Under the Big Top

Finding a Purpose in Folding Clothes

We have two little expenditures, otherwise known as children, running around our house who are a delight, a joy, and a blessing.  And those are just the compliments I get from the manufacturer of our laundry detergent.  Trendy clothing stores like them; ‘tween jewelry shops love them; and their favorite ice cream parlor sends them birthday cards that include coupons for free cones.

Yes, since having children my life has changed significantly. 

I am not complaining.  The significant changes are for the better.  I just never expected that those existential life upgrades would include so much laundry.  Because so much of my daily condition revolves around a laundry basket, I thought I’d try to discover meaning in it  Add value to it.  Attempt a critical examination, if you will.

Being a lifelong horsewoman, I’ve spent an insanely large amount of time at the business end of a pitchfork.  Stall cleaning is a rite of passage in the horse world, and after more than 30 years of having equines included within my immediate personal bubble, I’ve cleaned a lot of them.  Over time, I’ve learned to make excellent use of the early morning hours that I spend stall picking, bale throwing and tank scrubbing.  It’s my only quiet time of the day, and I recommend it for mind-clearing contemplation. 

Yes, 45 minutes of barn chores in the fresh air at dawn keep momma happy. 

‘Cause we all know that when momma ain’t happy, the laundry is sure to pile up. 

While the stall cleaning is a welcome ritual; by contrast, the laundry is not.  Yesterday, I sat down with another overflowing basket in pre-fold mode:  Mismatched socks, freshly bleached top-dresser-drawer items, Valentine’s Day towels, and Aeropostle extra-small t-shirts.  (Side note: Yes, I said “Valentine’s Day towels.”  Got a batch for the February holiday that celebrates romance.  Wait for a future blog post on that!)

Anyhoo, in keeping with the spirit of this column and this blog, I thought I’d try to examine the laundry and its accoutrements such as basket, machine and detergent, to determine whether any or all have been used within a theatrical or entertainment context.

Ah ha!  Now that was a challenge that’s worthy of distraction! 

It was a critical brainteaser that I could tackle while I paired plaid argyle with tube (will the kids really notice?), and folded XXL sweaters – oops!  Well, they were extra, extra large … perhaps they’ll stretch?  No matter, we’re all trying to lose weight anyway. 

In any case, at first the obvious came to mind.  “Frasier” and Daphne, the sitcom’s physical therapist character. Daphne often was seen walking through the apartment while carrying a laundry basket.  The character always has been an anomaly to me.  She was an educated therapist who mysteriously also worked as a housekeeper.  She cooked, cleaned, walked the dog, AND offered deep-tissue massages while also performing laundry duties!  If we somehow could get a Superemployee like that working in this house, then I’d consider myself the luckiest gal in the world.

However, my initial examination of clothes and basket as a significant story factor falls short.  Daphne’s laundry basket never was a plot device, just a prop.

Next, I contemplated a frequent theatrical scenario:  The sudsy, overloaded washing machine as protagonist-hero foil.  Think Michael Keaton as “Mr. Mom.”   Upon losing his job and becoming a stay-at-home dad, he attempts household duties with predictable results.  He and the aggressive washing machine come to blows in the basement while deliverymen and a crying baby wreak havoc upstairs. Funny, but not unusual.

Next, there’s the myriad of cartoon characters who make use of a handy clothesline full of aprons or breezy nightgowns.  Now, these qualify as character enhancers!  Who doesn’t love to see the giant Foghorn Leghorn in a dress?  These moments definitely are plot changing and significant.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Something kept poking at me.  A pen stuck in the pocket of a pair of jeans I was folding?  No, it was a thought, a breakthrough moment.  A childhood memory.  My favorite show.  An after school ritual:  The Brady Bunch, specifically Housekeeper Alice and an episode titled “The Great Earring Caper.”  

If memory serves, Carol’s earrings mysteriously disappeared.  Children, parents and housekeeper retraced their steps through the house … voila!  A laundry basket emerges as a significant plot device!  Jan tried on the earrings in secret, then hid them under a towel in their Jack-and-Jill bathroom to avoid discovery.  Shortly after, Alice walked in and slid the towel (and hidden earrings) into her laundry basket.  Then, knowing that she’d been told to let the children clean up after themselves, she replaced the towel on the counter and left the bathroom with the earrings still in the basket!

The family races to the laundry room and, alas, the load that Alice had been carrying, which contained the earrings, had been washed.  Carol’s ruined baubles were found in the machine.  But Jan is remorseful, a lesson is learned, and peace is restored in the Brady household upon the show’s conclusion.

Finally, I’d found what I was looking for:  Laundry had served a moral purpose as revealed in Jan’s confession of sorrow and her resulting redemption.

As I finished the last of my folding duties for the day, the most famous laundry-centric scene of them all came to mind.  To me, it was the granddaddy of them all:  The scene was as bright as bleach, and the writer’s wit as quick as my trusty machine’s “spin” cycle.

Who could forget Sir John Falstaff’s hilarious turn in a hamper and his ensuing tumble into the River Thames?  In “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” the notorious rogue Falstaff attempts to seduce Mistresses Page and Ford as a way to gain financial fortune.  His ruse is discovered by the women, who hatch a plot to cover him with “foul linen” and have him dumped in the water.  Jolly good fun ensues, and Queen Elizabeth, who purportedly had asked Shakespeare to write a play featuring Falstaff, surely must have ditched her stony visage and enjoyed a few chuckles with the plain ol’ folks.        

That’s it!  Laundry as the great equalizer!  Whether royal or common, husband or wife, parent or child, Democrat or Republican, Packer or Bear, Donald Trump or everybody else, humor can be found in a rakish windbag being tricked into taking a turn in a pile of dirty old sheets. 

All of God’s creation can appreciate it.  Suddenly, I wanted to sit up straight and take a little more pride in the job I was doing.  Though the sun never sets on the laundry-mountain empire that has overtaken my basement, the job of keeping clean the family garments has inherent merit and unquestionable value.  (And only a fool wouldn’t be grateful for an empty drawer being stocked every day with fresh socks and clean shirts by the hand that rocks the cradle.)

Laundry?  It’s a noble pursuit. 

As far as I’m concerned, the hand the folds the towels can entertain the world

The family and I surrendered to the snow and cold, which meant that we attended a couple of movies.  We were just too weary of the weather to do anything else.  We'd seen advertisements for "Drillbit Taylor" and we collectively agreed that it would be something for young and old to enjoy.

Wrong -- and I'm not too proud to admit it.

Don't have any pithy Shakespearan quotes, either, because the Bard doesn't have any that specifically refer to train wrecks. 

In short, the film depicts horrific juvenile violence and bullying, and in truly poor taste, its main character, "Drillbit" and a female high school teacher use a classroom for sexual encounters.  The principal of the high school is a deluded doofus who defends the menacing bullies in front of the parents and their mortified children; a stepfather not only throws things and yells at his stepson, but defends his own high school bullying behaviors; and despite repeated fights, none of the high-school student-onlookers step forward to help any of the victims.  Chilling.

The film is guilty on all counts:  It's humorless, the characters are underwritten yet too real to be cartoonish (which would make it a more lighthearted farce), and its twisted attempt at a "Robin Hood" theme; that is, rob from the rich to finance the plight of the noble-but-flawed poor lacks wit, polish and depth.    

I'm sorry to say that the film reminds me of a movie and its sequels that were popular when I was in high school.  Which I won't name because that would only re-publicize the franchise, and possibly cause somebody to actually rent it. 

Regarding "Drillbit," all I can say is, "Yuk."

Just as it’s too easy to compare Hillary Clinton with Lady MacBeth, it’s too easy to compare Eliot Spitzer, the recently disgraced governor of New York, with the devious and difficult Richard III.

The dastardly British king was the first Shakespearean character who came to mind as I watched Spitzer’s tragedy unfold. And when I read yesterday’s Wall Street Journal editorial, which discussed Spitzer’s thuggish behavior and proclaimed the whole sorry saga as Shakespearean, ol’ Richard’s ghost practically tap danced across the winner’s podium during my nightly dream of horse-show glory.

Never one to ignore an obvious clue from my subconscious about a tip for an interesting essay, I picked up my historic reference manuals and started to dig. There are so many brilliant characters who display so many tootsies of clay: Richard III. King Lear. MacBeth? Henry VIII?

None of the characters captured what I was looking for. (However it was a useful bit of background research for my Hillary Clinton piece, which I shall write at the appropriate time.) Spitzer’s example of “pride goeth before the fall” is a straightforward one, and I wanted the appropriate verses and character to support that argument.

King Richard III was evil incarnate. His twisted body represented his soul, and after his murderous and treacherous climb to the top, his bloody demise on the battlefield was a fitting end to his scheming nature. He offered no remorse, no redemption for his behavior, only lamentations that he couldn’t continue fighting.

Not quite what I needed. Where Spitzer offered apologies, Richard would rather have sliced off his own tongue.

Then it came to me: I didn’t need a character, I needed a proclamation. Spitzer’s tale of woe doesn’t embody a character, it embodies a concept.

I searched further and came across a soliloquy offered by Cardinal Wolsey, the ambitious and ruthless cardinal who was the prominent advisor to King Henry VIII. While Henry ultimately was responsible for his own problems, Wolsey helped plant the seeds. He encouraged Henry’s first divorce from Queen Katherine, skewered rivals and schemed with France behind the King’s back.

However, in the end, Wolsey received his due.  He died with a sorry reputation, and an even sorrier heart. When I read Wolsey’s near-death confession, which is a treatise on the corruption of unbridled ambition, I knew I’d struck essay gold:

Wolsey: “…I charge thee, fling away ambition.

… that sin fell the angels; how can man then,

… the image of his Maker, hope to win by it?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

… in the right hand, carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues.

Be just and fear not.

Let … the ends thou aim at be thy country’s,

Thy God’s and thy truth’s.

Then if thou fall …

Thou fall a blessed martyr.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, he would not have …

Left me naked to my enemies.

The brilliance of Shakespeare -- and the reason why the classics penned by “dead white male Europeans” should still be taught to little, middle and large ears at every school in the country -- is that every theme resonates now: Greed. Ambition. Pride. Lust. Honor. Mercy.

In 2008, who has just been left naked to his enemies?  Whose prideful, “I’m above the rules” behavior” has led him into a downward fall?

Yes, Spitzer’s is an abject lesson for everybody who doesn’t understand what Shakespeare and those before him understood. Human nature doesn’t change. We cherish the tender mercies; abhor dishonesty, greed and ruthlessness; and we honor truth and integrity.

C.S. Lewis knew it. Wrote about it and applied those arguments to the Divine.

Now there’s an idea for a column …

“I think the King is but a man as I am;

the violet smells to him as it doth to me …

His fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are;

Yet … no man should see him with any appearance of fear;

Lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.”

--King Henry V, in disguise, to one of his soldiers on the eve of battle

Prince Hal, who became King Henry V, understood the mixed blessings that accompanied his crown. As a prince, he was a squirrelly, riotous young fellow who enjoyed far too well the bar room antics of the irresponsible Falstaff. His father, King Henry IV, his countrymen, and his future opponents, the French, worried about his leadership skills, underestimated his determination, and in France’s case, taunted and insulted him by sending over a bag of tennis balls when he ascended his throne.

I almost wish that the Minnesota Vikings had dismissed Brett Favre by delivering a bucket of tennis balls to Green Bay when he arrived in the city in 1991. Pink ones. And a kid’s plastic play racquet to go along with it, too. Anything to stoke the fire. Just think of the additional records Favre could have set had he been so welcomed by his opponents. Perhaps the competitive drive would have lasted a little longer; perhaps he would have graced us with his presence in our state and on our state’s team for just one more year.

He says he’s mentally tired. “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Prince Hal was told by his father. Imagine what the burden must have been for 17 seasons for Favre. Yes, the violets smelled to him as they do to us, but for 17 seasons and 253 games, Favre could show no fear; his team, on the frozen tundra of battle, needed to turn to him and recognize confidence, even in foreign and frenetically hostile NFL climes.

But that confidence could never culminate in self-satisfaction, or in prideful self-indulgence. Had that happened, Brett’s and the Packer’s story would have ended far differently. Perhaps tragically.

“By jove, I am not covetous for gold …

it yearns me not if men my garments wear;

such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.”

--King Henry V, St. Crispian’s Day speech, just before riding into the battle of Agincourt

According to those who understand him, Brett will disappear behind the fence of his Mississippi home, go on with his life, and leave the summations and the stories and the “what ifs? And remember whens?” to the rest of us. Analysts will discuss his records, the amazing and the enduring, and the sickening opposites: the interceptions, the impulsiveness, and the agonizing, heartbreaking last play of his career. We’ll discuss the confessions, the rehabilitation, and the youthful shenanigans.

Perhaps a few storyteller-writers more skilled than I will connect all those dots and let its shape reveal a tale not often witnessed in modern times. A tale of honor and pride bequeathed upon a little town, a “fly over,” unassuming agricultural state, and its unlikely, rascally hero. The miraculous paradox of a truly successful leader-king-quarterback is that he understands and accepts that the more powerful and popular he gets, the more humble and less materialistic he must become. (The opposite of that truism is ugly to witness; we’ve seen it too many times to count.)

So what does he have if he isn’t seduced by tempting wealth and fleshly riches, and the resulting sycophantic adulation, that surrounds his victories?

He has what Shakespeare told us, as revealed in King Henry’s St. Crispian’s Day soliloquy. He has his honor, his character, his moral fiber. He has an honest mirror, so to speak. When Brett views himself in the bathroom looking glass every morning for the rest of his life, the conscience gazing back at him will be flawed, but it will offer soul-soothing comfort and truth. The honor he coveted, whether on purpose or not, he achieved. And he achieved it for all of us, in front of all of us, despite all of us.

There is nothing so disarming to one’s determination than to have a confidante express doubts. When cousin Westmorland told King Henry that they were devastatingly outnumbered by the French forces, and he wished for more men, Henry gave him a rousing tongue lashing:

“O, do not wish one more …

That he which has no stomach in this fight;

Let him depart …”

My eye for football is a novice one, but when I think of Brett Favre, it is beyond his profession’s context. Why? Because like King Henry, he wished for no more. Tiny Green Bay, its unpretentious environs, and its few people in terms of NFL cites, were sufficient. He bloomed and made soldiers in the modest field where he was planted. Anybody, football fanatic or not, can embrace that.

He could have fled, self-righteous and angry, when the going got rough. When the bank account became engorged; when the fans questioned and the coaches changed; when the embarrassment of rehab stung; when another interception was thrown; or when the Holmgren reprimand hit. But he didn’t, he stayed. He stayed among us, content for 17 seasons in Titletown, America’s Dairyland.

“This story shall a good man teach his son;

… and Crispian shall never go by;

From this day to the ending of the world;

But we in it shall be remembered …”

Yes, we certainly shall remember. The world will remember, but especially those of us here; those of us he “gentled” and promoted to his happy few, his band of brothers, because he wore the green-and-gold.

Thanks for the ride, Mr. Favre. You did so much more than just throw some inflated leather skins through the air on successive Sundays in the autumn. Grit. Determination. Perseverance. Honor. A modern Agincourt.

“He that outlives this day and comes safely home;

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named …

He that shall live this day, and see old age …

Will strip his sleeve and show his scars;

And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day’.”

Thank you, Mr. Favre. To you and your family. You set an example; earned your kin’s Coat of Arms. There aren’t many modern fairy tales that combine a young, talented, irresponsible prince and a forgotten little land-that-could into a happy ending. Your tenure wasn’t perfect; you’re not a saint, and the scars are many. But that’s what comprises glory. An honest journey isn’t about perfection. You learned how to lead, and taught us to how to do it, too. You exemplified what was important, and gave us a lesson in how to represent yourself, your team and your state with honor.

Thanks. All our best during your well-deserved retirement, sir.

Godspeed.

Brettus Favricus, (BRETT-us FARV-i-cus), n.  Cheesespeak; Old World Lambeau. 1.  To lead with humility. 2.  To serve with dignity.  3. To invigorate the populace.  Rare.

Good morning!

Before you assume anything, let me clarify the title to this morning's blog post: It relates in name only to the great film "The Lion in Winter" starring Peter O'Toole and Katherine Hepburn. There is no Machiavellian-like holiday coup being attempted at the boarding stable among my horse's friendly herd mates. Nothing that I know of, at least. There's no dark-corner nickering, no glowering or suspicious glances, unless the grain cart trundles by without stopping, and the last time I checked, the Irish thoroughbred still was best buds with the Hanoverian; the Swedish mare and the retired hunter-jumper still shared the same pasture; and my paly mare still enjoyed an over-the-fence wither scratch with the bay in the next paddock.

No, the title relates to the voluminous haircoat my horse sprouts in the cold-weather months. In short, during the winter she’s a fluffy fur ball with four puffy legs, and also being that she’s a color breed, her luminosity changes season-to-season.

Luminosity, you say? For a horse?

Sure, and that’s not the half of it.

The business of hair-coat sheen is big in the horse world. “Chrome” and “bling” are not only descriptive, but aspired to. Peruse the supplement aisle at a nearby farm supply store and you’ll see what I mean. Rice-bran oil, black-oil sunflower seeds, paprika-infused feed dressings, and old-fashioned corn oil are among the many tricks that owners use to bring out a brilliant shine.

And I’ll be the first to admit to being seduced by their collective powers and tempting advertising claims.

My mare is high-maintenance. She’s got thin-soled feet, a grouchy nature once per month, and sensitive skin. She’s sort of like me. But she’s also a palomino, which to my eye is one of our Creator’s best color combinations.

There are few things more breathtakingly spectacular to me than a dark, rich, shiny gold-coin hair coat combined with a sparkling creamy white mane. Sure, a golden buckskin comes close, but the black mane reduces the contrast. A brilliant bay is striking, too, but it’s not as rare as the elusive dark palomino. And I’ll allow an argument about a steel gray with a white mane and tail, but that color lasts only for a few short years during a horse’s youth, and then, alas, it fades.

If you ever get a chance to attend a palomino show, there are a couple around the area during the summer, or even the World Palomino Show in Tulsa, Okla., you’ll see some jaw droppers. Who cares if the horse is ridden hunt, western, snaffle-bit, or is just a photo prop, there are some palomino coats that will change your life perspective.

Watching a horse like that move, with its muscles rippling under its skin while the sun glistens off that glorious golden hair, will change your DNA, if only for a moment. It’s like aromatherapy for your eyes. Or a deep-tissue massage for your soul. The moment will be quick, it’ll pass in an instant, probably because a show-ring ready palomino isn’t allowed to work in the fade inducing sun for long, but nonetheless, you’ll savor its brilliance in your mind’s eye for a long time.

All of this brings me back to my mare, the Furball in Winter. She’s near white during the cold months; she can’t help it, she turns color. She’s a fuzzy light blonde that bears little resemblance to her stunning summer color. But, and here’s the whole point of this story: She’s shedding.

It’s February, and a slow but steady shower of dingy blonde hair floats around me as I groom her. She stretches her neck and lifts her upper lip while I curry her back and gently scrub her belly. Soon, on her neck, a dark patch will appear. And then her chest color will deepen. Then, over the next six weeks, she’ll magically transform from a pale, one-color-note wonder to a stunning contrast of rich, golden brown body combined with flowing cream-white mane and tail.

This transfiguration will take a while. I mentioned that she has sensitive skin and she’s high maintenance. Lucky for her she employs a groom, an exercise rider, kitchen help and a maid.

Ah hem, that would be me.

But all the supplements and the work are worth it in the spring when the winter hair is just a drain-clogging memory and my mare glows like rare bullion in her pasture.

If you get a chance, as winter disappears (or at least I’m told it will) and spring takes hold of the countryside, as a bulwark against stress, or the panicky feeling that your life is screaming by at a horrifying pace, take a soul-nourishing moment to seek out a palomino.

For me, it’s most soothing to stumble upon one in its natural state. That is, to observe one calmly grazing in a field, with the wind ruffling that gorgeously full mane and tail (my palomino); or, prancing under a gleaming show saddle in a parade (other palominos who possess a much stronger work ethic than my mare.)

Either is rare, but delightful.

If neither is possible, try attending the Midwest Horse Fair in April in Madison, or even search for one online. Brew a hot cup of coffee, get comfortable near your computer and savor the eye-candy that is a spring palomino.

Tally ho!

Good morning!

Welcome back to my blog.

The family and I attended a movie Friday evening, which we do about once per month.  We're not large consumers of movies, due to the expense and the content.  Those are issues that I'll discuss in future blogs; however, it was cold and we were in the mood for some laughs.  We reviewed what was available, finally settling on "Fool's Gold," a romantic-adventure film that features two popular Hollywood stars.

While I'm an advocate of live performances, I also enjoy studying movies.  The overall theme, the production quality and the dialogue -- especially the dialogue! -- are great topics to examine.  While I love a snappy one-liner that's delivered with precision, I do admit to a perverse delight in enjoying the many clunkers out there.  Remember "Twister"?  Oh my ... how many times can the characters yell "C'mon, let's go!"?  Rent it for a good laugh!

Anyway, I tucked into my seat not expecting much.  The stars represented a younger generation and frankly, Hollywood's version of romance is not my thing.  However, here's the kicker:  I was pleasantly, almost delightfully surprised.  The film advocated marriage, and decidedly trashed the concept of the spoiled brat, airhead-heiress character that we see far too often in real life in Hollywood.

It may be a new era in tinseltown.  I don't want to be too optimistic, but it seems that someone in Movieland gets it.

In the film, a weathy yacht owner's daughter comes to visit.  She arrives via helicopter, and you expect the usual from her:  Snotty behavior; obsessed with shopping; and frequent sexual antics. Instead, she's given a lecture that acting like a brainless bimbo isn't cool.  She strives to repair her relationship with her father and ... well, I won't give away the ending, but like I said, I was pleasantly surprised.

Finally, the era of that character, a self-absorbed young woman acting like a deviant, may be over!

Further, the lead male character as played by Matthew McConaughey wears his wedding ring throughout the movie.  Again, I don't want to spoil it, but despite divorcing against his will in the beginning of the film, he doesn't remove his ring and repeatedly declares his love for his ex-wife. 

Surprised, I was.  I was surprised to like it as much as I did, and I was surprised at the content.  Sure, it was a stretch to believe the premise of the story; that is, the idea of finding a fortune in gold, gems and riches in about 20 feet of crystal clear water ... somebody hadn't stumbled upon it after years and years of searching? 

Ah, well.  We can't have everything all at once.  Besides, after this winter's freezing rain, snow, ice and blowing wind, it was especially satisfying to savor the sun, the gorgeous scenery and the delicious yacht in the film.  That was something to like, too. 

Spring just can't be that far away ... 

Good morning and Happy Valentine’s Day!

This is my first post to my first-ever web log, or blog. Thanks to Living Lake Country and our web editor for this opportunity to belong to the online community.

Back when I was a pony-taled scribbler plopped in an oversized desk with pencil and paper at Nakoma School, who knew that something like the Internet was coming? Who could predict that one day you could type your deepest thoughts into an electronic whirlygig, and then with the click of hand-held flibbertigibbit, wireless and ergonomic no less, zap them through the Light Fantastic? The same light “that yonder window breaks.” Yes, the same light under which Romeo romanced Juliet on her balcony is the same heavenly presence, the same starry atmosphere, that presides as we “text” each other, chat on our space-age phones, e-mail pictures of precious moments in our lives, and speak to the world in blogs like these.

But are these the best or worst of times?

I know electronic devices are handy and quick, and if you post an argument about needing one in an emergency, you win. (But come back soon and post again, please. I’ll be the first to admit I’ll make other statements that are just as easy to refute.)

But are electronic gadgets taking the place of what’s real? Is the “virtual world” winning? Will we soon ignore the impact of fresh air on our spirits? Or deny the soothing feel of grass under our feet? Or forget the soul-nourishment that accompanies an act of kindness to a family member? Or even a stranger?

(Okay, if you post that listening to a ‘80s hair band on your teen’s MP3 is enormously superior to hearing another one of Uncle Fred’s corny firehouse jokes at the Christmas dinner table, you score another point. I’ve heard a lot of firehouse humor, too.)

I recently wrote a play called “The Valentine Lines,” and in it, Cupid is despondent because he’s been rendered ineffective. Electronic devices and the world’s fascination with them has left him out in the cold. His wings have been recalled, his arrows are dull, and he’s worried for human kind because of its lack of face-to-face communication.

Hera, the goddess of marriage, “helps” him through his dilemma -- if you can call what a self-absorbed goddess does in her own best interest as help. But the point is thus: Quick scribbles into a machine, or having an enormous friend list on a social website, or focusing our attention into an electronic gadget rather than the person standing in front of us, doesn’t necessarily result in better communication.

It provides opportunities for more ways to communicate, but it’s up to us to make the communication effective, courteous, thoughtful and well-reasoned.

Shakespeare never could have predicted that his plays and most famous lines would resonate forward into the modern world. He wrote about character traits and behaviors that make us unmistakably human. Just like the sun, moon and stars, those traits don’t change. What’s desirable -- kindness, selflessness, courage and compassion -- has remained desirable, and what’s despicable has pretty much remained so, despite what Michael Douglas’ Gordon Gekko character tried to tell us about greed in the movie “Wall Street.”

Yes, Shakespeare wrote about what’s true in the soul, and he penned his works under the light and presence of the same heavenly bodies that stand guard over us now. But ghosts were more real to him than the Web Fantastic. What else will change in this world? What other devices will facilitate communication in the future?

And will we be ready?