People are fascinating; especially when there is food involved. This morning is a pleasant spring morning that just shouts an invitation to enjoy the outdoors. I am waiting for a friend and sitting on a stone planter outside a popular centrally-located diner that draws an amazingly varied clientele. As some of you that know me well may already surmise, I’m happily engaged in one of my favorite activities—people watching.
I find it fascinating to just simply watch folks; especially when they are enjoying themselves. I know that malls are prime areas but I have a real aversion to them because of my phobia for shopping. Airports are good people watching spots but few people seem to be happy in airports post 9/11. That leaves restaurants as a prime spot for my hopefully unobtrusive people watching reconnaissance missions.
This morning is a delight and the folks are especially fascinating. An older gentleman in polyester slacks saunters past with his ornate cane providing reassuring stability. Many of the folks are senior citizens and I realize that the absence of many younger folks may indicate their aversion to early morning hours. Several buttoned down professional looking men scurry by; all intent on their Blackberries. They all somehow navigate successfully without obviously glancing ahead and it’s apparent that they’ve multitasked this way before. A young lass leaving the restaurant is enraptured with her little stuffed animal that probably cost her adoring grandparents many quarters in “The Claw” machine. A gentleman sporting a heavy gold chain necklace and a carefully coiffured black perm partially masking his shiny scalp makes his way past me. He seems interested in whether anyone notices him in his muscle shirt displaying a slightly sagging physique. Next comes some impeccably made up middle aged ladies chattering like school girls about a “one day only sale.”
Soon, it’s time to move inside. As I survey the crowded tables and booths and absorb the bustle of the restaurant, I feel warm deep inside. Even the single gentleman buried in his newspaper seems to be content in his own way. Almost everyone else is chatting and the waitresses—especially the one that reminds me of TV’s “Flo”—seem intent on cheering the lonely widowers and such. I guess it’s a slight sense of family and friends that comes out of this atmosphere. Yes, it is wonderful being in someone’s commercial establishment. I still smile slightly when I think of Norm and Cliff bantering on the old TV favorite “Cheers.” However, I realize how it pales compared to the precious times when you’re invited into the private living room or parlor (as some more formal folks call it) of a home. For true intimacy there’s nothing like being invited to be part of a family gathering around a kitchen table. I am all in favor of banquets but nothing compares to being in that select number of folks offered a precious spot at the kitchen table. That is where folks connect on truly important heart matters. How about taking a dessert or pot of soup over to grace some lonely person’s kitchen table or inviting them to yours? By the way; the food is optional.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Hours
149,999.9—that magical number! It’s hard to keep my mind and eyes on my driving as my odometer spins through the next tenth of a mile. I take pride in my ability to maintain vehicles in their second (and third) stages of their life’s journeys. Milestones like this are meaningful to me. Perhaps it’s just a silent display of “macho.” (I’ve noticed others shutter in fear of pending disaster far in advanced of the opportunity to celebrate six digit odometer readings.) Perhaps it’s because I am chea….ah, thrifty. Whatever the reasons I’ve always felt that it was my calling to milk the last miles out of “Henry Ford’s creations.”
Of course, some of my family and friends relegate me to a the lower bracket on the awards charts. My brother-in-law has delicately babied his little blue Honda Civic toward the third of a million mile mark. A friend just purchased a big rig with two thirds of a million miles on it and is heading to the million mile mark.
When I thought of my new mileage milestone (no pun intended), I thought of the many hours that I (and others) have spent in this vehicle. Let’s see; at 50 miles an hour that would be three thousand hours or 125 nonstop twenty-four hour days in this car. That doesn’t count time sitting in traffic jams, winding down residential thoroughfares, or going through drive thrus, etc. There is actually no way to tell how much time was spent in the vehicles. It is not like an airplane that logs flight hours for maintenance purposes. My garden tractor is the only thing I’ve owned that has an hour meter and it’s actually the only “vehicle” I’ve ever purchased new . Because of that, I know that I (and my family) have sat on that big orange beast for exactly 277.8 hours since I’ve owned it. (Glancing out the window; amazingly, my lawn still needs mowed after all those hours of mowing it!)
Those thoughts cause me to think of what was accomplished in my thousands and thousands of driving hours. Guess it’s time to reflect a bit. My earliest recollections were of a special time in 1968 when I spent 17 hours with my mother in a ’63 Ford Galaxy driving roundtrip to North Carolina for my military discharge. (The speed limits were much, much higher then!) Then I thought of the thousands of hours in an earlier life that my bride and I spend together in a Datsun 240Z transversing the nation’s highways and byway on our way to various restaurants. And yes, I fed my family for thirty years by driving endless hours to hundreds of stores and bodegas in various vans. I remember those precious hours with one son driving back and forth to Penn State. I had some of my last dedicated “together hours” with my second son navigating back and forth on a journey to Toledo, Ohio. And most recently several years ago, there was the long special journey from Indiana with my only daughter. In addition while driving, I’ve had many private “aha” moments of reflection, perhaps hundreds of phone calls, and most importantly many other memorable traveling companions.
I realized that, like my life’s journey in general, many of those hours were very special. It isn’t just getting from “point A to point B” or even getting to a destination although that’s often my stated purpose. I am learning that it’s the journey and all that goes with it that is so important. I increasingly think of time spent with folks like you who have accompanied me as I travel life’s journey. Thank you for being there, and thank you for helping me learn this lesson because of those hours we’ve spent traveling together on my life’s journey.
Of course, some of my family and friends relegate me to a the lower bracket on the awards charts. My brother-in-law has delicately babied his little blue Honda Civic toward the third of a million mile mark. A friend just purchased a big rig with two thirds of a million miles on it and is heading to the million mile mark.
When I thought of my new mileage milestone (no pun intended), I thought of the many hours that I (and others) have spent in this vehicle. Let’s see; at 50 miles an hour that would be three thousand hours or 125 nonstop twenty-four hour days in this car. That doesn’t count time sitting in traffic jams, winding down residential thoroughfares, or going through drive thrus, etc. There is actually no way to tell how much time was spent in the vehicles. It is not like an airplane that logs flight hours for maintenance purposes. My garden tractor is the only thing I’ve owned that has an hour meter and it’s actually the only “vehicle” I’ve ever purchased new . Because of that, I know that I (and my family) have sat on that big orange beast for exactly 277.8 hours since I’ve owned it. (Glancing out the window; amazingly, my lawn still needs mowed after all those hours of mowing it!)
Those thoughts cause me to think of what was accomplished in my thousands and thousands of driving hours. Guess it’s time to reflect a bit. My earliest recollections were of a special time in 1968 when I spent 17 hours with my mother in a ’63 Ford Galaxy driving roundtrip to North Carolina for my military discharge. (The speed limits were much, much higher then!) Then I thought of the thousands of hours in an earlier life that my bride and I spend together in a Datsun 240Z transversing the nation’s highways and byway on our way to various restaurants. And yes, I fed my family for thirty years by driving endless hours to hundreds of stores and bodegas in various vans. I remember those precious hours with one son driving back and forth to Penn State. I had some of my last dedicated “together hours” with my second son navigating back and forth on a journey to Toledo, Ohio. And most recently several years ago, there was the long special journey from Indiana with my only daughter. In addition while driving, I’ve had many private “aha” moments of reflection, perhaps hundreds of phone calls, and most importantly many other memorable traveling companions.
I realized that, like my life’s journey in general, many of those hours were very special. It isn’t just getting from “point A to point B” or even getting to a destination although that’s often my stated purpose. I am learning that it’s the journey and all that goes with it that is so important. I increasingly think of time spent with folks like you who have accompanied me as I travel life’s journey. Thank you for being there, and thank you for helping me learn this lesson because of those hours we’ve spent traveling together on my life’s journey.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Gravity
Water, water everywhere! That’s the gist of my unexpected late evening phone call. I love hearing from my kids but the serious tone of this call immediately raises my parental concern. My oldest son and his family live in a quaint older Pittsburgh neighborhood. Like the rest of the nation, they’ve endured some strange weather. In their case even though their home is perched high on a hillside, severe storms have flooded their home. My son’s call told of a water-filled basement and, horror of horrors, an accompanying simultaneous electrical outage. Their sump pump couldn’t be powered to do its designed job. In fact, for several exhausting hours he’s been manning a one man bucket brigade and slowly losing the battle.
A friend who was with me suggested a small generator but at this time of night, the chances of finding one are slim. Finally, I thought of a truly old fashioned solution. A water filled fifty foot garden hose was anchored in the flooded basement. The other end was snaked up eight feet through an exterior window and unrolled down the hillside below my son’s home. Voila! When the water in the hose was released, the resulting suction started the process of slowly draining the watery basement. The ageless power of gravity—one of nature’s greatest forces—was harnessed and loosed once again as a siphon. Soon I got a call that this “jerry-rigged” system was slowly but surely doing its magic.
As I sit reflecting, I am amazed how some of the divine laws of nature have been “put on the back shelf.” Simple fixes often elude us, largely I suspect, because we have engineered so many solutions to invalidate those forces or at least artificially make them unnecessary. Although perhaps it was only out of necessity, for centuries folks recognized and respected these awesome natural forces. Our need for simple things like pulleys, levers, wind and water power, and siphons still exist; we’ve just simply outgrown or forgotten them in our minds.
I think of the power and laws of nature. My thoughts range from the simple windmills on the quaint Amish farms to the awesome power stored behind the massive 700 foot high Hoover Dam powering much of the Southwest. I watch the ten-year-old and four-year-old successfully seesawing together because of a simple equalizing leverage. The Beast, a 7400 foot long wooden coaster at King’s Island in Cincinnati, attains speeds of 70 miles an hour utilizing the mighty power of gravity. In fact, there is enough force to power an inverted loop and both 135 and 140 foot terrifying drops. I think of all the hundreds of awesome fountains that have dazzled Rome’s visitors for centuries—all powered by gravity. Perhaps the most awesome display of gravity is the seldom thought of fact that we all don’t fall off the earth (no matter which side we’re on) as it spins through space.
The list could go on and on. Perhaps you’d like to reflect and add some personal thoughts to the list. The often taken for granted powers of this universe and the Power behind them are inescapable and awesome. I just need to take more time to notice and appreciate. It is amazing how unwelcome “natural calamities” can start the process of appreciating the basics I take for granted (again).
A friend who was with me suggested a small generator but at this time of night, the chances of finding one are slim. Finally, I thought of a truly old fashioned solution. A water filled fifty foot garden hose was anchored in the flooded basement. The other end was snaked up eight feet through an exterior window and unrolled down the hillside below my son’s home. Voila! When the water in the hose was released, the resulting suction started the process of slowly draining the watery basement. The ageless power of gravity—one of nature’s greatest forces—was harnessed and loosed once again as a siphon. Soon I got a call that this “jerry-rigged” system was slowly but surely doing its magic.
As I sit reflecting, I am amazed how some of the divine laws of nature have been “put on the back shelf.” Simple fixes often elude us, largely I suspect, because we have engineered so many solutions to invalidate those forces or at least artificially make them unnecessary. Although perhaps it was only out of necessity, for centuries folks recognized and respected these awesome natural forces. Our need for simple things like pulleys, levers, wind and water power, and siphons still exist; we’ve just simply outgrown or forgotten them in our minds.
I think of the power and laws of nature. My thoughts range from the simple windmills on the quaint Amish farms to the awesome power stored behind the massive 700 foot high Hoover Dam powering much of the Southwest. I watch the ten-year-old and four-year-old successfully seesawing together because of a simple equalizing leverage. The Beast, a 7400 foot long wooden coaster at King’s Island in Cincinnati, attains speeds of 70 miles an hour utilizing the mighty power of gravity. In fact, there is enough force to power an inverted loop and both 135 and 140 foot terrifying drops. I think of all the hundreds of awesome fountains that have dazzled Rome’s visitors for centuries—all powered by gravity. Perhaps the most awesome display of gravity is the seldom thought of fact that we all don’t fall off the earth (no matter which side we’re on) as it spins through space.
The list could go on and on. Perhaps you’d like to reflect and add some personal thoughts to the list. The often taken for granted powers of this universe and the Power behind them are inescapable and awesome. I just need to take more time to notice and appreciate. It is amazing how unwelcome “natural calamities” can start the process of appreciating the basics I take for granted (again).
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Seeds
It’s amazing what each new morning reveals. My morning trek today yielded a mini-adventure into the world of seeds. This jaunt was like any other when I started but progressively caused me to hyper focus on tiny seeds (which I am prone to do when I am not “busy” daydreaming). My odyssey started by walking by my neighbor’s field ripe with what I guessed was winter wheat (later confirmed to be winter barley). In this case, my background as a “town kid” is a handicap. The heads of grain on the stalks are heavy and will soon be harvested. Some are already on the ground from a recent thunderstorm. As I stare at the heads of grain, I am so amazed at the yield that I counted the kernels of grain on one head-67 in 6 neat rows to be exact. All of this produced from just one seed.
As I walk on, I am amazed how many different types of seeds I find. Many have just lost their colorful floral plumage and are ready to start a reproductive or epicurean journey. There are mustard seeds, red clover seeds, buckhorn weed seeds, many delicate grass type seeds, and even some cat o’ nine tail seeds in a marshy area. I found a wild chive plant going to seed along with dandelions with too many “parachute” laden seeds to begin to count. Seeds are everywhere but seldom noticed.
As I turn to trudge back home, I stop again on the edge of the barley field. I stare at the millions of heads of almost golden grain swaying softly in the sunlight. It was going to be a good harvest for my area-possibly 70-80 bushels of grain from each area the size of my lawn. That is impressive. However I found out that harvests of up to 150-200 bushels of other grain per acre used to be possible in some of the most fertile soil in our county. (Unfortunately those fields are now permanently “planted” with huge warehouse facilities instead of crops.) This particular barley crop was planted after the potato harvest last fall. It is in a field where it was calculated to successfully endure harsh winter weather and thus increase yields. The resulting harvest will be much more than the barley planted later in the spring which yields only about 60 bushels to an acre. This particular crop will soon be used to feed growing steers because the wheat is so rich that it gives them stomach problems. (Possibly Tums for cows?)
As I think about these crops and smell the richness of this setting, my mind races. I realize that the sowing and reaping cycles have prospered for thousands of years. My friend and neighbor (and his family) who farms this field are very good stewards of the land, the knowledge they’ve inherited, and the opportunities they’re given. Weekly paychecks are something they’ve only heard exist. They invest as much as 60% of the proceeds from their crop into fertilizer and other necessities. They often toil from sunup to sundown. They sow 3 bushels of seed into each properly prepared acre of soil. It is a joy to see the harvest that their investment, toil, and faith will soon yield. They didn’t do it to just get their three bushels back from each acre. In fact their family’s wellbeing has depended for generations on the faith that they would be rewarded with harvests similar to those 70-80 bushel an acre yields. Even though most of us are not privileged to the toils and joys of farming, do we not depend on the same provider? Prepare the “soil” that’s been given to you today and try sowing a few seeds. There are rewards. It’s an eternal law proven over generations.
As I walk on, I am amazed how many different types of seeds I find. Many have just lost their colorful floral plumage and are ready to start a reproductive or epicurean journey. There are mustard seeds, red clover seeds, buckhorn weed seeds, many delicate grass type seeds, and even some cat o’ nine tail seeds in a marshy area. I found a wild chive plant going to seed along with dandelions with too many “parachute” laden seeds to begin to count. Seeds are everywhere but seldom noticed.
As I turn to trudge back home, I stop again on the edge of the barley field. I stare at the millions of heads of almost golden grain swaying softly in the sunlight. It was going to be a good harvest for my area-possibly 70-80 bushels of grain from each area the size of my lawn. That is impressive. However I found out that harvests of up to 150-200 bushels of other grain per acre used to be possible in some of the most fertile soil in our county. (Unfortunately those fields are now permanently “planted” with huge warehouse facilities instead of crops.) This particular barley crop was planted after the potato harvest last fall. It is in a field where it was calculated to successfully endure harsh winter weather and thus increase yields. The resulting harvest will be much more than the barley planted later in the spring which yields only about 60 bushels to an acre. This particular crop will soon be used to feed growing steers because the wheat is so rich that it gives them stomach problems. (Possibly Tums for cows?)
As I think about these crops and smell the richness of this setting, my mind races. I realize that the sowing and reaping cycles have prospered for thousands of years. My friend and neighbor (and his family) who farms this field are very good stewards of the land, the knowledge they’ve inherited, and the opportunities they’re given. Weekly paychecks are something they’ve only heard exist. They invest as much as 60% of the proceeds from their crop into fertilizer and other necessities. They often toil from sunup to sundown. They sow 3 bushels of seed into each properly prepared acre of soil. It is a joy to see the harvest that their investment, toil, and faith will soon yield. They didn’t do it to just get their three bushels back from each acre. In fact their family’s wellbeing has depended for generations on the faith that they would be rewarded with harvests similar to those 70-80 bushel an acre yields. Even though most of us are not privileged to the toils and joys of farming, do we not depend on the same provider? Prepare the “soil” that’s been given to you today and try sowing a few seeds. There are rewards. It’s an eternal law proven over generations.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Sweat
It is one of those beautiful but heavily dewed June mornings that emerge from the misty darkness. My morning walk is a delight but the humid air brought an almost immediate sweat. (OK; I admit the air coupled with carrying extra pounds.) A shower before my stroll instead of after perhaps wasn’t wisdom.
I thought to myself—what a curse it is to sweat (perspire to more genteel folks). This particular sweat progressed beyond taking a quick “Rite Guard shower” when I got home. I was frustrated even though in some circles I know it’s considered a good thing to sweat. I was determined to see if there could be any good in sweating.
When I got home and showered, I started my research on the computer with “Google,” “Wikipedia,” and a new site to me called “How Stuff Works.” My findings were fascinating.
Most of us have an average of 2,600,000 highly regulated sweat glands over most areas of our bodies. All of these are controlled and regulated by a special center in the brain where special thermo sensitive neurons get their input. I found that I am in select company consisting of only primates and horses to even be able to sweat under the armpits rather than panting from the oral cavity and pharynx to perform the same function. The primary purpose of sweating is to decrease the core temperature as muscles exercise. The resulting evaporation cools the skin surfaces as well. Nausea, nervousness (think lie detectors), and stress can produce the same effect. I also learned that male sweat may in theory affect the hormone levels of opposite sex.
I also learned that sweat can produce up to from about 3 ½ ounces to almost 9 quarts of water a day. In addition, up to 1% of the discharge may be special solids, minerals, and electrolytes such as sodium (salt), nickel, zinc, chromium, lactate, and urea, etc. I remember taking massive quantities of salt pills in Texas and in the tropics but never understood why. I just knew I didn’t want to experience the heat strokes a few others encountered.
I went on into other “rabbit trails” such as how the aluminum chloride in antiperspirants work to swell and “close” the sweat glands and may cause them to actually shrink. However, when I got back on track, I sat in awe (again) of the complex engineering of my physical body—even the parts and functions I don’t like. Who am I to question that Someone who did such a marvelous job of intricate design (and even knows how many hairs are left on my head after each shower) doesn’t care for me?
I thought to myself—what a curse it is to sweat (perspire to more genteel folks). This particular sweat progressed beyond taking a quick “Rite Guard shower” when I got home. I was frustrated even though in some circles I know it’s considered a good thing to sweat. I was determined to see if there could be any good in sweating.
When I got home and showered, I started my research on the computer with “Google,” “Wikipedia,” and a new site to me called “How Stuff Works.” My findings were fascinating.
Most of us have an average of 2,600,000 highly regulated sweat glands over most areas of our bodies. All of these are controlled and regulated by a special center in the brain where special thermo sensitive neurons get their input. I found that I am in select company consisting of only primates and horses to even be able to sweat under the armpits rather than panting from the oral cavity and pharynx to perform the same function. The primary purpose of sweating is to decrease the core temperature as muscles exercise. The resulting evaporation cools the skin surfaces as well. Nausea, nervousness (think lie detectors), and stress can produce the same effect. I also learned that male sweat may in theory affect the hormone levels of opposite sex.
I also learned that sweat can produce up to from about 3 ½ ounces to almost 9 quarts of water a day. In addition, up to 1% of the discharge may be special solids, minerals, and electrolytes such as sodium (salt), nickel, zinc, chromium, lactate, and urea, etc. I remember taking massive quantities of salt pills in Texas and in the tropics but never understood why. I just knew I didn’t want to experience the heat strokes a few others encountered.
I went on into other “rabbit trails” such as how the aluminum chloride in antiperspirants work to swell and “close” the sweat glands and may cause them to actually shrink. However, when I got back on track, I sat in awe (again) of the complex engineering of my physical body—even the parts and functions I don’t like. Who am I to question that Someone who did such a marvelous job of intricate design (and even knows how many hairs are left on my head after each shower) doesn’t care for me?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Enmity
Enmity. Although I’ve known this word seemingly forever, I don’t ever remember having an opportunity to use it. As some of you scholars may have deducted, my thoughts start with a lady. In fact, everything unfolded the other day with a pleasant afternoon stroll with my bride of forty years. What a delightful treat. I carefully allowed her to lead as we chatted so I could match her strides and not be accused on leaving her behind. We strolled about a half a mile down the road from our home checking out heifers, roses, potato plants, pigeons, a babbling stream, and finally a placid several acre pond. What a joy until we got half way around the algae covered pond. My wife stopped her conversation in mid sentence and abruptly retreated behind me as a large water snake slithered to the safety of the water. Our conversation was subdued and our eyes peeled until we got back onto the safety of the macadam road.
Although the water snake was perhaps more anxious to get away from us than we were from it, it brought back many memories. The first was wading as a barefoot young boy behind my father who was fishing in the rapids of a trout stream. Everything happened so quickly. Things failed to immediately register with me as my father turned and shot something swimming rapidly toward me. Dad was quite a marksman and had shot a huge fat water snake. It turned out that water snakes aren’t usually fat but this one had ingested a seven inch trout headfirst. (Ironically, Dad caught nothing that day.) Later on another outing, he performed similar marksmanship with a copperhead snake that my sister had disturbed as she traipsed through the woods.
I have had few encounters with snakes since, other than disturbing a Cobra in the moonlight one night in Viet Nam and a few other encounters. I became aware of how fortunate we are in this climate when an African friend while we were sitting in our yard kept looking into the branches of trees above our heads. Yes, he was amazed we could sit under trees without worrying about snakes above us. I also became temporarily mindful in India when a friend’s father told me about the big snake he had killed that morning in the water next to where we were standing. I am not sure if I would have been comfortable with any open water baptisms or bathing after that.
In reflection, I am amazed how much enmity (as the Bible words it) there is in most of us for snakes. We not only don’t want to be anywhere close to them; we normally want them deposed of in a rapid manner. Research indicates that the majority of snakes actually will do anything they can to avoid us but these facts seem to have no bearing on our feelings.
Perhaps more amazing is how little fear I have of many other things that have proven detrimental effects—some even fatal. I flirt with them with false illusions of Superman-like immunity from their deadly deceptions. As I take time to reflect, I realize the “Kryptonite-like” effect so many things have on my body, mind, and spirit. I almost wish they all slithered and, as such, would possibly instill natural enmity. Guess I’ll just have to take responsibility to build and abide by my own personal “do not mess with” list. Perhaps beginning with proven lists from the ages would be a great starting point.
Although the water snake was perhaps more anxious to get away from us than we were from it, it brought back many memories. The first was wading as a barefoot young boy behind my father who was fishing in the rapids of a trout stream. Everything happened so quickly. Things failed to immediately register with me as my father turned and shot something swimming rapidly toward me. Dad was quite a marksman and had shot a huge fat water snake. It turned out that water snakes aren’t usually fat but this one had ingested a seven inch trout headfirst. (Ironically, Dad caught nothing that day.) Later on another outing, he performed similar marksmanship with a copperhead snake that my sister had disturbed as she traipsed through the woods.
I have had few encounters with snakes since, other than disturbing a Cobra in the moonlight one night in Viet Nam and a few other encounters. I became aware of how fortunate we are in this climate when an African friend while we were sitting in our yard kept looking into the branches of trees above our heads. Yes, he was amazed we could sit under trees without worrying about snakes above us. I also became temporarily mindful in India when a friend’s father told me about the big snake he had killed that morning in the water next to where we were standing. I am not sure if I would have been comfortable with any open water baptisms or bathing after that.
In reflection, I am amazed how much enmity (as the Bible words it) there is in most of us for snakes. We not only don’t want to be anywhere close to them; we normally want them deposed of in a rapid manner. Research indicates that the majority of snakes actually will do anything they can to avoid us but these facts seem to have no bearing on our feelings.
Perhaps more amazing is how little fear I have of many other things that have proven detrimental effects—some even fatal. I flirt with them with false illusions of Superman-like immunity from their deadly deceptions. As I take time to reflect, I realize the “Kryptonite-like” effect so many things have on my body, mind, and spirit. I almost wish they all slithered and, as such, would possibly instill natural enmity. Guess I’ll just have to take responsibility to build and abide by my own personal “do not mess with” list. Perhaps beginning with proven lists from the ages would be a great starting point.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Design and Reliability
Warranties. I’ve got a whole file of warranties. I’ve learned the hard way to buy “smart,” save receipts, and not procrastinate on pursuing claims. I just had a top name brand ceiling fan repaired not long after a factory rebuild. I am still anxiously waiting for my titanium watch after the crystal fell out shortly after the second factory repair.
Several years ago when I bought new computers I did research and discovered that the name brand that I ultimately purchased had the best defective rate in the industry- a whopping 19% failure rate! I promptly bought the best warranty they offered. My experience on one of those computers alone just blew their averages. When I called about some recurring issues, I was informed that they no longer made that model and had replaced it with a more reliable model. So much for the “latest and greatest.”
Guess that brings me to a whole different issue—the need for ever “bigger and better” models. I grew up in the era where, as a boy, I lived all summer with rapt anticipation of the annual August new automotive extravaganzas debuting the higher fins, more lavish chrome, or extra horse power. (Usually all of the above) You can see what’s happened to my heroes at the automotive design firms. In addition, I’ve given up on being able to safely wear perfectly good bell bottoms and serviceable polyester from my past. (They are far from fitting me anymore if I ever find what my wife did with them.) My service provider that worked on my refrigerator several weeks ago told me he personally owns “some twenty-year-old models that were built to last.” Gave me a lot of confidence?!?!
On television today the veterans of D-Day were recalling the technology from sixty-five-years ago. I realize how fleeting things are. I personally saw many of the remnants of World War II on Corregidor when I served in the Philippines and it is a sight I’ll never forget. I am sure that time has ravished them even more in the forty-plus years since I saw them and they were deteriorating then. Perhaps the only things close to “lasting” were the thousands and thousands of World War II jeeps. They are still encased in metal containers full of grease and still provide the core of the basic Pilipino mode of transportation—the Jeepney.
It seems the best and brightest minds that this world has to offer still can’t master permanent design and ultimate reliability. This morning when I reflect on the televised images of World War II veterans who scaled the cliffs of Normandy’s beaches, I had a thought. Although many of them are frail and gray, they still had the same, albeit aging, version of those original designed bodies that somehow scaled those hundred foot cliffs. Their hearts have beaten an estimated 19 to 20 billion times over the years without any upgrades or new models. (I know in light of the current financial situation that doesn’t sound as impressive as it used to.) I’ve had some glitches with my own heart but that wasn’t a design flaw. Those veteran’s memories still vividly store images that many wished they could forget. What a design and what a designer. All those veterans designed by someone who by His own admission designed our bodies to be temporary.
What He designed to be permanent has to be accepted on faith because there is nothing other than eternity that can test it. Based on His record, I consider it a pretty safe bet. Nothing else I’ve seen comes close.
Several years ago when I bought new computers I did research and discovered that the name brand that I ultimately purchased had the best defective rate in the industry- a whopping 19% failure rate! I promptly bought the best warranty they offered. My experience on one of those computers alone just blew their averages. When I called about some recurring issues, I was informed that they no longer made that model and had replaced it with a more reliable model. So much for the “latest and greatest.”
Guess that brings me to a whole different issue—the need for ever “bigger and better” models. I grew up in the era where, as a boy, I lived all summer with rapt anticipation of the annual August new automotive extravaganzas debuting the higher fins, more lavish chrome, or extra horse power. (Usually all of the above) You can see what’s happened to my heroes at the automotive design firms. In addition, I’ve given up on being able to safely wear perfectly good bell bottoms and serviceable polyester from my past. (They are far from fitting me anymore if I ever find what my wife did with them.) My service provider that worked on my refrigerator several weeks ago told me he personally owns “some twenty-year-old models that were built to last.” Gave me a lot of confidence?!?!
On television today the veterans of D-Day were recalling the technology from sixty-five-years ago. I realize how fleeting things are. I personally saw many of the remnants of World War II on Corregidor when I served in the Philippines and it is a sight I’ll never forget. I am sure that time has ravished them even more in the forty-plus years since I saw them and they were deteriorating then. Perhaps the only things close to “lasting” were the thousands and thousands of World War II jeeps. They are still encased in metal containers full of grease and still provide the core of the basic Pilipino mode of transportation—the Jeepney.
It seems the best and brightest minds that this world has to offer still can’t master permanent design and ultimate reliability. This morning when I reflect on the televised images of World War II veterans who scaled the cliffs of Normandy’s beaches, I had a thought. Although many of them are frail and gray, they still had the same, albeit aging, version of those original designed bodies that somehow scaled those hundred foot cliffs. Their hearts have beaten an estimated 19 to 20 billion times over the years without any upgrades or new models. (I know in light of the current financial situation that doesn’t sound as impressive as it used to.) I’ve had some glitches with my own heart but that wasn’t a design flaw. Those veteran’s memories still vividly store images that many wished they could forget. What a design and what a designer. All those veterans designed by someone who by His own admission designed our bodies to be temporary.
What He designed to be permanent has to be accepted on faith because there is nothing other than eternity that can test it. Based on His record, I consider it a pretty safe bet. Nothing else I’ve seen comes close.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Tulpehocken Mud
This year I have been blessed with, first one, then a second friend that knows where the elusive succulent trout (that my wife relishes) are hidden. Last night I received a fishing invitation from the second friend who lives in Lebanon County, PA. Just after dawn this morning, pole in hand, I was on the road to meet him.
I attended classes several years ago with this friend and he has subsequently started a small study group of diverse folks with the name of “The Fishin’ Whole.” Sounds like my kind of group and its growth has shown that others are drawn to it as well!
The morning was beautiful with a heavy misty overcast enveloping the picturesque green banks of the Tulpehocken Creek (“crick” to some of us). This is the same creek where legend has it that George Washington himself preferred to fly fish. (I thought he fought wars!) Nature was primed to envelop me in its seductive grasp. A bullfrog croaked and young goslings scrambled to the haven of their mother’s protective stance. There was even an advance guard of summer mosquitoes that dive-bombed out of the mist. The creek itself was a light tea color from evening rains except in the glassy swirling rapids. The banks were lush with a myriad of vegetation blossoming from a dark brown expanse of mud—rich dark mud.
My first cast produced that elusive gentle tug that fisherman dream of. Unfortunately, daydreaming dulled my reactions with no results for my creel. My friend planted me in the “best fishing spot” but his skill still yielded three beautiful brown trout before I finally landed my first—a beautiful shimmering fat brown trout. Soon, other than a few bumps on my offerings of worms, minnows, and even power bait, all action came to a halt. I could see the silvery flashes of the darting trout’s sprint to capture emerging nymphs and insects. I grew increasingly frustrated.
Finally, we moved to another spot and split up to explore more stretches of the magnificent waters. It was hard not to daydream. In fact, I reflected on a time as a young lad when I had inadvertently gotten my palm hooked by the barb of someone’s back cast. I’ll never forget the doctor saying the only way to remove it was to push it on through and cut the barb off. What a thing to think of on an otherwise wonderful outing!
I was quickly brought back to the present when a fat brook trout unknowingly decided to offer itself as a sacrifice for my wife’s taste buds. I had previously lost a nice trout in the same spot so I stepped back into the mud to better insure landing this one. Much to my chagrin, the thick dank mud enveloped my hip boots with a ferocious unyielding grip. I was over my ankles in mud and couldn’t move. Every movement let more water into the mud surrounding my size fourteen boots and creating more suction as I squirmed and wiggled. A half hour struggle made things worse with no success. Finally, I had to give up and with extreme embarrassment call my friend on his cell phone. His efforts to help failed too until he, up to his elbows in mud, dug me out using his hand as scoops.
As I sat on the bank momentarily exhausted, I realized how much my experiences had paralleled life. Sometime I get caught by things with unyielding barbs that despite anyone’s best efforts need to “be pushed on through” before I can be helped. And then there are the safe looking areas just off the beaten path that prove to be a treacherous quagmire of quicksand. Often my best efforts to free myself make things worse. Thank heaven for being dug out of the miry clay.
I attended classes several years ago with this friend and he has subsequently started a small study group of diverse folks with the name of “The Fishin’ Whole.” Sounds like my kind of group and its growth has shown that others are drawn to it as well!
The morning was beautiful with a heavy misty overcast enveloping the picturesque green banks of the Tulpehocken Creek (“crick” to some of us). This is the same creek where legend has it that George Washington himself preferred to fly fish. (I thought he fought wars!) Nature was primed to envelop me in its seductive grasp. A bullfrog croaked and young goslings scrambled to the haven of their mother’s protective stance. There was even an advance guard of summer mosquitoes that dive-bombed out of the mist. The creek itself was a light tea color from evening rains except in the glassy swirling rapids. The banks were lush with a myriad of vegetation blossoming from a dark brown expanse of mud—rich dark mud.
My first cast produced that elusive gentle tug that fisherman dream of. Unfortunately, daydreaming dulled my reactions with no results for my creel. My friend planted me in the “best fishing spot” but his skill still yielded three beautiful brown trout before I finally landed my first—a beautiful shimmering fat brown trout. Soon, other than a few bumps on my offerings of worms, minnows, and even power bait, all action came to a halt. I could see the silvery flashes of the darting trout’s sprint to capture emerging nymphs and insects. I grew increasingly frustrated.
Finally, we moved to another spot and split up to explore more stretches of the magnificent waters. It was hard not to daydream. In fact, I reflected on a time as a young lad when I had inadvertently gotten my palm hooked by the barb of someone’s back cast. I’ll never forget the doctor saying the only way to remove it was to push it on through and cut the barb off. What a thing to think of on an otherwise wonderful outing!
I was quickly brought back to the present when a fat brook trout unknowingly decided to offer itself as a sacrifice for my wife’s taste buds. I had previously lost a nice trout in the same spot so I stepped back into the mud to better insure landing this one. Much to my chagrin, the thick dank mud enveloped my hip boots with a ferocious unyielding grip. I was over my ankles in mud and couldn’t move. Every movement let more water into the mud surrounding my size fourteen boots and creating more suction as I squirmed and wiggled. A half hour struggle made things worse with no success. Finally, I had to give up and with extreme embarrassment call my friend on his cell phone. His efforts to help failed too until he, up to his elbows in mud, dug me out using his hand as scoops.
As I sat on the bank momentarily exhausted, I realized how much my experiences had paralleled life. Sometime I get caught by things with unyielding barbs that despite anyone’s best efforts need to “be pushed on through” before I can be helped. And then there are the safe looking areas just off the beaten path that prove to be a treacherous quagmire of quicksand. Often my best efforts to free myself make things worse. Thank heaven for being dug out of the miry clay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)