Leaving Home

The entry that follows was edited on Monday the 10th and posted on Tuesday the 11th but it was composed over the course of the twelve hours between 1100 and 2300 this past Sunday – the 9th.

I write as I sit in the baggage claim area of Indianapolis International Airport. Today is Sunday, March 9th and I’m here waiting for the flight that will take me home to Charleston, South Carolina. It isn’t scheduled to depart until 1800, some six plus hours from now. I’ve chosen the baggage claim area because the airport’s main concourse is crammed with humanity and it’s hard to hear yourself think up there, yet alone sit and write. I was hoping to switch my reservation to an earlier flight, but being as this is spring break week for Perdue, IU, and UI, and being as there was a blizzard through most of this region last night that delayed or canceled flights both here in Indianapolis and at surrounding airports, Indy is now overrun with passengers all hoping to get somewhere – anywhere. And fast!

Oh hell, the buzzer just went off on the baggage carousel here in front of me announcing the arrival of luggage from some recently alighted flight. People are now starting to crowd in hoping to jockey themselves so as to be in the best position to snag their personal belongings. Hopefully they’ll position themselves well, find their items quickly, and leave me to my peace. A group of TSA employees sit side-by-side on the next carousel down each holding their lunch box. Must be shift change.

Ah, there, that’s much better – quiet has returned and it only took twenty minutes.

So why, you may wonder, am I in Indianapolis in the first place? Well, I flew up on Friday to meet my mom and spend some time with my Grandpa Martin (who will be turning ninety in June.) Last fall the family got word that his health was getting the better of him and, if we wanted to see him before he passed away, that we should plan to get out this way soon. This was as soon as I could make the trip a reality. It’s always very easy to find excuses not to do something (bad timing; lack of funds; employment commitments,) but, for some reason, it always seems difficult to find reasons to actually do something – commit to something. The same is true for this trip – there just wasn’t going to be a convenient time and it certainly was going to be difficult financially – even coming up with a little spending cash for food is a big deal right now. But the fact is, if I had gotten a call telling me that Grandpa Martin had passed, I’d feel compelled to drop everything in order to attend his funeral. I’d tell myself how important it was to me to be able to be there and I’d bite the bullet and just go. As I thought about this scenario, I began to realize how selfish it was – it was all about how I’d quell my own guilt and grief without any real thought to my grandfather. It wouldn’t really much matter to him if I would be at his funeral or not – he’d be dead. After all, a funeral really is for the living, not for the dead. It’s about a chance for the living to come to terms with fact that someone they love has passed. Doesn’t it make more sense to pay your respects to someone who’s still alive rather than after they’ve died? Why is it that we’ll rearrange our lives to pay respect to the departed yet we often don’t feel compelled to do the same in order to visit the living?

OK, so now I’ve changed locations – I’m sitting at the gate with a bag of Grandpa Martin’s homemade Cracker Jack sitting next to me. He insisted I take it with me. Well….truth be told….maybe I offered to finish if off for him – he is a diabetic after all and I’m not…oh, wait…maybe I am. Anyway, there is nothing in this world that’s packaged in a waxy cardboard box that comes anywhere close to the Cracker Jack my grandfather makes – his is made with ninety years of experience and a lot of love. And just to make this batch a little better, he dumped a bowl of mixed nuts and chocolate chunks into the bag. It’s a venerable cornucopia of blood sugar elevating goodness. I am sworn to make sure I save at least a little for my kids to try. That request may end up being the hardest part of this trip.

So here I sit, in an airport gateway on a cold Sunday afternoon with a bunch of time to kill - time to sit, and reflect, and ponder. I’m headed home. Home to my family who I haven’t seen in over forty-eight hours and who I miss very much. Home to South Carolina where I live and work and have done so for the last two and a half years. Home to the few close friends I’ve made locally and to all my worldly possessions – be they what they may. In short, home to my home. Why then do I feel like I’m leaving home? Why do I feel as though I’m about to board a plane and once again leave the only place on God’s green earth where I truly feel at home? Why do I already feel homesick and I haven’t even left the ground (and wont for at least another two hours?) Why have I already started yearning for the day I can return? Why does Frankfort, Indiana have such a hold on me? And why does it give me such a sense of place; a sense of belonging? I’ve never lived in Frankfort. Well, there was that one summer back in the late ‘60s when I let my hair grow long, wore a lot of paisley, and outwore my welcome bunking on Grandma and Grandpa Martin’s front porch (and for anyone trying to do the math – yes, I was four.)

Now I’ve jumped cities. I took a break from writing to eat something and then stared out the window for a while and did some people watching. A fire truck, ambulance, and police cruiser drove up to meet the incoming flight at the next gate over. It turns out that an elderly lady had to be transported to the hospital upon arrival. That was an interesting spectacle to waist some time gawking at for a while. Before I knew it, it was time to board the plane. I sat next to a young man headed to Philadelphia. “Philadelphia?” I said, “Oh I know that airport well. I haven’t been downtown in many years, but I’ve gotten quite familiar with the airport.” He just smiled and stuck in his iPod earphones – I did the same. Now I’m sitting in Cincinnati, a city I don’t think I’ve ever been to before and an airport I know I’ve never had the honor of visiting. Cincinnati was one of the cities hit hard by yesterday’s blizzard. The runways were all clear when we landed but the taxiways are still covered with slush and ice. And the departure boards in the commuter terminal I now find myself trapped in are littered with delays and cancellations. We left Indy on schedule and made great time flying here, but I have the sneaky suspicion that I’ll be here for a while – might as well make myself comfortable.

So, back to Frankfort. I think one of the reasons I feel such a connection to that town is that it has been one of the few constants in my life. Its one location that has never changed – both in the fact that it is very similar to how I remember it as a child and in the fact that it is where Grandma and Grandpa Martin have always lived. No matter where I’ve lived (twelve different locations that I can recall – and some more that I don’t,) Frankfort has always been a place to return to. If you ask me where I was raised, I’ll tell you that most of my younger years were spent in Pennsylvania. This was the time between six and sixteen years old. Probably the majority of my “growing up” was done at that house out in Palm. But I can’t go back there – there is no family homestead to return to. There might be someone around the area who knows me – more likely someone who knew my parents – but there isn’t anything for me to go to there. No place to drag the kids back to for Christmas or Thanksgiving with the family. Oh sure, I could go visit the area; stay in a hotel. But it wouldn’t be going home. There was a short stint when I lived in Connecticut and then I ended up on Cape Cod. I spent about twenty five years on the Cape and have a lot of good friends and great memories of that place, but it’s also not my home. At least not in the sense of having “roots” in a place or of having the feeling that a place helps define who you are. My kids, who were six and eleven when we moved, will likely feel more of a connection to the Cape than I ever will. I’d return in a heartbeat to see friends and family but I don’t have a need to go back to the “place.” And as for South Carolina, well I’ve never felt quite so out of place as I do here.

Damn, my flight has been delayed again. As of right now, our departure has been pushed back at least an hour. If I’m lucky I’ll get out of here before midnight.

Reading back over what I’ve written here, it would be easy to mistake this epistle as my lamenting a lonely “homeless” existence. Quite the contrary – I’m very happy to have reaffirmed my connection to a place. Frankfort, Indiana and my grandparents define who I am as a whole person more than any other single place I’ve ever lived. If I ever got to a point in my life when I had to go “home,” Frankfort is where I’d go. Besides, the breaded tenderloins are to die for.

Post Script – I did finally make it home Sunday night. I flew into Charleston almost exactly twelve hours after I walked through the door in Indy. Only about two hours of that time was actually spent in the air. When I walked in the door of the house I said, “It’s good to be home.” And I meant it. For right now at least, home is where my family is but not necessarily where I live. It was good to go home for a while, but now it’s good to be back home. Does that make sense?

If The Shoe Fits

We just got back from buying Noah some new sneakers. Last night, while I was reading to him as I do most school nights, Mel came in to say goodnight and discovered that his sneakers had become quite worn. So today we ran over to – I hate to say it – Wal-Mart to buy some sneakers and see if they might have some flip-flops for Zoë. Now I’ve ruminated in the past on the evils of Wal-Mart and I still feel that way for the most part, but when you’re scarping by and barely making ends meet, it’s really hard to ignore the savings realized at that place. As I looked around at the vastness of our particular big box, I remembered a short essay I wrote way back in the early history of Southern Transplant. I also realized how many truly unattractive people are at Wal-Mart, on both sides of the counter. Or maybe it’s just that there are a lot of really unattractive people in South Carolina and they just congregate at Wal-Mart - sort of a Club-Med for ugly people. Anyway, I recycled some old material here for you (something I imagine will happen numerous times in the future,) and freshened it up with a little original material at the end. It doesn’t reek too badly.

We went to one of those Mega Wal-Mart things the other day (or maybe it was Kmart, I don’t remember.) I have never seen so much food in one place before in my life. Where does all this stuff come from? I stood at the end of one aisle and two rows of snacks extended down beyond my vision. How many cans of Pringles have to be in any one place at any one time for the world to rotate? More importantly, has there ever been a time in history when someone needed to buy that many Pringles at once. And then, how exactly would you transport them all? Ironically, I was looking for some sour cream of the fat-free variety (an oxymoron in itself, I know,) but when I got to the dairy section (“You take the main aisle down about ¼ mile and get off at the pork rind end-cap, then stay to the left or you’ll end up in the cheese lane.”) I found that there were three huge empty shelves, but no fat-free sour cream. Ah, ha! I thought. Someone is at home right now making huge batches of fat-free onion dip for some big southern party thing that no one bothered to tell us about (they don’t tell northerners anything around here.) I grabbed a sour cream of the full-fat variety and ran! I don’t want to be around when they remember they forgot to get all those Pringles!

Ah, it’s amazing how well 90mg of prednisone a day will do as a muse.

As for our trip today, we were in search of shoes which are kept in a department buried in the back. Not quite a ¼ mile trek, but close – you take a right at the pork rinds instead of a left. We found the aisle with Noah sized sneakers and began our search. Mel found some camouflaged ones and pointed Noah toward them. “You might as well look for a size one if you can find it,” she said. Up to now, he’s been wearing size 13 youth shoes and she figured he might as well go bigger. I mean, it’s not like his feet are getting any smaller. Noah found a pair that he thought was really cool until he realized they were tie shoes. You see, Noah has made it to the grand old age of eight without ever leaning how to tie his shoes. Velcro is a wonderful thing but it has a tendency to wreak havoc with the acquisition of knot tying skills. When Noah noticed this obvious oversight by the shoe’s manufacturer, he quickly slid them back into their place. Knot tying is one of the skills we worked on in Cub Scouts this year so I took this opportunity to point out the fact that he wouldn’t be able to advance to Webelos next year if he didn’t learn to tie his shoes. Not a complete truth, but a useful misdirection at the time. “Oh, I guess so,” he said as he slid the box back off the shelf. He then searched for a place to sit and try them on. He slid off his old shoes and put on what, compared to the ones he had just removed, looked to me like shoes big enough for a clown. There were obviously too big for him but he slipped them on. “Oooo…,” he said, “These are too tight. They’re too small.” “How can that be?” I asked. I looked at his feet and the shoes looked plenty big enough. I asked him if there was any paper stuffed in the shoes. “No.” “Maybe you need to pull up your socks,” I suggested, “Maybe the socks have become bunched at the toes.” “Oh,” said Noah as he sat down and pulled off the shoes, “Maybe it’s because I have three pairs of socks on.” Um……ya think? At this point Mel rounded the corner and explained that Noah likes to sleep with his socks on (something I could never do no matter how cold I am,) and in the morning when he’s getting dressed he pulls the clean socks on over the dirty ones from the day before. In this case, being Wednesday, he was wearing three days worth of socks. Wednesday’s were over Tuesday’s which were over Monday’s. Eeew, gross! So I pealed off the two extra layers of hosiery and left Noah with his beginning of the week stockings. He then reapplied the footwear and stood up. “Do they still feel tight?” I asked knowing full well the answer. “No” was his simple reply. Gee, I wonder why. I rolled each of the two extra pairs of socks and stuck them in the small pockets of Noah’s sweat pants. He looked like an Oompa Loompa walking through the store. The cool camouflage sneakers are now part of the Hofmann inventory.

Hope everyone is happy and healthy.

The IGP Meeting

A few posts ago, I talked about my friend Tommy’s clarity of thought when it came to choosing a presidential candidate based on their stance on several key issues. In a response to that posting, Couch Sal posed to me a question asking which issues facing us today do I feel passionate about. Having had some time to ponder that question, I’d have to say that education is the biggest issue for me followed very closely by healthcare (read Health Update and you’ll have a better understanding of my intimate relationship with our healthcare system.) I’ve long been of the belief that if we spent as much money on early childhood education as we do on national defense, we’d be a lot better off. Mind you, I'm not proposing that we spend the money on education instead of defense. Quite the contrary, I’m one of those rare liberals who believe in both strong social programs and a strong military – but that’s a discussion for another time.

And it isn’t all about spending but also about accountability and how funds are administered that I’m concerned about. In my mind, No Child Left Behind (NCLB) is one of the most detrimental and damaging programs ever to be inflicted on the education system in America. The concept that all children are created equal and can therefore be tested equally is ludicrous. And since funding is tied to student performance on the tests, there is a very big incentive for teachers to teach to the test rather than helping students develop skills that can be applied to a multitude to problems. While there is a lot of emphasis put on remedial education (to help improve a school’s performance,) there are no provisions for gifted or talented students. Also, the idea that knowledge of subject matter is a good measure of a person’s ability to teach is equally ridiculous - it is but a small fraction of a person’s ability to teach. I’ve know a lot of teachers in my life and many of them were brilliant minds in their respective fields but were completely inept in a classroom. I’ve also had the honor of knowing a lot of really great teachers – and some of them could have taught just about any subject regardless of their knowledge base.

What started me on this line of thinking was a meeting that Mel and I just had at the middle school with Zoë and a guidance councilor. As an eighth grader in South Carolina, Zoë has to create an Individual Graduation Plan (IGP.) This is but another insane procedure spawned by NCLB. She is only 14 years old, but now has to declare not only what career she would like to pursue, but also pick not one, but all four years worth of high school courses. She’s never been to the high school (except to perform in the auditorium.) She has no idea what the teachers are like. Heck, the councilor we met with couldn’t even tell us which courses out of the catalogue we had would be offered to her (in fact, the woman didn’t even have a course catalogue with descriptions – we only had one because Mel had printed it off the internet.) And yet, we’re supposed to intelligently (and quickly,) design a four year course of study for her. To add to the frustration, not one of the career clusters (which you have to pick from,) comes anywhere close to preparing her for archeology - which is the career she is interested in today. Did I mention she’s only 14? This choice could change by dinner time yet alone over the next four years. Everyone we’ve heard speak on this procedure, including the councilor today, has repeatedly stated that the student is free to make changes to their IGP over time. But what they don’t tell you is that a school’s outcomes assessment is positively affected by the number of students who successfully complete their chosen cluster. This means that school funding is adversely affected by those students who change clusters during their high school tenure. So while they tell you that you can make changes, there is every incentive for them to keep you in the cluster you chose. There’s NCLB rearing its ugly head again.

On top of all this, the poor woman who was trying to help us was more than just a little flustered by the whole situation. She complained about the lack of information she was given as evidenced by the fact that we were in possession of a much more detailed course list than she had. She complained about the software that she had to use that kept freezing up. She was more than a little taken aback by the amount of information Mel came into the meeting with – I got the feeling that she didn’t deal with many parents who came in already knowing how the system works (or doesn’t work, depending on your perspective.) At one point, while we were discussing the need for Zoë to take Chemistry, I asked her to remind me of which year we had decided Zoë would take Algebra II. She tried to answer my question but lost her train of thought and got flustered. She tried to suggest that we come back to that question later. She said, “You see, you got me confused because we’re talking about science now, not math.” “That’s true,” I said, “But the two go hand in hand. With all the formulas used in Chemistry, Zoë will have an easier time if she gets through Algebra II first.” We finally did determine that the chronology of math and science would work but I got the distinct impression that things went much smoother for her when she dealt with parents that didn’t bother her with questions.

All in all, it was a rather surreal experience. I can’t believe that some bozo in Columbia thinks this entire exercise is actually productive. I mean, think about it. Zoë now knows that during her sophomore year, she’ll be learning the fundamentals of Ultimate Frisbee. How exactly does that knowledge benefit her now? And why was it necessary for her to make that choice halfway through eighth grade? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Health Update

For those of you who are new to the Southern Transplant experience, heath updates are a regular occurrence here. I'm a 43 year old two time cancer survivor. As a teen, I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease which was treated with mantle radiation. In my early 20s, a Klatskin Tumor of the Primary Biliary Duct resulted in a Liver Transplant. Now, 20 years later, I've been diagnosed with calcification of the pericardium resulting in Constrictive Paricarditus and I'm being treated for Type I idiopathic Membranoproliferative Glomerulonephritis (don't worry, I have a hard time pronouncing it as well - just say MPGN.) All in all, it's been a long strange trip!

Last Monday, I had an appointment with Dr. Budisavljevic (again, don’t worry about the pronunciation – we all call him Dr. Milos.) He’s my renal (kidney) doctor – a very interesting guy from Sarajevo. I see him about once every three months or so. This time around, things seem to be doing well. My labs were good. I’ve got about 50% functionality in my kidneys which, according to Dr. Milos, is great. He said he’d rather see me have 50% functionality consistently for the next 40 years than to be at 100% with an unknown prognosis. Fourty years? Who’s he kidding? The likelihood of me seeing 83 is very slim. If I can get through all this health crap and see 70 I’ll be happy. Besides, he said he’d be long retired by then anyway. Some other recent developments with me include a small blip with my liver medications. I’ve recently started taking a medication for my gout (oh, did I fail to mention that as one of the side effects of renal problems?) The stuff is great! And it helps a lot with the constant pain I was having in my feet and hands. Anyway, the new medication wreaks havoc with the immunosuppressant meds that I’ve been taking since the transplant – it makes them hang in my system far longer than without the medication. We’ve dropped my levels, but now my liver functions are off. Anyway, it takes a little finagling until we get it all straightened out. My heart is still plugging along – though it constantly reminds that it’s still there and still working overtime. I only really have an issue when I have to exert myself quickly – as I told my doctor, “I can run a marathon, but I can’t sprint.” I can keep up heavy activity for extended time as long as I can pace myself. Both the renal and cardiac docs have mentioned the possibility of transplantation in the future – hopefully I can avoid that. Not sure if I’ve got it in me to go through that ordeal again.

Mel is again doing her Weight Watchers routine and doing very well with it. The doctors told her she might be looking at a liver transplant if she didn’t drop some weight. I think that was a bit of a scare tactic on their part, but it worked and we’re both eating healthier and getting some more exercise – though she’s much better at staying consistent with it than I am. In March she’ll be going in for some surgery – nothing too serious but she’ll be in overnight.

Both Noah and Zoë are healthy though they are not gaining much weight which is a concern for the doctors. They are both taking medications that curb their appetites. Neither of them is very big to begin with and this only compounds the problem. We’re trying all sorts of tricks to get them to eat more. It’s more than just a little ironic that while Mel is trying to eat smaller healthier meals, we’re trying to pump all the calories we can into the kids. Motivating Zoë to eat is still eluding us, but Noah has decided he likes to eat what he calls pizza burgers. He likes the big frozen burgers grilled and served with a slice of cheese and four pieces of pepperoni on each side. It’s hardening of the arteries on a plate but he devours them. How he manages to eat those and continue to hold or loose weight is the source of much frustration for us (especially when Mel’s trying so valiantly to loose weight.)

Anyway, that’s all for now. Hope this finds you all well.

Oh, and we're not even going to talk about the game.

The Blond Test

This morning at breakfast, Zoë announced that she was going to administer the Blond Test to each of us. This is apparently one of those middle school quizzes that kids ask each other. When I was in middle school, we used to predict each other's future via a similar test. In our game, you would draw a large square on a piece of paper. Each side of the square would be divided up into four parts. We would then ask the person whose future we were predicting to give us four places. These would be written down one side of the square. A second side would get four types of cars. The third side would get the names of four girls (or boys, depending on your preference.) And the fourth would get the letters M, A, S, and H. These would stand for mansion, apartment, shack, and house. The predictor would then start to draw a slow spiral in the middle of the square and ask the predictee to say “stop.” Once this happened, the predictor would count the number of lines in the spiral and use this to count off around the square eliminating options as they were landed on. Eventually, you’d end up with a name, a car, a place, and a domicile – thus predicting the person’s fate. Zoë’s quiz was intended to determine whether or not you were a “Blond” – meaning ditzy (with all due apologies to you natural blonds out there.) Her test, like mine, involved drawing a diagram on paper and having the test taker fill it in. After breakfast, Zoë grabbed some paper and started laying out the test for Mel to take. She got the diagram drawn and then, without really thinking about what she was saying, blurted out, “How do you spell blond?” Um Zoë, I think you just failed your own test. We gave her a hard time for that one.

Footnote – after Mel, Zoë and I argued it for a while, I had to do some research to find out if blond had an e at the end or not. Turns out, both spellings are acceptable, but blonde is usually used as a feminine noun while blond is usually used as an adjective. I guess we all failed the test. Oh well.

Go Patriots.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

OK, maybe not that cold but it did dip below 32 degrees last night which, when you're camping in a tent, is very cold! Noah and I did just that last night with the Cub Scouts in order to earn our Polar Bear badges and we will remember our evening huddled together for warmth when we wear them proudly. All right, maybe that's a bit melodramatic - we were actually fairly comfortable for the night. We put our individual sleeping bags inside a double bag and put the whole thing on an air mattress. We camped with about twenty other scouts and their families out at BSA Camp Moultrie out on Lake Moultrie. It was an adventure, but we're glad to be home now and are looking forward to hot showers and warm beds.


Today being the Democratic primary in South Carolina, I stopped and voted on the way home. I was one of only a dozen or so voters at our polling place (which is Zoe's school gym.) And I was one of only three white voters there. Needless to say there is not a large population of Democrats in our area and those that are, are almost exclusively black. The woman who checked me in to vote asked me twice if I realized I was voting in the Democratic primary. I assured her that I was in complete control of my senses. As I had predicted, I really didn't know who I was going to vote for until I arrived at the polls. Well, truth be told, I decided while I was driving to the school. Noah and I had left the campground around four and during the thirty minute ride back home, Noah fell asleep. This gave me some quite time to contemplate my decision. Shamefully, I haven't put as much research into this election as I did four years ago. I haven't even used one of those on-line questionnaires that identifies the candidate that best matches your political priorities. But while I was driving I came to the realisation that more than finding a candidate that perfectly matches my sensibility, my role in this election is to make my vote count and help my party elect the best person to lead this county and effect change. To that end I decided to vote for Obama. I think I really made that decision four years ago when I watched him on television speaking at the Democratic convention in Boston.


I have said publicly on several occasions that George Bush is a buffoon and an idiot (usually after a glass of wine or several beers.) I've accused him of being a puppet and unintelligent. But the fact is that you don't get to be President of this country by being an idiot. It takes a lot of hard work and perseverance and you have to know what you're doing. Americans may be slowly being overrun by apathy but we aren't yet at a point where we'll elect a buffoon to the oval office - at least I sincerely hope we're not. But the one thing you do have to do, and the one thing that I feel ol' Georgie hasn't been very effective at, is leading. I believe him to be a man of strong convictions and beliefs but that doesn't make him a good leader. Leadership requires charisma and articulation. It requires someone who can unify and motivate and persuade. In my opinion, George W has failed on all counts. For this round of voting at least, my vote went with the person I felt was best equipped to both win the nomination as well lead the country.

What's In A Name?

So today I had to take the day off from work and visit the dentist. Last night I lost a crown during dinner and I was able to get an emergency appointment this morning to have the tooth cleaned up and a temporary crown put on. needless to say, I'm a bit sore right now. And, to add insult to injury (or maybe it should be injury to injury,) Dr. Brad found that my only other crown (from a root canal I had done 15 plus years ago,) also needs to be replaced. All of this happened to the tune of $500 - give or take $50. Oh, well, as Mel said, "We may live in the south, but I'm not being married to a guy with no teeth!" In any case, the trip got me to thinking about something I've contemplated before.

Having been named for the A. A. Milne character, my given first name is Christopher. At eleven letters long, it's not the longest name in existence, but it is longer than average. This fact was never really an issue when I was younger, but as I aged and the world became more dependent on computers, a funny thing started happening. I was first annoyed and then somewhat amused that most computer databases only allow ten spaces for a first name. They often make allowances for longer last names but rarely have I run into any kind of computerized system (and where do you NOT run into one of those these days?) that didn't want to truncate my name. There is many a governmental or medical data base that knows me as Christophe. I don't mind so much, but I'd love someone who knows more about this than I to explain exactly how much is saved by denying me my "r."

OK, I told you that to tell you this. In more recent years I've noticed a new trend in computerized systems. It seems that in our daily lives, into which we try to cram all manner of time saving and space saving gimmicks, computers have started to shorten things even further. Now our computer desktops are littered with scalable "tabs" with titles. Sometimes these "tabs" become the source of some deep thought - well, they do for me at least.

I was sitting in the dentist's chair earlier waiting for the dull ache in my lower right jaw to be replaced by that blissful yet awkward numb feeling that leads to much drooling and an embarrassing grimace. Having already counted all the ceiling tiles in the cubicle in which I now found myself reposing, I turned my head to the side to look at the computer monitor that was displaying my most recent bite wing x-rays for the offending tooth. I examined the screen for a while noting the post and crown on the adjacent tooth which also requires replacing. But soon my eyes started to wander and my gaze drifted to the bottom of the screen where each of the open software applications was represented by a small labeled tab. Most of these didn't mean anything to me but one caught my eye. It was again a case of where the computer's need to save space and memory cost me part of my name - only this time the resulting label was...well...thought provoking. There at the bottom of the screen was a little bar labeled, "Patient Record For Christ." Now there's a medical record I'd like to read. I had to wonder - what exactly would be in Christ's patient record? Suffers from stigmata? Lacerations of the forehead? Most likely our modern medical establishment would label him schizophrenic - "Suffers from delusions of grandeur." "Believes himself to be the son of God." Think about it - what chance would Christ have in our modern pharmaceutically over-dosed society? Me thinks there would be a straight-jacket and lots of diazepam in his future. Mind you, I'm not saying that's the way He should be treated, just that I doubt He would get very far in today's world. We need Him more than ever now, but I'm just not sure we'd actually accept him for who he is. Think about it - even those of you with strong Christian faith - what would be your honest reaction if someone came up to you and told you he was the son of God? Honestly? Maybe I'm just cynical, but I think we'd end up just dismissing him as another kook.

In a related thought, I've noticed that the same issue with my name has come up elsewhere. I do a lot of on-line browsing and shopping (more browsing than actual shopping,) and one of my favorite sites is Amazon. I use Amazon a lot to find album covers so I can add artwork to my iTunes files. In any case, I have an account with Amazon and anytime I log on with my own computer, I get, "Welcome Christopher Hofmann" near the top of my screen and along the top edge is a line of labeled tabs. On of them is a shortcut that reads, "Christ's Amazon." And again I have to wonder - what would be on Christ's wish list? A Holy Bible? Maybe, but which one? Who's translation? And Christ reading a bible is like William Rand and Andrew McNally reading an atlas - sort of a been-there-done-that kind of thing. I'd like to think He might be more interested in reading Ayn Rand, Alvin Toffler, or Jaczues Barzun. Not that I think He'd be agreeing with these writers; just attempting to get a read on today's society (pun definitely intended.) I'd like to think that Christ is someone who would seek to understand many different view points - not someone who would just dismiss anyone who disagreed with him. And what about movies or music. Would He only be interested in praise music? Gospel perhaps? I tend to think not. Sure, He would understand the importance of music in worship and as a way for man to express himself, but Jesus was pretty hip guy and I bet his iPod would be filed with a very eclectic mix of modern and classic tunes. Maybe some Pink Floyd mixed in with Mozart (oh wait, that's my iPod!)

In any case, it makes for some interesting contemplation. I'd love to hear what you think might be on His "Wish List."

Sunday Morning

Well, it’s Sunday morning and the smoke has cleared. Yesterday, South Carolina held its Republican primary and John McCain won (but you already knew that, didn't you.) Fred Thompson didn't do so well which might have had something to do with his campaign staff - one of which was quoted in this morning's paper as saying, "The campaign is still a campaign until it's not the campaign." What? Is that the kind of logic a degree in rhetoric will yield?

Down this way, a registered voter can vote in either primary regardless of declared party affiliation. Which means I could have voted yesterday despite my allegiance to that bastion of northern sensibility – the jackass….I mean donkey….I mean the Democratic Party. Alas, I’ll be waiting until next Saturday’s Primary to cast my vote - but most of you knew too that already, didn't you? And I frankly don't know who I'll vote for. I may be like the many Americans I hear on the news saying that they won't know know who they'll vote for until they walk into the voting booth. I can tell you that I often vote based on gut reactions to people. In my last job I had an opportunity to meet several people who were, or went on to be, political leaders in State or Federal government. And although I'd be very hard pressed to ever vote for him, Mitt Romney is one of the few politicians I met that came off as both genuine and generally likable. Most of them are pretty superficial - especially when dealing with very low placed constituents like me. I have the same sort of feeling about John Edwards although I've never met him. He seems like a very genuine kind of guy - but that opinion isn't based on any type of empirical data. I remember back in '04 (geez, this sounds like some old war story in the making. "Back in '04 when your uncle and me fought the rising tide of Chinese imports......" But I digress.) Anyway, in '04, Barack Obama gave a keynote address at the Democratic National Convention in Boston. I can remember being riveted to my television during his speech and then commenting to several people in days after that I thought Obama would make an excellent representative of the Democrats in '08 (which seemed like so far off at the time.) And then there is Hillary. I've never been a big fan of Ms. Clinton, but I also think she's been unjustly villianized. Most people seem to forget that she's not a First Lady turned politician but rather a politician who happened to serve as First Lady. In any case, I think people are quick to sell her short, but I'm not sure that I'm ready to vote for her.

But what really got me to musing on this issue was a conversation I had yesterday with Tommy at work. It's no secret that having been born and raised in the South, Tommy tends to have a conservative view of the world. Mind you, he's a pretty laid back, live-and-let-live kind of guy; he is, by no means, a radical right-winger. But unlike me, he chose to vote yesterday and, sufficed to say, he'll be at peace with the outcome. In any case we got to chatting about politics (which surprisingly isn't often the subject of conversation at work.) In any case, Tommy indicated that there were two "hot button" issues that helped him decide who to vote for - gay marriage and abortion. And it doesn't take a great stretch of the imagination to guess which side of these issues he comes down on. He feels so strongly about these issues that he declared that he would never be able to vote for a candidate that disagreed with his stance. Although Tommy and I are 180 degrees opposed on these two issues in terms of how we'd vote, I have to say that I very much respect (and envy) his integrity, clarity and decisiveness. For him there's no question involved - if a candidate doesn't share his convictions, he's not going to vote for them. It doesn't make his vote a given, but it does help weed out some of the clutter. While I have my own strong personal convictions regarding these issues, I don't share his adamancy - I would be hard pressed to completely discount a candidate based solely on their stance regarding these two issues. In fact, I don't think I can ever recall a candidate or platform plank that defined for me the way to vote. I do envy anyone who has that advantage. Well, I've got six days to try and make up my mind - hopefully some of Tommy's clarity of thought will rub off on me.

Hey, how 'bout them Patriots! Go New England!

Spinal Tap

I was just listening to All Things Considered on NPR and they quoted Spinal Tap. Never in all my years did I ever think I'd live to hear that. It was a story about scientists trying to create the world's darkest material - which of course led to the quote about, "How much blacker could it be?" "None. None more black." Or something like that. In any case it gave me a smile.

Welcome

Hey all. This is the new home of Southern Transplant - the once in a while, when I feel like it, here's what's going on - ramblings of someone with way too much time on his hands. OK, maybe not that much time on my hands. At least, not as much as I would like. But you get the idea.

For those of you who are new to Southern Transplant (or who might have stumbled here accidentally,) this is my forum for both updating friends and family on my family's escapades as well as place for me to muse on life in the south from someone who spent the first forty years of his existence north of the Mason/Dixon Line. And yes, when I refer to the "north" or "northerners" I'm referring to the north east - a distinction that came to my attention earlier today (which is a story I will relate soon.)

In an attempt to get my writing back on track, I've decided to go this route. I'm hoping this format will be more conducive to my style - allowing me to post shorter ramblings more often rather than feeling like I "need" to come up with enough material to make an email worth wild. We'll see how it goes. Please, let me know what you think.