MID WINTER BLUES

Winterbound in the midwest, it’s like good news from the dentist. You won’t be needing pain killer and he’s not standing on your chest, both hands inside your mouth with drill and chisel, excavating. No. But you are still in the chair, and he’s still there beside you with only one hand and a mirror in your mouth. The bright light is burning up your retinas through tightly closed eye lids and the good news is that your insurance pays for most of the cleaning. You walk out the door, licking teeth, discovering tender spots where the hygienist nicked the gum, a small plastic bag in one hand with a couple of new, soft bristle tooth brushes, a roll of floss and a travel tube of sensitive tooth paste, and the appointment card for the next cleaning in six months in the other hand. Could have been a lot worse but it is necessary. Necessary, it’s still the dentist and I don’t like being there. I feel much better when I get out of the parking lot, on my way to something more satisfying. 

Winterbound is like that. I don’t mind the cold. Winter, it is what it is and you dress for it. We are not prisoners. But I need a better reason to go outside than when I was 50. What bothers me this time of year is the dark, late morning and the dark, early evening. I keep telling myself that the changing seasons are good, and they are. Each one has its upside. But this year in particular, I’m hunkered down for the duration. I am hanging an art show in March, showing my photographs. In the end, I decided to make my own frames and do my own mounting. It isn’t painful and I enjoy putting it all together but I don’t get to be on the road. For the past decade I have been able to go, whenever I felt like it. This time last year I was in south Florida. If it’s not Louisiana or the Great Lakes it would be Canada or the west coast. There has always been something about being in motion that meets my need. Even now I get a little of that satisfied in the pool, between 6:30 and 8:00 in the morning. The black line down the middle of my lane has seams between the tiles and they slip by, out of sight as I move toward the wall at the far end. Alternating, blue and white floats on lane divider cables converge in front of me and they pass, almost like power poles on the road side, riding my bicycle. I know that I’m the one moving . The perception is complicated but the effect is not. I am in motion. I need that and winter time offers few opportunities. 

Weather has always been hard to predict. Winter-cold and summer-hot aren’t taken for granted like once-upon-a-time. Three days ago I was outside in short sleeves, all afternoon. We have global warming, nobody argues the fact anymore but the drama has just moved on to the details. Are we, people collectively, at least partially responsible for the acceleration in warm up? There is no doubt among climatologists around the world but politicians and others who have something to gain, one way or the other, are still butting heads. It seems to me that if you add carrots and potatoes to the kettle, you will surely disturb the broth. We have been adding to and stirring the atmosphere with damning results for two centuries. One of my heroes, George Carlin put it so well when he chided environmentalists, wanting to save the earth: “The Earth is self healing and it’s doing very well. We can not destroy the earth. All of their worries about the health of the planet are misguided. But people on the other hand; people are in deep sh#!#!#.” 

So it’s winter and I’m stuck in the big city. I keep busy and sleep pretty well considering all the things that distract me. I’ve got a big pot of green chile cooling in the garage for a chili cook-off at church tonight. This makes a lot of sense; pay $25 to enter my chile, spend another $50 on ingredients, so 150 people can pay $10 each to sample and vote on the best in three categories where the winners get $10 each. Catholics have nothing on Unitarians when it comes to raising money. But I will have tongue in cheek when the faint hearted, chili wannabes ask if my stuff is “Hot”. I will tell them, ‘It’s not “Hot” as chili goes. But it leans heavy on the “Warm”. I tried something different, used two slabs of baby back ribs that had been in the freezer for a while and two pounds of breakfast sausage, Serrano and Hatch green chilies with cumin and oregano turned out just right for me. I’ll be happy if there is a lot left over for me to bring home. I’d rather have my own green chili than the winners share of prize money.

I’ve got picture frames to paint and mats to cut. Need to have more photos printed to size and I have to work in the kitchen, on my island top. That requires a kitchen cleaning; no food stuffs at all, on any surface that could be transferred to an expensive mat. So mid winter blues are more about moving on than dwelling on the weather. 

SACRED TEXT

It's not like me to pontificate in public. But I remember when my mother in law was the age I am now and I thought, 'She's paid her dues. She can say what she likes, even if it doesn't suit me.' So, with a clear conscience, I'll allow myself that same indiscretion. I was reading and came across material, ideas that I lean on heavily, frequently. Somewhere on this journey you discover your moral compass. It may be influenced by forces that you can't see but it's what you need in the dark, to know where the sun will rise.  

        My parents were Christians. No coincidence, I grew up in the Christian Church. Between Sunday School, church, vacation bible school, annual revivals and prayers, over food and at the side of the bed; I learned about the Spirit and the temporal. Saint Paul said, ‘. . . when I was a child, I acted like a child. But when I grew up, I put away my childish things.’  But then on another page it said, ‘you must come with the faith of a child if you want to get to heaven.’ I took that to mean; you need to put away your childishness except for when you do not. My parents lived wonderful lives and then they crossed over, into the great mystery. I’m still here. What I’ve come to understand and believe is that change is the nature of nature. What is spiritual for me, in the here and now, is radically different than what I was taught as a child. 

I’ve been thorough the bible several times, some parts more than others. Still, there are other texts that speak to me of the spirit with more clarity. They resonate with my experience and the logic of my understanding and I take comfort there. One of those is, ‘The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran, a Lebanese Christian of the 20th Century. He employs a condescending voice, in the tradition of wise men and mentors, with phrasing and meter that mirror other sacred texts. It’s an easy read but dense. It requires several passes for me to make all the correlations. My favorite passage is when he speaks about children. He says, ‘Children come through you but belong not to you. They are life’s longing after itself; that we should not try to make them like ourselves, rather that we be more like them. Their promise lies in the future and we can not go there with them. So, be worthy of them and when the time comes, let them go.’  

I collect quotes. Some people achieve status, one way or another, that gives their thoughts and ideas import, that commands the attention and respect of others. Carl Sagan, (1934-1996) was one of those people. His experience and expertise, his unassuming personality and ordinary language created a bridge where ordinary people could appreciate the intricate realm of astronomy and physics. What he left with us is right there with St. Paul and Khalil Gibran. Anyone who reads novels, even magazine articles, can read Sagan. But if you don’t have time to read his books, his quotes are enough to inspire and consolidate complex realities into straight forward affirmations that leave us better than before. From the book of Carl:

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there, on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”      CARL SAGAN

BALANCE

I feel good. In November I was stacking wood and fell with my arms full of fire wood. It was more like an uncoordinated, ugly sit-down but when I stood up my shoulder hurt; don't mess with the rotator cuff. I hurt the same shoulder back in ’95 and it took a long time to heal so I took a break from swimming, gave it a rest. After that it was one thing after another, keeping me out of the pool. Today the radio came on at 6:00, I was in the car at 6:15 and in the water twenty minutes later. My goal for the morning was just to keep moving, for an hour. I swim the first half lap breast stroke and pull into the wall free style. Goggles fit, ear plug didn’t leak and my shoulder got better as the swim progressed. I’ve been a serious swimmer for 30 years, with lay offs and breaks but I always come back, like a prodigal son coming home. 

Something about the way water moves over your body, the way the black line on the bottom and the lane dividers funnel you to the other end where you touch, turn and do it again; sort of like counting beads on the Rosary. For me, swimming has become a spiritual thing. The pool is my sanctuary and it’s natural to let all other things go for the moment, or for an hour. It’s about as close to meditation as I can manage. I don’t know how many laps I get in, don’t bother to count. Lots of random thoughts run through and the transition from one to another goes on without my permission. It might be the rings of Saturn, Sandhill Cranes or the words to a song. This morning it was B.B. King and Ruth Brown from the 80’s, doing a set at his blues club in Memphis; ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business’. You can watch it on YouTube. I love the place where he tells her, “Don’t touch me like that, it makes me crazy.” Then I touch the wall, turn and something else comes to mind. It occurred to me this morning that I am growing old. We are all growing old but you reach a point where clever talk doesn’t restore anything that’s outlived it warranty. I remember when I turned 25, the math was easy; I was the same age my mother was when she had me. Today I didn’t have to do the math, I am the same age as my mother when she passed away; complications from diabetes and heart problems. I have a tender shoulder and my eye sight sucks. But I swim.

I walk in the door, swipe my card through the card reader and shuffle down stairs. It only takes a few minutes to change; takes longer to get my ear plugs adjusted. Windows at each end of the pool are dark and there’s almost always an open lane. By the time I finish, little old ladies are starting to arrive for their aqua-aerobics class at 8:00. The guards are anxious to get the lane dividers out of the water so the ladies can do their stretching. First light streams in through the windows on the south wall. I could have squeezed in a few more laps but the work was good and I’ll be back; guesstimate, my effort covers a little over a mile. I used to tell my daughter, ‘Work, play . . . rest. Find a balance." When you sip both work and play from the same cup you’re living well. When rest sneaks up on you in the middle of the day, that’s not so bad either. 

RACE DAY

Mid January in the midwest; it was 63 degrees today. It’s been unseasonably warm for the  past three days but you could get used to this and it would be such a bummer when the world rights itself. Yesterday was race day. In a church gymnasium in Lee’s Summit, MO, all day long, kids and their parents came and went, raced their little race cars. But the officials from the Cub Scout pack who owned the track and the technology were stuck there all day. I went for the 11:00, (second grade) session, then to lunch, bought lumber at Home Depot store and made it back in time for the 3:00, (forth grade) session. With electronic timers in each lane, each car went once in each lane and totaled the times to 1/100 sec.  Average times were in the 3.2 - 3.3 sec. range. Some cars plunged down the ramp only to bog down and die, before they could reach the finish. One of the pit crew was there to give them a boost as they all needed four times to average. If you needed a boost, you weren’t going to win any prizes. The fast time for the day, and track record was 2.97 sec. It was crystal clear which cars had been fashioned by the child and which ones had been tweaked by adults. My son, Jon, did some tweaking and the girls times were in the mid range.

If you want to be in the elite zone of Pinewood Racer culture you realize that the shape of the car is more or less irrelevant. What counts is weight and friction. The max limit on weight was 5 oz. The wooden block in the kit, plus axles and wheels were just under the limit. So the weight of the wood that gets carved off needs to be replaced and jiggered. Jon used tiny fishing sinkers, drilled a small hole on each side of the body just ahead of the back wheels and glued the weights in. We lengthened the wheel base to make the transition from steep downhill to flat out as smooth as possible. Then he polished the axels with emery paper and applied graphite lubricant to the axels and the hole in the wheels. The girls designed the car’s profile, did the sanding and painting. The axels were nails driven into the body. You need a pilot hole to help keep the angle 90 degrees perpendicular to the direction of the track and that’s tricky. We had a good drill press but some folks machine an alignment tool to guarantee a perfect angle on each wheel. 

When a truly fast car ran, it raised eyebrows on even an old geezer like me. Most of the cars looked like the work of an 8 or 9 year old. Some were shaped and painted funny and one was just the bare block of wood with wheels and a few flat washers taped on the bottom; and it was fast. The cars would separate a car length or more on the plunge down the ramp but as soon as they hit the long, flat run out, the low tech machines began to slow down; some more than others. But the long wheel based, 5.0 oz. cars with highly polished and perfectly angled axels seemed to accelerate all the way through the finish. The awards were fun and the kids all got something. Mahala and Cecilia both ran in the 3.23 sec. range and Cecilia won one of her heats. Everybody left happy and they still had three more session to complete before they pulled the track down and went home. 

I expect we will do it again next year. Jon hasn’t indicated yet if he wants to spend more time and energy on their cars but I’m sure we will be sawing and sanding in the basement again. If nothing else, the girls like to wear the safety glasses and clean up with the shop vac. 

PINEWOOD

It’s Pinewood Derby time. Back in the 1950’s, out on the west coast a kid wasn’t old enough to participate in the Soap Box Derby. So his dad, a Cub Scout Master created the Pinewood Derby. Everything the same as far as being gravity propelled, only smaller. Each kid gets a block of pine wood, 2” x 3” X 10”, 4 plastic wheels and 2 axels. They design and cut out a race car body, sand it, paint it and mount the wheels. Then on the big day, they race head to head, down a miniature ramp until the two remaining racers go for the championship. The first year, only the boys in that Cub Pack participated but soon, it was the alternative for too young-little brothers everywhere. Now it’s in every school, scout troop, Boy’s & Girl’s Club and church group.

Several Pinewood racers have taken shape in my wood shop over time and a new generation came through today. Granddaughters Mahala and Cecilia are first time, newbies. Son, Jon brought them over for lunch, sawing & sanding. For starters they choose pumpkin pancakes over soup and sandwich. Six hands breaking eggs, pouring milk, stirring and pouring batter; we took turns flipping cakes and when it was done, the sink was full of dirty dishes, we were full of pancakes and we headed to the basement.

They traced the profile onto the pine wood block and I ran the bandsaw. Watching them hand sand for the first time was as funny as it was awesome. Mahala wanted to wear my respirator and safety glasses. Lucky I have two sets. I loaded new sand paper on a couple of sanding blocks and they set straight to work with the tedious, hand sanding. So there they were, rubbing sanding blocks over edges and flat surfaces, making sawdust. Sawdust has a way of collecting on tools, bench top, floor and often needs to be collected and dispatched. The girls were as enthusiastic about sweeping sawdust as they had been about sanding. Jon polished axels with emery paper and the girls finished, taking turns running the shop vac. We got all the dust up and Celia asked if I had any pink paint. Jon told her that her mother was in charge of painting and that got us off the hook. 

Two hours later, getting ready to leave, we went through my wind-up toy collection, noting which ones were favored. The little mouse that does back flips appealed to Celia while Hala had trouble making up her mind.  Really nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. We’ll do it again next year.

LONG DAY

6:00 a.m. this morning, Baton Rouge, LA; I was on I-12, eastbound at 40 degrees, then 15 hours & 50 minutes, 908 miles, 3 gas stops, 2 meals, 6 pees later & 7 degrees, arrived in Grandview, MO. My plan was to drive until it got dark but it went like this. The wind out of the north was testy, made driving difficult. On overpasses and open spaces it pushed us around and I was reminded of my old dune buggy. It had a really short wheel base; tar strips on the highway would bump us off course at 50 mph. So I had to pay attention and use both hands, all the time. Cars passing would create a Bernoulli effect between us and the Mazda wanted to move over, close and personal. Semi’s just the opposite; got a lift and a push toward the shoulder. It made driving with the cruise control almost impossible, more trouble than it was worth. 

I pulled off at the Macomb, MS exit; drove a mile into town looking for breakfast. They had all the fast food stops near the exit and the old town was bare bones. Nothing but empty store fronts, pay day loans and finger nail salons. All I could think of was the town’s reputation from the 60’s. Macomb, MS was Ku Klux Klan-Central. Couldn’t help but think about all the different ways they had for killing troublesome blacks and Yankee trouble makers. Hang ‘em, shoot ‘em, burn ‘em, drown ‘em, turn the dogs on ‘em, explode ‘em, run over ‘em, baseball bat ‘em and they would still be working at it if the world hadn’t come with cameras. All of Mississippi was subject to that deadly bigotry but Macomb was in an orbit of its own. Realized I didn't want to eat there; was glad to get back on the InterState. 

Another hour, through Jackson, MS I didn’t want to get off the path too much. I lost a lot of time in Macomb and didn’t want to do that again. There were a couple of places but I was past the exit before I saw them and decided not to go back. Another 15 minutes north, Canton, MS is where I usually get fuel. LOVE’S Truck Stop doesn’t have a kitchen, just an Arby’s fast food and I wasn’t buying. It was starting to look like lunch before I could find eggs and bacon. Then I saw the black and yellow sign; Waffle House. I hadn’t been in one of those in over 20 years. My kids and their friends would eat there cheap, even with the smell of hot grease and full ash trays on every table. I was already off the road so I stopped. No ash trays and the grease wasn’t as bad as I remember. I got cheese in my scramble, 3 strips of bacon were just right and hash browns, not bad. My kids used to cover a glass of water with a piece of paper and turn it upside down quickly, on the table top, then pull the paper out; left it for the waitress, no way to upright it without a big spill and clean up. 

The higher the sun rose, the stronger the wind and I started thinking about stopping early, sleep at Motel 6 in West Memphis and hope for calm winds tomorrow. Traffic was snarled and ugly there so I kept on, keeping on. I had two water bottles and the sun was starting to angle down, behind my left shoulder. It was after 3:00 and I decided to stop in Cape Girardeau, MO. The Cracker Barrel restaurant there is easy to spot with plenty of time to make the exit. I stopped there once, several years ago. The host asked me “Smoking or Non Smoking?” I asked if she was kidding and she didn’t even blink. “You mean they still let people smoke in restaurants here?” Her boss looked over from behind the cash register. The girl said I could sit in the no smoking section. I told her, “You know, a no smoking section in a restaurant is like a no peeing section in a swimming pool.” Her boss came over and asked if there was a problem and I told her no. I don’t remember where I ate but I hadn’t stopped there since. But they took away the ash trays in Canton, MS, maybe the world would catch up to the Cape. Looking at the menu, I realized there was nothing on it that I wanted. When the young guy came to take my order I asked him for directions to the nearest Chinese place. Turns out, it was just across the highway; The Great Wall Buffet. I was liking this a lot better. Hot & Sour Soup, ginger green beans, fried zucchini, stuffed crab and fried shrimp. The young lady who seated me spoke perfect english, in a soft, measured tone. But when another attendant said something to her, they slipped into Chinese, talked over each other, louder, higher pitched and much faster. I think they were naming children. When I was in the army, someone told me, “The way Chinese choose a name for their kids is to throw a tray of silverware down a staircase.”  But she was nice, brought me a second pot of hot tea without me asking. I drank of my water, leaving the glass right side up and left a nice tip.

It got dark on me south of St. Louis but the wind had died down and I made a deal with myself. If I saw a Motel 6 in time to stop, I would. But I didn’t, and I didn’t. So I’m unloaded in Grandview, plugged in and ready to jump in the shower. It takes a day for me to recoup after driving all day. I’ll do something useful but the nap will come before lunch and another one in the afternoon.

NEW BEGINNINGS

We have all been baptized into the new year. Hangovers should be worn off and it’s Friday, a work day for those lucky enough to have a job but not lucky enough to get a four day weekend. Being retired, no boss, no classroom full of teenagers waiting for me to unlock the door, a four day weekend is like being given a fork to eat your pop corn.  I’m doing breakfast in the kitchen, hot chocolate and peanut butter cookies, left over from the football games last night. For a few hours we eat from the unhealthy menu and lose ourselves in the moment. Living in the moment is one thing but being lost in it is another. One is about paying attention and the other is not. But it is a new year and we get to make believe things will be different; better than before. I’ll do my part but the man on the radio is no help. Except for football scores, the new year sounds very much like the last one. 

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions; a year has too many days. I’ll eat right and exercise day to day. When I confine my expectations to what happens today, then what happens today becomes more imporant.  When I fail, I forgive myself and start over. You don’t want failure to become a habit but you don’t live in fear of it either. Without failure to punctuate this life, our learning curve would be a flat line. I love the idea of new beginnings. The first day of a road trip is always good, maybe the best. The lead into a good song is almost always better than the fade. Hello kisses are better than the goodbye. Something about the marriage of hope and anticipation that lifts us higher than reflection on a good time. I’ve made several new beginnings already this morning. 

I don’t know how many times I’ve been to the French Quarter. It’s like everything else I suppose. You usually find what you look for. I know people who found it a dreadful place and never want to go back. Some were high minded moralists and others just had a bad day. I always expect to see something new, something that begs a question I hadn’t considered before and I’m seldom disappointed. I still have the weekend plus a day or two before I point the Mazda uphill. I will have to agonize whether to have a praline. If I do I’ll want another, and another; and if I don’t, I’ll feel cheated. What’s more sinful than caramelized sugar and pecans? Then I’ll browse through the tourist traps with their lusty, inappropriate T-shirts. My favorite is the black one with big white letters, ‘JESUS LOVES YOU’; below that the small print reads, ‘. . . but the rest of us think you’re an Ass Hole.’ I’ve bought that shirt several times and always been talked out of it up north somewhere. The pralines are up in the air but I will have a 1/4 muffuletta at Central Grocery, on Decatur St. Olive salad and hard salami on a 9” bun is too much for me. I used to split one with a friend but even that’s too much now. Peeling the butcher paper off a 1/4 muffuletta will be just one ‘New Beginning’ in a long day of fresh starts. 

O.K. 2015, it will take a while to get used to signing cheques, receipts and forms. I still need to buy a new calendar/organizer. Most of my notes and memos go in the computer but I keep a hard copy in my laptop case as a backup. Have no idea when my dentist or doctor want to see me but they will call, they always do. It’s 70 degrees in Louisiana but it will be serious winter when I get back to where I came from. I don’t mind the cold but I hate the gray. Swim early, coffee with amigos, afternoon making saw dust and find some music after dinner. Sounds like winter.