Auburn 28 - Alabama 27

In the 23 years I've cared about this game, I've never seen anything quite like what I saw yesterday. Down 24-0, Auburn roared to life in the second half to cap a perfect 12-0 regular season, with the SEC Championship game left to play next Saturday. With so much "unfinished business" though, I'm still having some trouble enjoying the ride. Nevertheless, on the field, Auburn once again found a way. While there are obvious standout heroes on this Auburn team, without a doubt in my mind, the most unheralded but surehanded player is the tight end: Philip Lutzenkirchen. When the ball comes his way near the end zone, he never seems to drop it. And those touchdowns always seem to come when the game is on the line. Mr. Clutch. His catch for the go-ahead touchdown in this year's Iron Bowl is no exception.


Photo by: Auburn University photographer Todd Van Emst

War Eagle, Mr. Lut-Zen-Kir(k)-en!

Is it live, or is it Memorex?

Well, okay, the title isn't exact, although I date myself by referring to a marketing pitch from a technology now outdated. But check out the video below:


According to this New Scientist article, the entire commercial is computer generated using off-the-shelf software. It's really amazing stuff. Eventually, we may not be able to believe anything we see on TV.

(h/t: HotAir)

Another Thanksgiving

I spent some time on YouTube today, seeking inspiration for this year's Thanksgiving post. While there was plenty to choose from - of all shapes and sizes, in poor taste and good - I settled on "Thanksgiving" by American pianist George Winston. I invite you for a moment to close your eyes, and simply drink it in:


There is a dimension of Thanksgiving that goes higher than its history, deeper than the Detroit Lions, and further than the fowl that may grace our family table. It is more than just a day to take stock and count our blessings, although such an exercise has value.

I've not lived as much life as some, and I've lived more life than many. The music plays, and with each turn of the page I see images of a lifetime, memories of happy times and sad, faces familiar and others that were almost forgotten. Memories, and the emotions they evoke, are treasures to cherish be they bright or bittersweet. Our life is what it is; every moment, every soul, every experience has made us what we are. To discover within ourselves the capacity to be thankful for our lifetime, when so much argues against us to undermine that discovery, takes an almost spiritual act of will: a courageous choice to be thankful for all that we are, and what has brought us to be, wherever and whatever we are to become. For some, this may be easy while for others it is almost unbearably heartbreaking.

Yet as I close my eyes, and the notes dance upon my mind, I come to the conclusion that Thanksgiving about all those who have shaped our lives, guided our steps, and filled those spaces in our hearts. It is for joy, in the midst of all things, that we are here. It for the love of family and friends in our presence, and a remembrance of precious loved ones no longer present, but with us just the same. And it is about those we've yet to meet, and embrace.

Therein lies the heart of this Thanksgiving message: Being thankful for a lifetime that was, a life that is, and an eternity that is to come.

May it be so for you and yours.

Foot Shadows

Sitting here late this afternoon with my stocking feet propped upon a desk, looking out of my hotel room window at rows of square little houses in the fading sunlight, I found myself marveling at the shadows cast by my feet upon the wall. Not because there is any profound truth to be revealed by such introspection, to be sure. Rather, it was a momentary distraction, a random thought I elected to put into words with the typing of these very letters. Has Jim lost his mind, you might wonder? I do not believe so, but of course who am I to say?

The nature of my job requires to me to write. And write. And write. I've made a career of finding ways to better articulate policy, process, concepts, requirements, guidance and a myriad of other documentation - all from a technical, professional slant. The negative, of course, is that it frequently leaves the well dry by the time I am able to carve out some moments for myself to write creatively. Like today: I finally have a few moments to post something to the blog, and the well is dry. In the past, one of the techniques I've used to break the logjam that is the so-called "writer's block" is to put to words exactly what I'm thinking or doing in a given moment. Hence, the fascination with foot shadows!

I don’t feel like commenting on politics, or sports, or space exploration, or even that errant gray hair that I thought I'd taken care of a couple days ago that still taunts me from my temple. Nor have I had time to surf online for that strange but true (ok, maybe true) story to share with anyone who may read this site. I'm not really in the mood to dwell on the deeply complicated issues of life, either.

So why, you may ask, am I dedicating so many words to a largely meaningless post without so much as a main point? Well, that is precisely the point! I find that on occasion, poking random holes in the walls of a dry well sometimes triggers a flow that restores my source.

Feel free to roll your eyes; I'm okay with that. Because in the end, I have accomplished my goal.

Repost: A Matter of Respect

Tomorrow is Veterans Day, and in honor of this, I'm reposting an experience I had several years ago. I first published it on this blog back in 2008. I've heard rumors that this recollection has made rounds via email, but I can most certainly vouch for the fact that this is my story. But really, it is not just my story, but that of the many men and women who have sacrificed their all for the cause of our Nation and its precious freedom. Please read, and remember those valiant men and women who to this day continue to serve and defend the United States of America.

I've done a lot of traveling over the last couple of years, perhaps not as much as some, but definitely more than others. But there was something special about today's flight from Baltimore to Atlanta.

It began conventionally enough. Full flight, crammed in the window seat on a beautiful January afternoon. The last man to board the plane was a soldier, Army, in dress uniform. Having flown on several flights with soldiers going to and from their deployment assignments, seeing a soldier on board wasn't so unusual. It didn't register right away that this was the first time I'd seen one in full dress on my flight.

I dozed off for a while, little thoughts dancing in mind about being home, burning leaves, seeing my family. Two straight weeks being away from home is still two weeks too long. Nevertheless, I'm proud of what I do, and sometimes I'm even good at it. But all of this was magnified even more as the pilot made his mid-flight announcement.

I stirred from my pseudo-nap to hear that we were flying at 22,000 feet into a 190mph headwind, that Atlanta was a lovely 50 degrees with a light south wind at 8mph, and that our arrival should be slightly ahead of schedule. I remember those details as clear as a bell, but to my great shame I would not remember the names mentioned when the pilot announced:

"We are honored today to be carrying home the remains of a soldier who served with honor and recently fell in Iraq. We ask that when we arrive in Atlanta that you remain seated, to allow the military escort on board to disembark first. We thank you for your cooperation."

Suddenly, I was wide awake. I can't tell you all of the thoughts that went through my mind, though I did experience that tingling feeling you get sometimes when you know that you are sharing a scene that sears itself on your very soul. The soldier on board was at the far back, and I debated with myself on how I could respond. Should I say thank you, should I start a round of applause as the escort worked his way up the aisle, or should I sit in quiet reverence? All of those options were quickly taken away, because the flight crew (smartly) escorted the soldier to the front as we were taxiing to the gate; he was past me before I could say anything at all.

Before I knew it, he was off the plane. I soon saw him standing quietly but attentively just below my window. I turned away to walk up the aisle, still wrestling with my thoughts, and in a sudden surge I spoke to the captain, "Thank you sir, for your show of respect." He acknowledged me, and I exited the plane.

Still dealing with the guilt of my inaction, I slowly but deliberately walked to a nearby window. I stood by that window in a loose posture of parade rest from my marching band days, and simply stood still. The soldier was standing below the plane, giving instructions to the luggage personnel who would be handling the coffin. His back was to me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the soldier suddenly came to attention and then to a salute. Moments later, a large white box with the words "HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE" emblazoned on the side came down the treadmill. The soldier examined the box, then immediately turned to the handlers, who in turn carefully turned the box 180 degrees. I don't know all the protocol, but clearly the box was positioned incorrectly. Soon, the handlers carefully loaded the box onto a luggage carrier. No sooner had they closed the plastic rain shield on the carrier than another white box, identical to the first, came down the treadmill. I took a quick breath, as I had only expected to see one, not two.

After the second box was loaded onto a carrier identical to the first, the military escort continued to discuss matters with members of Delta's handlers. Then he and a member of Delta's honor guard (complete with a vest emblazoned with the U.S. flag) walked away. I took a deep breath, and allowed myself to move a little, glancing at another fellow from my flight who was apparently doing the same thing I was. We nodded at each other, and looked back out the window. I stayed there at the window until the coffins were driven away.

I walked away, feeling strangely satisfied that I had done all that I could do. The soldier never saw me; I never saw a family member. Save for the other passenger standing at the window, no one else knew what I was doing. It is a matter of respect. Respect for those who serve, and have served; respect for those who paid the ultimate sacrifice; respect for the families of those who have fallen for the cause of freedom. And, just as importantly, I believe it is about respect for self. I give honor to Jesus, who paid the ultimate price that I might be eternally free. Likewise, I give honor to those who have enable me to worship, to live, to love, and to excel in a land that claims freedom as its ultimate ideal. It is not about politics. You and I don't have to share an ideology. But for me, a simple show of respect to honor those fallen soldiers has allowed me the inner satisfaction of self-respect. I know who I am, and where I come from. I know to Whom I belong.

Respect for self and respect for others go hand in hand. You cannot have one without the other.

To the families of those who have paid the price, my thanks, my prayers and my hopes for peace. Likewise to you, my friends and my family.

God bless,
Jim

Strike Up the Band

This past Saturday morning, for the first time in a number of years, I ventured down to the loveliest village on the plains for Auburn's Homecoming game against UT-Chattanooga. I was coming right off a week-long business trip to Maryland, and as such my family had gone down ahead of me. With kickoff at noon, I managed to get a few hours sleep Friday night before waking up at 0-dark thirty for the 4 hour drive down to Auburn.

In past years, my wife and I would play with the alumni band during Homecoming, but this year because of the uncertainty of my travel schedule, we opted for the cheap seats in the upper deck. The Auburn band was very much a focal point of my Auburn experience, not the least of which is due to the influence of my best friend who would become my beloved wife of nearly 17 years now. My Auburn marching career was limited to 1991-1993, as I had elected to put aside the music for my freshman year. Late in my sophomore year, I began playing in Auburn's concert and symphonic bands before getting talked into marching in the fall of 1991. Without a doubt, my time in the Auburn University Marching Band remains one of the most treasured periods of my life. It is mostly about the music, but like so many before me and after me, words fail to describe the full experience of being on the field surrounded by 87,000 football fans.

So it should be unsurprising that the gameday experience this past weekend tugged on some emotional strings for me. This video below is the new "intro" that gets played on the stadium jumbotron before the band enters the field for its pregame show:


Pretty cool stuff, but I do have mixed feelings about it. Back in my day (oh, boy, now I'm talking like an old guy), Jordan-Hare didn't have a jumbotron. When the Auburn Band entered the field - you knew we were there. We didn't need some flashy videotronics to announce the fact. However, what I do appreciate about the video is the respect shown from the University, and from the fans. This link here is video of the above, taken by a fan in the stands. I offer it simply as a window into the crowd response.

Watching the band perform on Saturday (even if it was just a static Homecoming show) was a moving experience for me, bringing back a flood of memories. Maybe over the holidays, I'll take some time and convert some of our old VHS tapes of marching band performances and post some excerpts on YouTube (properly cited, of course).

Watching a younger generation on the field, I was amazed at the strong affinity I have for what they do to prepare for each and every show. And I was reminded, that no matter what happens with Auburn's football team, and with their star quarterback, I am and remain an Auburn man.

Because, true to the creed, "I believe in Auburn and love it."

Flying Through Color

As the Embraer streaked across the early morning sky, the rising sun turned my eyes to the west and the dissolving night. I've been awake for hours, yet the gears of my mind have yet to fully engage. Unwilling to prod it so, I simply allow my eyes to take in what I see, as if looking out the window of my own self.

It is a watercolor moment, with broad brush lines that splay through the sky like beams among the wispy cirrus that strings across the heavens. Contrails from recent passers-by serve as guardrails, as if pointing the way to where we are going. And suddenly, they are gone, just as the dawn breaks forth in full glory, setting the condensing air on fire with rays and shadows bursting with brilliance; I am flying through color!

The upper sky turns from deep navy to dawn's typical blue as we cross 33 thousand feet. Such heights and such lows! A field of clouds comes into view, hanging in the air like a colony of jellyfish: peaceful, quiet, angelic. Looking up again, between the blue and the gray, each swath highlighted by streaks of orange, cuts a dark gray line - a shadow bleeding like an ink stain across the sky. And then it is gone, as if it never was. The faded patchwork below begins to glow with the arrival of morning.

Where are my thoughts this morning, here at the beginning of a week destined to last forever? Of where I am? Of where I want to be? Of what I seem to have? Of what I seem to lack? The sun is shining brightly now through the window across the aisle. It stings a little, but not too much.

But, oh, to fly through color! That I could but capture just a taste, just a shade, to keep with me. Then perhaps I could better articulate the wonder - and the agony - for which I simply have no words.