GPS

Navigating through the Pittsburgh area is a challenge, especially when I am used to driving the more familiar terrain of the Eastern side of Pennsylvania. Driving distractions abound in the “Three River” area. There is an endless variety of scenery: ornate never-ending brickwork structures, massive steel bridges, and rivers everywhere. The magnificent panorama makes it tough traversing the roller coaster-like highways and byways winding through Pittsburgh’s famed hills. It’s hard to focus as I try to absorb all the architecture and natural beauty and still make all the turns. Even though I have the same Pennsylvania license plate as the locals, folks seem to know I am an outsider. Perhaps it’s my sometimes erratic driving and missed turns. Thank heavens; I have some help to keep me from looking totally out of place. Like millions of other folks I now trust a tiny 4-inch-long screened device in my car that directs me turn by turn. With all due respect to the others who have directed me, my tiny GPS (Global Positioning System) device is the best “back seat driver” (actually front) that I’ve ever had. Not only are my directions displayed, but I can be directed audibly. I even have a choice of either a female or male voice in a choice of languages and even accents. I appreciate that the GPS doesn’t get excited and there is no panic or condemnation when I miss a turn. Just a simple statement, “recalculating” in a calm voice as it accepts my missed turns and change of plans and readjusts accordingly. It’s not the just the directions. The GPS has a wealth of other information available at my “beck and call.” When I query, it can provide and lead me to the closest hospital, Chinese restaurant, police station, gas station, or a wide variety of other places. Even when I am not enroute, it can tell me how far away each is and give me a phone number to call. It can actually dial those numbers directly for me using Blue Tooth technology linked to my cell phone. The GPS can tell me how fast I am going, how long I’ve been traveling and the exact time I can expect to arrive along with a lot of other yet to be discovered information. It even can suggest alternate ways to circumvent developing traffic jams. Amazingly with all this capability and the ability to talk to me, it doesn’t brag or talk down to me and has no ego that I’ve detected. In fact, it will even work silently if requested. It just sit’s patiently waiting to fulfill my every request. Even though this GPS looks like “a stand-alone miracle worker,” it’s not a solitary entity. It has been programmed to be totally dependent on 24 up to 32 orbiting positioning satellites that have made this technically possible since April 27, 1995. It’s only because of those unseen satellites high in the heavens above that my GPS unit can function. In fact, initially, it often spends a considerable amount of time displaying a message “Searching for Satellites” before it will function at all. It actually can’t do anything without input from above and is smart enough to know it. Now that’s what I call smart!

Sycamore

“Dirty ole Sycamore”… I believe I first heard that phrase expressed (with a touch of distain) by my mother-in-law and most recently this morning by my wife over coffee. It’s an entirely accurate reflection of a very common “lowly” tree. In fact, we glance at the lower part of a forty-foot-tall one through our kitchen window scores of times each day.
As I scan the Bureau of Forestry’s division of the Pa. Department of Conservation and Resources booklet on Common Trees of Pennsylvania there is little noteworthy about Sycamores. I won’t bore you with the descriptions of leaves and twigs. It does note the two distinct layers of bark—an inner greenish layer and a dark, constantly peeling from growth, outer layer. Perhaps the most noteworthy facts say that it is commonly planted for shade in urban areas, can grow to 125 feet tall on flood plains, and is used for butcher-block, furniture, and flooring.
I assume that some variation of this tree is spread worldwide because there are eight mentions of the word Sycamore in the Bible although that may be a Sycamore-Fig variation. Recently I marveled at the tunnel effect the huge Sycamores created as they cloaked the streets of the town of Chesterton, IN where my son-in-law and daughter live. Closer to home I see them everywhere when I take time to notice. I associate them with quiet shaded older neighborhoods. Not sure anyone plants them on purpose anymore, largely for the reasons my family expresses.
The one in our yard has been outfitted with suet, a hanging planter with honeysuckle fuchsias, and numerous bird feeders. (It draws rookeries of birds ranging from Hummingbirds to Chickadees and Woodpeckers, which create more of a mess.) I estimate that our tree was planted at least ten years prior to our purchasing this home thirty years ago. The low limbs that supported numerous swings for young folks over the years now tower over and shade part of our roof. I have a myriad of memories that flood my mind of guests who over the years have joined us under that tree for a pleasant evening’s conversation and a few “vittles.” Perhaps the most noteworthy and humorous time was when an African friend kept looking up into the branches with trepidation and later admitted he was looking for hanging snakes. Oh, the memories that this “dirty ole Sycamore” has provided.
Like so many other things on my journey, my thoughts about Sycamores change with my perspective and vantage point. If I maintain a safe distance they look lovely as they shade many byways in towns such as lovely Chesterton. It’s only when you choose to get “up close and personal” that flaws and resulting reservations come into focus. Even as I get closer, my thoughts can shift dramatically depending on whether I choose to look up or down. As I sit on our swing under our personal Sycamore, it’s difficult to miss the reality of a continual blanket of residue when I look down. However, when I look heavenward I see a refreshing canopy of shade and prodigious growth (that causes all that bark and residue to be shed). I am grateful for the endurance from forty-plus years of wind and harsh weather this Sycamore endured without my help or nurturing to grow to what it is today. I am especially thankful for the security and especially the memories and relationships it has silently hosted along the way. Mr. Sycamore, I salute you in spite of your obvious shortcomings.

Rain

“Into each life a little rain must fall,” but five inches! I just returned from arid Colorado and dread experiencing some of our heavy Pennsylvania humidity. I just never imagined five inches of “humidity” or at least that’s what my neighbor’s rain gauge registers.
My wife is at a women’s conference and I am returning home to an empty house. I’ve just had dinner and a pleasant evening with friends. Its way past my bedtime as I drive home in a nice light rain and I am anxious to crawl into bed. Suddenly, about two miles from home, torrential rains suddenly pound on the sheet metal of my car making it sound like a big drum and flooding the roads. Immediately I have flashbacks to Luzon in the Philippines during summer monsoon seasons many years ago. I am now inching my way along because the road has disappeared into a “sea” of water and I desperately look for a higher speed on my windshield wipers. They’re already at the highest speed and just seem to momentarily part the torrents instead of removing it.
I get totally soaked dashing thirty feet to the garage (I still am working to make room inside for my car). Once inside, I mop my head and take a towel to sit on as I descend into the basement for a final check of my e-mail and Face book before retiring for the night. I can still hear the pounding of the of rain and instinctively check the edge of the carpet as I pass. Oh no; dampness. I momentarily mentally shift on to email. When I finish I turn to see a small trickle sneaking across the surface of the carpet on the outside wall bordering our backyard. It’s a small but determined trickle and its presence makes a silently defiant declaration that I am in trouble. Soon I am emptying every closet of every towel and they are all spread throughout the area sopping wet. Defeated, I head for bed and fitful sleep.
At the crack of dawn I prepare to abort everything I’ve planned for the day and “wade” (figuratively) into the soggy mess. The area is about six feet by twenty feet and I am thankful that it actually doesn’t extend much beyond all the sopping towels. I call my insurance agent, “No, it isn’t covered. It’s a flood not a homeowner’s insurance item.” I then call ServiceMaster carpet cleaning service as soon as they open for business and am informed that I am the second person from Schnecksville to call. Little comfort especially when they say an average recovery cost from a storm is fifteen hundred dollars. That almost stopped my frugal heart! Fortunately friends with a Wetvac and another with a dehumidifier provide what I need to bring this mess down to what is now diminishing dampness. Although time will tell if any stealthy mildew will do a sneak attack, I’ve at least brought the situation to a draw for now.
I’ve learned a few things in the process. Even the “wonderful lifeblood of the universe” needs moderation or it can turn on me. I think back to all the times I’ve saturated myself in some newly discovered “greatness.” Often it was to the point that I couldn’t absorb anymore (and often beyond) and to the exclusion of everything else. There is something in me that wants “more and more.” It’s hard to comprehend that the same substance that is ready to give relief to my parched throat almost caused a disaster in my home. Perhaps my discernment should not be so fixed on identifying substances but more on uses and effects. I’ve found even “good” can be “bad.”

Bloom Where You're Planted

For years, my wife has a small plaque next to our kitchen sink that says simply “Bloom Where You’re Planted.” I think (I’m not sure) the phrase came from one of her favorite authors, Barbara Johnson. I’ve thought of a slight variation “Bloom and Be Fruitful Where You’re Planted”. As we practical Pennsylvania Dutch (Deutch) would say, “Blossoms are just for pretty.” Earlier this week I was in Colorado, a beautiful but often inhospitable desert-like dry climate. Many varieties of plants and most trees can’t survive in the baked soil. I was struck by the beauty of a small variety of what I assume is a native strain of sunflowers. Because few other blossoming plants survive under the harsh arid conditions, they have no competition and every eye is drawn to their “plain Jane” simple brown and yellow blossoms. There were no “more elegant varieties” to divert my attention and the adaptability and beauty of this prolific variety struck me. I bet there is a special strong root system to capture the elusive moisture as well. I am sure numerous birds and mammals survive the harsh winter squalls sweeping westward from the plains largely because of the easily accessible seeds. When I returned home, an article in our local newspaper about human “sludge” for fertilizing local farmland caught my eye. It took me back to when I was a young boy in north central Pennsylvania. My hometown built a new sewage treatment facility instead of discharging human waste straight into the Susquehanna River. The solid waste went into a greenhouse-like facility to dry and eventually to be removed as “sludge.” I will never forget seeing the biggest most luscious red tomatoes growing behind those glass walls. (Tomato seeds aren’t very digestible.) Although the example may be “a stretch,” I have never forgotten what can be produced from “waste” in such an environment. If those plants were humans with free will, I am sure most if not all of those tomato plants would choose to be anywhere else but in such a facility and environment. Imagine what that could do to their self esteem especially if they had to justify it to their friends. I frequently discover that some of the most beautiful, most fruitful folks are products of environments and circumstances few would choose. Even though I wasn’t born into it, I am now part of a generation where “making our own choices” is perhaps our most valued “right.” It’s one we are encouraged to exercise from an early age in this era of increasing personal individual choices. I am “going against the flow” and trying to suppress my free will instincts and it is a difficult battle. Seldom have I been planted when and where I thought appropriate. So often I am reluctant to put down roots unless it’s in the ideal, clean, sanitized soil that is “befitting” me and my potential. I am reluctant to “dig in” and accept any circumstances less than ideal. Truthfully, I’ll spend endless hours trying to put myself into a better and more hospitable arena instead of rooting where I am. It’s dangerous because I can’t bloom or, in fact, even survive without being rooted. Perhaps, if I live long enough, my childhood dream of schools without discipline, homework, and tests will become a reality. Guess, instead of my “pipedreams” and plotting to navigate away from any adversity to Utopia, I need to refocus on my calling. I want to not only bloom in a wide variety of circumstances and environments, but I want to be open to go anywhere I’m called and be fruitful for those who need me.

Sight

WOW! It’s difficult to convey my excitement as I catch the first fleeting glance of the Rocky Mountains through the window of our plane. Dusk and a setting sun silhouette them magnificently as we descend into Denver International Airport. The elusive sightings trigger a myriad of anticipations and fond memories.
Soon, we are in a crowd of Friday evening travelers as we look for that special Ford SUV that will reunite us with our son and two-year old grandson. What a joy to hug and be hugged by that muscular body toned by many volley ball games. Then I spot those dancing big blue eyes peering from the restraints of his car seat and I hear the heart melting words “Grandpa, Grandpa.” Soon we are joined in their suburban home by our daughter-in law after her hectic workday. It doesn’t get any better than this. I’m certain Shangri-La had nothing on what this weekend has in store for us! I am exhausted and soon slide the bedroom window open to welcome the cool dry breeze, the sounds of a distant pack of coyotes, and sweet dreams.
The next day brings more sights and anticipations. There is our dear friend who is my grandson’s favorite babysitter just like she was his father’s thirty years ago. Next comes perusing a carryout menu that kicks my taste buds into high gear with the sight of my favorite local sandwich, a “Veggie Bomb.” We will buy sandwiches to enjoy with my daughter-in-law in her new cake design shop as she takes a short break from hectic preparation for multiple weekend weddings.
The shop and consultation area are delightful. I even get an opportunity to go into the stainless steel production area behind the soft lavender elegance (complete with M&M’s in two shades of purple) that most brides-to-be see. (www.intricateicings.com) What an amazing treat to see the actual preparations amidst all the powdered sugar fineries.
Later that evening we were relaxing on the dimly lit patio. My daughter-in-law, who also has a medical background that specialized in “older folks,” leaned over to make a series of surprising inquiries. My bare feet were “hidden” under the patio table but she made repeated comments and inquiries about them. She actually touched them with her foot and asks if I could feel her touch. Finally, I got up and went into the light of the kitchen to check out what she was looking at. I got the shock of my life as I looked at my grey “dying” limbs. Both feet were ashen and I desperately wondered how that could be since a doctor had checked them both earlier in the week and detected good pulses. I can’t accurately tell you the progression of my thoughts that desperately went through my “dying” mind. Finally, my wife provided relief with some common sense and a damp towel. Her towel removed the ashen coating of dust or powdered sugar or “whatever” and a healthy tan reappeared to vanquish my fears.
Sight is wonderful and often provides wonderful mind treats. However, as my personal “heart in my throat” experience shows and illusionists such as Penn and Teller have proven perhaps “seeing shouldn’t always be believing.” I’ve learned that sight not only has its limitations, but it can be deceptive.

The Game

Last night I had a delightful date with my bride of forty years. A couple who are friends and neighbors acted as our willing chaperones and we had an early dinner at a local Chinese eatery. Bet you didn’t know General Tso made tofu! The weather was “just right” for an evening with our local AAA farm club baseball team. Some other friends graciously provided tickets and what entertainment we had. We joined over 9,675 other folks in a stadium designed to seat 8096 people for nonstop audio-visual treats. Baseball often took a second place to all the other activities and antics.
I have attended very few professional baseball games. The most recent were with some special cousins (avid Colorado Rockies fans) and then later with my son, daughter-in-law, and my grandson at Coor’s Field in Denver. I’ll never forget those experiences and last night was similar minus those magnificent Rocky Mountains silhouetting the stadium.
The evening’s entertainment was nonstop from the time we entered the stadium. There were dance contests, special “dressing” races, tee shirt tosses into the stands from giant three person slingshots, and a host of other activities. Many of the folks were actually spread out on blankets in a grassy area rimming the stadium and it looked especially enticing. The stadium was immaculate (just two years old) and was a far cry from the dank ancient stadiums of the past century with faint smells of stale beer and even urine. There was almost a Disney-like wholesome atmosphere to this venue and facility that is a real credit to the planners and designers.
Even with all the nonstop activities, my mind wanders. The program and player bios are extensive. Some quick math comes up with a rough average player’s age of early thirties. Then there are the host of traveling support folks to factor in, all living on the same buses and in the endless motels. Most of them probably have a wife and kids back home in Columbus tonight who miss them and are anxious for the end of another road trip. I think of the age old scenario, “If I just do this a bit longer, I’ll be with the Philadelphia Phillies team and on easy street and it will be worth it,” (or Cleveland Indians for this visiting team). Ironically enough, three of the players had actually played for the opposing team the night before and been traded as part of a six person trade “overnight.” Imagine going home and telling your family that they’ll be in a new state, neighborhood, and school district because the team had to make way for the rehabbing efforts for a “washed up” big league pitcher. It was more than just losing 5-4 in extra innings for those folks. But to quote the manager: “That will be weird, but again, you have to go about your business, take your at bats and see what happens. They’re professionals and you just have to go about your business.”
To many of us this “game” may seem vaguely reminiscent of downsizing, seniority bumping, and even foreclosure, family crisis, organizational trauma, and other painful life events that plague us and our relationships. All can be rationalized and the pain even suppressed or somewhat hidden for “a better future, the good of the team” or a myriad of other hopes and promises. As our natural fortunes wane and we learn our limitations and the fallibility of our loyalties to “teams,” it’s comforting to recall some simple truths. There is One who is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. His best is there for you always. There is nothing to be proven or earned. This isn’t “a game” to Him and you aren’t a player subject to the uncertainties of re-evaluation of your talents or abilities to be used and possibly discarded. You have been, are, and always will be a “star” in His eyes.

Bambi

I’ve never been privileged to meet a real Bambi although I recall the story as one of my (teary) favorites from many years ago. Yesterday I met eight Bambis “up close and personal” at their 1:30 PM feeding. What a Sunday afternoon delight.
A friend of mine, who the last time I saw him had assured me he was “easing out of business,” reversed his course. Instead of his business getting smaller, it’s mushrooming. In addition, as he travels in his farming-related business, he discovered a deer farm. He was smitten. As he tells the story, he “instantly” knew that he needed to add deer farming to the hectic life that he and his wife already lead (she works a full time job in addition to her family business duties). Soon he was building pens and installing ten foot high fences. In addition, there were the things that don’t immediately come to mind, like a huge green contraption from Alberta, Canada designed to get mature deer to hold still for handling. The work is still in progress and I am sure will continue for the foreseeable future.
The business plan is not fully mature but will include selling bucks bred for their huge racks to hunting preserves and breeding the does to expand the business. Although I haven’t independently verified it, the internet shows a similar Pennsylvania year and a half old hybrid buck with a sixteen point rack. My head is swimming with ideas and I am sure my friend will have many more. There is quite a potential market for the scent that deer produce that attracts bucks for hunters. In addition, there is the obvious Christmas season Santa petting zoo, the possible venison market, and I am sure many other possibilities.
All this starts with spindly little fawns often born two or sometimes three at a time at roughly the same period each year. The mortality rate is high in nature so the fawns are taken from the does soon after birth (after getting the initial necessary colostrums from the mother’s first feedings). I can’t imagine what they are like at birth but can assure you that they are absolutely adorable at nine weeks of age. Each of the eight surviving fawns (one died from a seemingly innocent foot infection) has a personality and a name. (Grandchildren’s idea, I suspect.) There is nothing like a fawn sucking on your finger or putting his head strategically under your hand to be petted. I’ve never heard that mournful bleating cry of a fawn before, but it touches you deep down. I thought nothing could ever rival puppies and kittens!
Although I married into a farming family, I have never completely understood firsthand the 24/7 responsibilities involved with the care and feeding of livestock, especially the young ones. Like any other “helpless” animal, there is a lot of hidden work involved, especially for the newborn fawns. In fact, it is almost impossible to duplicate the God-given mothering that occurs naturally in the wild. I guess it is not actually possible for us to teach all there is to know about being a deer to a fawn. Feeding goat’s milk with an eyedropper and massaging the rear (which the doe does by licking) to stimulate the bowels are just the start. Oh, it’s nice to visit and ogle and pet. I wasn’t there for the tense midnight session to get a dying fawn to drink or the heartbreak of a fawn that was born with front legs and tendons badly deformed.
It makes me realize that mothering (and fathering) isn’t as easy as it looks but it is, oh, so necessary. There is the “bleating cry” of a world of individuals crying for “mothers and fathers” who will make a priority of the care and feeding of others through thick and thin. I realize there are tremendous ongoing needs to be met beyond the token Sunday feeding and stroking that made me feel so good. It makes me more determined to be available “whenever and wherever” to help others through the both the good and especially the tough times as we grow together.

Fruit

Drosophila Melanogaster; now there is a mouthful. Speaking of mouthful, my wife makes the most phenomenal fresh peach pies. She even mastered making them a sugar-free delicacy. Sometimes she even crowns the pie with plump fresh in-season blueberries. My mouth waters just thinking about those pies. In fact, as I write this, someone called for her recipe. I am not exactly sure what her procedure is other than I see her patiently checking peaches sequestered in a brown paper bag for several days to achieve the perfect degree of ripeness.
When that magic day comes—voila—a scrumptious peach pie! Last week was one of those weeks and we shared pie mounded high with fat-free whipped cream with friends. What a treat and what an artistic delight. Each slice of peach was carefully tipped on end and shingled like the petals of big orange blossom. The pie rapidly became a fond memory.
Unfortunately, there is an extremely distracting tiny fly circling my head. Its diminutive size and amazing speed make a fly swatter a moot point. It’s kind of like calling in a tank to deal with a chipmunk. Normally things like this don’t “bug” me (no pun intended; at least until it sunk in). But this increasingly does. How could there be a fly in the house? Oh no! Mysterious fly number one has been joined in the choreographed aerial display by a tiny acrobatic friend. This is too much.
Finally, it dawns on me that these are those mini pests that I know as fruit flies (scientifically Drosophila Melanogaster, for those of you who experimented on them in your labs). Sure enough, there are a few peaches that didn’t make it into the pie and they are the attraction. I tower over these tiny pests and technically have complete authority over them. That doesn’t seem to matter as they play complete havoc with my concentration. To any impartial observer they’re winning the battle and I am reluctant to admit it. Finally I do, so I can get something done.
Onward to the new Bing.com computer search site for some solution. I won’t boor you with all the details. The solutions were amazing—everyone had a different way to get rid of these pests. They range from homemade traps to sucking them into a hot hairdryer and even attacking them with Windex. It even involved not using certain things for fertilizer around the outside of a home. For those so inclined, there was an obligatory “catch and release” method as well.
Finally, at the bottom of the second page was the disclaimer. The only really effective way to deal with fruit flies is to not permit conditions that attract them in the first place. If not used in a proper and timely manner, many times good things can “spoil” and provide the breeding grounds for bad things. Many of these bad things are “not serious enough for an all out war” and I live with them. Unfortunately that’s not a good solution because they multiply feeding voraciously on anything spoiled and left unprotected. Unlike the fruit flies, the life cycles of these things are not a mere 10 days.
Who would ever guess there are hard lessons to be learned when I start with a scrumptious peach pie?