versions of the main characters went right back to the slums they were living in when they were plucked for the film -- and that their homes in those slums were torn down not long after "Slumdog" won 8 Oscars.

I can't quibble with almost any of those Oscars. But one bugs me. "Jai Ho" won for Best Song....but it wasn't even in the movie. It was a dance routine to distract audiences from the final credits.

Colorful? Yes. Memorable tune? Absolutely. But music that was central to the movie's mood or woven into a pivotal scene? Unequivocably not. I'm suspecting the song got swept up in the momentum that "Slumdog" generated leading up to the nominations -- and rode that wave to Oscar victory.

I don't remember being terribly impressed with the other nominees, which may have had as much to do with "Jai Ho"'s win. But to me, there's still something tainted about this award of that shiny statue. Oscar should go to music that helps define a movie - not dresses up its credits.

A night in Delano

The cool air inside Chiart was a welcome embrace as I stepped inside on a sultry, sunny evening. I was back in the Delano neighborhood for another Final Friday, stopping by this shop for the first time ever to listen to my friend Nikki Moddelmog and Emily Scheltgen sing together.



I've written about them before on my blog, but this would be the first time I had heard Emily perform since then. I hadn't been inside for more than 30 seconds before I could feel the tension of a long day...a long week...begin to melt away. Part of it was the pleasant contrast of the cool air after time out in the muggy heat.

But most of it was the mellow setting and the lilting harmonies of Nikki and Emily. They were the audible equivalent of a fresh glass of flavorful ice tea, and I found myself mentally saying "Ahhhhhhhh."

Nikki (in glasses in the photo) and Emily were so playful and relaxed in their playing I almost felt like I was sitting in someone's living room while the host and a friend pulled out a couple of guitars and just winged it. To be honest, I didn't recognize any of the songs. But I enjoyed myself nonetheless. I recognized a few faces in the crowd, and after Emily closed out her show I made it a point of buying her CD. She's still young - a student in Andover - but it will be fun to watch her career blossom.

Nikki was in good voice, and I marveled at how she could harmonize so effortlessly and effectively. I left Chiart and strolled down Douglas, not sure where I'd stop next but not ready to call it a night. Part of Final Friday's magic is spontaneity anyway.

It was only a little after 9 p.m., and fading sunlight still streaked across the sky. I love that about this time of year; sunlight seems to last for ages. Cars rumbled down Douglas, windows down, stereo volumes up, laughter echoing off the buildings. The Wichita Wingnuts were playing at Lawrence-Dumont Stadium, and when I strode past empty lots I could hear the public-address announcer intone the next batter and music implore the crowd. It was a pure summer tapestry, including the unyielding heat and humidity that seemed to cling to the pavement.

A couple of photos in the gallery Blank Page caught my eye, so I stepped inside to take a look. They were images taken by Nathan Buhr, in locales ranging from just down the road in Kansas to around the world in places such as China, Poland, and war-torn Sarajevo. Among the photos to catch my eye was one of a woman's eye in Prague.



It immediately took me back to my time in Prague, where one of my most enduring memories was how beautiful and stylish the women were - as if they had one eye on how they'd look in a photograph as they dressed - and the young adult men seemed intent on throwing on whatever jeans and shirt they found rumpled on the floor next to the bed when they got up that morning. The contrast was remarkable.

A photo of a narrow street in Poland took me back to the medieval streets I strolled in so many European towns and cities, reminding me how young a nation America is in comparison with so many cultures around the world. Ache filled me as I gazed upon a photo of a woman in a train's "speisewagen" - meal car - on her way to Berlin. I loved riding the trains in Europe, watching the landscape fly past, sipping a wine or beer, lingering over a meal and conversation with whomever you shared the table. I hope to do more of that some day.

A small cup of wine, a cookie or two, and it was back to the street. To the heat. To the darkness that had settled on the city with sunset. A few of the people I knew from the Chiart duet had said they were headed to Melange to listen to musicians jam. I had not been to Melange before, so I decided to walk down there. It was a few blocks away - nearly to Hatman Jack's, a store I know all too well, having a healthy collection of fedoras - and by the time I got there I had the sense that the music's crescendo had already been reached. Idle strums on a guitar seemed mere musical backdrop to the buzz of conversations.

I'm not into handmade jewelry, so little in Melange piqued my curiosity. But it reminded me of my ex-fiancee's aunt, whose handcrafted creations included wedding rings. I talked to a couple of friends briefly, then decided to call it a night. On my stroll back toward my car in the La Galette parking lot, I passed T.J.'s, an old-fashioned burger joint - and felt a pang of regret that I hadn't stopped in there for the night's repast. Instead, I had spontaneously chosen a take-out Chinese restaurant I liked whose daily special had proven surprisingly disappointing.

Another time, perhaps.

Three new places, familiar faces, comfortable paces. A satisfying dose of Final Friday once again.

Imprints

I went to a reunion at Wichita State University's Newman Center Saturday night (Newman centers are Catholic parishes located on university campuses). It was a nice opportunity to see once again friends I made years ago, and reflect on those now living only in our memories.

Perhaps the most poignant moment of the evening came when one of the attendees talked of his brother, who died a couple of years ago. He spoke movingly of how his brother wrestled with drug and alcohol addictions - until he became involved with people from the Newman Center.

They reached out and took him in, and he found the acceptance and strength to overcome the addictions and blossom as a person. All because people took an interest in him and showed they cared. Knowing the people involved, I'm sure they didn't think they were doing anything extraordinary.

But it clearly meant the world to the man who turned his life around because of what they did - and to his family.

Sometimes we can tell when we have touched other people's lives. But all too often, we never have a clue.

That's why I believe it matters how we conduct ourselves, that we display "the better angels of our nature" as often as we can.

Because we never know who may be paying attention - and how much of a difference that may make to them....for better or for worse.

We're all human, and we all have bad days. Heaven knows I do. I guess the key is consistency. And forgiveness - for both others and ourselves.

And down the stretch......

Kansas was known for years as the Breadbasket of the Nation, because so much hard red winter wheat is grown here.

By mid-June, wheat fields along the Oklahoma border would be waves of gold undulating in the whipping south winds, as farmers waited, poised with their combines and grain trucks, for the moisture level in the heads of the stalks to reach the optimum numbers.

But this time of year can also bring explosive thunderstorms packing heavy rain and huge hail - and just one storm could wipe out the entire crop. That happened more than once to Mom and Dad in more than 50 years next to the Sawmill Creek in central Kansas.

Farther north in the state, the wheat is typically still be green in mid-June, but farmers there are no less nervous than their brethren on the border. A hard rain or strong wind as the wheat begins to "turn" - changing from green to yellow/gold as the grain reaches maturity - could knock the stalks down. If that happens, there's little or no chance for recovery, because a plant's elasticity vanishes once it changes colors, and it can't stand back up - meaning a combine's header can't efficiently reach the heads bowed down with the kernels in their crowns.

I liken it to a racehorse that has been carefully bred, raised and trained...is running beautifully during the race....and then fractures a leg as it nears the finish line. No winner - just heartbreak.

How challenging it is for farmers to lie in bed at night this time of year, listening to rain or hail - or both - pound the roof of the house, wondering how much damage is being done to the wheat.

And the balance sheet.

And the farm's future.