I spent two weeks in England and Germany last month. I traveled to London. I traveled to Newcastle. I traveled to Munich. The trip was not as exotic as those locations may sound. I spent a considerable amount of time in offices, train cars, and airplanes. Sightseeing was not a priority. I did have a couple of opportunities for something outside of work: I spent several hours on a Saturday in Northumberland looking at castles. I went on a self-guided walking tour of London to see some of the famous sights. And I had the pleasure of going to a pub in Newcastle on a whim—just to see what it was like—have a pint (or two) of beer and watch football.

I discovered real ale.

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The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

Whirl and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary on Monday. This past year has been a peculiar year for both of us. We both used up all our our available vacation, sick leave and then some back in the first three months of the year. We did not have any significant amount of time off. I had managed to work most of Memorial Day weekend which gave me a few hours of ‘comp time’. Whirl had done something similar. So with a single day off, we set about finding a getaway destination that might provide us a small bit of peace and tranquility.

We took the train to Springfield, Illinois.

I realize this is an odd choice for a romantic anniversary weekend. There were restrictions on our travels. Due to the head injury, I am not allowed to fly for a year. We do not own a car. Whirl does not drive at all. The last time I drove a car was shortly before the injury. We traveled downstate to help paint my grandfather’s house. I do not think—nor does Whirl—we do not think that it is a good idea for me to get behind the wheel of a car without some practice. Particularly not starting in downtown Chicago— driving in downtown Chicago and on the Stevenson (or Kennedy or Eisenhower or Dan Ryan or Edens or Bishop Ford or any of them, really) can be a challenge for anyone.

So airplanes were out; automobiles were out. That left trains and boats. We looked into the various possibilities of destinations. As it was just going to be a three-day vacation, we did not want the travel component to be particularly long. Three or four hours to get to where we were going would be about the limit. That yielded a short list of rail destinations that included Joliet, Galesburg, Quincy, South Bend, Milwaukee, Kalamazoo and Springfield. – We did not find anything remotely reasonable as far as boat trips on Lake Michigan. I suppose we could have taken a bus. Nothing says romance like Greyhound.

We decided on the train.

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The plans for Labor Day weekend have changed many times this year. We scheduled a major infrastructure project at work to take place over the three-day weekend. That got canceled. It conflicted with the deadline for one of our development teams. Next, we thought we might go to Wisconsin to see The House on the Rock. I first became aware of this roadside attraction while spending a long weekend at my friend’s Wisconsin farm. I was reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods on a short-but-pleasant vacation. The House on the Rock makes an intriguing appearance in the novel. Also, some other friends of mine have been and described the place as eerily fascinating. I have wanted to visit ever since. Brian and Melissa have wanted to go too.

That fell through.

Whirl and I eventually settled for going to the Hidden Shamrock yesterday for the Celtic jam session. Smokes, Patrick, Brian, Liz, and Melissa joined us. I have been to the session a few times since living in Chicago. The last time I went was several years ago. The session is vaguely informal. Performers bring their instruments. They sit in a circle near the fireplace and take turns playing traditional Celtic music. Yesterday’s collection of instruments included three accordions; two flutes, one Irish traditional, one a concert flute; a banjo and a tin whistle. Two men also sang.

The tavern was quiet. Other than the musicians there were perhaps ten patrons. I felt empowered. I felt like I was listening to a personal concert being performed just for me. It was not a concert. It never is. It was a group of people playing music for the love of playing music. Simple, earnest and sincere. My friends wanted to talk and laugh—as we often do when we go out—as we had not seen each other in a couple weeks in most cases. I eventually was able to indicate to them to quiet for a spell—that there was something going on that was really worth listening to.

My friends quieted. We bought the performers a round of drinks. We listened. The broad windows were open and the weather outside was beautiful: somewhere between warm and autumn. Before we left for the evening, we asked them to play a song I particularly enjoy. The singer said that it had been years since he had last done so. Afterwards he stopped by our table and talked to us for quite a while. These two acts underlined that sense of well-being brought about by the entire moment.

“The Foggy Dew” deals with the Irish Easter Uprising of 1916. It is an appeal for Irishmen to fight for their freedom rather than fight for the English in foreign wars. The author is given as Father O’Neill, a parish priest.

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In all fairness, this should be a story for Whirl to tell. I’m going to tell it anyway. Those of you who may be familiar with where Whirl and I live will remember the apartment building across the street. This building sees a fair amount of traffic, with renters moving in and out often. That is not particularly atypical. This has become less extraordinary in the last ten years with the re-discovery of the entire neighborhood. The more recent development with the various colleges—and the cooperative megalith we call “the Superdorm”—has seen a significant increase in college students in the immediate area. When I attended college I moved several times a year. I do not think that trend has changed. They move a lot.

This brings me to the story. Yesterday, a renter had been forcibly displaced from his home—presumably by his landlord. While not an everyday sort of happening, this is a not uncommon event. I have seen it before many times. And like those many times before, the landlord had expressed his eviction notice by moving his luckless tenant’s belongings out onto the street. This street is the same street faced by our large windows. Our home became front row for what was to transpire next.

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In my last entry, I talked about looking for a series of wins to help with my self-confidence. I am pleased to report that that has happened. The project I was working on that day finished successfully—a little longer than expected, but successful, nonetheless. I have made continual progress on a number of other work projects, as well. And this is in spite of the setbacks – foreseen and unforeseen – that inevitably attach themselves to things like this like leeches: vendors with their heads up their asses; arbitrary changes in the project time-tables; and the constant barrage of tasks of “highest priority”. It seems to me that if you have twenty tasks to do, and all of them are “highest priority” then nothing is a priority. It becomes exceedingly difficult to determine what to do next. Should I chose the wrong task, I run the risk of complications. You see, the Powers That Be can be quite similar to Orwell’s pigs. All tasks are equally high priority; but some are more equal than others. However, the Powers That Be don’t clarify that last point until something catastrophic has occurred that has revealed their failings.

Enough. I’ve said my piece on the topic. I’ve said my piece to the Powers That Be. I’ve said my piece to my fellow workers. And now I’ve said my piece to you. I hope that it has done some good.

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Today Whirl and I went in to the office to have lunch with everyone there. I haven’t been to the office since the Friday before the accident, back in January. It felt good to be back, even if I was there in a visitor mode, rather than as an actual worker. One of my good friends did ask me if anyone requested that I fix something — and the truth is, several people did. I took that as compliments.

We went to one of my favorite lunch spots, Hot Doug’s. Whirl had never been there, but had heard us talk about it all the time. Everyone had a really good time. I got a chance to catch up with people, and convince them that I was a living, breathing, walking, talking person. I did wear my Sox cap so that people could eat without looking at my Frankenstein head. (Stitches come out Friday, yay!)

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