It was back in October – the 25th I think – when I knew for sure that it was coming. Oh, I knew intellectually that it was on its way, but it was far enough off that it still didn’t feel like a threat just yet. I was blissfully salivating over the Halloween treats and had not even thought about the emotional, spiritual and financial ramifications of its stealthy approach. I thought I had plenty of time to get ready and hadn’t started making any plans at all.
We were down at the “general store” picking up supplies for the week to come, when what to my wondering ears should appear but Bing Crosby, that mellow-toned harbinger of the Yule season. He was crooning over the Target Muzak, b-b-b-bing-ing his way through the ritual song of colorless winter precipitation which, puzzlingly enough, angers some warm-climate transplants who seem to believe that the singing of White Christmas somehow is responsible for every blizzard that rides the jet stream. (How else could you account for all this cold weather when the “science is in and global warming is a fact?”)
But I didn’t sit down to write about the socio-economic ramifications of a manufactured world crisis, or my personal belief that we puny humans don’t have a snowball’s chance in – well – Helsinki, of actually causing irreversible harm to Mother Gaia with our pathetic attempts at civilization. (By the way, while I believe that we ought to tread gently and do our best to preserve nature, I also believe that She’s more than capable of dealing with our worst.)
No, I sat down to lament the passing of time and how it unfairly slows down and speeds up in reverse proportion to how much enjoyment or how much distress we’re experiencing. The pain and misery of the Christmas shopping crowds seems to go on interminably, while the elation and delight of Christmas itself is over before you can even find batteries for all the toys. There is something very wrong with this equation and so I wonder if something can be done – if not to change the reality of the physics, to perhaps change the reality of our perception.
My first thought as I listened to The Bingster croon about his snowy dreaming was that it was WAY too early to think about glistening treetops and listening children. Too soon to hear sleigh-bells in the snow. But then I remembered, “I LOVE CHRISTMAS!” Who cares if it starts early? Just more time to enjoy the warm, fuzzy feelings of the season. My second thought was that stores ramp up the commercialized Christmas machine earlier every year and we barely have time to enjoy Halloween, let alone Thanksgiving before the Santa Express requires all our attention. But then I realized that I love to buy gifts and I love to get gifts, and the engine of capitalism needs this time of year so I’m okay with the commercial aspect too.
I read that time appears to pass more quickly as you get older, ostensibly because each passing year is a smaller percentage of your whole life. Makes sense to me. That’s a different case though than the phenomenon of the fleeting moment know as the Yuletide. In fact, with stores seeming to constantly work to expand the season, you’d think I’d be ready for Christmas to be over and take its long vacation, but this is not the case.
I spent a lot of time and effort hanging lights in the trees in the yard! I want to enjoy the colors another week or two before the outside world is reduced to shades of grey and brown with the occasional white covering that El Niño brings. The artificial tree in our living room is cheery and bright and several years away from losing its needles! Can’t I leave it up a little while longer?
But more than anything, I want to keep the Christmas Spirit longer. Maybe this year I’ll keep it all the way through to the next Rudolph sighting. That is, if I can fight off the bah-humbug drudgery of ordinary life. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take down the mistletoe and holly, but the spirit stays by gosh, by golly. So, don’t be surprised if you hear me whistling about chestnuts, open fires and Jack Frost next time you see me. It’ll just be my way of fighting the inexorable progress of time and putting aside some peace and joy for the next hard day’s night.
When our girls were young, one of our favorite Christmas movies was the Sesame Street Christmas. The song at the end made me choke up every time.
“Keep Christmas with you all through the year
When Christmas is over, spread some Christmas cheer
Each precious moment – hold it very dear
And keep Christmas with you, all through the year”
Peace and Love to you all…
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Declaration of Independence
I saw a car covered with anti-American, anti-Bush, conspiracy theory rhetoric the other day. Every window and most of the body of the car was covered with sloppy, rambling and apparently maniacal handwriting. White paint spelling out in gruesome detail how many deaths have been caused by the US since 9/11 (allegedly); how many refugees have been displaced by failed US policies (ostensibly); how many countries hate us (purportedly); why it was all Bush’s fault (hypothetically). I didn’t have time to read the writing at the time as we were traveling side by side at 60 mph on I-25. I did have time, though, to grab my camera and snap a couple of pictures that I just got a chance to look at. Back at home, the barely-legible writing became a manifesto of hatred and paranoia that did not present its author in a very lucid light.
I remember thinking at the time that the driver must be a nut-job without even knowing that he was blaming my beloved country for all the ills in the world. Though I’m even surer of his status as a top-notch whack now that I’ve had the time to study the photographic evidence, another curiosity has occurred to me that is even more intriguing than his nut-job-edness. That is, the propensity of Americans to project their feelings, beliefs, stature and status through their vehicles. Not only do we identify with our cars, but we force them to identify us through the statements we make in them, on them and with them.
Forget the conspiracy whacko. Forget the peace-nik I photographed recently whose car was literally covered with peace/love/harmony/co-exist bumper stickers. (He, no doubt, wanted to save the world and thought that if he could overwhelm enough other sheep into walking the green path of righteousness by virtue of witnessing the plethora of witty, pithy bumper stickers he bought at the local Circle K, nirvana would be one step closer the whole barnyard.) Forget the born-again proselytizer with Bible verses painted on the fenders and crucifixes hung in the window who wants to save our immortal souls (or does he just delight in flaunting his soul being more saved than yours or mine?) We discount all of these fringe dwellers as being just a bit outside and rarely give their arguments for peace or government transparency or soul-searching much credence, and thus neutralize their ability to change the way the rest of us see the world.
The vehicle propaganda that probably affects us more is the more subtle statements that are made via more traditional methods. Where else but in America can you bribe the government to advertise your social standing by giving them extra money for a personalized license plate? The aptly named vanity plate is everywhere you look and is a testament to the American ego and the American creative spirit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the vanity plate! I enjoy the creativity that you often see, the messages conveyed, and the statements made through the intelligent use of just 7 letters and numbers. My plate should say “L8ASUSL.”(For further evidence of creativity, see www.coolpl8z.com)
Personally, I’m too cheap to pay for a vanity plate and too subdued to go for the painted-on manifesto. (or it could be that until the truck is paid off, any painting done by anyone other than Maaco makes for a poor investment.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t want others to know who they’re messing with when they cut me off on the T-REX. My “Native” and “Mountainman” bumper stickers clearly prove to the world that I am a higher (pun intended) life form than they are and deserve their envy and respect as one born in God’s Country. I feel somehow inadequate, though, as I don’t have any really witty bumper stickers although I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I mean, it isn’t as if the guy with the bumper sticker that says something cool (like, “Just say NO to negativity”) made it up himself. He just happened to find it as he stood in line at the 7-Eleven waiting to buy a Slim Jim. (For more fun, check out www.funny2.com/bumper.htm)
Funny or not, I am identified as a skier by my “Loveland 216” highway logo window sticker (the “216” denotes the I-70 exit to the humble resort that is the hardy local’s choice for skiing and boarding.) Not only does it prove I’m an outdoorsman, but it shows, I’m afraid to say, a bit of reverse snobbery as this is NOT the tourist’s preference for powder hounding and those of us who ski there like to make that clear! (It’s higher and colder and windy-er and cheaper and offers no frills for the out-of-state crowd, and that’s the way we like it!) In addition, I can be recognized as a Broncos season-ticket holder by the sticker that is only given to one of the 50,000-ish fans who fork over a month’s pay for a year’s worth of Bronco-mania.
The fact that my not-so-funny bumper stickers are plastered on a Ford truck is another statement – irrefutable evidence of my toughness and hard work ethic. Or so I imagine. Don’t most of us judge others by the vehicle they drive? The VW Beetle with the dashboard flower, the Subaru Forester, the Mazda Miata, the Monster truck with the requisite ladder to reach the running board, the “fast & furious” Japanese coupe, the Ford F-1 pick-up, the Beemer, the Escalade – all of these personal conveyances give the outside observer a distinct insight to the personality of the driver. That insight may be stereotyped and it may sometimes be wrong, but more often than not, it’s either correct or, at least, the image the driver wishes to convey.
Now that I think about it, I guess I don’t have any room to be criticizing someone who paints John 3:16 on his hood. We’re all just trying to be noticed and to tell the world how we’re special in some small way. Ironically, we’re all alike in wanting to show the world that we are somehow unique and different. That we often choose our vehicles as the way to advertise our individuality is as American as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Ford Trucks. (So, you think that should be Chevy? Just my way of being different…)
I remember thinking at the time that the driver must be a nut-job without even knowing that he was blaming my beloved country for all the ills in the world. Though I’m even surer of his status as a top-notch whack now that I’ve had the time to study the photographic evidence, another curiosity has occurred to me that is even more intriguing than his nut-job-edness. That is, the propensity of Americans to project their feelings, beliefs, stature and status through their vehicles. Not only do we identify with our cars, but we force them to identify us through the statements we make in them, on them and with them.
Forget the conspiracy whacko. Forget the peace-nik I photographed recently whose car was literally covered with peace/love/harmony/co-exist bumper stickers. (He, no doubt, wanted to save the world and thought that if he could overwhelm enough other sheep into walking the green path of righteousness by virtue of witnessing the plethora of witty, pithy bumper stickers he bought at the local Circle K, nirvana would be one step closer the whole barnyard.) Forget the born-again proselytizer with Bible verses painted on the fenders and crucifixes hung in the window who wants to save our immortal souls (or does he just delight in flaunting his soul being more saved than yours or mine?) We discount all of these fringe dwellers as being just a bit outside and rarely give their arguments for peace or government transparency or soul-searching much credence, and thus neutralize their ability to change the way the rest of us see the world.
The vehicle propaganda that probably affects us more is the more subtle statements that are made via more traditional methods. Where else but in America can you bribe the government to advertise your social standing by giving them extra money for a personalized license plate? The aptly named vanity plate is everywhere you look and is a testament to the American ego and the American creative spirit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the vanity plate! I enjoy the creativity that you often see, the messages conveyed, and the statements made through the intelligent use of just 7 letters and numbers. My plate should say “L8ASUSL.”(For further evidence of creativity, see www.coolpl8z.com)
Personally, I’m too cheap to pay for a vanity plate and too subdued to go for the painted-on manifesto. (or it could be that until the truck is paid off, any painting done by anyone other than Maaco makes for a poor investment.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t want others to know who they’re messing with when they cut me off on the T-REX. My “Native” and “Mountainman” bumper stickers clearly prove to the world that I am a higher (pun intended) life form than they are and deserve their envy and respect as one born in God’s Country. I feel somehow inadequate, though, as I don’t have any really witty bumper stickers although I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I mean, it isn’t as if the guy with the bumper sticker that says something cool (like, “Just say NO to negativity”) made it up himself. He just happened to find it as he stood in line at the 7-Eleven waiting to buy a Slim Jim. (For more fun, check out www.funny2.com/bumper.htm)
Funny or not, I am identified as a skier by my “Loveland 216” highway logo window sticker (the “216” denotes the I-70 exit to the humble resort that is the hardy local’s choice for skiing and boarding.) Not only does it prove I’m an outdoorsman, but it shows, I’m afraid to say, a bit of reverse snobbery as this is NOT the tourist’s preference for powder hounding and those of us who ski there like to make that clear! (It’s higher and colder and windy-er and cheaper and offers no frills for the out-of-state crowd, and that’s the way we like it!) In addition, I can be recognized as a Broncos season-ticket holder by the sticker that is only given to one of the 50,000-ish fans who fork over a month’s pay for a year’s worth of Bronco-mania.
The fact that my not-so-funny bumper stickers are plastered on a Ford truck is another statement – irrefutable evidence of my toughness and hard work ethic. Or so I imagine. Don’t most of us judge others by the vehicle they drive? The VW Beetle with the dashboard flower, the Subaru Forester, the Mazda Miata, the Monster truck with the requisite ladder to reach the running board, the “fast & furious” Japanese coupe, the Ford F-1 pick-up, the Beemer, the Escalade – all of these personal conveyances give the outside observer a distinct insight to the personality of the driver. That insight may be stereotyped and it may sometimes be wrong, but more often than not, it’s either correct or, at least, the image the driver wishes to convey.
Now that I think about it, I guess I don’t have any room to be criticizing someone who paints John 3:16 on his hood. We’re all just trying to be noticed and to tell the world how we’re special in some small way. Ironically, we’re all alike in wanting to show the world that we are somehow unique and different. That we often choose our vehicles as the way to advertise our individuality is as American as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Ford Trucks. (So, you think that should be Chevy? Just my way of being different…)
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Top 10 Things I'm Thankful For...
10. The Internet & Electronic Social Media – What did we do before we had the internet when we needed a trivial answer to an obscure question? Sure, for important stuff, you had your World Book or the Britannica. But you could dig for a week and not find the name of, say, the owner of the Cavern Club where the Beatles got their start. (Just now it took me exactly 33 seconds to find out it was Alan Sytner via www.ask.com) As if Wikipedia wasn’t special enough, along came Facebook, Linked-In and Twitter. Although I still don’t tweet (I predict that Twitter will go the way of My Space,) FB and L-I are sites I am on multiple times every day. It all started a year ago when I got laid off and realized that I had been woefully inadequate about building a network. I joined FB and L-I to help myself find a job. What I found instead was that the people I had either brushed aside or forgotten in the past, I now have more in common with than some of the people I thought were my friends but now find they have disappeared. Now, connecting with friends is the main purpose of my social networking, and the job hunt is secondary.
9. My Teachers – My Dad, who taught me the value of the dollar and that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing right; My Mom, who taught me to love and laugh and be a peace-maker; Archie Devitt, who taught me that music was not only fun to listen to, but fun to produce; Cleon White, master geek, who taught me to love math – including trig and slide rule; Barb Cain, my first female boss who not only taught me to manage people, but to do it while smiling even though I thought I was too cool for that; Steve Ortiz, who taught me that I could give up drinking and still survive; Doug Snyder, who taught me how to separate my emotions and write objectively, and challenged me to learn more every day. Being a college drop-out hasn’t hurt me as much as you might think and I believe that is because I had teachers in my life that taught me to be curious and questioning, so even without school, I kept learning.
8. My stove and refrigerator – can you imagine catching a chicken, wringing its neck, plucking and gutting it, and starting a fire with two sticks so that you could eat that chicken after turning it on a spit over that pile of embers for so many hours that you missed lunch and now it's time for dinner? It’s hard to envision the hassle of people who lived a hundred years ago when I’m able to go to the freezer, grab a chicken breast, throw it in a pan and toss it in the oven to cook while I google a recipe for peach cobbler.
7. Life – what an amazing coincidence! I look out my window and see deer and coyotes and porcupines and elk and red-tailed hawks and blue jays and rabbits and lizards and spiders and ants and snakes and big black beetles that walk with their tail ends lifted high in the air. This all evolved from the primordial slime?! What a coincidence!!! And then a monkey evolved into me!? Wow, am I lucky! I’m also thankful that I am at the top of the food chain and recognize that I must occupy that position with nobility and concern. I must be a steward to the lower creatures. I must not take a life lightly. I’ll eat a cow or a chicken or even that elk, but I’ll do it with gratitude and reverence.
6. Living in America – where else can you vote your conscience without fear, berate the government officials without reprisal, buy anything and everything you need at a Wal-Mart or on Amazon without standing in line? And where else can you go out and drive on 4-lane highways and bridges across the flat prairies and majestic mountains of this great country, and do it all while you drink Mountain Dew, eat a Slim Jim and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn? No country comes even close to America!
5. The view out my window – it is a privilege to live in Colorado. Clear blue skies, white snow, bright sun, majestic Ponderosa Pines. God is good. Colorado is where he lives. I'm grateful that he shares it with me.
4. My racquet-ball buddies – men need other men to bond with. We need guys to laugh with; to talk politics with; to talk smack to; to compete against. My racquet-ball buddies are all that and more. They are my best friends.
3. My sense of humor – I love it that I can laugh at anything, including myself. I love my silly streak. I like to cut up, especially with my siblings and parents, who taught me and nurtured my odd sense of humor. You should see us around the holiday table – napkin rings around ears, spoons hanging from noses – no utensil is safe from this bunch of comedians.
2. My health – My parent’s passed on their strong genes and taught me a healthy lifestyle that has kept me mainly healthy my whole life (along with a little luck and the fact that I used to eat dirt as a kid and thus built up some keen resistance to germs.) As I grow older, my body doesn’t always want to cooperate the way I think it should, but for the most part, it’s in pretty good shape.
And the number one thing I am thankful for is
1. My Family – I know that I am the luckiest boy in puppet-land because of the family I have. I’ve seen families that can’t agree and snipe at each other about all things, big and small. Though we certainly have our differences, we are as tight a family as you can imagine. My parents, my brothers and sisters, my kids, my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and all the peripherals and step-relatives and extended families – they are the best and I love them all! And most of all, I love my wife, Marcia. After 35+ years, the spark is still there and the love is still strong. She is my rock and my foundation. She’s given me a very good life and I’ll be eternally grateful.
9. My Teachers – My Dad, who taught me the value of the dollar and that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing right; My Mom, who taught me to love and laugh and be a peace-maker; Archie Devitt, who taught me that music was not only fun to listen to, but fun to produce; Cleon White, master geek, who taught me to love math – including trig and slide rule; Barb Cain, my first female boss who not only taught me to manage people, but to do it while smiling even though I thought I was too cool for that; Steve Ortiz, who taught me that I could give up drinking and still survive; Doug Snyder, who taught me how to separate my emotions and write objectively, and challenged me to learn more every day. Being a college drop-out hasn’t hurt me as much as you might think and I believe that is because I had teachers in my life that taught me to be curious and questioning, so even without school, I kept learning.
8. My stove and refrigerator – can you imagine catching a chicken, wringing its neck, plucking and gutting it, and starting a fire with two sticks so that you could eat that chicken after turning it on a spit over that pile of embers for so many hours that you missed lunch and now it's time for dinner? It’s hard to envision the hassle of people who lived a hundred years ago when I’m able to go to the freezer, grab a chicken breast, throw it in a pan and toss it in the oven to cook while I google a recipe for peach cobbler.
7. Life – what an amazing coincidence! I look out my window and see deer and coyotes and porcupines and elk and red-tailed hawks and blue jays and rabbits and lizards and spiders and ants and snakes and big black beetles that walk with their tail ends lifted high in the air. This all evolved from the primordial slime?! What a coincidence!!! And then a monkey evolved into me!? Wow, am I lucky! I’m also thankful that I am at the top of the food chain and recognize that I must occupy that position with nobility and concern. I must be a steward to the lower creatures. I must not take a life lightly. I’ll eat a cow or a chicken or even that elk, but I’ll do it with gratitude and reverence.
6. Living in America – where else can you vote your conscience without fear, berate the government officials without reprisal, buy anything and everything you need at a Wal-Mart or on Amazon without standing in line? And where else can you go out and drive on 4-lane highways and bridges across the flat prairies and majestic mountains of this great country, and do it all while you drink Mountain Dew, eat a Slim Jim and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn? No country comes even close to America!
5. The view out my window – it is a privilege to live in Colorado. Clear blue skies, white snow, bright sun, majestic Ponderosa Pines. God is good. Colorado is where he lives. I'm grateful that he shares it with me.
4. My racquet-ball buddies – men need other men to bond with. We need guys to laugh with; to talk politics with; to talk smack to; to compete against. My racquet-ball buddies are all that and more. They are my best friends.
3. My sense of humor – I love it that I can laugh at anything, including myself. I love my silly streak. I like to cut up, especially with my siblings and parents, who taught me and nurtured my odd sense of humor. You should see us around the holiday table – napkin rings around ears, spoons hanging from noses – no utensil is safe from this bunch of comedians.
2. My health – My parent’s passed on their strong genes and taught me a healthy lifestyle that has kept me mainly healthy my whole life (along with a little luck and the fact that I used to eat dirt as a kid and thus built up some keen resistance to germs.) As I grow older, my body doesn’t always want to cooperate the way I think it should, but for the most part, it’s in pretty good shape.
And the number one thing I am thankful for is
1. My Family – I know that I am the luckiest boy in puppet-land because of the family I have. I’ve seen families that can’t agree and snipe at each other about all things, big and small. Though we certainly have our differences, we are as tight a family as you can imagine. My parents, my brothers and sisters, my kids, my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and all the peripherals and step-relatives and extended families – they are the best and I love them all! And most of all, I love my wife, Marcia. After 35+ years, the spark is still there and the love is still strong. She is my rock and my foundation. She’s given me a very good life and I’ll be eternally grateful.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Giving Thanks
I saw a man on You-Tube last week who was born with no arms and no legs. He had a grotesque and only slightly-functional flipper that grew out of his hip where the legs, but for a damaged gene, should have grown. He was not ashamed of his flipper. In fact, he brought attention to it and made everyone laugh instead of cringing when they saw it wiggle. He “stood” like a weeble on a stage in a High School auditorium and played the drums for the teen-agers with his flipper as he told the kids his story. He asked the crowd if they had ever felt like they couldn’t go on. Then he purposely tipped himself over and proceeded to tell the school how long it had taken, and how much work it required, for him to learn to get back upright on his own. Then he showed them what could be done by a man with seemingly no hope and after a rather amazing struggle, was standing upright again. As the cameras panned the auditorium, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
I saw a man yesterday standing by the freeway on-ramp whose leg was missing just below his knee. He held a sign asking for help: “Homeless Vet, anything helps.” He had crutches that helped him hop around while waiting for handouts. His rounded stump stuck out of his rolled-up jeans. He looked like a man with little hope. I was past him so fast I didn’t even think of pulling out a bill until he was getting smaller in the rear-view mirror. I should have gone back and given him something. I almost did. But almost won’t pay for his cot tonight. I heard later on the radio that there are 1600 homeless veterans in Colorado. That is certainly not right.
I saw a man today inching across an abandoned parking lot in a paraplegic’s wheelchair. His deformed hand was struggling with the joystick control of his motorized chair. No one else was in sight, so I had to applaud him for being out on his own, even though it was obviously difficult for him. He seemed to be heading somewhere with a purpose. I wonder if I were in his position if I could even maintain a purpose. I like to think that living is purpose enough, but tragedies like this can make you question a lot of beliefs.
I saw a man tonight on TV with no legs. A Desert-Storm warrior, wounded by an IED – the cowardly, impersonal weapon of choice of the radical jihadist Muslim – adjusting to life with prosthetic limbs and phantom pains. He didn’t speak of his problems. He only bemoaned the buddies who didn’t survive the blast and came home in a box. He gave himself willingly for our freedom and I thank him for his sacrifice and honor.
My grandson, Ethan, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes two days ago. He’s only 6 and doesn’t totally understand the magnitude of the diagnosis. He will have many challenges ahead of him – for the rest of his life – as will his parents and little brother. We’ve all cried a lot the last 48 hours and my heart still bleeds for him when I think of the trials and hassles he’ll have to go through as he makes adjustments to what used to be the perfect life. But, he hasn’t been blown up. He still has all his appendages and he’s not paralyzed. I’m pretty sure we’ll all be OK. In fact, in the larger scheme of life, his is still pretty perfect.
After seeing the sights of misery and despair that I described above, I resolve to buck up and not spend even one more minute bemoaning his fate. As I write this, I will shed my last tear. The pity party is officially over. I have a job to do to help him. His Mom & Dad have a job to do. His Grammie and his brother and his Aunt TT and UncaKev have a job to do. Ethan will eventually be able to do that job himself, but for now that job belongs to his family. The job of keeping him healthy and happy, and not allowing him to despair is too important to get sidetracked by negative thoughts ("Stinking Thinking".) And in those times when I start to feel sorry for him, or for me, or for his parents, I’ll remember these other sad souls and count my blessings. I’ll remain thankful for all that we DO have and not cry about what we no longer have.
I hope I can keep this purpose – I want to do that for Ethan. To show him what can be done when you don't give up. We give thanks today for all that we have and pray for those that have less.
I saw a man yesterday standing by the freeway on-ramp whose leg was missing just below his knee. He held a sign asking for help: “Homeless Vet, anything helps.” He had crutches that helped him hop around while waiting for handouts. His rounded stump stuck out of his rolled-up jeans. He looked like a man with little hope. I was past him so fast I didn’t even think of pulling out a bill until he was getting smaller in the rear-view mirror. I should have gone back and given him something. I almost did. But almost won’t pay for his cot tonight. I heard later on the radio that there are 1600 homeless veterans in Colorado. That is certainly not right.
I saw a man today inching across an abandoned parking lot in a paraplegic’s wheelchair. His deformed hand was struggling with the joystick control of his motorized chair. No one else was in sight, so I had to applaud him for being out on his own, even though it was obviously difficult for him. He seemed to be heading somewhere with a purpose. I wonder if I were in his position if I could even maintain a purpose. I like to think that living is purpose enough, but tragedies like this can make you question a lot of beliefs.
I saw a man tonight on TV with no legs. A Desert-Storm warrior, wounded by an IED – the cowardly, impersonal weapon of choice of the radical jihadist Muslim – adjusting to life with prosthetic limbs and phantom pains. He didn’t speak of his problems. He only bemoaned the buddies who didn’t survive the blast and came home in a box. He gave himself willingly for our freedom and I thank him for his sacrifice and honor.
My grandson, Ethan, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes two days ago. He’s only 6 and doesn’t totally understand the magnitude of the diagnosis. He will have many challenges ahead of him – for the rest of his life – as will his parents and little brother. We’ve all cried a lot the last 48 hours and my heart still bleeds for him when I think of the trials and hassles he’ll have to go through as he makes adjustments to what used to be the perfect life. But, he hasn’t been blown up. He still has all his appendages and he’s not paralyzed. I’m pretty sure we’ll all be OK. In fact, in the larger scheme of life, his is still pretty perfect.
After seeing the sights of misery and despair that I described above, I resolve to buck up and not spend even one more minute bemoaning his fate. As I write this, I will shed my last tear. The pity party is officially over. I have a job to do to help him. His Mom & Dad have a job to do. His Grammie and his brother and his Aunt TT and UncaKev have a job to do. Ethan will eventually be able to do that job himself, but for now that job belongs to his family. The job of keeping him healthy and happy, and not allowing him to despair is too important to get sidetracked by negative thoughts ("Stinking Thinking".) And in those times when I start to feel sorry for him, or for me, or for his parents, I’ll remember these other sad souls and count my blessings. I’ll remain thankful for all that we DO have and not cry about what we no longer have.
I hope I can keep this purpose – I want to do that for Ethan. To show him what can be done when you don't give up. We give thanks today for all that we have and pray for those that have less.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Memories from the Road - Things that make you go "Hmmm."
I have seen a few sights on the road that were so bizarre that my eyes-on-the-road-and-my-hands-upon-the-wheel-focused brain couldn’t adjust to the improbability of the drive-by hallucination before it was past and I had to refocus on the next highway warning sign. Some of these little vignettes now play like some whacko movie trailer in my mind, as the scenes of my life might if I were seconds from death. No context, no meaning, just a scene that flashes by my memory like a subliminal message across the matinee theatre screen. A couple of these have been replaying in my head recently – California memories. Probably since I’ve spent the last 3 weeks basking in the California sun and breathing the trade winds. Or, it could just be the effect of 20 days of exhaust inhalations.
Driving the Pacific Coast Highway with my best friend and soul-mate a few years back provided a cornucopia of visual delights that produced both “oohs & ahs” at the natural beauty of the flora, and Olympic-quality synchronized double-takes at the unnatural splendor of the local fauna from the two of us. We stared, we laughed, we puzzled, we shook our heads in wonder. Honestly, I’m not making this stuff up…
Schwinn Vader
As we started our drive up the coast, we rounded the corner just out of the LA metropolis and had to slam on the brakes to avoid the bicycle. Well, kind of a bicycle. It resembled a bike towing a trailer, but it was so much more. The 2-wheeler was festooned with bulging saddlebags, mirrors, a squeeze-bulb horn and handle-bar streamers. (So very “PeeWee’s Big Adventure!”) The trailer was loaded up with what looked like the entire contents of Aniken’s pod-racer spare-parts shed from Star Wars 1. The cyclist was dressed all in silver – silver shoes and socks, silver shorts, silver shirt. But it wasn’t the silver uniform of a racer. It was more the silver clothing of a live manikin at Caesar’s Palace. All he was missing was the silver makeup. His getup included a silver helmet that was strangely familiar – a Darth Vader-esque mask! But wait, that’s not all. In his silver-gloved hand, he carried – I kid you not – a silver jousting lance.
On the narrow PCH, with California traffic snaking in front and behind for miles, you can’t stop and stare. You can only try to retain the image in your unbelieving mind and wonder (sic) on down the road. Until the next strange sight appears…
Quick Change Artist
Santa Maria is a small agricultural community halfway up the coast. We had stopped at a fast food joint – not for food, but for the easy-in/easy-out, relatively, and predictably, clean restrooms that come with a limited service chain restaurant. In this Burger King, I saw a man changing clothes in the restroom stall. Not all that strange actually. I’ve adjusted my ensemble several times in airport stalls when out on the road and no one ever thinks twice.
But this incident is unusual. Waiting by the car, I see the man come out of the BK with 3 grocery bags of his old clothes, and then see him stuff them and an old backpack into the drive-thru' trash can. Then, he shoulders his new backpack – recently in one of the grocery bags – and walks off in his clean clothes. He seemed to be walking with a purpose. I like to think he was not just changing his clothes. I believe he was changing his life and moving on down the road…
Aphrodite in Morro Bay
In her sandals and diaphanous sky-blue evening dress, she had just walked out of the shadow of the viaduct carrying Highway 1 over a side street of Morro Bay and into the bright sun where she stood at the corner to the on-ramp. She was tall and carried herself with a regal grace that belied her grimy surroundings. There was the tiniest squirrel of a “yip-dog” leading Her Majesty and tethered by a leash she held in her pinky-extended right hand. Her left hand she held oddly but purposefully at eye level, palm up and perfectly flat, carefully (and somehow sensually) holding a pink Walkman that she had plugged her ear buds into. From the spinning CD player dangled a yellow rubber ducky she had hung by a loop of string. It swung gently as she stepped off the curb. She kept the Walkman flat and at perfectly at eye level as though she was sighting the horizon along its top.
She smiled dreamily and sweetly at no one in particular - she didn't seem to see us watching her – as if for the cameras on the red carpet. We stared, mouths agape until the light changed. And then, we were through the underpass and on our way to Monterey.
As we found on this trip, there are more reasons than the scenery at Big Sur to take the road less traveled. Seeing those odd exhibits of human behavior juxtaposed against the backdrop of the endless waves of the Pacific has rendered that journey into more of a surreal memory than something that actually happened to me. Writing this, it also occurs to me that these little snippets of experience may act like subliminal messages on the celluloid record of our lives. Each daily occurrence we view affects our future thoughts and actions, however slightly. Have I become odd because I’ve seen so much odd behavior? These are the kind of things that make me go “hmmmm.”
And, as Schrödinger’s Cat will attest, our observance of these events changes the events and the players, too. I wonder: if we hadn't been there to see him, would Schwinn Vader still have held that lance?
Driving the Pacific Coast Highway with my best friend and soul-mate a few years back provided a cornucopia of visual delights that produced both “oohs & ahs” at the natural beauty of the flora, and Olympic-quality synchronized double-takes at the unnatural splendor of the local fauna from the two of us. We stared, we laughed, we puzzled, we shook our heads in wonder. Honestly, I’m not making this stuff up…
Schwinn Vader
As we started our drive up the coast, we rounded the corner just out of the LA metropolis and had to slam on the brakes to avoid the bicycle. Well, kind of a bicycle. It resembled a bike towing a trailer, but it was so much more. The 2-wheeler was festooned with bulging saddlebags, mirrors, a squeeze-bulb horn and handle-bar streamers. (So very “PeeWee’s Big Adventure!”) The trailer was loaded up with what looked like the entire contents of Aniken’s pod-racer spare-parts shed from Star Wars 1. The cyclist was dressed all in silver – silver shoes and socks, silver shorts, silver shirt. But it wasn’t the silver uniform of a racer. It was more the silver clothing of a live manikin at Caesar’s Palace. All he was missing was the silver makeup. His getup included a silver helmet that was strangely familiar – a Darth Vader-esque mask! But wait, that’s not all. In his silver-gloved hand, he carried – I kid you not – a silver jousting lance.
On the narrow PCH, with California traffic snaking in front and behind for miles, you can’t stop and stare. You can only try to retain the image in your unbelieving mind and wonder (sic) on down the road. Until the next strange sight appears…
Quick Change Artist
Santa Maria is a small agricultural community halfway up the coast. We had stopped at a fast food joint – not for food, but for the easy-in/easy-out, relatively, and predictably, clean restrooms that come with a limited service chain restaurant. In this Burger King, I saw a man changing clothes in the restroom stall. Not all that strange actually. I’ve adjusted my ensemble several times in airport stalls when out on the road and no one ever thinks twice.
But this incident is unusual. Waiting by the car, I see the man come out of the BK with 3 grocery bags of his old clothes, and then see him stuff them and an old backpack into the drive-thru' trash can. Then, he shoulders his new backpack – recently in one of the grocery bags – and walks off in his clean clothes. He seemed to be walking with a purpose. I like to think he was not just changing his clothes. I believe he was changing his life and moving on down the road…
Aphrodite in Morro Bay
In her sandals and diaphanous sky-blue evening dress, she had just walked out of the shadow of the viaduct carrying Highway 1 over a side street of Morro Bay and into the bright sun where she stood at the corner to the on-ramp. She was tall and carried herself with a regal grace that belied her grimy surroundings. There was the tiniest squirrel of a “yip-dog” leading Her Majesty and tethered by a leash she held in her pinky-extended right hand. Her left hand she held oddly but purposefully at eye level, palm up and perfectly flat, carefully (and somehow sensually) holding a pink Walkman that she had plugged her ear buds into. From the spinning CD player dangled a yellow rubber ducky she had hung by a loop of string. It swung gently as she stepped off the curb. She kept the Walkman flat and at perfectly at eye level as though she was sighting the horizon along its top.
She smiled dreamily and sweetly at no one in particular - she didn't seem to see us watching her – as if for the cameras on the red carpet. We stared, mouths agape until the light changed. And then, we were through the underpass and on our way to Monterey.
As we found on this trip, there are more reasons than the scenery at Big Sur to take the road less traveled. Seeing those odd exhibits of human behavior juxtaposed against the backdrop of the endless waves of the Pacific has rendered that journey into more of a surreal memory than something that actually happened to me. Writing this, it also occurs to me that these little snippets of experience may act like subliminal messages on the celluloid record of our lives. Each daily occurrence we view affects our future thoughts and actions, however slightly. Have I become odd because I’ve seen so much odd behavior? These are the kind of things that make me go “hmmmm.”
And, as Schrödinger’s Cat will attest, our observance of these events changes the events and the players, too. I wonder: if we hadn't been there to see him, would Schwinn Vader still have held that lance?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Santa Claus is Leaving Town
Only 72 more days till Christmas!
I know, I know, it’s too soon to be planning and shopping and making lists and checking them twice. The marketing engines start up earlier and earlier every year and we wring our hands and decry the commercialization of Christmas and then go to the malls and max out the charge cards spreading that Christmas cheer.
The frost is barely on the pumpkin, so why do I bring up Christmas? Because I saw Santa Claus today! He was in street clothes so I’m guessing he was still on vacation, but he didn’t need to be wearing his red suit and boots to know it was him. And he wasn’t coming to town; he was leaving town, heading north on I-25 on the south end of Denver.
I’m guessing he’s on his way from his summer vacation spot – Belize or Cozumel, judging by the snorkeling bumper stickers on his red VW Beetle. I did a double-take when he passed me on my way to the airport this morning. I was in a hurry myself (and not obeying the posted speed limit) and only moved out of the passing lane when he flashed me, which is probably why I even bothered to look over as he sped by. A white beard flowing down to his ample gut and a full head of white hair held in place with a red bandana didn’t seem out of place at all with the peace sign hanging from the rear view mirror or the red carnation gracing the built in VW dashboard vase.
Christmas was not on my mind this morning, so my first thought was that he was a Dead Head hippie. Then I saw the Save-a-Reindeer window decal in the side window and something clicked. I sped up a little to get another look at the bearded face, but he was in an obvious hurry and the only other clue I could see was the granny glasses that he pushed up his nose with a thick finger before pushing a button on his radio. And then he was pulling away and I was falling behind him. That’s when I saw the clinchers – proof that this was no ordinary purveyor of peace and love – vanity plates that read “Ho Ho 1” and a “North Pole or bust” bumper sticker.
You’re probably thinking that I’m living in a dream world and need to grow up, but excuse me if I prefer to keep some visions (think sugarplums) in my otherwise grown-up reality. I refuse to let my age and my acquired “wisdom” prevent me from believing in the magic that surrounds Christmas. What better way to fight off the commercialization of this special time of joy and peace than to absorb and surrender to the frivolous enchantment of the season? Magic only disappears from your life if you prefer it that way. I prefer to believe in some unbelievable things if you don't mind.
I’m not ready to start shopping yet and you better not play any carols for at least a month. By December 29th, I’ll probably be burnt out on Christmas and by January 3rd, I’ll be ready to take down the decorations and reclaim all the living spaces in our home from Marcia's Santa collection. But today, I am jazzed about Christmas because I saw Santa Claus, heading home to the North Pole. He was anxious to get the party started, and for now, so am I!
I know, I know, it’s too soon to be planning and shopping and making lists and checking them twice. The marketing engines start up earlier and earlier every year and we wring our hands and decry the commercialization of Christmas and then go to the malls and max out the charge cards spreading that Christmas cheer.
The frost is barely on the pumpkin, so why do I bring up Christmas? Because I saw Santa Claus today! He was in street clothes so I’m guessing he was still on vacation, but he didn’t need to be wearing his red suit and boots to know it was him. And he wasn’t coming to town; he was leaving town, heading north on I-25 on the south end of Denver.
I’m guessing he’s on his way from his summer vacation spot – Belize or Cozumel, judging by the snorkeling bumper stickers on his red VW Beetle. I did a double-take when he passed me on my way to the airport this morning. I was in a hurry myself (and not obeying the posted speed limit) and only moved out of the passing lane when he flashed me, which is probably why I even bothered to look over as he sped by. A white beard flowing down to his ample gut and a full head of white hair held in place with a red bandana didn’t seem out of place at all with the peace sign hanging from the rear view mirror or the red carnation gracing the built in VW dashboard vase.
Christmas was not on my mind this morning, so my first thought was that he was a Dead Head hippie. Then I saw the Save-a-Reindeer window decal in the side window and something clicked. I sped up a little to get another look at the bearded face, but he was in an obvious hurry and the only other clue I could see was the granny glasses that he pushed up his nose with a thick finger before pushing a button on his radio. And then he was pulling away and I was falling behind him. That’s when I saw the clinchers – proof that this was no ordinary purveyor of peace and love – vanity plates that read “Ho Ho 1” and a “North Pole or bust” bumper sticker.
You’re probably thinking that I’m living in a dream world and need to grow up, but excuse me if I prefer to keep some visions (think sugarplums) in my otherwise grown-up reality. I refuse to let my age and my acquired “wisdom” prevent me from believing in the magic that surrounds Christmas. What better way to fight off the commercialization of this special time of joy and peace than to absorb and surrender to the frivolous enchantment of the season? Magic only disappears from your life if you prefer it that way. I prefer to believe in some unbelievable things if you don't mind.
I’m not ready to start shopping yet and you better not play any carols for at least a month. By December 29th, I’ll probably be burnt out on Christmas and by January 3rd, I’ll be ready to take down the decorations and reclaim all the living spaces in our home from Marcia's Santa collection. But today, I am jazzed about Christmas because I saw Santa Claus, heading home to the North Pole. He was anxious to get the party started, and for now, so am I!
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Road Kill Rant
There’s a dead, bloated raccoon on the shoulder of the road leading to our house on Coyote Ridge. It sticks in my mind as being strange because it’s been there for three days now. Animal Control officers usually clean up the pieces/parts before the magpies even get wind of the roadside buffet. I know because this particular kind of genocide is, unfortunately, not rare in this neck of the woods south and uphill of Denver. We moved here partly because of the abundance of wildlife, so it dismays me that there is also a profusion of wild death.
Deer, coyotes, foxes, porcupines, pocket gophers, raccoons and even once a mountain lion have all fallen prey to the 4-wheeled carnivores of the boulevard in these parts. I often wonder how it is that they so often get caught in the path of the onrushing steel. You’d think they’d be used to our machines of death by now – we’ve been here for several generations. Sure, some – like porcupines – are really slow, and some are, no doubt, pretty stupid. (Why did the prairie dog cross the road? Same reason as the chicken. But, regardless of which version of that old joke you end with, it doesn’t speak well of the intelligence of the chicken, or the prairie dog – or the joke teller for that matter.)
On the other hand, I'm not sure that animals don't have more intelligence than we give them credit for. (Right now, my cat Starbuck is staring at me with a look that says, “Why are you writing this stupid blog instead of finding a real job?”) Road-kill prairie dogs are often seen being mourned by another – a pathetic sight as the survivor tries to comprehend how the game of dare-you-to-cross-the-street went so wrong. Is a deer in the headlights really brainless for not moving out of the way, or does she just disbelieve the existence of metal monsters? And as far as deer road-kill goes, which species really is the stupid one? Most deer carcasses I see are within a few yards of the yellow sign that supposedly-intelligent humans have posted there to warn drivers that THIS IS WHERE DEER CROSS THE ROAD! So, who’s the dummy when we mow them down on the roads that cut through their own living rooms?
It’s the callousness of the road-killers that bothers me though. In such a hurry to get to their important places for their important events that critters on the road are barely footnotes in their travels. Who do we humans think we are? Having opposable thumbs does not make us gods. If having the ability to reason makes us the higher life form, wouldn’t that title also give us the mandate to respect ALL life and protect it when we can? If simply being mindless justified extermination, there would surely be fewer reality show contestants and the highways would be less crowded every rush hour.
I believe that life is life no matter how small, and while it ends for every living thing sooner or later, I think that our world is diminished by each senseless passing of one of its creatures. I have to wonder if Mother Gaia doesn’t feel that loss and somehow mourn it. One of these days, we're going to kill off one too many of her children without thinking, and then the feces will really hit the oscillating blades for us "higher life forms" (think Mother Nature in the old margarine commercials, “It’s not NICE to fool Mother Nature!”) I don’t belong to PETA and I don’t believe the “science is all in” regarding global warming (er, sorry, “climate change,”) but I have to believe that Karma does not look kindly on the indiscriminate killing of the beasts of the field that the Old Testament God gave man “dominion over.”
Because of this belief, I feel sad and more than a bit guilty for the meaningless deaths of the road-kill deer, or raccoon, or even the stupid-as-a-rock opossum. (I once saw ten - count 'em, 10 - dead 'possums on a 3-mile stretch of I-80 in Eastern Iowa.) I mean, really, where do we get off killing squirrels just so we can get to work on time? Who's to say that their nuts are less important than the ones we work with every day? Save the whales? Sure, but let’s save the chipmunks, too. Even rodents are not in infinite supply. If we keep squishing the cute little almost-rats, who will the tourists feed?
So, go ahead and call me an environmentalist, or better yet, just call me a Friend of the Earth. Real-life Bambis can’t speak for themselves, so I’ll say it for them. Slow down and save a porcupine. Get the point?
Deer, coyotes, foxes, porcupines, pocket gophers, raccoons and even once a mountain lion have all fallen prey to the 4-wheeled carnivores of the boulevard in these parts. I often wonder how it is that they so often get caught in the path of the onrushing steel. You’d think they’d be used to our machines of death by now – we’ve been here for several generations. Sure, some – like porcupines – are really slow, and some are, no doubt, pretty stupid. (Why did the prairie dog cross the road? Same reason as the chicken. But, regardless of which version of that old joke you end with, it doesn’t speak well of the intelligence of the chicken, or the prairie dog – or the joke teller for that matter.)
On the other hand, I'm not sure that animals don't have more intelligence than we give them credit for. (Right now, my cat Starbuck is staring at me with a look that says, “Why are you writing this stupid blog instead of finding a real job?”) Road-kill prairie dogs are often seen being mourned by another – a pathetic sight as the survivor tries to comprehend how the game of dare-you-to-cross-the-street went so wrong. Is a deer in the headlights really brainless for not moving out of the way, or does she just disbelieve the existence of metal monsters? And as far as deer road-kill goes, which species really is the stupid one? Most deer carcasses I see are within a few yards of the yellow sign that supposedly-intelligent humans have posted there to warn drivers that THIS IS WHERE DEER CROSS THE ROAD! So, who’s the dummy when we mow them down on the roads that cut through their own living rooms?
It’s the callousness of the road-killers that bothers me though. In such a hurry to get to their important places for their important events that critters on the road are barely footnotes in their travels. Who do we humans think we are? Having opposable thumbs does not make us gods. If having the ability to reason makes us the higher life form, wouldn’t that title also give us the mandate to respect ALL life and protect it when we can? If simply being mindless justified extermination, there would surely be fewer reality show contestants and the highways would be less crowded every rush hour.
I believe that life is life no matter how small, and while it ends for every living thing sooner or later, I think that our world is diminished by each senseless passing of one of its creatures. I have to wonder if Mother Gaia doesn’t feel that loss and somehow mourn it. One of these days, we're going to kill off one too many of her children without thinking, and then the feces will really hit the oscillating blades for us "higher life forms" (think Mother Nature in the old margarine commercials, “It’s not NICE to fool Mother Nature!”) I don’t belong to PETA and I don’t believe the “science is all in” regarding global warming (er, sorry, “climate change,”) but I have to believe that Karma does not look kindly on the indiscriminate killing of the beasts of the field that the Old Testament God gave man “dominion over.”
Because of this belief, I feel sad and more than a bit guilty for the meaningless deaths of the road-kill deer, or raccoon, or even the stupid-as-a-rock opossum. (I once saw ten - count 'em, 10 - dead 'possums on a 3-mile stretch of I-80 in Eastern Iowa.) I mean, really, where do we get off killing squirrels just so we can get to work on time? Who's to say that their nuts are less important than the ones we work with every day? Save the whales? Sure, but let’s save the chipmunks, too. Even rodents are not in infinite supply. If we keep squishing the cute little almost-rats, who will the tourists feed?
So, go ahead and call me an environmentalist, or better yet, just call me a Friend of the Earth. Real-life Bambis can’t speak for themselves, so I’ll say it for them. Slow down and save a porcupine. Get the point?
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