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?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.”
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.”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
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.”
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.”
Monday, February 15, 2010
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.
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.
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