I feel naked. After a short night’s sleep, I just dropped my bride off at Philadelphia International Airport along with our only working cell phone. This morning I’m on my way motoring virtually from border to border across our great state of Pennsylvania. I have a gnawing feeling that it’s just not right to travel without a cell phone. Never mind that I did it for most of my life. I think I have a phone card somewhere in my wallet but am not sure where you find a pay phone any more. They all seemed to have disappeared. And how does anyone get in contact with me while I am in transit? It’s amazing how a novel accessory has become a “have to have” in such a short amount of time.
Once I leave the Delaware River behind and my Pennsylvania Turnpike EZ-Pass is electronically recorded, I set the cruise control a tad over 65MPH. There is little to do for the next five plus hours other than gaze at the unfolding panorama and think.
I think of my wife now flying high above me and picture her drinking coffee and doing Sudoku as we both independently transverse the state of Pennsylvania. (It’s too complicated to explain why in this little ditty, and yes, we’re ultimately both going to the same destination.) Even if she glances out the window of her Boeing 737 streaking high overhead, she would see little of what I am seeing other than glimpses of the rivers and mountains through the clouds.
The Keystone State has always been scenic and this morning she is in her finest splendor. That is still true in spite of the blob of truck terminals, factory farms, warehouses, bottled water plants, massive defense supply installations, and cold storage units that is slowly oozing across the pristine pastures and orchards of our great state. Even the signs and billboards (yes, we still have them) have morphed from simple “Howard Johnson’s ahead” to Starbucks, Sharro, and Powerball touting extravaganzas. The sea of traffic is amazing and I soon fix my thoughts on the passing assortment of state license plates along with the growing fleet of municipal waste rigs motoring across our land to some unseen dumping site.
As I proceeded from the Delaware Bay Water Shed on to the Chesapeake Bay Water Shed and then onto that magic point elevated over 2000 feet in altitude where water actually starts a journey toward the Gulf of Mexico, I am in awe of our natural resources. Yes, the Shad and Eels are largely a thing of the past but our tributaries and waterways are awesome. Proceeding through the mountains and especially through the Blue, Kittanning, and Tuscarora Mountain tunnels made me think of those who ventured through this land before those tunnels, this turnpike, and even motor vehicles.
In fact, it reminds me of a mid-state based acquaintance who has walked the breadth of our Commonwealth multiple times. His route—the old Lincoln Highway, US Route 30—parallels both our routes of travel. Other than spotting a black bear somewhere around Breezewood, most of his focus seems to center around the folks that he meets. His stories are fascinating to the point that I feel slightly jealous—stories of amazing locals, off-course tourists, and curious children and pets. Oh, my trek featuring tunnels and trucking terminals is interesting but doesn’t compare to the wonderful people that populate our great state.
Comparing the three treks across the state prompts some interesting thoughts. For efficiency, nothing compares to my wife’s runway to runway sprint of less than an hour soaring above our commonwealth. My five hour motor cruise is interesting but actually the sights actually become a bit boring toward the end. But my friend’s walks constitute treasures of humanity and relationships that few of us seldom take time to relish on our frantic dash from point A to B.
I am gently reminded that my rush to proceed as rapidly as possible through the clouds to my destination may be a bit self serving. There is a wonderful sea of humanity and relationships down here that can only be experienced and reached by “walking the walk” on terra firma. As my friend confirms, the few pulled muscles, blisters, and sweat are oh so worth it as he trekked and connected with one person at a time.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Little Things
This morning validates why I should think twice about owning dark colored vehicles. Try as I might, I can only keep our maroon colored car clean for what seems like a few fleeting hours or less. You’d think I would have learned a lesson after trying to maintain a massive black van for quite a few years. This morning I am on a mission to bring home early Sunday morning hot cakes from a neighborhood drive through. (And hope no one sees me in my pre dawn “finest.”) Having clean cars is a bit therapeutic for me and I especially enjoy a quick glance at a shiny car for a day or two after investing six or eight dollars in a carwash. As I peer expectantly through the emerging daylight, my “clean” car is covered with a yellowish hazy film. It is visible evidence of all the tiny irritants that wreak havoc with so many of my friend’s breathing during this season—tiny, tiny specks of pollen.
My wife secretly inspects me each time I am to appear in public for “minute unimportant” (to me) stains and such. I recently got a new pair of glasses with a part of them soldered just slightly askew. That slight imperfection was immediately detected by my observant wife and validated by the Optometrist. (No wonder she is such a great proofreader for various authors.)
One of my finger still bears a slight redness from a tiny sliver of wood that somehow penetrated my skin last week. Though it was only a small fraction of an inch long, that sliver affects my whole body and especially my attitude. Likewise, for some small particles floating in my knee joints. Little things affect my body a lot. Those small particles have hijacked my mind and body.
Recently while visiting a military exhibit I got to see a mockup of a nuclear weapon. It didn’t look very impressive and was not what I expected. However, the awesome destructive force contained in an atom was reinforced by some World War 2 era pictures of the flattened Japanese cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. What devastation starting with a basic minute particle! Evidence of fear of nuclear problems originating with tiny atoms continues (and escalates). Today’s newspaper headline bears proof.
The Western world spends billions of dollars and invests untold man hours in searching for small quantities of contraband; be it potential explosives or drugs. Personally I must fit some kind of a profile because the newest techniques in TSA airport screening seem overly intent on finding something miniscule hidden in the recesses of my oversized body. That’s not the arena in which I like to be considered “special”!
Hopefully you have been able to follow my “rabbit trail.” I am absolutely convinced that “small” has alarmingly huge potential for discomfort, pain and destruction in many assorted arenas. That doesn’t even take into consideration the devastating fear factor that often accompanies the scientific and medical evidence or even rumors of the potential of this “minutia.”
There is amazing power in little things both bad and good. What I find amazing is how readily I can accept the awesome immobilizing power and potential of small harmful things. Yet I often lack the vision to grasp the amazing yeast-like potential of small obscure things intended for good. I am not just speaking in terms of things like substances that can potentially cure diseases or a energize perpetual motion machines. Perhaps the biggest lapse is a lack of confidence in myself (just one “small” person among six billion other probably more qualified folks!) to bring about positive change in this huge world. Why do I fear and overreact to the “bad” little things and underestimate and have so little confidence in the potential of the “good” little things? I suspect it’s the difference between fear and faith that determines my differing reactions. Guess it’s time to revisit that tale about a tiny mustard seed to help me maintain a proper perspective. I need to focus and move beyond immobilization into belief and action on the side of “good”.
My wife secretly inspects me each time I am to appear in public for “minute unimportant” (to me) stains and such. I recently got a new pair of glasses with a part of them soldered just slightly askew. That slight imperfection was immediately detected by my observant wife and validated by the Optometrist. (No wonder she is such a great proofreader for various authors.)
One of my finger still bears a slight redness from a tiny sliver of wood that somehow penetrated my skin last week. Though it was only a small fraction of an inch long, that sliver affects my whole body and especially my attitude. Likewise, for some small particles floating in my knee joints. Little things affect my body a lot. Those small particles have hijacked my mind and body.
Recently while visiting a military exhibit I got to see a mockup of a nuclear weapon. It didn’t look very impressive and was not what I expected. However, the awesome destructive force contained in an atom was reinforced by some World War 2 era pictures of the flattened Japanese cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. What devastation starting with a basic minute particle! Evidence of fear of nuclear problems originating with tiny atoms continues (and escalates). Today’s newspaper headline bears proof.
The Western world spends billions of dollars and invests untold man hours in searching for small quantities of contraband; be it potential explosives or drugs. Personally I must fit some kind of a profile because the newest techniques in TSA airport screening seem overly intent on finding something miniscule hidden in the recesses of my oversized body. That’s not the arena in which I like to be considered “special”!
Hopefully you have been able to follow my “rabbit trail.” I am absolutely convinced that “small” has alarmingly huge potential for discomfort, pain and destruction in many assorted arenas. That doesn’t even take into consideration the devastating fear factor that often accompanies the scientific and medical evidence or even rumors of the potential of this “minutia.”
There is amazing power in little things both bad and good. What I find amazing is how readily I can accept the awesome immobilizing power and potential of small harmful things. Yet I often lack the vision to grasp the amazing yeast-like potential of small obscure things intended for good. I am not just speaking in terms of things like substances that can potentially cure diseases or a energize perpetual motion machines. Perhaps the biggest lapse is a lack of confidence in myself (just one “small” person among six billion other probably more qualified folks!) to bring about positive change in this huge world. Why do I fear and overreact to the “bad” little things and underestimate and have so little confidence in the potential of the “good” little things? I suspect it’s the difference between fear and faith that determines my differing reactions. Guess it’s time to revisit that tale about a tiny mustard seed to help me maintain a proper perspective. I need to focus and move beyond immobilization into belief and action on the side of “good”.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Spring
There are many kinds of springs: the season, a cold stream of water that often feeds into an outdoor type of refrigerator called a springhouse, an open source computer application written for Java, a descriptive term for a source, a metal coil, and the list goes on. And that is just the nouns. The verb forms are far more interesting: to pounce or launch, to move out of place, to cause to warp or bend by force, to disclose unexpectedly, to be released from prison, to pay for someone’s expenses, to emerge suddenly, to jump or vault, to return to a former position, and I’m sure there are more. No, I don’t normally spend my time in a dictionary. In fact, the subject of English wasn’t one of my strengths (of which there were few) in school. This disclosure is necessary since a knowledgeable former English teacher will possibly read this.
This story just seemed to progress starting with a simple broken garage door. Since a friend installed them quite a few years ago, I seldom pay any attention to our garage doors and openers. I just know that they work. One morning there was a lot of squeaking (more like moaning and groaning) and I set out with my trusty silicone spray (and WD-40, if that didn’t work) to rectify the situation. When I glanced up to the top of the closed door (normally not visible when the door is open) lo and behold, I saw a large broken torsion spring. It didn’t seem to impede the operation. In fact, the door seemed to work better with it broken, if that is possible. We had an extended trip planned to Colorado so I didn’t pay any more attention other than a phone call to explore some possibilities.
When we returned after several weeks, the door wouldn’t open at all. Fortunately, I remembered where there was a seldom used house key because the garage door is our normal entry point. Several UPS deliveries were made through the garage door while we were gone and, in closing, the door had jumped the track, jammed and severed a cable. I belatedly realized that that benign, almost hidden spring really must have had a purpose, and apparently an important one. Not only did it have a purpose but it is valuable— wholesale value, about a dollar for each of its 110 metal coils. I didn’t save the broken spring (that would have reinforced a mistaken image, in my wife’s mind) but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
In fact, the image was joined by several other “spring” applications- one big, one small. From our years of living on the front range of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, I am very aware of a giant “secret” complex deep within Cheyenne Mountain which is vital to our North American defenses. Supposedly the whole complex is on giant hidden springs and is designed to safely recoil from even a nuclear blast.
I take a lot of pictures. (A picture taker, not a photographer) All my pictures now get transferred from a small electronic card the size of a postage stamp to my computer through a small card reader in the side of the computer. Once I push the card into the slot, a hidden spring pushes it back to the proper seated position to connect electronically. Guess what? When I returned with hundreds of treasured pictures from Colorado, the spring failed and I couldn’t download the pictures.
Many of us possibly feel like springs in our own way. Sadly we tend over time to think of ourselves in terms of a noun and seldom associate ourselves with an action verb. I guess that’s how we think others perceive us and possibly that is accurate in some cases. The part that we often miss is that each of us was designed with a valuable and unique purpose in mind; not unlike the three “benign” springs I’ve mentioned. All too often we establish our self worth and perceived value based on comparison to vibrant action-oriented folks “who make the world go around.” We are great at knowing “what we’re not” but have difficulty knowing “what we are” and what is our unique purpose. In most cases, the “go-go” folks that we secretly compare ourselves to can’t function (especially over the long term) without us just like my garage door and hideden torsion spring. We function as, among other things, a stabilizing security for others. In many cases, folks and situations would ultimately not function or may even self destruct in the absence of our hidden and often sparingly used function.
Take pride in your uniqueness and the function you were designed to fulfill. There is a world out there that was designed with a missing piece and you’re that piece. (Like the “zillion” piece jigsaw puzzles my wife and her friends enjoy) Don’t get overly hung up on your perceived day to day value; some of us were designed to “be ready” for something unforeseen or not readily apparent. The phrase “for such a time as this” rings in my mind, and I think the word “purpose” could be added without ruining the context.
You’re special and unique by design. Live with that confidence and assurance, my friend.
This story just seemed to progress starting with a simple broken garage door. Since a friend installed them quite a few years ago, I seldom pay any attention to our garage doors and openers. I just know that they work. One morning there was a lot of squeaking (more like moaning and groaning) and I set out with my trusty silicone spray (and WD-40, if that didn’t work) to rectify the situation. When I glanced up to the top of the closed door (normally not visible when the door is open) lo and behold, I saw a large broken torsion spring. It didn’t seem to impede the operation. In fact, the door seemed to work better with it broken, if that is possible. We had an extended trip planned to Colorado so I didn’t pay any more attention other than a phone call to explore some possibilities.
When we returned after several weeks, the door wouldn’t open at all. Fortunately, I remembered where there was a seldom used house key because the garage door is our normal entry point. Several UPS deliveries were made through the garage door while we were gone and, in closing, the door had jumped the track, jammed and severed a cable. I belatedly realized that that benign, almost hidden spring really must have had a purpose, and apparently an important one. Not only did it have a purpose but it is valuable— wholesale value, about a dollar for each of its 110 metal coils. I didn’t save the broken spring (that would have reinforced a mistaken image, in my wife’s mind) but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
In fact, the image was joined by several other “spring” applications- one big, one small. From our years of living on the front range of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, I am very aware of a giant “secret” complex deep within Cheyenne Mountain which is vital to our North American defenses. Supposedly the whole complex is on giant hidden springs and is designed to safely recoil from even a nuclear blast.
I take a lot of pictures. (A picture taker, not a photographer) All my pictures now get transferred from a small electronic card the size of a postage stamp to my computer through a small card reader in the side of the computer. Once I push the card into the slot, a hidden spring pushes it back to the proper seated position to connect electronically. Guess what? When I returned with hundreds of treasured pictures from Colorado, the spring failed and I couldn’t download the pictures.
Many of us possibly feel like springs in our own way. Sadly we tend over time to think of ourselves in terms of a noun and seldom associate ourselves with an action verb. I guess that’s how we think others perceive us and possibly that is accurate in some cases. The part that we often miss is that each of us was designed with a valuable and unique purpose in mind; not unlike the three “benign” springs I’ve mentioned. All too often we establish our self worth and perceived value based on comparison to vibrant action-oriented folks “who make the world go around.” We are great at knowing “what we’re not” but have difficulty knowing “what we are” and what is our unique purpose. In most cases, the “go-go” folks that we secretly compare ourselves to can’t function (especially over the long term) without us just like my garage door and hideden torsion spring. We function as, among other things, a stabilizing security for others. In many cases, folks and situations would ultimately not function or may even self destruct in the absence of our hidden and often sparingly used function.
Take pride in your uniqueness and the function you were designed to fulfill. There is a world out there that was designed with a missing piece and you’re that piece. (Like the “zillion” piece jigsaw puzzles my wife and her friends enjoy) Don’t get overly hung up on your perceived day to day value; some of us were designed to “be ready” for something unforeseen or not readily apparent. The phrase “for such a time as this” rings in my mind, and I think the word “purpose” could be added without ruining the context.
You’re special and unique by design. Live with that confidence and assurance, my friend.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Falls
I am lifetime fishing aficionado. Deep in my “sacred” historical troves is a yellowed Milton Standard newspaper clipping to prove it. There I was as young Johnny proudly displaying a fat “trophy” 18 inch Brown Trout. Subsequent pictures of stringers of Trout and Kokanee for my new bride in Colorado are continuing proof.
Recent years have been different. I guess technically speaking I could still call myself a fisherman. That’s based on my perhaps flawed transposition of the fact that I can be labeled a “shopper” for just going through the motions of shopping without actually buying anything.
My confidence diminished to a low point several years ago when my daughter visited Pennsylvania and we were to try father-daughter fishing together again. She inherited her mother’s craving for fresh trout and I was determined we’d satisfy it. As a precaution, I deferred to a heavily stocked “pay to fish” Trout lake to insure our success. Much to my chagrin we only caught two small sunfish. That was the low point of my fishing career.
Several years ago things started to change when two successful fishermen individually took pity on me and my bruised ego. (I think it was more that they felt sorry for my bride who still yearned for fresh trout.) One took me to Bass Pro Shops to prove that there was such a thing as size fourteen hip boots. I felt like a Biblical disciple hanging out with those “real fishermen” and yes, there were trout to help insure another forty-one years of blissful marriage.
Last season started great with a trip with one friend to a local spot about twenty miles away. My new hip boots permitted me to stand on the swift flowing crest of a concrete dam and fish in the billowing spillway. What a treat to be placed in “the perfect fishing spot.”.I even had fresh trout to proudly present to my wife after years of famine. My friends independently tag teamed to help insure my continued success. The outings weren’t without incident especially with those massive hip boots (and withering stamina). I felt like an astronaut moving around. (And wished for outer space weightlessness to go with them.) Once I had to swallow my pride and call my one friend on his cell phone when I got stuck up to my thighs in a quagmire of quicksand like mud. It takes a real friend to lie in the mud to help you release the overpowering suction of good old Pennsylvania “muck.”
Last week the other friend called and offered another opening day invitation back to “the perfect spot” on the crest of the dam. Another friend volunteered a bountiful supply of fathead minnows. I was “stoked.”. I could barely sleep the night before opening day and woke up well before my four thirty A.M. alarm. (Almost like Christmas Eve as a kid!) I remember an unnerving dream of being swept over the crest of the dam and down the frigid spillway waters. I got dressed quickly in the predawn darkness. The dream still lingered but barely tempered my excitement. However, as a precaution based on that “silly dream,” I decided to take out my hearing aids and leave them at home. (They literally are more valuable than gold.) I also determined that I’d leave my wallet in the car after I paid for a hearty “fisherman’s breakfast.” I considered leaving my cell phone behind but after my quicksand experience and knowing my wife might call, reconsidered and tucked it into my pocket.
All went magnificently from my perch on the dam once the magic eight o’clock season opening time arrived. A fat brook trout jumped onto my hook with my fist cast into the churning waters. Two others quickly joined their friend in my creel. Once things slowed a bit, I trudged through the swift flowing water that was cresting the dam to the bank for a break. My legal limit permitted two more trout for our grill so after a short time I worked my way back toward the dam. As I cautiously stepped down onto the crest of the dam; you guessed it, my knee buckled and I plummeted down into the frigid turbulent waters. Thankfully my friend helped me gain my senses and escape the clutches of those waterlogged hip boots once the current released me into shallower waters.
My ego and a few cuts and bruises are healing. The three trout provided a tasty lunch for my wife and I am trying (with limited success) the dried rice theory for resurrecting my cell phone. And yes, I am now starting to take seriously something I read about “old men dreaming dreams.” I just never thought it applied to me!
Recent years have been different. I guess technically speaking I could still call myself a fisherman. That’s based on my perhaps flawed transposition of the fact that I can be labeled a “shopper” for just going through the motions of shopping without actually buying anything.
My confidence diminished to a low point several years ago when my daughter visited Pennsylvania and we were to try father-daughter fishing together again. She inherited her mother’s craving for fresh trout and I was determined we’d satisfy it. As a precaution, I deferred to a heavily stocked “pay to fish” Trout lake to insure our success. Much to my chagrin we only caught two small sunfish. That was the low point of my fishing career.
Several years ago things started to change when two successful fishermen individually took pity on me and my bruised ego. (I think it was more that they felt sorry for my bride who still yearned for fresh trout.) One took me to Bass Pro Shops to prove that there was such a thing as size fourteen hip boots. I felt like a Biblical disciple hanging out with those “real fishermen” and yes, there were trout to help insure another forty-one years of blissful marriage.
Last season started great with a trip with one friend to a local spot about twenty miles away. My new hip boots permitted me to stand on the swift flowing crest of a concrete dam and fish in the billowing spillway. What a treat to be placed in “the perfect fishing spot.”.I even had fresh trout to proudly present to my wife after years of famine. My friends independently tag teamed to help insure my continued success. The outings weren’t without incident especially with those massive hip boots (and withering stamina). I felt like an astronaut moving around. (And wished for outer space weightlessness to go with them.) Once I had to swallow my pride and call my one friend on his cell phone when I got stuck up to my thighs in a quagmire of quicksand like mud. It takes a real friend to lie in the mud to help you release the overpowering suction of good old Pennsylvania “muck.”
Last week the other friend called and offered another opening day invitation back to “the perfect spot” on the crest of the dam. Another friend volunteered a bountiful supply of fathead minnows. I was “stoked.”. I could barely sleep the night before opening day and woke up well before my four thirty A.M. alarm. (Almost like Christmas Eve as a kid!) I remember an unnerving dream of being swept over the crest of the dam and down the frigid spillway waters. I got dressed quickly in the predawn darkness. The dream still lingered but barely tempered my excitement. However, as a precaution based on that “silly dream,” I decided to take out my hearing aids and leave them at home. (They literally are more valuable than gold.) I also determined that I’d leave my wallet in the car after I paid for a hearty “fisherman’s breakfast.” I considered leaving my cell phone behind but after my quicksand experience and knowing my wife might call, reconsidered and tucked it into my pocket.
All went magnificently from my perch on the dam once the magic eight o’clock season opening time arrived. A fat brook trout jumped onto my hook with my fist cast into the churning waters. Two others quickly joined their friend in my creel. Once things slowed a bit, I trudged through the swift flowing water that was cresting the dam to the bank for a break. My legal limit permitted two more trout for our grill so after a short time I worked my way back toward the dam. As I cautiously stepped down onto the crest of the dam; you guessed it, my knee buckled and I plummeted down into the frigid turbulent waters. Thankfully my friend helped me gain my senses and escape the clutches of those waterlogged hip boots once the current released me into shallower waters.
My ego and a few cuts and bruises are healing. The three trout provided a tasty lunch for my wife and I am trying (with limited success) the dried rice theory for resurrecting my cell phone. And yes, I am now starting to take seriously something I read about “old men dreaming dreams.” I just never thought it applied to me!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Notes
We’ve just chased another evening sunset west across the plains to Denver International Airport. After an unusually sound slumber (perhaps it’s the altitude) at the Denver branch of the Teufel clan, I am off to a new adventure. I am tracking down my remaining living uncle, a lifelong hero. The years have limited many aspects of his life but the sparkling blue eyes and magnetic sharp wit remain. Everyone knows and is fond of “Doc.” This morning I find him at “the center” deftly navigating and motoring in his scooter. (Like the TV ads) He says that the center gives out warnings and “speeding tickets” for those who forget safe sane speeds with their scooters. Out of respect, I don’t delve into just how he knows this. Many of the other folks at “the center” don’t share my uncle’s sparkle. Several heads are nodding and some even stay “down for the count.” I survey the room and it’s easy to verify long standing actuarial demographics. For a male, it’s like being in a hen house of 28 hens with only 5 other fellow roosters. Most of the folks require some sort of assistance in addition to their walkers and scooters. The staff seems quite accommodating and flow about seamlessly. Their cadence of practiced patience is amazing. There is a subtle light hearted banter between the staff and guests that displays an underlying mutual fondness.
He invites my wife and me to join him for a program that was just about to start. The room suddenly seems almost magnetically polarized. Everyone seems drawn to the far end of the room and the scooters all face that direction as if coordinated by an unseen force. The focus definitely is on a smiling lady setting up a keyboard and an assortment of musical equipment. Without much ado, familiar strains of music suddenly envelope the room. It’s amazing to witness the rejuvenation of folks as the notes permeate their slumbering spirits. It reminded me of watering a wilted plant and having it noticeably and rapidly “perk up.”
I am anemically deficient of any musical knowledge or instincts and don’t have a “musical bone” in my body. I can’t tell “good” music from “bad” and enjoy listening to all music. I especially enjoy watching how music affects folks. Today I am having a special treat. What a variety of music—most for people my age and older. Songs like Tom Jones’ “Delilah” and oldies from the Temptations, Elvis, and even back to “At Last” from Etta James. By the time “My Girl” resounded through the room every face was not only alert but smiling. Heads were bobbing, lips were syncing, and for some everything short of dancing on the table. I think we all could have savored these treats almost indefinitely. Unfortunately, another familiar refrain from the past resounds through the room; “M-I-C-K-E-Y Why, because… M-O-U-S-E; Mickey Mouse….” as a closing number. Slowly the faces wilt with a slight disappointment. I wish I could “plug another quarter” into the machine to bring everything back to life but it isn’t meant to be.
The lady who brought this joy vanished before I could speak to her. However, the atmosphere stayed elevated long after she and her keyboard disappeared. Those musical notes permeated each of us in a different way but I am sure that the 34 clients and each of the staff and visitors were undoubtedly touched. I know I was.
I wonder if the lady realized how the hour she’d invested reverberated through approximately fifty of our lives. She obviously wasn’t performing for accolades or she would have stayed to bask in our appreciation. As I chatted with several folks after she left, there was something different and more vibrant in their demeanor. Even though admittedly some returned to what visibly looked like a state of hibernation, there was no question that her musical notes had made a difference, even if they led to peaceful slumber. Even though this title and focus is on musical notes, that is just one possible medium to touch our world. A kind word, a quick email, a listening ear, an accepting smile, etc. What will you use from your personal arsenal today to brighten people’s lives?
He invites my wife and me to join him for a program that was just about to start. The room suddenly seems almost magnetically polarized. Everyone seems drawn to the far end of the room and the scooters all face that direction as if coordinated by an unseen force. The focus definitely is on a smiling lady setting up a keyboard and an assortment of musical equipment. Without much ado, familiar strains of music suddenly envelope the room. It’s amazing to witness the rejuvenation of folks as the notes permeate their slumbering spirits. It reminded me of watering a wilted plant and having it noticeably and rapidly “perk up.”
I am anemically deficient of any musical knowledge or instincts and don’t have a “musical bone” in my body. I can’t tell “good” music from “bad” and enjoy listening to all music. I especially enjoy watching how music affects folks. Today I am having a special treat. What a variety of music—most for people my age and older. Songs like Tom Jones’ “Delilah” and oldies from the Temptations, Elvis, and even back to “At Last” from Etta James. By the time “My Girl” resounded through the room every face was not only alert but smiling. Heads were bobbing, lips were syncing, and for some everything short of dancing on the table. I think we all could have savored these treats almost indefinitely. Unfortunately, another familiar refrain from the past resounds through the room; “M-I-C-K-E-Y Why, because… M-O-U-S-E; Mickey Mouse….” as a closing number. Slowly the faces wilt with a slight disappointment. I wish I could “plug another quarter” into the machine to bring everything back to life but it isn’t meant to be.
The lady who brought this joy vanished before I could speak to her. However, the atmosphere stayed elevated long after she and her keyboard disappeared. Those musical notes permeated each of us in a different way but I am sure that the 34 clients and each of the staff and visitors were undoubtedly touched. I know I was.
I wonder if the lady realized how the hour she’d invested reverberated through approximately fifty of our lives. She obviously wasn’t performing for accolades or she would have stayed to bask in our appreciation. As I chatted with several folks after she left, there was something different and more vibrant in their demeanor. Even though admittedly some returned to what visibly looked like a state of hibernation, there was no question that her musical notes had made a difference, even if they led to peaceful slumber. Even though this title and focus is on musical notes, that is just one possible medium to touch our world. A kind word, a quick email, a listening ear, an accepting smile, etc. What will you use from your personal arsenal today to brighten people’s lives?
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