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I am an early morning person (and I start fading when the sun goes down). “Zillions” of more important things crowd into my life if I don’t go for a stroll in the very early morning hours . I missed an early morning stroll today but did make it about ten AM. Normally there is early morning heavy dew that keep me on the dry macadam roads. This morning I discovered that the sunlight effectively dries everything as the morning progresses. That enabled me to walk through the fields and around the stream and pond that I enjoy so much without wet feet.
As I entered a neighboring fence row a couple of burrs “reached out” and attached themselves to my sleeves and pant legs. They had a Velcro like grip and seemed intent on accompanying me wherever I journeyed. My mind went back to my youthful hunting and trapping days. It always seemed to be wet, windy, freezing cold, and I’d be covered with burrs, or at least that’s what I remember. I used to hunt on those days with my father, my grandfather with his sawed-off double-barreled Parker 12 gauge shotgun, and sometimes, even my mother. (My mother will always remain in my mind as the “crack shot” but that’s another story for another day!) I recollect trudging through all kinds of terrain toting a slender 410 gauge shotgun. I hadn’t seen any of the favored dinner quarry-pretty male Ring necked Pheasants-for quite some time. Ironically, one crossed my path this morning as it scurried to the safety of a wooded area. I never stopped enjoying the outdoors although my hunting and trapping days ceased when I joined the military almost forty five years ago.
Now that it’s November the resident water snake that hides along the edge of our neighboring pond is nowhere to be found. However, a beautiful pair of Mallard ducks cruise warily in the middle of the pond. I can see game trails that deer and other creatures follow mainly at dusk and dawn as they come to sip this cooling water. I am so glad to be able to stop and relish this beautiful fall panorama as leaves drift one by one onto pond’s mirror-like stillness.
Later, when I return home I stop to admire the hibiscus flower that several weeks ago my wife had me bring indoors before any frost could affect it. A friend installed a vertical window on the landing between our first and second floors. It gives us a wonderful eastern exposure that is perfect for providing maximum sunlight to plants like this giant hibiscus. Persistent watering, some plant fertilizer sticks, and abundant sunlight have yielded nine new buds. Recently, we’ve delighted in seeing beautiful blossoms and I was eager to see today’s offering. I was not disappointed—new soft orange, yellow, and pink ones. However, I was shocked to see all the vital life giving leaves missing from two stalks. Mysterious pencil point-sized black dots litter the floor. Closer examination showed a fat caterpillar contentedly hugging a bare stalk after a scrumptious breakfast of lush leaves.
I thought back to the burrs that had hitched a ride on my clothing earlier this morning and now the caterpillar who’d stealthily let me introduce him to this predator-less utopia in our home. I realize that interlopers are everywhere and many never get our attention “if they behave.” They are eager to use us to help them advance their purposes and agendas. Amazingly, many times I don’t even realize that I am a host or an enabler unless I inadvertently feel the burrs or notice leaves missing with telltale droppings. Guess I need to be more alert to the many stealthy things that would like me and mine as hosts.
I live in the land of the “Pennsylvania Deutsch nod”. This art form is very subtle and is most effective when two fellow devotees meet and synchronize their passing nods. Nodding can almost be imperceptible to newcomers or outsiders. I am sure the practice dates back generations. It is a very simple gesture. However, it takes a lot of insight and practice to detect and exercise it with proper dignity and just a touch of aloofness. It kind of reminds me of some of those creatures on the Discovery Channel that are committed to not wasting an ounce of unnecessary energy.
As you may surmise, the nod consists of making momentary eye contact while holding the head rigid except for a slight polite barely perceptible dip. The true masters of spotting this art are the auctioneers who can decipher these lightning-quick moves among their bidding clientele. However the most common form is a restrained form of greeting. It’s kind of like a secret fraternal handshake but a bit more widely practiced. Two practiced devotees can exercise this in unison in just a few seconds. They have done their proper duty and not had to utter a word or stray from their intended path. I guess it’s all about Pennsylvania Deutsch (German) efficiency.
I have become what I humbly consider a rather deft practitioner of the “nod.” It has served me well in many settings with a variety of folks, especially the seasoned ones. Lately, I am facing a bit of a dilemma. As I stroll along our country roads in the mornings, I am in danger of miscuing. I am OK with those coming out to get their morning paper, the kids at the school bus stop, and even other walkers and joggers. My problem is with the passing motorists—many of whom by protocol—I am expected to recognize and give a “nod.” I don’t know whether it is the rising sun on their windshields or their speed, but I have belatedly realized I’ve miss quite a few nods. That concerns me and hopefully won’t affect my standing in the neighborhood or community. Oh, I’ve caught some and returned some, but I’ve missed quite a few and actually delivered a few in error. It’s difficult when there is no expression or body language to go with it and my reflexes were never tops even when I was younger.
After some adequate reflection, I have come up with a remedy and am even taking the unheard of risk at being considered “forward”. I have started to wave and even slightly smile to each person I pass with no regard to whether they are “my friend.” I no longer have to squint and agonize over whether I missed acknowledging someone. You see, over a several week period I have developed a relationship with a lot of folks who now wave and smile when they see me plodding down the road. I guess they’re anticipating my now normal wave and slight smile. I believe each of our days have become a tiny bit more pleasant because of this small gesture. I know mine has. Most importantly, it’s something almost impossible for me to mess up socially. What a relief!
I look forward to seeing my new friends each morning. I may never have an opportunity speak a word to many of them but there is a bond beyond words. I don’t want to lose my skill at poker-faced “nodding” but am committed to saving it for very special occasions. For “everyday,” I think I’ll use that wave and a slight smile. It seems to be working quite well.
A beautiful sixty degree November morning! It doesn’t get any better than this. In fact, it inspired me to trek around the neighboring fields and woodlands even if it meant getting my feet wet from the heavy morning dew. I marvel at the rocky soil that still exposes new offerings of hidden treasure even after being tilled for what may be approaching two hundred years. It has faithfully been sustaining wildlife, crops, herds, and families for generations. Sadly, similar fertile fields are increasingly being sown with a new one-time cash crop of expensive homes and will never sustain wildlife, crops, and herds again.
I walk from the fields back into a wooded dump area. This is not a garbage or trash area but an accumulation of unused worn out implements and historical treasures common to farms and farming life. All were neatly piled or stacked and I am sure there was a fascinating tale behind each piece. A metal tow-behind rake with metal wheels and a metal seat made me think of all possible things that the farmer experienced on this now rusted aging implement. There were very used tires that had sacrificed all of their tread transversing these fields hour upon hour. And then there are the chicken cages that are now outdated by the bounteous commercial offerings of big “factory farms” now being merchandised in our neighborhood supermarket.
I stop at a stump being used as a squirrel’s pantry while he conveniently processes the bounty of the neighboring Shellbark Hickory tree. Shells were everywhere but no tasty inner kernels of the nuts were left for me to sample. I marvel at the new winter wheat that is now four to five inches high and prepared to endure the coming harsh winter to reemerge for a head start sprint toward an early summer harvest. The harvested soy beans now expose an underlying crop of sweet clover to sustain the young steers.
As I crest a small hill, I look down on the peaceful serenity of a family farm that has sustained a cycle of planting, harvest, and animal husbandry for generations. The next generation already is proudly displaying championship Holsteins to continue their heritage. A slight aroma of animal manure and musty moist earth keep me tuned to the realities of the labor involved and not caught up in this fantasy idyllic postcard-like setting.
Soon I spot the evidence in the moist earth that some deer—possibly delicate young does—have crossed this path earlier this morning. Deer seem to be everywhere this time of year as evidenced by the increasing road kills. In fact, we had two magnificent bucks in our front yard several weeks ago posing like lawn ornaments. During this mating season referred to by hunters as “the rut,” deer lose much of their normal reserve and caution in pursuit of their natural instincts. The seasonal timing is tied to a gestation period that permits the does to feed on new green spring growth and provide ample milk for new fawns. Amazing the way everything fits together in perfect timing!
I soon see evidence that I am not the only one that has been seeing these signs of deer activity. As I approach a strategic wooded spot overlooking this peaceful grazing area I notice one, then a second “tree stand.” Both are laboriously constructed on stout hardwood trees and tower about twenty feet in the air. Each has their own elaborate series of steps up the tree for convenient climbing to that level and a small seat for comfortable reconnaissance. One overlooks a hillside path to a small stream and the other, this luscious grazing expanse. The deer may have noticed the construction of these stands but possibly have become oblivious to their eventual intended purpose for their demise.
Makes me realize how vulnerable I am when I keep my focus on pursuing and being pursued by other humans and our endeavors. Even though I may see growing evidence that there is an actual plot for my eventual demise, I am sometimes oblivious unless I am in an obvious conflict. Lastly, if I don’t keep looking up, I may even miss the tip-off of my vulnerabilities to those stealthy forces bent on accusing, seeking and destroying. I have a lot to learn from nature and the wildlife I find so fascinating.
Many years ago, while in the Air Force and then working for Lockheed Aircraft, I used to be able to troubleshoot and repair airplanes—at least most of them. (No, the rest didn’t crash—someone with more skill and knowledge took over!) For a long time I assumed that those qualities were transferable to our cars and our home. Whenever anything needed repair I would studiously troubleshoot the situation and narrow down my diagnosis to the most probable causes. I would then purchase the appropriate parts and the tools to install them. In most cases, that bill would be somewhere approaching one hundred dollars considering the fix attempted after the initial fix. (And that doesn’t take into consideration any structural repairs, Doctor bills, etc.) Once I’d “given it my all” and perhaps sacrificed several knuckles, I would call in a professional to save my tarnished ego and reputation.
After consultation with my wife (a very perceptive and wise lady), I’ve come to the conclusion that my talents are not in home repair. That actually is a relief because it is embarrassing to try to keep up a façade while juggling more and more broken and unfinished projects. Our home is over forty years old (and I can be a bit clumsy) so things seem to be constantly breaking, leaking, or mysteriously collapsing. This morning I broke a brass stair railing support but that is another story.
I have a morning regimen when I get up. One of the first things I do is to walk to the kitchen sink in my bare feet to drink a glass of water and make coffee for “my bride.” Several days ago I thought I felt moisture on the carpet in front of the sink. (Yes, one of those rooster carpets.) I thought it was just my imagination since my feet aren’t as sensitive as they used to be and I’d just walked over cool Pergo flooring. The same thing happened the next morning and yes; it was wetness. I put the carpet out to dry and then looked for the source. Fortunately, it was obvious and easy to access. All I had to do was open the cabinet doors beneath the kitchen sink and my wife immediately spotted water running down a chrome drain pipe.
My cheap thriftiness kept me from immediately calling a plumber (and usually a high paid helper). Later in the day I called a friend to see if this was a “plumber” or a “handyman” job. He asked, “Do you need chrome and will anyone see these pipes?” When I asked what the alternative was, he gave me a quick education. It seems chrome is much, much, more expensive and prone to leak (and rust) after an extended period of time. Chrome is used in a highly visible situation like exposed bathroom fixtures. The alternative is P.V.C. (plastic) pipe which is cheaper and virtually indestructible once properly installed. To some, the downside is that it is ugly.
My mind shifted to the human “fixtures” of life. Some appear to be, as the Pennsylvania Deutsch (Germans) would say, “Just for pretty.” They may be in positions that require public exposure and therefore they need to be clad in “expensive chrome plating” and I understand and respect that. However, my heart goes out to the multitudes of “P.V.C. folks” who play such a valuable utilitarian role in my life. Many have given up on their dreams of ever being “chrome plated” for their fifteen minutes of fame and may in fact feel “second class.” To those folks I would like to just say “thanks.” I salute you for the valuable background roles you perform so honorably and dependably to “keep my life from leaking.”
Almost four years ago my health insurance company wrote me a letter with an amazing free offer. They offered to pay for an intensive therapeutic and restorative program designed for folks like me. Later, I determined that meant people that they considered to be a high risk for possible expensive procedures. One of the stipulations of the program was that I had to become a total vegetarian. I accepted their offer and have been a vegetarian ever since. People often have their own thoughts about vegetarians and why folks become one. In my case, I had no special phobias or convictions—I just embraced the program requirements. It was quite a transition because my wife and I had a restaurant background and actually had a history of working with steakhouses and savoring all the benefits. I am still getting the hang of being a vegetarian.
Fortunately, we neighbor a family farm where they grow an amazing array of foods. Even as a vegetarian, I actually relish the special aroma on the days that they butcher steers and hogs. My weakness though is their phenomenal fresh produce. I’ve always savored their huge chef-sized baking potatoes. Most of all, I anticipate and delight in their array of field fresh vegetables. Sadly, the succulent sweet corn is just a memory and other produce selections are fading. I purchased their last of the season of cucumbers, peppers, egg plant, and tomatoes this week. For lunch today, along with a big fluffy steaming baked potato, I grilled seasoned red peppers and sumptuous thick slices of tomatoes with a sprinkling of no-fat parmesan cheese. (I also did some chicken for a guest.)
Freshly picked tomatoes are my favorites. I am so addicted that virtually every day since the first tomatoes became available in July I have had at least one thick tomato sandwiched in dark whole grained bread. Even though I buy fresh tomatoes a half bushel at a time and am the only one in my household that eats them, I still have to trek down to the farm to replenish my stock every ten days or so. What a delight! I think the tomatoes this year have been the best ever. I silently try not to show my distain for those chemically ripened things they call tomatoes in the chain super markets. I have been involved in both the food and distribution industries so I understand why they can’t be up to the standards of my neighbor’s farm, but…
As I mentioned, I was delighted to get tomatoes from my neighbor in November. As I always do, I rushed home from the farm to sample the most perfectly ripened specimen. There weren’t any that had that “give away” deep red coloring so I had to go to plan ”B.” I was like those folks who block the produce selection in the super markets and can’t resist squeezing each specimen. (Like Charmin, for those of you who remember that campaign.) Amazingly, there was not one soft one and the color was technically red but not the red I’ve come to expect. I am enjoying this batch of tomatoes because they are by far the best available this time of year.
However, I am realizing that even though they are red and look like tomatoes they are truthfully disappointing. I savored the ones that stayed on the vine to be fully ripened with maximum exposure to the summer sun. What a difference. Reminds me of how important the 23½ degree tilt toward the extended daily rays of the summer sun really is. The sustaining warmth of those penetrating rays makes a profound difference to fruit still on the vine. Yes, there is light in the winter but not enough exposure for anything to be truly capable of bearing real fruit. (This morning all the leaves were frost bitten and the red fruit still on the vines blighted.) Color can even be artificially induced. However, squeezing (and cutting) is the proof of the best fruit. There is something to be said for basking in the extended warmth of the sun and being “vine ripened”.
Folks all seem to have fascinating stories to tell if I take time to focus and listen. This week I had the opportunity to relish some from seasoned folks that really are intriguing. Most of the folks consider themselves to be quite “ordinary” but to me they’re special. One especially struck a chord with me.
My wife and I just spent over an hour with a special diminutive eighty-five year old Japanese/American lady. Her big bright eyes conveyed a “lost puppy” look as the story of her World War Two interment unfolded. She told of reading a posting on a telephone pole in her hometown of Stockton, California that stated that she and all other Japanese/Americans must report to a processing station the following day. She started to speak of a childhood pet left behind but her voice trailed off to the point I couldn’t understand her. From the central collection point she and her family were herded on trains that whisked them away to the hills of far off Arkansas. While in transit they were told to keep the train windows shades down especially when they were in stations. One of her friends disregarded the instructions and opened the window to wave to folks in the station. Her face registered a special grimace when she conveyed the looks and comments that their Asian features prompted. The agony was especially acute because there was no recognition that she and her family were second and third generation American citizens. She amazingly spoke with no malice of the three “lost” years spend in remote Arkansas. In fact, she was grateful to have been courted in the camp by her late husband of sixty years and to ultimately be awarded her “lost” high school diploma when she returned to California. Unfortunately, there were no inclination to hire these returning citizens and life was austere for quite some time.
I asked if she had visited Japan. She told of visiting Nagasaki, the site of the atomic bombing not many years after the war. She spoke of meeting many Japanese citizens who with little visible bitterness told of their individual losses and pain. Almost universally they seemed to almost stoically accept this horror. When they realized that she was an American, they almost apologetically said that “the Americans must have had well founded reasons for the bombing” even though they didn’t understand them.
There is something almost magnetic about folks who have gracefully experienced extreme personal pain and spring boarded beyond it. Not that they have forgotten. A select few have permitted their hearts to be “tenderized” in a special way rather than permitting them to become tough and callous. It’s folks like this that are often used in such special ways to touch the rest of us. Not only does this seem to have a wonderful effect on the rest of us, but the effect seems to grow almost exponentially as these folks become more seasoned with time. I have no desire “to go through the fire” but can’t ignore the wonderful correlations of those that do and are “tenderized” by it. I am grateful for the pain experienced by those special folks whose lives have touched me so deeply. I want to reciprocate by using my past, present, and future pain to be sensitive to others as I’m summoned.
While I was growing up I did virtually anything that would earn some spending money. I did gardening and cleanup projects (or almost anything else) for numerous ladies in my hometown. Before price fixing was outlawed, it didn’t dawn on me that it was no coincidence that they all paid me the same rate and never competed for my services. I caddied at our local country club and later did almost anything needed to help the Pro run the Pro Shop. I sold gladiola flowers, greeting cards, and virtually anything else that could be sold to make a few dollars. I worked for a caterer and our local country club food service manager. I passed papers for twenty-five cents a day. I think you get the picture.
Other than buying a “ham” amateur radio outfit and the bicycle needed for my paper route almost all of my liquid assets unfortunately were invested in a local emporium (adults called it a “hangout”) called the Blue Diamond. Some of the money went toward fountain cherry cokes and the rest was largely invested a nickel at a time in pinball machines in the back. I invested enough to “master” each of the machines and rack up winning games but somehow always left broke. The secret to scoring points was to be able to shake the machine enough to get the metal balls to go where you needed them to go. Unfortunately they installed a “tilt” mechanism in the machines to foil folks like me and keep me “honest.” A bit too much “body English” finessing the machine would activate a mechanism that would end the game prematurely with a big illuminated sign saying “TILT” for all to see.
Today I thought of those days of old. My wife and I were in a huge hot tub full of bubbling 34 degree Celsius (93.2 Fahrenheit) bubbling water. We were oblivious to the air temperature hovering in the mid-thirty degrees range. Our little world just off the coast of Newfoundland consists of perhaps a thousand gallons of artificially heated bliss perching 13 decks above the rolling Atlantic Ocean. The ocean temperature is a chilly fifty-six degrees and dropping. I have no thoughts or interest in anything about the ocean even thought its depth and breadth exponentially dwarf our little Shangri-la.
That all changed dramatically as our ship started to roll navigating through the seven and a half to twelve foot swells far below us. Suddenly our hot tub went into a “tilt” posture and water started flowing out of one side and then the other in a rhythmic fluid motion. I had no choice but to acknowledge there was a whole huge “real” world with awesome depth and power outside my little hide away. No longer could I be oblivious to the depth, breadth and currents of an enormous ocean extending thousands of miles beyond my little floating hot tub. Kind of reminds me of how oblivious I can be to a world of over six billion folks till it “tilts” my comfortable little cocoon perched high “above it.” It’s amazing how far I’ll go to partition out all “distractions” and create a little euphoric “bubbling” bliss. Invariably things “tilt” to bring me back to a real perspective. Sometimes it’s sudden attacks or other outrageous actions but invariably that sea of folks and their power and dynamics gets my shocked attention. Guess I wasn’t designed to obliviously create and control my own little world with no regard for everyone else. Perhaps that’s why there always seems to be a “tilt” to cause me to restart from a new expanded perspective.
