Harvill, Party of Four

Thanks go out to Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. . .

Beth, Tessa, Jonathan and I were in Washington, DC this past weekend. It was a particularly busy one as people had traveled in from all points of the U.S. to attend a rally. The crowds caused us to remember the need for a specific plan to stick together. At one point when we were literally in a sea of people and Jonathan had continued ahead toward his targeted location becoming somewhat separated from us, I pulled him back to remind him of the need to navigate together. He quickly said, "Harvill, Party of Four". That stuck and was my catch phrase for the trip.

Before we left Birmingham, we all had chosen the places we had hoped to go. My goal was to visit the Smithsonian Museum of American Art. I had read that there was an exhibit of original Norman Rockwell paintings on loan from the collections of Spielberg and Lucas. I tried to plan my agenda around everyone else's so as not to cramp anyone's style. Now I knew that there might be a bit of curiosity owing to the fact that Spielberg and Lucas's names were attached to this Rockwell thing. Beyond that, however, I merely hoped to catch a glimpse of the paintings and move to the next location on the list without seeing the boredom etched on my teenager's faces along with the rolling of the eyes that signals complete disinterest.

For a little history, I have always appreciated Rockwell's view of America. To me it's a glimpse of the nation I want to exist. I expect the same from a Frank Capra movie. It's a Wonderful Life is my all-time favorite. In fact, we have made a Christmas tradition out of heading down to the Alabama Theatre a week or so before the 25th to watch that poignant slice of cinematography in the type of venue created for the big screen; a movie palace from the 1920's: Visit The Alabama Theatre.

So, I walked through the exhibit housed in the building that hosted President Lincoln's 2nd Inaugural Ball and after viewing the paintings and reading the stories behind their creation I went to check out the gift shop and wait for the regrouping of the clan and the inevitable statements of boredom. To my suprise - no my astonishment, Tessa and Jonathan came in to say that they loved the paintings. Not only that, they wanted to come back the next day! They were captivated by the simplicity of the art and the tales relayed in each scene. In a word, they got it! They possess an appreciation of something Mom and Dad like; not the kind of appreciation that stems from honoring the old folks. No, they truly enjoyed Norman Rockwell's paintings for what they represent to them.

Wow!

This weekend, and I said it so many times before leaving D.C. to head back to reality, was a great time together. We have our struggles as every family does. We miscommunicate and misunderstand with regularity. But, we also find common ground and discover those moments when, with all of our differences and divergent interests, we hit our stride and find that we really do enjoy each other. Family is good. It's the hardest thing Beth and I have ever done. But boy, is it worth it. Thanks again, Mr. Spielberg and Mr. Lucas, and Mr. Rockwell, for bringing together the family of Harvill, party of four.

Why I Don't Like Mondays

My son does not like change. I don't mean to blame it on him. As is said, 'he got it honestly'. The truth is, I don't like change much either. My best friend in elementary school moved to Anaheim (a full 10 minutes away) when we were in 2nd grade. I saw him one more time after that. Didn't like that change. In the band days on the road, the lineup changed all the time. One would move on and I thought the best days were over.

It's not just people. I try to hold on to the seasons, squeezing as much life out of summer and my Beach Boys records before surrendering to the cooler days of fall and September of My Years by Sinatra. The holidays, vacations and mere weekends bring out the reluctance in me toward change.

So here it is, another Sunday night. I regularly find that I am trying to make the most of the few hours left before I go to bed then get up, put on the tie and head out the door. See, I don't like change. I resist the inevitable until I realize that the 'Monday through Friday' of the week allows me to enjoy the Saturday and Sunday part. In reality, I love what I do and without the work there is no play. So, bring on the suit! I'll load up the car and head to the offices where I get to talk with folks about their weekend past and speculate on their plans for the weekend ahead!

The Flag Ceremony

I am a sucker for patriotic events. As kids, my brothers and I would march around the living room beating pots and pans marching to "Victory at Sea" playing on the stereo. The end of June meant that the fireworks stands would be going up and we would walk barefooted (in order to condition the feet for the inevitable heat of summer in California) to view the rather tame offerings (due to California's fire restrictions) at the Freedom Fireworks or Black Cat booth and imagine what havoc we could wreak on the 4th of July. When I stood in front of Leutze's painting of "Washington Crossing the Delaware" in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York I felt a sense of pride for and connection with our nation's 1st General and President.



This respect for the devotion to country was also reinforced at the semi-annual flag ceremony at Pacific Drive Elementary School. The entire student body would gather around the flag pole. Ted, the custodian, would roll out the upright piano and we would all recite the Pledge of Allegiance after which Mrs. Pool would sing the National Anthem. I never had Mrs. Pool as a teacher, but she was the symbol to me of our national song in those early years. (Ironically, my brother and I ran into her in an obscure Pennsylvania town at a random Italian restaurant many, many years later.) Those events solidified a certain reverance I still feel whenever the opportunity to display devotion to America presents itself, whether in the classroom or at a ball game.



I have noticed, however, that there has been a subtle de-emphasis on patriotism creeping into our culture. Ask elementary students how frequently they recite the pledge and, suprisingly, some will say not too often if at all. The National Anthem is still played at sports events around the country with the same excitement it always brought, but, where are the stories? Who is teaching our children of the heroics displayed by those who founded this country and were willing to die to establish and protect freedom? Who is standing up to challenge those who are now seeking to re-write American history and diminish the gift of national greatness bestowed on us by our Creator?



I was confronted by a comment I heard a couple of years ago. Someone on the radio said, 'how will you answer when your grandchildren ask you what you did during these challenging days?' That question haunted me for a while, but I soon committed to do all I could to understand and reacquaint myself with the history, the documents and the people that made this nation great. I began reading (and re-reading) the books, studying the Constitution and praying for renewal in America. I also committed to participate in the events that support our Nation's history and greatness. In fact, that very question is why we're loading up the car to head to DC for a patriotic rally later this month. For the 2nd time in a year, my family and I will stand amidst the throng of thousands seeking to regain a sense of pride and honor, longing to see America's strength restored and looking to find again the passion that filled the heart of that 1st grader as he sang the National Anthem with Mrs. Pool.