Multifaith picnic

After attending the panel on Prayer in America, I was talking to Dr Woody Trautman, one of the executive board members of Multifaith Council of Northwest Ohio. I mentioned about my blog and my posts on their events, including their Multifaith Thanksgiving last year.

Then, I received an Email from him, applauding my insight and clarity of expression and expressing his sorrow that I didn't know of and attend their multifaith banquet on March 19 and therefore be able to compose a summary blog (I'm sorry too for missing such an interesting multifaith event, but that week was one of the worst weeks of my overcrammed semester). Then, he proceeded to invite me to their multifaith picnic.

Today, the picnic-content of my blood was high after attending our GSA picnic yesterday, but I felt like going on a second picnic in a row. Well, I love multifaith events and I always enjoy picnics (especially, in the countryside that I knew from my last summer biking expeditions; have a look at the photos in their flyer). The combination of these things was hard to resist. And as these days are probably my last days in Toledo, I take any opportunity to enjoy my time here with people I like. Here we go.

I arrived in there with my bike (he'd kindly offered to arrange for my transportation, but a big part of my fun over such events is the biking). We were told to sign-in and choose a name-tag. There was something more about their name-tags; they were not completely blank. One of the objectives of this picnic was conservancy (the wind-turbine in the farm should give an idea). We were to choose from a variety of themed name-tags marked with energy, recycling, water-bottles, waste-water, etc.

It appears that I'm incorrigible as a former electrical engineer. After contemplating for a while, I chose the energy name-tag and wrote my name. So, after making such a big switch and studying a Master's program in Sociology, I still identify myself with my long-term career (I still subscribe to PC magazine and their weekly newsletter). I hope my nostalgia about engineering, powerplants, control systems, networks, etc. subsides after finishing my PhD in Sociology (though I doubt it).

And my strong identification with my former life is not limited just to a name-tag. Whenever I visit churches and happen to bump into an electrical engineer, I feel ecstatic. First, it was Pastor Habrecht at Gloria Dei Lutheran Church. Then, it was over this year's Interfaith Blood Drive when I discovered that Dr Trautman has got his PhD in electrical engineering from Stanford (and still, he prefers to be simply called Woody). And even today, while I was enjoying the hay-ride, sitting next to a senior fellow with his energy-themed name-tag, I found that he was a retired electrical engineer. And then, our chatting drifted into electrical engineering and then I had to explain about my big switch (engineers and non-engineers alike are surprised about my switch, though it's not such a big deal or big switch to me).

No misunderstanding. I've never been one of those guys who identify themselves with their degree (or other worldly affiliations for that matter). Actually, I hate such superficial shallow people. And I didn't like it when my father (purposefully) teased me over recent years, addressing me by my title instead of my name.

It's just that when you get dirty with something for a long time, you can hardly detach yourself from that. And electrical engineers are generally very passionate about their profession. And sometimes, it even shows in our conversations among ourselves (using technical terms even in our non-technical chats; control system guys are the worst in this respect). Or maybe it's a problem with Generation Y (I'm Generation X though). That could be an interesting research topic for sociologists.

After getting off the tractor-pulled-hay-cart, I got a sweet surprise. They were playing from the loudspeaker (loudspeakers in a countryside picnic at a barn?) one of my favorite songs. And the song was a Persian classical one. That happens when you have a Sufi host (Judy Trautman). Just imagine how I felt hearing that song in an American picnic after being cast-away for a long time from my great collection of classical music (Persian and Western) back in Iran. Although I do not like the singer in person, I enjoy his songs, which are mostly classical with mystic themes and poems. This particular song remained a big hit in Iran for quite some time after he released the album early 1980s. To hear the song (Darse Sahar), click on the headphone icon here or simply click on Dars-e Sahar on this page.

And it appears that I was not the only one fascinated. That was true even with Americans who didn't understand the Persian poem (and I really couldn't translate those difficult words with my current command of English). That's sans-frontier language of music, enchanting all people. Well, except for our announcer guy who found it the best time for his announcements right in the middle of this song. Classical music (Persian or Western) flows best into your soul in a continuum, not something you interrupt once in a while and then catch on. Later on, I asked Judy for a replay and again our announcer cut in.

All in all, I enjoyed my day with interesting people in a very pleasant setting. And I had an opportunity (after such a long time) to watch some sheep, horses and a mule grazing, or to listen to the contented sound of hens enjoying their share of watermelon. But I doubt the swallows enjoyed it all the same way while we invaders from town made so much noise in their barn.

Patriotism and Revolutionary Sale

Last year, when I observed my first Independence Day in America, it was more or less an apologetic narration and experience as I spent most of my time on the lands usurped from its rightful inhabitants (Indians). And at the end of the day, I felt somehow guilty. This year, I was thinking about spending my second (and probably last) Independence Day in Toledo in a more American way. Looking at the table of events for in the area, I chose Centennial Terrace.

When I was a kid, one of the things in American culture that I found very American was drive-in theater. And I always wanted to experience it in person. Not that I found it personally very exciting to sit in a car and watch a movie; as always, the sociologist inside me was interested in the atmosphere. However, my childhood years saw the increasing popularity of TV and VCR and I knew that by the time I grow old enough to go to the US, drive-in theaters would be history. And it appears that I was right.

I have to admit that despite growing up with the advent of modern digital technology (and having spent the second half of my life on it), I'm a very old-fashioned guy; I still wish I had been born 20 years earlier to be involved personally with technological (and non-technical) revolutions of 1960s and 1970s as an adult (not a kid).

Even as an engineer, I wish I could have started my computing experience with mainframes; I started computer programming in 1986 with Commodore 64 (I got the chance to play a little with some IBM mainframes for my FORTRAN programming language course in college, but that's reliving the past, not an original experience). And although I've been an engineer for a long time (and trivially obsessed with efficiency), I still prefer old cars to new models (which all look the same and lack the individual identity of the oldies).

Anyway, watching the fireworks at Centennial Terrace would provide me with an opportunity to experience an atmosphere somehow similar to good ole drive-in theaters. It also meant 10.5 miles of biking to reach Centennial Terrace, most of it on the country-side (although I was a little bit apprehensive about drivers who celebrate this holy night with booze).

I arrived there almost in time (10 pm) and found the best vintage point right on the crossing of Centennial and Erie. And it turned out to be a good place; they fired the mortars exactly in this direction. People had been advised to bring in their lawn-chairs. I didn't have one, but I found a better solution; instead of straining and bending my neck toward the sky, I lied down flat on the grass. This would let me relax my muscles after 10.5 miles of fast biking and I could watch the screen more comfortably.

However, at the end, when it came to the crescendo finale, I had to sit up alarmed. Although they had put barricades and I was supposedly within the safety margin, the last round of mortars were fired in a very closed angle toward us and having learned from my experience last year, I could anticipate some falling cinders and debris. But it was more than that. Some burning stuff landed just meters ahead of my feet. And they were more than just cinders; they looked the size of full flares. If landed on somebody's clothes, it would had been really difficult to extinguish these burning phosphorous stuff. And that could have been the difference between a memorable night and ending up in ER with serious burns.

While I was lying down enjoying the scene, two guys sat right above my head and they were very excited to shout their expert commentaries about the fireworks and the size of those mortar shells. From time to time, they would exclaim over the deafening sound of the fireworks: "fifteen-pounder", "twenty-pounder", "twenty-five-pounder" and at the end, "THIRTY POUNDER". I thought they must be firework maniacs; they turned out to be pizza vendors. Medium pizza boxes for 5 bucks. Nobody was interested in their stuff, except for the dogs who sniffed longingly while their owners tried to keep them away from those yummies. Poor dogs.

One of the major things that I was keen to observe in this nearly drive-in theater experience, was the amount of cars. With hiking gas prices that wouldn't relent even with gas prayers, I was curious to see how many people would show their patriotism and would drive their gas-guzzling cars to the event. I was not disappointed. Country roads that would see sparse cars over normal days were jammed with cars.

And this would put a heavy burden on numerous police officers who had to handle the traffic before and after the event. I was impressed with how they did their job, which at times looked daunting. They had to direct so many cars going in different ways late at night and in the meantime, trying to keep calm with some unbehaving drivers. Just stand for a few minutes at a jammed crossing on a holiday night like this, with some overdrunk drivers honking and shouting and you'll understand what I mean. Later on, I heard in the news that July 4th is the second fatal day of the year when it comes to casualties as a result of DUI (July 4th endures the highest number of car accidents in the year). We generally tend to take for granted the service that police officers offer us.

On my way back, I biked around historic downtown Sylvania. And unlike my tour around downtown Maumee last year, I found it desolated, more or less like a ghost city for such a night. Last year, all bars around downtown Maumee were overpacked with people celebrating the birthday of the USA with rock or country music and of course, booze. It was funny to see underage kids trying to sneak in. Although I was old enough to go in (as one of the doormen mentioned and invited me in), religious restrictions forced me to make my sociological observations from outside (we Muslims are not allowed to sit or stand in a place where alcohol is served).

Speaking of patriotism, as I had decided to behave like a common true American this year, I ended my night with some shopping. Well, maybe not completely a true American. Although businesses and stores inundate people with patriotic advertisements for their unbelievable sales over these days, I'm hardly fooled into buying things that I really don't need, just because they're on sale. There was one particular commercial, advertising for their revolutionary sales of home furniture without any interest over four years. As an anti-consumerist however, I restricted my show of patriotism to foodstuff sales.