Ground

I admire the talents and skills of tradesmen. I have yet to successfully master even home projects, let alone profession endeavors. Those who know me best have come to expect any home project trusted to me starts with a substantial purchase of tools that I either don’t have or can’t find. That’s followed by the purchase of anything suggested as a possible fix by anyone at Home Depot, Lowes, Ace Hardware, or True Value—usually all of them. Eventually that’s followed by summoning a true highly-trained/highly-paid professional to undo or restore my project. Folks have a difficult time believing that I actually was a trained aircraft electrician at one point in my life. I think I was a pretty good troubleshooter, just never co-ordinated enough to always do a professional fix, especially in tight spaces. Not to digress too far, but one night I actually partially burned the hair off my head leaning too far into the electrical panel on the side of a B-57 bomber.



I still remember some basic electrical theory, but not enough to reliably or effectively fix much of anything. I recently encountered two very similar electrical problems and actually diagnosed and fixed one on my lawn tractor while turning the other over to a true technician. My lawn tractor suddenly stopped in the middle of mowing with no lights or gauges or anything else. The other problem was on my sister’s van as she made her way through heavy traffic here from York on Interstate Route 78. She also had no lights, flashers, or anything else. That problem I am trusting to a professional.


All the equipment on my lawn tractor was recently checked out and, in fact, it sports a brand new battery and only a few hundred hours on the hour meter. The tractor is a rather simple design and I very quickly went from component to component. All seemed fine. The components were functionally sound but nothing worked.


The diagnosis—the tractor wasn’t well grounded. Our lawn is rather bumpy to say the least. One of those bumps dislodged the electrical ground necessary for all electrical components to operate. My tractor is now back in commission and is generating a steady stream of grass clippings, but the lesson lingers. I realize that like the tractor, no matter how effectively I may appear to function, if I am poorly or inadequately grounded some unexpected bumps in my life can bring everything to a halt. Hopefully, I won’t be in such a hurry to move beyond “basic grounding” into life’s “important stuff.”


The lessons just keep coming.

Crop

The question is simple, direct and impacting—the kind that makes me wonder why I’ve never pondered it. The unexpected question popped up in a small group setting and totally out of context of any of the other discussions. Although I am far from their situation, I suppose this is how pageant participants spotlighted before an audience must feel when confronted with that specially prepared “bomb” of a question. My mind races for a concise answer (and escape) as all ears tune expectantly for my answer.







The question: “Why do you take pictures?” My answer, now forgotten, is one that I hope will get me safely back on the sidelines and out of “the line of fire.” However, the question lingers in my mind.






I am inaccurately, in my mind at least, accused of being a photographer. I have the privilege of knowing some photographers and know that I don’t fit that definition even though I often sport a camera. To me, the difference is like comparing a Sunday afternoon driver to Mario Andretti. I usually get where I am going but lack the training and expertise to do it expertly with confident professional precision and skill.






I am by my own definition “a picture taker.” I have tens of thousands of pictures on my computer to prove it. I have lost more pictures with a simple but painful computer hard drive crash than most folks take in a life time. Others only see a small fraction of what I take but if my camera(s) were cars with odometers I would be destined to “turn it over.” (For you younger folks with digital odometers, that’s a term used with old mechanical odometers maxing out and starting over from zero.)


Aside from a few shots capturing the stunning beauty of the Grand Canyon, a majestic ocean sunset, or Niagara Falls, ninety-nine percent of my pictures are of people. Not the common, stiff, posed shots that more orderly folks favor. (I think of those shots as today’s version of the past century’s old antique tin plate shots.) I do take those obligatory posed shot for folks when they demand it but also sneak in some extras of the folks as “they really are.” They’re the ones I treasure.


God has given me a “love for people” that has grown to addictive proportions. I just like ‘em—all kinds: good and bad, felons and addicts, challenged or not, along with folks with no visible problems. I am intrigued by all humanity. I see “beauty” in people that they often don’t see in themselves. It is not lipstick and six-pack abs, but based more on the look I see deep in their eyes. Those looks seem to reflect the deep inner person and especially their heart and that’s what I am anxious to discover. I relish hearing the phrase “I really do look good” when I show folks their pictures. More importantly, they seem to understand that I look for and have spotted something special in them.






Even though I have a 12 power optical zoom buried in my small pocket point and shoot camera, I seldom capture the perfect shot I envision. Something always seems to spoil the picture. Most people would delete most of my raw pictures. My secret is computer-based software editing. Nothing sophisticated like Photoshop (which I own but have yet to master), just simple free downloadable software like Picasa. With a few clicks I can see a background gem and salvage something out of a messed up picture. (A confession: I have, on occasion, stretched a picture to make some—mostly female—folks appear taller and lest robust!) I can do simple light enhancements and automatically fix things like contrast. However, my most utilized function is the “crop” function. If I find something redeeming (and I usually do) in a “bad” picture, I cut out the “good” and create a new picture with that good part. The “bad” parts that draw many people’s eye to the flaws are left behind with no remaining distractions. Some would consider that cheating, but I see it as selective focus and one that has been invaluable for my life’s outlook. I still hope for Utopia, but I am learning to crop a good picture out of many messed up scenes. It’s kind of fun and helps me see things that others appear to miss, especially in the world’s humanity that I‘ve grown to love. I highly recommend cropping.

Fluke

A gorgeous red sunrise reveals brilliant shades of deep green and transforms the muted grays hiding the flat New Jersey coastal pinelands. As the sun grows to a molten orange orb, it gives a foreshadowing hint of the intense heat soon to accompany it. Today, I hope, will be what my kids grew up anticipating as a treasured “family fun day.” Limited resources and a demanding hands-on family business never lent themselves to an extended “real vacation” that many others enjoy. Instead, we explored everything that could be reached and savored within a day’s drive whenever the opportunity appeared. Sometimes we pushed the envelope and commandeered part of the preceding night to make it fit.







I so, so much miss my kids and those memorable times. This morning I’ve been granted a partial reenactment. My now-married daughter’s visit from the Indiana parts of the Chicago ‘burbs has set the stage. It’s the ideal opportunity for a father-daughter excursion since her husband is off on temporary duty in Texas and my bride is with her siblings in upstate New York.






Our mission of choice is to try our hand at salt water Fluke fishing. We are destined to depart soon on a 98-foot party boat called the “Gambler” based in Point Pleasant, NJ. My daughter is what, in deer hunting circles, would be known as a “meat hunter.” She fishes primarily for food over sport. She inherited her taste for fish from her mother. The captain and the mate of the Gambler don’t realize how deftly I’ve slipped the responsibility for satisfying her seafood cravings to them. After a hearty pier-side breakfast, we’re breaking the protective boundaries of the breakwater and are venturing into the choppy Atlantic Ocean.






Soon the ship’s horn signals that it’s time to thread some strips of squid onto the hook and start fishing for Fluke. A big ten-ounce lead sinker takes the bait swirling down about thirty to forty feet to the ocean’s floor below us. The gentle sway of the drifting boat coupled with escalating temperatures makes sleep deprived me yearn for a nap. So much for that wishful thinking.






Soon a cry of “fish on” resounds followed by similar cries from other areas of the boat. The instigators are hungry but pesky inedible Sea Robins—a nuisance fish that are the “horse flies” of the depths plaguing serious fishermen. Occasionally, a Fluke (a supposedly larger cousin of Flounder) or a Sea Bass is pulled up over the rail. However, the intended purpose of our trip—legal Fluke over fifteen inches—are elusive. Finally my daughter breaks through the barrier with a “beautiful” twenty-five inch Fluke. Even if it may be ugly to others, it’s beautiful to her because she views it as four beautiful filets.


As I stare at her prize now imprisoned in a five gallon plastic bucket, I find the Fluke’s architecture (I guess anatomy is the right word) intriguing to say the least. Occasionally it reveals its white underside but mostly it displays a drab camouflage brown upper color. That camouflage now is useless and actually highlights the flat fish in this pristine white bucket. For those not familiar with Fluke and Flounder, the underside of those fish are actually what we humans would call our right side and both little eyes stare from the left or upper side.






My daughter shares a tidbit (later confirmed by the mate) that Fluke are actually born “normal”—swimming vertically with eyes on either side of their heads. Over time their right eye transitions over their head to join the other eye on their left side. Once their small beady eyes (and their focus) have completely transitioned, they never swim upright again and they are relegated to swimming on what was their right side. They hide on the bottom as opportunistic “bottom feeders.” I ponder and wonder if they even fathom the transition that took place.






Now as I write, this Fluke has long since become a tasty meal for my daughter and wife, but it continues to be a contributing life’s lesson for me. Thank you, Mr. Fluke, for your sacrifice that permitted me to relive a cherished father-daughter activity while providing a savory meal for my ladies. I am especially grateful too for the multiple life applications you’ve provided. They’ve strengthened my resolve to not slide (even though I sometimes slip) in my desire “to walk upright.” I don’t want to inadvertently permit a subtle transition to a one-sided focus and adopt a life lying on the “bottom.” I am sure Mr. Fluke has more lessons to share but that’s it for now.










Note to those of you who have inquired: Yes I am still “writing” but I have had an extended period of what I think professional writers call “writer’s block”. Maybe it’s a good sign that I may be improving!

Keys

Web-based social media like Facebook is wonderful even though it’s been heavily bashed recently. In fact, just a few days ago I was unexpectedly “discovered” by two mates from the past. I am getting ahead of myself so more about that later.



My wife and I participated in a group that uses many events from our individual pasts as key elements of the training. It was a very productive but challenging because I had such limited recollection of many past events in my life, especially my childhood. I never did figure out the reason and felt a bit embarrassed and even robbed. Fortunately, my wife who has known me since pre-adolescent days could jog my memory enough to make it through the training. (I wish I could have screened all she chose to remember.)


A few days ago, a whole new (old) area of my shrouded childhood reopened. What a delight! Two childhood playmates, sisters in fact, contacted me on Facebook. I could tell that they must be far removed from our childhood home because they both used the very non “rural Pennsylvanian” term “stream” for our old neighborhood “crick.” I am still not sure of their current whereabouts and details about their lives but it (re)opened a whole new vista in my recollections.


It’s as if they were used as two keys necessary to open a spillway of a dam in my mind. As I get older, I am increasingly nostalgic. However, this exploded as if someone started a Technicolor projector after endlessly sitting in a darken theater. Thoughts of idyllic barefoot summers—being outdoors “to play” from what seems virtually dawn to dusk; crayfish, toads, nests of baby bunnies, and Garter snakes; building endless forts; and also wading to build ingenious dams in the “crick.” I remember climbing Horse Chestnut trees and catching lightening bugs (fireflies) and playing Cowboys and Indians—even though there were only two boys in the neighborhood and I as the junior never got to be the Cowboy. Belching steam locomotives were gulping water from a big wooden water tank just across the road from our homes. And yes, there were hobos getting off the trains to request a meal from Mom well over a half a century ago.


Back then, most childhood names ended in “Y” with some variation from our given names—Johnny, Betsy, Bobby, Patsy. Not like the Ethan, Olivia, Logan, and Ava or some of the names today—these were different and now are considered “old fashioned.” I was the youngest (until a couple of sisters came along) and a devoted “follower.” One of the girls tells of her father wanting to oil my squeaky tricycle wheels but being rejected by my mother because “she liked being able to easily hear where I was.” There was little to break the bliss other than rain and temporary bumps and bruises which could be taken care of by the first available mother. Winters were limited by darkness but still very outdoor play-based with snow forts, sledding, skating, and snowballs. Wet clothes dried hanging by a coal stove in the kitchen.


Life was generally good until my talented male friend got heavily involved in baseball. I lacked his talent and spent a lot of time missing him even though he fought with me a lot. The only alternative were the girls I mentioned above along with their little sister. They weren’t into Cowboys and Indians at all. You guessed it—I was drafted to play “house” and all that goes with it. I was “Daddy” to countless baby dolls and thus the reference to mates at the beginning of the tale.


I moved away from our “boring” neighborhood when I was seventeen never to return for more than visits. You know, I never did become a Cowboy or an Indian (and certainly not a baseball player) when I grew up. However, I did become a proud husband and father. I haven’t gotten it “all right” by any stretch of my imagination. However, I am so grateful for all the “insignificant” factors that faded into the crevasses of my memory. What I was so eager both physically and mentally to move away from back then is priceless vintage hidden treasure today. Thank you, ladies, for being the keys to unlocking the treasure trove of small town neighborhood memories and heritage. Buried in there is the fertile soil that nurtured so many of my values. I am truly grateful to revisit such a wonderfully significant early chapter of my life.

March

I woke up this morning thinking about an upcoming event that will be occurring in several weeks—a 45th anniversary of sorts. No, it’s not my wedding anniversary. I woke up thinking about a gangly fuzzy-faced 17 year-old kid joining the military. I specifically thought about barracks inspections and especially my first one. My day-to-day personal belongings were all to be displayed a specific way in a foot locker precisely positioned at the foot of my bunk. Many of the items I never used in order to keep them “inspection ready.” In order to do that, we even went so far as to share shoe polish and such- even a “community” toothbrush. Since I had no need to shave, my razor and blades also stayed “inspection ready” along with my toothbrush.



Standing at attention at the foot of my bunk for my first inspection was a horrifying experience. The officer walking through our barracks stopped at my foot locker and bent down seemingly hyper-focus on my razor. He held it up, looked me in the eye, and asked if I had used this razor this morning. I responded with a “mistruth”. (Sounds better than a lie.) “Yes Sir,” I answered, desperately hoping my voice wouldn’t crack or quaver. My heart dropped as the officer inserted a new blade into the razor forcing out the safety blank routinely inserted into new razors for safe shipping. My punishment: dry shaving with each step while marching the following day. I have always been challenged in the rhythm and cadence department and marching was a struggle under normal circumstances. “Your left, your left; your left, right, left”—or was it the other way around? I would have looked better if I had been mauled by a lion than trying to shave while marching!


I no longer have to march in formation but I still continue to have to shave. I have continued the tradition of cutting myself while shaving using every generation of razor that Gillette has produced over the decades. (Maybe the new Mach Five to be released in several weeks will be different). In fact, I am embarrassed to say that I never taught my two sons to shave precisely because I never figured it out myself. I did pay silent penance several years ago and bought them both new generation electric razors. I also bought one for myself. You guessed it; somehow I continued to cut myself with an electric razor.


In spite of initiating my ill-fated shaving tradition, I am grateful to the military for some other areas of my life. I am severely musically challenged and I am in awe of those that play musical instruments. (I hope I don’t have to play a harp in heaven- at least with my existing lack of talent). I especially cannot comprehend the co-ordination required of those in marching bands who both play and march at the same time. As you might guess, there is no way that I would ever choose to learn to march under any circumstances. Although my memory is a bit fuzzy (no pun intended), I now think back to the horrors of a fuzzy-faced kid shaving while marching and realize it was a marker in my life. It was my introduction as a self-centered adolescent teen to a transition that I continue to try to master till this day. I started to learn, and continue to learn, the value of teamwork. My abbreviated athletic career was spent mostly on the bench so unlike most folks, I never mastered teamwork there. Instead, I learned teamwork during basic military training along with the value of marching in unison to “someone else’s drummer.” Those values really came into focus not long afterwards when I descended past the rice paddies into Saigon’s Ton Se Nut Air Base and a whole new scary world. My appreciation of others and marching together as a team of fellow human beings suddenly became invaluable and has been growing ever since.


I value and treasure my independence. The more independent I become, the less I am inclined to go through life’s lessons that aren’t of my choosing. I would never volunteer to take marching lessons, especially knowing I might expose myself as an incorrigible klutz. There are so many valuable lessons in life hidden where I would never knowingly venture. Seems the most needed are in areas I am most inclined to avoid. Guess to really advance I need to relinquish my exclusive “right” to always choose what is best (and easiest) for me.

Odyssey

I feel naked. After a short night’s sleep, I just dropped my bride off at Philadelphia International Airport along with our only working cell phone. This morning I’m on my way motoring virtually from border to border across our great state of Pennsylvania. I have a gnawing feeling that it’s just not right to travel without a cell phone. Never mind that I did it for most of my life. I think I have a phone card somewhere in my wallet but am not sure where you find a pay phone any more. They all seemed to have disappeared. And how does anyone get in contact with me while I am in transit? It’s amazing how a novel accessory has become a “have to have” in such a short amount of time.



Once I leave the Delaware River behind and my Pennsylvania Turnpike EZ-Pass is electronically recorded, I set the cruise control a tad over 65MPH. There is little to do for the next five plus hours other than gaze at the unfolding panorama and think.


I think of my wife now flying high above me and picture her drinking coffee and doing Sudoku as we both independently transverse the state of Pennsylvania. (It’s too complicated to explain why in this little ditty, and yes, we’re ultimately both going to the same destination.) Even if she glances out the window of her Boeing 737 streaking high overhead, she would see little of what I am seeing other than glimpses of the rivers and mountains through the clouds.


The Keystone State has always been scenic and this morning she is in her finest splendor. That is still true in spite of the blob of truck terminals, factory farms, warehouses, bottled water plants, massive defense supply installations, and cold storage units that is slowly oozing across the pristine pastures and orchards of our great state. Even the signs and billboards (yes, we still have them) have morphed from simple “Howard Johnson’s ahead” to Starbucks, Sharro, and Powerball touting extravaganzas. The sea of traffic is amazing and I soon fix my thoughts on the passing assortment of state license plates along with the growing fleet of municipal waste rigs motoring across our land to some unseen dumping site.


As I proceeded from the Delaware Bay Water Shed on to the Chesapeake Bay Water Shed and then onto that magic point elevated over 2000 feet in altitude where water actually starts a journey toward the Gulf of Mexico, I am in awe of our natural resources. Yes, the Shad and Eels are largely a thing of the past but our tributaries and waterways are awesome. Proceeding through the mountains and especially through the Blue, Kittanning, and Tuscarora Mountain tunnels made me think of those who ventured through this land before those tunnels, this turnpike, and even motor vehicles.


In fact, it reminds me of a mid-state based acquaintance who has walked the breadth of our Commonwealth multiple times. His route—the old Lincoln Highway, US Route 30—parallels both our routes of travel. Other than spotting a black bear somewhere around Breezewood, most of his focus seems to center around the folks that he meets. His stories are fascinating to the point that I feel slightly jealous—stories of amazing locals, off-course tourists, and curious children and pets. Oh, my trek featuring tunnels and trucking terminals is interesting but doesn’t compare to the wonderful people that populate our great state.


Comparing the three treks across the state prompts some interesting thoughts. For efficiency, nothing compares to my wife’s runway to runway sprint of less than an hour soaring above our commonwealth. My five hour motor cruise is interesting but actually the sights actually become a bit boring toward the end. But my friend’s walks constitute treasures of humanity and relationships that few of us seldom take time to relish on our frantic dash from point A to B.


I am gently reminded that my rush to proceed as rapidly as possible through the clouds to my destination may be a bit self serving. There is a wonderful sea of humanity and relationships down here that can only be experienced and reached by “walking the walk” on terra firma. As my friend confirms, the few pulled muscles, blisters, and sweat are oh so worth it as he trekked and connected with one person at a time.

The Little Things

This morning validates why I should think twice about owning dark colored vehicles. Try as I might, I can only keep our maroon colored car clean for what seems like a few fleeting hours or less. You’d think I would have learned a lesson after trying to maintain a massive black van for quite a few years. This morning I am on a mission to bring home early Sunday morning hot cakes from a neighborhood drive through. (And hope no one sees me in my pre dawn “finest.”) Having clean cars is a bit therapeutic for me and I especially enjoy a quick glance at a shiny car for a day or two after investing six or eight dollars in a carwash. As I peer expectantly through the emerging daylight, my “clean” car is covered with a yellowish hazy film. It is visible evidence of all the tiny irritants that wreak havoc with so many of my friend’s breathing during this season—tiny, tiny specks of pollen.






My wife secretly inspects me each time I am to appear in public for “minute unimportant” (to me) stains and such. I recently got a new pair of glasses with a part of them soldered just slightly askew. That slight imperfection was immediately detected by my observant wife and validated by the Optometrist. (No wonder she is such a great proofreader for various authors.)






One of my finger still bears a slight redness from a tiny sliver of wood that somehow penetrated my skin last week. Though it was only a small fraction of an inch long, that sliver affects my whole body and especially my attitude. Likewise, for some small particles floating in my knee joints. Little things affect my body a lot. Those small particles have hijacked my mind and body.






Recently while visiting a military exhibit I got to see a mockup of a nuclear weapon. It didn’t look very impressive and was not what I expected. However, the awesome destructive force contained in an atom was reinforced by some World War 2 era pictures of the flattened Japanese cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. What devastation starting with a basic minute particle! Evidence of fear of nuclear problems originating with tiny atoms continues (and escalates). Today’s newspaper headline bears proof.






The Western world spends billions of dollars and invests untold man hours in searching for small quantities of contraband; be it potential explosives or drugs. Personally I must fit some kind of a profile because the newest techniques in TSA airport screening seem overly intent on finding something miniscule hidden in the recesses of my oversized body. That’s not the arena in which I like to be considered “special”!






Hopefully you have been able to follow my “rabbit trail.” I am absolutely convinced that “small” has alarmingly huge potential for discomfort, pain and destruction in many assorted arenas. That doesn’t even take into consideration the devastating fear factor that often accompanies the scientific and medical evidence or even rumors of the potential of this “minutia.”






There is amazing power in little things both bad and good. What I find amazing is how readily I can accept the awesome immobilizing power and potential of small harmful things. Yet I often lack the vision to grasp the amazing yeast-like potential of small obscure things intended for good. I am not just speaking in terms of things like substances that can potentially cure diseases or a energize perpetual motion machines. Perhaps the biggest lapse is a lack of confidence in myself (just one “small” person among six billion other probably more qualified folks!) to bring about positive change in this huge world. Why do I fear and overreact to the “bad” little things and underestimate and have so little confidence in the potential of the “good” little things? I suspect it’s the difference between fear and faith that determines my differing reactions. Guess it’s time to revisit that tale about a tiny mustard seed to help me maintain a proper perspective. I need to focus and move beyond immobilization into belief and action on the side of “good”.

Spring

There are many kinds of springs: the season, a cold stream of water that often feeds into an outdoor type of refrigerator called a springhouse, an open source computer application written for Java, a descriptive term for a source, a metal coil, and the list goes on. And that is just the nouns. The verb forms are far more interesting: to pounce or launch, to move out of place, to cause to warp or bend by force, to disclose unexpectedly, to be released from prison, to pay for someone’s expenses, to emerge suddenly, to jump or vault, to return to a former position, and I’m sure there are more. No, I don’t normally spend my time in a dictionary. In fact, the subject of English wasn’t one of my strengths (of which there were few) in school. This disclosure is necessary since a knowledgeable former English teacher will possibly read this.



This story just seemed to progress starting with a simple broken garage door. Since a friend installed them quite a few years ago, I seldom pay any attention to our garage doors and openers. I just know that they work. One morning there was a lot of squeaking (more like moaning and groaning) and I set out with my trusty silicone spray (and WD-40, if that didn’t work) to rectify the situation. When I glanced up to the top of the closed door (normally not visible when the door is open) lo and behold, I saw a large broken torsion spring. It didn’t seem to impede the operation. In fact, the door seemed to work better with it broken, if that is possible. We had an extended trip planned to Colorado so I didn’t pay any more attention other than a phone call to explore some possibilities.


When we returned after several weeks, the door wouldn’t open at all. Fortunately, I remembered where there was a seldom used house key because the garage door is our normal entry point. Several UPS deliveries were made through the garage door while we were gone and, in closing, the door had jumped the track, jammed and severed a cable. I belatedly realized that that benign, almost hidden spring really must have had a purpose, and apparently an important one. Not only did it have a purpose but it is valuable— wholesale value, about a dollar for each of its 110 metal coils. I didn’t save the broken spring (that would have reinforced a mistaken image, in my wife’s mind) but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.


In fact, the image was joined by several other “spring” applications- one big, one small. From our years of living on the front range of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, I am very aware of a giant “secret” complex deep within Cheyenne Mountain which is vital to our North American defenses. Supposedly the whole complex is on giant hidden springs and is designed to safely recoil from even a nuclear blast.


I take a lot of pictures. (A picture taker, not a photographer) All my pictures now get transferred from a small electronic card the size of a postage stamp to my computer through a small card reader in the side of the computer. Once I push the card into the slot, a hidden spring pushes it back to the proper seated position to connect electronically. Guess what? When I returned with hundreds of treasured pictures from Colorado, the spring failed and I couldn’t download the pictures.


Many of us possibly feel like springs in our own way. Sadly we tend over time to think of ourselves in terms of a noun and seldom associate ourselves with an action verb. I guess that’s how we think others perceive us and possibly that is accurate in some cases. The part that we often miss is that each of us was designed with a valuable and unique purpose in mind; not unlike the three “benign” springs I’ve mentioned. All too often we establish our self worth and perceived value based on comparison to vibrant action-oriented folks “who make the world go around.” We are great at knowing “what we’re not” but have difficulty knowing “what we are” and what is our unique purpose. In most cases, the “go-go” folks that we secretly compare ourselves to can’t function (especially over the long term) without us just like my garage door and hideden torsion spring. We function as, among other things, a stabilizing security for others. In many cases, folks and situations would ultimately not function or may even self destruct in the absence of our hidden and often sparingly used function.


Take pride in your uniqueness and the function you were designed to fulfill. There is a world out there that was designed with a missing piece and you’re that piece. (Like the “zillion” piece jigsaw puzzles my wife and her friends enjoy) Don’t get overly hung up on your perceived day to day value; some of us were designed to “be ready” for something unforeseen or not readily apparent. The phrase “for such a time as this” rings in my mind, and I think the word “purpose” could be added without ruining the context.


You’re special and unique by design. Live with that confidence and assurance, my friend.

Falls

I am lifetime fishing aficionado. Deep in my “sacred” historical troves is a yellowed Milton Standard newspaper clipping to prove it. There I was as young Johnny proudly displaying a fat “trophy” 18 inch Brown Trout. Subsequent pictures of stringers of Trout and Kokanee for my new bride in Colorado are continuing proof.


Recent years have been different. I guess technically speaking I could still call myself a fisherman. That’s based on my perhaps flawed transposition of the fact that I can be labeled a “shopper” for just going through the motions of shopping without actually buying anything.






My confidence diminished to a low point several years ago when my daughter visited Pennsylvania and we were to try father-daughter fishing together again. She inherited her mother’s craving for fresh trout and I was determined we’d satisfy it. As a precaution, I deferred to a heavily stocked “pay to fish” Trout lake to insure our success. Much to my chagrin we only caught two small sunfish. That was the low point of my fishing career.






Several years ago things started to change when two successful fishermen individually took pity on me and my bruised ego. (I think it was more that they felt sorry for my bride who still yearned for fresh trout.) One took me to Bass Pro Shops to prove that there was such a thing as size fourteen hip boots. I felt like a Biblical disciple hanging out with those “real fishermen” and yes, there were trout to help insure another forty-one years of blissful marriage.






Last season started great with a trip with one friend to a local spot about twenty miles away. My new hip boots permitted me to stand on the swift flowing crest of a concrete dam and fish in the billowing spillway. What a treat to be placed in “the perfect fishing spot.”.I even had fresh trout to proudly present to my wife after years of famine. My friends independently tag teamed to help insure my continued success. The outings weren’t without incident especially with those massive hip boots (and withering stamina). I felt like an astronaut moving around. (And wished for outer space weightlessness to go with them.) Once I had to swallow my pride and call my one friend on his cell phone when I got stuck up to my thighs in a quagmire of quicksand like mud. It takes a real friend to lie in the mud to help you release the overpowering suction of good old Pennsylvania “muck.”






Last week the other friend called and offered another opening day invitation back to “the perfect spot” on the crest of the dam. Another friend volunteered a bountiful supply of fathead minnows. I was “stoked.”. I could barely sleep the night before opening day and woke up well before my four thirty A.M. alarm. (Almost like Christmas Eve as a kid!) I remember an unnerving dream of being swept over the crest of the dam and down the frigid spillway waters. I got dressed quickly in the predawn darkness. The dream still lingered but barely tempered my excitement. However, as a precaution based on that “silly dream,” I decided to take out my hearing aids and leave them at home. (They literally are more valuable than gold.) I also determined that I’d leave my wallet in the car after I paid for a hearty “fisherman’s breakfast.” I considered leaving my cell phone behind but after my quicksand experience and knowing my wife might call, reconsidered and tucked it into my pocket.






All went magnificently from my perch on the dam once the magic eight o’clock season opening time arrived. A fat brook trout jumped onto my hook with my fist cast into the churning waters. Two others quickly joined their friend in my creel. Once things slowed a bit, I trudged through the swift flowing water that was cresting the dam to the bank for a break. My legal limit permitted two more trout for our grill so after a short time I worked my way back toward the dam. As I cautiously stepped down onto the crest of the dam; you guessed it, my knee buckled and I plummeted down into the frigid turbulent waters. Thankfully my friend helped me gain my senses and escape the clutches of those waterlogged hip boots once the current released me into shallower waters.






My ego and a few cuts and bruises are healing. The three trout provided a tasty lunch for my wife and I am trying (with limited success) the dried rice theory for resurrecting my cell phone. And yes, I am now starting to take seriously something I read about “old men dreaming dreams.” I just never thought it applied to me!

Notes

We’ve just chased another evening sunset west across the plains to Denver International Airport. After an unusually sound slumber (perhaps it’s the altitude) at the Denver branch of the Teufel clan, I am off to a new adventure. I am tracking down my remaining living uncle, a lifelong hero. The years have limited many aspects of his life but the sparkling blue eyes and magnetic sharp wit remain. Everyone knows and is fond of “Doc.” This morning I find him at “the center” deftly navigating and motoring in his scooter. (Like the TV ads) He says that the center gives out warnings and “speeding tickets” for those who forget safe sane speeds with their scooters. Out of respect, I don’t delve into just how he knows this. Many of the other folks at “the center” don’t share my uncle’s sparkle. Several heads are nodding and some even stay “down for the count.” I survey the room and it’s easy to verify long standing actuarial demographics. For a male, it’s like being in a hen house of 28 hens with only 5 other fellow roosters. Most of the folks require some sort of assistance in addition to their walkers and scooters. The staff seems quite accommodating and flow about seamlessly. Their cadence of practiced patience is amazing. There is a subtle light hearted banter between the staff and guests that displays an underlying mutual fondness.







He invites my wife and me to join him for a program that was just about to start. The room suddenly seems almost magnetically polarized. Everyone seems drawn to the far end of the room and the scooters all face that direction as if coordinated by an unseen force. The focus definitely is on a smiling lady setting up a keyboard and an assortment of musical equipment. Without much ado, familiar strains of music suddenly envelope the room. It’s amazing to witness the rejuvenation of folks as the notes permeate their slumbering spirits. It reminded me of watering a wilted plant and having it noticeably and rapidly “perk up.”






I am anemically deficient of any musical knowledge or instincts and don’t have a “musical bone” in my body. I can’t tell “good” music from “bad” and enjoy listening to all music. I especially enjoy watching how music affects folks. Today I am having a special treat. What a variety of music—most for people my age and older. Songs like Tom Jones’ “Delilah” and oldies from the Temptations, Elvis, and even back to “At Last” from Etta James. By the time “My Girl” resounded through the room every face was not only alert but smiling. Heads were bobbing, lips were syncing, and for some everything short of dancing on the table. I think we all could have savored these treats almost indefinitely. Unfortunately, another familiar refrain from the past resounds through the room; “M-I-C-K-E-Y Why, because… M-O-U-S-E; Mickey Mouse….” as a closing number. Slowly the faces wilt with a slight disappointment. I wish I could “plug another quarter” into the machine to bring everything back to life but it isn’t meant to be.


The lady who brought this joy vanished before I could speak to her. However, the atmosphere stayed elevated long after she and her keyboard disappeared. Those musical notes permeated each of us in a different way but I am sure that the 34 clients and each of the staff and visitors were undoubtedly touched. I know I was.






I wonder if the lady realized how the hour she’d invested reverberated through approximately fifty of our lives. She obviously wasn’t performing for accolades or she would have stayed to bask in our appreciation. As I chatted with several folks after she left, there was something different and more vibrant in their demeanor. Even though admittedly some returned to what visibly looked like a state of hibernation, there was no question that her musical notes had made a difference, even if they led to peaceful slumber. Even though this title and focus is on musical notes, that is just one possible medium to touch our world. A kind word, a quick email, a listening ear, an accepting smile, etc. What will you use from your personal arsenal today to brighten people’s lives?

Eye

What a delight! Undoubtedly the highlight of my week is connecting with my high school English teacher via the internet social phenomena Facebook. She asked if I was writing and reminded me of a short ditty I wrote for one of her classes many decades ago called “How to eat a hoagie.” (Yes, I did do some selective homework in spite of my wife’s erroneous reflections.) I’ve got to admit to a momentary rush of pride until my teacher brought me back to earth with an offsetting comment about my spelling abilities. Thanks to you Mrs. R., this is titled with something simple that I hopefully can’t misspell. (Although I had some great candidates such as “Oh say can you see” , “The eyes have it”, and “Open my eyes,” etc.)







Because of my age and some risk factors, I am one of those folks who is chosen to see an ophthalmologist yearly. It is a pleasant visit, especially with one doctor who reminisces with me about airplanes in our Viet Nam days. Today the routine examination shows that an eye watering problem results from a lens that is too strong, coupled with an eyelid duct problem. The reserved Pennsylvania Deutsch heritage in me still has difficulty adjusting to a stranger less than a foot from my nose.






Finally, that part of the exam is over and he says I need a new pair of glasses. (I knew I should have brought my wife along, but I’ll solve that with a phone call.) Now it’s time for the tougher part. After some checks that seem to virtually touch my eyeballs, he inserts two separate sets of drops into my eyes. There is a long twenty minute wait for the drops to “do their thing” and finally my eyes are satisfactorily dilated. The doctor dims the lights and my vision is blurry to say the least. The doctor is very serious as he concentrates on examining the back inner parts of my eyes. I wonder if this is how he focused when he was doing a bombing run in his F-4 Phantom fighter/bomber in Viet Nam. It seems like he is peering into my soul and he isn’t saying anything now. After what seems like an eternity, he says he see no damage and gives me a healthy verdict. The test is over. He rewards me with a sunshade to insert behind my glasses and shield my dilated eyes for the trip home.






Everything that I view seems slightly surreal although I can see fine. In fact, I forget all about my visit as I drive home and rush to get ready for an evening engagement. As I leave home everything is normal navigating along darkened roads and landscape. That is, until the first oncoming headlights approach. Every headlight has at least one contrail and often more than one. I have no problem driving other than it being weird. In fact, it is kind of neat to drive past the lights at the local community college and see the light beams magically turn into Moravian star-like appendages. Traffic lights are a real trip.






The real situation arises when I get to my destination and enter the well lit meeting room. I am utterly amazed to realize that everyone in my focus has at least one halo-like beam radiating down onto their head. The light beams follow their every movement; although I am sure I’m the only observer. It’s difficult to not stare at each of the previously “normal” folks with their new, almost angelic appearance.






I realize that my pupils provide a valuable protection as they dilate and contract accordingly in various lighting situations. However, I am thankful for the temporary effect of those special eye drops in helping me see folks in a new way. No longer does the meaning of “open my eyes” have anything to do with my eyelids. I am grateful for having my eyes dilated so I can realize how wonderful it is to see everyday people in a wonderful new light. Now, I need to do it without any dilating drops.

Snowstorm 101

Anticipation, apprehension, glee, contentment, resignation, withdrawal, and even loathing; snowstorms bring out a myriad of human emotions. It’s as though someone uncapped a bottle of raw feelings in folks, all triggered by this one event. Snowstorms are interesting, but people’s reactions to them are even more interesting. It seems that if you chart the responses (for you scientific/engineering types) that there is a correlation to age, controlling nature, and responsibilities. Other than that, the reactions are all over the ball park and go far beyond rushing out for bread and milk.






This has been a month of snowstorms—58.9 inches of snow and now snowing again. So far, we have been spared a pure ice storm and a winter thunder storm. Other than that, we’ve had them all. Dueling weather services competing with the supposedly antiquated Farmer’s Almanac make things especially interesting. No human seems to really be tuned completely to these “acts of God.”


I sit gazing out our kitchen window looking past a four-foot drift and on to the sleepy, serenely blanketed neighborhood beyond. Giant fluffy flakes waft in the gentle air currents as they glide to their place among their already grounded kin. Soon a ritual will start. The silent bliss will be punctuated by various pitches of howling and rumbling engines as the snow removal regiment begins.






I am the lone “snow plower” in a neighborhood of “snow blowers.” Perhaps that’s how owning a Hummer feels. I justify my difference by secretly thinking that the low, manly rumble of my diesel powered plow make those whining high pitched snow blowers sound like an army of “sissies.” (Please don’t tell anyone, I live here and am fond of my neighbors!) My method of snow removal relies on good old brute force and I take a certain pride in it. (Also, a wall of pine trees adjacent to my driveway makes snow blowing almost impossible.) Since I’ve invested heavily in a small diesel tractor, chains, weights, plow, and all that goes with it, I am a “dyed in the wool” plow man. The frugal side of me looks forward to recouping a bit more of this season’s investment ($252 and counting) to get all this plowing equipment ready. (My proofreading wife says that’s not relevant; but to me, it is!)






Fortunately my driveway slopes downward so I never have to admit that pushing walls of snow uphill is virtually impossible. Occasionally I get stuck, and unfortunately it’s usually in public view. Now it’s almost time to start. As I go through the ritual of preparing to venture into the elements, I wonder if those “snow birds” in Florida secretly miss all of this. Already one neighbor is on duty and I have lost my opportunity to be “first” with just that one lingering cup of hot chocolate. I am an experienced “veteran” and know what I am doing. (And yes, I am dressed warm enough and don’t need to cover my ears.) I have moved beyond thoughts of everything else I was supposed to or wanted to do before being sidetracked by this snow plowing mission and am now committed. Actually, focusing on plowing with no distractions other than my own wandering thoughts is a bit of a peaceful delight. It’s almost like exercise—I don’t look forward to it, but there is a growing satisfaction as I wade into it and especially when it’s done.






Once I start, I follow precision time-tested patterns (not that I am a creature of habit). No one else could map this out and execute it quite like I do, or at least in my opinion. Occasionally, I stray and have a harvest of frozen sod instead of snow but no one is watching. (That I see, at least.) I plow with a sense of purpose and urgency, especially since at any moment the township snow plow could undo much of my elaborate work to open my driveway to the rest of the world. Fortunately, I don’t have to benchmark and secure my conquest with kitchen chairs like my urban friends. Still it’s quite an involved process and one that few folks and especially Mother Nature respect and appreciate. She seems to delight in covering over my plowing efforts as soon as I am finished. Perhaps it’s to trump any lasting satisfaction I think I’ve merited. She accomplishes a similar thing by gradually eroding my summer grass mowing efforts too. Perhaps it’s personal.






As I randomly reflect on this snowstorm, it’s amazing how deeply this simple benign event really touches my personal psyche. I don’t realize that emotions such as haughty pride, frugality, fiery independence, errant motives, competitiveness, and even suspected “martyrdom” could be triggered by an innocent pristine snowfall. Who would have guessed?

Squelch

“You talk down to me.” The words stun me, especially since they are delivered by a cherished friend and with little visible emotion. The blow is emotionally similar to a quick hard jab to my chin physically. I have “the wind knocked out of me” and am reeling as I stagger emotionally with this revelation. The conversation continues, but “I am down for the count”.






It’d been a tough week. Much of my investments of time and efforts had not been fruitful. In fact, I had little to show for them other than some notable setbacks and a few scant “mile-pebbles”. Now, on top of all that, it appears that I have damaged my relationship with my friend. It’s a silent but deadly coupe de grace to my battered psyche. I don’t respond to the comment and listen in stunned silence as he continues with seemingly normal conversation. How can this be?






This phrase “You talk down to me” won’t leave my troubled thoughts. Once we’re in the privacy of our car driving home, I query my wife; “Do I talk down to folks?” Her response is a quick “You don’t.” I can’t help wondering if my consistently loyal mate of over forty-one-years is truly impartial in her assessment. The five simple words continue to drill into me and trump any truly peaceful slumber throughout the night.






Finally, it is a civilized time to make phone calls to normal people. I can wait no longer and call my friend. No answer, and I just leave a “please call me” even though I will be in physical therapy with no cell phone access. Sure enough, when I retrieve my cell phone after my session, there is a “missed call” from my friend. We are soon connected and I blurt out my “talk down to you” query. He seems taken aback and extremely puzzled by my question. Finally, after a lot of thought he responds, “Oh, I said you don’t talk down to me. That’s why I value our conversations.” Relief floods my psyche as that nail is removed and I am vindicated with no feared damage done.






This experience is not one I’ve “gotten over.” After getting hearing aids about six months ago, I thought my days of missing words (and sentences) were over. It is amazing how missing one seemingly insignificant word impacted me. It wasn’t just the word. My sensitivity for various reasons is heightened to a level that seems to make me more prone to being vulnerable and being impacted by these kinds of omissions and situations.






I am reminded of my old Ham Radio days and especially of one rheostat control on my radio receiver. It was called the “squelch control” and it worked in conjunction with the volume control. It was a continuing juggling act to balance the volume which controlled loudness with the squelch which controlled sensitivity to the distant signals. The juggling involved having the volume up loud enough to hear distant signal skipped off the atmosphere. That had to be balanced with the squelch sensitivity turned down enough to limit the hissing and squealing of static that came with those barely audible distant signals. I remember vividly some of the loud popping and squealing that unexpectedly flooded my earphones as I strained to hear a distant signal. It seemed that I never got those two controls balanced right to hear what I wanted to hear and still not be vulnerable to unexpected static bursts from the distant polar Aurora Borealis (Northern Lights) atmospheric electrical storms.






I am learning that to pursue what drives me personally, my personal squelch sensitivity control needs to be at a level that would make some folks justifiably uncomfortable. There isn’t a predefined acceptable level that can be set and forgotten. I must resign myself to the consequences of the level where I choose to adjust and readjust my “squelch” sensitivity. If I am going to keep my squelch set at a level where I can hear people’s often barely perceptible heart cries, I must accept what goes with it. I am susceptible to some potentially unnerving background static and even hurt, bordering on pain, which comes with having my sensitivity turned up. It’s well worth it to catch those faint signals and “it goes with the territory.”

A1C

Like a growing (no pun intended) number of my fellow Americans, I have to monitor my glucose levels. My current official diagnosis and reason for monitoring is Type 2 Diabetes. (In previous generations, was known as “got sugar.”) I am still in the process of trying to master the art of being satisfied with meals whose volume is measured with various parts of my hand. Thus my ongoing, yet to be conquered, challenge.







Manufacturers are quite generous with their brand of Diabetic glucose monitoring devices—in fact many are free with a coupon or an accommodatingly pleasant phone call. This industry reminds me of the ink jet printer business where the basic printer prices have plummeted to virtually “nothing.” There is a business reason for this madness. The ongoing business of supplying the ink products provides a highly lucrative, seemingly perpetual, profit stream and is the root reason for this marketing strategy. The same principle applies to the glucose monitoring (or diabetic) meters and their proprietary disposable test strips. For someone with no insurance, the costs of the strips, which are often used multiple times a day, are horrendous.






As many of you have surmised, I can be quite cheap frugal especially with things that don’t show any visible return on investment. My Diabetic test strips fall into that category. Perhaps it’s that I’m frugal or perhaps it’s that the word “test” is involved that prompt me to adapt an alarmingly selective testing pattern. (I got over the pricking to get my blood sample issue long ago.) I often only test when “I’ve been a good boy” and when I think the results will be acceptable within my Doctor’s recommended guidelines. I have yet to test after savoring a ravishing slice of my wife’s German chocolate cake. It is in fact is made with no shortening (apple sauce) or sugar (sweetener) and may be well within guidelines. To my twisted way of thinking it makes no sense to waste a test strip for something that probably may yield less than “passing” results. I only invest in potentially “good results” so that my meter will prove that I am a “good boy” when the Doctor reads my selective recorded history.






Somehow the medical institution has caught on to my self-righteous testing patterns. (I think the profit hungry test strip manufacturers tattled on me.) I am now required to account for my “hidden sins” through a blood sample collected by an impartial phlebotomist. This simple periodic validating blood sample is called the A1C test and is “the real thing.” The Doctor may glance at my selective “good boy” meter readings to see patterns, but he really only embraces this impartial long term A1C result for his official diagnosis.






I am starting to finally realize that the meter testing program is primarily for my own frequent monitoring, analysis, and basis for correction. No one is really monitoring whether I had 16% butterfat, sugar laden, and farm-made ice cream on Sunday. However if I had tested myself, it probably would have show it wasn’t the best choice and that a corrective modified diet Monday would be prudent.






I am increasingly aware of my tendencies to skew my own criteria in areas even more important than my Diabetic test strips. Frequent “professional quality” feedback (given with hope that I’ll make resulting corrections) is mine for the asking. I still can’t resist on my own trying to make myself “look like a good boy” that “is up to snuff” and doesn’t require any special corrective action. Thus, I need frequent objective monitoring that I can’t manipulate or ignore. It’s very crucial because someday I am going to be given a final “pass/fail A1C evaluation” that is not based on my criteria or self-serving analysis. The daily opportunities to be monitored and corrected are still something I resist but oh, so necessary. To pilfer a well known slogan; “It doesn’t cost, it pays.”

Ascending

This morning two budding young construction “engineers” are on my mind. I’ve assisted both on “massive” projects and actually find their enthusiastic brand of supervision contagious. Guess I should confess my bias before I go any further with this tale—they’re my superbly talented two and three-year-old grandsons.







Both are intrigued with anything concerning “the trades.” Their scope is so broad that it ranges all the way from construction to garbage trucks and beyond. They are virtually mesmerized by skilled craftsmen and their fascinating equipment. I suspect they’ve both joined some secret fraternal guild employing hypnotic powers over their junior members. That’s based on the fact that they both barely breathe when any skilled craftsmen or equipment are in view. I have a gnawing and growing suspicion that their world discriminates against unskilled klutzes like me. That’s because their focus rapidly refocuses from their adoring Grandpa whenever tradesmen and their equipment appear. The bigger the scale of it; the better.






Not to worry. Recently I’ve been initiated as a non-voting unskilled apprentice into that order dominated by “Bob the Builder” types and their young admirers. Much of the status and self esteem for the younger members of this society appear to come through the medium of building blocks. The blocks range in size from Lego to some massive cardboard “mega” block. The usual method seems to be building a tall thin “Washington Monument” type of structure “to the heavens” or as high as possible. The mission always seems to be to build as rapidly as possible. That’s where my unskilled help comes in. It’s my job to compensate for the lack of a foundation and keep the tower from falling as the wobbly structure ascends to unsupported heights. Perhaps it’s because it’s for such a worthy young man (accompanied by a touch of Grandfatherly pride) that draws me into adopting this as my personal cause. Unfortunately, it’s usually not appreciated for very long. The constructor often feels compelled to gleefully implode his own project much to my silent dismay (now that it’s our joint project). Makes me wonder how the father and uncle, who is an AIA certified architect, deals with all of “this job site madness.”






This morning I find it difficult to face “the fact” that in many ways my building days are over. Even more difficult is to visually witness some of my past efforts seemingly crumbling before my eyes. It is unnerving to say the least. I am forced to ask myself if I, like my young builder friends, get so intent on a short-term “quick and dirty” monument that I lose focus on the big picture.






Recently I had a homeowner’s review with my Casualty and Property insurance agent. I was taken aback by the seeming undervaluation of our home on the insurance records. She quickly reminded me that the number only reflects the replacement cost of the “perishable above ground structure.” The land investment that our home is built on and the site and foundation work that supports our home will endure through virtually all catastrophes. It’s embarrassing to realize how easy it is to undervalue the often frustrating “unproductive” time devoted to developing crucial foundational character, integrity, and trust. Like my grandsons, I am learning that without that often hidden but valuable foundation, my efforts won’t endure even with others temporarily propping me up. Why is it that I begrudge the time, effort, and “loss of measurable momentum” that go into foundational building that is so crucial in my life and calling? I hope that my grandsons learn the ultimate value of foundations more easily than I have. But then again, perhaps it’s not a lesson to be learned without the hard enduring process that goes with it.

Thermometer or Thermostat?

Horrified, violated, angry; it’s difficult to choose just one word to fully describe my feelings. No; I wasn’t accosted, mugged or raped. I just received my local electric utility bill with what they say is “only a thirty per cent increase.” It is especially frustrating because my home is “total electric” depending on electricity for everything from heat to water. I normally don’t deal with bills but this bill makes me question the utility company’s mathematical abilities. It’s double what I expected. I’ve done all I can think of to deal with the situation: insulated outlet plates, indoor dryer venting, energy efficient bulbs, capped off with heat settings bordering on frosty. I don’t recall a bill in that territory since we ventured into the TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority) electric utility territory in the late seventies. All the elaborate system of dams throughout the south supposedly yielded some of the lowest electric utility rates in the nation. To “put icing on that rate cake,” our new home included two “new fangled” super efficient units called heat pumps that replaced furnaces and such. What a shock (and bill like this one) when I discovered that the heat pumps operated on pure raw electricity when winter’s chill drop below a certain temperature.







Since I received my recent bill I am very temperature conscious especially since our home is heated by electricity. Most times of the day I can probably tell you within a few degrees what the temperature is. I am not sure how much good it does because, other than being aware of potentially freezing road surfaces, most of the time I am at a loss to put that information to practical use. It makes me aware of how easy it is to pride myself in being a thermometer in life. I can routinely spot and expound on abnormalities not just in temperature but in many other life issues. Things like crop growth, the economy, the political landscape, child rearing, deep theological issues, and yes, the temperature.






The difficult issue is to be able to do something about the issues my “thermometer” registers. It’s not that I don’t try to change what I encounter. It’s just that the efforts often border on comedy. I spent most of my predawn hours this morning tossing and turning and trying to regulate my body warmth. The flannel sheets that were such a blessing early in the evening became unbearably hot. First, I stuck one foot out to “cool” and then finally threw the sheets and covers off completely. Soon, I was completely covered again (including my head) because I was freezing. I’ve witnessed friends (who don’t pay the costs) try to regulate the heat in their apartments by using their ovens for heat and their windows to cool when it gets too hot in the winter. January and a new year yields many examples of efforts to take dramatic corrections and over corrections in many folk’s lives. These efforts range from severe budgets (often overlooking provisions for food, etc) to “Biggest Loser” type exercise and diet programs. Many are now being re-evaluated or abandoned as I write in late January.






Reacting properly to things that I perceive is more difficult than it sounds. Often I think I’m just a “thermometer” and see my responsibility as informing others of things like “a latter day Paul Revere.” When I do venture to change things myself, I am prone to doing it “all or nothing” and that often rapidly proves unsustainable. Slight corrections and moderation are not things that come naturally to me. Perhaps it’s time to yield control to one of those new “automatic programmable thermostats” capable of perceiving needs and making almost imperceptible constant corrections appropriate for the time and conditions. I certainly have a great need for something similar as I sometimes erratically attempt to simultaneously multitask and cope with a myriad of life’s ever changing issues. Now, if I can only leave my hands off the programming and trust one far more capable than me.

Stress

The mere sight of the word “stress” raises my blood pressure noticeably. And that is before adding one of the words I’ve always dreaded most—“test.” Add the word “nuclear” to that mix and I think you get the picture. Today I am on a tread mill in physical therapy. Unfortunately my mind is racing ahead to tomorrow at this time when I am scheduled for a “Nuclear Stress Test” on a similar tread mill.






I know that mature grownup men are not subject to fear so perhaps I am not a “mature” grownup man. The stress test is “for my own good” but no one consults me or asks if I think I need one even though I am the victim patient. Stress tests are something routinely administered to those with heart event histories, but it’s far from routine for me. Even the timing of this test is stressful because it reminds me of the life changing events connected with a massive heart attack this time of year seventeen years ago.






If my recollection is correct, I think when I first experienced this type of test it was called a “Thallium Stress Test.” That reminds me for some unknown reason of Thalidomide from decades ago. Even though I am not sure what that is, I am sure it is “bad” and thus another bad association. Either way, the test involves being garbed in an assortment of harnesses and electrical leads connected to various parts of my body. In addition, an intravenous tube is threaded into and dangles from a vein in my arm. A team of observers is assembled around me as the tread mill starts a routine called “The Bruce Protocol” which is a series of increasingly difficult speeds and elevations. I am told to “exercise till I can’t go any more”- a daunting challenge. One of the assistants hovers poised with a hypodermic needle ready at some point to inject a solution into my IV tube (actually two solutions). I imagine this must be how someone facing lethal injection must feel as all eyes focus on me and my struggle to stay on a “runaway” treadmill. Once I breathlessly signal I can’t continue, the “executioner” injects a radioactive dye into me and tells me to continue for another minute. Finally, the stress test is all over. Now that the injected dye can illuminate any potential weaknesses, it’s time for the actual reading of how healthy my heart really is. Thus more testing, but thankfully laying still on a table under a huge rotary scanner.






I query every medical professional I meet to see if there is some other way to check things out rather than relying on this “barbaric” test. Unfortunately, they are unanimous in their resounding “NO.” I find that difficult to believe in this age of pill-sized swallow able cameras and elaborate imaging. Guess I’ll just have to accept it and endure with my thoughts and apprehensions till tomorrow.






My mind races and my blood pressure elevates to a level unseen in years even after I get home. Perhaps some time on the computer will have a calming effect. A quick search on the internet produces a fascinating little ditty called “the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test.” Though it’s not new (1967), it’s new to me. It tabulates the stressful factors that may have been experienced in the past year of one’s life (and correlates them to probability of experiencing stress induced illness). When I glance through the list they’ve compiled I realized that I really have relatively little stress. I do a few parentheticals based on what I know others have and are experiencing. Many results are “off the chart;” and they are friends with “normal” problems. I can’t imagine the stress for a single mom in a gang-infested neighborhood, or the special person providing 24/7 care to a loved one that can’t take care of themselves, or folks who are fighting to save a thirty-plus year “perfect” marriage, or a young person that doesn’t fit into another foster home, or a special lady I know who recently acquired the label “homeless,” or a grieving new orphan in far off Haiti, and the list goes on.






When I turn my eyes away from my situation in light of all this, I am embarrassed to think that my “few minute tread mill encounter” even bears the label “stress.” It’s time to refocus my thoughts, concerns, prayers, and actions to an outward perspective and a “stressed” world. Yes, I am called to be “my brother’s keeper”. In addition, I am learning that I can’t effectively focus on that challenge as long as my eyes are on myself and my own perceived “stresses”.