Enuff!

I am in the process of being taught a very powerful lesson. Perhaps it’s so powerful because I am being double-teamed. Perhaps it’s because it’s the inspiration and example of two unsuspecting gentlemen who are two and three years old. It seems it is all being orchestrated at a perfect time as far as the season of the year and the season of my life. Yes, it is having a powerful impact.



I am still getting adjusted to not having my three kids (who are now almost twenty-two to mid-thirties) in our home for Christmas. I am, oh so slowly, being weaned from the aspect of quantity of time with them to exclusively cherishing quality time with them. Not only that; I no longer control our time together even though I myself am now “free.” I miss them a lot.






I am not complaining; just sharing my heart. I will see all of my kids during this extended season and I am grateful. Not only that but I learn new depths to the season each passing year. Christmas eve is special and still involves a lot of bustle with good friends and family stopping in for “a bite.” This year it was gallons of homemade French onion soup, fresh rolls, and steaming baked potatoes from the farm down the road. Then there is the rush to get dishes done to the point where we can venture through the night to a candle lighting service. That is followed by a sweet nostalgic half hour moonlit ride home. The early predawn hours of Christmas are especially poignant now that I “am alone” (without kids). I reflect on so many things that I don’t stop to cherish during normal hustle and bustle. Soon as dawn breaks there is special time with my “bride, soul mate, and partner” of now forty one precious years (this week). It is special to sit and truly enjoy each other and the depth of our relationship sans a lot of gifts and distractions. This year was especially moving as we prayed together for special friends with troubled relationships and marriages.






My purpose is not to be melodramatic or to paint a glum picture. This is a very special season, not just as a time of year but in my life as a whole. It has been and is a very powerful learning experience for me. I ventured into the inner city darkness to witness and be touched by a multitude of families being given fifteen hundred free Christmas trees. I fought tears when a handicapped middle aged lady that I am privileged to work with resolving some financial challenges and life issues showed me the Christmas card she was able to purchase for her also handicapped son. Each day, and sometimes hour, brings new revelation(s) and lessons.






Perhaps the crowning point of these lessons came Christmas afternoon and evening through the power of electronic media. First through the internet magic of SKYPE, we watched (and talked to when we could get his attention) my two-year-old grandson in Colorado playing with his new garbage trucks. He had a stack of unopened presents and was oblivious to them all. He has found what made him happy. Soon there were Flip videos emailed from Pittsburgh featuring our wide-eyed not quite infant granddaughter and her “wiser” and “older” three-year-old brother. Although one of the videos was short it will forever be etched in my mind. My grandson reflected that “there were just too many toys” as he expressed his concern that there may not be enough room for them. And he has never even heard the story about “building bigger barns.”






Yes, those unsuspecting young men were and are being used to teach to teach Grandpa the powerful lesson of “enuff.” I am a blessed man and look forward to sharing in 2010.

Free Range

The final leg of a long road trip west to enjoy my distant family is winding down. Now, about one hundred miles from home, the sun is fading in my rear view mirror. A huge three-level livestock truck speeds past going the opposite direction. It is empty but I instantly recognize it because some of my family members contract with the owner, a regional packing company. The brand name would be instantly recognizable to anyone who shops chain grocery stores in Eastern Pennsylvania. I know that tonight this truck will be rapidly loaded with hogs from a contract “factory” farm and returned back east for slaughter first thing in the morning.



The hogs are special hybrids bred to produce huge succulent hams by the time they are just shy of six months old. They are highly regulated and regimented from their artificial inception to slaughter and processing. They are not your average “hog.” In fact, they are such highly specialized hybrids that any accidental natural breeding would produce a frightful genetic mutation. I have toured one of the contract facilities where piglets rapidly mature into foodstuffs that will grace your plate. Everything is precisely calculated and metered scientifically for optimum production. There is even a small percentage of loss figured into the yields for hogs that inadvertently experience a rupture or sustain other injuries. Nothing is left to chance or nature that could be regulated and optimized.


Our modern food production is a marvel. I think of the egg production in Lancaster County or the broiler “factory farms” up and down the Delmarva Peninsula. I remember riding the mail boat loaded with cases of fresh “newly soft-shelled” crabs from Tangier Island in the Chesapeake Bay. They had recently come out of their “holding pens” on the island to be marketed to a hungry population up and down the eastern seaboard and beyond.


My wife and I were introduced to steak house management training forty years ago. An unforgettable part of our orientation (right after our breakfast) consisted of going to a northern Colorado feedlot containing a quarter of a million cattle. We were then introduced to the facility that with unbelievable efficiency processed over two thousand of them a day. Even the byproducts were exported to France where they are considered a delicacy. For those of you who are jumping ahead of me and drawing premature conclusions; no, this isn’t why I am a vegetarian!


In fact, my thoughts shift to my fellow human beings. I see evidence that we try to “process” human beings with the same cold efficiency. Oh, we perhaps correctly rationalize that “it is for their own good” and “we are making better, more productive people out of them.” However, I question our “factory farm” approach to life. No, we don’t rely on artificial insemination with hybrid genes but almost everything else is designed to produce our idea of what folks should be from the womb to our departure from life. We take on the responsibility of providing “everything needed” for the nurturing and perfecting of another human being—physically, mentally, financially, and even spiritually. Sometimes in our eagerness to produce and “assist” in the development of “super humans,” we inadvertently weaken the individual immunity and ability to forage and survive. Perhaps, it’s time to conceptually swing back to “free range” and away from “factory farms” at least as far as human beings are concerned.

Help

I am privileged to know two people who work from home for “call center” firms. They both provide answers to folks calling for information and assistance. The whole idea intrigues me but I’ve never seen how it works. That all changed today. My son-in-law is a “techie” and works for a firm that provides help and support to guests of major hotel and motel properties. Normally he works in Chicago but today he is working “help desk” from home in the Indiana suburbs. He was gracious enough to permit me to watch (as long as I didn’t touch anything!)






I sat in eager anticipation waiting for the phone to ring (through a computer on an internet connection). I was a bit apprehensive even though I wasn’t directly involved. Soon the first call came. Amazingly, it was from “back home” in Eastern Pennsylvania. I wondered if the frantic hotel guest on the line had any idea that she was connected to a suburban living room half way across the country. She seemed to calm noticeably when she heard my son-in-law’s reassuring friendly voice. As he spoke, his fingers were a blur as they executed rapid keystrokes on his computer. He deftly accessed all the guest information on his database of the hotel property. He quickly diagnosed that not only did this lady have a problem but several other unsuspecting guests did as well. A few more keystrokes and the whole property’s internet service was operational again. Some rapid documentation and he was ready for his next call.






The next call was from a man and it also came from Eastern Pennsylvania as well. Several minutes later he confirmed that he too was thankfully “back in business.” I suspected that these Eastern Pennsylvania calls were just for me. That thought was quickly dispelled by calls from Baltimore and then Times Square in the heart of New York City. I was actually disappointed when “our” shift ended. I am looking forward to witnessing another night on call before starting our journey home.


What a treat watching a “pro” calmly and efficiently solve all the hotel and motel guest’s internet problems as they call on him. Amazingly, unbeknownst to some unsuspecting guests, he actually solved some that they didn’t even know they had. He is here waiting through the night for any of thousands of guests who experience an internet problem and are willing to call. I asked him if he’d ever been unable to solve a problem. After some thought, he said, “Yes once, when sadly the guest hung up in frustration shortly before I was able to deliver a solution.” What an impressive record. I am honored and privileged to know him personally. He actually set up the computer that I am using to write this story.






Reminds me of another “help desk” that is far away but instantly accessible for the asking. It’s open “24/7” and has a perfect record. He too gives personal attention and is only a call away not just for problems but anything else that I want to chat about. What an honor and privilege to personally know Him too. I can’t make it without Him and His wisdom and assurance.

Almost the same but different

This morning my hand momentarily touched on some lumps on my body. There are quite a few. (Most are where you can’t see them.) I’ve actually had them long enough that I very seldom notice them anymore. They started developing years ago and they became bigger and more numerous with time. I had them checked by my doctor who referred me to a plastic surgeon. He did what surgeons do; scheduled surgery. He removed the most obvious and/or bothersome ones and informed me that the lab said they were benign fatty lipomas.







During several operations over a period of time he removed as many as possible under the maximum doses of anesthesia that my system could tolerate. We continued until we realized it was a never ending battle (and my surgeon was to move to Israel). It’s OK with me because most of the obvious ones are gone. However, I occasionally still have people spot one and say, “What is that lump?” That is what started my “problem”.






I’m never much for details and the fine points of the English language. This is especially true with grammar and spelling. Thankfully, I married a proof reader with an eye for detail! I am especially vulnerable with words that sound like other words. I hate to interrupt a good thought searching for the proper word or name as long as people understand what I mean. When people spot one of my lumps that range from pea to previously almost golf-ball size, they work up the courage to ask me what they are. I would give them my best recollection of what the surgeon told me—lymphomas.


I was utterly amazed at the looks of dread and empathy that I got when I mentioned lymphoma. I thought little of it until my wife Natalie got involved. Because of her nurse’s training and desire to be medically accurate she insisted that I learn and use the correct word—lipoma, not lymphoma. It was then that I realized that I was telling people that “I’d had 60 cancerous growths removed and wasn’t worried about the rest of them.” I now know and remember that lymphoma is a cancer.






Although I don’t want to “one up” my wife, I think God sees things more like I do (at least on this issue). I believe that He considers lymphomas, lipomas, and anything else intruding into or onto my body the same way. There is no little or big or serious or not serious to God. He sees, cares about, and can handle it all. He is God.

Expand or Withdraw?

“Da-Dit-Da-Da, Da-Da-Dit-Da.” Today most folks (other than my sister-in-law who attended telegraph school) wouldn’t have a clue what that means. It’s not a hip-hop song or even a dance rhythm but rather the letters “C” and “Q” in International Morse Code. Those letters which are invitation to chat in Morse Code have been branded into my mind for fifty years.


As a young boy, I daydreamed about “escaping” my little world while trudging along my hometown daily newspaper route. Toward the end of my route was a house that was scary but also somewhat intriguing to me. It was quite forbidding and would remind you of the decrepit ramshackled house on the television show “The Munsters.” I could see strange flickering shadows and hear indistinguishable crackly sounds and voices from somewhere in the depth of the house. Occasionally, I would encounter the lone inhabitant and he was a sight to behold. He was rather hermit-like and unkempt with wild uncut silver-grey hair. He never tipped me or for that matter even said a friendly hello. Central casting would consider him a natural for a mad scientist role.


One dark snowy night this gent caught me spying through his window and gruffly invited me into the depths of his forbidding old home. My curiosity momentarily overcame my fears and I ventured into the unknown abyss. Stepping across that threshold changed my life.


It turned out that the flickering lights were multitudes of vacuum tubes powering untold numbers of shortwave radios bridging to a whole other world. I soon spent countless hours with him exploring the Voice of America, the British Broadcasting Company, and even “those Communists” at far off Radio Moscow. Soon every cent that didn’t go into a local pinball machine was accumulating to buy my own short wave radio kit. Once that was accomplished I started collecting “SWL cards” with strange postmarks from “the ends of the earth.” They confirmed I had heard a distant station from a far off country at such and such a time Greenwich Mean Time on such and such a frequency. Technology had expanded my world and given me a lust for more.


One-way communications can be frustrating to say the least. I soon discovered another gentleman with a tower similar to a larger version of a television antenna attached to his house. That was my introduction to the two-way communications called “Ham” (amateur) Radio. It was fascinating but required a license that was only attainable after mastering a Morse code test. Soon every spare hour that I didn’t spend reading or working was spent prepping for and eventually passing my test to become known as KN3ZZH. My world expanded another notch through this newfound technology. More importantly, a hunger was instilled to communicate with and hopefully meet these far off folks. Last year I actually had a flashback to these days of old when I got a chance to look down on the land of “Radio Moscow” while on a flight 39,000 feet high over Russia. I still long to experience those folks face to face.


Recently, while on a tour of the city of Halifax, N.S., the North American portal of the internet, I thought of the new fiber optic cables and satellite technology that blankets our world. It triggered thoughts of a new phenomenon in this technology saga. Many folks today have also captured a technology activated “vision” just as I did long ago. However, their vision has just the opposite effect. It seems that many are using technology as a means to isolate themselves from rather than pursue face to face social contacts. They hibernate behind hundreds of high definition channels, strikingly realistic interactive video games and infinitely expanding internet realms. I suspect these powerful technologies are being used as a means and justification for folks to become social recluses. A new breed of virtual social hermits has developed. They not only don’t want to interact with the world but they have also even withdrawn from their neighbors and family. Increasingly, I see cell phones used as a means to avoid face-to-face contact often within the boundaries of the same home. Even that cell phone contact has now been refined to include thousand of text messages and fewer and fewer actual voice contacts.


Technology is a blessing. It can be used to stimulate, aid, and expand our face-to-face relationships. Unfortunately, it also can be used to enable reclusive solitude as part of an artificial world without social risk. I am convinced that the effects of a personal heartfelt smile or a caring touch can never be replaced by any technology- nor should it be. Technology—either a relational tool or trap—it’s my choice.

The “Words” Behind the Words

“Johnny!” That word possibly holds little significance to most folks. Almost anyone can tell you it’s a nickname for John. However, few can grasp what it means to me. My kids are now all grown and no longer part of our visits to our (my bride and I grew up in the same area) hometown. I vividly remember the bemused expressions on my kid’s faces when some seasoned lady or gent from my childhood referred to their Dad as “Johnny.” They hadn’t had the opportunity to share that part of my life and the relevance behind what was being said. Unfortunately, they each are sharp enough to perceive from the twinkle in some of these oldster’s eyes that their Dad wasn’t a perfect child.



Yes, there are a few other folks who weren’t part of my “Johnny” days that take the liberty to call me Johnny. Quite frankly, I much prefer they call me John but try to be gracious about it. It’s just that I don’t have the connection and history with those folks that I have with the dwindling number of precious folks from my past. I wish many of them were still here to call me “Johnny.”






Perhaps the most significant person who has ever called me Johnny hasn’t called me that name for ages even though I talk to her frequently. In my mind, I can still hear her voice echoing through my childhood neighborhood at dusk. I will never forget that voice. I not only could distinguish that voice from all others but special tones and inflections had special meaning and significance. I knew that there were progressive signs of urgency (building to something just short of anger) in those calls of “Johnny.” I usually could accurately gauge the tones but occasionally I underestimated them. That could lead to a painful meeting of certain lower parts of my anatomy with certain parts of our sour cherry tree to reinforce a clearer understanding.






We have a son named John Daniel whom we, for reasons we have difficulty explaining, call “Dan” (previously “Danny”). When he started school we knew that his school name would be significant and lasting. We asked what he’d like to be called and he chose “John.” When we ask if we too should call him “John” he said with tears in his eyes “no I want to be your Danny.”






My bride has never called me Johnny. For well over fifty years, I have been John to her. There is something about the way that she says John (or anything else) that can and does still melt my heart. We treasure our long relationship and have a lengthy and precious investment in each other. Perhaps because of that we both have learned to be selective in the words we speak to (and into) each other. In addition, we trust what is in the other’s heart. Oh, we sometimes still suffer minor miscues but it seems it’s not the actual words where we are vulnerable. You see we both have become seemingly skilled (and many times wrongly) at hearing something not necessarily spoken in words through the tones and nuances of what is being conveyed. If I can impart the wrong nuances to “the love of my life” after over fifty years of practice then I shouldn’t rely exclusively on mere words with others who don’t know my heart nearly as well. I have learned that my massive size, my facial expressions (or lack of them), my deep voice, or any number of other nuances sometimes “trump” and invalidate even well chosen words. That doesn’t even take into consideration written words hastily scattered through cyberspace in emails or on Face book without benefit of other discerning clues to my true heartfelt feelings.






I think I recall reading the phrase “my sheep hear my voice” not “my sheep hear my words.” In reflecting on that simple wisdom from long ago, I now realize how important investments in true heart-felt relational communications beyond the words really are.

Scavengers

I am in the land of the “kills.” Names like Peekskill, Plattekill, Wallkill, and Fishkill, all part of upstate New York. The suffix “kill” refers to water tributaries in the founding Dutch dialect. This is the real Dutch from Holland not the Deutsch (German) that I grew up calling “Dutch.” The evidence of these founding fathers is everywhere and the names are Van Skoy or Vanderlaan instead of our Pennsylvania Deutsch Druchenmueller or Newswanger. The Catskill Mountain region is magnificent and it is a special treat to enjoy Thanksgiving in this area.



As I stepped out into the heavy morning dew to watch my friend Dixie (a Golden Retriever) frolic, I am in awe of the natural beauty of this area. There is a small stream, which the last time I visited housed a resident pair of beavers. It is bordered by an expansive meadow in the midst of extensive woodlands. There is a set of railroad tracks on the edge of the property guiding lumbering freight trains to Albany and Montreal.


I am enjoying my brother and sister-in-law’s wonderful hospitality on their 1747 era 34 acre wooded farm. What a treat! They have spent the last twenty-five years successfully transforming the rustic stone homestead and accompanying barn and property into a virtual Shangri-La. It is awesome to survey the massive cavernous stone walls which are several feet thick. Only one original doorway remains intact without modification. It is quite evident that past generations were more compact because the top of that door frame is below my chin level. When I walk through the home today, I don’t fully appreciate the labor of placing two thousand plus shims to level the uneven floors or other labor. I try to picture what it was like to fashion these massive structural beams. It is my understanding that a huge tree was toppled and then a trench was laboriously dug under it. A man worked on the top of the felled tree and a boy in the trench underneath to hew these beams. Thus the term “a man and a boy” was coined. Now their superhuman efforts long ago coupled with extensive painstaking renovations over the years contribute to a coziness that makes me feel like hibernating.


My brother-in-law is quite an experienced outdoorsman and cherishes the wildlife that abounds on this property. He actually has a heated observation point built into his barn overlooking the meadow. Recently someone brought a road-killed deer and it is staked securely in a prominent spot in the meadow. There is not much to see in the daytime although a 194 pound Boar Black Bear visited the day before yesterday to check it out. The reason we know that it was 194 pounds is that a neighboring friend successfully started him on the journey to possibly becoming a beautiful $800 bear skin rug.


According to my brother in law, the real activity comes during the cover of darkness. He has a motion-activated digital game camera positioned to view the carcass and anything that visits it. When we downloaded the photographs onto a computer, we were amazed. In addition to the bear mentioned previously, a fox and then at least one coyote appeared out of the darkness. The camera recorded the fact that the coyote came at 4:19 AM as everyone slept. It warily dined for about a half an hour before slipping back into the darkness.


As I stare at the pictures of the coyote with its beady eyes, I think of the “coyotes” that come to nibble at the rotting spoils that I sometimes leave deposited in the pastures of my life. Everything may appear fine, but I sometimes sense something unpleasant lurking in the shadows especially under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, there isn’t a game camera that can capture and validate what I sense. It doesn’t make any difference. I don’t intend to leave the decay that attracts these lurking scavengers as I rest in the eternal security provided on hand-hewn beams long ago.