I recall a song by Tennessee Ernie Ford many years ago about “sixteen tons.” This morning it’s forty tons as my friend works his way through the right gears (out of ten) to move his big red eighteen wheel tractor trailer slowly up to speed. We’re loaded with skids of recycled plastic pellets and a lot of them. It reminds me of standing along the railroad tracks in Western Pennsylvania watching Norfolk Southern freight trains labor up the mountain to the Horse Shoe Curve. I know 465 horsepower doesn’t sound like a lot compared to some “muscle cars” but because of dinner plate-sized pistons, this rig has enough torque to pull those cars apart.
I am awed at the view eight feet up above the road. I can see amazingly well especially beyond the low shrubs and brushes that shield some of the normal off-road sights. There’s a clear view down into many unsuspecting driver’s vehicles as well. Bet they don’t have a clue I’m “spying” on them. I wonder if the brave motorcyclist comprehends that he is flirting with 80,000 pounds as he darts about like a mosquito. I still can’t get used to passing inches from everything on a much too narrow two lane highway. The turns cause my “heart to lodge in my throat” as we aim toward signs, telephone poles, traffic lights, and parked cars until the last possible moment to get the 53 feet of trailer completely around corners.
As we navigate toward the formidable incline of the looming Blue Mountain, I almost question in my mind whether we should prudently find another route. Not to fear, ten minutes later we crest the mountain for a fleeting magnificent view of a miniaturized Lehigh Valley. Now I realize that the real challenge is keeping these forty tons from rocketing down the other side without jack-knifing or cooking the brakes. I learn that it’s a real juggling act to control the trailer with a dash mounted control while braking the tractor with a separate foot brake and utilizing the “jake brake” engine retarder which cuts fuel from 3 cylinders for additional braking. Now I understand those “silly” signs that require trucks over 21,000 pounds to stop and use low gears.
Soon we’re in a village with quaint names like Ryba Auto, Skotek’s Oil, Alexander’s Barber shop, Felkie’s Shoes, and of course VFW Post 6708. I am still amazed that we haven’t wiped out any parked cars or even scratched a mirror. Soon I am asked to be the navigator into an industrial area. Sometime remind me to tell you about how I know it is possible to turn a 65 foot tractor trailer around from a residential alley.
We spot a small, well-seasoned “greasy spoon” diner with truck parking and decided to stop to partake of their $2.75 mid-morning special. I didn’t realize that we are easily spotted as strangers until I noticed that they start to cook Charlie’s and several other folk’s orders when they pulled into the parking lot. I almost feel embarrassed to need a menu. The food is great and the hash browns superb; far better than the cold veggie burgers I have stashed in the cab.
Soon, all too soon, I am back in my humble “four wheeler” heading to my suburban home. Somehow I feel like I left a real slice of America behind when I descended from the heights of that big red diesel truck. Wonder if I need a CDL (commercial driver’s license) to dream tonight. What will you have to dream about?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Back to the Future
I am amazed at my gut reaction when my daughter mentioned the “shocking fact” that she didn’t have television service in her home. I feel like she is deprived of something bordering on a basic constitutional right. Then the “trusty” laptop computer that graces our kitchen table most of the time dies and a similar feeling comes over me.
I look around the kitchen and think of the “can’t do without things” I have accumulated in my lifetime. Let’s see there is the icemaker, the microwave, the dial phone (not counting the cell phone), the answering machine and voicemail, the bread maker, the convection oven (although my parents’ coal-fired stove was kind of an accidental convection oven), the ceiling fan, the blender, the CD player, and the list goes on and on. That’s just in the kitchen.
Like many folks my age and older it’s easy to turn nostalgic. The memories of my grandparents’ stories are fleeting and fading. I wish I could hear them one more time to get the facts right. I occasionally have the rare opportunity to take my Mom for a wonderful drive down “memory lane” (Pleasant View Road). I love to hear the refreshing stories of plowing with horses, storing food in the springhouse, and having a horse depositing her at the one room school a mile down the road and going back home on its own.
In my own lifetime, there were the hobos who showed up at our door when the steam trains stopped at the water tower about a hundred yards from our home. There were quiet restful (boring?) Sundays when, by law, almost all commerce came to a halt. I remember when I was just one of many hitch hikers that dotted the roads to get where I wanted to go. I remember picking up the phone and waiting till the neighbors were done so that you could tell the operator what number you wanted to call. (If you didn’t remember, she knew.) I remember when the “Keystone Shortway” (Interstate 80) was being built. It was a favorite drag racing spot till one fellow drove his car off an unfinished bridge one night! I remember when it was the talk of the town when someone would dress up in their Sunday finest to go somewhere “far off” on a “huge” 24 seat propeller-powered airplane. I remember when I paid 23 cents a gallon for gas and about the same for bread. I remember that the chicken destined for the Sunday table could fly after she was beheaded and I remember how indispensible a pressure cooker was before animals were bred to be tender. I remember when, according to my Dad, our car burned a quart of oil going 16 miles “over the mountain and back.”
It’s easy to slip into being nostalgic and to wish for more of the perceived simple “Ozzie and Harriet” days of old. Somehow it’s easy to overlook the six days a week of toil that many men endured (and seemingly seven for most of the women). I myself wouldn’t be alive without the later medical miracle of a clot busting drug called TCP. I wouldn’t be able to experience the joy of being with my grandsons on long distance computer video hookups. I think you get the picture.
We are blessed to be where we are in history today. I am not sure any of us would want to go back to life in the past with all of the sometimes forgotten hardships. What I truly miss so much are the values and relationships of old. I often forget that I have the privilege of importing them into this “tech” generation and beyond. In fact, it’s my duty. There is a growing “hungry” world wanting more than just our latest gadgets—they too want “old-time” relationships and values in a new way.
I look around the kitchen and think of the “can’t do without things” I have accumulated in my lifetime. Let’s see there is the icemaker, the microwave, the dial phone (not counting the cell phone), the answering machine and voicemail, the bread maker, the convection oven (although my parents’ coal-fired stove was kind of an accidental convection oven), the ceiling fan, the blender, the CD player, and the list goes on and on. That’s just in the kitchen.
Like many folks my age and older it’s easy to turn nostalgic. The memories of my grandparents’ stories are fleeting and fading. I wish I could hear them one more time to get the facts right. I occasionally have the rare opportunity to take my Mom for a wonderful drive down “memory lane” (Pleasant View Road). I love to hear the refreshing stories of plowing with horses, storing food in the springhouse, and having a horse depositing her at the one room school a mile down the road and going back home on its own.
In my own lifetime, there were the hobos who showed up at our door when the steam trains stopped at the water tower about a hundred yards from our home. There were quiet restful (boring?) Sundays when, by law, almost all commerce came to a halt. I remember when I was just one of many hitch hikers that dotted the roads to get where I wanted to go. I remember picking up the phone and waiting till the neighbors were done so that you could tell the operator what number you wanted to call. (If you didn’t remember, she knew.) I remember when the “Keystone Shortway” (Interstate 80) was being built. It was a favorite drag racing spot till one fellow drove his car off an unfinished bridge one night! I remember when it was the talk of the town when someone would dress up in their Sunday finest to go somewhere “far off” on a “huge” 24 seat propeller-powered airplane. I remember when I paid 23 cents a gallon for gas and about the same for bread. I remember that the chicken destined for the Sunday table could fly after she was beheaded and I remember how indispensible a pressure cooker was before animals were bred to be tender. I remember when, according to my Dad, our car burned a quart of oil going 16 miles “over the mountain and back.”
It’s easy to slip into being nostalgic and to wish for more of the perceived simple “Ozzie and Harriet” days of old. Somehow it’s easy to overlook the six days a week of toil that many men endured (and seemingly seven for most of the women). I myself wouldn’t be alive without the later medical miracle of a clot busting drug called TCP. I wouldn’t be able to experience the joy of being with my grandsons on long distance computer video hookups. I think you get the picture.
We are blessed to be where we are in history today. I am not sure any of us would want to go back to life in the past with all of the sometimes forgotten hardships. What I truly miss so much are the values and relationships of old. I often forget that I have the privilege of importing them into this “tech” generation and beyond. In fact, it’s my duty. There is a growing “hungry” world wanting more than just our latest gadgets—they too want “old-time” relationships and values in a new way.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
An Army of One
Most stories I write are relatively “instant.” There are about a half dozen in my computer file that are labeled “pending.” One title in particular has been written, rewritten, and actually proofread twice. It‘s called “An Army of One.” That’s a U.S. Army slogan. So I started by opening the U.S. Army website. What an amazing “marketing machine!” From Mark Martin’s U.S. Army NASCAR racing car to the ads in magazines directed at parents (the biggest recruiting obstacles), the Army knows its mission and how to get us to identify with it as individuals. The graphics and voices reinforce it all:
“There’s strong and then there’s Army strong: opportunity to train in over 150 individual career fields; basic combat training; what it’s like being a soldier; ways to serve; weapons and technology; match your capabilities and interests; and finally, there it is—“an Army of one.”
Their phrase “an Army of One” kept coming back to me because seldom are folks motivated to stand alone and marketing folks know that. I supported my family most of my life through variations of basic merchandising and that invariably led to appealing to a “safe” group mentality. I am sitting listening to the music of the Righteous Brothers and the Beach Boys on Pandora right now because they were the “in groups” from my military days (on big reel-to-reel tape recorders). For years, my wife and I trekked to Las Vegas trade shows twice a year to capture the latest West Coast trends and hopefully introduce them to the masses back in “the hinterland.” I think of the thousands of Smurf stickers, Transformers, and Slap Bracelets that I distributed along with “the latest sunglass styles from California.”
I know just how firmly the group mentality is entrenched. I have the special privilege to chat with many folks and act as a sounding board for their ideas. Invariably most of us want someone else “to take the ball and run” with our ideas. A common desired scenario involves a committee, a ministry, a company, or a group of other individuals rallying around us to make our ideas happen. It amazes me just how few of us ever step out to try our thoughts and dreams out as individuals on a small personal basis.
I am a seasoned procrastinator and have found myself sitting and waiting “for my time.” Sometimes it’s to be recognized or “called.” In addition, I have my timid and shy side coupled with my own secret fears. Finally, I much prefer to be paired with another person and to not work alone. There are a multitude of reasons I don’t act on what is in my heart; some of them possibly actually valid.
I could live with that but I am constantly drawn to a “hungry” world that is starving for personal attention. Even General Petraeus, the great commander in Iraq and Afghanistan, had to come back to a strategy of winning the hearts and minds of individual Iraqis “one on one.” I “feel” folks crying out for just one individual to care for them personally. Yes, they can benefit and be nurtured by a host of worthwhile endeavors, ministries, and agencies and I am not in any way minimizing any of them. I would just like to encourage individuals to try out what’s in their heart in whatever small way, right now, today. The words of a close friend are forever seared in my mind when he said, “I was scared but when I stepped out and when my foot touched the ground I knew this is what I was personally called to do.” Be an “Army of One.” Perhaps your future destiny and joy hinges on taking that first step. (Be assured you’re not really alone.)
“There’s strong and then there’s Army strong: opportunity to train in over 150 individual career fields; basic combat training; what it’s like being a soldier; ways to serve; weapons and technology; match your capabilities and interests; and finally, there it is—“an Army of one.”
Their phrase “an Army of One” kept coming back to me because seldom are folks motivated to stand alone and marketing folks know that. I supported my family most of my life through variations of basic merchandising and that invariably led to appealing to a “safe” group mentality. I am sitting listening to the music of the Righteous Brothers and the Beach Boys on Pandora right now because they were the “in groups” from my military days (on big reel-to-reel tape recorders). For years, my wife and I trekked to Las Vegas trade shows twice a year to capture the latest West Coast trends and hopefully introduce them to the masses back in “the hinterland.” I think of the thousands of Smurf stickers, Transformers, and Slap Bracelets that I distributed along with “the latest sunglass styles from California.”
I know just how firmly the group mentality is entrenched. I have the special privilege to chat with many folks and act as a sounding board for their ideas. Invariably most of us want someone else “to take the ball and run” with our ideas. A common desired scenario involves a committee, a ministry, a company, or a group of other individuals rallying around us to make our ideas happen. It amazes me just how few of us ever step out to try our thoughts and dreams out as individuals on a small personal basis.
I am a seasoned procrastinator and have found myself sitting and waiting “for my time.” Sometimes it’s to be recognized or “called.” In addition, I have my timid and shy side coupled with my own secret fears. Finally, I much prefer to be paired with another person and to not work alone. There are a multitude of reasons I don’t act on what is in my heart; some of them possibly actually valid.
I could live with that but I am constantly drawn to a “hungry” world that is starving for personal attention. Even General Petraeus, the great commander in Iraq and Afghanistan, had to come back to a strategy of winning the hearts and minds of individual Iraqis “one on one.” I “feel” folks crying out for just one individual to care for them personally. Yes, they can benefit and be nurtured by a host of worthwhile endeavors, ministries, and agencies and I am not in any way minimizing any of them. I would just like to encourage individuals to try out what’s in their heart in whatever small way, right now, today. The words of a close friend are forever seared in my mind when he said, “I was scared but when I stepped out and when my foot touched the ground I knew this is what I was personally called to do.” Be an “Army of One.” Perhaps your future destiny and joy hinges on taking that first step. (Be assured you’re not really alone.)
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Macros
When I turn on my computer, it seems to take “endless minutes” before it displays an opening screen. Once it starts to open, I am helpless no matter how many keys I tap or how often I tap them. I just get that whirling circle (or the hourglass). It frustrates me so much that I leave the computer turned on all the time. I have what is considered to be state of the art equipment with the maximum amount of possible memory. Buying better equipment isn’t the solution and I don’t think patience is for sale. (Except perhaps on some of those internet fantasy sites.) I remember vaguely how much blinding speed this computer had when it was “right out of the box.” What changed?
You see my computer’s operating system is programmed to do anything it is told to do when it starts. There are some simple computer commands called Macros that are like a “to do” list of things that need to be done before starting. In fact, if you open your computer “Startup File” under your program files, you’ll see a few of them. I guess you could almost call them “computer habits” because they are learned procedures. It’s similar to me having to take a shower, brush my teeth, and dress, etc. before I start my day. Over time, I have decided that I would like all kinds of “bells and whistles” to show up when I start my computer and a lot more to be instantly accessible. Let’s see: I have Sudoku and Daily Crosswords for my wife, pictures of my grandsons, USA Today, Fox News, the correct time in Kolkata if I decide to call Kolkata, and naturally I need the weather in Schnecksville and, oh yes, Norton Antivirus and a slew of other programs. All of these things are items my computer labors to find and load before it can “start.” I guess in these circumstances all those things could be called “baggage” even though they’re “good baggage”.
A friend of mine repeats the phrase “you can’t expect different results if you keep doing the same things” and it is true. I am embarrassed to realize how much my life is programmed by most of all, you guessed it, me. Many of the things are good programming like the things I mentioned earlier that I largely learned from helpful folks like my mother and later a military drill Instructor. Through experience, I have learned many other things that I am sure have to be done a certain way or at a certain time. I thought I’d simplified my life but I’m starting to think I have inadvertently added a whole bunch of self imposed “macros” that limit some things I desire or at least slowed them down.
A simple example: I would like to have more relationships in my neighborhood especially with those who have views different than mine. I am a “morning person” and I like to do my walking very early in the cool of the day when it is quiet. I seldom see or meet anyone day after day. Recently my schedule got messed up and I grudgingly had to walk at 11:30 AM. Guess what? I met three new families including the cutest little three-year-old girl and her father who is temporarily laid off and now a “house father.” She almost brought tears to my eyes when she picked and gave me three dandelion flowers—“One for me, one for my mommy, and one for my little girl.” We’re scheduled to have lunch soon.
I am starting to realize through these small things that if I want different results in starting relationships, it increases the probabilities if I loosen up my “pre-programming” and be open to march to other people’s drumbeats and schedules. It’s time to examine all my “startup macros;” not only on my computer, but in my life and relationships.
You see my computer’s operating system is programmed to do anything it is told to do when it starts. There are some simple computer commands called Macros that are like a “to do” list of things that need to be done before starting. In fact, if you open your computer “Startup File” under your program files, you’ll see a few of them. I guess you could almost call them “computer habits” because they are learned procedures. It’s similar to me having to take a shower, brush my teeth, and dress, etc. before I start my day. Over time, I have decided that I would like all kinds of “bells and whistles” to show up when I start my computer and a lot more to be instantly accessible. Let’s see: I have Sudoku and Daily Crosswords for my wife, pictures of my grandsons, USA Today, Fox News, the correct time in Kolkata if I decide to call Kolkata, and naturally I need the weather in Schnecksville and, oh yes, Norton Antivirus and a slew of other programs. All of these things are items my computer labors to find and load before it can “start.” I guess in these circumstances all those things could be called “baggage” even though they’re “good baggage”.
A friend of mine repeats the phrase “you can’t expect different results if you keep doing the same things” and it is true. I am embarrassed to realize how much my life is programmed by most of all, you guessed it, me. Many of the things are good programming like the things I mentioned earlier that I largely learned from helpful folks like my mother and later a military drill Instructor. Through experience, I have learned many other things that I am sure have to be done a certain way or at a certain time. I thought I’d simplified my life but I’m starting to think I have inadvertently added a whole bunch of self imposed “macros” that limit some things I desire or at least slowed them down.
A simple example: I would like to have more relationships in my neighborhood especially with those who have views different than mine. I am a “morning person” and I like to do my walking very early in the cool of the day when it is quiet. I seldom see or meet anyone day after day. Recently my schedule got messed up and I grudgingly had to walk at 11:30 AM. Guess what? I met three new families including the cutest little three-year-old girl and her father who is temporarily laid off and now a “house father.” She almost brought tears to my eyes when she picked and gave me three dandelion flowers—“One for me, one for my mommy, and one for my little girl.” We’re scheduled to have lunch soon.
I am starting to realize through these small things that if I want different results in starting relationships, it increases the probabilities if I loosen up my “pre-programming” and be open to march to other people’s drumbeats and schedules. It’s time to examine all my “startup macros;” not only on my computer, but in my life and relationships.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Big Rig
I just experienced one of those “always wanted to do” thrills. Several months ago a friend purchased a huge red Volvo “big truck.” I’d seen pictures of it, but pictures didn’t do it justice especially when it was hooked to an expansive 53 foot trailer. I didn’t hesitate when my friend invited me on a couple of “day runs” in his “eighteen wheeler.” It had been difficult to sleep the prior night and I thought 4:30 AM would never come.
Now, just before sunrise my big moment has come. I wish my three-year-old grandson, who is fascinated with everything big and mechanical, could see Grandpa now. He would be doubly impressed that Grandpa now knows someone with a big truck along with my friend he met who has a backhoe. I am kind of glad he couldn’t see me though; at least until I, not so gracefully, make it up the three giant steps into the cab.
I wasn’t sure what to expect as I entered the cavernous combination of an office/bedroom/navigation suite. My luxurious seat envelopes me as my bulk depresses its air suspension base a considerable distance before floating me at a comfortable level. The view is amazing—the type you feel you should pay admission to see. All the gauges and dials remind me of my days of working on aircraft. I survey the eight mirrors to try to capture a glimpse of the end of the trailer sixty feet behind me.
It’s time for that magic moment. The massive V-12 diesel engine roars to life. My friend gracefully slips into the first of ten gears and we’re on our way. As we progress through our first little town heading to the interstate, I wince as he clears RV’s and parked vehicles by inches. It reminds me of my fears as a new 16-year-old driver navigating through streets skirted with parked cars.
We discussed the costs and challenges of owning a big truck. With all those gears, I am especially curious about clutch replacements. My friend laughed and said that wasn’t a problem because he only used the clutch in first gear. I hadn’t notice his left foot planted as he shifted totally by “ear and experience” without the benefit of a clutch.
A brief truck stop visit for coffee (no drive thru in this monster) involved delicately backing between two other giant trucks with inches to spare. Fuel fill-ups here are in the hundreds of dollars or higher range. Soon we were on our way to deliver these tons of cardboard Christmas displays to a distribution center for a well-known retailer. This was followed by a load of recycled plastic pellets. The dispatcher said there were two loads, one for Pennsylvania and one for Florida, and asked which we wanted to take. My friend laughingly asked if I wanted to do Florida and I told him, “Not today!”
As we were being loaded and I could feel the truck sink with each pallet of goods, I realized how vital trucking is to our everyday lives and the skill of those involved. I was a bit envious until I realized that we are not all called to operate on that scale. I thought of the many folks I’ve met that are figuratively “called to deliver” and many assume that it will be with “a big rig” on a grand scale. I thought about the delivery van I drove for many years (which fit through a drive thru and a lot of them!). Then, I thought about the Meals-on-Wheels driver in his or her personal car and the newspaper carrier on foot or a bicycle. Made me realize that a big rig couldn’t efficiently go where they go or do what they are called to do and vice versa. I guess if I am called to “deliver,” I shouldn’t always assume it will be on a giant scale and wait for a tractor trailer for me to get started. Perhaps even walking over to a neighbor with some cold lemonade could qualify as a delivery?
Now, just before sunrise my big moment has come. I wish my three-year-old grandson, who is fascinated with everything big and mechanical, could see Grandpa now. He would be doubly impressed that Grandpa now knows someone with a big truck along with my friend he met who has a backhoe. I am kind of glad he couldn’t see me though; at least until I, not so gracefully, make it up the three giant steps into the cab.
I wasn’t sure what to expect as I entered the cavernous combination of an office/bedroom/navigation suite. My luxurious seat envelopes me as my bulk depresses its air suspension base a considerable distance before floating me at a comfortable level. The view is amazing—the type you feel you should pay admission to see. All the gauges and dials remind me of my days of working on aircraft. I survey the eight mirrors to try to capture a glimpse of the end of the trailer sixty feet behind me.
It’s time for that magic moment. The massive V-12 diesel engine roars to life. My friend gracefully slips into the first of ten gears and we’re on our way. As we progress through our first little town heading to the interstate, I wince as he clears RV’s and parked vehicles by inches. It reminds me of my fears as a new 16-year-old driver navigating through streets skirted with parked cars.
We discussed the costs and challenges of owning a big truck. With all those gears, I am especially curious about clutch replacements. My friend laughed and said that wasn’t a problem because he only used the clutch in first gear. I hadn’t notice his left foot planted as he shifted totally by “ear and experience” without the benefit of a clutch.
A brief truck stop visit for coffee (no drive thru in this monster) involved delicately backing between two other giant trucks with inches to spare. Fuel fill-ups here are in the hundreds of dollars or higher range. Soon we were on our way to deliver these tons of cardboard Christmas displays to a distribution center for a well-known retailer. This was followed by a load of recycled plastic pellets. The dispatcher said there were two loads, one for Pennsylvania and one for Florida, and asked which we wanted to take. My friend laughingly asked if I wanted to do Florida and I told him, “Not today!”
As we were being loaded and I could feel the truck sink with each pallet of goods, I realized how vital trucking is to our everyday lives and the skill of those involved. I was a bit envious until I realized that we are not all called to operate on that scale. I thought of the many folks I’ve met that are figuratively “called to deliver” and many assume that it will be with “a big rig” on a grand scale. I thought about the delivery van I drove for many years (which fit through a drive thru and a lot of them!). Then, I thought about the Meals-on-Wheels driver in his or her personal car and the newspaper carrier on foot or a bicycle. Made me realize that a big rig couldn’t efficiently go where they go or do what they are called to do and vice versa. I guess if I am called to “deliver,” I shouldn’t always assume it will be on a giant scale and wait for a tractor trailer for me to get started. Perhaps even walking over to a neighbor with some cold lemonade could qualify as a delivery?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Journey-continued, part 2 of 2
(Journey-continued, part 2 of 2)
An amazing menagerie of sights and thoughts register in my mind as I continue my morning walk. There are some curious florescent pink symbols spray painted on the asphalt; maybe for the road crews. A black cat “hides” in a newly mown field awaiting a breakfast of field mice. A hair-roller adorned lady in her housecoat and slippers ventures out into her manicured flower garden to pinch a few dead buds. She apparently doesn’t realize that we are sharing these early minutes of the morning. I hurry past in order to not embarrass her. An adolescent rabbit with a “Tigger-like” loping hop decides I am not a threat and advances to within about four feet of me. I marvel at the deep green leafy tentacles of poison ivy that now totally enwrap the lower trunk of a towering butternut tree. There are deep tire ruts where someone got stuck in the soft dark mud of a secluded “out of view” wooded area. Wonder if “parking” is still the “in thing” with today’s young dating population. In the next field, the lush corn which has dashed past the benchmark “knee high by the fourth of July” and progressed to an amazing 5 to 6 feet high. I watch enthralled as a pair of catbirds capture insects for a hidden nest of hungry young ones. Amazingly, the creosote smell still is overwhelming from the wooden guard rail supports installed two years ago. Based on my limited morning sampling, I establish that Keystone Light is the favorite beverage of the litterbugs traveling this stretch.
As I turn to head east into the warm sunlight, I keep glancing left to audit all of the satellite dishes planted in this neighborhood. Some just barely squeeze a southern exposure through the shroud of trees. Direct TV and Dish Network seem to be running neck and neck in their competition for domination.
Work bound traffic increases and I am amazed how many cars have front license plates. They appear to belong to “refugees” from some neighboring states drawn by the promise of a good school district and lower taxes. They are a stark contrast to the ageing farmer who momentarily comes out of his new retirement house built next to his empty farmhouse. His fields are now planted with a crop of new “expensive” homes. They are largely populated by those immigrants who brought accumulated home equities to “the country” for a better life for their families.
As I turn back North on my final leg, the sun majestically frames the twin steeples of neighboring churches. My tiny MP3 player resounds with appropriate refrains. A fledgling Robin cocks his head as if to silently ask me what I am doing in his territory. I chuckle as I see foot high dandelions and no emerging grass in a newly planted and netted area of lawn. A perspiration covered runner steams past on the last leg of his five mile daily run. Somehow in comparison, the moisture on my body doesn’t seem merited. Oh well, I’ll just slip into my neighbors pool (with permission) and get refreshed before heading home. And so it goes as I meander along for what I hope passes for aerobic exercise. If not, at least my trek has been amazingly mentally stimulating.
As my life starts a gradual deceleration process, it is amazing how wonderfully my perspective is changing. I am slowly treasuring more of the joys of the journey and gradually becoming less destination driven. It is quite a process after being more or less a “to do list” and destination-driven guy most of my life. I am not sure how my journey this week will go, but the first two miles have been marvelous. I am looking forward to more, even if “I don’t go anywhere or do anything important.” How about you?
An amazing menagerie of sights and thoughts register in my mind as I continue my morning walk. There are some curious florescent pink symbols spray painted on the asphalt; maybe for the road crews. A black cat “hides” in a newly mown field awaiting a breakfast of field mice. A hair-roller adorned lady in her housecoat and slippers ventures out into her manicured flower garden to pinch a few dead buds. She apparently doesn’t realize that we are sharing these early minutes of the morning. I hurry past in order to not embarrass her. An adolescent rabbit with a “Tigger-like” loping hop decides I am not a threat and advances to within about four feet of me. I marvel at the deep green leafy tentacles of poison ivy that now totally enwrap the lower trunk of a towering butternut tree. There are deep tire ruts where someone got stuck in the soft dark mud of a secluded “out of view” wooded area. Wonder if “parking” is still the “in thing” with today’s young dating population. In the next field, the lush corn which has dashed past the benchmark “knee high by the fourth of July” and progressed to an amazing 5 to 6 feet high. I watch enthralled as a pair of catbirds capture insects for a hidden nest of hungry young ones. Amazingly, the creosote smell still is overwhelming from the wooden guard rail supports installed two years ago. Based on my limited morning sampling, I establish that Keystone Light is the favorite beverage of the litterbugs traveling this stretch.
As I turn to head east into the warm sunlight, I keep glancing left to audit all of the satellite dishes planted in this neighborhood. Some just barely squeeze a southern exposure through the shroud of trees. Direct TV and Dish Network seem to be running neck and neck in their competition for domination.
Work bound traffic increases and I am amazed how many cars have front license plates. They appear to belong to “refugees” from some neighboring states drawn by the promise of a good school district and lower taxes. They are a stark contrast to the ageing farmer who momentarily comes out of his new retirement house built next to his empty farmhouse. His fields are now planted with a crop of new “expensive” homes. They are largely populated by those immigrants who brought accumulated home equities to “the country” for a better life for their families.
As I turn back North on my final leg, the sun majestically frames the twin steeples of neighboring churches. My tiny MP3 player resounds with appropriate refrains. A fledgling Robin cocks his head as if to silently ask me what I am doing in his territory. I chuckle as I see foot high dandelions and no emerging grass in a newly planted and netted area of lawn. A perspiration covered runner steams past on the last leg of his five mile daily run. Somehow in comparison, the moisture on my body doesn’t seem merited. Oh well, I’ll just slip into my neighbors pool (with permission) and get refreshed before heading home. And so it goes as I meander along for what I hope passes for aerobic exercise. If not, at least my trek has been amazingly mentally stimulating.
As my life starts a gradual deceleration process, it is amazing how wonderfully my perspective is changing. I am slowly treasuring more of the joys of the journey and gradually becoming less destination driven. It is quite a process after being more or less a “to do list” and destination-driven guy most of my life. I am not sure how my journey this week will go, but the first two miles have been marvelous. I am looking forward to more, even if “I don’t go anywhere or do anything important.” How about you?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Journey
Last week I traveled hundreds of miles. Virtually all this travel was done to quickly get from “point A to point B,” all while increasingly attempting to obey the posted speed limits. I remember little, if anything, from those many miles other than some of the destinations. So far this week I’ve traveled just two miles—all on foot but what a delightful treat.
My trek started with the splendor of an unfolding sunrise. It is awesome to see the dew retreat as the rays of sun advance. The last moisture vividly highlights a delicate ground spider’s web. The subdued lavender blossoms of the voluptuous stretches of crown vetch are already attracting the first honey bees. Some raucous sentinels representing the local crow population perch in a lofty spruce and scold me for my morning intrusion. I turn with the sun’s rays now penetrating my back as I head downhill for the easy part of my stroll.
I pause to enjoy the fruits of my neighbor’s hours of toil as I survey an amazing array of beautiful landscaping. Visual treats such as day lilies, roses, trumpet lilies, and many varieties I can’t identify. I see no evidence of whatever laid that big mottled egg under one neighbor’s shrub. Further along, the massive Shellbark Hickory tree is so leaf enshrouded that it is difficult to verify that all the green nuts haven’t dropped as a result of a recent storm. The potato plants on the other side of the road are already well into flower. Unfortunately there has been so much rain this year that there has been no way to get into the field to do the necessary mounding of dirt around the plants. A yearling white-tailed deer glances up, long enough to assess the improbability of my bulk making a hundred yard dash, and goes back to peaceful grazing. Somehow at this early hour, my neighbor already has a full wagon of fragrant hay destined for the loft of his cavernous barn. Through the dimly lit opening of the barn door, a resting Holstein (cow) with huge placid eyes curiously checks me out.
The next yard displays lovely hydrangea plants pristinely adorned in clusters of pure white blossoms. There is no evidence of life in a unique fifteen foot high towering bird house that is a magnet for darting insect eating Purple Martin swallows. Across the street, a gentleman slips out for his morning paper and gives a silent “polite Pennsylvania Dutch nod” of greeting. I return his nod as he wordlessly scurries back into his home.
As I cross a small bridge, an energetic babbling brook summons me. I am delighted to spend a few minutes watching several water spiders daintily dance across the water’s surface. Some white Queen Ann’s Lace blossoms remind me of long ago soaking the stems in food coloring to produce bouquets with a rainbow of colors. An abrupt grade turns this trek into at least something aerobic. I pause to inspect the symmetrical little holes drilled by an energetic Woodpecker intent on finding tasty larvae buried in the trunk of a tree. The local Fish and Game Club pond sports dark green algae blooms across most of its surface. This morning I resist looking for the resident water snake, bullfrog, and accompanying sunfish population. As I continue on, the wheat field on the crest of the small hill seems to sway and dance as a slight breeze breaks the stillness. I check out a neighboring “shade-tree mechanic’s” latest used car offering—a neat older VW Cabriolet convertible.
(to be continued with part 2- my proofreader said there was too much for one sitting )
My trek started with the splendor of an unfolding sunrise. It is awesome to see the dew retreat as the rays of sun advance. The last moisture vividly highlights a delicate ground spider’s web. The subdued lavender blossoms of the voluptuous stretches of crown vetch are already attracting the first honey bees. Some raucous sentinels representing the local crow population perch in a lofty spruce and scold me for my morning intrusion. I turn with the sun’s rays now penetrating my back as I head downhill for the easy part of my stroll.
I pause to enjoy the fruits of my neighbor’s hours of toil as I survey an amazing array of beautiful landscaping. Visual treats such as day lilies, roses, trumpet lilies, and many varieties I can’t identify. I see no evidence of whatever laid that big mottled egg under one neighbor’s shrub. Further along, the massive Shellbark Hickory tree is so leaf enshrouded that it is difficult to verify that all the green nuts haven’t dropped as a result of a recent storm. The potato plants on the other side of the road are already well into flower. Unfortunately there has been so much rain this year that there has been no way to get into the field to do the necessary mounding of dirt around the plants. A yearling white-tailed deer glances up, long enough to assess the improbability of my bulk making a hundred yard dash, and goes back to peaceful grazing. Somehow at this early hour, my neighbor already has a full wagon of fragrant hay destined for the loft of his cavernous barn. Through the dimly lit opening of the barn door, a resting Holstein (cow) with huge placid eyes curiously checks me out.
The next yard displays lovely hydrangea plants pristinely adorned in clusters of pure white blossoms. There is no evidence of life in a unique fifteen foot high towering bird house that is a magnet for darting insect eating Purple Martin swallows. Across the street, a gentleman slips out for his morning paper and gives a silent “polite Pennsylvania Dutch nod” of greeting. I return his nod as he wordlessly scurries back into his home.
As I cross a small bridge, an energetic babbling brook summons me. I am delighted to spend a few minutes watching several water spiders daintily dance across the water’s surface. Some white Queen Ann’s Lace blossoms remind me of long ago soaking the stems in food coloring to produce bouquets with a rainbow of colors. An abrupt grade turns this trek into at least something aerobic. I pause to inspect the symmetrical little holes drilled by an energetic Woodpecker intent on finding tasty larvae buried in the trunk of a tree. The local Fish and Game Club pond sports dark green algae blooms across most of its surface. This morning I resist looking for the resident water snake, bullfrog, and accompanying sunfish population. As I continue on, the wheat field on the crest of the small hill seems to sway and dance as a slight breeze breaks the stillness. I check out a neighboring “shade-tree mechanic’s” latest used car offering—a neat older VW Cabriolet convertible.
(to be continued with part 2- my proofreader said there was too much for one sitting )
Sunday, July 5, 2009
My Morning Musings
I’ve had several people ask how and why I write what my someone I’m close to calls my “morning musings”. To tell you the truth, I get a bit nervous when asked these questions and never quite know how to answer. Hopefully I can summon a proper response as I reflect early this morning.
First the disclaimers: I don’t consider myself a writer. I love people and enjoy communicating with them from my heart. I do that by any means possible with the intent of making their lives better through my sharing. That may verbally, by using pictures, in writing, or even with a rare personal slight smile or squeeze.
I guess in reflection, I have a heritage that encourages trying to communicate in writing. Many of you in my hometown received hyacinths with a small booklet of analogies originating from my late father’s Remington manual typewriter. I am not sure he always had my mother proofread his work although she was a gifted English school teacher. My wife also has a unique love of the fine points of the English language and serves as my proofreader (between proofreading manuscripts for authors). I worked for her when she was our High School newspaper editor (at least until she fired me for missing meetings or something).
Actually, my wife is one of the main catalysts for my starting to write. I consider her to be a gifted (but reluctant) writer. She has an amazing ability for coming up with analogies and word pictures. Many folks from small group settings where she participated would ask me for a copy of her story about “Peeling the Orange” or “The Rose Petals,” or something similar. Unfortunately she’d seldom write them down and her memory for these “unimportant bits of trivia” is overshadowed with much more important stuff. Because of that, I made up my mind that if I ever had any thoughts or observations I’d write them down. Last year when I journeyed to Kolkata, India, I had a chance to test my intent with a daily e-mail diary. Many folks passed those along to friends and I volunteered to add those friends directly to my e-mail mailing list. When I returned home several folks said they missed my e-mail accounts and suggested I continue writing here even when I wasn’t doing a travelogue.
I was a bit reluctant because I was pretty certain inspiration was hit or miss at best. I took the rest of the year to accumulate a backlog “safety net” of written thoughts. I wanted to start 2009 with the security that I could give this a try and would be prepared for a “drought.” When I needed to resurrect those archived thoughts because of a scheduling conflict last month, I couldn’t find any that I thought was usable; So much for my “safety net.” I write as I go, hopefully one ahead most of the time.
Most of my thoughts come early in the morning and some apparently when I am sleeping since I have them when I wake up. My thoughts sometime wander or hyper-focus because of a bit of ADD (attention deficit disorder) history. My intent is to encourage folks and stimulate their thinking about “mundane” and “trivial” thoughts and issues. It is not my intent to force my thoughts or beliefs on anyone but to stimulate their own. I am sometimes chided for ending abruptly but do that in hopes that folks will continue the thought process and draw their own conclusions. I am amazed and inspired by the e-mails that I receive with additional thoughts and applications I never considered.
Thank you for permitting me to share with you. I am always happy to accommodate your desire to take someone off or add anyone to my e-mail list and enjoy your returned thoughts.
First the disclaimers: I don’t consider myself a writer. I love people and enjoy communicating with them from my heart. I do that by any means possible with the intent of making their lives better through my sharing. That may verbally, by using pictures, in writing, or even with a rare personal slight smile or squeeze.
I guess in reflection, I have a heritage that encourages trying to communicate in writing. Many of you in my hometown received hyacinths with a small booklet of analogies originating from my late father’s Remington manual typewriter. I am not sure he always had my mother proofread his work although she was a gifted English school teacher. My wife also has a unique love of the fine points of the English language and serves as my proofreader (between proofreading manuscripts for authors). I worked for her when she was our High School newspaper editor (at least until she fired me for missing meetings or something).
Actually, my wife is one of the main catalysts for my starting to write. I consider her to be a gifted (but reluctant) writer. She has an amazing ability for coming up with analogies and word pictures. Many folks from small group settings where she participated would ask me for a copy of her story about “Peeling the Orange” or “The Rose Petals,” or something similar. Unfortunately she’d seldom write them down and her memory for these “unimportant bits of trivia” is overshadowed with much more important stuff. Because of that, I made up my mind that if I ever had any thoughts or observations I’d write them down. Last year when I journeyed to Kolkata, India, I had a chance to test my intent with a daily e-mail diary. Many folks passed those along to friends and I volunteered to add those friends directly to my e-mail mailing list. When I returned home several folks said they missed my e-mail accounts and suggested I continue writing here even when I wasn’t doing a travelogue.
I was a bit reluctant because I was pretty certain inspiration was hit or miss at best. I took the rest of the year to accumulate a backlog “safety net” of written thoughts. I wanted to start 2009 with the security that I could give this a try and would be prepared for a “drought.” When I needed to resurrect those archived thoughts because of a scheduling conflict last month, I couldn’t find any that I thought was usable; So much for my “safety net.” I write as I go, hopefully one ahead most of the time.
Most of my thoughts come early in the morning and some apparently when I am sleeping since I have them when I wake up. My thoughts sometime wander or hyper-focus because of a bit of ADD (attention deficit disorder) history. My intent is to encourage folks and stimulate their thinking about “mundane” and “trivial” thoughts and issues. It is not my intent to force my thoughts or beliefs on anyone but to stimulate their own. I am sometimes chided for ending abruptly but do that in hopes that folks will continue the thought process and draw their own conclusions. I am amazed and inspired by the e-mails that I receive with additional thoughts and applications I never considered.
Thank you for permitting me to share with you. I am always happy to accommodate your desire to take someone off or add anyone to my e-mail list and enjoy your returned thoughts.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Anticipation
“An-tis-ah-pay-shon”—the syllables of the song roll through my mind. Not sure where I heard it; maybe it was a television commercial. If it was, unfortunately for the advertiser, I have no clue what product with which to associate it. Anticipation is a powerful life force but one I seldom think about. It is something l experience and observe each day. Let’s see.
The first thought that comes to mind is my grandson on the verge of a landmark third birthday. “Everyone” in his school (daycare) has already had a birthday and a party. My grandson’s big day is approaching—slowly. I am sure he very little relative benchmarks of time. That’s anticipation.
I see wide-eyed infants eagerly seeking the smell and feel of their doting mother. Soon a group of antsy youngsters in their back-to-school finest will congregate at a corner constantly looking for that big yellow school bus. Folks who have driven miles to a local dairy farm down the road line up anticipating cones of their creamy high butterfat treats. Most Sundays, untold millions retire to their favorite viewing area awaiting their superstar driver, homerun hitter, fullback, or golfer hoping they’ll perform their delightful magic. Then there are those who have waited somewhat patiently for a new “can’t live without” game like the Sims 3. Personally, I can’t wait to see each of my three wonderful children in the coming weeks. And the list goes on of delights that we anticipate.
There are a whole range of anticipations that aren’t so “warm and fuzzy.” Someone I am close to is increasingly apprehensive about the unknowns of an upcoming doctor’s appointment. An inmate in our local county prison awaits a sentencing that at minimum means years away from his young offspring. Many self-employed dread the horrors of an approaching April 15th tax payment. The proud, but troubled, parents of a young military enlistee live with thoughts of what could be. A young mother (and her family) apprehensively awaits that elusive life-giving liver transplant. Some first time homebuyers who were “blessed” with a miraculous adjustable rate mortgage face a third consecutive month without necessary funds to avoid foreclosure. The list goes on and on.
You see anticipation can be either a good or bad experience. Both “faith” and “fear” are different forms of anticipation and unfortunately I know them both. My mind grapples with the perceived “realities” and expectations of the future. The difference often rests in the source and depth of my trust, especially when it is in myself. Perhaps my personal anticipations speak volumes that may necessitate some re-evaluation.
The first thought that comes to mind is my grandson on the verge of a landmark third birthday. “Everyone” in his school (daycare) has already had a birthday and a party. My grandson’s big day is approaching—slowly. I am sure he very little relative benchmarks of time. That’s anticipation.
I see wide-eyed infants eagerly seeking the smell and feel of their doting mother. Soon a group of antsy youngsters in their back-to-school finest will congregate at a corner constantly looking for that big yellow school bus. Folks who have driven miles to a local dairy farm down the road line up anticipating cones of their creamy high butterfat treats. Most Sundays, untold millions retire to their favorite viewing area awaiting their superstar driver, homerun hitter, fullback, or golfer hoping they’ll perform their delightful magic. Then there are those who have waited somewhat patiently for a new “can’t live without” game like the Sims 3. Personally, I can’t wait to see each of my three wonderful children in the coming weeks. And the list goes on of delights that we anticipate.
There are a whole range of anticipations that aren’t so “warm and fuzzy.” Someone I am close to is increasingly apprehensive about the unknowns of an upcoming doctor’s appointment. An inmate in our local county prison awaits a sentencing that at minimum means years away from his young offspring. Many self-employed dread the horrors of an approaching April 15th tax payment. The proud, but troubled, parents of a young military enlistee live with thoughts of what could be. A young mother (and her family) apprehensively awaits that elusive life-giving liver transplant. Some first time homebuyers who were “blessed” with a miraculous adjustable rate mortgage face a third consecutive month without necessary funds to avoid foreclosure. The list goes on and on.
You see anticipation can be either a good or bad experience. Both “faith” and “fear” are different forms of anticipation and unfortunately I know them both. My mind grapples with the perceived “realities” and expectations of the future. The difference often rests in the source and depth of my trust, especially when it is in myself. Perhaps my personal anticipations speak volumes that may necessitate some re-evaluation.
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