Enuff!

I am in the process of being taught a very powerful lesson. Perhaps it’s so powerful because I am being double-teamed. Perhaps it’s because it’s the inspiration and example of two unsuspecting gentlemen who are two and three years old. It seems it is all being orchestrated at a perfect time as far as the season of the year and the season of my life. Yes, it is having a powerful impact.



I am still getting adjusted to not having my three kids (who are now almost twenty-two to mid-thirties) in our home for Christmas. I am, oh so slowly, being weaned from the aspect of quantity of time with them to exclusively cherishing quality time with them. Not only that; I no longer control our time together even though I myself am now “free.” I miss them a lot.






I am not complaining; just sharing my heart. I will see all of my kids during this extended season and I am grateful. Not only that but I learn new depths to the season each passing year. Christmas eve is special and still involves a lot of bustle with good friends and family stopping in for “a bite.” This year it was gallons of homemade French onion soup, fresh rolls, and steaming baked potatoes from the farm down the road. Then there is the rush to get dishes done to the point where we can venture through the night to a candle lighting service. That is followed by a sweet nostalgic half hour moonlit ride home. The early predawn hours of Christmas are especially poignant now that I “am alone” (without kids). I reflect on so many things that I don’t stop to cherish during normal hustle and bustle. Soon as dawn breaks there is special time with my “bride, soul mate, and partner” of now forty one precious years (this week). It is special to sit and truly enjoy each other and the depth of our relationship sans a lot of gifts and distractions. This year was especially moving as we prayed together for special friends with troubled relationships and marriages.






My purpose is not to be melodramatic or to paint a glum picture. This is a very special season, not just as a time of year but in my life as a whole. It has been and is a very powerful learning experience for me. I ventured into the inner city darkness to witness and be touched by a multitude of families being given fifteen hundred free Christmas trees. I fought tears when a handicapped middle aged lady that I am privileged to work with resolving some financial challenges and life issues showed me the Christmas card she was able to purchase for her also handicapped son. Each day, and sometimes hour, brings new revelation(s) and lessons.






Perhaps the crowning point of these lessons came Christmas afternoon and evening through the power of electronic media. First through the internet magic of SKYPE, we watched (and talked to when we could get his attention) my two-year-old grandson in Colorado playing with his new garbage trucks. He had a stack of unopened presents and was oblivious to them all. He has found what made him happy. Soon there were Flip videos emailed from Pittsburgh featuring our wide-eyed not quite infant granddaughter and her “wiser” and “older” three-year-old brother. Although one of the videos was short it will forever be etched in my mind. My grandson reflected that “there were just too many toys” as he expressed his concern that there may not be enough room for them. And he has never even heard the story about “building bigger barns.”






Yes, those unsuspecting young men were and are being used to teach to teach Grandpa the powerful lesson of “enuff.” I am a blessed man and look forward to sharing in 2010.

Free Range

The final leg of a long road trip west to enjoy my distant family is winding down. Now, about one hundred miles from home, the sun is fading in my rear view mirror. A huge three-level livestock truck speeds past going the opposite direction. It is empty but I instantly recognize it because some of my family members contract with the owner, a regional packing company. The brand name would be instantly recognizable to anyone who shops chain grocery stores in Eastern Pennsylvania. I know that tonight this truck will be rapidly loaded with hogs from a contract “factory” farm and returned back east for slaughter first thing in the morning.



The hogs are special hybrids bred to produce huge succulent hams by the time they are just shy of six months old. They are highly regulated and regimented from their artificial inception to slaughter and processing. They are not your average “hog.” In fact, they are such highly specialized hybrids that any accidental natural breeding would produce a frightful genetic mutation. I have toured one of the contract facilities where piglets rapidly mature into foodstuffs that will grace your plate. Everything is precisely calculated and metered scientifically for optimum production. There is even a small percentage of loss figured into the yields for hogs that inadvertently experience a rupture or sustain other injuries. Nothing is left to chance or nature that could be regulated and optimized.


Our modern food production is a marvel. I think of the egg production in Lancaster County or the broiler “factory farms” up and down the Delmarva Peninsula. I remember riding the mail boat loaded with cases of fresh “newly soft-shelled” crabs from Tangier Island in the Chesapeake Bay. They had recently come out of their “holding pens” on the island to be marketed to a hungry population up and down the eastern seaboard and beyond.


My wife and I were introduced to steak house management training forty years ago. An unforgettable part of our orientation (right after our breakfast) consisted of going to a northern Colorado feedlot containing a quarter of a million cattle. We were then introduced to the facility that with unbelievable efficiency processed over two thousand of them a day. Even the byproducts were exported to France where they are considered a delicacy. For those of you who are jumping ahead of me and drawing premature conclusions; no, this isn’t why I am a vegetarian!


In fact, my thoughts shift to my fellow human beings. I see evidence that we try to “process” human beings with the same cold efficiency. Oh, we perhaps correctly rationalize that “it is for their own good” and “we are making better, more productive people out of them.” However, I question our “factory farm” approach to life. No, we don’t rely on artificial insemination with hybrid genes but almost everything else is designed to produce our idea of what folks should be from the womb to our departure from life. We take on the responsibility of providing “everything needed” for the nurturing and perfecting of another human being—physically, mentally, financially, and even spiritually. Sometimes in our eagerness to produce and “assist” in the development of “super humans,” we inadvertently weaken the individual immunity and ability to forage and survive. Perhaps, it’s time to conceptually swing back to “free range” and away from “factory farms” at least as far as human beings are concerned.

Help

I am privileged to know two people who work from home for “call center” firms. They both provide answers to folks calling for information and assistance. The whole idea intrigues me but I’ve never seen how it works. That all changed today. My son-in-law is a “techie” and works for a firm that provides help and support to guests of major hotel and motel properties. Normally he works in Chicago but today he is working “help desk” from home in the Indiana suburbs. He was gracious enough to permit me to watch (as long as I didn’t touch anything!)






I sat in eager anticipation waiting for the phone to ring (through a computer on an internet connection). I was a bit apprehensive even though I wasn’t directly involved. Soon the first call came. Amazingly, it was from “back home” in Eastern Pennsylvania. I wondered if the frantic hotel guest on the line had any idea that she was connected to a suburban living room half way across the country. She seemed to calm noticeably when she heard my son-in-law’s reassuring friendly voice. As he spoke, his fingers were a blur as they executed rapid keystrokes on his computer. He deftly accessed all the guest information on his database of the hotel property. He quickly diagnosed that not only did this lady have a problem but several other unsuspecting guests did as well. A few more keystrokes and the whole property’s internet service was operational again. Some rapid documentation and he was ready for his next call.






The next call was from a man and it also came from Eastern Pennsylvania as well. Several minutes later he confirmed that he too was thankfully “back in business.” I suspected that these Eastern Pennsylvania calls were just for me. That thought was quickly dispelled by calls from Baltimore and then Times Square in the heart of New York City. I was actually disappointed when “our” shift ended. I am looking forward to witnessing another night on call before starting our journey home.


What a treat watching a “pro” calmly and efficiently solve all the hotel and motel guest’s internet problems as they call on him. Amazingly, unbeknownst to some unsuspecting guests, he actually solved some that they didn’t even know they had. He is here waiting through the night for any of thousands of guests who experience an internet problem and are willing to call. I asked him if he’d ever been unable to solve a problem. After some thought, he said, “Yes once, when sadly the guest hung up in frustration shortly before I was able to deliver a solution.” What an impressive record. I am honored and privileged to know him personally. He actually set up the computer that I am using to write this story.






Reminds me of another “help desk” that is far away but instantly accessible for the asking. It’s open “24/7” and has a perfect record. He too gives personal attention and is only a call away not just for problems but anything else that I want to chat about. What an honor and privilege to personally know Him too. I can’t make it without Him and His wisdom and assurance.

Almost the same but different

This morning my hand momentarily touched on some lumps on my body. There are quite a few. (Most are where you can’t see them.) I’ve actually had them long enough that I very seldom notice them anymore. They started developing years ago and they became bigger and more numerous with time. I had them checked by my doctor who referred me to a plastic surgeon. He did what surgeons do; scheduled surgery. He removed the most obvious and/or bothersome ones and informed me that the lab said they were benign fatty lipomas.







During several operations over a period of time he removed as many as possible under the maximum doses of anesthesia that my system could tolerate. We continued until we realized it was a never ending battle (and my surgeon was to move to Israel). It’s OK with me because most of the obvious ones are gone. However, I occasionally still have people spot one and say, “What is that lump?” That is what started my “problem”.






I’m never much for details and the fine points of the English language. This is especially true with grammar and spelling. Thankfully, I married a proof reader with an eye for detail! I am especially vulnerable with words that sound like other words. I hate to interrupt a good thought searching for the proper word or name as long as people understand what I mean. When people spot one of my lumps that range from pea to previously almost golf-ball size, they work up the courage to ask me what they are. I would give them my best recollection of what the surgeon told me—lymphomas.


I was utterly amazed at the looks of dread and empathy that I got when I mentioned lymphoma. I thought little of it until my wife Natalie got involved. Because of her nurse’s training and desire to be medically accurate she insisted that I learn and use the correct word—lipoma, not lymphoma. It was then that I realized that I was telling people that “I’d had 60 cancerous growths removed and wasn’t worried about the rest of them.” I now know and remember that lymphoma is a cancer.






Although I don’t want to “one up” my wife, I think God sees things more like I do (at least on this issue). I believe that He considers lymphomas, lipomas, and anything else intruding into or onto my body the same way. There is no little or big or serious or not serious to God. He sees, cares about, and can handle it all. He is God.

Expand or Withdraw?

“Da-Dit-Da-Da, Da-Da-Dit-Da.” Today most folks (other than my sister-in-law who attended telegraph school) wouldn’t have a clue what that means. It’s not a hip-hop song or even a dance rhythm but rather the letters “C” and “Q” in International Morse Code. Those letters which are invitation to chat in Morse Code have been branded into my mind for fifty years.


As a young boy, I daydreamed about “escaping” my little world while trudging along my hometown daily newspaper route. Toward the end of my route was a house that was scary but also somewhat intriguing to me. It was quite forbidding and would remind you of the decrepit ramshackled house on the television show “The Munsters.” I could see strange flickering shadows and hear indistinguishable crackly sounds and voices from somewhere in the depth of the house. Occasionally, I would encounter the lone inhabitant and he was a sight to behold. He was rather hermit-like and unkempt with wild uncut silver-grey hair. He never tipped me or for that matter even said a friendly hello. Central casting would consider him a natural for a mad scientist role.


One dark snowy night this gent caught me spying through his window and gruffly invited me into the depths of his forbidding old home. My curiosity momentarily overcame my fears and I ventured into the unknown abyss. Stepping across that threshold changed my life.


It turned out that the flickering lights were multitudes of vacuum tubes powering untold numbers of shortwave radios bridging to a whole other world. I soon spent countless hours with him exploring the Voice of America, the British Broadcasting Company, and even “those Communists” at far off Radio Moscow. Soon every cent that didn’t go into a local pinball machine was accumulating to buy my own short wave radio kit. Once that was accomplished I started collecting “SWL cards” with strange postmarks from “the ends of the earth.” They confirmed I had heard a distant station from a far off country at such and such a time Greenwich Mean Time on such and such a frequency. Technology had expanded my world and given me a lust for more.


One-way communications can be frustrating to say the least. I soon discovered another gentleman with a tower similar to a larger version of a television antenna attached to his house. That was my introduction to the two-way communications called “Ham” (amateur) Radio. It was fascinating but required a license that was only attainable after mastering a Morse code test. Soon every spare hour that I didn’t spend reading or working was spent prepping for and eventually passing my test to become known as KN3ZZH. My world expanded another notch through this newfound technology. More importantly, a hunger was instilled to communicate with and hopefully meet these far off folks. Last year I actually had a flashback to these days of old when I got a chance to look down on the land of “Radio Moscow” while on a flight 39,000 feet high over Russia. I still long to experience those folks face to face.


Recently, while on a tour of the city of Halifax, N.S., the North American portal of the internet, I thought of the new fiber optic cables and satellite technology that blankets our world. It triggered thoughts of a new phenomenon in this technology saga. Many folks today have also captured a technology activated “vision” just as I did long ago. However, their vision has just the opposite effect. It seems that many are using technology as a means to isolate themselves from rather than pursue face to face social contacts. They hibernate behind hundreds of high definition channels, strikingly realistic interactive video games and infinitely expanding internet realms. I suspect these powerful technologies are being used as a means and justification for folks to become social recluses. A new breed of virtual social hermits has developed. They not only don’t want to interact with the world but they have also even withdrawn from their neighbors and family. Increasingly, I see cell phones used as a means to avoid face-to-face contact often within the boundaries of the same home. Even that cell phone contact has now been refined to include thousand of text messages and fewer and fewer actual voice contacts.


Technology is a blessing. It can be used to stimulate, aid, and expand our face-to-face relationships. Unfortunately, it also can be used to enable reclusive solitude as part of an artificial world without social risk. I am convinced that the effects of a personal heartfelt smile or a caring touch can never be replaced by any technology- nor should it be. Technology—either a relational tool or trap—it’s my choice.

The “Words” Behind the Words

“Johnny!” That word possibly holds little significance to most folks. Almost anyone can tell you it’s a nickname for John. However, few can grasp what it means to me. My kids are now all grown and no longer part of our visits to our (my bride and I grew up in the same area) hometown. I vividly remember the bemused expressions on my kid’s faces when some seasoned lady or gent from my childhood referred to their Dad as “Johnny.” They hadn’t had the opportunity to share that part of my life and the relevance behind what was being said. Unfortunately, they each are sharp enough to perceive from the twinkle in some of these oldster’s eyes that their Dad wasn’t a perfect child.



Yes, there are a few other folks who weren’t part of my “Johnny” days that take the liberty to call me Johnny. Quite frankly, I much prefer they call me John but try to be gracious about it. It’s just that I don’t have the connection and history with those folks that I have with the dwindling number of precious folks from my past. I wish many of them were still here to call me “Johnny.”






Perhaps the most significant person who has ever called me Johnny hasn’t called me that name for ages even though I talk to her frequently. In my mind, I can still hear her voice echoing through my childhood neighborhood at dusk. I will never forget that voice. I not only could distinguish that voice from all others but special tones and inflections had special meaning and significance. I knew that there were progressive signs of urgency (building to something just short of anger) in those calls of “Johnny.” I usually could accurately gauge the tones but occasionally I underestimated them. That could lead to a painful meeting of certain lower parts of my anatomy with certain parts of our sour cherry tree to reinforce a clearer understanding.






We have a son named John Daniel whom we, for reasons we have difficulty explaining, call “Dan” (previously “Danny”). When he started school we knew that his school name would be significant and lasting. We asked what he’d like to be called and he chose “John.” When we ask if we too should call him “John” he said with tears in his eyes “no I want to be your Danny.”






My bride has never called me Johnny. For well over fifty years, I have been John to her. There is something about the way that she says John (or anything else) that can and does still melt my heart. We treasure our long relationship and have a lengthy and precious investment in each other. Perhaps because of that we both have learned to be selective in the words we speak to (and into) each other. In addition, we trust what is in the other’s heart. Oh, we sometimes still suffer minor miscues but it seems it’s not the actual words where we are vulnerable. You see we both have become seemingly skilled (and many times wrongly) at hearing something not necessarily spoken in words through the tones and nuances of what is being conveyed. If I can impart the wrong nuances to “the love of my life” after over fifty years of practice then I shouldn’t rely exclusively on mere words with others who don’t know my heart nearly as well. I have learned that my massive size, my facial expressions (or lack of them), my deep voice, or any number of other nuances sometimes “trump” and invalidate even well chosen words. That doesn’t even take into consideration written words hastily scattered through cyberspace in emails or on Face book without benefit of other discerning clues to my true heartfelt feelings.






I think I recall reading the phrase “my sheep hear my voice” not “my sheep hear my words.” In reflecting on that simple wisdom from long ago, I now realize how important investments in true heart-felt relational communications beyond the words really are.

Scavengers

I am in the land of the “kills.” Names like Peekskill, Plattekill, Wallkill, and Fishkill, all part of upstate New York. The suffix “kill” refers to water tributaries in the founding Dutch dialect. This is the real Dutch from Holland not the Deutsch (German) that I grew up calling “Dutch.” The evidence of these founding fathers is everywhere and the names are Van Skoy or Vanderlaan instead of our Pennsylvania Deutsch Druchenmueller or Newswanger. The Catskill Mountain region is magnificent and it is a special treat to enjoy Thanksgiving in this area.



As I stepped out into the heavy morning dew to watch my friend Dixie (a Golden Retriever) frolic, I am in awe of the natural beauty of this area. There is a small stream, which the last time I visited housed a resident pair of beavers. It is bordered by an expansive meadow in the midst of extensive woodlands. There is a set of railroad tracks on the edge of the property guiding lumbering freight trains to Albany and Montreal.


I am enjoying my brother and sister-in-law’s wonderful hospitality on their 1747 era 34 acre wooded farm. What a treat! They have spent the last twenty-five years successfully transforming the rustic stone homestead and accompanying barn and property into a virtual Shangri-La. It is awesome to survey the massive cavernous stone walls which are several feet thick. Only one original doorway remains intact without modification. It is quite evident that past generations were more compact because the top of that door frame is below my chin level. When I walk through the home today, I don’t fully appreciate the labor of placing two thousand plus shims to level the uneven floors or other labor. I try to picture what it was like to fashion these massive structural beams. It is my understanding that a huge tree was toppled and then a trench was laboriously dug under it. A man worked on the top of the felled tree and a boy in the trench underneath to hew these beams. Thus the term “a man and a boy” was coined. Now their superhuman efforts long ago coupled with extensive painstaking renovations over the years contribute to a coziness that makes me feel like hibernating.


My brother-in-law is quite an experienced outdoorsman and cherishes the wildlife that abounds on this property. He actually has a heated observation point built into his barn overlooking the meadow. Recently someone brought a road-killed deer and it is staked securely in a prominent spot in the meadow. There is not much to see in the daytime although a 194 pound Boar Black Bear visited the day before yesterday to check it out. The reason we know that it was 194 pounds is that a neighboring friend successfully started him on the journey to possibly becoming a beautiful $800 bear skin rug.


According to my brother in law, the real activity comes during the cover of darkness. He has a motion-activated digital game camera positioned to view the carcass and anything that visits it. When we downloaded the photographs onto a computer, we were amazed. In addition to the bear mentioned previously, a fox and then at least one coyote appeared out of the darkness. The camera recorded the fact that the coyote came at 4:19 AM as everyone slept. It warily dined for about a half an hour before slipping back into the darkness.


As I stare at the pictures of the coyote with its beady eyes, I think of the “coyotes” that come to nibble at the rotting spoils that I sometimes leave deposited in the pastures of my life. Everything may appear fine, but I sometimes sense something unpleasant lurking in the shadows especially under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, there isn’t a game camera that can capture and validate what I sense. It doesn’t make any difference. I don’t intend to leave the decay that attracts these lurking scavengers as I rest in the eternal security provided on hand-hewn beams long ago.

Interloppers

I am an early morning person (and I start fading when the sun goes down). “Zillions” of more important things crowd into my life if I don’t go for a stroll in the very early morning hours . I missed an early morning stroll today but did make it about ten AM. Normally there is early morning heavy dew that keep me on the dry macadam roads. This morning I discovered that the sunlight effectively dries everything as the morning progresses. That enabled me to walk through the fields and around the stream and pond that I enjoy so much without wet feet.







As I entered a neighboring fence row a couple of burrs “reached out” and attached themselves to my sleeves and pant legs. They had a Velcro like grip and seemed intent on accompanying me wherever I journeyed. My mind went back to my youthful hunting and trapping days. It always seemed to be wet, windy, freezing cold, and I’d be covered with burrs, or at least that’s what I remember. I used to hunt on those days with my father, my grandfather with his sawed-off double-barreled Parker 12 gauge shotgun, and sometimes, even my mother. (My mother will always remain in my mind as the “crack shot” but that’s another story for another day!) I recollect trudging through all kinds of terrain toting a slender 410 gauge shotgun. I hadn’t seen any of the favored dinner quarry-pretty male Ring necked Pheasants-for quite some time. Ironically, one crossed my path this morning as it scurried to the safety of a wooded area. I never stopped enjoying the outdoors although my hunting and trapping days ceased when I joined the military almost forty five years ago.






Now that it’s November the resident water snake that hides along the edge of our neighboring pond is nowhere to be found. However, a beautiful pair of Mallard ducks cruise warily in the middle of the pond. I can see game trails that deer and other creatures follow mainly at dusk and dawn as they come to sip this cooling water. I am so glad to be able to stop and relish this beautiful fall panorama as leaves drift one by one onto pond’s mirror-like stillness.






Later, when I return home I stop to admire the hibiscus flower that several weeks ago my wife had me bring indoors before any frost could affect it. A friend installed a vertical window on the landing between our first and second floors. It gives us a wonderful eastern exposure that is perfect for providing maximum sunlight to plants like this giant hibiscus. Persistent watering, some plant fertilizer sticks, and abundant sunlight have yielded nine new buds. Recently, we’ve delighted in seeing beautiful blossoms and I was eager to see today’s offering. I was not disappointed—new soft orange, yellow, and pink ones. However, I was shocked to see all the vital life giving leaves missing from two stalks. Mysterious pencil point-sized black dots litter the floor. Closer examination showed a fat caterpillar contentedly hugging a bare stalk after a scrumptious breakfast of lush leaves.






I thought back to the burrs that had hitched a ride on my clothing earlier this morning and now the caterpillar who’d stealthily let me introduce him to this predator-less utopia in our home. I realize that interlopers are everywhere and many never get our attention “if they behave.” They are eager to use us to help them advance their purposes and agendas. Amazingly, many times I don’t even realize that I am a host or an enabler unless I inadvertently feel the burrs or notice leaves missing with telltale droppings. Guess I need to be more alert to the many stealthy things that would like me and mine as hosts.

Wave

I live in the land of the “Pennsylvania Deutsch nod”. This art form is very subtle and is most effective when two fellow devotees meet and synchronize their passing nods. Nodding can almost be imperceptible to newcomers or outsiders. I am sure the practice dates back generations. It is a very simple gesture. However, it takes a lot of insight and practice to detect and exercise it with proper dignity and just a touch of aloofness. It kind of reminds me of some of those creatures on the Discovery Channel that are committed to not wasting an ounce of unnecessary energy.



As you may surmise, the nod consists of making momentary eye contact while holding the head rigid except for a slight polite barely perceptible dip. The true masters of spotting this art are the auctioneers who can decipher these lightning-quick moves among their bidding clientele. However the most common form is a restrained form of greeting. It’s kind of like a secret fraternal handshake but a bit more widely practiced. Two practiced devotees can exercise this in unison in just a few seconds. They have done their proper duty and not had to utter a word or stray from their intended path. I guess it’s all about Pennsylvania Deutsch (German) efficiency.


I have become what I humbly consider a rather deft practitioner of the “nod.” It has served me well in many settings with a variety of folks, especially the seasoned ones. Lately, I am facing a bit of a dilemma. As I stroll along our country roads in the mornings, I am in danger of miscuing. I am OK with those coming out to get their morning paper, the kids at the school bus stop, and even other walkers and joggers. My problem is with the passing motorists—many of whom by protocol—I am expected to recognize and give a “nod.” I don’t know whether it is the rising sun on their windshields or their speed, but I have belatedly realized I’ve miss quite a few nods. That concerns me and hopefully won’t affect my standing in the neighborhood or community. Oh, I’ve caught some and returned some, but I’ve missed quite a few and actually delivered a few in error. It’s difficult when there is no expression or body language to go with it and my reflexes were never tops even when I was younger.


After some adequate reflection, I have come up with a remedy and am even taking the unheard of risk at being considered “forward”. I have started to wave and even slightly smile to each person I pass with no regard to whether they are “my friend.” I no longer have to squint and agonize over whether I missed acknowledging someone. You see, over a several week period I have developed a relationship with a lot of folks who now wave and smile when they see me plodding down the road. I guess they’re anticipating my now normal wave and slight smile. I believe each of our days have become a tiny bit more pleasant because of this small gesture. I know mine has. Most importantly, it’s something almost impossible for me to mess up socially. What a relief!


I look forward to seeing my new friends each morning. I may never have an opportunity speak a word to many of them but there is a bond beyond words. I don’t want to lose my skill at poker-faced “nodding” but am committed to saving it for very special occasions. For “everyday,” I think I’ll use that wave and a slight smile. It seems to be working quite well.

Rut

A beautiful sixty degree November morning! It doesn’t get any better than this. In fact, it inspired me to trek around the neighboring fields and woodlands even if it meant getting my feet wet from the heavy morning dew. I marvel at the rocky soil that still exposes new offerings of hidden treasure even after being tilled for what may be approaching two hundred years. It has faithfully been sustaining wildlife, crops, herds, and families for generations. Sadly, similar fertile fields are increasingly being sown with a new one-time cash crop of expensive homes and will never sustain wildlife, crops, and herds again.



I walk from the fields back into a wooded dump area. This is not a garbage or trash area but an accumulation of unused worn out implements and historical treasures common to farms and farming life. All were neatly piled or stacked and I am sure there was a fascinating tale behind each piece. A metal tow-behind rake with metal wheels and a metal seat made me think of all possible things that the farmer experienced on this now rusted aging implement. There were very used tires that had sacrificed all of their tread transversing these fields hour upon hour. And then there are the chicken cages that are now outdated by the bounteous commercial offerings of big “factory farms” now being merchandised in our neighborhood supermarket.


I stop at a stump being used as a squirrel’s pantry while he conveniently processes the bounty of the neighboring Shellbark Hickory tree. Shells were everywhere but no tasty inner kernels of the nuts were left for me to sample. I marvel at the new winter wheat that is now four to five inches high and prepared to endure the coming harsh winter to reemerge for a head start sprint toward an early summer harvest. The harvested soy beans now expose an underlying crop of sweet clover to sustain the young steers.


As I crest a small hill, I look down on the peaceful serenity of a family farm that has sustained a cycle of planting, harvest, and animal husbandry for generations. The next generation already is proudly displaying championship Holsteins to continue their heritage. A slight aroma of animal manure and musty moist earth keep me tuned to the realities of the labor involved and not caught up in this fantasy idyllic postcard-like setting.


Soon I spot the evidence in the moist earth that some deer—possibly delicate young does—have crossed this path earlier this morning. Deer seem to be everywhere this time of year as evidenced by the increasing road kills. In fact, we had two magnificent bucks in our front yard several weeks ago posing like lawn ornaments. During this mating season referred to by hunters as “the rut,” deer lose much of their normal reserve and caution in pursuit of their natural instincts. The seasonal timing is tied to a gestation period that permits the does to feed on new green spring growth and provide ample milk for new fawns. Amazing the way everything fits together in perfect timing!


I soon see evidence that I am not the only one that has been seeing these signs of deer activity. As I approach a strategic wooded spot overlooking this peaceful grazing area I notice one, then a second “tree stand.” Both are laboriously constructed on stout hardwood trees and tower about twenty feet in the air. Each has their own elaborate series of steps up the tree for convenient climbing to that level and a small seat for comfortable reconnaissance. One overlooks a hillside path to a small stream and the other, this luscious grazing expanse. The deer may have noticed the construction of these stands but possibly have become oblivious to their eventual intended purpose for their demise.


Makes me realize how vulnerable I am when I keep my focus on pursuing and being pursued by other humans and our endeavors. Even though I may see growing evidence that there is an actual plot for my eventual demise, I am sometimes oblivious unless I am in an obvious conflict. Lastly, if I don’t keep looking up, I may even miss the tip-off of my vulnerabilities to those stealthy forces bent on accusing, seeking and destroying. I have a lot to learn from nature and the wildlife I find so fascinating.

"Just For Pretty"

Many years ago, while in the Air Force and then working for Lockheed Aircraft, I used to be able to troubleshoot and repair airplanes—at least most of them. (No, the rest didn’t crash—someone with more skill and knowledge took over!) For a long time I assumed that those qualities were transferable to our cars and our home. Whenever anything needed repair I would studiously troubleshoot the situation and narrow down my diagnosis to the most probable causes. I would then purchase the appropriate parts and the tools to install them. In most cases, that bill would be somewhere approaching one hundred dollars considering the fix attempted after the initial fix. (And that doesn’t take into consideration any structural repairs, Doctor bills, etc.) Once I’d “given it my all” and perhaps sacrificed several knuckles, I would call in a professional to save my tarnished ego and reputation.



After consultation with my wife (a very perceptive and wise lady), I’ve come to the conclusion that my talents are not in home repair. That actually is a relief because it is embarrassing to try to keep up a façade while juggling more and more broken and unfinished projects. Our home is over forty years old (and I can be a bit clumsy) so things seem to be constantly breaking, leaking, or mysteriously collapsing. This morning I broke a brass stair railing support but that is another story.


I have a morning regimen when I get up. One of the first things I do is to walk to the kitchen sink in my bare feet to drink a glass of water and make coffee for “my bride.” Several days ago I thought I felt moisture on the carpet in front of the sink. (Yes, one of those rooster carpets.) I thought it was just my imagination since my feet aren’t as sensitive as they used to be and I’d just walked over cool Pergo flooring. The same thing happened the next morning and yes; it was wetness. I put the carpet out to dry and then looked for the source. Fortunately, it was obvious and easy to access. All I had to do was open the cabinet doors beneath the kitchen sink and my wife immediately spotted water running down a chrome drain pipe.


My cheap thriftiness kept me from immediately calling a plumber (and usually a high paid helper). Later in the day I called a friend to see if this was a “plumber” or a “handyman” job. He asked, “Do you need chrome and will anyone see these pipes?” When I asked what the alternative was, he gave me a quick education. It seems chrome is much, much, more expensive and prone to leak (and rust) after an extended period of time. Chrome is used in a highly visible situation like exposed bathroom fixtures. The alternative is P.V.C. (plastic) pipe which is cheaper and virtually indestructible once properly installed. To some, the downside is that it is ugly.


My mind shifted to the human “fixtures” of life. Some appear to be, as the Pennsylvania Deutsch (Germans) would say, “Just for pretty.” They may be in positions that require public exposure and therefore they need to be clad in “expensive chrome plating” and I understand and respect that. However, my heart goes out to the multitudes of “P.V.C. folks” who play such a valuable utilitarian role in my life. Many have given up on their dreams of ever being “chrome plated” for their fifteen minutes of fame and may in fact feel “second class.” To those folks I would like to just say “thanks.” I salute you for the valuable background roles you perform so honorably and dependably to “keep my life from leaking.”

Vine Ripened

Almost four years ago my health insurance company wrote me a letter with an amazing free offer. They offered to pay for an intensive therapeutic and restorative program designed for folks like me. Later, I determined that meant people that they considered to be a high risk for possible expensive procedures. One of the stipulations of the program was that I had to become a total vegetarian. I accepted their offer and have been a vegetarian ever since. People often have their own thoughts about vegetarians and why folks become one. In my case, I had no special phobias or convictions—I just embraced the program requirements. It was quite a transition because my wife and I had a restaurant background and actually had a history of working with steakhouses and savoring all the benefits. I am still getting the hang of being a vegetarian.







Fortunately, we neighbor a family farm where they grow an amazing array of foods. Even as a vegetarian, I actually relish the special aroma on the days that they butcher steers and hogs. My weakness though is their phenomenal fresh produce. I’ve always savored their huge chef-sized baking potatoes. Most of all, I anticipate and delight in their array of field fresh vegetables. Sadly, the succulent sweet corn is just a memory and other produce selections are fading. I purchased their last of the season of cucumbers, peppers, egg plant, and tomatoes this week. For lunch today, along with a big fluffy steaming baked potato, I grilled seasoned red peppers and sumptuous thick slices of tomatoes with a sprinkling of no-fat parmesan cheese. (I also did some chicken for a guest.)






Freshly picked tomatoes are my favorites. I am so addicted that virtually every day since the first tomatoes became available in July I have had at least one thick tomato sandwiched in dark whole grained bread. Even though I buy fresh tomatoes a half bushel at a time and am the only one in my household that eats them, I still have to trek down to the farm to replenish my stock every ten days or so. What a delight! I think the tomatoes this year have been the best ever. I silently try not to show my distain for those chemically ripened things they call tomatoes in the chain super markets. I have been involved in both the food and distribution industries so I understand why they can’t be up to the standards of my neighbor’s farm, but…






As I mentioned, I was delighted to get tomatoes from my neighbor in November. As I always do, I rushed home from the farm to sample the most perfectly ripened specimen. There weren’t any that had that “give away” deep red coloring so I had to go to plan ”B.” I was like those folks who block the produce selection in the super markets and can’t resist squeezing each specimen. (Like Charmin, for those of you who remember that campaign.) Amazingly, there was not one soft one and the color was technically red but not the red I’ve come to expect. I am enjoying this batch of tomatoes because they are by far the best available this time of year.






However, I am realizing that even though they are red and look like tomatoes they are truthfully disappointing. I savored the ones that stayed on the vine to be fully ripened with maximum exposure to the summer sun. What a difference. Reminds me of how important the 23½ degree tilt toward the extended daily rays of the summer sun really is. The sustaining warmth of those penetrating rays makes a profound difference to fruit still on the vine. Yes, there is light in the winter but not enough exposure for anything to be truly capable of bearing real fruit. (This morning all the leaves were frost bitten and the red fruit still on the vines blighted.) Color can even be artificially induced. However, squeezing (and cutting) is the proof of the best fruit. There is something to be said for basking in the extended warmth of the sun and being “vine ripened”.

Folks

Folks all seem to have fascinating stories to tell if I take time to focus and listen. This week I had the opportunity to relish some from seasoned folks that really are intriguing. Most of the folks consider themselves to be quite “ordinary” but to me they’re special. One especially struck a chord with me.



My wife and I just spent over an hour with a special diminutive eighty-five year old Japanese/American lady. Her big bright eyes conveyed a “lost puppy” look as the story of her World War Two interment unfolded. She told of reading a posting on a telephone pole in her hometown of Stockton, California that stated that she and all other Japanese/Americans must report to a processing station the following day. She started to speak of a childhood pet left behind but her voice trailed off to the point I couldn’t understand her. From the central collection point she and her family were herded on trains that whisked them away to the hills of far off Arkansas. While in transit they were told to keep the train windows shades down especially when they were in stations. One of her friends disregarded the instructions and opened the window to wave to folks in the station. Her face registered a special grimace when she conveyed the looks and comments that their Asian features prompted. The agony was especially acute because there was no recognition that she and her family were second and third generation American citizens. She amazingly spoke with no malice of the three “lost” years spend in remote Arkansas. In fact, she was grateful to have been courted in the camp by her late husband of sixty years and to ultimately be awarded her “lost” high school diploma when she returned to California. Unfortunately, there were no inclination to hire these returning citizens and life was austere for quite some time.


I asked if she had visited Japan. She told of visiting Nagasaki, the site of the atomic bombing not many years after the war. She spoke of meeting many Japanese citizens who with little visible bitterness told of their individual losses and pain. Almost universally they seemed to almost stoically accept this horror. When they realized that she was an American, they almost apologetically said that “the Americans must have had well founded reasons for the bombing” even though they didn’t understand them.


There is something almost magnetic about folks who have gracefully experienced extreme personal pain and spring boarded beyond it. Not that they have forgotten. A select few have permitted their hearts to be “tenderized” in a special way rather than permitting them to become tough and callous. It’s folks like this that are often used in such special ways to touch the rest of us. Not only does this seem to have a wonderful effect on the rest of us, but the effect seems to grow almost exponentially as these folks become more seasoned with time. I have no desire “to go through the fire” but can’t ignore the wonderful correlations of those that do and are “tenderized” by it. I am grateful for the pain experienced by those special folks whose lives have touched me so deeply. I want to reciprocate by using my past, present, and future pain to be sensitive to others as I’m summoned.

Titlt

While I was growing up I did virtually anything that would earn some spending money. I did gardening and cleanup projects (or almost anything else) for numerous ladies in my hometown. Before price fixing was outlawed, it didn’t dawn on me that it was no coincidence that they all paid me the same rate and never competed for my services. I caddied at our local country club and later did almost anything needed to help the Pro run the Pro Shop. I sold gladiola flowers, greeting cards, and virtually anything else that could be sold to make a few dollars. I worked for a caterer and our local country club food service manager. I passed papers for twenty-five cents a day. I think you get the picture.



Other than buying a “ham” amateur radio outfit and the bicycle needed for my paper route almost all of my liquid assets unfortunately were invested in a local emporium (adults called it a “hangout”) called the Blue Diamond. Some of the money went toward fountain cherry cokes and the rest was largely invested a nickel at a time in pinball machines in the back. I invested enough to “master” each of the machines and rack up winning games but somehow always left broke. The secret to scoring points was to be able to shake the machine enough to get the metal balls to go where you needed them to go. Unfortunately they installed a “tilt” mechanism in the machines to foil folks like me and keep me “honest.” A bit too much “body English” finessing the machine would activate a mechanism that would end the game prematurely with a big illuminated sign saying “TILT” for all to see.


Today I thought of those days of old. My wife and I were in a huge hot tub full of bubbling 34 degree Celsius (93.2 Fahrenheit) bubbling water. We were oblivious to the air temperature hovering in the mid-thirty degrees range. Our little world just off the coast of Newfoundland consists of perhaps a thousand gallons of artificially heated bliss perching 13 decks above the rolling Atlantic Ocean. The ocean temperature is a chilly fifty-six degrees and dropping. I have no thoughts or interest in anything about the ocean even thought its depth and breadth exponentially dwarf our little Shangri-la.


That all changed dramatically as our ship started to roll navigating through the seven and a half to twelve foot swells far below us. Suddenly our hot tub went into a “tilt” posture and water started flowing out of one side and then the other in a rhythmic fluid motion. I had no choice but to acknowledge there was a whole huge “real” world with awesome depth and power outside my little hide away. No longer could I be oblivious to the depth, breadth and currents of an enormous ocean extending thousands of miles beyond my little floating hot tub. Kind of reminds me of how oblivious I can be to a world of over six billion folks till it “tilts” my comfortable little cocoon perched high “above it.” It’s amazing how far I’ll go to partition out all “distractions” and create a little euphoric “bubbling” bliss. Invariably things “tilt” to bring me back to a real perspective. Sometimes it’s sudden attacks or other outrageous actions but invariably that sea of folks and their power and dynamics gets my shocked attention. Guess I wasn’t designed to obliviously create and control my own little world with no regard for everyone else. Perhaps that’s why there always seems to be a “tilt” to cause me to restart from a new expanded perspective.

Tilt

Pilot

Bucks

Sorry to get your hopes up—this isn’t about money. This morning two magnificent Whitetail bucks (male deer) posed like statues in our front yard. They strutted to perhaps twenty yards from the kitchen table where I am writing. After a few minutes (just short of my getting pictures), they vanished into the beautiful autumn splendor of a small adjacent wooded area. What a thrill!

Deer are quite common in our area and it seems they are getting more so each year. Last evening while driving, I had to stop once (and be cautious several other times) because of deer crossing country roads. I often see deer in the fields down the street, especially at dusk and dawn. When we sit in the solitude of our darkened back yard during the summer months we often see deer silhouetted against surrounding lighting as they glide along the perimeter of our yard.

What is uncommon is to see a huge buck (and especially two) at eleven o’clock in the morning in this suburban setting. These were not just any bucks; they looked like Cabela’s trophy displays. I haven’t been a hunter since my early teen years but I had that same burst of excitement. I never saw anything remotely like these magnificent bucks back then. (I guess I can safely use the term hunter because I know it’s proper to call yourself a shopper when you never buy anything!)

This is a season when wildlife is on the move. Yesterday I trudged up a rocky local mountain trail (a hill to you Rocky Mountain folks) to get a glimpse of migrating raptors (birds of prey). I didn’t see any although one gent came down from the same spot and reported to my wife he’d seen four Bald Eagles. I would have traded the two bucks and a few other things to see them. I did see a scavenging chipmunk, if that counts.
As I write now, I see squirrels busy retrieving walnuts and chestnuts to bury in my lawn. The resident groundhog sequestered under the shed in our backyard is now quite plump. He’d be at the high end of the obesity scale if they had a height/weight chart for groundhogs. A large hawk came to within about fifty feet of the kitchen window before he flared and decided to abort his kamikaze dive for some unseen prey. I look forward to offering my wife a dinner of a few overly hungry trout as a result of their seasonal feeding frenzy. Nature is on the move.

It is quite evident fish, fowl, and varieties of creatures are sensitive to unseen forces and respond in various ways without hesitation. Many throw caution to the wind, sometimes to their detriment. Perhaps most apparent are those “brave” bucks that have abandoned any sense of caution to make their appearance in a community of potential hunters. I am sure that there is a “mamma” doe that spent many patient hours teaching them to be extremely cautious, now all to no avail. Unbeknownst to them, there is a pretty high probability that they may be within weeks of their mortality. You see it is no coincidence that hunting season is scheduled when their testosterone is at its peak and they become the most macho. Soon they’ll be sparring with those magnificent six and eight point racks to show their individual prowess. They think their fight is against each other. Their single mindedness in pursuing their own agendas sadly makes them extremely vulnerable.

The whole process reminds me of how vulnerable I am when I respond to some of my most compelling human instincts. I am inclined to step out to handle things on my own because “it feels like the right thing to do” and “I can handle it.” My vulnerability can be deceivingly hidden in this season of life because I am finally “mature” and “seasoned.” Perhaps I should keep in mind that there are new hidden perils. A yearling “spike buck” never seems to end up being taken to the taxidermist for mounting.

Bucks

Aids

I will never forget the terrified look on the young lady’s face in Kolkata, India. She was gathering soiled laundry and had slipped into the room where I was sleeping. I suddenly realized someone was in the room and didn’t know where I was or the time of day. (I was still adapting to the nine and a half hour time difference.) I am much bigger than most Indians and I sleep with a masklike device connected to a machine to assist my breathing. Although I’ve never looked in the mirror while wearing the mask, I am sure I must have looked like an alien to her as she fled the room with an absolutely horrified look.
My grandson thinks the device is neat and is enraptured with Grandpa’s machine and “mask.” I myself don’t care how it looks; I am just grateful to have it. You see I had two accidents within months of getting it, both my fault, due to lack of sleep. Because of this device, my sleep apnea condition is under control and I can function normally. Over the years I have acquired many devices so I can function “normally.” I am assisted in my hearing, sight, and even have a device to assist in monitoring proper blood glucose levels. In addition, physicians have prescribed a litany of pharmaceuticals to help me function. Those devices and medications don’t even begin to compare to the folks who help me each day. That list would be huge. Let’s see: my wife and family, friends, associates, and a list like the proverbial “butcher, baker, candlestick maker.” Last, but certainly far from least, is the supernatural enabling and direction that I find so necessary for day to day life.
When I chose the title “Aids” I almost changed it because in our current societal condition most of us now associate the word differently than in the past. I have still not “shifted gears” and associate the word “Aids” with nurses, students, or things like that. (Slight variations in spelling have never bothered me!) My first thought is of a “helper” not the very real and debilitating medical condition that has seemingly hijacked the word in our minds. As I reflect, I realize that aid and assistance in general has been pushed to the background in our supposedly “self-sufficient” society. Our heroes are folks that are supposedly pillars and have “made it on their own.”
The school district that I attended (I wish I could say where I studied) was a wrestling powerhouse that generated multiple state champs; one of whom I knew well. I always felt like the sport of basketball was only for those folks who couldn’t master wrestling. For those of us who were tall but gangly, and somewhat uncoordinated, that even meant the bench and possibly playing a few closing minutes. I suspect some of us have never shifted gears from the stigmas and peer perceptions of our youth. No longer does status, sitting at the right lunch table, or having no noticeable zits establish our “value” (or lack of it).
We live in a society that is increasingly oriented to “perfect stand-alone super stars”. As a “people watcher,” I watch with amusement and then sadness as folks work their way up through the social networking in most group situations. Most seem to hopefully want to touch base with the “one-man dynamos” and “movers and shakers.” I have no problem with this. It’s just sad that all the others in the room lack value in these folk’s eyes.

I am increasingly aware of how significant my personal support system really is. I am amazed and almost embarrassed how “what I am” is not of my own doing. As I realize the contributions that others forces and folks play in what I am, it contributes to a significant shift in my thinking. I realize how honorable and noble it is to aid and enable others. Perhaps this “members of one body” stuff has merit because I can no longer “make it” without you, my family and friends (not that I ever could). A sincere “Thank you” for your aid to me.

Mobility

I enjoy traveling to new places. Forty-five years ago, a military recruiter assured me I could do just that in the U.S. Air Force and he was right. It wasn’t long till I was trained and winging across the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean to places I had difficulty spelling. I learned that folks eat stranger things than our sauerkraut and snitz un knepp, hog maw, and other Pennsylvania fare. Things like big rice bug (a giant-type of water bug) or baluts (a fermented chick embryo); the kind of things that Andrew Zimmer, the Travel Channel star relishes. I bought contact lenses in Japan before most folks in the US knew what they were. I watched roosters with silver spurs fight to the death and discovered smelly sewage laden Binjo ditches leading to the Klongs in Bangkok. I shared the beaches on Guam with giant Gooney Birds. I have many travel memories. Later in my military experience I was attached to an elite response force stationed in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Our team’s mission was to airlift those warriors anywhere in the world with just twenty minutes notice. I maintained two large packed bags in my room. One was for cold climates with a fur-lined parka and snow pants, etc. The other was for tropical climates and included mosquito netting, etc. Interestingly enough, even though I was dispatched with cold weather gear several times, I always ended up in the tropics—most of the time back to Viet Nam. I was activated with cold weather gear for both the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention riots and the Pueblo crisis in Korea and somehow each time ended up back in the jungles of Viet Nam. Unfortunately back home, I had a prospective bride trying to establish a wedding date. (The “unfortunately” for the date—not the bride or wedding!) I remember quite a few of those hurried calls to say, “We’re leaving and I don’t know where, when, or how long.” Guess that helped contribute to me not being a “career man,” although I happily became a “career husband” within days of discharge. In fact, a few years after getting married, I was mobilized again. This time it was teamed with my bride as a traveling troubleshooting and training team for a family restaurant chain. Although we occasionally flew, we normally fit eight pieces of luggage under the hatch of a Datsun 240Z sports car. (My kids always thought we only had station wagons!) We traversed up and down the east coast from Detroit to Miami and Brookline to Huntsville. Remind me to tell you about Miami in August in a car without air conditioning! Later we operated a family business for almost thirty years that involved traveling to the customers to fulfill their needs. (Hopefully nothing they didn’t think they needed!) That saga was wonderful and I was sad to gradually lose contact with hundreds of wonderful folks that we served. I guess I’ve taken you on this odyssey to explain my bias supporting some of my thoughts. I believe we were designed to be dispatched to reach out to folks and situations. In this era of bailouts and massive organizational efforts, we’ve lost sight of our personal effectiveness especially when we sincerely reach out to other individuals. My heart breaks when I see so many well-meaning folks waiting on the sidelines. Often they’re waiting for others to ask them for help or for specialized organizations to discover and reach all the needs. I am anxious for those individuals to experience the joy of personally reaching out to those who come to their minds. Let’s spend some time reflecting what special person or family we can touch today. You’ll be blessed and I can assure you that your caring will impact folks in ways you never imagined.

Blind Spot

Since I moved back to Pennsylvania I have driven over a million miles throughout the state. Most of those miles have been in various vans to service small stores and bodegas in the state. Thankfully, most of my travel has been uneventful in spite of a lot of situations and unpredictable weather.Noteworthy exceptions are two traffic violations. I remember them both vividly although they were many miles and many years ago. The first involved a speeding ticket—I think for going about fifty some miles an hour in a thirty-five mile an hour zone. I must have been day dreaming. I had no clue what was happening until a local policeman finally had to turn on his siren. He said he’d followed me out of town with flashing lights blazing for about three quarters of a mile. I was extremely rattled and couldn’t remember any thirty-five mile an hour zones and had to accept his word for it. Once I got to my motel, I couldn’t sleep and returned to the area by moonlight. Sure enough, even though I was unfamiliar with the area, I found trees partially hiding an obscure thirty-five mile an hour sign. I “borrowed” a yellow page listing of local attorneys from my motel room and started mentally preparing my defense to clear my record. Even though the site was about two hundred miles from home I sent the ticket back saying that I wanted a court date and would have, in fact, some pictures to prove my innocence. On a subsequent visit to the area I took pictures of the partially hidden sign but didn’t have time to get an attorney. I actually negotiated a very reasonable price with one from the yellow pages once I returned home. We had an understanding that to save money on the day of my hearing I would meet this attorney for the first time and give him my pictures.I knew I was in trouble the day of the hearing when he asked me to pick him up at his home because he didn’t have a driver’s license! I think if I mention his frayed bowtie, rumpled suit and cardboard briefcase you’ll soon get the picture. After I paid him the required advance payment, I made room in my van to take him to “the scene of the crime.” When I confidently took him to the site of my prized pictures and he in turn reviewed the court summons, he just shook his head. I had pictures of the wrong area and our “air tight” potential defense vanished! As I walked into the courtroom I felt like a fool ready to be thoroughly humiliated. Little did I suspect that, for a reason I never understood or questioned, the judge would dismiss the charges without even looking at my pictures of the wrong site or hearing from us.The other violation was rather straight forward. As I re-entered a ramp onto Interstate 80 in a remote area of north central Pennsylvania, I merged immediately into the passing lane of a seemingly empty highway. In my driver’s side mirror I glimpsed a brief flash of white descending into the grassy area between the four lanes. I had no idea what it was until the startled State Trooper in the white police car recovered enough to turn on his lights and siren. I don’t think there is any defense for running a State Policeman off the road, at least in Pennsylvania.What have I learned? My otherwise “good driving record” and plea of ignorance had no relevance to the officers involved. As much as I hate to admit it, I am responsible for what I didn’t see and I have a record to prove it. Turns out I can’t always trust my visual perceptions for the complete picture. I have some real “blind spots” that leave me vulnerable even when I am not driving. Perhaps “walking by sight” isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.

What?

The mortal drive for self sufficiency starts early and is utterly fascinating. Several weeks ago I watched my newborn granddaughter (like her brother before her) raise her head and give me that kind of sheepishly proud “Grandpa, look at me” look. (It’s a grandchild-grandpa thing that you may not be privileged to understand.) One of my life’s treats is to see folks discover and practice new capabilities and giftings so I get special thrills from things like that. Actually, it goes beyond humans and extends to fledgling birds, kittens and puppies, and a wide range of other creatures. The curve ascends rapidly and can cause a bit of concern when it gets to the “plugging in electrical appliances and climbing ladders by themselves” stages. I love to watch kids (and those with kid-like confidence and daring). It seems that we are wired with an “I can do it all by myself” or “You do it for me” (with no in between) from an early age. Our “life’s achievements all by ourselves” seem to rise with rapid, almost meteor shower-like bursts. I am sure we’ve all shared the pride in first shoe tying, first ABC’s, first bus ride to school, first “Twinkle, Twinkle” instrumental song, and many other firsts. (Many recorded in a secret keepsake book for posterity.) As I mentioned, this all seems like a curve to me, I think you call it a bell curve. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to have equal sides. It seems more like some of those new roller coasters at Dorney Park or Six Flags. They go almost straight up and then peak and then begin what can be a long endlessly terrifying drop down the other side. I guess things that I couldn’t do for myself started appearing early in life. Most were learned with a degree of embarrassment or humiliation although some were a short-lived source of pride. I remember “failing” an eye test in fourth grade and being one of the first to be able to have glasses. That pride quickly evaporated when I first heard the term “four eyes” and realized it wasn’t a compliment. I’ve been learning what I can’t do for myself ever since and the pace seems to be increasing. It’s easy to see this in others. I have a friend who is adapting reluctantly to crutches but has still figured out a way to drive. I see other stretch their arms to maximum length and beyond to focus on the newspaper. It’s almost humorous when it’s someone else. Unfortunately, as I get older my own limitations are many and seemingly growing exponentially. I now rely on “equipment” or medication to do a wide range of common things I did so well as a young child—things like sleeping, reading, carrying—those kinds of things. The latest came today with two tiny devices valued at a gold like price per ounce. You see, I could no longer shake my head the right way when people spoke to me. I was shaking my head up and down when the appropriate response to an inquiry should have been a back and forth “no.” If I wasn’t looking directly at someone, I was lost in my own garbled world. My verbal vocabulary had dwindled to the four letter word, “What?” I am learning that the secret to what folks call “success and happiness” is not what I can do. It has more to do with what I can’t do and am willing to swallow my pride and accept proper aid, assistance, and direction. There is so much that can be accomplished and enjoyed when I learn to embrace my limitations and recognize and relish the resources and folks that God has provided for a full and meaningful life.

Palm

I wake up with a simple common four letter word on my mind—at least I think it is simple. The word is PALM. Now all I have to do is figure out the significance. I am “off and running.” Must be those trees that I’ve seen everywhere in tropical climates (along with Las Vegas). In fact, there is even a hotel and casino by that name in Las Vegas. That’s not to be confused with the cities in California or the island off the coast of Dubai, or the restaurant chain in New York City, or the Hawaii recording company, or the Belgian brewery. Or the art house film distribution company. Or PhotoActivated Localization Microscopy known by PALM, or the unit of length. Or the small computer-like personal digital assistant with an operating system by the same name as well. Or the magic thing the Harlem Globetrotters routinely do with a basketball, and it goes on and on. None of those seem to “ring a bell” so I guess I should move on to the body part. That does resonate somewhat. I remember recently being told by a dietician to adjust my meat portion size to a sliver the size of my palm. As a vegetarian that’s now do-able although it would have been “impossible” most of my lifetime. I think of all the palms I’ve touched with our American custom of shaking hands. One ex-Marine friend with a still powerful handshake comes to mind but there have been countless thousands of others over time. I think of my Indian friends who have never felt inclined to anything beyond a seemingly timid limp handshake by American standards. That’s because we insist on molding them to our culture instead of their more dignified “prayer-like” posture of a clasped hand greeting of “Namaskar” or “Namaste.” As I sit reflecting, I gaze at my palms. There are way more “character lines” than I remember. In fact, as my “eagle eyed” grandson might observe, my palms have gotten kind of wrinkly to say the least. They certainly didn’t look that way when I used to cup them to drink as a Boy Scout. Of course, they’re bigger now than when they used to imprison treasures such as lightning bugs (fireflies) or toads and frogs. It reminds me of the trembling injured sparrows or baby bunnies that I’ve discovered that these palms have lovingly encased. None of those many things come close to the thrill my palms experienced just a few short weeks ago. Mere words can’t do justice to the feeling of holding a precious new granddaughter cupped in the palms of my hands. Somehow something magical or may I say spiritual transmitted to the depth of my being from that tiny innocent bundle in the palms of my hands. It brought back a flood of wonderful memories of other family births. I am reminded once again that without a doubt I am a very blessed man.

Rote

I did a stupid thing yesterday. Maybe more than one, but at least one very significant one comes to mind. I live with a rather large and perpetually unfinished to-do list. I desperately try (unsuccessfully) to whittle it down each and every day. Yesterday’s list had more items than normal since I’ve had “lot on my plate” the past few days. I started with quite a few phone calls as I worked my way down the list. The first calls were personal in nature including one to my “bride.” Others were more businesslike in nature. I guess that’s when my problem began because in my hurry I didn’t mentally “shift gears.”
I had to place a telephone order with some folks that I’ve known and done business with for many years. It is a family business and I normally deal with the lady of the household. For some reason, there was no answer when I called. I got an answering machine message with “wait for the series of beeps.” Impatiently, right after the last one, I said, “Hi (the ladies name)” and placed my order. Unfortunately I didn’t stop there. For whatever reason I absentmindedly finished with the phrase I use with my wife and family members—“I love yah.” There was another “beep” and I belatedly realized that I had a very embarrassing problem with no way to undo it. And I thought email was the only irreversible communications trap!
My wife, thankfully, understood. (This wasn’t the first stupid thing I’ve said in our many years since meeting in grade school.) Eventually I got up the nerve and went to talk to the lady’s husband and he said, “I’ll handle it.” Now all that is left is to live it down and to make sure I don’t say something else “while on autopilot” in the future.
Even though I mean well, I now realize how often I can potentially say things out of habit or formality rather than personal expression. Many years ago when I was in a special meeting with other men in my church, I was seated next to an older (more mature) gent. We were both called on to pray with me leading. I “covered all the bases” to the best of my ability with the best most all inclusive prayer I could muster. When the “seasoned” gentleman started to pray all I remember him saying was, “Oh God… ” and then he just started sobbing uncontrollably. That made a profound and lasting impression on me that started me on a course that I obviously still haven’t mastered. I want to personally connect and not just say words.
I am increasingly aware of “rote” words, both good and bad. Normally, at the worst, “good” words can only be a source of embarrassment like I just experienced. More and more I see and hear “bad” words that are expressed verbally or written in public forums like Facebook. I suspect many are routinely delivered for temporary shock value. I hope they aren’t reflections of the heart but acknowledge that possibility. I see and hear those words in cutting, vulgar, and defamatory usage by a broader range of folks in increasingly diverse situations. I sadly suspect their usage has grown into a rote habit for many folks to be used more and more frequently.
I need to remember words, both good and bad, have such a potentially powerful lasting force. They shouldn’t be endlessly squandered as a rote trite commodity. As I learned, they can’t be taken back. In addition, in our communication with each other, they need to reflect the uplifting goodness that our hearts so crave. I must take the time to focus and positively target what I’m saying. Let’s speak positive and personal life into our world one person at a time.

Sniping

Many years ago as a Boy Scout, a favorite challenge for newcomers to Camp Karoondinha near Glen Iron, Pa was nighttime “snipe hunting.” There are supposedly 20 varieties of snipes worldwide but none that were ever found at our remote camp. That didn’t stop hundreds of “old-timer” scouts from exposing the “newbie” to the challenges of scary nighttime forest searches for them over the years. I was amazed to recently find that there are actually critters called snipes all related to woodcocks. They are amazingly swift wading birds and skilled in spearing unsuspecting invertebrates in the mud with sewing machine-like precision. The difficulty in hunting snipes actually gave us the term “sniper” used to describe military anti-personnel sharpshooters starting with the American colonial wars. According to Wikipedia this was largely facilitated by the multitalented patriot and inventor Ben Franklin. Colonial American snipe hunting was made possible by his invention of a firearm accessory consisting of a round pig hide tube containing two crude glass lenses etched with acid to make a telescopic crosshair sight. There is a new application of the term “snipe” or “sniping” that I’ve so far not found captured in any dictionary. It is frequently used to describe on-line computer buffs who stalk E-bay-type computer auction sites looking for bargains. Bids for items are placed online by hundreds of computer operators worldwide over the internet. The bidding often takes place leisurely over the course of a week or even ten days. It’s very common for the bids to hover initially at a few dollars for items worth hundreds. It is possible to bid remotely to raise your bid automatically up to your maximum predetermined limit when others bid against you. During the final seconds of bidding there are folks who wait until other bidders are lulled into complacency, certain of winning. Then they swoop in with a carefully calculated final bid that doesn’t give other unsuspecting folks time to react. This is called “sniping.” I guess it’s time to admit I’ve used this technique to capture a few items that I “had to have.” I’ve also lost quite a few “sure things” to other “snipers,” many using new automatically programmed last second computer bids. As you can imagine tension and blood pressures rise during these final seconds of bidding. One personal episode of terror especially comes to mind. I was enraptured by an E-bay listing of a new model digital camera that I “just couldn’t live without”. I was so sure of my strategy that I had my teenage daughter observe my deft last minute shrewdness. At the last seconds I was going to bid $4000.00…oops $400.00! You guessed it; I accidentally put an extra zero in my bid and froze in horror. Fortunately my daughter saved me with a few swift blurred key strokes and my winning bid was recorded as $400.00 not $4000.00. I couldn’t stand up for a few minutes and fortunately my daughter didn’t broadcast my embarrassment. I have had two other more important times in my life where I was sure I would be able to make last minute lifesaving sniping-type moves or actions to make things right. In both situations I was not able to carry out my last minute strategy for survival and was saved by other “unseen hands” to live another day. These two experiences along with, to a lesser extent, my E-bay experiences make me determined to not trust my last minute sniping skills. I want to be ready in advance for whatever may come my way and not have to trust my own feeble initiatives and timing at the last minute. It’s just too risky and I’m just too fallible.