Privacy

Are any secrets left?  Ah, heck with it.  I surrender.

I confess.  I mentioned in an earlier blog that I had pruned our fruit trees.  Karen pointed out that I forgot one -- our hardy trifoliate orange, which appears above in the foreground -- so I lied.

Oh, gee.  I can't believe I posted this picture.  It's not even a good one.  Forty years ago my face would be red as a beet.  What's that dangling behind the orange tree, last item near the middle of the clothesline?  Maybe you can see if you click on the picture.  Forgive me, Carson ("Queer Eye for the Straight Guy"), it's so out of fashion, and Christmas was long ago.

Being a lawyer by training, I've often wondered what has happened to our "legitimate expectation of privacy," a test used by courts to determine whether some asserted invasion of privacy was impermissible.  Fifty years ago, we didn't publicly air information that is readily available today.  Now folks post on the Internet intimate details of their daily lives and bodies.  Can we legitimately expect anything to be private?  Someone who can prove a lifetime of caution in maintaining a sphere of privacy might be entitled to expect that sphere to be protected.  The rest of us?  Fat chance.

On the other hand, and quite curiously, the younger generations don't take showers together after participating in gym class or sporting events.  We did.  Yet they post revealing pictures on the Internet and cellphones.  We older folks do not (most of us).  This presents an interesting twist to that "legitimate expectation of privacy" test.

"Yeh, yeh," says Virginia. "Who cares about that stuff other than legal beagles?  What I want to know is what were you doing so long in the greenhouse this morning, door shut and all."

Ah, figure it out for yourself.

First Day of Spring

This first day of Spring, 2010, found us setting posts for an addition to the goat barn, soon to become home to 20 heritage breed turkeys.  What are we doing, raising birds that must be taught to drink?  We may need to herd them into the barn so they don't stare up at raindrops and drown.  Look at it this way; it's an experiment.  What have we got to lose?  A few greenbacks. To gain?  More stories to tell and a freezer full of Thanksgiving meals.

Look across our driveway and you'll see my garden beds.  But first, a sign suggests we've been living here a long time:

Nearby, some of my early starts are almost ready to be transplanted, midst my thriving winter wheat.  Behind, four varieties of potatoes hide underground near strawberries, asparagus and garlic.

I pruned the grapes and blackberries earlier this week.

Here's my lettuce garden.  If you look closely, you might see corn salad, arugula, black-seeded Simpson, Romaine, and several "gourmet" mixes -- and maybe a scarecrow in the lower right corner.

Finally, here's one of my favorites -- a Wando pea.

"Hot pictures," jokes Virginia.  "Maybe you should have waited another month." 

"Good idea," I say.  "Let's call these 'before.'  I'll post some 'after' later."

Happy Spring!

Letting Go

Tiger Woods has announced he will participate in the Masters.  Eliott Spitzer goes to his office at his father's real estate business and accepts many public appearance invitations, but this former champion of worthwhile causes who saw what was happening with subprime mortgage lending and tried to stop it hasn't decided what challenge will be next (other than the most important, rebuilding his own family).

It may be hard to feel sorry for these disgraced "celebrities."  It may be hard to feel anything other than disgust for them, but....

Virginia says, "Let go."

She's right.  When I think of Woods and Spitzer I also think of many other people, including George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Marion Jones and most famous athletes.  What do they have in common?  After rising to the "top," they enter a purgatory -- a time of temporary suffering or misery; if not that, a time of introspection (even Cheney, while he continues to blow hard).  They deserve to be let alone if they want it (Cheney apparently doesn't), just as you and I do after we hit a high or low point.

Instead, I go off on my high horse, judging as is my custom, even though I might vaguely remember a religious instruction such as "judge not lest ye be judged."  I was no fan of George W. Bush, but I respect him for "disappearing" into the Texas carpet.  His actions have had dreadful consequences, worldwide, and even though his smirk irked me, still irks me, I sort of think (not sure because I haven't met him) he thought he was doing the right thing.  If he asked me to join him on a run, I'd jump at the chance.

Most us can remember at least one thing we've done that might have landed us in jail, or at least that we wouldn't have wanted our grandmother (or spiritual leader) to see.  If nothing worse, perhaps we waited outside an attraction and accepted an unexpired tag from someone leaving, so we got in "free."  We knew we were required to pay, but we "put one over on the man."  Some friends I know condemn people they call "queers," and, instead of doing something constructive I condemn my friends for their bigotry.  We're in this together.

"Let it go," says Virginia, again.

Habits

"I don't have time."  That's a lie; okay, maybe it's not a lie, if you understand the lingo.  When I hear those words, they mean, "I don't want to," which is fine, but why don't we say it?

I'm again reminded of an acquaintance who said, "Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves." (See my previous blog, "Maintenance," December 2, 2009.)  That can work with money if you're not too poor.  It can also work with time.

A colleague reminded me last week that I'm blessed.  I know it.  I sometimes feel bad about it.  If I were superstitious I'd hesitate to say it, "knock on wood," fearful that blessedness would end.  I hope you, reader, feel blessed.  Anyway, I'm blessed in many ways.  The colleague was referring to my having a life partner who props me up and cheers me on.  I'm also blessed in having habits I love.

For example, I love to run.  Many folks don't understand this.  They see running as work, as exercise, as something to be endured because it's "good" for you.  How could something like running be fun?  Well, for me, it is.  I've enjoyed the book Born to Run (thank you, Mary and Phil) because it's full of other people who love to run.

I understand why others don't love it as I do.  That's okay unless it means they (you?) don't do other things they love to do, because that would be sad.  "I don't have time" doesn't cut it.  Make time, please.  I've heard it only takes 6-8 weeks to develop a habit.  If you do something every day for 6-8 weeks, it'll become a habit.  If you choose something you already love to do, but have been ignoring, it'll easily become a habit unless you fall out of love with it.  If you choose something because it's good for you, maybe you'll learn to love it.  If not, maybe you'll learn to love something it does for you or something it enables you to do. Or maybe you'll move on to something else and love it instead.

Our dogs just interrupted me.  First, Rosie rose from a nap and put her head on my knee.   Then, Lex legged into the room, gazed at me with longing and let out a whine.  What did they want?  Dinnertime.  When I say, "Lex and Rosie, how about a run?"  Rosie runs in circles and Lex lopes to the door.  When people feel enthusiastic like these dogs, we know we're on the right track.

Instead, we're often martyrs.  "I've got to go to work."  "The kitchen's a mess."  "Look at that pile of laundry."  Yes, maybe we do have to go to work, but don't forget we might be able to get up earlier or stay up later.  Better yet, we can prioritize.  We supposedly are the highest level of beings (although sometimes I have my doubts), so we can think things through.  Just like preparing a budget for our money, we can budget our time.  All we have to do is pay attention to what we do and begin sifting through our time-wasters and dilly-dallying.  Take laundry, for example.  I've never understood why that's an issue.  Stick a load in the washer.  Go do something else, preferably something you want to do.  Later, move the load to the dryer or clothesline.  What's it take -- a few seconds or five minutes?  Fold it while you talk to a friend or watch television.  There, laundry done, almost secretly, unnoticed.

"That's too simple," says Virginia.

"You think so?" I say.

"Cleaning house takes all day," says Virginia.

"Really?" I say.  "I once knew a woman who cleaned her house every day when she got home from work.  'Why don't you hire a cleaning service?' I wanted to say, before I realized cleaning to her was like running to me."

Born to Love

I celebrated this St. Patrick's Day with a 520-mile drive home from Ohio to Virginia, listening almost all the while to a book-on-tape, Born to Run.  If I hadn't begun my day with a 6-mile run, I might have stopped halfway home to fit one in, barefoot.  Next on my list, I'm going to try it.  Not quite barefoot, I'll borrow the foot gloves we gave our son for Christmas.  If I can't find them, I might buy a pair for myself.

Did you know running injuries have increased since we started wearing fancy running shoes?  And that the more expensive the shoe, the more likely the runner is to suffer injury?  Some researchers suggest that if we ran barefoot or with slim foot coverings like our ancestors, we'd have fewer injuries, better health and longer lives.  Instead, we've learned to baby our feet, wrap them up in what amount to casts, and ignore the fact that our feet, like our fingers and faces, have highly developed natural abilities to sense their environments and respond with remarkable precision.  "Protecting" them in fancy footwear in fact does not protect them at all.  Some of the coaches of elite runners include barefoot running on grass in their training regimens and buy the cheapest shoes for their athletes, not because they're cheap but because they're safer than expensive pairs.

Most runners have heard the recommendation that we replace our shoes every 300-500 miles because they wear due to pronation (or supination).   Forget that, says one researcher, who keeps his shoes until they wear down on the edges, then switches feet.  That is, he wears the right shoe on the left foot and the left shoe on the right foot, his feet don't complain, and he doesn't suffer injuries!  As they wear thinner and thinner, they're better for the feet.

I like the approach of one of the coaches described in the book, who studied ultramarathoners (runners who cover distances greater than 26.2 miles) and the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico's Copper Canyon and concluded that the best runners run for pure joy, for the love of it, and not for money.  Not only that, they run with love for others -- their co-runners, family, friends and the human race in general.

"Run, James, run," says Virginia, "spread the love."

Name Game

Fred Steiner, the Iconator (Google "Bluffton Icon"), a/k/a "Mr. Bluffton" because he appears to have succeeded Gene Benroth as the man who knows everything about the town of Bluffton, Ohio, tonight challenged me to mention at least 20 related names in one blog posting.  I'll let you figure out how those names are related.

Two weeks with Wanda Pannabecker, who proved on 5 occasions that one plus one equal three (Phil, John, James, Tom, and Mary), drove me back to sites of my youth.  My first night in her guest room dreamed me to the now defunct Bluffton A&P, where Don LaRoche, manager, hired me at 16.  By the time I was booted out of town 40 years ago, I thought I knew everyone, including Phyllis Diller, whose husband offered me my only tip for carrying out groceries when she returned to have Dr. Travis "remove an old key."  That's beside the point.  In my dream, Marie Snyder and I discussed why the store didn't have a problem with shoplifters (not that we encouraged them).  I suggested that a small town atmosphere helps people feel more responsible, as significant members of a community.  Just before I awoke, Helen Stratton appeared, clear as a bell, at her cash register in aisle number one.  Perhaps this dream was prompted by our stop at the Community Market (formerly Joe Urich's IGA), where Mother introduced me to Tracy Sawatsky, a fellow pianist, whose husband, David, teaches voice at Bluffton University.

This morning, 7 a.m. (and I'm supposed to be on vacation), found me at a First Mennonite prayer breakfast led by Louise Wideman (Canadians seem to be invading the town).  We shared a table with today's version of Mr. Powell (Raymie), Larry Diller, who managed to attend only because fog had delayed his Columbus Grove school bus route by 2 hours.  Jeff Boehr mentioned that while he was touring with college students his water heater blew, making him late to work yesterday.  Speaking of our favorite bus driver, Mr. Powell, when we ate lunch at Jeanne Privite's restaurant, my sister pointed out his daughter-in-law, a former classmate of mine, Peggy Gossard (Powell).  I should have said hello. (Hello.) 

This wannabe farmer and former employee of Russ and Gene Suter heard an intriguing report that their successors, Jerry and Tom Suter, now grow 17 varieties of sweet corn, which they can identify by ear examination (listening?) but not by taste after cooking.

"Stop," says Virginia.  "You've passed 20 and bored me long enough."

"But I'm on a roll," I say.  "I don' want to offend people like Neil and Eileen Kehler, Elaine Rich, Burton and Elnore Yost...."

"I said stop," says Virginia.  "You're rolling in the mud."

OK, but let me at least thank Jean Szabo for turning me on to Schumann.

Wild

To an ear-plugged audience
he might have been playing
Bach or Haydn, suddenly
sky separated

from the piano bench
the key-crunching,
pedal-punching
wild man.


"Thanks for something from your weekend at Garth Newel," says Virginia.

"Straight from the mouth of Teresa Ling," I say, referring to the violinist of the Garth Newel Music Center's professional piano quartet.  This poem followed her suggestion upon hearing the Arrowhead Trio's staid performance of the "fast, roudy" 3d movement of Peter Schickele's Serenade for Three.  "Be wild," said she.  Each member of the Garth Newel Piano Quartet coached the Trio, along with all of the other participants at Garth Newel's adult chamber music workshop, held this past weekend.

Would you like a little more?  Andrew Harley, the pianist in the Quartet, advised us to "always know who's on first" (that is, who is playing the most important line(s) at any given moment), Evelyn Grau, the violist, stressed the importance of stage presence, and Tobi Werner, the cellist, suggested starting slower, not faster, than our competence permits.  How's that for an appetizer?   If you want still more, ask or show up next year.

"Dont' you dare poke me," I say to Virginia.  "You'll pop out Randy Wyche's stuffing."  Randy is the Center's gourmet chef.

Farmer's Husband

At 3 AM this morning, I'm abandoned for a goat. This time it's Luti. At 4 AM, my cellphone rings, "I think she's about ready." I jump up and head for the barn. All's quiet, but "there's a bunch of goo," says Karen. Luti stands gnawing, jaw back and forth, back and forth, no baying, pawing, scratching, licking, nothing unusual but "a bunch of goo" and she's obviously "got milk," buckets.

I'm disappointed the sky is clear, full of stars. The seeds I've planted lie underneath, waiting for moisture. I see the prediction is down from 70% to 40% for today. Smile. 90% tomorrow. What does that mean? According to About.com, it's the chance of a measurable amount of rain. A measurable amount is at least .01 inch. So, 90% means that in 9 out of 10 cases where the weather is similar, .01 inch of rain will fall somewhere in the area. Fall here, please.  In the meantime, I'll run the hose.


Not Kidding

Good morning sleepy
name game, he, she,
wonder, walk and wander
not far, don't worry,
no brays, squeals,

eyelids closed, open, close,
goo-looking, udder heavy,
still cool, almost spring
time forward
to motherhood.


"She was kidding, wasn't she?" says Virginia.

See the hoof and bubble announcing arrival?  Sure enough, Number 1, a boy, a Nubian-Saanen, was born about 9 AM. 

Number 1 boy is joined by Number 1 girl, about 9:05 AM this morning.

Way to go, Luti!

Gentleman Farmer

This morning, as I waited for a fellow at the farmer's co-op to weigh my seed potatoes, I felt at home in my overalls until I spied the retired pair of running shoes on my feet and remembered I was wearing a road race shirt. I suddenly realized I was an imposter, and not a very good one. I might spend all day doing gardening-related things, but I must admit I'm not a farmer.

I say this with envy for the folks who buy hundreds or thousands of pounds of oats and spring wheat and need a $50,000 tractor to get their work done, who have augur attachments and sink a hundred fenceposts to my one, who run to the barn for a set of tools when equipment fails, who look at the sky and know what's coming. "Farmer" is a badge of honor in my book, the ultimate Renaissance person. Like Joel Salatin, I want to hear "my son is a farmer" said with the same pride and conviction as "my daughter is a doctor."

Here's how my day went. After running 4 miles, checking emails and eating my usual oatmeal, I loaded our John Deere garden tractor onto our pickup and delivered it to the co-op. Remember, a real farmer would do the tractor's annual checkup by himself. I visited the seed counter and picked up packets to supplement my previous mail orders to Burpees (thanks to my in-laws' Christmas gift certificate) and the Southern Exposure Seed Exchange. A real farmer would have bought bags, not packets. Next, I drove to Boxerwood Gardens to get a load of free wood chip mulch. I used a shovel. A real farmer would have used a front-end loader (the wimp!). I returned home and spent the rest of daylight preparing soil and planting carrots, beets, potatoes, parsnips, salsify, and spinach. A real farmer would have waited until St. Patrick's Day to plant potatoes.

"You didn't even touch the piano," says Virginia.

"Not yet," I say, "but I will after I finish blogging."

Let me tell you something. A real farmer plays piano!

Off to Camp

I've been taking a little flak for my plans for this weekend. My son said, "My dad's going to camp." One of his friends asked, "Do you end with a campfire?" Slow on the uptake, I pictured us burning our scores.

What's this about camp? I had been referring to it as a chamber music weekend workshop, but "music camp" is shorter and easier to say. The Arrowhead Trio, for which I'm the pianist, signed up for this a couple months ago. We and five or six other groups begin preparing music in advance and then practice together for the weekend, 2-3 hours each morning and afternoon, with members of the Garth Newel Piano Quartet popping in to "coach" us. All the groups usually participate in a short concert on Friday evening and a farewell concert Sunday, to which the public is invited.

As you can see, it's a stressful weekend. (Right, although some of the participants will swallow their share of beta blockers before their concert appearances.) We don't stay in tents, camp out, or sit around fires, unless a fireplace is lit in the Manor House, where most of us stay. Some will occupy small cottages spread around the Garth Newel estate. All of us will enjoy private concerts by the Garth Newel Piano Quartet, read, run or do whatever else we want, and -- the hard part -- force down fine food prepared by the on-site gourmet chef.

The retreat begins Thursday afternoon, which gives me a little time to work on my Spring garden. I planted nearly 2 pounds of peas yesterday, which I'm hoping will give me something to do near the end of May. Joining the peas were onions, lettuces, beets, carrots and parsnips. I prepared the soil for some more carrot seeds tomorrow if I can beat the rain that's predicted.

"A tux at the piano on Saturday and overalls today," says Virginia. "Which is the real you?"

Some day I'll wear overalls at the piano and a tux in the garden, which reminds me of a stanza from my long poem, Conversations with a Garden, I've excerpted in previous postings:


I hope you remember the day
I wore a coat and tie to kneel
before you and wash your feet.
You, dry, tired, welcomed
the cool well water, for a moment
you seemed happy and content,
but it did not last, nothing beats
rains that too often come too late.

Salem Gold Box

I found this at the end of our driveway this morning.  Do you see anything "gold" in this picture, other than the two words, "Gold Box?"

I don't.   Maybe if I smoked Salem I would.  Do you think perhaps the manufacturers of Salem believe that people who smoke their cigarettes are stupid.  Or self-selected color-blind?

Okay, maybe the cigarettes themselves are Salem Golds and this is their box, which isn't gold, never was, but then I'd think they'd print "Salem Gold" with "box" down below.  Hmmm, do they really think we need to be told this is a box?

Help me.  Am I missing a sharp marketing ploy?

For the moment, although I may change my mind, I find the labeling on this box disrespectful.  I'd say, as an aspiration, everyone initially should be entitled to respect, sort of like "all men and women are created equal."  Of course, some people are no longer entitled to respect because they've abused their positions and lost it.

As a matter of practice, I've learned not to expect respect.  I've changed jobs, moved and been promoted enough times in my life to realize that with each change I must re-earn respect.  It can be frustrating.  It can be hard on the ego.  While I don't necessarily have to do anything, other than be nice to people, some things are no-nos.

People in positions of power and influence have a special trust, a public trust, they must preserve and protect.  Politicians, policemen, teachers and business leaders fit in that category, but so do you and I, as parents, mentors, coaches -- and designers of product packaging.

"Good point," says Virginia.  "I'd better stop calling my home a 'church.'"

"It was a church," I say, "as much as he was a colonel or she was a teacher, but please don't call it red.  I don't see anything red about it, not even the chimney."

The Gift of Music

How should a piece of music be performed?  The answer is as varied as the number of performers.  American Idol demonstrates from time to time how disappointing a performance can be when the performer fails to put his or her signature on a piece.  A judge might say something like, "I wish you would have made the song your own instead of trying to imitate X."  Otherwise, the performer is a mimic, not an artist.  Variety is the spice of music.  Geniuses like Adam Lambert know this.  If we want to hear Elvis, we'll play an Elvis recording.

I attended a fascinating concert this afternoon, of three pianists.  I bet many, if not most, of the audience could now name who was playing if there were a screen separating us:  Pianist number one, the composer-pianist, who takes each piece and plays it the way he might have written it, leaning on the soft pedal, occasionally even saying blast the written rhythms, which I found liberating;  Pianist number two, the modest virtuoso, who isn't afraid to hold onto the sustaining pedal; and Pianist number three, the "young" crisp virtuoso, who lays it on the table like silverware, leaving you to wonder if he's working at all.  I liked each of them for treating me to a vision I had not seen before.

I hope that last night my version of the Schumann concerto, with its warts, wrong notes and missed measures, suggested a new perspective to audience members, especially those who were familiar with the piece, if only that offering someone like me the opportunity to play with an orchestra is a special kind of gift.

I think I've mentioned this before, but so what -- before the invention of television, radios, and recordings, most people relied on local talent for musical events (only occasionally did stars visit from somewhere else).  An upright piano played an important part in many parlors, where folks gathered to listen or sing or play with the family's piano players.  Today we know how "perfect" a piece can be played.  This certainly has its benefits and beauty, but it also spoils us and inhibits our appreciation of music, by raising the bar very high.  An unfortunate side effect has been, I think, a reluctance on our part to support the arts (not just music).  Even though most of us, unless we are tone deaf, consider music essential to our quality of life (we listen to it wherever we go -- in commercials, in movies, on the radio or television, on CDs and IPods, on telephones, in elevators and shopping centers, etc.), we're reluctant to invest tax dollars or personal wealth in the development of local talent, including children who might or might not become the next Pavorotti or Adam Lambert but who will, I guarantee, listen to music and might or might not enjoy a lifetime of satisfaction playing music.  How sad!

Virginia says, "Invest in music.  Almost no matter what, learning math, reading and science will happen, you can bet on it."

And those who choose to learn music will automatically learn quite a bit of math, reading and science.

Spring

Today is our final rehearsal for the concert tomorrow.  Due to recent memory faults, I've decided to use a page turner for the Schumann piano concerto and I'll follow the score for the hardest section, even though that means I'll probably throw some notes to the goddess of bad notes because my eyes can't look two places at once, unlike Kim Peek, the autistic savant, the original Rain Man, who could read two pages simultaneously, one with each eye.  Imagine his special motor skills as well as brain cells.    

Meanwhile, I want to prune our little orchard, put organic sulfur on the grapevines, limber up on the keyboard and aim at writing.


Single Man

Winter lingers
nineteen degrees
like a childhood buddy,
a perpetual student,
who finally took a job
on a faculty, never
developed a facility
for using his degrees
among racing rats
nor did he learn
to stay warm
with a lover.



"What does that have to do with anything?" asks Virginia.

"I'm itching for Spring," I say.

"He probably is, too," says Virginia. "Maybe this year he'll be lucky in love."

Farm Surprises

Our 2-month snow blanket has finally melted.  Guess what I found underneath yesterday.

 

My root buddies:  Carrots, parsnips and salsify.  After Karen added some of them to her mighty fine home-made chicken vegetable soup, the aroma and gentle flavor of parsnips coaxed me into buying more seeds to plant this year.  They keep much better underground than carrots.  They're perfect while most of the carrots are riddled with lines and grit and are rather sharp in a carroty way.

Today, another day, another surprise.  That's what life on a farm is all about.  Poppy, one of our Mini LaManchas, bayed more than normal overnight and her ligaments loosened, but because she didn't paw the ground or drip mucus we figured she had several hours to go.  I went off to the cabin to practice.  When Karen went out to check on her, she found an extra hoof hanging out.  Boom, shazam, or should I say Shamus?

 

I returned in time to watch Karen reach inside to pull out our first stillbirth.  Shamus, though, is alive and well.

"What happened to the other?" asks Virginia.

I said last rites and donned my undertaker's cap.

Tour Italia

In September 2008, after studying Italian on Pimsleur CDs, Karen and I vacationed in Italy.  Here's a quick tour.

In Venice, this is the site of the first murder by robots.  A workman was repairing something on the roof and forgot these guys would swing their hammers to ring the bell.  "Ouch!" says Virginia.

Also in Venice, these are the piano movers.  Click on the center boat.  "Hey, it'd be fun to set it on its legs and serenade everyone," says Virginia.

While in Verona, for good luck in love, men must do this to Juliet. "Yeah, right," says Virginia.

I think Burt, filming Mary Poppins, might have found a challenge in Scanno. "Everyday's a holiday with you, Burt," sings Virginia.

Certain orchestra members are not allowed in Scanno.  "French goats?" asks Virginia.

We came upon these Juliets at the National Museum in Rome.  "You seem to have a breast fetish," says Virginia.

This orange Roman fence, if installed on our cabin's deck, would pass inspection. "And it would be beautiful," says Virginia.

Sneak a peak at this curbside scene outside the Church of St. Peter-in-Chains, Rome.  "Rest break?" asks Virginia.

Mamma Mia, look at the view from our room on Capri!  "Nice railing," says Virginia.

Feeding the birds on Capri.  "What's in the bag?" says Virginia.

In Florence, we had to recharge our rental car.  "I thought you said you didn't drive in Italy?" asks Virginia.

This door, in Corneglia, reminded me of the window along the route of the Boston Marathon that urges runners to "check your form."  "CIA headquarters?" asks Virginia.

In Milan (Brera), grocery shopping is not for the blind.  "That's what we need in Sin Valley," says Virginia.

I hope you've enjoyed this tour.  Please come again.

Business 101 -- What Motivates Employees

You may have heard, even engaged, in the age-old debate about what motivates employees.

"The green stuff," says Virginia.

I know she's kidding.  That's what many managers assume.

"A pat on the back?" says Virginia.

That's more like the Virginia I know.  A recent survey of managers revealed this as the number one motivator: "Recognition for good work (either public or private)."

Wrong, according to the Jan.-Feb. 2010 issue of Harvard Business Review, page 44 ("What Really Motivates Workers"). 

The most important motivator is "progress" -- When workers feel "they're making headway in their jobs, or when they receive support that helps them overcome obstacles, their emotions are most positive and their drive to succeed is at its peak.  On days when they feel they are spinning their wheels or encountering roadblocks to meaningful accomplishment, their moods and motivation are lowest."

According to the article, a manager should regard this as good news because the key to motivation is largely within his control and doesn't depend on elaborate incentive systems.  A manager "can provide meaningful goals, resources and encouragement, and ...protect their people from irrelevant demands.  Or they can fail to do so." 

The strongest advice from the study:  "Scrupulously avoid impeding progress by changing goals autocratically, being indecisive, or holding up resources.  Negative events generally have a greater effect on people's emotions, perceptions, and motivation than positive ones, and nothing is more demotivating that a setback--the most prominent type of event on knowledge workers' worst days."

In the beginning was....

 

Please look carefully at this picture, taken from our front doorway.  In the middle, at the edge of the field, where the line of trees begins, do you see something, a blip?  We were rather relieved it's a little blip because we already have a reputation for not keeping up our lawn "like Leonard did."  

"But what is it?" says Virginia, as if she doesn't know.  Look again:

Do you see it in the second full rectangle formed by the Venetian blind  in the top right of the lower set of six-over-six window panes?  

"Think Jimmy Buffet," says Virginia.

Owning one of these has long been a dream of mine, but not a very big dream, more of a fantasy as I have sunk my roots deeper and deeper into terra firma.  It's Karen's fault.  She revived the fantasy Thursday night, late, after I'd pulled up the covers and resumed reading The Economist.  "I want to show you something," she said (which quickly drew my attention, and then I realized she was carrying her laptop).  The picture she showed me got us thinking....

and led to the first high point of Friday, February 27.  We jumped into our Subaru Baja, having decided the Dodge Ram would not prove useful, and drove down to Roanoke to see this:

"What on earth is it?" Virginia asks.

"It's Karen peaking through a porthole window," I say.

"Silly sailor," says Virginia.  "That's not a porthole."

She's right of course, but I'm running out of patience and so, I suppose are you.

Today we had this craigslist special, a 23-foot sailboat, towed to our field.  What it will become is fodder for another posting.

Tsunami

An earthquake hit Chile and sent a tsunami toward Hawaii, where our good friends Mike and Laura are vacationing, and toward many other spots on the Pacific.  Several years ago, I dare say few of us knew the word, "tsunami," although most have been hit a few times in our lives by figurative tsunamis.  Like the one that hit us when I lifted the receiver for our land line this morning.  "I have horrible news," said the caller.  "My son committed suicide early this morning."  I can't imagine the wave that hit our friend and keeps slamming him against the wall.

His son was a friendly soul, well-liked by almost everyone, except for the mental illness he harbored and recognized.  He said he knew he could get treatment, but the pills and the illness would pester him as long as he lived.  He left messages trying to comfort his family and friends by reassuring them that his leaving had nothing to do with their behavior; that his illness was the cause.  This, from a 16-year-old.

We promptly visited our friend, who said several times, among tears, stories and, I suppose, the best prescription for almost anything, laughter, "This is the worst day of my life."  A car passed us as we walked home, its license plate proclaiming "RxLAF."  RxCry.

"What can you say?" says Virginia.

"Not much," say I. "Hugs might help."

Nightshade

Our white fields now look like melted cheese, shiny in the cool morning before the sun sheds their topcoats of ice.  No longer fun and fluffy, the snow has turned stale and worn.

I don't watch much television, in part because after an hour or two I tend to feel like this snow, drooped over a chair, couch or daybed, melting into oblivion.  Forget couch potato; it's an insult to the firm, ripe, nutritious root crop that, according to my father, lacks only one essential protein.

March 17, St. Patrick's Day, is potato day in this planting zone.  The resilient potato doesn't seem to mind working toward daylight, sending robust shoots that burst onto the surface like little green fireworks and then, shriveling in surprise when Jack Frost pays a late visit, harnessing its stored energy to try again and again.  It will succeed.  I hesitate to imagine what a potato could do if all its eyes could see.

"I like this picture," says Virginia, "except, in comparison, I feel like a small fry."

"No way," I say.  "You're a mover and a shaker.  Sin Valley can never forget you."

"Maybe, maybe not," say Virginia.  "When I first looked down on the valley, I had no idea my roots there where so deep."

"Ever since, Ms. Potato Head," I say, "they've spread like fingerlings."

Jumping the Gun

If a toilet won't stop running, a pipe is spraying all over the basement, or a spigot drips, I can take off with my man-bag and return several hours later to a quiet home.  If our house is cooler than usual, I can stoke the woodstove, sink a dipstick to discover our huge ugly oil tank is empty, and telephone Canada or the Middle East, or maybe the co-op, to order fuel oil number 2.  Then I can disappear, confident that Karen will open our ancient Old Milwaukee furnace and bleed the fuel line or whatever she does down there with a wrench, rag and bucket.

Today was my turn, highly unusual because we believe in assigning tasks to the more competent.  For mechanical matters, Karen wears the overalls, I'm the suit.

"Someone might say you knew what you were doing," says Virginia.

"Barely," I say.  "I started sliding my dad's plane before I remembered the easy stuff -- tightening screws."

In the cabin, which I suppose is more mine than Karen's even though her name is on the title, French doors separate the heated from the unheated areas.  For years the doors have pushed back and forth against each other and sometimes locked in aggravation.  Yesterday, Karen bought a couple brass surface bolts to hold one door in place.  Today, I installed them.

Of course, tasks like this one rarely are as simple as I hope.  After deciding to install the floor bolt first -- good move -- I drilled a hole in the floor, then screwed the sliding bolt mechanism onto the door and the strike plate over the hole I'd drilled.  The bolt slides perfectly.  Next, I fastened a similar bolt to the top of the door, without a strike plate.  Voila!

But the sister door, the mover with the door handle, closed like a square peg in a round hole.  That's when I got out the plane (wood plane; no, I didn't fly off to consult).  After a few swipes, brilliance struck.  Maybe I could solve this problem by tightening the hinge screws.  Correct!  A few more slides of the plane and the door closed like a cabinet made by Phillip Welch (not quite, but I like the simile -- check out his amazing work at http://www.phillipwelchdesigns.com/Welcome.html.)

Online Chatter

Yogi, our African gray parrot, has chosen this moment to warm up, literally, like an opera singer.  His full-throated bellow lacks the timbre of William Warfield or Samuel Ramey, but his rendition turns a key in my brain, sending me to YouTube, where you can find multiple performances of almost any music you desire.  I plugged in those singers' names and off I went to Porgy and Bess, Man of LaMancha and Tosca.  Before the Arrowhead Trio chose music for its November 2009 concert of twentieth century trios, we turned to YouTube to preview most of our candidates.

I'm reminded of Yogi's one-time greeting in North Carolina when Karen returned from grocery shopping, "Mommy's home!"  He hasn't repeated it, not because we don't leave home, which is a possibility these days.  We can order anything we need, or want, on-line.

I'd like to think the Internet has renewed interest in the written word.  As a result, almost everyone reads.  The reading may be limited to little snippets with abbreviations that are as Greek as shorthand to me, but for many people it's more than they'd otherwise read.  I wonder if peer pressure has reduced our illiteracy rate.

When I was in my twenties, I empathized with women who refused to learn to type because they didn't want to be stuck in jobs traditionally held by women.  I'm sure they've changed course.  Now we all type, even if we've never banged away "asdfasdf"  or "qwerty" to a droning teacher or recording.  I learned after my father received a package in the mail -- an electronic typewriter on approval that arrived with a learner's guide.  During the 30 days before he returned it, I managed to learn enough to last a lifetime.  If I remember correctly, he preferred his manual Remington.

I suppose some young people don't know what a secretary is.  When I started working in a bank law department, each of the two lawyers had a secretary.  We got to know "ours" pretty well, in part because we spent a couple hours together each day while she took wisdom down in shorthand.  Mine, a former "executive secretary," mentored me, editing my memos and suggesting other improvements. Dictaphones came along, which were substantial timesavers although my boss resisted for quite a while.  Twenty years later, my department of 12 lawyers shared two "administrative assistants."  I now operate as an integrated secretary-lawyer-writer-administrative assistant-and-everything-else and if I need help I can Google or email.

"Eh-ee-ah-oh-oo."  It's not Yogi, it's Virginia warming up.

"You're sounding marvelous, as usual," I say.

"Thank you, what would you like to hear?" says Virginia.

"You pick," I say. "Whatever you choose, it definitely will beat anything on YouTube.  I'm for 'live and in person' any day."

Appearance Prejudice

I moved the goddess of bad notes away from the piano, out of sight in another bay window, in case I've been depending on her.  I had thought the wooden carving was androgynous, but further inspection suggests the god is a goddess.   She appears angry, with deep ruts in her unsmiling cheeks and a fiercely set jaw under asymmetrical eyes set in deep sockets, her scraggly hair long and wiry.

On the other hand, I don't know her well, so her contorted mouth might be a gentle smile.  At my age, I should have outgrown appearance prejudice.  Many people have surprised me over the years.  A few nights ago, I appeared to myself in a dream, my face damaged by burns or disease and, as I re-entered consciousness, I was thinking, "It doesn't matter; I am who I am."

"You rascal," says Virginia.  "I hoped you were going to explain your thought that a piece of wood could swallow bad notes."

"It wasn't my idea," I confess.  "The friend who gave it to me is a respected professor emeritus of religion and philosophy.  He suggested she might help me out."

"I should have guessed," says Virginia.  "Is this the same fellow who earned an amulet in a Japanese dojo,* after learning to invoke spirits and lay hands on dead cars and frogs?"

"Croak," I say.

"Vroom," says Virginia.
__________
* The religious sect was Sukyo Mahikari.

Pseudo-Homesteading

As we anticipate the next wave of this economic restructuring,* "homesteading" is taking off.  Seed companies are swamped with orders.  Backyard chickens are multiplying.  Our little "homestead" is looking forward to a new herd of baby goats and the arrival of 20 heritage breed turkeys.

It's not easy, especially when you have another job.  I was making a mental "to-do" list and decided to jot some of it down.  This is mine; Karen has more.

• Plant starter flats of tomato, green pepper, eggplant and other seeds so they're ready to transplant in May.

• Put sulfur on the grapes to inhibit "rust."

• Prune the grapes, blackberries and fruit trees.

• Mulch the fruit trees and grapes.

• As soon as the ground can be worked, plant our Spring garden -- lettuce, peas, spinach, carrots, parsnips, beets, etc.

• On or about March 17, plant potatoes.

• Move the snowplow to storage.

• Build an attractive fence around the garden beds to keep the Indian Runner ducks in and varmints out.  Oh yes, first, order rough-cut fence wood from our local mill, dig post holes, plan the fence, consider solar electric wires and low-to-the-ground supplemental wire fencing.

• Add another garden bed or two, which requires laying down wet newspapers or cardboard, covering with 6 inches of topsoil from our creekbed and adding manure.

• Find, clear and prepare larger areas for planting grains to feed our livestock and us (including wheat, oats, etc. for flour, breads and cereals).

• Help Karen add onto the goat barn (which in just one year has become too small because our plans have changed, for more goats and for turkeys).

• Claim several pickup loads of manure to add to our investment bank.

• Mulch and prepare our summer garden. 

• Build a root cellar based on Mother Earth News plans using dirt bags.

• Gather, cut and split at least 5 cords of firewood for next season.  (We might as well give up on this season; we're almost out and collecting firewood in the snow and mud is not much fun.)

• Finish scraping and painting the exterior house windows and trim.

• Get the pickup's steering repaired and new tires for the 1989 Volvo 240DL.

• Put gravel on the cabin driveway.

• Clean the rain gutters.

• Harvest and put food by (can, freeze and dry).

 "That's enough," says Virginia. "I think we get the picture."

"Aw," I say, "I was just getting warmed up."

"I think you'll be plenty warm all year," says Virginia.  "Don't forget your commitment to me."

"Oh, that's right," I say.  "And the chamber music weekend coming up at Garth Newel (the Arrowhead Trio is playing), after the Schumann concert on March 6.  Not to mention my 'work' deadlines."

"It's fixin' to be another great year," says Virginia.

____
* The loans that financed the office buildings with empty parking lots -- commercial real estate -- are coming due soon, as renewals and extensions peter out.  Many smaller banks that "stayed strong" during the last couple years are on the hook.  Remember this when your "investment counselor" calls to say now is the time to get back into real estate investment trusts (REITs) and other real estate investment vehicles because they're "cheap."

Puritannical

"Nowadays, being anonymous is worse than being poor."  This wisdom, attributed to a reality show participant, reminds me of my posting with the Salinger quote ("Nobody," February 15, 2010) and in my mirror I see a Puritan, perhaps a prude, who would flop on a reality show, who doesn't like reality shows, or more accurately, who doesn't want to admit he likes reality shows so he ignores them except for a peak around the corner once in a while, knowing if he surrendered they would suck time from worthy endeavors such as composing masterpieces for this blog very few people read and which serves as a motivational tool for an angst-driven middle-aged creative writer wannabe who might be better off fantasizing fiction except he's open-minded enough to recognize much of this blog, like life, is fiction so maybe he isn't a prude or Puritan after all.

"That's a mouthful, prude," says Virginia.

"So you think..." I say.

"No question," says Virginia.  "Don't you know a blog is where you're supposed to write things formerly known as secrets everyone until recently kept close, never discussed even with a friend of the same sex?"

"The same what?" I cover my ears.

First Day of Spring

By mid-February
hard winter hearts
begin to soften,
knowing snow and ice
will not linger long,
but eyes still roll
when she says
Valentine's is the first
day of Spring.


Dr. Oz says we should not plan to avoid serious illness.  Instead, we should stay in shape so we can leave it behind as quickly as possible.

Do you think the deli worker who "stretches" sliced turkey by inserting a sheet of paper between each slice does it for her own order?

If you scream denials of climate change, don't forget the difference between climate and weather.  It may be cold here, but I understand they had to haul snow to the ski runs in Vancouver because it's warmer than usual. For more, see http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/02/18/AR2010021803981.html?wpisrc=nl_opinions.

"Do any of these have anything to do with that poem?" asks Virginia.

"Nada," say I.

"Speaking of Dr. Oz," says Virginia, "who recommends spending at least 15 minutes per day in the sun.  When snow is on the ground, would 7 1/2 minutes be enough?"

Snowed Under

Same time last year
you were sprouting seeds.
This year, covered by
thick blue snow,
your everyday is a mystery

to infertile minds
planning the next onslaught
by rogue hoes, neglecting
hyped hope -- we are
weaklings; we are warriors.


     [from a long poem, "Conversations with a Garden" by the blogger;
      acknowledgment:  Joel 3:10]



"I'm not sure what you're trying to say," says Virginia, "but I think you're comparing your garden last year and this year with the past year in Washington."


"Spot on," I say.


"And I think," says Virginia, "we seem to be farther than ever from beating swords into plowshares."

Small World and White Eggs

A few years ago, a friend of mine, attending a party of Americans living in Berlin, Germany, struck up a conversation with a woman who was curious about Rockbridge County, where we now live.  She said she was negotiating to buy a country store there.

The deal fell through, but this morning I learned that the store, our next-door neighbor, finally is changing hands.  Its owner told me, "I'm excited, it's a great business, but now what am I going to do? Who wants to hire a 54-year old woman?"

She even offered the price, $180,000, which set my wheels churning about a going business, store premises, coolers and other equipment, plus an apartment on the second story.  For the right person, it sounds like a steal.

The conversation began when I asked if I could tape a concert poster to the store window.  I learned something else.  Someone is raising 50 chickens and throwing away their eggs.  "I just can't stand brown eggs.  They taste strong or something.  We're going to get some white layers."

"I think I'd get those eggs to my store, stick them in cartons and label them 'free-range organic,'" says Virginia.  "Maybe paint them white."

"Right, that sounds like you," I say.

"It's Lent," says Virginia. "I'd paint them gobs of colors, and sell fresh rabbits right beside them."

The Best

Our country's children don't score at the top on international testing in math and science.  China's economy may soon eclipse our own as the largest on Earth.  The economies of several other nations are growing faster than ours.

This is terrible.  We must do something.

Maybe.  Tell me why, please.

Frankly, for the moment, I'm a little more concerned about why we ignore the mounting evidence that head injuries in football seriously endanger the quality of life of many young men.  Like the Romans, last Sunday we sat and cheered as the Colts and Saints banged their heads together.  Reforming this deadly sport eludes us as downright un-American.

A University of North Carolina study reported that the chance is 1 in 1,000 that a 30-to-49-year-old man will receive a diagnosis of dementia, Alzheimer's or another memory-related disease.  The chance that a National Football League retiree aged 30 to 49 will receive the same diagnosis is 1 in 53.

What does our passion for football have to do with our desire to be "best" in the world?  Nothing, maybe.  Something, maybe.  Passions, after all, by definition are not rational.  Perhaps our other decision-making is equally driven by passion.  As we watch China grow, with its huge population that dwarfs our own, do we know and understand our concern?

"Time out," says Virginia.  "Are you saying our children shouldn't study hard?"

"No way," I say.  "I kind of like the idea of being the best we can be, but let's give a lot more thought to what the 'best' can be."

Nobody

I feel like Re-Pete.  Re-Pete was sitting on a fence.  Re-Pete fell off.  Repeat.  Or something like that.

If you've ever memorized something for a skit, play or musical performance, you know what I'm talking about, unless you're blessed with the memory skills I wish I had.  I suppose even with great memories, other parts of the body usually have some catching up to do.  I'm at the stage now where the Schumann score finally is in my head but I have two problems -- sometimes my fingers don't go where my brain wants them to, and other times my (conscious) brain can't keep up with my fingers.

As a late teenager I was told if you don't already have a hefty repertoire it's too late to make it as a concert pianist -- not to mention technique, interpretation and charisma.  Law school beckoned.

I don't regret my choice of careers and I still find satisfaction "solving" legal problems, but I can't say I've ever "loved the law" like some of my colleagues.  One of my law school classmates raised his eyebrows when I said I'd move to New York in a heartbeat if the Metropolitan Opera offered me a contract.  He said, "Not really?"  Maybe he thought I was wacko, but I interpreted his comments more as "what are you doing in law school if you don't love the law with all your heart?"

Of course, my statement was loaded with impossible assumptions, most importantly, that my talent was worthy of the Met stage.  I meant, if I'd had that kind of talent, I'd have headed for New York.  A few years later I auditioned for the Washington Opera and could have cried when the director asked if I had considered Broadway shows.  Deep down I knew I was much more suited to legal analysis than singing and dancing on a stage.

"Ta, ta," says Virginia.

"Yes, there's you," I say.  "I made it, didn't I?"

"In a sense," she says, "but remember, most people would say I flopped.   Think of Salinger.  What was it he wrote?  Something like 'Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me doesn't make it right.  I'm ashamed of it.  I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.  I'm sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.'"

The First Annual R&S Awards

Have you caught the fever?  It's on all the talk shows, even had an ad during the Superbowl.  If you missed it, turn on this week's American Idol.  The Oscars?  No, but it could be big or bigger.  It's the R&S Awards.

What's that?  Come on.  Where have you been?  Everybody who's anybody is behind it, that is, all the religious and spiritual leaders, anyway.  Would you believe the Pope, the Dalai Lama, William Franklin Graham, Rick Warren, Ali Khamenei, and Joel Osteen?

"I don't know why we didn't think of this before," groused Jack Carissimi, the Vatican's delegate to the R&S Academy, which is meeting in Las Vegas to announce the first year's nominees.  "What a great city to begin this effort," said the excited Maharaji Maestro, the event's mastermind.  "All of us can spread our word on the way to and from the Academy."

"Yes, it's about time."  That's Julie Priestess, director of outreach for the Las Vegas Business Development Board.  "The seculars have milked the Oscars and reality tv for all they're worth.  Why not the religious?"

"We've had a great run," said Wiggly Worm, with the National Order of American Evangelicals, "God's honest truth, the greatest marketing campaign of the ages, but now, with a worldwide recession, it's time to take advantage of another great opportunity."

Of course, dissenters complain.  "I'm not sure it's such a good idea," doubted Jesse Whitte, rabbi in The Lakes nearby, "but I hope bringing together all these different faiths bodes well for the future."

"Now there's a thought," says Virginia.  "Maybe they'll realize they have some things in common and start working together."

I say, "I'd like to have been a spider on the wall when they debated top tens for Best Preacher, Best Message, Best Supporting Congregant, Best Sanctuary.  I hear they're open for suggestions about other Bests."

Have you got any?

Dreams

Basswood panels,
full of promise --
my father knew
they hold secrets
when he left them
next to a box
of carving tools.


When my mind turns to "could-a-beens," I know it's time for re-tooling because the wishy-washy pile's only going to get higher if I don't switch into four-wheel drive.  When I find myself admiring someone else's wall of famous faces, I realize it's the same thing.  Show me instead your album of future memories.

"So you think I should take down my wall?" says Virginia.

"What wall?" I say.  "Shall we look?"

"Go ahead."  She points to a cardboard box, taped like a mummy.

"Maybe some other time," I say.

Early Valentines

Join us, please, for a wine-tasting dinner, last night.  Retroactivity is a blogger's prerogative.

The aperitif is petrol, propelling us in our Subaru Baja away from tomorrow's compost heap of chicken, duck and goat hors d'oeuvres to the nearby town of Lexington.

The pre-dinner entertainment is a private recital for the pianist and his Valentine on the Mason & Hamlin piano at Lexington Presbyterian Church, replacement venue for the local community orchestra's next concert, now rescheduled for March 6 at this church, the hall with the best acoustics in town.  Schumann, himself, would love the sound of this piano.

A short promenade across Main Street brings us to the Southern Inn and a table of six friends surrounded by 20-plus wine-clubbers about to enjoy Spanish tastes, presented by George and explained by an oenophile pointing at a map of Spain.

The wines are good (but what do I know?), the food better, and the conversation best of all, from catching up on the next generation to birth order, neuroscience, Republican'ts, Facebook lurkers, recent movies, snow removal, and even, consistent with the theme of the evening, parking practices in Valencia, Spain.

Of course we had to table our localvore intentions.  I had almost forgotten how tasty petroleum products can be.  Drink to me, drink to you, far more oil than our Subaru's aperitif!

"You didn't," says Virginia.

"Not a word," I say.  "It was a splendid evening."

Self-Critique

This morning, I had to brake at the top of the little hill at the end of our driveway because a car was approaching.  Lately, I've been putting my Dodge Ram pickup in 4-wheel drive until I'm on the main road, but today I didn't think about it.  As I slowly slid backwards, I wondered if it would have made any difference on what seemed to be solid ice.  No big deal.  We stopped.  I ground into the super-gear and up we went, me and my Ram.

It has one of those big 8-cylinder engines I was hoping our new President would ban from the highways.  Talk about nixing a second term; fussing with Fifth Amendment rights ("due process") would wreak tons more havoc than the Second ("right to bear arms").

There you have it -- my inconsistency.  Talk is so cheap, sometimes I wish we'd drop the pretense.  It doesn't work anyway most of the time, even for very good actors, because as the stack of white lies gets thicker, few people are smart enough to prevent at least one of them from reaching out to bite.

I'm as suspicious of cute, wonderful human interest stories as I am of eulogies, not that they can't or shouldn't exist to help us aspire to greatness.  Maybe this goes back to a newspaper article written about me ten years ago, which said I majored in "piano math" in college.  I wondered if the problem was a missing "and" or whether the writer actually thought I had answered "piano math."  I'm not saying such a major shouldn't exist.  It just wasn't mine.

I'm getting off track, as too often happens.  The criticism I'm leveling is not only inaccuracy -- if we didn't recognize it before, certainly the Internet has taught us abut the potential fragility of the written word -- it is, dare I use this word, obsequiousness in a writer, like a supersweet overly attentive waiter.  Avoiding crossing the line between truth and sacharrin-ity, I imagine, is the supreme challenge facing someone who writes about human success, dead or alive.

"You're rambling again," says Virginia.  "Are you saying you prefer a few warts?"

"Exactly," I say.  "Often when I read an obituary or attend a funeral I imagine the departed one floating above, wondering who is this person being described."

"Tell me something," says Virginia.  "What does this have to do with your pickup?"

"It may look macho, but once it begins sliding down a sheet of ice it's just a piece of metal.  Give me some pimples and warts."

Resilience

A hefty pile of snow stands three feet from the side of my piano.  If not separated by a wall of windows, I could easily step from the pile onto the piano.  This is why we built the deck so "a Mack Truck could drive across it," to quote an engineer friend.  The architect I asked to review my plans had insisted, "Build it for the biggest snowfall you can imagine and for that instant at a graduation party when everyone rushes to the guy yelling 'Come over here, you've got to see this!'"

Up to ten inches of snow rest on the railing, forming an ant's ski slope under our neglected bird feeder.  I should call it a squirrel feeder to explain why it has been neglected, but I don't suppose that would help some of you squirrel watchers.  While I may enjoy their antics from time to time, I refuse to encourage their approach to anywhere I don't want them chewing.  Neighbors in North Carolina spent several thousand dollars repairing squirrel damage to their attic and soffits.

Twenty-one locust posts, rustic, sometimes crooked, support the railing.  Two of them extend a couple feet above it and today they wear caps, like major-domos not fighting over who's in charge.  A couple tiki torches pose like toy soldiers in straitjackets, our bow to kitsch and mosquitoes.

"I miss the mosquitoes," says Virginia.  "Just think, in three months or less we could be sitting here in shorts."

I say, "And the rhododendron leaves, instead of curling into clumps like steamed spinach, will again be thick and shiny."

"Resilience," says Virginia.

Five to eight more inches of crystal flakes are expected today (maybe more, says someone).  Two have fallen.  For the moment, the air is still.  The undercurrent of Opossum Run warns that when the sun has finally pushed the clouds up and away, meltwaters may move mountains.

Each time this happens, Karen and I visit our peninsula, where Elk Creek meets the James, sometimes an island, sometimes underwater.  Soon after we signed the sales contract on this property, the son of a missionary/preacher e-mailed the listing agent to inquire if we'd be willing to offer a plot of ground to bury the father.  Neither of them had ever lived here, but old family documents referred to settlement where "Elk Creek meets the James."  No fan of cemeteries, I welcomed the distribution of ashes.  A few months later, a renewed request arrived.  The father had died of a heart attack.  My response was the same.  No taker.

In response to high water, the bottomlands will tender gifts, such as bedsprings, barrels, buckets and boats. And firewood, truckloads waiting to be cut and split.  I must find some hip boots or waders so I'm ready when the air warms.  Two months of unusual cold has severely depleted our woodshed.

"You're a disgrace," says Virginia. "Look at Frank and Katie and the man who lives under the giant persimmon tree."

"I know," I say.  "Those octagenarians have piles that will last years sub-zero."

"You'd better get started," says Virginia.

No.  I'm waiting for a few great solar panels.

[By the way, Richard lives (see yesterday's post, "Family Tradition").  He has fancied up a tent, like a tarp with sides, and was picking through the rubbish this afternoon.]

Family Tradition

What struck me as strange was Richard's driveway.  Someone had cleared it of snow, cleaner than almost any I'd passed on my way to Arrowhead Lodge.  Richard has no car; he walks everywhere.  Last week I gave him a lift to the store "across the river."  As I pumped gas, he returned with a pack of cigarettes, "May I ride back as far as your place?"  "Sure," I said, "You were going to walk ten miles for one pack of cigarettes?"  He shrugged.

Today, I looked more closely because something was missing.  Had he moved?  "Where's his trailer?" I thought.  "There."  Smoke rose from a pile of ashes and twisted metal.  "Where is Richard?"  I hope he escaped in time.

A few years ago I wrote a song, "Let 'Em Bash," which included a verse inspired by Richard's parents:

    Back in the woods a drunk man ran, naked 'cept for the boots he wore,
    his wife, she wandered far and wide, poaching ginseng to fill his hide.
    had no idea, by the creek he fished, a footbridge held his liquor store,
    addicted too, she smoked in bed, burned three houses and a big old shed.

 "Poor Richard," says Virginia.  "Do you think he had a chance?"

Yes, he did, and maybe he's happy, wherever he is.

Haunted

Twenty degrees lined up outside the backdoor this morning.  I appreciated each one of them.  I pulled on my underarmor, sweatpants and jacket and dived in.  The roads had been plowed for a reason.  I couldn't let that effort go to waste.

After a mile -- why don't I stretch first, especially on a frigid day -- my right calf started whining.  I tried to talk the stubborn muscle into relaxing, but it gradually got worse.  I stopped, stretched, and walked.  Then I tried a little massage, more stretching, walking, jogging.  Stop, stretch, massage, walk, jog.  The pain lingered, but I ran the 7 miles I'd planned, to make a deposit at our nearest ATM.  Even country boys have access to ATMs.

I thought back to the day I learned to ride a bike, on the lawn of the farmhouse we rented in rural Ohio.  My training wheels made me feel and look like a baby and my dad thought it was time.  He ran alongside, then let me go.  Twenty feet.  Boom.  "You okay?  You've almost got it."  A few more tries and I was a cyclist.

Diving was next.  First, jump in backwards.  Ouch!  My chin hit the side of the pool.  "Next time, jump back a little farther," Dad said as he drove me to the doctor for stitches.  I vaguely remember thinking I'd already figured that out for myself.  About three days later, he says, "Let's try again.  The longer you wait, the harder it is."

That became a mantra for life.  It's what you say after being thrown by a horse, flubbing a flip off the high diving board, or exiting a bad interview.  Skydiving?  I won't go that far.

I'm pretty sure this morning's problem was just a little muscle cramp or tear.  I'm looking forward to tomorrow's run, even though the calf is mooing now.

"Your dad's been gone 12 years, right?" asks Virginia.

"I don't think so," I say.

Spring Fever

I laugh when others ask if I get bored
because each weed, each root, each row
means more than every letter in every word
on every page of every book, more than
numbers on ledgers in tables and charts,
or notes in measures in staves in songs,
step by step, day by day, month by month
my life awaits you. Like a good novel,
you draw me into the excitement of never
knowing what the next moment will bring.

(from a long poem entitled "Conversations with a Garden," by Virginia's collaborator)

"You make me wish I were in your garden," says Virginia.

"Don't worry," I say. "You're there."

[By the way, the snow plow continues to work very well, see picture below.]

It Worked!

About 20 years ago, my extended family gathered at my parents' home, or maybe it was in Santa Fe, and one of my older brothers asked me, "Did you ever notice how much work Mother and Dad do around their place? Dad's list is several pages long." For the first time, I became aware that as I age I may want, or need, to pare down the things we take for granted, especially tasks that require much physical effort.

We're in the middle of our 4th snow storm of the season. One of them only laid down 2-3 inches, so it was nothing, but the other two were monsters and the same is being said of today's delight. Both times we began to shovel our driveway when the ruler said 4 inches. That's a good height because we can push the snow across the asphalt with very little lifting. By the time we finished the first pass, we had 4-5 more inches and started over again. We then made the mistake of going to sleep for our usual 8 hours, which made for some heavy lifting after we woke up.

Epiphany! Two days ago, on our fairly regular 4-mile walk together, Karen and I noticed Jay, a neighbor down the road a couple miles, pulling something behind his pickup. He explained while we admired. Jay is one of those guys who can do anything mechanical. I am not; Karen is better. As we headed homeward, Jay suggested, "They used to make these out of wood." He had welded his from metal.

You might be able to guess what the rest of our walk involved -- plus a few moments in between then and yesterday afternoon. They say pictures are worth a thousand descriptive mistakes, so I'll post a few below. All you need is a pallet, a hammer, a drill and 5/8" bit, some nails or screws, five 80-inch oak boards, a couple ropes, a tombstone (that's the weight you see on top), and, of course, snow.

It works!

"But where are you going to store that thing?" says Virginia.

"I think I'll plant it in the field next to the manure pile," I say.

"Let's hope it doesn't grow any bigger,": she says.

 

  

 

Arrowhead Lodge

where rumbling begins
a half-mile down the road
when someone is coming,
plenty of time to hide
and remain faceless

away from a world
of social-ists, telephones
and satellite dishes,
a spot where photo albums
are the only books of faces.


"Don't tell me," says Virginia. "You finally signed up."

I ask, "How could you tell?"

"The remorse," says Virginia. "You're not like Salinger any more."

I say, "I blew that a long time ago. He never blogged either, so far as we know."

Procrastination

Fallen timber rests.
Like orange pumpkins on dried vines
or dipped, headless chickens,
it does not wait, but simply is
home to impatient squatters
who will turn it rotten
like mushy squash
if I wait too long before
jerking the worn rope
on my rusting chainsaw.


"Are you still having trouble with those chickens?" says Virginia.

"Maybe," I say. "I don't think so."

"Well, get used to it, or stop eating meat," she says.

The Right Side of the Bed

I cast my vote for waking up on the right side of the bed, every morning.  I've got a choice.  Why not make it a good one?

Karen asked me to watch an Oprah show she'd Tivo'd, about a company president who went undercover for a week.  Each day, he showed up at a different work site operated by some of his firm's 45,000 employees.  He took on the pseudonym, Randy, and performed each job as an employee-in-training.  Besides discovering he couldn't do the jobs very well, he learned that the paper he shuffled in his corner office affected real people.  One of them, a man who had to undergo dialysis treatments three times per week, said he told himself every morning, before he threw off the covers, that this day would be a good one.

The old saying, "I woke up on the wrong side of the bed," reminds me of myself saying "stupid tree" when I hit my head on a branch (see "Taking Responsibility," January 14, 2010).  Taking responsibility begins at home, with me, at the start of every single day.

"Right," says Virginia, smiling big and wide.  "This is me, always happy.  Do you like me?"