Losing Mom
7 months ago
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Writing is Gardening, Gardening is Writing
I write like I garden. I garden like I write.
Starting a new garden is like beginning a book. Beginning a book is like starting a garden. Nothing much gradually becomes something tangible and very personal.
If someone asks how I can turn sod into vegetables, all by hand, my answer is the truism, "bit by bit," as time passes, second by second.
Come to think of it, learning Schumann is like gardening is like writing. Twenty minutes of blacks and whites seem like forever at first. Then you gradually chip away at it until it's all there, in your fingertips.
I'm working on another huge update of one of my books. On January 12, the Federal Reserve Board revised about half of a regulation. You may have heard about the new credit card rules. They're part of the package. The Board's double-spaced release is 1155 pages long.
That's a big plot of sod. I started planning on January 12, spading on January 13. Now my seeds have sprouted. See -- as intimidating as writing a book may seem, it can grow faster than a garden. In a few days, those seeds will produce an update.
"Why can't you put me into print that fast?" Virginia can't leave me alone for a minute.
"Because you're more complicated," I say, "more imaginative. You require much more thought."
"Than all those pages of legalese?" she says. "I'm more fun, too."
Definitely.
Starting a new garden is like beginning a book. Beginning a book is like starting a garden. Nothing much gradually becomes something tangible and very personal.
If someone asks how I can turn sod into vegetables, all by hand, my answer is the truism, "bit by bit," as time passes, second by second.
Come to think of it, learning Schumann is like gardening is like writing. Twenty minutes of blacks and whites seem like forever at first. Then you gradually chip away at it until it's all there, in your fingertips.
I'm working on another huge update of one of my books. On January 12, the Federal Reserve Board revised about half of a regulation. You may have heard about the new credit card rules. They're part of the package. The Board's double-spaced release is 1155 pages long.
That's a big plot of sod. I started planning on January 12, spading on January 13. Now my seeds have sprouted. See -- as intimidating as writing a book may seem, it can grow faster than a garden. In a few days, those seeds will produce an update.
"Why can't you put me into print that fast?" Virginia can't leave me alone for a minute.
"Because you're more complicated," I say, "more imaginative. You require much more thought."
"Than all those pages of legalese?" she says. "I'm more fun, too."
Definitely.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Our December snow blanket protected my root crops for over a month. A few days ago I finally managed to dig some up. Dinner last night included crummy carrots and perky parsnips.
"I fed carrot peels to the chickens," Karen said this morning.
Think apples. "Carrot peels?" I said, "Where did you get them?"
"From dinner last night," she said.
Think apples. "We didn't have carrots for dinner last night," I said.
"Yes we did, with parsnips and cabbage," she said.
Light bulb. "I thought you said apple peels."
It's not an age thing. It's -- well -- I suppose it's what Tolle says in A New Earth -- not listening to the "now."
A few years ago, when I was an arrogant twenty-something, I assumed everyone saw things the same as I did. I'm not talking worldview or viewpoint. I knew people had different opinions. I'm also not talking about inattention. I realized that people who witnessed an event remembered it differently and often inaccurately. Nevertheless, in general, I thought everyone, unless disabled in some way, actually saw, heard, smelled, sensed the same objective experience. Something cold was cold. Green was green. Wet was wet. A middle "C" was a middle "C."
Then one day I was put on hold. Music began to play. While I waited, I switched the telephone receiver to the other ear. I returned it to the first ear, then to the other, again and again. Weird. Each time the music moved up or down a half-step in pitch. To this day, I don't know if it's my ear or my brain. But a "C" isn't always a "C."
"Was it an epiphany?" says Virginia. She's teasing me.
"No, but gradually I've lost confidence in what is real. I may still be arrogant, but I'm interested in what others think happens."
"Especially when they see ghosts?" It's Virginia again.
Especially when they see ghosts.
[How about a comment? What have you noticed? If you have trouble entering a comment, leave the URL blank, choose Anonymous, and add your name or not, as you wish.]
"I fed carrot peels to the chickens," Karen said this morning.
Think apples. "Carrot peels?" I said, "Where did you get them?"
"From dinner last night," she said.
Think apples. "We didn't have carrots for dinner last night," I said.
"Yes we did, with parsnips and cabbage," she said.
Light bulb. "I thought you said apple peels."
It's not an age thing. It's -- well -- I suppose it's what Tolle says in A New Earth -- not listening to the "now."
A few years ago, when I was an arrogant twenty-something, I assumed everyone saw things the same as I did. I'm not talking worldview or viewpoint. I knew people had different opinions. I'm also not talking about inattention. I realized that people who witnessed an event remembered it differently and often inaccurately. Nevertheless, in general, I thought everyone, unless disabled in some way, actually saw, heard, smelled, sensed the same objective experience. Something cold was cold. Green was green. Wet was wet. A middle "C" was a middle "C."
Then one day I was put on hold. Music began to play. While I waited, I switched the telephone receiver to the other ear. I returned it to the first ear, then to the other, again and again. Weird. Each time the music moved up or down a half-step in pitch. To this day, I don't know if it's my ear or my brain. But a "C" isn't always a "C."
"Was it an epiphany?" says Virginia. She's teasing me.
"No, but gradually I've lost confidence in what is real. I may still be arrogant, but I'm interested in what others think happens."
"Especially when they see ghosts?" It's Virginia again.
Especially when they see ghosts.
[How about a comment? What have you noticed? If you have trouble entering a comment, leave the URL blank, choose Anonymous, and add your name or not, as you wish.]
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tracks
I was not about to challenge the floodwaters running through our nearby railroad tunnel this morning. Cold, wet feet did not appeal to me, so I turned to the old track on the now defunct Natural Bridge High School campus.
This runners' oval hides on the top of a hill at the end of a gravel path. Like many of the soccer fields in our son's former high school league, it offers panoramic views of the Blue Ridge. I imagine retired real estate agents and developers have kicked themselves for failing to construct mcmansions on these properties.
I never feel bored running circles there. Several deer, including a little bambi, had arrived before me, prancing halfway around. Someone took a bicycle joyride on the wet cinders, leaving ridges to wobble my ankles. At one of the turns, chalk lines mark the corner of the football field, which apparently isn't quite big enough for the little league boys. But this is recent history. Let's go back to when those retired real estate folks were in school.
It's easy because they left clues. "Rockets" and "Visitor" top the disused, rusted scoreboard overgrown by weeds and untrimmed tree branches. Note that the psychology of the singular was in vogue even then to subtly intimidate opponents. At the opposite end of the field sits a sturdy, dilapidated cement block concession stand. Since I began running around this area, the doors have been opened, boarded shut, and now lean upon again. I haven't looked inside because, well, I haven't been in a morbid enough mood to explore what reminds me of an open coffin.
I prefer running past, trying to memorize the teams that appear on the final, painted schedule -- Lexington Hurricanes, Covington Cougars, Rockbridge Rebels, James River Striders and, of course, the Natural Bridge Rockets. Like faded corporate giants (Sprint, Standard Oil, Citicorp), these names have been swallowed by mergers and consolidations, but I hear cheers and smell the obnoxious fumes of the lineman's cigar.
"Those were the days," says Virginia.
Not really, but it's fun to peak at the haunts of the near octagenarian who shares my drives to orchestra practices. Maybe some of the stories she tells are true.
This runners' oval hides on the top of a hill at the end of a gravel path. Like many of the soccer fields in our son's former high school league, it offers panoramic views of the Blue Ridge. I imagine retired real estate agents and developers have kicked themselves for failing to construct mcmansions on these properties.
I never feel bored running circles there. Several deer, including a little bambi, had arrived before me, prancing halfway around. Someone took a bicycle joyride on the wet cinders, leaving ridges to wobble my ankles. At one of the turns, chalk lines mark the corner of the football field, which apparently isn't quite big enough for the little league boys. But this is recent history. Let's go back to when those retired real estate folks were in school.
It's easy because they left clues. "Rockets" and "Visitor" top the disused, rusted scoreboard overgrown by weeds and untrimmed tree branches. Note that the psychology of the singular was in vogue even then to subtly intimidate opponents. At the opposite end of the field sits a sturdy, dilapidated cement block concession stand. Since I began running around this area, the doors have been opened, boarded shut, and now lean upon again. I haven't looked inside because, well, I haven't been in a morbid enough mood to explore what reminds me of an open coffin.
I prefer running past, trying to memorize the teams that appear on the final, painted schedule -- Lexington Hurricanes, Covington Cougars, Rockbridge Rebels, James River Striders and, of course, the Natural Bridge Rockets. Like faded corporate giants (Sprint, Standard Oil, Citicorp), these names have been swallowed by mergers and consolidations, but I hear cheers and smell the obnoxious fumes of the lineman's cigar.
"Those were the days," says Virginia.
Not really, but it's fun to peak at the haunts of the near octagenarian who shares my drives to orchestra practices. Maybe some of the stories she tells are true.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Filibuster
Bedtime seems to arrive later and later now that sunshine, not a boss or school bus, throws off the covers. Two daylight dogs have replaced our alarm clocks. "Hush," I want to say as they whine, briefly and quietly at first. I stay silent because if I show any sign of wakefulness, they will quickly crescendo into certainty, not that it matters at this point. Anything short of rising will not return the silence I had been mining for gold.
"How about if I take them for a run first thing?" This is one of those questions that really doesn't require an answer in our house. It means I'm taking them out so please don't feed them now as you usually do because if you do I'd better not or we may face some big vet bills and unnecessary sadness. So why don't I say what I mean? I guess I do.
Dog fence collars off, Rosie and Lex, Rosie especially, turn a few circles. I can't get dressed quickly enough. Off we go.
To the field. Hurray! Nothing beats exploring our 25-acre field. Who knows where a deer, groundhog or skunk might be waiting? Today the snow I mentioned yesterday ("The Boss") has closed the perimeter and limited our smell-search options. The James River is close to overflowing as Elk Creek drowns the corner of our field.
Let's examine this corner, which reminds me of a filibuster. Yesterday the creek was rushing madly, foaming, bubbling, swirling, an expert kayaker's paradise, as if it couldn't wait to become part of the river. Today it's even higher but the river has tamed it into what looks on the surface like a gentle pond.
Yes, it reminds me of the Senate, where one party or the other can rush to pass a bill like healthcare legislation (maybe not a good example because it has taken so long), and then the threat of a filibuster and the need for 60 votes to approve cloture calms everyone. One of the theories is that this will force Congress to take a last moment to carefully re-think, reconsider and compromise.
"I don't think that's what the James River and Elk Creek are up to," says Virginia. "The James definitely is in control."
"Well, at the moment, the Democrats are in control, too," I say. "If they really wanted to, they could change the rules."
"I suppose politics prevents that, much as some Senators want to pass a healthcare bill," says Virginia.
"Most likely. What's Rosie digging?"
"How about if I take them for a run first thing?" This is one of those questions that really doesn't require an answer in our house. It means I'm taking them out so please don't feed them now as you usually do because if you do I'd better not or we may face some big vet bills and unnecessary sadness. So why don't I say what I mean? I guess I do.
Dog fence collars off, Rosie and Lex, Rosie especially, turn a few circles. I can't get dressed quickly enough. Off we go.
To the field. Hurray! Nothing beats exploring our 25-acre field. Who knows where a deer, groundhog or skunk might be waiting? Today the snow I mentioned yesterday ("The Boss") has closed the perimeter and limited our smell-search options. The James River is close to overflowing as Elk Creek drowns the corner of our field.
Let's examine this corner, which reminds me of a filibuster. Yesterday the creek was rushing madly, foaming, bubbling, swirling, an expert kayaker's paradise, as if it couldn't wait to become part of the river. Today it's even higher but the river has tamed it into what looks on the surface like a gentle pond.
Yes, it reminds me of the Senate, where one party or the other can rush to pass a bill like healthcare legislation (maybe not a good example because it has taken so long), and then the threat of a filibuster and the need for 60 votes to approve cloture calms everyone. One of the theories is that this will force Congress to take a last moment to carefully re-think, reconsider and compromise.
"I don't think that's what the James River and Elk Creek are up to," says Virginia. "The James definitely is in control."
"Well, at the moment, the Democrats are in control, too," I say. "If they really wanted to, they could change the rules."
"I suppose politics prevents that, much as some Senators want to pass a healthcare bill," says Virginia.
"Most likely. What's Rosie digging?"
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Boss
Our white Christmas has finally melted into memories, but the snow looks angry this morning. Technically, it's no longer snow, nor is it a memory, forcing its way downhill like a petulant CEO. It doesn't even need to mutter, "Get out of my way." Everything, everyone knows better.
It only looks angry, I discovered as I ran beside it along the James River Road. My vision of fast, mad waters disappeared when I looked over and realized I was passing bubbles (now, get your mind out of the gutter). I was winning the race. And, although it looked as if it could steal me away, if I put my feet in, it would be the one taking a detour.
Deep down, you and I know my discovery was a mirage. Melted snow, like a tsunami, has far more energy than I. We who build levees and seawalls (except maybe the Corps of Engineers, which remains in denial) know they are temporary and ultimately useless. Maybe we should have a tea party about this?
"Dream on," says Virginia. "Did anyone ever point out your tendency to go off on wild tangents?"
"I'm no worse than most people," I say. "Everyone has a pet peeve or two, usually completely emotional, irrational and in need of analysis."
It only looks angry, I discovered as I ran beside it along the James River Road. My vision of fast, mad waters disappeared when I looked over and realized I was passing bubbles (now, get your mind out of the gutter). I was winning the race. And, although it looked as if it could steal me away, if I put my feet in, it would be the one taking a detour.
Deep down, you and I know my discovery was a mirage. Melted snow, like a tsunami, has far more energy than I. We who build levees and seawalls (except maybe the Corps of Engineers, which remains in denial) know they are temporary and ultimately useless. Maybe we should have a tea party about this?
"Dream on," says Virginia. "Did anyone ever point out your tendency to go off on wild tangents?"
"I'm no worse than most people," I say. "Everyone has a pet peeve or two, usually completely emotional, irrational and in need of analysis."
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Least Reverend James
When it comes to writing, an image haunts me -- water pressure behind a spigot. As I now try to complete a tedious update to one of my books and three other February 1 deadlines loom, I'm tempted to turn the spigot and wash them away. Virginia would like that, my current publisher would not.
Right now, the spigot holds a story I'd like to write about friends. Even though they wildly disagree on politics and religion, their commonalities hold them close. How can this be?
Many people think of the United States as a "Christian" country. Some point to the founding fathers although, because of persecution in their past, they set this nation on a foundation separating church and state. Some point to a slogan on our greenbacks, "In God We Trust," even though that could apply to almost anyone who isn't an atheist.
Watch and listen to what goes on. Do we look and sound like a Christian country?
"It's not works," some Christians insist. "It's grace that gives you the key to heaven." Goodness gracious, let's talk about grace. After all, it's a Sunday.
Let me begin by admitting I grew up in a faith that rarely mentioned "grace." I didn't hear much, if anything, about it until I joined the Methodists. Later, I learned that certain Pentecostals believe it doesn't matter if a preacher molests little girls during the week. When he preaches on Sunday, he deserves your full attention because his words are the words of God. Virginia says, "I might call that grace to the nth power, 'radical grace.'"
What is "grace?" In the less radical version, I understand that by believing Jesus is your Savior and the Son of God, His grace admits you into Heaven (for example, Romans 11:6). Some point to the crucifixion story. Remember the three crosses: two bore criminals, the middle one, Christ. One of the criminals kept deriding Jesus, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us." The other rebuked him and turned to Jesus, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Jesus responded, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Luke 23:39-43.)
Talk about life being unfair. Think of the wonderful person who has lived kindness and good works, who has sacrificed luxury so others can live, but doesn't accept Jesus as her savior. She does not pass Go, she goes directly to everlasting hell, while the criminal who has lived a crooked, lascivious and downright evil life makes a last minute decision and goes straight to Heaven. (I understand scholars may debate whether "Paradise" is Heaven.)
May I suggest something might be missing here? Pretend you are Jesus on the cross. Being Jesus, you have superpowers, so when you look at the grace-full criminal you don't see and hear what the rest of us do -- an empty head on a body saying something nice. You see the man's past, present and future. You see his soul, his mind and his spirit. Maybe you see that he is not guilty -- confessions are notoriously unreliable (the good criminal said, "And indeed we have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds..."). Maybe you see a man who, except for the crime for which he suffers, lived a life doing many good things.
"Wrap it up," says Virginia. "I'm used to homilies, not sermons."
"The point is," I say, "don't count on grace to get you in. We need more help here first."
Right now, the spigot holds a story I'd like to write about friends. Even though they wildly disagree on politics and religion, their commonalities hold them close. How can this be?
Many people think of the United States as a "Christian" country. Some point to the founding fathers although, because of persecution in their past, they set this nation on a foundation separating church and state. Some point to a slogan on our greenbacks, "In God We Trust," even though that could apply to almost anyone who isn't an atheist.
Watch and listen to what goes on. Do we look and sound like a Christian country?
"It's not works," some Christians insist. "It's grace that gives you the key to heaven." Goodness gracious, let's talk about grace. After all, it's a Sunday.
Let me begin by admitting I grew up in a faith that rarely mentioned "grace." I didn't hear much, if anything, about it until I joined the Methodists. Later, I learned that certain Pentecostals believe it doesn't matter if a preacher molests little girls during the week. When he preaches on Sunday, he deserves your full attention because his words are the words of God. Virginia says, "I might call that grace to the nth power, 'radical grace.'"
What is "grace?" In the less radical version, I understand that by believing Jesus is your Savior and the Son of God, His grace admits you into Heaven (for example, Romans 11:6). Some point to the crucifixion story. Remember the three crosses: two bore criminals, the middle one, Christ. One of the criminals kept deriding Jesus, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us." The other rebuked him and turned to Jesus, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Jesus responded, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Luke 23:39-43.)
Talk about life being unfair. Think of the wonderful person who has lived kindness and good works, who has sacrificed luxury so others can live, but doesn't accept Jesus as her savior. She does not pass Go, she goes directly to everlasting hell, while the criminal who has lived a crooked, lascivious and downright evil life makes a last minute decision and goes straight to Heaven. (I understand scholars may debate whether "Paradise" is Heaven.)
May I suggest something might be missing here? Pretend you are Jesus on the cross. Being Jesus, you have superpowers, so when you look at the grace-full criminal you don't see and hear what the rest of us do -- an empty head on a body saying something nice. You see the man's past, present and future. You see his soul, his mind and his spirit. Maybe you see that he is not guilty -- confessions are notoriously unreliable (the good criminal said, "And indeed we have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds..."). Maybe you see a man who, except for the crime for which he suffers, lived a life doing many good things.
"Wrap it up," says Virginia. "I'm used to homilies, not sermons."
"The point is," I say, "don't count on grace to get you in. We need more help here first."
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Reluctant Runner
I don't run like I used to. Often when I pop into the Trading Post next door to pick up local produce such as ice cream or marshmallows I'll chat up the person ahead of me in line and he or she will say, "Oh, you're the runner" as if runners are scarce around here. They are. That's why I keep running. Someone has to.
After we moved from the cabin to the farm, a distance of 4 miles, my regular running routes changed. Not long ago, as I ran past Johnson's trailer park, a fellow came rushing across the lawn to greet me. "We've been worried about you," said he, "haven't seen you in ages. Are you okay?"
See, I have a responsibility to my run-watchers. If I stop running, their lives will change traumatically.
I know some of you think I'm talking trash when I say I don't run like I used to. Believe me, my addiction is over. For many years my weekly regimen included four important elements -- a track or hill workout ("speedwork"), a tempo run (to train my muscles for the pace I intended to run my next race), a long run (10-20+ miles) and 4 days of relaxed running. Now and then I -- gulp -- took a day off.
One of my first running buddies insisted that 40 miles per week was the human maximum. If he ran more, he couldn't sleep. I believed him for a year or two, then discovered it was hogwash. A day off and my prone running kept Karen awake.
I'm down to 30 miles per week, sometimes more but not often. Once or twice a year I enter a race, untrained. It's been more than 5 years since I ran a marathon. Scratch. What's that? Scratch, Scratch. April 24 is the inaugural Blue Ridge Parkway Marathon in Roanoke. Scratch, Scratch, Scratch. Oh, I get it. The Itch. Nice try. Manley said for the $90 registration fee he'd run 26 miles with me right here in Arnold's Valley.
"Do it," says Virginia. "You don't have anything scheduled for April."
But I do, I do. Twenty turkeys are scheduled to join us so they'll be ripe by Thanksgiving...and I may have to start training for a track meet in June.
After we moved from the cabin to the farm, a distance of 4 miles, my regular running routes changed. Not long ago, as I ran past Johnson's trailer park, a fellow came rushing across the lawn to greet me. "We've been worried about you," said he, "haven't seen you in ages. Are you okay?"
See, I have a responsibility to my run-watchers. If I stop running, their lives will change traumatically.
I know some of you think I'm talking trash when I say I don't run like I used to. Believe me, my addiction is over. For many years my weekly regimen included four important elements -- a track or hill workout ("speedwork"), a tempo run (to train my muscles for the pace I intended to run my next race), a long run (10-20+ miles) and 4 days of relaxed running. Now and then I -- gulp -- took a day off.
One of my first running buddies insisted that 40 miles per week was the human maximum. If he ran more, he couldn't sleep. I believed him for a year or two, then discovered it was hogwash. A day off and my prone running kept Karen awake.
I'm down to 30 miles per week, sometimes more but not often. Once or twice a year I enter a race, untrained. It's been more than 5 years since I ran a marathon. Scratch. What's that? Scratch, Scratch. April 24 is the inaugural Blue Ridge Parkway Marathon in Roanoke. Scratch, Scratch, Scratch. Oh, I get it. The Itch. Nice try. Manley said for the $90 registration fee he'd run 26 miles with me right here in Arnold's Valley.
"Do it," says Virginia. "You don't have anything scheduled for April."
But I do, I do. Twenty turkeys are scheduled to join us so they'll be ripe by Thanksgiving...and I may have to start training for a track meet in June.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Dark Months
I entered a land of natural tinsel as I began the climb to Arrowhead Lodge this morning. Looking out the Lodge windows, I see why a superintendent of schools might cancel classes. All the tree branches are coated, like ubiquitous glass paperweights. On days like today I entertain second thoughts about our decision not to install code-compliant railings around our deck. A slip-and-slide could land me humpty-dumptied in Opossum Run -- and no one would find me for hours.
Down on our little farm, occasional balls of sleet had begun to join the raindrops minutes before I left. If I were blindfolded and transported roundabout one location to the other, I might think they were in different gardening zones. One spring day not long ago I ran from the cabin, warm in shorts and a tee shirt until the valley floor, 20 degrees colder, coaxed me to a faster pace. Typically, we have 3 or 4 frosts on the farm before the first one on the mountain, but in the summertime we can count on the cabin for cooling off.
As I prepare to practice piano, it sounds as if a million toy soldiers are fighting battles on our metal roof. The creek drones a persistent pedal point. Otherwise, the woods wait, silent, for Spring.
"You could use better ears," says Virginia. "All sorts of things are happening out there. They may look dead, but the woods aren't waiting."
That's what pulls me through January and the "hungry month" of February -- that, and, I'm told, Omega-3 fatty acids. (Some folks prescribe lots of fish, free-range eggs, and pasture-raised meats, great bearers of healthful nutrients, to battle winter blahs.)
Down on our little farm, occasional balls of sleet had begun to join the raindrops minutes before I left. If I were blindfolded and transported roundabout one location to the other, I might think they were in different gardening zones. One spring day not long ago I ran from the cabin, warm in shorts and a tee shirt until the valley floor, 20 degrees colder, coaxed me to a faster pace. Typically, we have 3 or 4 frosts on the farm before the first one on the mountain, but in the summertime we can count on the cabin for cooling off.
As I prepare to practice piano, it sounds as if a million toy soldiers are fighting battles on our metal roof. The creek drones a persistent pedal point. Otherwise, the woods wait, silent, for Spring.
"You could use better ears," says Virginia. "All sorts of things are happening out there. They may look dead, but the woods aren't waiting."
That's what pulls me through January and the "hungry month" of February -- that, and, I'm told, Omega-3 fatty acids. (Some folks prescribe lots of fish, free-range eggs, and pasture-raised meats, great bearers of healthful nutrients, to battle winter blahs.)
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Venus Trumps Mars
My sister, lonely in her sisterhood of one, says she's glad for brothers, but they're "too male." Stabbed in the heart, I've been staggering ever since. For years I've striven to be a good sister. Now I moan in the mirror, to Carly Simon's famous melody, "You're too male."
Deep down, I think I know what she means (arrogant male that I am). Reread my posting for yesterday ("Nursery Time"), with my admission and supplication to peers -- "why must it be 'us versus them.'?" (Go ahead and fight about that apostrophe's placement.) I suppose it's all because of the Y chromosome my sister lacks. It's why women tend to have wheelbarrows full of friends and men less than a handful. It's why only one cock rules a henhouse. Whoops. Forget that. I digress.
I've always hated stereotypes, probably because they're often right about me. I don't want to explain things with a sex chromosome or a heftier supply of testosterone. I want to believe human beings deserve to live on the top of the heap, not because they clambered up by clobbering everything in sight of their path and more, but because they're kinder and more thoughtful, like the goddess of love, the sign of femaleness.
But here I sit, relegated to Mars, where I'm expected to win wars instead of regularly gathering to share recipes, stroll through stores, or wear home-made party hats when my children "come of age" (see "Sisters" at http://steinermp.wordpress.com/).
I want to lay down my guns, beat swords into plowshares, and sing with the Sweet Adelines. But I can't.
"You're a drama queen," says Virginia, "like me. Here, take this."
I think she's going to slug me, but instead she pins on my chest a sheriff's badge. Across it she has drawn with a magic marker, "Female."
Deep down, I think I know what she means (arrogant male that I am). Reread my posting for yesterday ("Nursery Time"), with my admission and supplication to peers -- "why must it be 'us versus them.'?" (Go ahead and fight about that apostrophe's placement.) I suppose it's all because of the Y chromosome my sister lacks. It's why women tend to have wheelbarrows full of friends and men less than a handful. It's why only one cock rules a henhouse. Whoops. Forget that. I digress.
I've always hated stereotypes, probably because they're often right about me. I don't want to explain things with a sex chromosome or a heftier supply of testosterone. I want to believe human beings deserve to live on the top of the heap, not because they clambered up by clobbering everything in sight of their path and more, but because they're kinder and more thoughtful, like the goddess of love, the sign of femaleness.
But here I sit, relegated to Mars, where I'm expected to win wars instead of regularly gathering to share recipes, stroll through stores, or wear home-made party hats when my children "come of age" (see "Sisters" at http://steinermp.wordpress.com/).
I want to lay down my guns, beat swords into plowshares, and sing with the Sweet Adelines. But I can't.
"You're a drama queen," says Virginia, "like me. Here, take this."
I think she's going to slug me, but instead she pins on my chest a sheriff's badge. Across it she has drawn with a magic marker, "Female."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Nursery Time
After a month of unusually cold, white weather, a warm spell speaks Spring. Of course, it's a tease. Fortunately, the nights remain cold enough not to coax the flora into premature rebirth. As my posting yesterday ("Where the Rubber Hits the Road") suggested, animals may be stupid but plants are not.
Have you ever met an unkind plant? Virginia steps up to the microphone, "Poison ivy?" My view on that is a repeat of something I posted a few days ago ("Taking Responsibility") -- if you're too lazy or stupid to recognize and avoid, or wash off, poisons, don't blame the plant.
"What about weeds?" Virginia asks. Yes, sometimes uninvited plants greatly aggravate me, but even they aren't mean or unkind. They're simply complicatedly inconvenient, which by definition is what a weed is.
"Bananas," my sister might suggest. I love bananas, but she wants to form an online Society of Banana Haters, people who think even the smell of a banana is hazardous to their health. My friend, Mike, used to have a similar problem with celery, although he seems to have aged into tolerance. One of the SBH mottos would be "Bananas are mean." I won't touch this one. How can you argue with such an extremely skewed perspective?
The point is, Spring-like weather portends a kinder world. My first 2010 seed packets arrived yesterday and I'm itching to get this year's garden growing. The warm sunshine has melted most of our white blanket and uncovered my November planting of garlic. It's time to start the earlies on windowsills -- things like broccoli, cauliflower and onions -- so in March they can keep the garlic company. A couple months after that, my gardens will be overflowing with friendly plants, co-existing in a way animals (humans, anyway) apparently cannot.
"I thought you said plants don't need human help," says Virginia.
"I may have gotten carried away," I say. "Some of them do better with a little help from friends."
"Otherwise, they get crowded out, just like animals," says Virginia.
"Good point," I surrender. "They both have their good points. Why must it always be 'us vs. them'?"
Have you ever met an unkind plant? Virginia steps up to the microphone, "Poison ivy?" My view on that is a repeat of something I posted a few days ago ("Taking Responsibility") -- if you're too lazy or stupid to recognize and avoid, or wash off, poisons, don't blame the plant.
"What about weeds?" Virginia asks. Yes, sometimes uninvited plants greatly aggravate me, but even they aren't mean or unkind. They're simply complicatedly inconvenient, which by definition is what a weed is.
"Bananas," my sister might suggest. I love bananas, but she wants to form an online Society of Banana Haters, people who think even the smell of a banana is hazardous to their health. My friend, Mike, used to have a similar problem with celery, although he seems to have aged into tolerance. One of the SBH mottos would be "Bananas are mean." I won't touch this one. How can you argue with such an extremely skewed perspective?
The point is, Spring-like weather portends a kinder world. My first 2010 seed packets arrived yesterday and I'm itching to get this year's garden growing. The warm sunshine has melted most of our white blanket and uncovered my November planting of garlic. It's time to start the earlies on windowsills -- things like broccoli, cauliflower and onions -- so in March they can keep the garlic company. A couple months after that, my gardens will be overflowing with friendly plants, co-existing in a way animals (humans, anyway) apparently cannot.
"I thought you said plants don't need human help," says Virginia.
"I may have gotten carried away," I say. "Some of them do better with a little help from friends."
"Otherwise, they get crowded out, just like animals," says Virginia.
"Good point," I surrender. "They both have their good points. Why must it always be 'us vs. them'?"
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
When the Rubber Hits the Road
Karen's before and after pictures of Puck, our former rooster, God bless his soul (see "A picture paints a thousand words" at http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/), provoked a wide range of responses from "rooster killer" to "I'm proud of you; you're a real farmer now."
I'm reminded of the scene in "Julie and Julia" where Julie's husband wanders around the apartment singing "lobstuh killuh." What strikes me most was his silence when Julie cooked boeuf bourguignon or duck. Frankly, it's kind of like the millions of world citizens who ignored (and some still ignore) gas ovens in Germany, except, so far as we know, human roasts weren't shipped to supermarkets. Okay, that's a rather extreme comparison. Instead, think of Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, who provided Mrs. Lovett with cheap meat for her pies. Did you laugh when they sang "try the priest" or "the financier, peak of his career?"
Vegans and vegetarians, you're not off the hook, by far. Take a fresh green bean, cut it in pieces, and look at it under a microscope. What are those little things moving around? They're not vegetables. Do you think the farmer that grows the vegetables you eat avoids killing creatures as he drags his plow, cultivator or hoe through the soil, which, by the way, has likely been amended by pesticides and fertilizers that animals eat, get sick from, and die? Moreover, unless you're buying locally grown produce, lots of petroleum has been consumed getting those plants to your kitchen, and as we all know -- but ignore as part of our typical mass denial -- kills not only animals but some on the top of the heap, humans, now and future.
I'm also curious about the distinction we draw between heads of lettuce and beef or pork. Consider the gentle plant, which produces its own food from (non-living) nutrients it obtains from soil and air. Unlike a pig or a cow, it doesn't need our daily help. Instead of rewarding it with respect, we eat it without a first thought regarding its death and sacrifice
"Wait a minute," says Virginia. "Do you think we resent the independence of vegetables, which is why we eat them without remorse; that our egos object to being at the killing of pigs, cattle, chickens, turkeys and so forth because we made them?"
"Hmmm," I say. "The next time I lop off a head of lettuce I'm going to be more circumspect. And hey, you meat, fish and fowl eaters, be there or be square!"
I'm reminded of the scene in "Julie and Julia" where Julie's husband wanders around the apartment singing "lobstuh killuh." What strikes me most was his silence when Julie cooked boeuf bourguignon or duck. Frankly, it's kind of like the millions of world citizens who ignored (and some still ignore) gas ovens in Germany, except, so far as we know, human roasts weren't shipped to supermarkets. Okay, that's a rather extreme comparison. Instead, think of Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, who provided Mrs. Lovett with cheap meat for her pies. Did you laugh when they sang "try the priest" or "the financier, peak of his career?"
Vegans and vegetarians, you're not off the hook, by far. Take a fresh green bean, cut it in pieces, and look at it under a microscope. What are those little things moving around? They're not vegetables. Do you think the farmer that grows the vegetables you eat avoids killing creatures as he drags his plow, cultivator or hoe through the soil, which, by the way, has likely been amended by pesticides and fertilizers that animals eat, get sick from, and die? Moreover, unless you're buying locally grown produce, lots of petroleum has been consumed getting those plants to your kitchen, and as we all know -- but ignore as part of our typical mass denial -- kills not only animals but some on the top of the heap, humans, now and future.
I'm also curious about the distinction we draw between heads of lettuce and beef or pork. Consider the gentle plant, which produces its own food from (non-living) nutrients it obtains from soil and air. Unlike a pig or a cow, it doesn't need our daily help. Instead of rewarding it with respect, we eat it without a first thought regarding its death and sacrifice
"Wait a minute," says Virginia. "Do you think we resent the independence of vegetables, which is why we eat them without remorse; that our egos object to being at the killing of pigs, cattle, chickens, turkeys and so forth because we made them?"
"Hmmm," I say. "The next time I lop off a head of lettuce I'm going to be more circumspect. And hey, you meat, fish and fowl eaters, be there or be square!"
Monday, January 18, 2010
Flexibility
We met a couple yesterday who said their life's word is "flexibility." They stole it from us -- more accurately, from Karen.
I've been thinking about moving to New Zealand. People who know us may say, yes, no surprise, they've been in Virginia for 8 years. They were in North Carolina 8 years, and Missouri 6 years, maybe it's time to move.
Actually, we're finally settling in, getting our little farm underway with productive gardens and livestock. It feels comfortable here, usually.
Then I read a book like Wild Fire by Nelson DeMille, about a group of rich and "powerful" men who implement a plan to invoke the U.S. government's imbedded response to an Islamic fundamentalist attack on a U.S. city. The response, with the code name "Wild Fire," has been set up to "automatically" launch nuclear attacks on Muslim world centers. The President has only a 30-minute window to stop Wild Fire. What does this group of men do? They place four suitcase nuclear bombs in two American cities to fake an Islamic nuclear attack and provoke Wild Fire.
Of course, our hero, John Cory, and his wife, Kate Mayfield, save the moment, but John warns that it's going to happen one of these days.
I'm not sure New Zealand would offer a real refuge from the madness, but it might be as good as it gets. Maybe we could find a farm for sale at a reasonable price isolated somewhere on the South Island. A couple times a year we could visit Christchurch, Wellington or Auckland for some live music and city "culture." Friends and family could fly in for month-long visits, stay in a bach somewhere on the 3000 acres we aren't using, and help us harvest beyond-organic crops and milk the goats and donkeys.
Virginia says, "When the bombs fall, we could hoe away until the breezes kill us."
I've been thinking about moving to New Zealand. People who know us may say, yes, no surprise, they've been in Virginia for 8 years. They were in North Carolina 8 years, and Missouri 6 years, maybe it's time to move.
Actually, we're finally settling in, getting our little farm underway with productive gardens and livestock. It feels comfortable here, usually.
Then I read a book like Wild Fire by Nelson DeMille, about a group of rich and "powerful" men who implement a plan to invoke the U.S. government's imbedded response to an Islamic fundamentalist attack on a U.S. city. The response, with the code name "Wild Fire," has been set up to "automatically" launch nuclear attacks on Muslim world centers. The President has only a 30-minute window to stop Wild Fire. What does this group of men do? They place four suitcase nuclear bombs in two American cities to fake an Islamic nuclear attack and provoke Wild Fire.
Of course, our hero, John Cory, and his wife, Kate Mayfield, save the moment, but John warns that it's going to happen one of these days.
I'm not sure New Zealand would offer a real refuge from the madness, but it might be as good as it gets. Maybe we could find a farm for sale at a reasonable price isolated somewhere on the South Island. A couple times a year we could visit Christchurch, Wellington or Auckland for some live music and city "culture." Friends and family could fly in for month-long visits, stay in a bach somewhere on the 3000 acres we aren't using, and help us harvest beyond-organic crops and milk the goats and donkeys.
Virginia says, "When the bombs fall, we could hoe away until the breezes kill us."
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Epigenetics
Tell-tale signs galore --
ceiling fan turned off,
a toilet paper roll,
open doors, empty bottles.
"Leave no trace" has lost.
Around chromosomes
lies cell material that can
turn off or on the genes
of the next generation.
What we do matters.
"Our true character appears when we think no one is watching," says Virginia.
"Do you mean, when I pick my nose?" says Who.
"No, not you, certainly," says Virginia.
[Note. Research by a Norwegian physician suggested that boys who went from normal eating to gluttony in a single season, following a season of famine, produced sons and grandsons who lived much shorter lives than boys who ate normally. Epigenetics is the study of changes in gene activity that do not involve alterations to the genetic code but still get passed to at least one successive generation. Time, Jan. 18, 2010.]
ceiling fan turned off,
a toilet paper roll,
open doors, empty bottles.
"Leave no trace" has lost.
Around chromosomes
lies cell material that can
turn off or on the genes
of the next generation.
What we do matters.
"Our true character appears when we think no one is watching," says Virginia.
"Do you mean, when I pick my nose?" says Who.
"No, not you, certainly," says Virginia.
[Note. Research by a Norwegian physician suggested that boys who went from normal eating to gluttony in a single season, following a season of famine, produced sons and grandsons who lived much shorter lives than boys who ate normally. Epigenetics is the study of changes in gene activity that do not involve alterations to the genetic code but still get passed to at least one successive generation. Time, Jan. 18, 2010.]
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Reenactment
Playing games in the cemetery,
grownups in blue and gray,
here and there a ruffled shirt,
top hat, a few little girls
in dresses, celebrating R.E. Lee,
not so popular where I grew up,
damn Yankee I will forever be,
one you can trust, someone said,
better not, I may disappoint
smelly, mothballed wool.
"Rebel flags give me the creeps," says Virginia.
"I guess you didn't see many in Manhattan," I say.
"No, we had other distractions," says she, "like Nixon in China."
[Note: Nixon in China is an opera by American composer John Adams and librettist Alice Goodman.]
grownups in blue and gray,
here and there a ruffled shirt,
top hat, a few little girls
in dresses, celebrating R.E. Lee,
not so popular where I grew up,
damn Yankee I will forever be,
one you can trust, someone said,
better not, I may disappoint
smelly, mothballed wool.
"Rebel flags give me the creeps," says Virginia.
"I guess you didn't see many in Manhattan," I say.
"No, we had other distractions," says she, "like Nixon in China."
[Note: Nixon in China is an opera by American composer John Adams and librettist Alice Goodman.]
Friday, January 15, 2010
Palm Reader
Take these hands,
may the long life lines
prove true, as age
spots and wrinkles
betray past and future.
An old friend from India
saw gaps between the fingers,
"money slips through your grasp"
-- or maybe they signify
the joints of a knucklehead.
"Not a knucklehead," says Virginia, "after all, you're creating me."
"I'm not so sure," I say. "Sometimes I think creation is out of my realm."
"Hey, I created something today," says Virginia. "Want to hear it?"
"Sure."
Effortless
Like a bird on a branch
whistling on wind,
sow a melody, seamless,
into everything as if it
has always been.
may the long life lines
prove true, as age
spots and wrinkles
betray past and future.
An old friend from India
saw gaps between the fingers,
"money slips through your grasp"
-- or maybe they signify
the joints of a knucklehead.
"Not a knucklehead," says Virginia, "after all, you're creating me."
"I'm not so sure," I say. "Sometimes I think creation is out of my realm."
"Hey, I created something today," says Virginia. "Want to hear it?"
"Sure."
Effortless
Like a bird on a branch
whistling on wind,
sow a melody, seamless,
into everything as if it
has always been.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Taking Responsibility
I knew a fellow who refused to buy life insurance. He said, "I don't bet against myself." I looked at him with squinty eyes and shook my head. As I recall, he bought other types of insurance only if required, by the government for his cars and by his lender for his house.
Even though I have confidence in myself, I've maintained many kinds of insurance, including blanket liability. I know I can do some pretty stupid things and no matter how healthy I like to think my lifestyle is, something could happen. Look at Jim Fixx, the sudden death of a runner. But I'm more worried about losses caused by someone or something else -- a deer through the windshield, a malfunctioning brake, inclement weather.
Why blanket liability? Partly because of the famous lawsuit against McDonald's involving spilled hot coffee. Someone might sue me for something I can't imagine.
When we visited New Zealand ten years ago, we signed up to kayak in Doubtful Sound. The outfitter laughed when I said, "Aren't you going to ask us to sign a release?" "You're assuming the risk," he said. "You wouldn't get into court in New Zealand."
"That's how it should be," says Virginia. "We'd be much better off in this country if we required everyone to accept responsibility."
Not long ago I hit my head on a tree branch. "Stupid tree," I said.
Even though I have confidence in myself, I've maintained many kinds of insurance, including blanket liability. I know I can do some pretty stupid things and no matter how healthy I like to think my lifestyle is, something could happen. Look at Jim Fixx, the sudden death of a runner. But I'm more worried about losses caused by someone or something else -- a deer through the windshield, a malfunctioning brake, inclement weather.
Why blanket liability? Partly because of the famous lawsuit against McDonald's involving spilled hot coffee. Someone might sue me for something I can't imagine.
When we visited New Zealand ten years ago, we signed up to kayak in Doubtful Sound. The outfitter laughed when I said, "Aren't you going to ask us to sign a release?" "You're assuming the risk," he said. "You wouldn't get into court in New Zealand."
"That's how it should be," says Virginia. "We'd be much better off in this country if we required everyone to accept responsibility."
Not long ago I hit my head on a tree branch. "Stupid tree," I said.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Instant Deadline
Before I dive into
twelve hundred pages
released yesterday
I need to plan
how to exit
without fangs and claws.
"At this rate, you're never going to get to know the real me," says Virginia.
"Sometimes I think that may be true," I say.
"Come on, let the legalise languish," she says. "We have things to do, stories to tell."
"I won't neglect you, " I say. "Haven't you heard, patience is a virtue?"
"Not when my well-being is at stake," she says. "Take too long and I may change into a villain."
"Maybe," I take note.
twelve hundred pages
released yesterday
I need to plan
how to exit
without fangs and claws.
"At this rate, you're never going to get to know the real me," says Virginia.
"Sometimes I think that may be true," I say.
"Come on, let the legalise languish," she says. "We have things to do, stories to tell."
"I won't neglect you, " I say. "Haven't you heard, patience is a virtue?"
"Not when my well-being is at stake," she says. "Take too long and I may change into a villain."
"Maybe," I take note.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Elk Cliff Farm-vore
Karen served Puck for dinner last night. Puck was our first rooster, a fellow who earned enemies by sneaking up from behind after being forgotten. Fed up, and ready to take the next step toward self-sufficiency, Karen and her accomplice, Adam, did the deed. I had expected that to be my responsibility, but they performed it so quickly and efficiently they were coming in when I was heading out.
A pile of feathers in a bucket reminded me of the thin line between life and death. I've seen lively, active, thoughtful people walking around one day and, like Puck, lifeless the next. Having a name I know and a face I recognize emphasizes the meaning of their "passing." Being present when eyes glaze into nothingness, or somethingness we hope, is an amazing moment, in part because some day, preferably long distant, it will happen to me. As a child, I thought it must hurt and the person must be very brave. I also thought that since it has happened to everyone who died before me, I would somehow find a way to handle it, too.
Many have suggested that if you're raising animals for meat, don't name them. I disagree. A name helps keep things personal. At a time when many, if not most, people spend more of each day pecking at a keyboard than relating directly with family, friends and acquaintances, emphasizing the personal makes sense.
Virginia says, "But we're talking about animals here, future meals, not friends and neighbors."
"Not true," I say. "Otherwise, why would so many decry livestock factories and feed lots, touting the importance of living a 'good life' in a pasture where the sun shines? Some even think a little friendly petting can't hurt."
"Thank you, Puck," I would have said if I hadn't been late. Thank you for gracing our first entirely home-grown non-vegetarian dinner.
A pile of feathers in a bucket reminded me of the thin line between life and death. I've seen lively, active, thoughtful people walking around one day and, like Puck, lifeless the next. Having a name I know and a face I recognize emphasizes the meaning of their "passing." Being present when eyes glaze into nothingness, or somethingness we hope, is an amazing moment, in part because some day, preferably long distant, it will happen to me. As a child, I thought it must hurt and the person must be very brave. I also thought that since it has happened to everyone who died before me, I would somehow find a way to handle it, too.
Many have suggested that if you're raising animals for meat, don't name them. I disagree. A name helps keep things personal. At a time when many, if not most, people spend more of each day pecking at a keyboard than relating directly with family, friends and acquaintances, emphasizing the personal makes sense.
Virginia says, "But we're talking about animals here, future meals, not friends and neighbors."
"Not true," I say. "Otherwise, why would so many decry livestock factories and feed lots, touting the importance of living a 'good life' in a pasture where the sun shines? Some even think a little friendly petting can't hurt."
"Thank you, Puck," I would have said if I hadn't been late. Thank you for gracing our first entirely home-grown non-vegetarian dinner.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Compensation
I'd like you to meet Malcolm,
we'll visit for a while, his day
begins after breakfast, at the piano,
if we're lucky Chopin or Schumann
pieced like a fine cabinet in progress
so please don't expect a concert,
you might pack a Field and Stream,
he'll pass out needles and we'll sit
around his quilt frame and talk,
stitching bucks and bears on camouflage,
bring your boots for a mountain jaunt,
then we might knead bread and read
Clancy, DeMille, Thoreau or Dickens,
when he'll mention it's not easy being Malcolm
among Johns, Toms, Bills and Dicks.
"Are you reading thrillers again?" Virginia asks, flexing her biceps.
"How'd you guess?" I say. "Every now and then it's important to remember who I could have been."
"You'd have been a lousy 'secret agent man,'" she says.
"Hmmm." I bite my tongue.
we'll visit for a while, his day
begins after breakfast, at the piano,
if we're lucky Chopin or Schumann
pieced like a fine cabinet in progress
so please don't expect a concert,
you might pack a Field and Stream,
he'll pass out needles and we'll sit
around his quilt frame and talk,
stitching bucks and bears on camouflage,
bring your boots for a mountain jaunt,
then we might knead bread and read
Clancy, DeMille, Thoreau or Dickens,
when he'll mention it's not easy being Malcolm
among Johns, Toms, Bills and Dicks.
"Are you reading thrillers again?" Virginia asks, flexing her biceps.
"How'd you guess?" I say. "Every now and then it's important to remember who I could have been."
"You'd have been a lousy 'secret agent man,'" she says.
"Hmmm." I bite my tongue.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Dip
A coagulated mass
of yellow-green mucus
spotted with black olives
edged by obligatory lettuce leaves
talk about something
ancestors would not recognize
hold your nose...
and jump in.
"Maybe you've been smoking too much Mother Earth News and Barbara Kingsolver," Virginia says.
"That thought crossed my mind," I say. "I sent my first 2010 seed order yesterday."
"Good, your little greenhouse is itching to get started," says Virginia.
"Me, too," I say.
of yellow-green mucus
spotted with black olives
edged by obligatory lettuce leaves
talk about something
ancestors would not recognize
hold your nose...
and jump in.
"Maybe you've been smoking too much Mother Earth News and Barbara Kingsolver," Virginia says.
"That thought crossed my mind," I say. "I sent my first 2010 seed order yesterday."
"Good, your little greenhouse is itching to get started," says Virginia.
"Me, too," I say.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Carrots Dressed for the Cold
Below freezing,
not afraid of the dark,
yellow-orange tapers
stand at attention
under earth, mulch and snow.
"They might be rotting under there," I say.
"That's okay," says Virginia, "all the world needs to eat."
not afraid of the dark,
yellow-orange tapers
stand at attention
under earth, mulch and snow.
"They might be rotting under there," I say.
"That's okay," says Virginia, "all the world needs to eat."
Friday, January 8, 2010
January Dumpster
christmas ribbons
and wrapping paper
drape dead bambi,
mocassins
never made.
"Nice rhythm," says Virginia. "I could dance the canoe step."
"Don't tell me you were in Boy Scouts," I say.
"No, but my dad was," she says. "We'd dance around campfires on our section hikes."
and wrapping paper
drape dead bambi,
mocassins
never made.
"Nice rhythm," says Virginia. "I could dance the canoe step."
"Don't tell me you were in Boy Scouts," I say.
"No, but my dad was," she says. "We'd dance around campfires on our section hikes."
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Suits and Stuffed Shirts
Seventeen wonderful years ago I arrived at work on a Friday, rode the elevator to the ninth floor, strode the hallway to my office, and hung my sport coat on a hook. At my other office in St. Louis, this was "casual" Friday. In Stamford I was about to learn there was no such thing.
Two hours later, our director of human resources entered my office and closed the door. "James," said this guardian of political correctness, "[The boss] noticed you were wearing a sport coat this morning. Suits are required on this floor." (Even though we took them off as soon as we arrived.)
That was Citi then. Look at Citi now.
In contrast, consider Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia, a company whose benefits include flextime so employees can go surfing or skiing when the weather is right or stay home with a sick child, and the freedom to dress as they like, including bare feet. In 2006, this Moses published Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman." Last year, Patagonia experienced its most success in years.
Here's what Chouinard had to say: "I love recessions for business reasons. No. 1, a recession kills the competition [unless they're 'too big to fail]. No. 2, your customers stop being silly and stop buying fashion stuff. They buy things they need and things that will last a long time. They don't mind paying more as long as it's high-quality. What they do is what we should all be doing, which is consuming less and consuming better."
Meanwhile, our recent Presidents simply urge us to spend, spend, spend. Yes, but the spending should be on things we need -- alternative energy research, local production of food and other goods, and improved health care. According to Chouinard, one in 8 women will develop breast cancer. That's up from one in 40 before the widespread use of pesticides! We must reorder our priorities.
Virginia says, "Did you notice what he said about 'wait and see?' 'There's no difference between an optimist who says 'Don't bother, it'll all be fine,' and the pessimist who says 'Don't bother, it's all hopeless.'"
I'm afraid we'll be fighting over the environment until it's over. Chouinard quotes the "Pentagon" as saying war will be endless now because we're going to be fighting over the last resources. Maybe, just in time, as in a suspense novel, smart young people will create solutions.
I bet they won't be wearing suits.
P.S. (1/10/10). Barbara Kingsolver, in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, observes: "In 1965, U.S. farmers used 335 million pounds of pesticides. In 1989 they used 806 million pounds. Less than ten years after that, it was 985 million. That's three and a half pounds of chemicals for every person in the country, at a cost of $8 billion. Twenty percent of these approved-for-use pesticides are listed by the EPA as carcinogenic in humans.
"So how are the bugs holding out? Just fine. In 1948, when pesticides were first introduced, farmers used roughly 50 million pounds of them and suffered about a 7 percent loss of all their field crops. By comparison, in 2000 they used nearly a billion pounds of pesticides. Crop losses? Thirteen percent."
Two hours later, our director of human resources entered my office and closed the door. "James," said this guardian of political correctness, "[The boss] noticed you were wearing a sport coat this morning. Suits are required on this floor." (Even though we took them off as soon as we arrived.)
That was Citi then. Look at Citi now.
In contrast, consider Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia, a company whose benefits include flextime so employees can go surfing or skiing when the weather is right or stay home with a sick child, and the freedom to dress as they like, including bare feet. In 2006, this Moses published Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman." Last year, Patagonia experienced its most success in years.
Here's what Chouinard had to say: "I love recessions for business reasons. No. 1, a recession kills the competition [unless they're 'too big to fail]. No. 2, your customers stop being silly and stop buying fashion stuff. They buy things they need and things that will last a long time. They don't mind paying more as long as it's high-quality. What they do is what we should all be doing, which is consuming less and consuming better."
Meanwhile, our recent Presidents simply urge us to spend, spend, spend. Yes, but the spending should be on things we need -- alternative energy research, local production of food and other goods, and improved health care. According to Chouinard, one in 8 women will develop breast cancer. That's up from one in 40 before the widespread use of pesticides! We must reorder our priorities.
Virginia says, "Did you notice what he said about 'wait and see?' 'There's no difference between an optimist who says 'Don't bother, it'll all be fine,' and the pessimist who says 'Don't bother, it's all hopeless.'"
I'm afraid we'll be fighting over the environment until it's over. Chouinard quotes the "Pentagon" as saying war will be endless now because we're going to be fighting over the last resources. Maybe, just in time, as in a suspense novel, smart young people will create solutions.
I bet they won't be wearing suits.
P.S. (1/10/10). Barbara Kingsolver, in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, observes: "In 1965, U.S. farmers used 335 million pounds of pesticides. In 1989 they used 806 million pounds. Less than ten years after that, it was 985 million. That's three and a half pounds of chemicals for every person in the country, at a cost of $8 billion. Twenty percent of these approved-for-use pesticides are listed by the EPA as carcinogenic in humans.
"So how are the bugs holding out? Just fine. In 1948, when pesticides were first introduced, farmers used roughly 50 million pounds of them and suffered about a 7 percent loss of all their field crops. By comparison, in 2000 they used nearly a billion pounds of pesticides. Crop losses? Thirteen percent."
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Remembering
I wend my way through the key changes and various sections in Schumann's Piano Concerto in A minor, 1st movement, trying to set them in my mind, wishing they were my ideas in the first place. I envy pianists whose memories soak this up in a few playings or hearings, like Leonard Bernstein and his photographic memory. Victor Santiago Asuncion mentioned that he resurrected Moussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition in a week, after ignoring it for more than a decade.
At the risk of overstating my case, I'm getting ready for one of those trips of a lifetime, the Schumann concert, February 20. Unfortunately, I can't buy travel insurance. I practiced 6-8 hours a day during my senior year of college. Now I'm at the keyboard 2 to 4 hours, as if it doesn't really matter because a few other responsibilities interfere and graduation doesn't depend on it. Please tell me my maturity and focus offer a great advantage and everything will come together.
I'm curious, though, what difference 35 years make. Am I memorizing faster or slower? Do I understand the theory and harmony better or worse? Have my interpretation and expression improved? As for fingers, wrists and arms, I'd probably rather not go there. I'll just say they seem to be holding up.
In the Schumann, after 15 pages of rather aggressive playing, the pianist gets to enjoy two slow pages floating around A-flat major. "Love me tender, in the words of Elvis," says Virginia. "If it were opera, you might be in a garden with your beloved."
May tears (I hope not mine) celebrate the joy of this passage.
At the risk of overstating my case, I'm getting ready for one of those trips of a lifetime, the Schumann concert, February 20. Unfortunately, I can't buy travel insurance. I practiced 6-8 hours a day during my senior year of college. Now I'm at the keyboard 2 to 4 hours, as if it doesn't really matter because a few other responsibilities interfere and graduation doesn't depend on it. Please tell me my maturity and focus offer a great advantage and everything will come together.
I'm curious, though, what difference 35 years make. Am I memorizing faster or slower? Do I understand the theory and harmony better or worse? Have my interpretation and expression improved? As for fingers, wrists and arms, I'd probably rather not go there. I'll just say they seem to be holding up.
In the Schumann, after 15 pages of rather aggressive playing, the pianist gets to enjoy two slow pages floating around A-flat major. "Love me tender, in the words of Elvis," says Virginia. "If it were opera, you might be in a garden with your beloved."
May tears (I hope not mine) celebrate the joy of this passage.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Porn Stars
Sex delayed my departure this morning by about 5 minutes. Karen thrust our digital camera my way, coaxing me into the role of film-maker. I recently noticed, by the way, that one of the nearby theaters continues to use film, so the term remains apropos.
"You'd better turn it on," she said. "This may not take long."
Witty rushed to the girls' gate, breathless and snorting. "Don't toy with me," said his eyes as his nose angled toward Polly. Playing coy, Polly held back as Strawberry, the boss with horns, slipped through the gate. "Witty, my boy, stay away," Strawberry seemed to say. "I want the pasture. I'm tired of hay."
"Come on, Polly," ordered the goat mistress. Polly, the cock-tease, inched toward the gate, floating pheromones. When she finally squeezed through, she had no time to fix her hair, comb her beard or light a couple candles. Five seconds later, Witty stepped away, satiated.
"Cut," said Virginia. "You forgot the apple cider vinegar."
ACV is reported to increase the likelihood of does, which is not why I drink it twice a day.
"You'd better turn it on," she said. "This may not take long."
Witty rushed to the girls' gate, breathless and snorting. "Don't toy with me," said his eyes as his nose angled toward Polly. Playing coy, Polly held back as Strawberry, the boss with horns, slipped through the gate. "Witty, my boy, stay away," Strawberry seemed to say. "I want the pasture. I'm tired of hay."
"Come on, Polly," ordered the goat mistress. Polly, the cock-tease, inched toward the gate, floating pheromones. When she finally squeezed through, she had no time to fix her hair, comb her beard or light a couple candles. Five seconds later, Witty stepped away, satiated.
"Cut," said Virginia. "You forgot the apple cider vinegar."
ACV is reported to increase the likelihood of does, which is not why I drink it twice a day.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Great Recession: Transitioning
The Great Recession is destined to influence our future in many ways. Some predict it will postpone the creative contributions of a new generation of workers because young people will delay education they can't afford now. Conversely, the oldest cohorts in the workforce will hang on, imprinting the marketplace with staleness, a preference for the ways things are being done.
I like to think the oldest cohorts won't hold on, that they will choose to be different, to test the waters of change and swing the doors open to the young. "Here, take it and run. Maybe you can do a better job. It's time for me to stop driving so fast I can't taste or smell what I'm doing."
We take too much for granted. Most of us flip a light switch as if magic brightens the bulb. When we're hungry, we park, buy "food" our great-grandparents wouldn't recognize and stuff it down our throats. We hop back in our cars and pat our protruding middles.
Maybe we older folks will set an example by making the things we consume, indulging our innate desire to control a manufacturing process from start to finish. We might begin by growing food or preparing meals from scratch. Eventually, we might get in the habit of asking ourselves before we buy anything -- could we create this ourselves? Others may be able to do it cheaper, but too often the operative word in that phrase is "cheap."
"You've said that before," says Virginia. "Most likely you're preaching to the choir."
"I've been in the choir," I say. "The choir doesn't listen any more closely than anyone else. I can't even hear myself chatter."
"Well then," says Virginia, "maybe you should pack up things, put them in storage and move along."
"I've thought about that," I say, "but I kind of like where we're going here."
"Then listen to the preacher," says Virginia.
I like to think the oldest cohorts won't hold on, that they will choose to be different, to test the waters of change and swing the doors open to the young. "Here, take it and run. Maybe you can do a better job. It's time for me to stop driving so fast I can't taste or smell what I'm doing."
We take too much for granted. Most of us flip a light switch as if magic brightens the bulb. When we're hungry, we park, buy "food" our great-grandparents wouldn't recognize and stuff it down our throats. We hop back in our cars and pat our protruding middles.
Maybe we older folks will set an example by making the things we consume, indulging our innate desire to control a manufacturing process from start to finish. We might begin by growing food or preparing meals from scratch. Eventually, we might get in the habit of asking ourselves before we buy anything -- could we create this ourselves? Others may be able to do it cheaper, but too often the operative word in that phrase is "cheap."
"You've said that before," says Virginia. "Most likely you're preaching to the choir."
"I've been in the choir," I say. "The choir doesn't listen any more closely than anyone else. I can't even hear myself chatter."
"Well then," says Virginia, "maybe you should pack up things, put them in storage and move along."
"I've thought about that," I say, "but I kind of like where we're going here."
"Then listen to the preacher," says Virginia.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Mountain Climbing
The day I blogged tubular ("Tubular," December 21, 2009) I neglected the orange, yellow, green and black tubes we retrieve from the barn loft to float down the James River. Last night, Adam and a friend found a different use for those toys. For pictures, click on Karen's blog, Holes in My Jeans, in the right margin of my blog, and go to "Sledding in the new year" (January 2, 2010).
The James River Face rises three thousand feet above the pasture in those pictures. I read recently that many millions of years ago these mountains were taller than Mt. Everest is today. At the south end of our valley, Thunder Ridge guards our cabin, Arrowhead Lodge. Today Thunder Ridge is a mystery I have an urge to explore.
It's too cold for such a long walk and the ice-crusted snow might toss me into a hospital (or morgue). When the snow melts, I'd like to head up there with a friend to feast on overlooks. The only friend willing to join me, unless I import one from somewhere else (Victor, Rick, are you there?), is my cellphone. (I hear fake violins playing.)
If I were to make a new year's resolution, it would have something to do with these mountains and woods. In them, I can run 20 miles without being passed by a car or truck and, as I go, deadlines and commitments fade into nothingness or I laugh at the stress-less-ness of my life compared to what used to be. But I don't have to walk or run 20 miles for this. I could step onto our porch or patio, settle into a hammock or lawnchair and watch the mountains fret and the forest mend.
"Your garden would beckon," says Virginia. "You couldn't simply sit."
Could I prove her wrong?
The James River Face rises three thousand feet above the pasture in those pictures. I read recently that many millions of years ago these mountains were taller than Mt. Everest is today. At the south end of our valley, Thunder Ridge guards our cabin, Arrowhead Lodge. Today Thunder Ridge is a mystery I have an urge to explore.
It's too cold for such a long walk and the ice-crusted snow might toss me into a hospital (or morgue). When the snow melts, I'd like to head up there with a friend to feast on overlooks. The only friend willing to join me, unless I import one from somewhere else (Victor, Rick, are you there?), is my cellphone. (I hear fake violins playing.)
If I were to make a new year's resolution, it would have something to do with these mountains and woods. In them, I can run 20 miles without being passed by a car or truck and, as I go, deadlines and commitments fade into nothingness or I laugh at the stress-less-ness of my life compared to what used to be. But I don't have to walk or run 20 miles for this. I could step onto our porch or patio, settle into a hammock or lawnchair and watch the mountains fret and the forest mend.
"Your garden would beckon," says Virginia. "You couldn't simply sit."
Could I prove her wrong?
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Learning My Letters
Do you know what lies underneath the keys on your computer's keyboard? Lex exposed the secrets under mine. We were quietly enjoying each other's company on the loveseat in our dining room when, boom, the front door opened. Lex levitated and leaped across my lap, dragging his paws across my keyboard and jerking out the power cord. Six plastic key tops flew -- a, w, u, i, o and j.
Eighteen months have passed. If my online banks have implemented multi-factor authentication as recommended by their regulators, this computer's keyboard definitely would help them identify my unique typing style. Did you know that's one of the technologies they use? Our typing is nearly as unique as our fingerprints.
A couple days ago the little rubber foot glued to the "a" came off. My left pinkie is gradually adjusting. I wonder if the banks will start asking security questions all over again. Gosh, what is my favorite color?
Virginia says, "There's a suggestion if you don't want friends borrowing your computer -- like the old beds you offer overnight guests, remove a few key caps."
What's she talking about? I wouldn't do that.
Eighteen months have passed. If my online banks have implemented multi-factor authentication as recommended by their regulators, this computer's keyboard definitely would help them identify my unique typing style. Did you know that's one of the technologies they use? Our typing is nearly as unique as our fingerprints.
A couple days ago the little rubber foot glued to the "a" came off. My left pinkie is gradually adjusting. I wonder if the banks will start asking security questions all over again. Gosh, what is my favorite color?
Virginia says, "There's a suggestion if you don't want friends borrowing your computer -- like the old beds you offer overnight guests, remove a few key caps."
What's she talking about? I wouldn't do that.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Finity
PopPop, age 95, prepared Thanksgiving dinner for several of his ten children. "Let's say grace," he said. "Thank you for giving me another day to cook dinner for my family." Later, one of his great-grandchildren said, "I wonder what it's like to wake up every morning and be grateful to be alive one more day."
I used to go to bed knowing I would wake up the next morning. I didn't doubt it. Now I'm not as sure, although I'm very hopeful. I have aged into the uncertainty of infinity. Some of us are becoming more and more hopeful that infinity will know us, everlasting. At the same time we are growing to value the finiteness of the present.
If we're going to use religion to guide our behavior and we believe in the sanctity of human life, I don't know how we can ignore most of the people who will ever exist -- our descendants. Our great-grandchildren need our help. It's not a matter of believing or not believing that humans are contributing to the end of the Earth as we know it. All we need to know is simple arithmetic. If we're running out of food, we don't wait until our cupboards are bare. We plan ahead. The earth contains a finite amount of coal and petroleum. If we continue to use them the way we're using them now, they will run out.
Most young people view life as endless, even though they "know" it is not. We know this because yesterday we were young. They deserve our help and our planning, now. They are worth our investment.
"I sang into an overlook this afternoon," says Virginia. "No one but I heard me, except maybe some wildlife. Sometimes I wonder if I hear myself."
Happy New Year!
I used to go to bed knowing I would wake up the next morning. I didn't doubt it. Now I'm not as sure, although I'm very hopeful. I have aged into the uncertainty of infinity. Some of us are becoming more and more hopeful that infinity will know us, everlasting. At the same time we are growing to value the finiteness of the present.
If we're going to use religion to guide our behavior and we believe in the sanctity of human life, I don't know how we can ignore most of the people who will ever exist -- our descendants. Our great-grandchildren need our help. It's not a matter of believing or not believing that humans are contributing to the end of the Earth as we know it. All we need to know is simple arithmetic. If we're running out of food, we don't wait until our cupboards are bare. We plan ahead. The earth contains a finite amount of coal and petroleum. If we continue to use them the way we're using them now, they will run out.
Most young people view life as endless, even though they "know" it is not. We know this because yesterday we were young. They deserve our help and our planning, now. They are worth our investment.
"I sang into an overlook this afternoon," says Virginia. "No one but I heard me, except maybe some wildlife. Sometimes I wonder if I hear myself."
Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
My Personal Rat Race
"Naughty, naughty, naughty," a woman signed from the driver's seat of an SUV this morning as I ran along Stoopville Road, near Newtown, Pennsylvania. I was plodding through an inch of freshly fallen snow. I waved and smiled, thinking "naughty, naughty, naughty, why do you think it's necessary to drive on a morning when traffic reports are full of accidents?"
Poor thing. Maybe she had to go to work today, return or exchange a misguided Christmas gift, visit a sick friend or family member in a hospital, or fly somewhere to testify. It's been a long time since I put on a suit and cowarded my way through inclement weather. Cowarded, I say, because I was not a brave maverick. I was a traditional uptight corporate executive who preferred not making waves by failing to show up when I was expected.
Now I can dress warmly and greet snow with enthusiasm or cuddle underneath warm blankets in front of a roaring fire. I can walk instead of run because I don't have to be anywhere soon. I can do my job later, after everyone else is asleep, if I prefer. I can Google my old boss and remember his comment when I resigned, "I wish I could do that." "Certainly you could," said I. "No, my wife likes shopping too much" were the words of a screamer at the office, a wimp in his own home.
"Are you saying you have no regrets?" says Virginia.
"Not about leaving the rat race," says I. "I'm grateful to be running through a maze of my own creation."
Poor thing. Maybe she had to go to work today, return or exchange a misguided Christmas gift, visit a sick friend or family member in a hospital, or fly somewhere to testify. It's been a long time since I put on a suit and cowarded my way through inclement weather. Cowarded, I say, because I was not a brave maverick. I was a traditional uptight corporate executive who preferred not making waves by failing to show up when I was expected.
Now I can dress warmly and greet snow with enthusiasm or cuddle underneath warm blankets in front of a roaring fire. I can walk instead of run because I don't have to be anywhere soon. I can do my job later, after everyone else is asleep, if I prefer. I can Google my old boss and remember his comment when I resigned, "I wish I could do that." "Certainly you could," said I. "No, my wife likes shopping too much" were the words of a screamer at the office, a wimp in his own home.
"Are you saying you have no regrets?" says Virginia.
"Not about leaving the rat race," says I. "I'm grateful to be running through a maze of my own creation."
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
A young man has looked forward to celebrating July 4th with home-made fireworks. As two friends watch, he lights a fuse and drops his handiwork into a metal pipe. It doesn't explode immediately, he waits, then he peers into the pipe. No more wake-ups.
This story appeared among Spike TV's "1000 Ways to Die." Other brief segments showed ways people have died, including one about young women hired in the early 20th century to paint glow-in-the-dark numerals on the faces of timepieces, even though their employer knew radioactive paint was very hazardous to their health. The women's actions reportedly led to changes in the way we view employer responsibility. Another episode showed an obese man who laughed for 36 continuous hours that ended in a fatal heart attack.
That's entertainment? Watching someone do something incredibly stupid can be frustrating. Watching a glowing woman approach her boyfriend in the dark can be unnerving. Watching a man laugh can be funny, for a while. Watching these episodes, based on real events, can be educational and might prevent others from repeating them, they can satisfy the voyeur, or they might provide suggestions to candidates contemplating suicide.
I hope these and other shows don't dull our senses, acclimating us to life's misfortunes. I'm hopeful they get us thinking in constructive ways.
"He deserved to die," we might say because of someone's stupid behavior. That's taking Darwin's hypothesis of "survival of the fittest" too far. We don't "deserve" to die. Life is too valuable for that. Most nations have banned the death penalty. If they've banned it for murders, they could hardly consider it appropriate for stupidity. Some day each of us will die, but in the meantime life is our most valuable asset.
Virginia says, "Watching some of these shows makes me feel dirty, that I'm wasting precious moments. I hope they save more lives than they endanger."
This story appeared among Spike TV's "1000 Ways to Die." Other brief segments showed ways people have died, including one about young women hired in the early 20th century to paint glow-in-the-dark numerals on the faces of timepieces, even though their employer knew radioactive paint was very hazardous to their health. The women's actions reportedly led to changes in the way we view employer responsibility. Another episode showed an obese man who laughed for 36 continuous hours that ended in a fatal heart attack.
That's entertainment? Watching someone do something incredibly stupid can be frustrating. Watching a glowing woman approach her boyfriend in the dark can be unnerving. Watching a man laugh can be funny, for a while. Watching these episodes, based on real events, can be educational and might prevent others from repeating them, they can satisfy the voyeur, or they might provide suggestions to candidates contemplating suicide.
I hope these and other shows don't dull our senses, acclimating us to life's misfortunes. I'm hopeful they get us thinking in constructive ways.
"He deserved to die," we might say because of someone's stupid behavior. That's taking Darwin's hypothesis of "survival of the fittest" too far. We don't "deserve" to die. Life is too valuable for that. Most nations have banned the death penalty. If they've banned it for murders, they could hardly consider it appropriate for stupidity. Some day each of us will die, but in the meantime life is our most valuable asset.
Virginia says, "Watching some of these shows makes me feel dirty, that I'm wasting precious moments. I hope they save more lives than they endanger."
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Abandoned Kids
Today we drove north until the snow ended. Now in Pennsylvania, it's much colder, twenties instead of thirties.
We abandoned our goats and chickens. Maybe a neighbor will realize we're missing and go over to claim some free milk and eggs. We don't need to worry about Rosie and Lex, our Boxers. When they get hungry enough, they'll knock open a cupboard or pull open the plastic drawer that holds their food. If they can't figure it out, Yogi, our African gray parrot, will either tell them what to do or open his cage door and feed them himself.
We've officially crossed over; at least, Karen has. For Christmas, her mom used to give her gift cards to Lowe's. This year it was Tractor Supply, and the annual calendar has a picture of a different barn for each month. Karen's no longer a carpenter/handyperson. She's a farmer.
Then we blow it by abandoning our kids. What do you expect when a couple of city slickers move to the country?
"'They' used to say that about me," says Virginia. "Still do. Every time I drive past in my pickup, they figure I'm on my way back to Manhattan. Like you, my friends back me up when I leave for a few days."
We abandoned our goats and chickens. Maybe a neighbor will realize we're missing and go over to claim some free milk and eggs. We don't need to worry about Rosie and Lex, our Boxers. When they get hungry enough, they'll knock open a cupboard or pull open the plastic drawer that holds their food. If they can't figure it out, Yogi, our African gray parrot, will either tell them what to do or open his cage door and feed them himself.
We've officially crossed over; at least, Karen has. For Christmas, her mom used to give her gift cards to Lowe's. This year it was Tractor Supply, and the annual calendar has a picture of a different barn for each month. Karen's no longer a carpenter/handyperson. She's a farmer.
Then we blow it by abandoning our kids. What do you expect when a couple of city slickers move to the country?
"'They' used to say that about me," says Virginia. "Still do. Every time I drive past in my pickup, they figure I'm on my way back to Manhattan. Like you, my friends back me up when I leave for a few days."
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Not My Fault
Of course our snow is melting. It won't stay on the ground as long as it did during my childhood when days seemed like months and months like years. We dug tunnels in snowbanks and burrowed our way toward China, where men pedaled rickshaws under pointed hats. We knew these things because Dad had grown up there, he and his pet dragon who responded to an ultrasonic whistle. Off they'd fly to churn mango ice cream in the tropics.
During our search for 3-speed bicycles, we discovered Charlie's Bike Shop. Charlie noticed an orange tinge to Dad's skin, which sent them into a long discussion about China, during which I bought a dark-green Raleigh. My brother, Tom, splurged, then or later, on a 10-speed Carleton, the envy of us all in those days before eight sprockets and endless changes.
My Raleigh with its high-tech hand-twist gear changer was not a paper-route bike. For that, I used a Schwinn with balloon tires and a giant basket in front. Papers lay open so I couldn't resist reading while driving until the time I smacked into the front of a Chevrolet. Body quivering, I happily realized the car wasn't moving. It had been parked on the wrong side of the street. The car wasn't hurt, nor was I, but my front fender made an awful noise until I straightened it.
My favorite customer was Mrs. Hahn, a grandmother to Fred, one of my future brothers-in-law. On a good day I could complete my deliveries in 45 minutes or less. I often stayed longer than that with Mrs. Hahn and her collection of vintage postcards. Where are they now, Fred?
My least favorite customer was the family I rarely found home. Sometimes I had a feeling they hid when I came to collect. Can you imagine refusing to pay 67 cents to an 11-year old paperboy? A month later, they would complain when I finally caught them and said they owed two dollars and 68 cents.
That was a lot of money to a junior high kid and still is to some people around the world. To me it seemed like pure profit since I'd already paid for their papers, kind of like a borrower who begins making payments on a charged-off loan, something I learned about later. Delinquency, default or bankruptcy carried a stigma that seems to have faded over the years. Now we can always find someone else to blame.
"That McDonald's coffee spill," says Virginia, "let's us off the hook. When you can get into court for spilling hot coffee on yourself, responsibility has become a relic of the past."
During our search for 3-speed bicycles, we discovered Charlie's Bike Shop. Charlie noticed an orange tinge to Dad's skin, which sent them into a long discussion about China, during which I bought a dark-green Raleigh. My brother, Tom, splurged, then or later, on a 10-speed Carleton, the envy of us all in those days before eight sprockets and endless changes.
My Raleigh with its high-tech hand-twist gear changer was not a paper-route bike. For that, I used a Schwinn with balloon tires and a giant basket in front. Papers lay open so I couldn't resist reading while driving until the time I smacked into the front of a Chevrolet. Body quivering, I happily realized the car wasn't moving. It had been parked on the wrong side of the street. The car wasn't hurt, nor was I, but my front fender made an awful noise until I straightened it.
My favorite customer was Mrs. Hahn, a grandmother to Fred, one of my future brothers-in-law. On a good day I could complete my deliveries in 45 minutes or less. I often stayed longer than that with Mrs. Hahn and her collection of vintage postcards. Where are they now, Fred?
My least favorite customer was the family I rarely found home. Sometimes I had a feeling they hid when I came to collect. Can you imagine refusing to pay 67 cents to an 11-year old paperboy? A month later, they would complain when I finally caught them and said they owed two dollars and 68 cents.
That was a lot of money to a junior high kid and still is to some people around the world. To me it seemed like pure profit since I'd already paid for their papers, kind of like a borrower who begins making payments on a charged-off loan, something I learned about later. Delinquency, default or bankruptcy carried a stigma that seems to have faded over the years. Now we can always find someone else to blame.
"That McDonald's coffee spill," says Virginia, "let's us off the hook. When you can get into court for spilling hot coffee on yourself, responsibility has become a relic of the past."
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Ordinary People
Wisdom
Moldy sunflower heads
host tasty seeds,
like the tumbledown shack
at road’s end, hidden by trees
and a lawn almost never mown.
No ivy-covered lecture hall
dare impart the wisdom she laughs
when I say her words are golden.
The tall grass hides
small sweet honeydews.
(james pannabecker, 2005)
Last week's issue of Time includes quotations from some of the famous people who died during the past year. We love to lean on the words of famous people, don't we?
Merce Cunningham: "You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive. It is not for unsteady souls."
Many words instead of "dancing" would work in this quotation. For example, try "playing piano" or "singing" or "running."
I question the suggestion that "[i]t gives you nothing back...but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." The list -- no manuscripts, no paintings, no poems -- appears to focus on material things until it reaches "that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." It's comparing apples and oranges, ignoring the fact that dance performances can be recorded and sold and earn Emmys and other recognition, even money.
What concerns me is the focus on a result -- a manuscript, a painting, a poem, or a "fleeting moment." This focus belittles the process that rendered the result. Most of us do not produce a "fleeting moment" (or a manuscript, painting or poem) that the world would recognize as masterful. Certainly someone who loves to dance regularly experiences the feeling of being alive, not simply as "fleeting moments" but as a daily process of being involved with dance -- studying, learning, discussing, watching, remembering. We ordinary people find value and meaning in our processes.
Virginia nods, "The famous are downright spoiled."
Moldy sunflower heads
host tasty seeds,
like the tumbledown shack
at road’s end, hidden by trees
and a lawn almost never mown.
No ivy-covered lecture hall
dare impart the wisdom she laughs
when I say her words are golden.
The tall grass hides
small sweet honeydews.
(james pannabecker, 2005)
Last week's issue of Time includes quotations from some of the famous people who died during the past year. We love to lean on the words of famous people, don't we?
Merce Cunningham: "You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive. It is not for unsteady souls."
Many words instead of "dancing" would work in this quotation. For example, try "playing piano" or "singing" or "running."
I question the suggestion that "[i]t gives you nothing back...but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." The list -- no manuscripts, no paintings, no poems -- appears to focus on material things until it reaches "that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." It's comparing apples and oranges, ignoring the fact that dance performances can be recorded and sold and earn Emmys and other recognition, even money.
What concerns me is the focus on a result -- a manuscript, a painting, a poem, or a "fleeting moment." This focus belittles the process that rendered the result. Most of us do not produce a "fleeting moment" (or a manuscript, painting or poem) that the world would recognize as masterful. Certainly someone who loves to dance regularly experiences the feeling of being alive, not simply as "fleeting moments" but as a daily process of being involved with dance -- studying, learning, discussing, watching, remembering. We ordinary people find value and meaning in our processes.
Virginia nods, "The famous are downright spoiled."
Friday, December 25, 2009
Images of Christmas
A blue-green glow, cast from outside by what we now might call vintage C-9 bulbs, circled my bedroom window in the red-brick house on Kibler Street and comforted the three-year old version of me inside.
A year or two later, in the farmhouse on Zurflugh Road, I sneaked downstairs in the middle of the night. Too big to wrap, not yet named Dobbin, a green-plaid hand-stuffed horse had my name pinned to his neck. In the morning I felt like a liar when I pretended to be surprised. Dobbin remained my bed-time buddy for years until Mother finally asked me if I were too old to re-stuff him a third or fourth time.
After moving to 430 West Elm, our family agreed to become a living manger scene. I thought my sister was going to change sex for Jesus. Instead, a plastic doll rested in the manger and she was a child like the rest of us. Back when photographers said, "Stay still; don't move," we posed as still as possible for what seemed like hours. I remember at this time Mother didn't like animalizing humans, "Don't call them kids; they're not baby goats" and "They're 'aunts,' not 'ants.'"
The house on Elm Street brought us a set of plastic dishes, gray for Dad, pink for Phil, blue for John, orange for me, and yellow for Tom. Mary and Mother might have to remind me what their colors were. These dishes were important for Christmas only because each of us left his or her bowl and maybe milk and cookies under the tree for Santa Claus. In return, he left us nuts, oranges and maybe Pfeffernusse. In our house, Pfeffernusse cookies were hard cookies an inch or less in diameter, so small it was almost impossible to stop crunching them.
Our Chinese heritage, adopted by missionary grandparents who raised their children in China, brought us another tradition -- making chiao tzu (or jao tse and various other spellings) around Christmastime or New Year's. These are traditional Chinese dumplings some of you might call "pot stickers" except they're boiled, not fried one bit. Everyone gathered to help construct them from flour/salt/water dough rolled into very thin, almost see-through 4-inch circles and a filling prepared with ground pork, bok choy or spinach, ginger, soy sauce and maybe a few other ingredients. We dipped a fingertip into a water bowl to wet the perimeter of each circle, placed a tablespoon of filling in the center, then folded the circle in half and sealed the edge. Mother or Aunt Alice Ruth dropped them into boiling water, let the water return to a boil, repeated this (I think), then the chiao tzu were ready to be served in bowls with a half-and-half mixture of vinegar and soy sauce and subjected to our eating contest. Who could eat the most? I recall that sixty-some was the record.
In our home we opened presents Christmas morning. Sometimes we had to suffer through breakfast first. Always, we had to endure the familiar and interminable Christmas story, worsened the year some of us stumbled upon the brilliant idea of acting it out, having forgotten how long minutes last when a pile of presents waits unopened. Later, when I joined another family, opening gifts on Christmas Eve seemed like a cop-out. Maybe that's why I didn't hang around.
"That's all water under the bridge," says Virginia, "but I agree, a bit of fun to remember. Look out the window. More water is falling on our white Christmas."
A year or two later, in the farmhouse on Zurflugh Road, I sneaked downstairs in the middle of the night. Too big to wrap, not yet named Dobbin, a green-plaid hand-stuffed horse had my name pinned to his neck. In the morning I felt like a liar when I pretended to be surprised. Dobbin remained my bed-time buddy for years until Mother finally asked me if I were too old to re-stuff him a third or fourth time.
After moving to 430 West Elm, our family agreed to become a living manger scene. I thought my sister was going to change sex for Jesus. Instead, a plastic doll rested in the manger and she was a child like the rest of us. Back when photographers said, "Stay still; don't move," we posed as still as possible for what seemed like hours. I remember at this time Mother didn't like animalizing humans, "Don't call them kids; they're not baby goats" and "They're 'aunts,' not 'ants.'"
The house on Elm Street brought us a set of plastic dishes, gray for Dad, pink for Phil, blue for John, orange for me, and yellow for Tom. Mary and Mother might have to remind me what their colors were. These dishes were important for Christmas only because each of us left his or her bowl and maybe milk and cookies under the tree for Santa Claus. In return, he left us nuts, oranges and maybe Pfeffernusse. In our house, Pfeffernusse cookies were hard cookies an inch or less in diameter, so small it was almost impossible to stop crunching them.
Our Chinese heritage, adopted by missionary grandparents who raised their children in China, brought us another tradition -- making chiao tzu (or jao tse and various other spellings) around Christmastime or New Year's. These are traditional Chinese dumplings some of you might call "pot stickers" except they're boiled, not fried one bit. Everyone gathered to help construct them from flour/salt/water dough rolled into very thin, almost see-through 4-inch circles and a filling prepared with ground pork, bok choy or spinach, ginger, soy sauce and maybe a few other ingredients. We dipped a fingertip into a water bowl to wet the perimeter of each circle, placed a tablespoon of filling in the center, then folded the circle in half and sealed the edge. Mother or Aunt Alice Ruth dropped them into boiling water, let the water return to a boil, repeated this (I think), then the chiao tzu were ready to be served in bowls with a half-and-half mixture of vinegar and soy sauce and subjected to our eating contest. Who could eat the most? I recall that sixty-some was the record.
In our home we opened presents Christmas morning. Sometimes we had to suffer through breakfast first. Always, we had to endure the familiar and interminable Christmas story, worsened the year some of us stumbled upon the brilliant idea of acting it out, having forgotten how long minutes last when a pile of presents waits unopened. Later, when I joined another family, opening gifts on Christmas Eve seemed like a cop-out. Maybe that's why I didn't hang around.
"That's all water under the bridge," says Virginia, "but I agree, a bit of fun to remember. Look out the window. More water is falling on our white Christmas."
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Blog Theory
In light of New Year's Day approaching, I've been saying to Karen, "I wonder what 2010 will bring" so often she thinks my Chatty Cathy string has broken.
A friend said, "Now you have a blog, you must find something to say." I didn't ask, but I was curious. Perhaps he was suggesting I don't often have something to say, or that I may often have something to say but it's really nothing, or maybe that having a blog means I must find something to say more often even if it's nothing. Eckhart Tolle might say I'm wasting my time trying to guess what my friend meant, but he's wrong because what I'm thinking about is not what my friend meant. Rather, it's why people, and particularly me, write a blog.
For some reason, that question brings me to the perennial one: What is an artist? I like to think one of the differences between a real artist and an aspiring artist is the real artist doesn't care what others think of his work. He is so confident in his ability (or his lack of it, which technically is irrelevant) that he will do his art forever regardless of what others think of it. He is not arrogant; the fact that other people want his work does not influence his regard for his work, either that it must be good because they like it or bad because they like it.
Would an artist, that is a writer who thinks of himself as an artist, blog? Yes, no. I read somewhere once that blogging, by its nature, is stream-of consciousness. I think the author was wrong. Let's consider the idea a moment. Some artists work and re-work a piece. A writer might pile on a hundred drafts, a painting might be layered with oils. A blogger has that opportunity. He clicks on "New Post" and begins typing. Every minute or so, the software saves the work as a "draft." Whenever the blogger wishes, he can "Publish Post" or "Save Now" without publishing. This process clearly allows deliberate work. The poet who insists on sitting on a new poem for six months before exposing it could happily blog. He could gradually release his work in his accustomed manner, as if he were aging cheese or wine.
My choice is a happy (for me) medium. So far, I've tried to publish something each day, whether or not I'm completely satisfied with the product. I'm not a politician or aspiring to become one, so it doesn't matter if something I choose to publish one day "comes back to haunt me," not that I don't engage in censorship from time to time. I think the supply of violence and cussing is sufficient I needn't add to it.
"Yeah, I noticed you wrote 'manure' the other day," says Virginia, "you sanctimonious twit."
A friend said, "Now you have a blog, you must find something to say." I didn't ask, but I was curious. Perhaps he was suggesting I don't often have something to say, or that I may often have something to say but it's really nothing, or maybe that having a blog means I must find something to say more often even if it's nothing. Eckhart Tolle might say I'm wasting my time trying to guess what my friend meant, but he's wrong because what I'm thinking about is not what my friend meant. Rather, it's why people, and particularly me, write a blog.
For some reason, that question brings me to the perennial one: What is an artist? I like to think one of the differences between a real artist and an aspiring artist is the real artist doesn't care what others think of his work. He is so confident in his ability (or his lack of it, which technically is irrelevant) that he will do his art forever regardless of what others think of it. He is not arrogant; the fact that other people want his work does not influence his regard for his work, either that it must be good because they like it or bad because they like it.
Would an artist, that is a writer who thinks of himself as an artist, blog? Yes, no. I read somewhere once that blogging, by its nature, is stream-of consciousness. I think the author was wrong. Let's consider the idea a moment. Some artists work and re-work a piece. A writer might pile on a hundred drafts, a painting might be layered with oils. A blogger has that opportunity. He clicks on "New Post" and begins typing. Every minute or so, the software saves the work as a "draft." Whenever the blogger wishes, he can "Publish Post" or "Save Now" without publishing. This process clearly allows deliberate work. The poet who insists on sitting on a new poem for six months before exposing it could happily blog. He could gradually release his work in his accustomed manner, as if he were aging cheese or wine.
My choice is a happy (for me) medium. So far, I've tried to publish something each day, whether or not I'm completely satisfied with the product. I'm not a politician or aspiring to become one, so it doesn't matter if something I choose to publish one day "comes back to haunt me," not that I don't engage in censorship from time to time. I think the supply of violence and cussing is sufficient I needn't add to it.
"Yeah, I noticed you wrote 'manure' the other day," says Virginia, "you sanctimonious twit."
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas Out-of-Season
I was three and confused when I saw Dad carrying Mother down our driveway, across the street, through the alley to the hospital. At first I was worried, but smiles on other faces belied sickness and danger. She couldn't walk? Something fishy was going on. A few days later we met a baby girl at the hospital and brought her home. Christmas in August.
Twenty-five years later and five hundred miles away, I saw folks celebrating Christmas In August on the National Mall. Apparently they still do, in Washington, in New York City with the Rockettes, and elsewhere. I'm a scrooge in August (no offense intended, Sister Mary) and I still don't care much in August for the music I find comforting or nostalgic in December.
Warm weather isn't the issue. I found Christmas spirit in New Zealand the two Christmases we visited, despite the lack of ludicrous lights. I think the near concurrence of Christmas and New Year's Day with their emphasis on newness makes August seem old and inappropriate. Maybe all the explosions in December and again on July 4 call for quiet in August.
"Wait a minute," says Virginia, "are you saying August could be a great time to remind us to hope for and believe in the possibility of peace, and a Prince of Peace?"
All right, not only August, but please, no "Granny Got Run Over by a Reindeer."
Twenty-five years later and five hundred miles away, I saw folks celebrating Christmas In August on the National Mall. Apparently they still do, in Washington, in New York City with the Rockettes, and elsewhere. I'm a scrooge in August (no offense intended, Sister Mary) and I still don't care much in August for the music I find comforting or nostalgic in December.
Warm weather isn't the issue. I found Christmas spirit in New Zealand the two Christmases we visited, despite the lack of ludicrous lights. I think the near concurrence of Christmas and New Year's Day with their emphasis on newness makes August seem old and inappropriate. Maybe all the explosions in December and again on July 4 call for quiet in August.
"Wait a minute," says Virginia, "are you saying August could be a great time to remind us to hope for and believe in the possibility of peace, and a Prince of Peace?"
All right, not only August, but please, no "Granny Got Run Over by a Reindeer."
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Homemade
I'm admiring our driveway, hard blacktop against a soft snow-white backdrop. I'd guess about 30 person-hours of hard work went into this masterpiece. Two cars remain under cover, but if we wanted we could drive them away, to Mexico for example, and well before we arrived at our destination the rest would melt. Adam, Manley, Karen and I deserve to be proud of our efforts.
I think, like all things homemade, it's prettier than the neighbor's lane cleared by gasoline or diesel. I realize I'm biased and you, dear reader, may think I'm full of manure. I'm reminded of a sermon I heard long ago. Two couples had invited the pastor to dinner. At the home of the first couple, everybody climbed into a car and drove to a fine restaurant. The second couple welcomed the guests into their home and gradually served a meal they had prepared. I'll let you guess which meal the preacher considered extra-special. Of course, he waited until his next assignment, or maybe later, to tell the story.
A pickup parked not far away bears a slogan I'd like to steal: "It's not what you buy, it's what you build." Karen often says she likes the home we're living in now much better than the big, more modern house we enjoyed in North Carolina because it reflects us, our tastes, our work, and our eccentricities, unlike the other house, which was always "the Thomasons'" not just to us but to everyone who met us and tried to picture where we lived. Anyone who knew the inside of our current home before we did would not say it looks the same.
Even the garden beds tickle me now, hidden underneath two feet of melting snow. I can't see them, but I know they're thriving, worms working, playing with manure and mulch, getting ready for spring. Try to order a garden online. You might be able to find a gardener to work for you, but I promise you, the result won't feel like "your" garden. It'll feel like that new dress or suit you bought at Bloomie's.
Virginia says she remembers stories her father told about eating foods her grandmother had "put by." Together they would leaf through black-and-white photographs of Grandma's canning kitchen with row after row of glassed-in veggies and meats. When they went grocery shopping in New York, Virginia would search for see-through containers and beg for pickles, applesauce, dried beef, even pig's feet. Now, when children come to visit, she leads them by hand to her well-stocked pantry and lets them choose something.
A visiting friend recently oohed and aahed about our basement kitchen and its antique glass-windowed cabinets. "So," she said, "when you're hungry you come down here and pick out something to eat. What fun!"
You can't buy that.
I think, like all things homemade, it's prettier than the neighbor's lane cleared by gasoline or diesel. I realize I'm biased and you, dear reader, may think I'm full of manure. I'm reminded of a sermon I heard long ago. Two couples had invited the pastor to dinner. At the home of the first couple, everybody climbed into a car and drove to a fine restaurant. The second couple welcomed the guests into their home and gradually served a meal they had prepared. I'll let you guess which meal the preacher considered extra-special. Of course, he waited until his next assignment, or maybe later, to tell the story.
A pickup parked not far away bears a slogan I'd like to steal: "It's not what you buy, it's what you build." Karen often says she likes the home we're living in now much better than the big, more modern house we enjoyed in North Carolina because it reflects us, our tastes, our work, and our eccentricities, unlike the other house, which was always "the Thomasons'" not just to us but to everyone who met us and tried to picture where we lived. Anyone who knew the inside of our current home before we did would not say it looks the same.
Even the garden beds tickle me now, hidden underneath two feet of melting snow. I can't see them, but I know they're thriving, worms working, playing with manure and mulch, getting ready for spring. Try to order a garden online. You might be able to find a gardener to work for you, but I promise you, the result won't feel like "your" garden. It'll feel like that new dress or suit you bought at Bloomie's.
Virginia says she remembers stories her father told about eating foods her grandmother had "put by." Together they would leaf through black-and-white photographs of Grandma's canning kitchen with row after row of glassed-in veggies and meats. When they went grocery shopping in New York, Virginia would search for see-through containers and beg for pickles, applesauce, dried beef, even pig's feet. Now, when children come to visit, she leads them by hand to her well-stocked pantry and lets them choose something.
A visiting friend recently oohed and aahed about our basement kitchen and its antique glass-windowed cabinets. "So," she said, "when you're hungry you come down here and pick out something to eat. What fun!"
You can't buy that.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tubular
"That's totally tubular, dudette." Hey, if you're reading this blog, you're tubular for sure. Seriously, have you ever considered how tubular we are?
We put our food down a tube. Our food leaves through a tube. It goes to the septic tank or public sewer through tubes. We hear through tubes, breathe through tubes, send blood through tubes, smell through tubes. Sex is tubular.
I suppose we could have stopped with bodily functions, but no, we chose to center the rest of our lives on tubes. We spin tubes on our way to drive-in banks, where we make deposits through tubes, which reminds me that when our family shopped at Gregg's Department Store in Lima our mother's charge-slip went to accounting through a pneumatic tube, while I stood there wondering if we'd have to put everything back where we found it.
On July 4, we light tubes and watch them explode. We carry tubes to find our way in the dark or to ignite disgusting smokes. The organ music I enjoyed as a child was created by tubes, as are the sounds of many other instruments -- woodwinds, horns and the Chinese sheng (mouth organ). We use tubes to hold lights, music stands, microphones, speakers, fences, and porch roofs.
We stick blueprints and fine art in tubes. People commute to work in tubes. Girls wear tube tops. We peek, spy and observe through tubes. Radios and televisions used to require tubes, and now those have become artwork (Marc Rust, http://www.sparklemachine.com/tubes/gallery.htm).
As a gardener, I depend on tubes. They're animals wriggling, working hard underground, while plant tubes carry nutrients to flowers and vegetables. When it's too dry, I use tubes to save my plants. Some people are frightened to death of tubes, whether tiny ringnecks or fat rattlers. Karen made her wine rack with tubes.
I understand surfers seek the perfect tube. We measure our dependence on Middle Eastern oil in tubes. To see a movie, a show, a video, almost anything -- and to think we're important -- we get on YouTube.
"Just breathe," says Virginia. "Think tubular. Please pass the celery."
We put our food down a tube. Our food leaves through a tube. It goes to the septic tank or public sewer through tubes. We hear through tubes, breathe through tubes, send blood through tubes, smell through tubes. Sex is tubular.
I suppose we could have stopped with bodily functions, but no, we chose to center the rest of our lives on tubes. We spin tubes on our way to drive-in banks, where we make deposits through tubes, which reminds me that when our family shopped at Gregg's Department Store in Lima our mother's charge-slip went to accounting through a pneumatic tube, while I stood there wondering if we'd have to put everything back where we found it.
On July 4, we light tubes and watch them explode. We carry tubes to find our way in the dark or to ignite disgusting smokes. The organ music I enjoyed as a child was created by tubes, as are the sounds of many other instruments -- woodwinds, horns and the Chinese sheng (mouth organ). We use tubes to hold lights, music stands, microphones, speakers, fences, and porch roofs.
We stick blueprints and fine art in tubes. People commute to work in tubes. Girls wear tube tops. We peek, spy and observe through tubes. Radios and televisions used to require tubes, and now those have become artwork (Marc Rust, http://www.sparklemachine.com/tubes/gallery.htm).
As a gardener, I depend on tubes. They're animals wriggling, working hard underground, while plant tubes carry nutrients to flowers and vegetables. When it's too dry, I use tubes to save my plants. Some people are frightened to death of tubes, whether tiny ringnecks or fat rattlers. Karen made her wine rack with tubes.
I understand surfers seek the perfect tube. We measure our dependence on Middle Eastern oil in tubes. To see a movie, a show, a video, almost anything -- and to think we're important -- we get on YouTube.
"Just breathe," says Virginia. "Think tubular. Please pass the celery."
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The World of Nonfiction
We drove fifty miles, twenty-five there and back, along newly cleared roads to play piano while a huge crowd of six singers, later a total of eight after two late arrivals, participated in the first annual Messiah Sing-In. Years from now, someone said, stories will be told of this first attempt, two hundred fifty years after the first Messiah performance on Christmas Day. On another Christmas day, one also noted, the members of a church prayed while a woman went under the knife to have a huge abdominal cyst removed, without anesthesia. She lived 33 more years instead of dying as she and everyone, including her doctor, expected.
Wikipedia could, of course, be wrong. It says the first performance of Handel's Messiah took place on April 13, 1742 in Dublin, Ireland. (It's possible the date of Christmas Day has changed since then.) It also says the work is often incorrectly called The Messiah. I have two editions of the masterwork -- the Schirmer edition is entitled The Messiah and (the) Fischer version simply says Messiah. I'm sure this matters deeply to some people.
I remember speaking with a friend about books. After I mentioned a couple fiction novels, he said, "I don't know them. I read only nonfiction." I think I must have laughed. I said something like, "So when you read nonfiction, do you think every word is true?" He laughed, too. "I guess you're right. I do read fiction."
I sometimes wonder how much of what I write and say is true. In a way, I feel more comfortable with fiction because it contains truth without facts. Well, perhaps I should say "real facts." I realize many people fuss about the facts contained in books like the Harry Potter series, and some publishers have internal consistency fact-checkers. One of my editors is especially good at this. She can be a pest, but I know I need her, especially as my mind moves more and more into fiction.
It happens to most of us. As we age, we build one inaccuracy on another after another. I can wait (see my posting entitled "Speeding," November 30, 2009), but it should be great fun when I'm ninety and my life has become exponentially inaccurate. I hope I'm perfectly sane and well-minded when that time comes even though other people may think I'm living in a world of total fiction. I will ask them, now and then, whether they realize they are, too. Imagine an elderly novelist, fact-checking every day. "Is that for real, James?"
"You're nuts," says Virginia, "but who am I to say? After all, if you weren't, I wouldn't be here."
Wikipedia could, of course, be wrong. It says the first performance of Handel's Messiah took place on April 13, 1742 in Dublin, Ireland. (It's possible the date of Christmas Day has changed since then.) It also says the work is often incorrectly called The Messiah. I have two editions of the masterwork -- the Schirmer edition is entitled The Messiah and (the) Fischer version simply says Messiah. I'm sure this matters deeply to some people.
I remember speaking with a friend about books. After I mentioned a couple fiction novels, he said, "I don't know them. I read only nonfiction." I think I must have laughed. I said something like, "So when you read nonfiction, do you think every word is true?" He laughed, too. "I guess you're right. I do read fiction."
I sometimes wonder how much of what I write and say is true. In a way, I feel more comfortable with fiction because it contains truth without facts. Well, perhaps I should say "real facts." I realize many people fuss about the facts contained in books like the Harry Potter series, and some publishers have internal consistency fact-checkers. One of my editors is especially good at this. She can be a pest, but I know I need her, especially as my mind moves more and more into fiction.
It happens to most of us. As we age, we build one inaccuracy on another after another. I can wait (see my posting entitled "Speeding," November 30, 2009), but it should be great fun when I'm ninety and my life has become exponentially inaccurate. I hope I'm perfectly sane and well-minded when that time comes even though other people may think I'm living in a world of total fiction. I will ask them, now and then, whether they realize they are, too. Imagine an elderly novelist, fact-checking every day. "Is that for real, James?"
"You're nuts," says Virginia, "but who am I to say? After all, if you weren't, I wouldn't be here."
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Blue Snow
Our expectations have been met, and now it's safe to say exceeded. The actual white stuff has nearly doubled the prediction, so maybe we've come out the other end and have a right to be irritated that our expectations haven't been met after all -- as if we have any right to "better" weather.
What kind of farm is this, without a tractor? I was beginning to wonder this myself as we shoveled our lane for the third time in 24 hours. Last night I pushed the first six inches off the lane. By the time I completed my first pass, I was feeling a little bit like Sisyphus because the snow had kept falling, four more inches of it. I repeated myself. I should have set my alarm for 2 a.m. The third time around the stuff was so deep I had to lift it.
Today, whenever I raised my shovel to take the top half off the snow, just as the metal broke the surface, I glimpsed a glacial blue that reminded me of the gradually moving ice masses we'd seen in New Zealand and Alaska. Only once did I notice the mystic blue continue after I deposited it on the rising snow bank.
The snow is still falling, but it has slowed so I don't think we'll see the banks I remember once or twice as a child growing up in Ohio. A blizzard might do the trick, but high winds aren't likely. We dug what seemed to be mile-long tunnels in those banks and burrowed like ground hogs. By the time we tired, we had to wring our clothes out, leave them in the wash tub on the back porch, and scamper upstairs in our see-through tighty-whities to find dry threads.
As it turns out, Karen encouraged my son and his friend, both college sophomores home for Christmas break, to relieve me. They worked about 15 minutes, then came in for lunch. To my surprise, they went back out. I took a warm bath and a nap and woke up to a snowplow stuck near the end of our driveway. Apparently, the boys had invited a neighbor to help them finish their chore. "I guess shovels are better," our son told Karen on the phone as another truck arrived to pull out the plow.
"He's right," whispers Virginia, "shovels are the way to go. Think if everyone took time off to get the exercise. It might even help reduce our reliance on the Middle East or offshore drilling." Maybe, maybe not. Ambulances might have to fill up more often. Whatever, ours is a great farm without a tractor.
What kind of farm is this, without a tractor? I was beginning to wonder this myself as we shoveled our lane for the third time in 24 hours. Last night I pushed the first six inches off the lane. By the time I completed my first pass, I was feeling a little bit like Sisyphus because the snow had kept falling, four more inches of it. I repeated myself. I should have set my alarm for 2 a.m. The third time around the stuff was so deep I had to lift it.
Today, whenever I raised my shovel to take the top half off the snow, just as the metal broke the surface, I glimpsed a glacial blue that reminded me of the gradually moving ice masses we'd seen in New Zealand and Alaska. Only once did I notice the mystic blue continue after I deposited it on the rising snow bank.
The snow is still falling, but it has slowed so I don't think we'll see the banks I remember once or twice as a child growing up in Ohio. A blizzard might do the trick, but high winds aren't likely. We dug what seemed to be mile-long tunnels in those banks and burrowed like ground hogs. By the time we tired, we had to wring our clothes out, leave them in the wash tub on the back porch, and scamper upstairs in our see-through tighty-whities to find dry threads.
As it turns out, Karen encouraged my son and his friend, both college sophomores home for Christmas break, to relieve me. They worked about 15 minutes, then came in for lunch. To my surprise, they went back out. I took a warm bath and a nap and woke up to a snowplow stuck near the end of our driveway. Apparently, the boys had invited a neighbor to help them finish their chore. "I guess shovels are better," our son told Karen on the phone as another truck arrived to pull out the plow.
"He's right," whispers Virginia, "shovels are the way to go. Think if everyone took time off to get the exercise. It might even help reduce our reliance on the Middle East or offshore drilling." Maybe, maybe not. Ambulances might have to fill up more often. Whatever, ours is a great farm without a tractor.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Expectations
When will it start? Our biggest winter storm in years is nearly upon us, they say. Will our expectations be met? If not, who will be disappointed?
Amazon.com seems to have its goats in a row. When I order something, the email acknowledgment, sent instantly, tells me that the item is in stock and should arrive by X date. A day or two later, another email says the item has been shipped and I should expect it on X minus 1 or X minus 2 date. It arrives on X minus 1 minus 1 or X minus 2 minus 1 date.
I learned my most important business lessons soon after I began my new job in a bank's legal department. When I arrived on my first day, my boss was nowhere to be found. The other lawyer in the 3-lawyer office welcomed me and offered me some materials to read, to discover how things were done in the bank.
A few hours later, the boss entered my office and closed the door. "I've been fired," he began, "but I think your position is secure." As my mind raced, I felt anything but cozy by a warm hearth.
After the maintenance crew removed his personal effects, the remaining staff met in his ex-office. The desk looked like each of the tables in the office of my previous boss, piled high with stacks of paper, except clearly no one knew what the piles contained. "We need to take care of these," my new, new boss announced.
After arranging the papers in order of receipt, he handed me a bunch. "When you finish these, come back for more. First, call each sender and ask if the matter's been handled."
No more time for casually reading how things were done, I felt like the target of a firing squad. It was a great, fast way to get to know the business and its people. We gradually turned that destroyer into a kayak (at least a rowboat) and I like to think we earned a reputation for responsiveness.
My first lesson: by the end of each contact, be sure both parties know the next step. "I'll get back to you" was a killer. "I'll get back to you Monday" was all right. "I'll call you in three hours" was better, if the matter were urgent. Assuming I did.
The next lesson: allow yourself more time than you expect to need so you can beat your deadline. "I'm sorry, I said I'd get back to you now, but I need more time. Can you wait 'til tomorrow?" doesn't cut it. "Hi Jerry, I've got something for you. Do you have a minute?" a day early wins the prize.
"Of all the tradespeople I hired to work on my place, electrician Fred was the best," says Virginia, "not because of his work or his price, but because he always told me when he'd be here and he was. I remember only one time he was late, and that time he called me beforehand to let me know."
(By the way, a paragraph ago the winter storm began fulfilling our expectations.)
Amazon.com seems to have its goats in a row. When I order something, the email acknowledgment, sent instantly, tells me that the item is in stock and should arrive by X date. A day or two later, another email says the item has been shipped and I should expect it on X minus 1 or X minus 2 date. It arrives on X minus 1 minus 1 or X minus 2 minus 1 date.
I learned my most important business lessons soon after I began my new job in a bank's legal department. When I arrived on my first day, my boss was nowhere to be found. The other lawyer in the 3-lawyer office welcomed me and offered me some materials to read, to discover how things were done in the bank.
A few hours later, the boss entered my office and closed the door. "I've been fired," he began, "but I think your position is secure." As my mind raced, I felt anything but cozy by a warm hearth.
After the maintenance crew removed his personal effects, the remaining staff met in his ex-office. The desk looked like each of the tables in the office of my previous boss, piled high with stacks of paper, except clearly no one knew what the piles contained. "We need to take care of these," my new, new boss announced.
After arranging the papers in order of receipt, he handed me a bunch. "When you finish these, come back for more. First, call each sender and ask if the matter's been handled."
No more time for casually reading how things were done, I felt like the target of a firing squad. It was a great, fast way to get to know the business and its people. We gradually turned that destroyer into a kayak (at least a rowboat) and I like to think we earned a reputation for responsiveness.
My first lesson: by the end of each contact, be sure both parties know the next step. "I'll get back to you" was a killer. "I'll get back to you Monday" was all right. "I'll call you in three hours" was better, if the matter were urgent. Assuming I did.
The next lesson: allow yourself more time than you expect to need so you can beat your deadline. "I'm sorry, I said I'd get back to you now, but I need more time. Can you wait 'til tomorrow?" doesn't cut it. "Hi Jerry, I've got something for you. Do you have a minute?" a day early wins the prize.
"Of all the tradespeople I hired to work on my place, electrician Fred was the best," says Virginia, "not because of his work or his price, but because he always told me when he'd be here and he was. I remember only one time he was late, and that time he called me beforehand to let me know."
(By the way, a paragraph ago the winter storm began fulfilling our expectations.)
Thursday, December 17, 2009
More on Specialization
“Don’t talk unless you have to,” singers are sometimes advised before a concert, “talking may wear out the voice.” “Don’t swim,” runners were cautioned back in the sixties, as if swimming might threaten success at the next track meet. Today’s athletes are encouraged to cross-train.
“She will outlast the leaders,” we were told when a 10K specialist ran her first marathon. “There she goes,” an announcer said near the end of the race when she began to put some distance between herself and the others, “it’s her upper body strength. See how she uses her arms.”
“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” “I wish you’d concentrate on your game.” Mentors – coaches, parents, and teachers – have pestered us with these possibly contradictory quotes. In high school, aspiring college students rush everywhere to improve their “resumes” for college applications – sports, scouts, clubs, musical groups, part-time jobs, religious involvement, hobbies, and crafts.
Then, many of us forget “variety is the spice of life” as we settle into full-time employment. In olden times, folks prided themselves on staying with the same company for forty-five years. Now we tend to move around, climbing the ladder, or not, exaggerating our busy-ness, convinced “the man” would miss us if we left. “They’re lazy,” some refer to the folks who only work thirty-two hours per week and choose to go home to golf or fish.
Boom. We’re gone, laid off or signed up for greener grass. The employer moves on.
Do we? “X years and what do I have to show for it? No pension. A shrunken 401(k). No health insurance. My shares are virtually worthless.”
“Nurture each of your many baskets, like a schizophrenic broody hen,” Virginia suggests, a song on her lips as she hammers away and her dough rises. “My dad used to quote his father, ‘don’t forget the nest egg. Save ten percent.’” That’s easy for someone with money to say.
“She will outlast the leaders,” we were told when a 10K specialist ran her first marathon. “There she goes,” an announcer said near the end of the race when she began to put some distance between herself and the others, “it’s her upper body strength. See how she uses her arms.”
“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” “I wish you’d concentrate on your game.” Mentors – coaches, parents, and teachers – have pestered us with these possibly contradictory quotes. In high school, aspiring college students rush everywhere to improve their “resumes” for college applications – sports, scouts, clubs, musical groups, part-time jobs, religious involvement, hobbies, and crafts.
Then, many of us forget “variety is the spice of life” as we settle into full-time employment. In olden times, folks prided themselves on staying with the same company for forty-five years. Now we tend to move around, climbing the ladder, or not, exaggerating our busy-ness, convinced “the man” would miss us if we left. “They’re lazy,” some refer to the folks who only work thirty-two hours per week and choose to go home to golf or fish.
Boom. We’re gone, laid off or signed up for greener grass. The employer moves on.
Do we? “X years and what do I have to show for it? No pension. A shrunken 401(k). No health insurance. My shares are virtually worthless.”
“Nurture each of your many baskets, like a schizophrenic broody hen,” Virginia suggests, a song on her lips as she hammers away and her dough rises. “My dad used to quote his father, ‘don’t forget the nest egg. Save ten percent.’” That’s easy for someone with money to say.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Cuts of Beef
Where is today’s Beethoven? Does he struggle in a condo somewhere, writing furiously, ripping masterpieces to shreds, ignoring Beltone advertisements? Has he discovered conveniences such as triple-headed razors, his pate shaved to simplify life? Are his lips locked in a perpetual frown or does he smile to use fewer muscles?
Plop the real Beethoven into our world. Could he taste trans fats, reverse sugars and the dyes added to products he and our grandparents wouldn’t recognize? Would he notice that the meats we eat could barely walk and never saw real sunshine, that most of us haven’t dissected frogs in science class, much less wrung a chicken’s neck? Like us, would he wash his hands after meeting new people while letting entrees prepared by strangers pass freely through his lips?
We’re so specialized we might die if others stopped working. We dwell on the pronouncements of pretty people who entertain us, politicians who pretend to know what’s best for us (even though we say they don’t), and spoiled brats born with more money in their pockets than we can picture. We have allowed “them” to persuade us to spend our hard-earned cash on things Beethoven didn’t know or need.
“He’d probably enjoy every moment listening to sounds he never knew,” says Virginia, “like crunches of potato chips, the snap, crackle, pop of Rice Krispies, and Muzak on elevators. I bet he’d laugh at the ‘experts’ who try to re-create his music the way it was played when he was alive, as if he could have heard those concerts. I think he’d be more interested in the musician who makes each classic his own.”
Plop the real Beethoven into our world. Could he taste trans fats, reverse sugars and the dyes added to products he and our grandparents wouldn’t recognize? Would he notice that the meats we eat could barely walk and never saw real sunshine, that most of us haven’t dissected frogs in science class, much less wrung a chicken’s neck? Like us, would he wash his hands after meeting new people while letting entrees prepared by strangers pass freely through his lips?
We’re so specialized we might die if others stopped working. We dwell on the pronouncements of pretty people who entertain us, politicians who pretend to know what’s best for us (even though we say they don’t), and spoiled brats born with more money in their pockets than we can picture. We have allowed “them” to persuade us to spend our hard-earned cash on things Beethoven didn’t know or need.
“He’d probably enjoy every moment listening to sounds he never knew,” says Virginia, “like crunches of potato chips, the snap, crackle, pop of Rice Krispies, and Muzak on elevators. I bet he’d laugh at the ‘experts’ who try to re-create his music the way it was played when he was alive, as if he could have heard those concerts. I think he’d be more interested in the musician who makes each classic his own.”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Negotiations
Negotiations
Welcome to my wigwam.
If you don't mind
we'll sit cross-legged
by our fire and listen
to the sounds we make
above background noises
please don't go,
let's stay long enough
to hear music playing.
"You're a bunch of overgrown hippies," says Virginia's neighbor, the one who wanders the woods and keeps getting arrested for hunting without a permit. "Hippies, maybe," says Virginia, "but not overgrown. We're only now beginning to put down roots."
Welcome to my wigwam.
If you don't mind
we'll sit cross-legged
by our fire and listen
to the sounds we make
above background noises
please don't go,
let's stay long enough
to hear music playing.
"You're a bunch of overgrown hippies," says Virginia's neighbor, the one who wanders the woods and keeps getting arrested for hunting without a permit. "Hippies, maybe," says Virginia, "but not overgrown. We're only now beginning to put down roots."
Monday, December 14, 2009
Messiah Sing-a-Long
Split fingernails reward me for knocking pianos out of tune. I need to call David, the trusty string bender with two brand-new hips and more surgeries on the way. The cyborg is a reality today.
My current barrier to more creative writing has been preparing for a Messiah Sing-a-Long at 3 p.m. Sunday, December 20, Oxford Presbyterian Church. When the church-meister asked me to play, my head bobbed no and my lips offered yes. I generally don’t care for piano transcriptions of orchestra scores because they present a mountain of effort for what ultimately becomes a disappointing substitute for several dozen instruments. Would you rather hear a piano accompaniment or lots of strings (violins, violas, cellos, double-basses) and cool sounds like oboes, flutes, trumpets and timpani? The more likely question is, would you rather hear something or nothing? Call a pianist.
If you sing in a chorus that practices with a keyboard player, try to imagine what it’s like to work hard, week after week, and then disappear for the performance – or have to prepare an entirely different continuo part for an organ or harpsichord.
“Kind of like an understudy,” says Virginia, "lots of work and no one notices."
My current barrier to more creative writing has been preparing for a Messiah Sing-a-Long at 3 p.m. Sunday, December 20, Oxford Presbyterian Church. When the church-meister asked me to play, my head bobbed no and my lips offered yes. I generally don’t care for piano transcriptions of orchestra scores because they present a mountain of effort for what ultimately becomes a disappointing substitute for several dozen instruments. Would you rather hear a piano accompaniment or lots of strings (violins, violas, cellos, double-basses) and cool sounds like oboes, flutes, trumpets and timpani? The more likely question is, would you rather hear something or nothing? Call a pianist.
If you sing in a chorus that practices with a keyboard player, try to imagine what it’s like to work hard, week after week, and then disappear for the performance – or have to prepare an entirely different continuo part for an organ or harpsichord.
“Kind of like an understudy,” says Virginia, "lots of work and no one notices."
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Perfect Instrument
Icicles are forming on our deck railing. If we were having a party, a drunk might slide off the deck into Opossum Run. After we finished the addition to the cabin, we didn't call for a final inspection. The inspector could have thrown his tennis ball from a hundred feet and, I guarantee, it would have passed through our substandard railing. Exhibit 1.
Our choral society might have filled a bigger church for its Christmas concert last night. Still, some of the audience thought many of the songs "sounded the same."
My composition professor insisted that the human voice is the only perfect instrument. I wouldn't disagree with him any more than I would tell a mother her baby is ugly. Some "purists" believe adding another instrument, even an organ or a piano, is like tossing Iceberg with a gourmet salad.
I like salads, but not for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Throw in some bread, soup, veal and, of course, chocolate. We did last night, starting with a carol sing-a-long, interspersing every set of three numbers with another community effort, adding an organ and piano here and there, floating a few solos on top, and ending with a rambunctious three-on-the-piano version of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," complete with one musical bench-man falling on his face.
"That's what we nerds do for fun," says Virginia. Here's my vote for some trumpets, drums and a real harpsichord.
Our choral society might have filled a bigger church for its Christmas concert last night. Still, some of the audience thought many of the songs "sounded the same."
My composition professor insisted that the human voice is the only perfect instrument. I wouldn't disagree with him any more than I would tell a mother her baby is ugly. Some "purists" believe adding another instrument, even an organ or a piano, is like tossing Iceberg with a gourmet salad.
I like salads, but not for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Throw in some bread, soup, veal and, of course, chocolate. We did last night, starting with a carol sing-a-long, interspersing every set of three numbers with another community effort, adding an organ and piano here and there, floating a few solos on top, and ending with a rambunctious three-on-the-piano version of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," complete with one musical bench-man falling on his face.
"That's what we nerds do for fun," says Virginia. Here's my vote for some trumpets, drums and a real harpsichord.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Up on the Housetop
When I mention where I live, Arnold's Valley, some people, even first-time acquaintances, roll their eyes. A doctor said, "You know, don't you, that rescue squads won't go there?" "You must be the richest resident," someone suggested (if you've met Karen then you probably know I am). "Found any moonshine lately?" several have asked. "Seen any snakes?" People from the valley ask me that, too, when the topic of our cabin comes up.
Welcome to Arnold's Valley. (Note: If you click on the photo it will enlarge.) Within the first clump of trees sits our farmhouse. The goat barn appears just above our investment bank; the bigger this pile of horse manure gets, the richer I feel. Thunder Ridge is the blue-gray mountain, under which Arrowhead Lodge nestles.
The people in this valley who share surnames may be proud to announce "we're not kin," but deep down they love each other. They'd probably like you, as well as the fire-yellers I've mentioned and even folks from the Big Apple (especially Virginia). If your car breaks down around here, you won't go long unassisted. If you take a walk, someone will offer you a ride. Pass anywhere and you'll get a wave. Even the ambulance drivers wave back.
We say, all of us residents, go ahead and talk trash. Enough people already call this home.
The top roofer in the county lives a half-mile down the main road. He's as busy as you may be if you're good at what you do. On Sundays he likes to show his shiny red Pontiac Solstice the Blue Ridge Parkway, up on Thunder Ridge. Yesterday he enjoyed the sunshine with a glass of goat's milk and a little soldering.
Welcome to Arnold's Valley. (Note: If you click on the photo it will enlarge.) Within the first clump of trees sits our farmhouse. The goat barn appears just above our investment bank; the bigger this pile of horse manure gets, the richer I feel. Thunder Ridge is the blue-gray mountain, under which Arrowhead Lodge nestles.
The people in this valley who share surnames may be proud to announce "we're not kin," but deep down they love each other. They'd probably like you, as well as the fire-yellers I've mentioned and even folks from the Big Apple (especially Virginia). If your car breaks down around here, you won't go long unassisted. If you take a walk, someone will offer you a ride. Pass anywhere and you'll get a wave. Even the ambulance drivers wave back.
We say, all of us residents, go ahead and talk trash. Enough people already call this home.
The top roofer in the county lives a half-mile down the main road. He's as busy as you may be if you're good at what you do. On Sundays he likes to show his shiny red Pontiac Solstice the Blue Ridge Parkway, up on Thunder Ridge. Yesterday he enjoyed the sunshine with a glass of goat's milk and a little soldering.
Friday, December 11, 2009
My Dad and Einstein
The sun rose in the eastern sky this morning. I keep noticing this, every single day. I think it might be safe to say "the sun rises in the east."
"Dummy," says Virginia, "don't you remember Copernicus?"
Ah yes, Copernicus, my dear friend, the fellow who suggested the Earth travels around the sun. If he's right, then -- um -- I guess the sun doesn't really rise in the east, despite my persistent observations.
My father was a biologist, a scientist unlike me, although sometimes I wonder if I might become one. What would it take?
Was he a scientist in grade school, high school, college? I'm sure he was by the time the U. of Chicago awarded him his Ph.D. (I was there, took a long train ride from Ohio, I think, I could be wrong.) Yes, he must have become a scientist before then.
I took some science classes in college -- Chemistry & Physics I and Genetics. I majored in math, which is man-made so that doesn't count. I'd either have to go back to school or study hard on my own.
Why would I want to become a scientist? I'm curious. I think it would be fun to exchange e-mails with other scientists, describing what I've observed and what I'm guessing. It would be even more fun to get together now and then to share notes. Once or twice I might get lucky and go out on a limb to suggest something new, maybe true.
Yikes. Now I remember something my father told me. I think it was important, very important, something like "a scientist might be able to prove something wrong, but can't prove something is true." Dad was so smart, I knew what he said was true but I also knew I couldn't prove it. Later, I read that Albert Einstein said something similar: "No amount of experimentation can ever prove me right; a single experiment can prove me wrong."
And so I cringed when I read about the climate change "e-mail gate," although it's not all bad. The global warming debate has traveled in some strange directions, partly because we've forgotten what someone tried to teach us about the scientific method back in elementary school. Of course, some people will challenge the "consensus" on the global warming theory. In a sense, science demands it. For years, many people didn't like the idea that the Earth isn't the center of everything, but today's consensus is that the Earth orbits the sun.
I've been persuaded, scientist that I am not, that the weight of the evidence indicates human activities have had a warming effect on our climate since the Industrial Revolution -- more accurately, that no other theory seems to explain our melting ice, rising sea levels, and declining species as well as the rise in greenhouse gas emissions since that time. As indicated in my earlier posting, "Selfishness" (November 23), it may not matter much whether you buy into that interpretation of the evidence because people like Lovins have demonstrated it makes economic sense to change our behavior.
Let me close with a question: If the chance is 50/50 that humans are contributing to global warming, does it make sense to reduce greenhouse gas emissions for the safety of potential future generations, in case the hypothesis is correct?
"Dummy," says Virginia, "don't you remember Copernicus?"
Ah yes, Copernicus, my dear friend, the fellow who suggested the Earth travels around the sun. If he's right, then -- um -- I guess the sun doesn't really rise in the east, despite my persistent observations.
My father was a biologist, a scientist unlike me, although sometimes I wonder if I might become one. What would it take?
Was he a scientist in grade school, high school, college? I'm sure he was by the time the U. of Chicago awarded him his Ph.D. (I was there, took a long train ride from Ohio, I think, I could be wrong.) Yes, he must have become a scientist before then.
I took some science classes in college -- Chemistry & Physics I and Genetics. I majored in math, which is man-made so that doesn't count. I'd either have to go back to school or study hard on my own.
Why would I want to become a scientist? I'm curious. I think it would be fun to exchange e-mails with other scientists, describing what I've observed and what I'm guessing. It would be even more fun to get together now and then to share notes. Once or twice I might get lucky and go out on a limb to suggest something new, maybe true.
Yikes. Now I remember something my father told me. I think it was important, very important, something like "a scientist might be able to prove something wrong, but can't prove something is true." Dad was so smart, I knew what he said was true but I also knew I couldn't prove it. Later, I read that Albert Einstein said something similar: "No amount of experimentation can ever prove me right; a single experiment can prove me wrong."
And so I cringed when I read about the climate change "e-mail gate," although it's not all bad. The global warming debate has traveled in some strange directions, partly because we've forgotten what someone tried to teach us about the scientific method back in elementary school. Of course, some people will challenge the "consensus" on the global warming theory. In a sense, science demands it. For years, many people didn't like the idea that the Earth isn't the center of everything, but today's consensus is that the Earth orbits the sun.
I've been persuaded, scientist that I am not, that the weight of the evidence indicates human activities have had a warming effect on our climate since the Industrial Revolution -- more accurately, that no other theory seems to explain our melting ice, rising sea levels, and declining species as well as the rise in greenhouse gas emissions since that time. As indicated in my earlier posting, "Selfishness" (November 23), it may not matter much whether you buy into that interpretation of the evidence because people like Lovins have demonstrated it makes economic sense to change our behavior.
Let me close with a question: If the chance is 50/50 that humans are contributing to global warming, does it make sense to reduce greenhouse gas emissions for the safety of potential future generations, in case the hypothesis is correct?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Mistresses Attack
"I'm glad to meet you, Olga," says Virginia. "How are you?"
"Lousy, but getting better," says Olga. "He abandoned me in that field, and then didn't talk to me for months. Pants puddled at my feet didn't make any difference."
"I don't know about that," says Virginia. "Ours has always been a platonic relationship. We go out to the cabin and talk, just him and me."
"Not ours," says Olga. "It was sex from the start. I even heard Karen say, 'I can picture you, Olga, Countryside and Mother Earth News, having fun in one of those little catwalk bedrooms.' Of course, he never took me there. Me and papa propagating veggies, that's what we do."
"Gardening is pretty sexy," says Virginia. "How'd you meet?"
"He never told you?" says Olga. "It was all Karen's doing. In fact, she gave me as a Christmas present last year. Great fun, hiding in a bay of the barn, hoping he'd find me early. Fat chance, he hates to force-bloom anything. And you?"
"Forced serendipity," Virginia laughs. "He was looking for someone and I pushed my way in. Now he can't get rid of me."
"I've got him," says Olga. "I'm negotiating with People magazine. A photograph tells all."
"Lousy, but getting better," says Olga. "He abandoned me in that field, and then didn't talk to me for months. Pants puddled at my feet didn't make any difference."
"I don't know about that," says Virginia. "Ours has always been a platonic relationship. We go out to the cabin and talk, just him and me."
"Not ours," says Olga. "It was sex from the start. I even heard Karen say, 'I can picture you, Olga, Countryside and Mother Earth News, having fun in one of those little catwalk bedrooms.' Of course, he never took me there. Me and papa propagating veggies, that's what we do."
"Gardening is pretty sexy," says Virginia. "How'd you meet?"
"He never told you?" says Olga. "It was all Karen's doing. In fact, she gave me as a Christmas present last year. Great fun, hiding in a bay of the barn, hoping he'd find me early. Fat chance, he hates to force-bloom anything. And you?"
"Forced serendipity," Virginia laughs. "He was looking for someone and I pushed my way in. Now he can't get rid of me."
"I've got him," says Olga. "I'm negotiating with People magazine. A photograph tells all."
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
4-Mile Ride
How about a scenic drive? It rained so much last night our yard is full of little ponds. The main entrance to the goat paddock would be heaven for hogs. I'm sure Karen's checking craigslist or farmers' pages right now. Two hundred-fifty pounds later we'll be moving the cabin freezer to our basement. I can't seem to shake my dream of a tiny home in retirement, except the freezers and put-away food would take up half the space, then the piano and a bed.... Well, you get the picture.
Turning left from our lane takes us south. Look over at the house, perfectly positioned for southern exposure. Our big six-over-six windows make the upper stairwell the coziest spot in the place even though we have no registers upstairs and two rarely used fireplaces. On our right, see a short mountain and Tank Hollow, home to the black bears neighbors often spot returning from din-din at the Compost Heap.
Past the trailer park blight of Arnold's Valley, the Thomas Jefferson National Forest is all around us, with the Blue Ridge Parkway capping the east. The Appalachian Trail snakes close to the ridges, now abandoned by this year's crop of through-hikers who have cried hello to Maine or Georgia or called it quits for now.
Today Thunder Ridge is on vacation, nowhere to be seen. We left sunshine at the farmhouse. Opossum Creek tumbles and rumbles behind our cabin, my studio escape from the noises below.
Like Virginia, you and everyone, I sit down to add my own sounds to the melodies and harmonies of Mother Earth -- in this case, I hope, beneficial global warming.
Turning left from our lane takes us south. Look over at the house, perfectly positioned for southern exposure. Our big six-over-six windows make the upper stairwell the coziest spot in the place even though we have no registers upstairs and two rarely used fireplaces. On our right, see a short mountain and Tank Hollow, home to the black bears neighbors often spot returning from din-din at the Compost Heap.
Past the trailer park blight of Arnold's Valley, the Thomas Jefferson National Forest is all around us, with the Blue Ridge Parkway capping the east. The Appalachian Trail snakes close to the ridges, now abandoned by this year's crop of through-hikers who have cried hello to Maine or Georgia or called it quits for now.
Today Thunder Ridge is on vacation, nowhere to be seen. We left sunshine at the farmhouse. Opossum Creek tumbles and rumbles behind our cabin, my studio escape from the noises below.
Like Virginia, you and everyone, I sit down to add my own sounds to the melodies and harmonies of Mother Earth -- in this case, I hope, beneficial global warming.
Driver Wanted
Our county is nothing like Northwest Ohio, where country roads form perfect square miles laid on a giant table top (except for jogs where surveyors reportedly goofed, such as near the homes of my mother and sister). Here, it could take a half hour to drive to dine with a neighbor on the other side of a mountain, or an hour and a half on a slippery winter's night for fools who should know better.
So when I headed home from orchestra practice last night, I kept an eye on the car's thermometer and prayed it was accurate. Thirty-four degrees made me queasy. I admit it; I'm a wimp, terrified by 32 degrees and rain in the dark, no longer invincible like a teenager. "Wanted: Struggling writer to chauffeur a scaredy-cat. Part-time gardening responsibilities. Salary negotiable."
Virginia volunteered. That would be almost like hiring a ghost. She has better things to do.
So when I headed home from orchestra practice last night, I kept an eye on the car's thermometer and prayed it was accurate. Thirty-four degrees made me queasy. I admit it; I'm a wimp, terrified by 32 degrees and rain in the dark, no longer invincible like a teenager. "Wanted: Struggling writer to chauffeur a scaredy-cat. Part-time gardening responsibilities. Salary negotiable."
Virginia volunteered. That would be almost like hiring a ghost. She has better things to do.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Period
. I began this posting with a dot, a frequently used symbol that's accustomed to appearing at the end. It knows better, of course. A speck. From dust to dust. A divider or connector, too, between things like tenths and ones. It's also good for abbreviating, as in Wis. Ubiquitous. Maybe in my next life, I could be a period (when I was a child, the conclusion of Handel's Messiah taught me how long a period can be)
...on second thought, I might choose an ellipsis, closely related but a bit or two more special, open-minded, nonjudgmental, without the bad connotations, such as the once a month doldrums that visit most of us...
everything is wonderful and then, suddenly, a boom lowers. Two days without broadband was no big deal, but on the third CenturyLink is toast. Someone asks the conductor how he wants to pronounce "Jesu," he says "Gee-sue," and three months' practice of Christmas music becomes puke. A sixty-two degree indoor temperature is a great way to kill bacteria and then, bam, it's killing us. Our views of Thunder Ridge and the James River Face could content us for life; shazam, wouldn't it be fun wandering the streets of Paris?
"Yes," says Virginia, "it's marvelous to have options -- in the mind as well as real life. Some people don't, you know."
...on second thought, I might choose an ellipsis, closely related but a bit or two more special, open-minded, nonjudgmental, without the bad connotations, such as the once a month doldrums that visit most of us...
everything is wonderful and then, suddenly, a boom lowers. Two days without broadband was no big deal, but on the third CenturyLink is toast. Someone asks the conductor how he wants to pronounce "Jesu," he says "Gee-sue," and three months' practice of Christmas music becomes puke. A sixty-two degree indoor temperature is a great way to kill bacteria and then, bam, it's killing us. Our views of Thunder Ridge and the James River Face could content us for life; shazam, wouldn't it be fun wandering the streets of Paris?
"Yes," says Virginia, "it's marvelous to have options -- in the mind as well as real life. Some people don't, you know."
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