Enduring

This morning I am sitting in the Philadelphia airport at a Southwest Airlines boarding area. Folk’s faces here in the gate area reflect various expressions. None of us appear happy even though we are all eventually destined and ticketed for a really neat place-Denver. In fact, most of us look somewhat irritated or at best bored.
One gentleman is trying to calm what appears to be his aging mother. She has just come from a horrifying TSA screening experience and whatever he is saying to calm her doesn’t appear to be working. I can’t hear his reassuring words except the phrase, “Once we get to Denver.” That doesn’t seem to restore any color to her face and she remains in somewhat a state of shock.
Another older couple with dual canes is trying to understand what Burger King calls breakfast. Except for the coffee, it all appears puzzling alien to them.
About half of the folks fiddle incessantly with their cell phones or Blackberries. One lady with a pink laptop computer and Bose headphones is desperately trying to resurrect her I-Phone. It has an obviously cracked screen that I suspect is a symptom of a fatal condition. Her despair is obvious.
A young girl of about eight decided to break this monotony by playing with an obnoxious sounding popping toy. She is quickly shushed by her mother who nervously glances around to see if anyone is offended. None acknowledge her although most noticed.
Another gent appears to be exhausted. His head has fallen back and his mouth is gapping several inches. I can imagine the sound effects if I were a bit closer or endowed with better hearing.
One lady wearing heavy makeup, stiletto heels, a platinum coiffure, and tight designer jeans and who seems to think she is on a fashion runway sashays somewhere several times. No one seems to notice her performances.
As our boarding time approaches, most folks repeatedly check their watches or cell phones for the current time. We are not a happy bunch to say the least even though the flight appears to still be on time and Denver is still our destination. Reminds me of the time I took my daughter to overlook the Wild West casino gaming floor from an overlooking balcony to see if we could spot any happy faces. (We couldn’t.) No visible joy here, either.
I myself am nervously trying to figure out when to stop typing and prepare for the sprint to capture an exit row seat. To tell you the truth, the thoughts of jamming into a narrow seat with regular leg room makes me ache. Possibly enduring a cramped four and a half hours sends apprehension through me and makes it hard to concentrate. A friend has given detailed instructions on garnering upgrades with extra legroom but he doesn’t fly one class Southwest Airlines. What should be a happy liberating day for most of us obviously isn’t.
Then I spot a young lass of about four with auburn-colored shoulder length tresses and cute barrettes. She has new white sneakers and a gleaming plastic Barbie backpack. She can’t contain her excitement and radiates as she tugs on her mother’s hand. I am somewhat embarrassed to realize that even though we are all going to Denver, only she is relishing each moment on the way. The rest of us are at best enduring until we reach that “Mile High City.” Reminds me of something I read once about being led by a little child and I count this as a lesson learned. Thanks Miss- I got it.

Mile High and Dry

Wow! Imagine waking up to four to five inches of fresh snow on April 27th. Just a few days ago while flying into metropolitan Denver, I was delighted to see “the last” fresh snow on the Rocky Mountains. It was a delightful 77 degrees in Denver when we landed and I felt silly in my heavy long-sleeved shirt. The balmy weather made me long for my hibernating shorts and sandals. However, it never crossed my mind that snow would blanket the metro area while I slept last night. Guess I won’t mow my son’s lawn before I leave as I had planned.
It was just last week back home in Pennsylvania that I finally had the snow plow removed from my lawn tractor in order to mow our lawn. In fact, today Facebook broadcasts my friend’s complaint of a Pennsylvania “heat wave” and even one unfortunate air conditioner failure. How to dress is a real dilemma for my trip home today. Snow and a heat wave in the same day-amazing.
It’s fascinating to visually capture the fresh flakey snow floating down over a slumbering suburb. Such a peaceful bliss. For me the snow is a delightful treat and a neat thing. There is no pressure to go anywhere other than to the airport a little later in the day. I am unencumbered and enjoying all this.
I realize that an unexpected snowfall isn’t perceived as a good thing to many other folks today. To some it’s bad. An outdoor wedding wouldn’t be out of the question a few days before May Day. The folks at the retirement center won’t be able to slip outdoor to kibitz and perhaps snooze in the sunlight on their favorite bench. School field trips and outdoor track meets may be in jeopardy. Construction workers certainly won’t welcome this. This morning many excited pre-school tots won’t be liberated for an eagerly anticipated outdoor recess.
Perhaps I may be in a minority in thinking of this snow as a treat. Many good folks anticipated and possibly even prayed for something totally different. For some, I guess this snow would be defined as “bad” even though it is good to me and is, to use an old cliché, “an act of God.” Thinking of them, the age old thought that so many of us ask popped into my mind : “Why do bad things (such as snow) happen to good people?”
I can’t answer that question. However, based on my experience as a former resident of the “Mile High City” for many years, I do have a thought about this snow that may give insight. I know that being in a high place virtually assures me that there will be no remaining traces of snow by noon. (note: in fact it was totally gone) You see I’ve learned that the altitude and climate where I reside often determines how long these inevitable snowstorms ( and other things) affect me. Even though there is a lot of snow and for some of us it is unpleasant, it seldom lasts here. No wonder we enjoyed living in the high and dry Denver area so much. Perhaps being in high places has more merit than I realize when the unexpected inevitable storms come.

FIFO

I won’t keep you guessing. FIFO stands for First In, First Out and is the opposite of LIFO which stands for Last In, First Out. Both are common accounting methods for determining values of business inventories. For some time I have been desperately trying to change the accumulations in my mind to the FIFO method. I’d love to get the old things out and replace them with new things. It isn’t working.
Some illustrations: My first ever phone number was Keystone (later 53) 8-6284. I still remember from my caddying days to caution golfers about the snakes in the woods along the par 3 ninth hole. The Diamond K Insurance Agency still has its own little trove in my mind along with the proper way to pot an electrical cannon plug on a Convair fighter jet. 3504 West Tuscaraurus Avenue was the address of our restaurant in Canton, Ohio. Then there is the (303) 292-3070 phone number of my office at 5100 Race Court in Denver from ages ago.
If that isn’t bad enough, I still have a lot of consumer idiosyncrasies stored from our 30 years in the consumer impulse business. I know that you about six times more apt to purchase Vanilla flavored Little Tree air fresheners than you are the Green Apple ones. I also know that you’ll probably settle for aviator-shaped sunglasses and that there is about a one in five chance that your logo preference is Harley Davidson. If you’re from my generation and you have to buy a small toy for a girl at Christmas it will be either jacks or a jump rope or both. That is in spite of the fact that few suburban young lasses are drawn to them, especially in the winter months.
I won’t continue with what to you are meaningless trivial ramblings. Actually, everything I listed above has little value to me either and my chances of needing any of those things in the future are almost nil. I have heard it said that my mind has limitless storage capacities. I guess I’ll have to accept that. I can’t help but feel that those useless facts are marginalizing and limiting my ability to accurately reflect all that happened last week. Last night, I drew a blank when my son asked me what I was doing in the upcoming week. At minimum, I think my brain works on the Last In, First Out principle.
There is another factor though. I am desperately trying to remember Scott, Glenn and Ellen, and other new friends from two weeks ago. You see people have become so very important to me. I am almost embarrassed to realize how important information and “things” were to me over the years. Perhaps that’s why I remember so much stuff from the past. I think my brain has possibly obediently retained what I told it was important to me at the time. I think as I get older I am, at least subconsciously, realizing just how distorted some of my priorities actually were. As I become increasingly more relationship oriented, I’d like you my friend to know the important place I’ve reserved in my mind and heart for you. I know I won’t regret it like some of the trivia above.

Tuber

I live in a quiet mature rural neighborhood. Most of the folks have been my friends for over thirty years. One special family farms most of the surrounding fields including one adjoining our property. They are not only great folks but raise some of the freshest most succulent summer vegetables I’ve ever eaten. They’re out picking well before the blazing sun charges over the eastern horizon to burn off the morning dew. My diet consists of a lot of whatever they grow and harvest. Luscious zucchinis, tomatoes, and beautiful green, red, and yellow peppers all are seasonal culinary delights that I anticipate in just a few more months.
However, there is one of their vegetables that I savor the most and year round, too -the potato. Although I love rice, one of the things I missed the most in India was potatoes. I didn’t realize just how much potatoes were a staple in my diet and heritage. I’ve purchased hundreds of cases of eighty and hundred-count potatoes during my years in the restaurant business and ate quite a few of them too. The potatoes that I eat now are special huge “chef”-sized potatoes grown by my farming friends in our own neighborhood. What a treat and what a bargain at cents per pound instead of dollars like everything else now days. No potatoes are wasted, even the tiny ones. They are actually put into cricket shipments (yes, the chirping kind) being shipped all over the United States to provide food and moisture while in transit.
The potato growing process is fascinating especially when I can watch it up close and personal. In the past, I’ve actually been part of the process for a very short time before I discovered that the first requirement is a strong back. I’ll never forget standing on the platform of a bouncing, massive potato-digging machine trying to separate unbelievable amounts of masquerading rocks from the actual potatoes. (In addition to my sore back, I lacked co-ordination.) In fact, every part of the potato growing process involves a lot of physical work but my farming friends seem to be one of the happiest and most content families that I know.
Potato plants are robust dark green plants. They eventually flower and then are killed just before the potatoes are harvested. To my knowledge there is no use for the acres of potato plants. They live to die and shrivel up to a dull brown color. The value isn’t in the lush green plants but in the tubers growing on the roots hidden under the soil. In fact unlike most plants, next year’s crop comes from planting pieces of last year’s potato harvest not the seeds of the flowers. Perhaps you have seen the shoots coming from potatoes that you’ve stored for a while at room temperature. They’re actually attempting to start a new crop now that they detected warmth.
I am always amazed at the hundreds of thousands of potatoes in my neighbor’s modern insulated cool climate-controlled barn. There are still many old underground potato storage barns in my area but most aren’t used. Whenever I see them though I am reminded of many things I’ve learned from the humble, often maligned, tubers called potatoes. Perhaps one of the greatest is to look for hidden sustenance tucked away out of sight and to resist always over-valuing lush visible growth. What do potatoes speak to you?

Perception

Spring seems to bring nature front and center. I am fascinated with the zesty parade of new growth, but even more so with the renewed parade of animals and birdlife. An obviously pregnant Mrs. Skunk waddles through the neighborhood, limber rabbits playfully act out their seemingly choreographed dance, and snow geese blanket pastures. Our backyard has its own specialties including increasingly adventurous antics of invigorated grey squirrels and the distinct courtship rituals of Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal and Mr. and Mrs. Woodpecker. What a treat.
I have had a ritual since childhood of seeing how early in March I can spot the first returning robin. Once that threshold is crossed, robins quickly become passé and I seldom pay much attention to them. They become a fixture so established that I barely pay any attention until they mysteriously disappear in late autumn. One day “poof, they’re gone” or so it seems. It’s not a big loss, only a footnote, because robins are fixtures that almost seem attached to green grass.
I am a fisherman. I think I can safely use that terminology because I know you can call someone a “shopper” who doesn’t purchase anything. I briefly considered digging worms for the first day of trout season but, based on my recent lack of success, the thought passed quickly. I have difficulty finding worms even in my rich compost pile. As I sit here typing and absentmindedly glancing out the window, a robin about fifteen feet away catches my eye. She seems to make eye contact with me to insure I’m watching. Once my attention is engaged, she gives me a motherly lesson in finding worms. She briefly tilts her head as if to hear a faint whisper from hidden worms. Then from the whole acre of ground she does a seemingly impossible “needle in a haystack” trick. She “hears” and retrieves a big juicy night crawler from its dark haven. Not only did she find it but she deftly pulled it out in one piece, a trick that I’ve yet to master while searching with a flashlight on those humid summer nights. To insure I got it, she quickly moved short distances away several more times to repeat her successful performance. Such amazing hearing, especially to someone challenged in that area.
Fascinated, I consulted my ever faithful Google for more insight. I quote from Wikipedia: “The North American Robin forages primarily on the ground for soft-bodied invertebrates, and finds worms by sight, pouncing on them and then pulling them up. [14] Nestlings are fed mainly on worms and other soft-bodied animal prey. [7]The Robin is frequently seen running across lawns, picking up earthworms by sight, and its running and stopping behavior is a distinguishing characteristic. It hunts visually, not by hearing.[14]”
Oops! Mrs. Robin had deceived me. She used my own astute ability to draw conclusions based on intent observation to trick me. If she had asked me to repeat her performance I would have been there listening for a worm forever, at least till my neck couldn’t stand it anymore. What else could that slight “listening” tilt of her head indicate? I guess I’m relegated to more remedial instruction on another chapter in my course on “not leaning on my own understanding.”

Again

SHOPPING. The very word sears fear into the depth of my being! The feeling is only approached by my fear of heights. I will never forget the panic I felt trying to do some shopping standing in the middle of a jammed packed Sears (guess something happened to Roebuck) during the Christmas season. I felt like I had just wandered into quicksand and figuratively feared for my life. It was there I learned to appreciate panic attacks.
Fashion is somewhat associated in my mind with shopping although I don’t loathe it like shopping. I am married to a tastefully stylish (but amazingly resourceful) “bride” who seems to have been wonderfully bred into fashion and good tastes. In addition, a very close friend is a Fashion Institute of Technology graduate. Although I love beauty and color, my wife and my friend may be as close as I ever come to fashion and good tastes because of the proximity to the “shopping thing.”
I grew up as the oldest child and the only boy in our family. Possibly because of that, I remember few hand-me-downs as far as clothing goes. Clothing revolved around two life events--school and, to a lesser extent, church. I am sure that the annual school shopping trek has various but significant memories for most people. Perhaps I have blocked them out but there are few memories for me.
One thing I remember is that my size stayed a consistently easy-to-remember “grow into it.” (although I later learned that most folks have individual numerical sizes) The other thing I remember is how important durability, value, and the ability to last till the next school year were. Some kids seemed to live in regular fabric pants and actual leather shoes. Perhaps because of my ability to routinely puncture and stain any newly acquired material, I lived in denim dungarees (a step up from overalls) and blue Keds or black Converse sneakers (whichever brand was on sale). There was little anxiety involved in the straight forward process and life was generally good.
I have, as an adult, now advanced to the ability to join the “leather shoe and fabric pants club”. Oh, I still spill and tear almost as much as I used to. Because of size 14 feet (actually one 13 and one 14) and other growing parts of my anatomy, sizing is difficult because “growing into it” isn’t acceptable anymore. I usually buy one of every color and style available in my size so I can again escape my phobia for a hopefully extended period of time.
I have noticed an interesting phenomenon over time. Denim and Converse are no longer limited to back to school and working class kids. Oh, they disguise the dungarees as something called designer jeans but you can’t fool me on fashion. It’s amazing that I (excuse the me; we) set a dormant trend back in the fifties that has finally re-emerged unbeknownst to me. Now if I just work a bit harder perhaps I can afford denims and Converse whatever they call sneakers now for my fashion statement. As some say, “What goes around, comes around.” Perhaps as an extension of that thought, I am reminded of something better than bringing back the old. I think it goes “behold I make all things new.”

Hero

Much of my childhood and youth has slipped into a void unless something sparks an elusive memory. Several weeks ago I had a real treat that triggered a series of recollections. I had the pleasure of being with my brother-in-law in his sanctuary- his ever fascinating renovated barn. What a treat!
There is a new gangly, skittish, stray kitten and a few new gadgets. Most of all I enjoy all the “stuff” that he has categorized and accumulated. I think he has captured every baby food jar that ever made its way into Ulster County. They are now spotlessly cleaned and full of every conceivable goody that any handyman (or wanna-be) could desire. Nuts, bolts, fittings, and things I can’t describe. I feel like I’ve been taken into a secret treasure trove with the chests of jewels and pieces of eight. You see he has been my “go-to” guy for serious mechanical issues for years and I still feel like I’m in the presence of hidden genius.
My thoughts went back to my youth. My grandfather was a master machinist with many of those same kinds of jars and lots of formerly mayonnaise-sized jars too. Somehow both he and my brother-in-law managed to neatly store everything at their beck and call without my perpetual messy “system.” Not only could they find everything, but they also could find just the thing to fix everything know to man. (I suspect alien spaceships, too!) My grandfather actually used part of a lawn mower for my original soap box derby racer.
I passed newspapers as a kid and made it a point to navigate back home from my route through the alleys of my hometown. It was often after supper (dinner to many today) and many gents puffing their pipes retreated to their workbench havens in their garage for some favorite project. There were resurrected lawnmowers, fly-tying jigs, sport memorabilia, gardening projects, wood working masterpieces, ham radio equipment, and restored jalopies. The doors were often invitingly open and I ventured in cautiously to learn more.
I still remember the house number 912. That was the place on Main Street where I first heard the crackling phenomenon of short wave radio. The clapboard old home and garage hadn’t been painted forever. There were stacks of manuals and magazines piled everywhere which left a unique musty smell. It was owned by an older gent with lots of grey hair coming out of his ears and who was a bit eccentric to say the least. It was in that jumble of vacuum tubes and rheostats under arrays of antennas on 912 Main Street that I learned about WWL, Voice of America, the BBC, and far off Radio Moscow. Ultimately, I became Novice Ham radio operator KN3ZZH and developed a dream of electronics in the U.S. Air Force because of these seeds planted in me.
Today, we only use the term “hero” when connected with spectacular or life threatening events to which many kids can’t fully relate. I suspect the truth is that anyone willing to share and invest a bit of time can be a “hero” to a generation who has settled for second choices of video games and such. Give it a try. Share your life and invest in someone’s future.

Source

My wife and I just spent several wonderful days at an international conference. It was held at a location that the brochures identify as “the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay” in North East, Maryland. I am not into crabs and oysters that make the area so famous, but the sunsets over the bay, the peaceful bliss, and the majestic waterfowl make it a special treat to be in that area.
It is a joy to trace the majestic stretches of rivers of my native Pennsylvania. Several weeks ago I enjoyed seeing the Pittsburgh-portion of the three rivers (one is underground) that join together to form the mighty Ohio River to takes barges on to the Gulf of Mexico. I live not too many miles from where the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers join for their final sprint into the Delaware Bay and on to the Atlantic Ocean.
I guess “the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay” is technically proper because the mighty Susquehanna River finishes its long muddy journey not far away. Still, to me headwaters mean the ultimate source. Within the past few months we have journeyed through the upper reaches of two different areas of upstate New York. In those areas the Susquehanna and Delaware Rivers are what I would have termed in my younger days as a “cricks,” not rivers. Now that is getting close to what I term “a headwater.”
I have a heritage anchored on the shores of the West Branch of the Susquehanna well above where it joins the North Branch in Sunbury, Pennsylvania and hundreds of miles above the Chesapeake. I grew up playing, fishing, trapping, and swimming in the Susquehanna. About a mile south of my boyhood home, there is a “V” shaped stone eel trap where my grandfather told of massive migratory eel harvests. He was born in the late eighteen hundreds when there were actually runs of east coast Susquehanna Salmon at certain times of the year and Shad Roe was a common local delicacy. Those days are gone although fortunately the Delaware still produces a Shad run each spring. I think about the increasingly hazy details of my grandfather’s oft repeated stories. Several weeks ago a picture of my grandfather’s Model T Ford fish market truck was given to me. It reminded me of his tales of the seasonal migrations of fish and eels up the Susquehanna. They are gone forever even though they still make it up the unblocked Delaware River. Fish are “mysteriously” drawn to the source of the river where new life is spawned. Man tried to help the Susquehanna with the massive Conowingo Dam several miles above the Maryland/ Pennsylvania border. Much needed power is produced and fish are “helped” up the river. That part hasn’t worked. Neither trucking the fish, nor then later, the 1991 addition of a fish lift have permitted all the fish to get to the river’s source. Our ways aren’t always better. Reminds me that man is drawn to a source too where the old dying self can be replaced by new life. It seems that we “help” folks just like we do the fish. Unfortunately, we, with our meddling, sometimes unintentionally keep folks from making it all the way back to the source of new life

Looks

I am a self-confessed people watcher. I love people and absolutely enjoy watching them. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t always enjoy being with them but do always enjoy watching them. I am intrigued how people act and react especially to each other and then how they react to the reaction. I know that was confusing but I think you get the idea.
I am experiencing especially fertile ground for my pastime this week. My wife and I are attending an international gathering in North East Maryland on the Chesapeake Bay. It is a wonderful time but has played havoc with my people watching protocols. You see one of the things I especially like to do is to decipher social “pecking orders” from the way people interrelate, especially when they enter a room. It’s almost a game to me like Sudoku is to my wife. I’ve found that most of us do an almost imperceptible scan to find out who is in the room when we enter. Sometimes we want to obviously notice and be noticed, but with some other folks we don’t, as we prepare to “fill our dance card.” Eye contact or lack of it seems to telegraph our motives and intents. Soon there usually is a slow current ever so slightly drifting toward “the movers and shakers” in the room in hopes of being noticed. That in turn forms an eddy of folks who don’t think they fit into that circle. It’s amazing to watch rooms stratify like a chemistry experiment.
As I mentioned, my people watching “norms” are really messed up in this group. I know by sight many “upper tier” folks and yet without that knowledge there would be no way to know them. Everyone seems to make inviting eye contact with whoever is in their path and views the others with almost the anticipation of an unopened Christmas gift. It is so great to view and be viewed in a setting like this where there is more than ample love and respect for everyone. Everyone is important to everyone else. What a treat to experience and see what Barbados, Kenya, Bulgaria, the Netherlands, and Lebanon County, PA. have in common in an almost indescribable atmosphere.
I can’t stay indoors in a nature sanctuary like the Chesapeake. The high point was two majestic pairs of nesting Ospreys. What a treat! They are so secure that they allow me to approach within feet of their perches. One pair is on a platform about twenty feet high, but the other is on pilings that I actually can look down on from about ten feet away. These powerful raptors are in the process of building nests with twigs, actually branches the size of the handles of hand tools. Every so often, they lift off the nest with powerful thrusts of their amazing wings. What a treat to watch them skim the bay for another fish or explore the shore for more nesting materials. When they return, their heads swivel constantly to visually lock on to me and keep me in their gaze. I have never been close enough to be look into a raptor’s eyes before and it is somewhat scary even though I am at least ten times their size. Their powerful gaze is thoroughly penetrating and a bit intimidating. They seem to “see right through” me with those huge eyes and there is no mistaking their hunting and territorial instincts.
I am struck by how differently I feel in the steely gaze of those raptors and the relished inviting warmth and accepting look of the folks less than a hundred yards away. The difference is striking and it is amazing how our eyes telegraph our nature. Some of the most powerful eyes know to man are incapable of giving the looks we all cherish and secretly desire. We have supernaturally been given an ability to transmit love through our eyes. We will each be given almost limitless chances to use it with people brought into our path today. Seize and enjoy the opportunities.