This morning turned out to be fascinating. An early morning eye appointment led the way. Well not quite; before my appointment started, an ear splitting siren heralded a fire drill that evacuated the medical facility. Things eventually returned to normal and my Ophthalmologist was a delight.
The doctor is a retired Viet Nam-era F-4 fighter pilot and an avid aircraft buff. I am trained on F-4s myself (ground support; not a pilot) and it was delightful to relive our young and “fearless” bygone days. Things like Martin Baker ejection seats and J-79 jet engines mean little to others but gave us a lot of pleasant memory jogging. We traced a lot of geography beyond Viet Nam- the Philippines, Okinawa, Japan, Guam, Midway, Hawaii, and even many continental United States assignments. It’s amazing how much I have in common with a formerly total stranger.
Once we got down from “the wild blue yonder,” it turned out to be mainly questions and examinations with just an occasional flight of fantasy. I find it amazing that someone can externally clarify my vision with all those dials and gadgets and a series of questions. I want to do well on any “test” and this is no exception. My eyes apparently don’t understand and “we” don’t do as well as I would like.
That leads to plan B. Soon I tilt my head back to have some special drops trickle into each of my eyes “to get a better look.” Then, a waiting period and more war stories to fill the time. Eventually, my eyes are dilated or at least I am told they are. I feel a bit of uncertainty because the last time I heard that term it involved a lot of pain (for someone else) and I am not ready to share that kind of experience. Fortunately, this is different even though I am virtually blind. I sit helplessly with my head immobilized while the doctor shines a tiny focused light into my eyes.
As I sit reflecting on my morning, I am struck with the significance of the events. Until this morning my personal “expert” diagnosis of my vision is normal; based on all I can see. Fortunately, someone who’s an expert on perfect vision sees things differently. In order to have my vision brought up to his standards and expectations, I have to give up my vision. The dilation and the resulting helpless inability for me to focus are a necessary part of his plan. He peers behind my dilated pupils to diagnose and restore the renewed “perfect” vision that he knows is possible. All I have to do is to give up my vision and be immobilized and defer to the vision expert. He takes it from there with amazing results. No longer do I think I can see; I have vision thanks to an expert.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Graft
Several weeks ago I reflected and wrote everything I could possibly think about oranges. Somehow that didn’t satisfy my fascination. Ironically as I sat peeling a navel orange this morning, I puzzled what else could there possibly be to write about them. Without knowing what I was thinking, my Wife came up with something different. She is scheduled to give me an injection today. As we discussed it, she absentmindedly mentioned that she had learned to give injections in nursing school by practicing on oranges. But no, you’re not going to have to follow a discourse on injections, so relax.
I realized how little I really know about something that is one of my favorite treats. Although it is now an “in” color, I don’t even like the color orange even on Kabota tractors or race cars. My attraction has always been just the juicy succulent fruit of navel oranges and nothing else. I don’t even know how oranges are grown although I have heard that they grow on trees. And I tease a foreign born friend who wondered about spaghetti trees.
I decided to do a little homework on an appropriate computer site.
(http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-a-navel-orange.htm)
What a fascinating story and I quote from that site.
“The navel orange is actually the result of a single mutation which occurred on a plantation in Brazil in 1820. The mutation led to the formation of a conjoined twin enclosed within the rind of a seedless orange. Because the navel orange is seedless, it can only be propagated through cuttings. Technically, every navel orange comes from the same orange tree; the Brazilian orange which generated a spontaneous mutation hundreds of years ago. Orange farmers take cuttings from their navel orange trees and graft them onto fresh stock periodically to ensure that their orchards stay healthy, and also for the purpose of expansion.”
In other words, one “oddball” orange that was different from any other changed oranges forever. Every other navel orange tree is a graft from that original stock. Grafting is necessary for the orchards to stay healthy and then to expand. I think it is natural for me to want to reproduce myself, at least my good qualities. I need to avoid that temptation even though it does wonders for my aging ego. Reproductive efforts must be directed toward grafting into the perfect stock that is responsible for all good fruit. Thank you to wisegeek.com and the original Navel Orange.
I realized how little I really know about something that is one of my favorite treats. Although it is now an “in” color, I don’t even like the color orange even on Kabota tractors or race cars. My attraction has always been just the juicy succulent fruit of navel oranges and nothing else. I don’t even know how oranges are grown although I have heard that they grow on trees. And I tease a foreign born friend who wondered about spaghetti trees.
I decided to do a little homework on an appropriate computer site.
(http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-a-navel-orange.htm)
What a fascinating story and I quote from that site.
“The navel orange is actually the result of a single mutation which occurred on a plantation in Brazil in 1820. The mutation led to the formation of a conjoined twin enclosed within the rind of a seedless orange. Because the navel orange is seedless, it can only be propagated through cuttings. Technically, every navel orange comes from the same orange tree; the Brazilian orange which generated a spontaneous mutation hundreds of years ago. Orange farmers take cuttings from their navel orange trees and graft them onto fresh stock periodically to ensure that their orchards stay healthy, and also for the purpose of expansion.”
In other words, one “oddball” orange that was different from any other changed oranges forever. Every other navel orange tree is a graft from that original stock. Grafting is necessary for the orchards to stay healthy and then to expand. I think it is natural for me to want to reproduce myself, at least my good qualities. I need to avoid that temptation even though it does wonders for my aging ego. Reproductive efforts must be directed toward grafting into the perfect stock that is responsible for all good fruit. Thank you to wisegeek.com and the original Navel Orange.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
WayOutYonder
What a treat! Recently I was the guest of two delightful young men (eighteen months and thirty-three months old) at the Pittsburgh Children’s Museum. Although I can’t substantiate it, I believe the facility is created just for grandsons and their proud grandfathers. At least that’s my personal take on things. What a delightful place to fit into ones schedule right before afternoon naps.
I found a fantasy world come to life. The whole facility is designed to permit and encourage “everything kids could possibly want to do” and many they don’t even know they “can’t live without.” Naturally, there is the unspoken but understood directive that grandfathers have to photograph everything for posterity.
There is a thirty-foot parachute drop, a real Mini Cooper car to pretend to drive and fuel, a long foam tunnel to explore, and sand everywhere. Then there’s the Phosphorescent Room where everything glows, the Studio Room for budding artists, and the 3-D Sound Room. All are delightful.
There is a whole section featuring the memorabilia of Pittsburgh native Mr. Rogers. All you have to do is put on your sneakers and sweater to enter a real Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood with many of the puppets, the fish tank, and the actual working trolley. You can play Mr. Rogers’ show tunes on his working piano. Unfortunately Mr. Rogers predates my young cronies and sparked no recognition.
Perhaps the high point is a place where pairs of tiny Crocs shoes and raincoats are donned to explore various water wonders to a tyke’s heart delight. Water World features a 53 foot water table where you can sail a boat that you built yourself and send through working locks. In addition, there is a large area where a prospective plumber can construct a maze of pipes carrying actual streams of water. This virtually assures a soaking. At the end are three separate rows of about ten electric hand dryers hung from two and a half to four feet off the ground to accommodate any sized patron. Observation: they don’t get every wet part dry, not even close.
Needless to say, we all had a marvelous time and perhaps a once in a lifetime experience. It was the kid’s equivalent of a summer vacation that we sit in our cubicles or work vehicles and dream about. This year the economy has made that sadly elusive for many. Somehow, it has always seemed sad to me that we often “endure” our day-to-day lives while dreaming of an expensive, exotic week or so that we hope will make it worthwhile.
As I sit and look at the pictures from that fabulous weekend (yes, I’m one of those), I notice something interesting. My grandsons seemed to grin more at their uncle’s attempt at juggling, looking out the window at a squirrel, or playing with a vacuum cleaner than they did at the special Children’s Museum. They have mastered the art of enjoying the joys and thrills of an everyday potpourri of “not so special” events. The kids who are the supposed target market of the Children’s Museum actually discover and create a very exciting day to day life without the Museum. I suspect that’s why the Museum’s focus seems to be on those of us who can read brochures, look at websites, and are always looking for a more exciting experience. Perhaps we adults are missing something when we pin our hopes and dreams totally on something “way out yonder.” Today has some pretty neat experiences wherever you’re planted when you take the time to be childlike.
I found a fantasy world come to life. The whole facility is designed to permit and encourage “everything kids could possibly want to do” and many they don’t even know they “can’t live without.” Naturally, there is the unspoken but understood directive that grandfathers have to photograph everything for posterity.
There is a thirty-foot parachute drop, a real Mini Cooper car to pretend to drive and fuel, a long foam tunnel to explore, and sand everywhere. Then there’s the Phosphorescent Room where everything glows, the Studio Room for budding artists, and the 3-D Sound Room. All are delightful.
There is a whole section featuring the memorabilia of Pittsburgh native Mr. Rogers. All you have to do is put on your sneakers and sweater to enter a real Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood with many of the puppets, the fish tank, and the actual working trolley. You can play Mr. Rogers’ show tunes on his working piano. Unfortunately Mr. Rogers predates my young cronies and sparked no recognition.
Perhaps the high point is a place where pairs of tiny Crocs shoes and raincoats are donned to explore various water wonders to a tyke’s heart delight. Water World features a 53 foot water table where you can sail a boat that you built yourself and send through working locks. In addition, there is a large area where a prospective plumber can construct a maze of pipes carrying actual streams of water. This virtually assures a soaking. At the end are three separate rows of about ten electric hand dryers hung from two and a half to four feet off the ground to accommodate any sized patron. Observation: they don’t get every wet part dry, not even close.
Needless to say, we all had a marvelous time and perhaps a once in a lifetime experience. It was the kid’s equivalent of a summer vacation that we sit in our cubicles or work vehicles and dream about. This year the economy has made that sadly elusive for many. Somehow, it has always seemed sad to me that we often “endure” our day-to-day lives while dreaming of an expensive, exotic week or so that we hope will make it worthwhile.
As I sit and look at the pictures from that fabulous weekend (yes, I’m one of those), I notice something interesting. My grandsons seemed to grin more at their uncle’s attempt at juggling, looking out the window at a squirrel, or playing with a vacuum cleaner than they did at the special Children’s Museum. They have mastered the art of enjoying the joys and thrills of an everyday potpourri of “not so special” events. The kids who are the supposed target market of the Children’s Museum actually discover and create a very exciting day to day life without the Museum. I suspect that’s why the Museum’s focus seems to be on those of us who can read brochures, look at websites, and are always looking for a more exciting experience. Perhaps we adults are missing something when we pin our hopes and dreams totally on something “way out yonder.” Today has some pretty neat experiences wherever you’re planted when you take the time to be childlike.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Body
My wife and I spent the weekend in a very comfortable, well known motel property. I once worked in development for a hotel chain so I noticed a lot of recent innovations and details for pampering guests. The bed and bedding were especially well researched and executed. Must be how it would feel if I could go back into the womb.
I chuckled when I realized that the marketing arm of the organization had capitalized on all those “guest comfort items” and actually listed each for sale at an appropriate (to them) price. One item especially caught my eye since the mattress set and other furnishing were way out of my league. That was a warm faux down comforter at a bit less than $200. Even though the English language is not my strong point, it struck me as a misnomer. Yes, I was warm in the comforter but it wasn’t warm at all until my body came in contact with it. It wasn’t the comforter that provided the warmth.
Although I seldom think about it, my body has been providing consistent slightly less than one hundred degree warmth for as long as I can remember. Yes, a blanket or coat may capture the heat, but it is my body that provides the warmth. Wonder if it feels slighted and jealous when the eyes and ears tell stories of advertised “warm” items that are dependent on the body’s amazing but unheralded heating capabilities. That, in turn, took me to the approximately 2,244,312,000 times that my, slightly worse for the wear, heart has pumped. (Sounds like a national debt type of figure, doesn’t it?) From there, I ventured on to the often neglected sensory body parts that provide so much joy. Sniffles and itches are not a true picture in proper perspective of that protrusion called a nose. Ears are not just a terminal for ornaments. The picture goes on and on.
Makes me a bit embarrassed to realize how little I think about my amazingly created body except in a complaining or regretful manner. In fact, bodies that aren’t exceptional in some manner are not things that I think about. Hair, nails, pearly whites, hourglass figures, and six pack abs are the focus these days. If my body wasn’t the only one available to me, I’d probably consider it a truly disposable commodity. I’d replace or upgrade it frequently like some folks do their cars. Sagging and slightly used isn’t glamorous but perhaps my body is one of those gifts I’ve taken for granted for too long. Thank heavens I wasn’t the one who designed or chose it. I would have made it far more stylish and glamorous at the expense of really important unheralded characteristics that continue to keep me alive. Perhaps it isn’t the only “faithful and true” thing that I’ve taken for granted in my day to day living.
I chuckled when I realized that the marketing arm of the organization had capitalized on all those “guest comfort items” and actually listed each for sale at an appropriate (to them) price. One item especially caught my eye since the mattress set and other furnishing were way out of my league. That was a warm faux down comforter at a bit less than $200. Even though the English language is not my strong point, it struck me as a misnomer. Yes, I was warm in the comforter but it wasn’t warm at all until my body came in contact with it. It wasn’t the comforter that provided the warmth.
Although I seldom think about it, my body has been providing consistent slightly less than one hundred degree warmth for as long as I can remember. Yes, a blanket or coat may capture the heat, but it is my body that provides the warmth. Wonder if it feels slighted and jealous when the eyes and ears tell stories of advertised “warm” items that are dependent on the body’s amazing but unheralded heating capabilities. That, in turn, took me to the approximately 2,244,312,000 times that my, slightly worse for the wear, heart has pumped. (Sounds like a national debt type of figure, doesn’t it?) From there, I ventured on to the often neglected sensory body parts that provide so much joy. Sniffles and itches are not a true picture in proper perspective of that protrusion called a nose. Ears are not just a terminal for ornaments. The picture goes on and on.
Makes me a bit embarrassed to realize how little I think about my amazingly created body except in a complaining or regretful manner. In fact, bodies that aren’t exceptional in some manner are not things that I think about. Hair, nails, pearly whites, hourglass figures, and six pack abs are the focus these days. If my body wasn’t the only one available to me, I’d probably consider it a truly disposable commodity. I’d replace or upgrade it frequently like some folks do their cars. Sagging and slightly used isn’t glamorous but perhaps my body is one of those gifts I’ve taken for granted for too long. Thank heavens I wasn’t the one who designed or chose it. I would have made it far more stylish and glamorous at the expense of really important unheralded characteristics that continue to keep me alive. Perhaps it isn’t the only “faithful and true” thing that I’ve taken for granted in my day to day living.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Accessories
Even though it has been almost a year since I returned, it is still difficult for me to have any kind of a meaningful conversation without mentioning the kids of Kolkata, India. I look forward to the time that I can better assist my friend Diganta in fulfilling his dream of providing an orphanage for them. I took over 2400 pictures in Kolkata and West Bengal which I have since distilled down to about an hour long narrated presentation. For those of you who have been part of one of those groups, one young man of perhaps six or seven years old may be seared in your mind like it is mine. I will never, never forget his smiling face and infectious personality.
I don’t know the complete history or circumstances that surround him, but I know they aren’t ideal. Like most other children that Diganta and his family work with, this young man lives on the streets of Kolkata. He had the most contagious toothy (minus one or two) grin I’ve ever seen. In fact, I use a picture of his grinning face pressed up against the window of our vehicle as the final picture of my talk.
My friend Diganta does his best to provide very basic assistance with an enormous amount of love to the kids on the streets. That consists of a simple meal, some basic education, a thorough scrubbing and tooth brushing (and lice picking), and a dress or pair of pants. The pants that were given to this young man didn’t fit tom say the least. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit. In fact, he had rigged up a rubber band type of belt to hold them up which just didn’t work. It seemed each time he reached out to grab my hand his pants would fall off. He just grinned more. It was absolutely infectious and I am not used to smiling that much.
I think about him often and, after reflecting on his grin, I always silently chuckle and think about his makeshift belt. Even though he wasn’t concerned, it played an unheralded role in providing for his protection and dignity. In spite of optimistically maintaining a variety of sizes of belts hidden away in my closet, none of mine could help him either.
My mind was off and running (again or perhaps still). How would the “accessories” hidden in the recesses of this world feel if they had feelings? I mean not just the belt, but the lug nut, the key ring, the makeup mirror, the notebook, the shoestring, the Windex, the salt shaker, the shoe polish, the nail file, and the list goes on and on. I am sure from their limited perspective there would be times that they would feel insignificant and even a useless bother.
I recently read with interest about a seminar in Philadelphia. It wasn’t about the usual leadership or some way to make more money. It was to teach “how to fulfill an important background role without drawing attention to yourself.” What a fascinating and much needed concept and I am sorry I have a schedule conflict and can’t attend. It reinforces a little known truth that the world can’t effectively function without the unheralded and often hidden “accessories.” If you were created to be a seemingly insignificant accessory, perform your calling well and with pride. You’re vital.
I don’t know the complete history or circumstances that surround him, but I know they aren’t ideal. Like most other children that Diganta and his family work with, this young man lives on the streets of Kolkata. He had the most contagious toothy (minus one or two) grin I’ve ever seen. In fact, I use a picture of his grinning face pressed up against the window of our vehicle as the final picture of my talk.
My friend Diganta does his best to provide very basic assistance with an enormous amount of love to the kids on the streets. That consists of a simple meal, some basic education, a thorough scrubbing and tooth brushing (and lice picking), and a dress or pair of pants. The pants that were given to this young man didn’t fit tom say the least. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit. In fact, he had rigged up a rubber band type of belt to hold them up which just didn’t work. It seemed each time he reached out to grab my hand his pants would fall off. He just grinned more. It was absolutely infectious and I am not used to smiling that much.
I think about him often and, after reflecting on his grin, I always silently chuckle and think about his makeshift belt. Even though he wasn’t concerned, it played an unheralded role in providing for his protection and dignity. In spite of optimistically maintaining a variety of sizes of belts hidden away in my closet, none of mine could help him either.
My mind was off and running (again or perhaps still). How would the “accessories” hidden in the recesses of this world feel if they had feelings? I mean not just the belt, but the lug nut, the key ring, the makeup mirror, the notebook, the shoestring, the Windex, the salt shaker, the shoe polish, the nail file, and the list goes on and on. I am sure from their limited perspective there would be times that they would feel insignificant and even a useless bother.
I recently read with interest about a seminar in Philadelphia. It wasn’t about the usual leadership or some way to make more money. It was to teach “how to fulfill an important background role without drawing attention to yourself.” What a fascinating and much needed concept and I am sorry I have a schedule conflict and can’t attend. It reinforces a little known truth that the world can’t effectively function without the unheralded and often hidden “accessories.” If you were created to be a seemingly insignificant accessory, perform your calling well and with pride. You’re vital.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Water
Water-Pure Clean Water
John Teufel
Such natural historic beauty! Natalie and I are enjoying a delightful visit to the Catskill region of New York State. We are relishing my brother and sister-in-law’s hospitality on their majestic property called the Black Walnut Farm. Actually, today it is a farmette where no active farming is done but it is not hard to picture the history.
The historic 1747 thirty five acre homestead was developed by a son of the Myers family who were granted land by the British Crown well before the American Revolution. I could go on forever about the property and homestead. One of the things I enjoy most (after the hospitality) is the wildlife. There is everything on this property from voles to coyotes, beavers, and a resident bear. Last night I enjoyed watching sleek deer peacefully grazing 50 to 100 yards from the home. I found myself looking out over the property fantasizing what life must have been like in the pre-Revolutionary War day.
The home itself is amazing. It is apparent that construction was done with hand tools and countless hours of backbreaking labor. It’s amazing what a man and a boy can do with a crosscut saw to produce massive hand hewed beams. I am actually sitting on a porch where I can gaze at the walls of field stones that contribute so much to the endurance of this structure. In fact, there are numerous areas such as the bathroom where it is evident that the stone walls are 30 inches or more thick. So much for our “solid” 2X4” and 2x6” construction methods. The construction is amazingly enduring but not without flaws. My brother-in-law had to install thousands of wooden shims to get the flooring level.
One of the most intriguing parts of the home to me is one doorway. It is apparent that the five and a half foot door frames were built in an era where most folks weren’t six foot four inches tall. Even though I can be klutzy at times, I haven’t hit my head-yet.
This fortress of a home was built with a lot of forethought that, with the proper maintenance, can endure for many more generations. The structure is proven and the property appears to be a “self-contained domestic Shangri-La.” There is only one major and not readily apparent “flaw.” The most important element of the site is totally invisible. Sometime before my brother and sister- in-law bought the property, an industrial complex was constructed about three quarters of a mile away. Because of majestic towering pines that rim the farm it’s not real visible. You see, dangerous toxic chemicals leached into the water table which allegedly caused many neighborhood health problems. Although the water has approached safer purity levels over time and the factory is long defunct, even Dixie the Golden Retriever now drinks bottled water. That’s what the truck was doing yesterday that backed up the long narrow driveway- bringing unlimited pure water. Without it, this would only be a beautiful dream and not a permanent home no matter what the construction.
With my own thoughts focusing so much on building safety and security into my life, I need constant reminders that I cannot build invulnerability on my own. My best planning for an enduring future has left me susceptible to unanticipated outside forces. Over time, there are hidden leaching contaminants that invisibly seep into my day to day life and jeopardize my long term well being. Some are not even my fault. One thing is becoming much more apparent each day. I need to depend on a pure outside source of water that will never end in this era of seemingly constant discovery of more new emerging pollutants.
John Teufel
Such natural historic beauty! Natalie and I are enjoying a delightful visit to the Catskill region of New York State. We are relishing my brother and sister-in-law’s hospitality on their majestic property called the Black Walnut Farm. Actually, today it is a farmette where no active farming is done but it is not hard to picture the history.
The historic 1747 thirty five acre homestead was developed by a son of the Myers family who were granted land by the British Crown well before the American Revolution. I could go on forever about the property and homestead. One of the things I enjoy most (after the hospitality) is the wildlife. There is everything on this property from voles to coyotes, beavers, and a resident bear. Last night I enjoyed watching sleek deer peacefully grazing 50 to 100 yards from the home. I found myself looking out over the property fantasizing what life must have been like in the pre-Revolutionary War day.
The home itself is amazing. It is apparent that construction was done with hand tools and countless hours of backbreaking labor. It’s amazing what a man and a boy can do with a crosscut saw to produce massive hand hewed beams. I am actually sitting on a porch where I can gaze at the walls of field stones that contribute so much to the endurance of this structure. In fact, there are numerous areas such as the bathroom where it is evident that the stone walls are 30 inches or more thick. So much for our “solid” 2X4” and 2x6” construction methods. The construction is amazingly enduring but not without flaws. My brother-in-law had to install thousands of wooden shims to get the flooring level.
One of the most intriguing parts of the home to me is one doorway. It is apparent that the five and a half foot door frames were built in an era where most folks weren’t six foot four inches tall. Even though I can be klutzy at times, I haven’t hit my head-yet.
This fortress of a home was built with a lot of forethought that, with the proper maintenance, can endure for many more generations. The structure is proven and the property appears to be a “self-contained domestic Shangri-La.” There is only one major and not readily apparent “flaw.” The most important element of the site is totally invisible. Sometime before my brother and sister- in-law bought the property, an industrial complex was constructed about three quarters of a mile away. Because of majestic towering pines that rim the farm it’s not real visible. You see, dangerous toxic chemicals leached into the water table which allegedly caused many neighborhood health problems. Although the water has approached safer purity levels over time and the factory is long defunct, even Dixie the Golden Retriever now drinks bottled water. That’s what the truck was doing yesterday that backed up the long narrow driveway- bringing unlimited pure water. Without it, this would only be a beautiful dream and not a permanent home no matter what the construction.
With my own thoughts focusing so much on building safety and security into my life, I need constant reminders that I cannot build invulnerability on my own. My best planning for an enduring future has left me susceptible to unanticipated outside forces. Over time, there are hidden leaching contaminants that invisibly seep into my day to day life and jeopardize my long term well being. Some are not even my fault. One thing is becoming much more apparent each day. I need to depend on a pure outside source of water that will never end in this era of seemingly constant discovery of more new emerging pollutants.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Keeping Score
It is difficult for me to remember life before computers. Oh, I remember not having a computer. I just don’t remember what I did with my life. I vividly remember the progression from my first digital watch to my first clunky portable digital calculator. Then it was on to a tiny Sinclair computer with its cassette tape player for storing data. Each was a substantial investment and each was a real milestone. Each changed my life forever as has all the technology since.
Things seemed to proceed rather rapidly once I embarked on the slippery slope of technology. In fact, it seems to border on an obsession with “the latest and greatest” that COMDEX (a technology exposition in Las Vegas) offers each year. There was the now ancient Kaypro computer with its tiny screen (which I believe my sister still has somewhere). I remember my first Intel 286 DOS then Windows based computer, and quite a few since. Amazingly though, no Blackberry in my quest for technology.
Since there are now only two of us in our household, over time a “tiny” 13 inch laptop computer took up semi-permanent residence at one of the place settings on our kitchen table. I pushed the envelope last week by “temporarily” bringing a second 21 inch monster laptop to the fourth place setting. The “temporary” was prudently observed and it is now banished to its old home in our downstairs office before it became an issue.
The kitchen is the focal point of our life in Schnecksville. I guess it dates way back before our present home. Come to think about it, the kitchen was the center of our lives when our kids were growing up in Denver and Memphis, and also when we were growing up back in our childhood homes in Watsontown. Actually I guess it goes back to my earliest memory of my Grandparent’s kitchen and its aromas in Milton. Some of my fondest life memories are based in an assortment of kitchens of family, friends, and even strangers. What wonderful relationships (and food) come to mind. Wish I had time for more of that type of memory-making bonding around kitchen tables.
Back to the present; enough day dreaming. Occasionally I wonder how healthy all my attachment to technology really is. I can justify each and every benefit to me and society in general. Perhaps the biggest benefit is the amount of time saved. Somehow though there is a nagging notion that something is amiss.
This morning was typically technology-fueled. I checked my email, updated Face book, and read my computer based devotions and Bible study while dining on my traditional predawn raw oatmeal and banana laced with skimmed milk. I even downloaded crossword and Sudoku puzzles from USA Today Online for the “love of my life” to start her day right. Soon, I was absentmindedly into a quick game of Solitaire on the computer. (I didn’t have enough time for a game of hearts.) I am a self-assessed “expert” on Solitaire but this time I lost rather quickly (42 seconds). In fact, it shocked me enough that before I started another game I checked the statistics that are automatically recorded after each game. Somehow the computer didn’t know my reputation and “mistakenly” thought that I’d only won 6% of the time. (Maybe it was the other computer that I won on most of the time.) I decided to check further. Yes, I had won a whopping 42 games on this one. The shocker was that I’d somehow played 606 total games on my wife’s computer.
Well, I’ve got to go now. Hopefully, I’ll find some time soon to help some friends and acquaintances that have addictions and such. Just have to somehow find some precious time to devote to those poor folks with their issues.
Things seemed to proceed rather rapidly once I embarked on the slippery slope of technology. In fact, it seems to border on an obsession with “the latest and greatest” that COMDEX (a technology exposition in Las Vegas) offers each year. There was the now ancient Kaypro computer with its tiny screen (which I believe my sister still has somewhere). I remember my first Intel 286 DOS then Windows based computer, and quite a few since. Amazingly though, no Blackberry in my quest for technology.
Since there are now only two of us in our household, over time a “tiny” 13 inch laptop computer took up semi-permanent residence at one of the place settings on our kitchen table. I pushed the envelope last week by “temporarily” bringing a second 21 inch monster laptop to the fourth place setting. The “temporary” was prudently observed and it is now banished to its old home in our downstairs office before it became an issue.
The kitchen is the focal point of our life in Schnecksville. I guess it dates way back before our present home. Come to think about it, the kitchen was the center of our lives when our kids were growing up in Denver and Memphis, and also when we were growing up back in our childhood homes in Watsontown. Actually I guess it goes back to my earliest memory of my Grandparent’s kitchen and its aromas in Milton. Some of my fondest life memories are based in an assortment of kitchens of family, friends, and even strangers. What wonderful relationships (and food) come to mind. Wish I had time for more of that type of memory-making bonding around kitchen tables.
Back to the present; enough day dreaming. Occasionally I wonder how healthy all my attachment to technology really is. I can justify each and every benefit to me and society in general. Perhaps the biggest benefit is the amount of time saved. Somehow though there is a nagging notion that something is amiss.
This morning was typically technology-fueled. I checked my email, updated Face book, and read my computer based devotions and Bible study while dining on my traditional predawn raw oatmeal and banana laced with skimmed milk. I even downloaded crossword and Sudoku puzzles from USA Today Online for the “love of my life” to start her day right. Soon, I was absentmindedly into a quick game of Solitaire on the computer. (I didn’t have enough time for a game of hearts.) I am a self-assessed “expert” on Solitaire but this time I lost rather quickly (42 seconds). In fact, it shocked me enough that before I started another game I checked the statistics that are automatically recorded after each game. Somehow the computer didn’t know my reputation and “mistakenly” thought that I’d only won 6% of the time. (Maybe it was the other computer that I won on most of the time.) I decided to check further. Yes, I had won a whopping 42 games on this one. The shocker was that I’d somehow played 606 total games on my wife’s computer.
Well, I’ve got to go now. Hopefully, I’ll find some time soon to help some friends and acquaintances that have addictions and such. Just have to somehow find some precious time to devote to those poor folks with their issues.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
White
As I was showering this morning, I had a strange thought. It was simply the word “white,” nothing else. Puzzled would be an understatement. I am used to having my mind work in strange ways but this was weird. Naturally, it was all I could think about for the next several hours.
The first thing that struck me was “what white”? I have friends with the name of White. I used to check the word “white” on my census type forms before I found out I was Caucasian. No, I am pretty sure this is the color white. As my mind raced through all the applications, verses, and truisms about white, naturally my eyes were riveted to everything colored white. Or was it really white that I was looking at? There are at least eight different shades of white in our bathroom. I thought “white is white” and that was the end of it, but I guess it isn’t so.
I realized that what I accept as pure white may be all in my mind’s eye. There seem to be a lot of variations that go way beyond the “pearl white” of newer cars or antique white of many new building interiors. When I came downstairs to look out the kitchen window, huge puffy white flakes were magically meandering to earth. The phrase “white as the new snow” naturally came to my mind or is it “pure as new snow”? It certainly is white and different than those eight shades I thought were white in the bathroom.
What is the difference? Is it the purity or absence of other elements? Although I am not big on dictionary definitions, this was one time I couldn’t resist. Wikipedia starts with a fascinating description (and much more that I found interesting but won’t pursue here). Their thought was as follows:
White is a color, the perception which is evoked by light that stimulates all three types of color sensitive cone cells in the human eye in near equal amount and with high brightness compared to the surroundings.
White to me is a perception evoked by light that is ever changing as objects draw closer to pure light. Blinding pure light makes everything white in my eyes. I am told that even the “purest” new snow starts out as a speck of dust in the atmosphere. http://www.livescience.com/mysteries/070119_snowflake_formation.html
Isn’t it interesting that the purest white that I know starts out as an impurity. Then it is dependent on the light it reflects- the brighter the light, the whiter the white. Scarlet (bright red) can actually turn white under supernaturally intense light.
What a fascinating world!
The first thing that struck me was “what white”? I have friends with the name of White. I used to check the word “white” on my census type forms before I found out I was Caucasian. No, I am pretty sure this is the color white. As my mind raced through all the applications, verses, and truisms about white, naturally my eyes were riveted to everything colored white. Or was it really white that I was looking at? There are at least eight different shades of white in our bathroom. I thought “white is white” and that was the end of it, but I guess it isn’t so.
I realized that what I accept as pure white may be all in my mind’s eye. There seem to be a lot of variations that go way beyond the “pearl white” of newer cars or antique white of many new building interiors. When I came downstairs to look out the kitchen window, huge puffy white flakes were magically meandering to earth. The phrase “white as the new snow” naturally came to my mind or is it “pure as new snow”? It certainly is white and different than those eight shades I thought were white in the bathroom.
What is the difference? Is it the purity or absence of other elements? Although I am not big on dictionary definitions, this was one time I couldn’t resist. Wikipedia starts with a fascinating description (and much more that I found interesting but won’t pursue here). Their thought was as follows:
White is a color, the perception which is evoked by light that stimulates all three types of color sensitive cone cells in the human eye in near equal amount and with high brightness compared to the surroundings.
White to me is a perception evoked by light that is ever changing as objects draw closer to pure light. Blinding pure light makes everything white in my eyes. I am told that even the “purest” new snow starts out as a speck of dust in the atmosphere. http://www.livescience.com/mysteries/070119_snowflake_formation.html
Isn’t it interesting that the purest white that I know starts out as an impurity. Then it is dependent on the light it reflects- the brighter the light, the whiter the white. Scarlet (bright red) can actually turn white under supernaturally intense light.
What a fascinating world!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Substitution
Like many of you, I feel that I have an awesome family. Without going into boring details, I can honestly say that I am extremely fond of every member of my family. That also extends to my extended blood family along with all of my in- laws. Sadly, only one sister and her family lives close to me in the Lehigh Valley. I miss my family a lot.
Last weekend my two-year-old grandson Owen brought his Mommy and Daddy from Pittsburgh to Grandpa and Nana's house. What a special treat- similar to Christmas and a vacation wrapped together. I don't think it gets much better than this. Owen and I (along with Mommy and Daddy and Nana) "packed" it in between compulsory naps.
We started with a big breakfast of ham and little pancakes (3 shaped like Mickey Mouse's face and two ears) followed by a trip to a dog show packed with potential canine friends. After a midday nap, we co-labored swabbing "goop" on homemade sticky (cinnamon) buns- something all two year old need to master! The weekend packed in as much as we could tackle. There was a lot of playing with old (new to him) toys, checking out a backhoe and ATV in the freezing cold, sled riding, steering Grandpa's garden tractor outfitted with chains and a plow blade through the snow, reading comics and listening to stories with Nana, and on and on. I'm sure you get the picture.
Today I feel like I just came down from a sugar high and it's hard to adjust. Why did I feel so overly compelled to do everything in one weekend? Guess it's part of being a grandparent. Because I love him so much too, I almost feel guilty as I try to recall if I did all those things with Owen's father. Was it all because someone made me feel so special with their adoring unconditional love?
My thoughts went back to the dog show we attended. I seldom feel the collective amount of love I felt in Ag Hall that day even in places that are supposed to be known for their love. The obvious pride, fawning expressions, and occasional slurpy dog kisses seemed to put the thousands who attended in a terrific mood. There was more "goodwill toward men" (and dogs) than I could imagine.
What do these two things from my weekend have in common? As I reflect, I realize sheepishly how great my need is to love and be unconditionally loved. Perhaps I should get over my hang ups to realize that the limitations beyond pets and grandchildren are somewhat self imposed. The lavish attention on these two groups is a substitution for pent up desires for deep relationships that I've thought unattainable. There is one who loves me unconditionally and possibly many more that don't have nearly the limitations I perceive. I am unconditionally loved and so are you; let's spread that love. It's needed a lot, especially in these times.
Last weekend my two-year-old grandson Owen brought his Mommy and Daddy from Pittsburgh to Grandpa and Nana's house. What a special treat- similar to Christmas and a vacation wrapped together. I don't think it gets much better than this. Owen and I (along with Mommy and Daddy and Nana) "packed" it in between compulsory naps.
We started with a big breakfast of ham and little pancakes (3 shaped like Mickey Mouse's face and two ears) followed by a trip to a dog show packed with potential canine friends. After a midday nap, we co-labored swabbing "goop" on homemade sticky (cinnamon) buns- something all two year old need to master! The weekend packed in as much as we could tackle. There was a lot of playing with old (new to him) toys, checking out a backhoe and ATV in the freezing cold, sled riding, steering Grandpa's garden tractor outfitted with chains and a plow blade through the snow, reading comics and listening to stories with Nana, and on and on. I'm sure you get the picture.
Today I feel like I just came down from a sugar high and it's hard to adjust. Why did I feel so overly compelled to do everything in one weekend? Guess it's part of being a grandparent. Because I love him so much too, I almost feel guilty as I try to recall if I did all those things with Owen's father. Was it all because someone made me feel so special with their adoring unconditional love?
My thoughts went back to the dog show we attended. I seldom feel the collective amount of love I felt in Ag Hall that day even in places that are supposed to be known for their love. The obvious pride, fawning expressions, and occasional slurpy dog kisses seemed to put the thousands who attended in a terrific mood. There was more "goodwill toward men" (and dogs) than I could imagine.
What do these two things from my weekend have in common? As I reflect, I realize sheepishly how great my need is to love and be unconditionally loved. Perhaps I should get over my hang ups to realize that the limitations beyond pets and grandchildren are somewhat self imposed. The lavish attention on these two groups is a substitution for pent up desires for deep relationships that I've thought unattainable. There is one who loves me unconditionally and possibly many more that don't have nearly the limitations I perceive. I am unconditionally loved and so are you; let's spread that love. It's needed a lot, especially in these times.
Dump
Webster will never capture the definition of the word "dump" that has been hidden in my mind for over fifty years. I often chuckle silently to myself when people talk affectionately about "The Dump." Many of them are fond of a heavily advertised retail establishment with that trade name known for bargains. Although I've never been there and dislike shopping a lot, I try to understand and be open-minded with their delight. It's obvious their mind carries a whole different image than mine does. They must have grown up in the era of sanitary landfills now portrayed on TV by those beautiful parks with squeaky clean green and white trucks driven by beaming drivers.
Our town dump was across the Susquehanna River from my home, possibly a half a mile away mile away “as a crow flies”. Although I have a diminishing sense of smell, I vividly remember a putrid horrible stench from my childhood when conditions were just right. I was reminded of that smell later while serving in various areas of the Far East and then again last year at times in Kolkata, India.
However, it wasn't just the smell etched in my mind. I remember shiny beady eyes peering out of the darkness under the beam of a powerful spotlight. My father was quite a marksman and he sometimes shot rats at the dump by spotlight on scary pitch black nights. I will never forget the sight of “huge” rats scurrying everywhere when the light exposed them. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. I know that rats have redeemed their image lately. They’ve become fashionable in recent years by serving as pet reptile food and even as pets themselves. These weren't those kinds of rats but rather big Norwegian River rats that squealed and fought among themselves.
It's amazing how many things have faded or been sanitized or hidden within my lifetime. Even though my heart went out to the children who plied the garbage in Kolkata last year, it was still garbage. I never ventured back to check under the cover of darkness, but I would guess critters still fought over the rotten decay just like they did during my childhood back in the good old United States of America.
Amazingly, a beautiful home now sits on the site of our old town dump. As you see in the commercials, many beautiful parks now proudly conceal mountains of filth and garbage. Almost makes me feel like it is patriotic and beneficial to generate my share of filth and garbage. I need to constantly remind myself that filth and garbage remain the same no matter when and where they occur and how they are merchandised or covered up. Some things never change no matter how much we try to sanitize them, and they often bring out the worst conveniently hidden in the concealing cover of darkness.
Our town dump was across the Susquehanna River from my home, possibly a half a mile away mile away “as a crow flies”. Although I have a diminishing sense of smell, I vividly remember a putrid horrible stench from my childhood when conditions were just right. I was reminded of that smell later while serving in various areas of the Far East and then again last year at times in Kolkata, India.
However, it wasn't just the smell etched in my mind. I remember shiny beady eyes peering out of the darkness under the beam of a powerful spotlight. My father was quite a marksman and he sometimes shot rats at the dump by spotlight on scary pitch black nights. I will never forget the sight of “huge” rats scurrying everywhere when the light exposed them. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. I know that rats have redeemed their image lately. They’ve become fashionable in recent years by serving as pet reptile food and even as pets themselves. These weren't those kinds of rats but rather big Norwegian River rats that squealed and fought among themselves.
It's amazing how many things have faded or been sanitized or hidden within my lifetime. Even though my heart went out to the children who plied the garbage in Kolkata last year, it was still garbage. I never ventured back to check under the cover of darkness, but I would guess critters still fought over the rotten decay just like they did during my childhood back in the good old United States of America.
Amazingly, a beautiful home now sits on the site of our old town dump. As you see in the commercials, many beautiful parks now proudly conceal mountains of filth and garbage. Almost makes me feel like it is patriotic and beneficial to generate my share of filth and garbage. I need to constantly remind myself that filth and garbage remain the same no matter when and where they occur and how they are merchandised or covered up. Some things never change no matter how much we try to sanitize them, and they often bring out the worst conveniently hidden in the concealing cover of darkness.
Fisherman
I am a fisherman. I believe that is the proper use of the word since I know that "shopper" doesn't always mean purchasing anything! Even though I invest in two fish and game clubs, I was sadly just a mental fisherman. Last spring, my friend John finally helped reintroduce me to the fact that I actually need to put a line in the water to fish.
I have fished and loved to be around any kind of water since childhood. In fact, my father was what he called an "algerine." I think that means fisherman. I grew up close enough to the Susquehanna River to smell it. There is actually a yellowed, almost fifty-year-old newspaper photo in my files somewhere to document that I not only used to catch fish, but I once caught a big one.
I have a picture of my bride Natalie next to my desk as we blissfully trolled for trout on Lake Estes in our former home state of Colorado. Oh, those wonderful weekends in "God's country." Within arm's length of where I sit is a treasured gift of a framed picture of my young sons Dave and Dan standing next to their slim father in front of a leaky 12 foot aluminum boat. There is a walleye in the picture, but I seldom notice it. I fondly remember many intimate times with them fishing in the still, humid darkness of Leaser or Beltsville Lakes. What sweet but fading memories.
Although she doesn't display the patience for fishing that she does playing video games, my daughter Susan is a fisherman, too. In fact, three years ago, I sold my old aluminum boat in order to satisfy her desire for something a bit more safe and stable for fishing. I bought a "new," previously well-used and hopefully more stable, 14 foot fishing boat. I look at it every time I look out our kitchen window. Sadly, it's never been in the water since I've owned it. When I did have a chance to fish with Susan a little over a year ago, the boat batteries were dead and the boat trailer tires were flat. I went to plan "B" and took her to a "pay to fish" trout lake to insure she caught something to satisfy the craving she and her mother have for trout. The two sunfish we caught didn't quite do it, but I will treasure the experience forever.
Last fall, Natalie gave me the precious gift of her time by cleaning out my boat and then urging me to be an active fisherman again. I am so grateful. Watching the pros on TV doesn't capture what fishing means to me. No matter what I catch, I want to be more than a past tale teller, a dreamer and a "wannabe" again.
I would encourage you to invest time "putting your line in the water" today. The dividends are beyond measure.
I have fished and loved to be around any kind of water since childhood. In fact, my father was what he called an "algerine." I think that means fisherman. I grew up close enough to the Susquehanna River to smell it. There is actually a yellowed, almost fifty-year-old newspaper photo in my files somewhere to document that I not only used to catch fish, but I once caught a big one.
I have a picture of my bride Natalie next to my desk as we blissfully trolled for trout on Lake Estes in our former home state of Colorado. Oh, those wonderful weekends in "God's country." Within arm's length of where I sit is a treasured gift of a framed picture of my young sons Dave and Dan standing next to their slim father in front of a leaky 12 foot aluminum boat. There is a walleye in the picture, but I seldom notice it. I fondly remember many intimate times with them fishing in the still, humid darkness of Leaser or Beltsville Lakes. What sweet but fading memories.
Although she doesn't display the patience for fishing that she does playing video games, my daughter Susan is a fisherman, too. In fact, three years ago, I sold my old aluminum boat in order to satisfy her desire for something a bit more safe and stable for fishing. I bought a "new," previously well-used and hopefully more stable, 14 foot fishing boat. I look at it every time I look out our kitchen window. Sadly, it's never been in the water since I've owned it. When I did have a chance to fish with Susan a little over a year ago, the boat batteries were dead and the boat trailer tires were flat. I went to plan "B" and took her to a "pay to fish" trout lake to insure she caught something to satisfy the craving she and her mother have for trout. The two sunfish we caught didn't quite do it, but I will treasure the experience forever.
Last fall, Natalie gave me the precious gift of her time by cleaning out my boat and then urging me to be an active fisherman again. I am so grateful. Watching the pros on TV doesn't capture what fishing means to me. No matter what I catch, I want to be more than a past tale teller, a dreamer and a "wannabe" again.
I would encourage you to invest time "putting your line in the water" today. The dividends are beyond measure.
Chitchat
My day starts well before dawn most days. I have two commuting friends that occasionally call with a welcome "Hello" between four-thirty and six AM. Sometimes I SKYPE (talk over the internet) to a friend in India too at that time while it is still afternoon there. Then it's on to whatever emails that my late night friends (and solicitors) have sent in the wee hours of the morning. Shortly after eight o'clock, I often am thrilled to get an "on the way to school" call from my two-year-old grandson Owen and my son David to keep me current on the latest backhoes, cranes, and busses in Pittsburgh. And that is just the start of my day!
When I reflect on the growing amount of contact and communications that most of us experience, it is overwhelming. One of my friends, who only within the past year discovered "texting" on his cell phone, was staggered to discover a bill for texting of well over $50.00. In fact he had over 250 text messages for the week he discovered the billing. Another friend from Tennessee posted the fact that he was in contact with 396 friends. Some of my younger, really socially active, Face book friends now exceed 600 friends on their Friend's List. I sometimes have to remind myself that I grew up in the era where you picked up the phone to make a call and told the friendly all-knowing operator you wanted to call "Keystone 8-6284" (or just the person's name if you forgot the number!)
When I talk to my daughter Susan on the phone, she often puts me on hold because someone in the household where she lives was calling her from another area of the home with a request. I experienced the same thing last evening visiting a friend and seeing calls to his daughter on the second floor of their home. Increasingly, in many instances, our contact involves no real personal contact even in our private homes.
In addition, much of what we discuss is far from personal and revolves around soccer schedules, our "to do" lists, social trivia, or even cunning ways to elude the other person if we haven't already done that through the power of caller ID and call waiting. With all this seeming communication by phone, internet and a flurry of contacts, you'd think we'd have strong relationships. Amazingly, one of the most common postings I find on Face book is "I'm bored" or "I'm lonely." So often it's covered by amazing amounts of seeming communications, but little deep lasting satisfying relationships.
As we age and fewer friends are able or willing to spend time with us, the silence is deafening. The transition is often like hitting a brick wall in its seeming abruptness. When we finally have the time for deep relationships, none of the rest of the world wants to pause to partake as they continue their racing activity and chatter. Wander around any Senior Citizen's center or nursing home to see this for yourself.
I'd like to encourage you to evaluate and perhaps even informally prioritize your most important relationship(s). Reintroduce the concept of being selective with quality over quantity. Invest undivided time, attention and meaningful caring, not just mere random "dialog," in those who cherish you the most. Let's put the "relate" back in relationships. It's awesome how great it feels to really invest in genuinely focused "one on one" caring and patient thoughtful selective communications.
When I reflect on the growing amount of contact and communications that most of us experience, it is overwhelming. One of my friends, who only within the past year discovered "texting" on his cell phone, was staggered to discover a bill for texting of well over $50.00. In fact he had over 250 text messages for the week he discovered the billing. Another friend from Tennessee posted the fact that he was in contact with 396 friends. Some of my younger, really socially active, Face book friends now exceed 600 friends on their Friend's List. I sometimes have to remind myself that I grew up in the era where you picked up the phone to make a call and told the friendly all-knowing operator you wanted to call "Keystone 8-6284" (or just the person's name if you forgot the number!)
When I talk to my daughter Susan on the phone, she often puts me on hold because someone in the household where she lives was calling her from another area of the home with a request. I experienced the same thing last evening visiting a friend and seeing calls to his daughter on the second floor of their home. Increasingly, in many instances, our contact involves no real personal contact even in our private homes.
In addition, much of what we discuss is far from personal and revolves around soccer schedules, our "to do" lists, social trivia, or even cunning ways to elude the other person if we haven't already done that through the power of caller ID and call waiting. With all this seeming communication by phone, internet and a flurry of contacts, you'd think we'd have strong relationships. Amazingly, one of the most common postings I find on Face book is "I'm bored" or "I'm lonely." So often it's covered by amazing amounts of seeming communications, but little deep lasting satisfying relationships.
As we age and fewer friends are able or willing to spend time with us, the silence is deafening. The transition is often like hitting a brick wall in its seeming abruptness. When we finally have the time for deep relationships, none of the rest of the world wants to pause to partake as they continue their racing activity and chatter. Wander around any Senior Citizen's center or nursing home to see this for yourself.
I'd like to encourage you to evaluate and perhaps even informally prioritize your most important relationship(s). Reintroduce the concept of being selective with quality over quantity. Invest undivided time, attention and meaningful caring, not just mere random "dialog," in those who cherish you the most. Let's put the "relate" back in relationships. It's awesome how great it feels to really invest in genuinely focused "one on one" caring and patient thoughtful selective communications.
Orange
January brings many things that I don't look forward to. I can't even pretend that I like the frigid blasts of Arctic air or the fleeting, elusive few hours of daylight. However, on the bright side, there are special January treats for many of us. Depending on your persuasion, the Pennsylvania Farm Show or in many cases the Super Bowl is an anticipated winter treat.
My tastes are a bit simpler but date back to my childhood. As the bleak winter approached, I grew to anticipate several edible treats. The first was the Hershey's chocolate that my father stashed in his hunting coat in order to survive the cold and wet hunting season. The second were a variety of nuts that appeared around the Christmas season. They would magically appear in a big wooden bowl with a metal cracker and a picker that looked like a dental tool. The last were oranges "straight from Florida"- that mystical but never seen paradise.
I don't remember eating a lot of oranges growing up. I guess I ate the oranges that appeared in each of our Christmas stockings because I remember the seeds they had back then! Mostly I remember a large white porcelain juicer that was brought out to process and sample a taste of this amazing juice. It tasted many times better than what I knew orange juice should taste like.
Although I am sure there are many varieties of seeded oranges, my favorites now are the magically non-seeded Navel Oranges. (Must be a virgin birth kind of thing!) Those beautiful perfectly colored treats are quite addictive and I have to be careful not to develop a two figure a day habit. I am chea…. ahh, I mean frugal, but somehow oranges seem to be a necessity even as the cost crosses the dollar mark.
As I sit this morning staring at the "perfect" orange that I selected out of all the runner-ups, my thoughts wander. Looking at it closely, it wasn't the perfect specimen I thought it was. There were some flaws and blotches covered by that magically uniform bright orange coloring. I'd been tricked! As I pealed the orange, about a third of it proves to be worthless protective covering. I realize how valuable that skin really is. Although it can't be eaten, the skin is really the secret to the succulent fragile delicacy inside. I've learned to look beyond the pretty superficial color when selecting oranges. I look for thick tough rough skins that many pass up. Seldom are these oranges mysteriously shriveled and dried or bruised inside the way others with more perfect delicate skins are. There is a purpose for everything. I am learning that fruit is not just the core delicacy that everyone desires but the whole well-designed entity. We are designed to be integrated, the tough and the delicate, the tasty and the non edible, and on and on. No matter how you may self assess your value based on appearance, taste, texture, or function; you're part of a fruitful blessing for someone. You're special.
My tastes are a bit simpler but date back to my childhood. As the bleak winter approached, I grew to anticipate several edible treats. The first was the Hershey's chocolate that my father stashed in his hunting coat in order to survive the cold and wet hunting season. The second were a variety of nuts that appeared around the Christmas season. They would magically appear in a big wooden bowl with a metal cracker and a picker that looked like a dental tool. The last were oranges "straight from Florida"- that mystical but never seen paradise.
I don't remember eating a lot of oranges growing up. I guess I ate the oranges that appeared in each of our Christmas stockings because I remember the seeds they had back then! Mostly I remember a large white porcelain juicer that was brought out to process and sample a taste of this amazing juice. It tasted many times better than what I knew orange juice should taste like.
Although I am sure there are many varieties of seeded oranges, my favorites now are the magically non-seeded Navel Oranges. (Must be a virgin birth kind of thing!) Those beautiful perfectly colored treats are quite addictive and I have to be careful not to develop a two figure a day habit. I am chea…. ahh, I mean frugal, but somehow oranges seem to be a necessity even as the cost crosses the dollar mark.
As I sit this morning staring at the "perfect" orange that I selected out of all the runner-ups, my thoughts wander. Looking at it closely, it wasn't the perfect specimen I thought it was. There were some flaws and blotches covered by that magically uniform bright orange coloring. I'd been tricked! As I pealed the orange, about a third of it proves to be worthless protective covering. I realize how valuable that skin really is. Although it can't be eaten, the skin is really the secret to the succulent fragile delicacy inside. I've learned to look beyond the pretty superficial color when selecting oranges. I look for thick tough rough skins that many pass up. Seldom are these oranges mysteriously shriveled and dried or bruised inside the way others with more perfect delicate skins are. There is a purpose for everything. I am learning that fruit is not just the core delicacy that everyone desires but the whole well-designed entity. We are designed to be integrated, the tough and the delicate, the tasty and the non edible, and on and on. No matter how you may self assess your value based on appearance, taste, texture, or function; you're part of a fruitful blessing for someone. You're special.
Glass
I love gazing at the variety of birds that are attracted to our backyard feeders and suet. They range from finches and cardinals to flickers and, once, a wild turkey visited. I marvel at their beauty, vibrancy and faith as they search out the feeders each morning. They eat a bit and then move on for their day's pursuits. I think that I would stay until the feeders were depleted but I guess that's why I can learn from them.
My wife, Natalie, was given some kind of "miracle cleaning cloth" several weeks ago that "guaranteed" streak-free cleaning with just the addition of water. I "know" that these things never work but darned if it didn't perform as advertised. After years of my window cleaning magic tricks, finally, something works! What a pleasure to gaze out at the eastern horizon and watch the sun peak over the pines to signal another day. Previously, I would be distracted by all the streaks on the window that I had missed and seldom fully appreciated the beauty unfolding. What a treat to seemingly not have anything between me and the beauty and activities of the backyard.
Unfortunately, I've had the sad task of giving "last rites" to three small birds during the past week. Seems they found out belatedly and fatally that the "invisible" was actually solid "streak-free" glass. What had been meant for good backfired with devastating consequences for these small trusting creatures. It made me realize just how much I take glass and it's attributes for granted.
I've had some exposure to the magic of glass through the Discovery Channel and when I visited my son Dan (John) while he was attending school in Toledo, OH, the self proclaimed glass capital. In addition, I've been enthralled at the spectacle of the heavens through the large delicately crafted glass lenses at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona. I've watched the "slum dog" kids recover glass from the garbage of Manila and Kolkata where glass isn't so common. I've fished (and occasionally caught fish) with poles made of spun glass. It is amazing that I can sit here in my tee shirt in the comfort of our kitchen while gazing through glass to a world three feet away that is a frosty thirteen degrees. The "blindness" of astigmatism disappears for me because of glass.
I am sure you have your own reflections (pun intended) on the wonders of glass. Sometimes a failure to recognize "invisible" wonders in our hurried flight can bring us to an abrupt halt. However, I'd like to encourage you to cherish the everyday wonders that we so much know and expect. We are a blessed people with so many marvels that we take for granted. Cherish them! Then move on to the really amazing- the relationships; especially those that "can't be seen".
My wife, Natalie, was given some kind of "miracle cleaning cloth" several weeks ago that "guaranteed" streak-free cleaning with just the addition of water. I "know" that these things never work but darned if it didn't perform as advertised. After years of my window cleaning magic tricks, finally, something works! What a pleasure to gaze out at the eastern horizon and watch the sun peak over the pines to signal another day. Previously, I would be distracted by all the streaks on the window that I had missed and seldom fully appreciated the beauty unfolding. What a treat to seemingly not have anything between me and the beauty and activities of the backyard.
Unfortunately, I've had the sad task of giving "last rites" to three small birds during the past week. Seems they found out belatedly and fatally that the "invisible" was actually solid "streak-free" glass. What had been meant for good backfired with devastating consequences for these small trusting creatures. It made me realize just how much I take glass and it's attributes for granted.
I've had some exposure to the magic of glass through the Discovery Channel and when I visited my son Dan (John) while he was attending school in Toledo, OH, the self proclaimed glass capital. In addition, I've been enthralled at the spectacle of the heavens through the large delicately crafted glass lenses at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona. I've watched the "slum dog" kids recover glass from the garbage of Manila and Kolkata where glass isn't so common. I've fished (and occasionally caught fish) with poles made of spun glass. It is amazing that I can sit here in my tee shirt in the comfort of our kitchen while gazing through glass to a world three feet away that is a frosty thirteen degrees. The "blindness" of astigmatism disappears for me because of glass.
I am sure you have your own reflections (pun intended) on the wonders of glass. Sometimes a failure to recognize "invisible" wonders in our hurried flight can bring us to an abrupt halt. However, I'd like to encourage you to cherish the everyday wonders that we so much know and expect. We are a blessed people with so many marvels that we take for granted. Cherish them! Then move on to the really amazing- the relationships; especially those that "can't be seen".
Safety
Friday after an “all clear” report from the doctor, Natalie and I celebrated by “escaping” for the weekend and visiting our Indian friends Sonali and Sukanta Maity. They are on scholarship to a school in the Toronto area and their visas expire at the end of the month. I stayed with them and their extended family last year for several weeks while I was in India. I wanted to have them take some items back to India and shipping is “hit or miss” at best. Even more importantly, I wanted them to finally meet Natalie in person after talking to her on SKYPE via the magic of the internet.
They are wonderful people and Sonali especially is a joy. She is a little wisp of a “girl” of twenty-five who makes Natalie look tall. Sonali is like a cute tiny kitten; you just feel like patting her and then scooping her up to take her home to see if your mother will let you keep her! She gazes at you, shyly, with big expressive dark eyes that dance when she gets excited. I was perplexed when she fell on the floor and just laid there when she first spotted me but she got up and gave us both wildly animated hugs.
Both Sukanta and Sonali were extremely excited to have visitors. With typical Indian hospitality, they suddenly “weren’t hungry” so that we could have what would have been their breakfast in the “café”. Although they have been in Toronto since early September, they have been virtually prisoners in their room and the school next door. When we ventured out on a driving and sightseeing expedition with them, the ever present Ontario snow started with increasing intensity. I smiled to myself watching Sonali in the rear view mirror singing softly and praying silently because of the anxiety of the snowy ride. If she only knew what it was like to experience Indian driving in Kolkata for the first time!
We retreated out of the snow to the safety of their dorm room and Natalie gave them a small album of pictures I had taken of their families. They were both very obviously quite homesick as we reminisced. We shared about my visit to Sonali’s home “out in the jungle” of rice patties and banana trees. I fondly remember her family’s gracious hospitality. Her sixty four year old father, barefoot and clad in only a type of loincloth (displaying “six pack abs”), took me to cut down a stalk of bananas to take home. Her ninety-six-year-old grandmother crouched, sitting on her heels, to cook me eggs over an open fire. (And was able to get back up!) What pleasant memories of truly wonderful folks in a steamy place half a world away.
One picture gave me a different memory. As I balanced, trying to somewhat gracefully cross a small bamboo footbridge leaving their home, her father was still carrying the machete that he used to cut my banana stalk. He casually mentioned the big snake he had “dispatched” with it earlier that morning in that very spot. Sonali affirmed in a very serious tone, “Yes, he usually deals with about ten to thirteen big vipers each year.” She recalled hearing the chickens get very excited during the night and then hearing a loud hissing sound in the darkness. (They sleep in a home with no doors and no outside walls.) In fact her father often sleeps in a hut fifty feet from the home to protect the family from troublesome slithering scavengers and pig thieves intent on stealing his two big sows.
What a father! It made me suddenly very grateful for my own safety. Thank you Sonali; you’re special!
They are wonderful people and Sonali especially is a joy. She is a little wisp of a “girl” of twenty-five who makes Natalie look tall. Sonali is like a cute tiny kitten; you just feel like patting her and then scooping her up to take her home to see if your mother will let you keep her! She gazes at you, shyly, with big expressive dark eyes that dance when she gets excited. I was perplexed when she fell on the floor and just laid there when she first spotted me but she got up and gave us both wildly animated hugs.
Both Sukanta and Sonali were extremely excited to have visitors. With typical Indian hospitality, they suddenly “weren’t hungry” so that we could have what would have been their breakfast in the “café”. Although they have been in Toronto since early September, they have been virtually prisoners in their room and the school next door. When we ventured out on a driving and sightseeing expedition with them, the ever present Ontario snow started with increasing intensity. I smiled to myself watching Sonali in the rear view mirror singing softly and praying silently because of the anxiety of the snowy ride. If she only knew what it was like to experience Indian driving in Kolkata for the first time!
We retreated out of the snow to the safety of their dorm room and Natalie gave them a small album of pictures I had taken of their families. They were both very obviously quite homesick as we reminisced. We shared about my visit to Sonali’s home “out in the jungle” of rice patties and banana trees. I fondly remember her family’s gracious hospitality. Her sixty four year old father, barefoot and clad in only a type of loincloth (displaying “six pack abs”), took me to cut down a stalk of bananas to take home. Her ninety-six-year-old grandmother crouched, sitting on her heels, to cook me eggs over an open fire. (And was able to get back up!) What pleasant memories of truly wonderful folks in a steamy place half a world away.
One picture gave me a different memory. As I balanced, trying to somewhat gracefully cross a small bamboo footbridge leaving their home, her father was still carrying the machete that he used to cut my banana stalk. He casually mentioned the big snake he had “dispatched” with it earlier that morning in that very spot. Sonali affirmed in a very serious tone, “Yes, he usually deals with about ten to thirteen big vipers each year.” She recalled hearing the chickens get very excited during the night and then hearing a loud hissing sound in the darkness. (They sleep in a home with no doors and no outside walls.) In fact her father often sleeps in a hut fifty feet from the home to protect the family from troublesome slithering scavengers and pig thieves intent on stealing his two big sows.
What a father! It made me suddenly very grateful for my own safety. Thank you Sonali; you’re special!
Identity
My daughter Susan is now Mrs. Zachary Fox and is living happily in the Chicago suburbs across the border in Indiana. She is an accomplished typist and when she lived at home she teased me unmercifully about my typing skills. If she could only see me in the predawn darkness under the kitchen light this morning. I am typing with my left hand (I am right handed) with a sling on the other arm!
As I get a bit older, I never know what new ache or pain may pop up. I have been happily attending to my bride of forty years the past week or so because of some of her post-surgery limitations. (She is doing well now.) I guess when I slipped out to exercise the other day, I did something “wrong” in pretending to be a weight lifter with eleven pound weights! Turned out that it resulted in spending yesterday in the emergency room with a right arm I couldn’t lift. All went well and I am waiting for a diagnosis which they suspect may be nothing serious. It would probably be laughable to others beyond Susan to watch me (us). Getting the recliner to work last night was a joke! I can’t even get the top off the pill bottle till Natalie gets up!
As I paused, I looked down at a white hospital identity bracelet that is still securely fastened to my arm. I forgot to take it off. As I stare at it absentmindedly, I read all the readable vital information that it contains (the rest is a UPC barcode). How silly. I know who I am, what my Social Security number is, and what I am allergic to. I don’t need this.
But then the thought occurred, “Don’t you?” I realized that I, like so many others, have been given a new identity that I often “forget.” I know that there is no way that Susan forgets that she is now Susan Fox. However, I can easily lapse and forget just who I am supposed to be. I also forget what I am forever figuratively allergic to and “push the envelope.” Perhaps I need a bracelet more permanent than the one I have on to be a constant reminder; not for others, but just for myself. I am who “the bracelet” says I am.
As I get a bit older, I never know what new ache or pain may pop up. I have been happily attending to my bride of forty years the past week or so because of some of her post-surgery limitations. (She is doing well now.) I guess when I slipped out to exercise the other day, I did something “wrong” in pretending to be a weight lifter with eleven pound weights! Turned out that it resulted in spending yesterday in the emergency room with a right arm I couldn’t lift. All went well and I am waiting for a diagnosis which they suspect may be nothing serious. It would probably be laughable to others beyond Susan to watch me (us). Getting the recliner to work last night was a joke! I can’t even get the top off the pill bottle till Natalie gets up!
As I paused, I looked down at a white hospital identity bracelet that is still securely fastened to my arm. I forgot to take it off. As I stare at it absentmindedly, I read all the readable vital information that it contains (the rest is a UPC barcode). How silly. I know who I am, what my Social Security number is, and what I am allergic to. I don’t need this.
But then the thought occurred, “Don’t you?” I realized that I, like so many others, have been given a new identity that I often “forget.” I know that there is no way that Susan forgets that she is now Susan Fox. However, I can easily lapse and forget just who I am supposed to be. I also forget what I am forever figuratively allergic to and “push the envelope.” Perhaps I need a bracelet more permanent than the one I have on to be a constant reminder; not for others, but just for myself. I am who “the bracelet” says I am.
Painting
Within hours of a thirty-plus hour journey to Kolkata, India last year, I had a sobering experience. I had groggily endured many hours journeying first up over the Hudson Valley in New York and then over Russia and down through Afghanistan and Pakistan. Even though we moved at amazing speeds, my body registered every mile in that "miniature" economy class seat. The trip was punctuated by a ten hour layover in an airport with seemingly more machine guns than seats. I just wanted to unwind on some kind of a bed and re-evaluate why I left Schnecksville!
I experienced a bit of belated concern midflight about what I'd do if my friend Diganta didn't show up! I was relieved that my apprehensions were unfounded when I found him double parked right in front of the airport. As we navigated through the bustle, congestion, and smells of Kolkata, I increasingly realized how unsettled he was. It wasn't the traffic or any factor I could identify. When I pressed Diganta to find out what was wrong, he tearily told me how he just got a call on his "mobile" (everyone in India has cell phones). A friend of his had died during the humid darkness of early morning. The significance didn't register with me at first until I looked into his eyes and saw a desperate urgency. The funeral had started and he was "trapped" with me.
Once I realized the situation, I readily agreed to detour to my first Indian funeral. Once he'd raced out of the city and hurriedly put on a black shirt, we trekked down an overgrown path to belatedly pay respects to a body that was just being covered with the first spades of damp earth. I will never forget that experience that reminded me of the numerous pets buried in various parts of our back yard. Because of the fact there was no other furniture in the widow's home; I sat on the bed that the deceased had occupied hours earlier. My thoughts and words to the grieving widow seemed so empty and meaningless. I asked Diganta what would happen to her, and he said she would be OK until her two son's married. I was afraid to pursue that. I sensed that the life of this young (by my standards) widow was fragile as well.
However, when I stepped outside of the cramped hut, one of the sons approached me with a question that I will never forget. He said, "Uncle, may I ask you a question? Is it true in your country that they paint people's faces and charge thousands of US Dollars before one can be buried?" I answered "yes" to the first of what would be many questions that have forever shaken my "secure and all-knowing" western world values.
I would encourage you to relish our blessings in what to us are increasingly unnerving times. However, don't resist having our "blinders dislodged" to the billions of precious folks we have "outgrown" in our self-centered culture. They have some valuable but unsettling messages for you and me. I suspect we secretly long for the pure basic values they represent. I sure do.
I experienced a bit of belated concern midflight about what I'd do if my friend Diganta didn't show up! I was relieved that my apprehensions were unfounded when I found him double parked right in front of the airport. As we navigated through the bustle, congestion, and smells of Kolkata, I increasingly realized how unsettled he was. It wasn't the traffic or any factor I could identify. When I pressed Diganta to find out what was wrong, he tearily told me how he just got a call on his "mobile" (everyone in India has cell phones). A friend of his had died during the humid darkness of early morning. The significance didn't register with me at first until I looked into his eyes and saw a desperate urgency. The funeral had started and he was "trapped" with me.
Once I realized the situation, I readily agreed to detour to my first Indian funeral. Once he'd raced out of the city and hurriedly put on a black shirt, we trekked down an overgrown path to belatedly pay respects to a body that was just being covered with the first spades of damp earth. I will never forget that experience that reminded me of the numerous pets buried in various parts of our back yard. Because of the fact there was no other furniture in the widow's home; I sat on the bed that the deceased had occupied hours earlier. My thoughts and words to the grieving widow seemed so empty and meaningless. I asked Diganta what would happen to her, and he said she would be OK until her two son's married. I was afraid to pursue that. I sensed that the life of this young (by my standards) widow was fragile as well.
However, when I stepped outside of the cramped hut, one of the sons approached me with a question that I will never forget. He said, "Uncle, may I ask you a question? Is it true in your country that they paint people's faces and charge thousands of US Dollars before one can be buried?" I answered "yes" to the first of what would be many questions that have forever shaken my "secure and all-knowing" western world values.
I would encourage you to relish our blessings in what to us are increasingly unnerving times. However, don't resist having our "blinders dislodged" to the billions of precious folks we have "outgrown" in our self-centered culture. They have some valuable but unsettling messages for you and me. I suspect we secretly long for the pure basic values they represent. I sure do.
Big Toe
Most of us have mixed feelings about visiting medical offices. My feelings are a bit different than most. The quality of the magazines in the waiting room heavily biases my opinion. Because of Air and Space magazine in my dentist's office, I have less apprehension about dental visits than most other folks. I guess that's another topic and has nothing to do with "Big Toes" so I'll move on.
Last week I found a fascinating old issue of the National Geographic magazine in the local Veteran's Administration clinic. What a treat! One article caught my eye enough to reread it after my appointment. It was about archeology. It has to be a long wait normally before I read about that kind of topic. The article was titled "Faux Toe" and it caught my eye. It even had a picture that really caught my attention. The picture was of the mummified foot of a very proper Egyptian lady. She had a very detailed carved wood and leather toe carefully laced with linen and strapped onto her right foot. Scuff marks on the bottom of the toe indicated that it had actually been used probably about two thousand years ago. That fact has led scientists at the KNH Center for Biomedical Egyptology in Manchester, England to build and test an actual replica. They feel that the toe wasn't just cosmetic for a complete body in the "afterworld." Because Egyptians went barefoot or wore sandals, function was very important.
My thoughts went to a pastor who has a prosthetic leg and then, specifically, to a diabetic friend who has had a big toe amputated recently. Further reading, showed that the body relies on the big toe to support an amazing 40% of the body's weight during a normal walking stride. No wonder my friend Bob's recovery from his big toe amputation is so important; a fact I may have mistakenly minimized because "he looked and seemed normal."
I realize that many of us perceive ourselves as a kind of "big toe-like" people. We see ourselves as hidden and valueless- and in extreme cases-ugly, twisted and smelly. We sometimes have difficulty accepting our value in a beauty-oriented visual society. Please realize your value in helping others walk and even run to their full potential during the new journeys and races of 2009. Happy New Year. Do what you were called to do with gusto and purpose. You're valuable and special.
Last week I found a fascinating old issue of the National Geographic magazine in the local Veteran's Administration clinic. What a treat! One article caught my eye enough to reread it after my appointment. It was about archeology. It has to be a long wait normally before I read about that kind of topic. The article was titled "Faux Toe" and it caught my eye. It even had a picture that really caught my attention. The picture was of the mummified foot of a very proper Egyptian lady. She had a very detailed carved wood and leather toe carefully laced with linen and strapped onto her right foot. Scuff marks on the bottom of the toe indicated that it had actually been used probably about two thousand years ago. That fact has led scientists at the KNH Center for Biomedical Egyptology in Manchester, England to build and test an actual replica. They feel that the toe wasn't just cosmetic for a complete body in the "afterworld." Because Egyptians went barefoot or wore sandals, function was very important.
My thoughts went to a pastor who has a prosthetic leg and then, specifically, to a diabetic friend who has had a big toe amputated recently. Further reading, showed that the body relies on the big toe to support an amazing 40% of the body's weight during a normal walking stride. No wonder my friend Bob's recovery from his big toe amputation is so important; a fact I may have mistakenly minimized because "he looked and seemed normal."
I realize that many of us perceive ourselves as a kind of "big toe-like" people. We see ourselves as hidden and valueless- and in extreme cases-ugly, twisted and smelly. We sometimes have difficulty accepting our value in a beauty-oriented visual society. Please realize your value in helping others walk and even run to their full potential during the new journeys and races of 2009. Happy New Year. Do what you were called to do with gusto and purpose. You're valuable and special.
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