OMG

It’s a gray day in Grand Haven, MI, spitting, wishing it could rain. I’m in my office this morning, looking out my corner window at people walking briskly with steaming coffee and wind breakers, up and down Washington Street. ’Coffee Grounds’ is my part-time, some-time, spiritual retreat. Coffee is the best. Toast your own bagel and chase it with a big, chocolate chunk cookie. I’ve got my smart phone charging and life is pretty good. I went to the beach yesterday, thinking the wind might be blowing up some whitecaps but it was placid and overcast. Still, you take photographs. It’s like signing in at the desk; you were there and who knows, maybe you get lucky. 

I looked out the channel to the lighthouse and something didn’t jell. Not much going on but something was amiss even at that. Shades of gray and OMG: the catwalk was gone. For ever; as long as I’ve been coming to Grand Haven the red lighthouse and black, elevated catwalk have been the town’s fingerprint. As you walked out the pier, almost a quarter mile, it was under and around the heavy, black iron work that bridged up the old walkway, from shore to the lighthouse itself. In the old days when the light keeper had to negotiate heavy weather, to and from shore, the catwalk was the only way. With a life line attached, one could work from hand hold to hand hold, 15 ft. above the pier and the waves crashing over it. Of course it’s all automated now. GPS and radar have rendered the light unnecessary, except for its scenic value. But you love it, absolutely love it when you trip the shutter in the same split second the light glows red and a big wave explodes up and over the breakwater. 
The catwalk isn’t there; just gone. Its old pier mountings are still jutting up a foot or so in two straight lines, running out to the lonely looking, little red lighthouse. I don’t know why they did it. I’m sure it was a good reason. That piece of work would have been very expensive and something surely must be safer or improved but I’ve that yet to find out. As I stood at the breech, the route out to the end looked more precarious, more dangerous without the catwalk. If you were crazy enough to be on the pier during heavy weather, you could get behind and hold onto the iron work. Now it looks more like I remember, kids walking the railroad track; nothing to lean on, nothing to hold onto. Falling off the track might skin you up but falling in that water, any weather, would put even a strong swimmer at risk. People drown in this water every year and now the catwalk is gone. But things change, even the things you love and you can go along or you can live in the past. Someday soon this will be the new normal. 

FOLLY

In 1994 I was an Environmental Issues Resource Teacher at Nowlin Middle School, in Independence, Missouri. My area of expertise was plant science (‘Botany’ sounds so tedious,) with a classroom converted into a lab and a newly constructed greenhouse. My best friend there was Rick Clear, another resource teacher, the I.T. guy for our school. Rick had been a world class, middle distance runner in the early 1980’s, narrowly missed qualifying for the ’84 Olympics. He was a Major in the Army Reserve, Commanding Officer of a unit in Cape Girardeau. MO. We were forever playing practical jokes on each other. 

That spring, I was enrolled in an environmental workshop at the Marriott in Jefferson City, MO. It ran Thursday-noon through Saturday-noon. The day before, we realized we would be in the same hotel only I would be checking out as he was checking in. He and his wife Patsy would be at a high-brow, full dress, Army Reserve banquet there. I told him, maybe I could slip in and we could share an extra desert. Rick gave me a condescending grin and assured me, there was no way in hell that I’d be in that room at dinner time. I didn’t think much about it until Saturday morning as we were wrapping up our workshop. Then I remembered his comment in our office.

We checked out before noon and the banquet wasn’t until 5:00 but they were setting up the grand ballroom as I took my suitcase to the car. Then, sometimes, things just take on a life of their own and you get carried away. I found the banquet manager and told him my story; I wanted to upstage my friend’s smug arrogance. “Can I put on a server’s shirt and tie, and serve him his meal? Can we maybe, put scraps under the lid instead of his prime rib?” The man’s sly grin was his answer. I had some time to kill but that would be easy. 

But by the time they began seating the officers and their ladies, an intricate plan had been devised equal to a plot twist in a Tom Clancy novel. I was in my borrowed white shirt, black bow tie and black apron. Seating had been prearranged by the military, according to rank. Rick and Patsy would be at a table to the right and back from the head table. Meals were stacked on carts in the tunnel, labeled by table number. I waited in the wings until our table was next. The other servers were all in on it, like spies on a secret mission. When everyone at Rick’s table had been served, I came up from behind. He never saw it coming. I reached over his shoulder, sat the plate down in front of him. He was talking across the table; never looked up. I lifted the metal cover and said, “Enjoy your meal Sir.” He looked at his plate, barren except for two, dried up, turkey-drumstick-bones. Then he looked up at me. It was like a boxing combination, left hook and right cross, enough to knock you out. He looked at his plate and back at me, like a bobblehead doll. I said, “No way in hell I could be in this room!” I turned and walked, never looked back. “Frank, Frank; hey. . . Wait . . . What are you doing here. . . He’s not a waiter, I work with him. . . Hey, what’s going on?” and I was in the kitchen. I thanked the banquet manager, changed clothes and was out the door. Rick got his prime rib but it came at a price. 

Monday morning, all he could do was purse his lips and shake his head. He didn’t get in any trouble, the people at his table loved it while nobody else seemed to notice. He swore he would get even but he never did. Six years later he had made Lieutenant Colonel, had left the school district for a job in the private sector. I left a couple of years before that and was teaching in Allendale, Michigan. In his last year at Nowlin Middle he misappropriated some money and had been found out. They were going to press charges. A mutual friend called me. In the wee morning hours, Rick had driven to a parking lot at a near by lake, duct-taped a hose from his exhaust, through the window and he took his own life. 

He used to tell me, all I needed was to start coming to his church. But I think that was part of his undoing, a self righteous Faith and the devil made me do it. The shame of being found out was too much for his Baptist dichotomy. I miss my friend and I would forgive him for his folly but I never put much stock in his advice. 

CRUZAR LA FRONTERA

In the dim glint of a lone street light, my bus turned the corner and stopped. I climbed aboard, surrendered my ticket, stowed my suitcase in the overhead, my back pack in my lap and picked the window seat opposite the driver.  In the dark-dark of the wee hours we eased out of El Calafate. Frost on the inside of the window, the rattle that only diesel engines make and a young couple in the back are what I remember. Our bus was really a shuttle van with 15 or 16 seats. We had been to see the glacier, Perito Moreno the day before. Other than that, you can shop all of the gift shops, museums and art galleries in town in the same hour so it was time to leave.

  In any other direction the roads are smooth and they go somewhere. But to the west, all that waits is a narrow thread that turns tighter and climbs higher as you go. You doze off in little naps, waking up to bumps and sharp turns but no sign of daylight. Then you notice; it’s still dark but you can see up and down the mountain side, beyond the short, thin reach of headlights. A cloudy, overcast morning had arrived without fanfare and the view was less than spell binding. 

Crossing from Argentina into Chile requires a breech, over the Andes. Unlike the Rockies, the forests are mostly hardwoods that drop their leaves in winter, where drab shades of gray prevail. There would be no lofty peaks or high passes that day but on my side, the drop off side; the road had turned to gravel, there was no guard rail and the margin for error would be measured in inches. From Calafate to Puerto Natales, you need an airplane or you have to drive this road. Under my breath I mouthed the words; Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou . . . but not being Catholic, not knowing the rest of it, I looked up ahead rather than down. 

We slowed down, stopped for a short minute. There were sheep on the road. Our climb had leveled out in a high valley with small stands of naked trees, low hills and sparse vegetation. Up ahead, there were low buildings and pens, full of sheep, lots of sheep. In passing, the barns, sheds and houses were made of stone with gabled roofs but there were no lights on inside. Smoke leaked out from chimneys, dogs were running around and trucks parked here and there idled, exhaust ebbing from tail pipes in the cold, thin air. It was surreal, like little Billy looking through the window as the train crossed bridges and frozen lakes in the movie, Polar Express.

A few short minutes later, we were above the village in the woods, navigating a two track with rock outcroppings and mud holes. In the old days, people were Shanghaied, taken without their consent to work without pay on sailing ships. I wondered if that was our fate, working in a sheep camp. Up the way, the trees opened up into a clearing. The road split, one lane on either side of another stone building and a flag pole reaching high above the roof. We stopped short of the building, were told to gather our belongings, everything, and follow the driver inside. 

Daylight had ushered us into the new day but the receiving room was dark. The walls were the same, unfinished stone work as the outside. With only the glass in the door and a small skylight, it was no better than under the street light back in Calafate. We stood and waited. Our driver told us, “Èl estarà aquì pronto.” I understood. My Spanish was better than I thought. He, whoever he was, would be there soon. Then a door opened at the back of the room. I thought, ‘This is better than a movie.’ He was fifty-ish, tall, balding with ruddy, coarse facial features and a paunchy stomach. His tan shirt was neither buttoned nor tucked in and his olive green uniform didn’t fit. He could have been a movie star and us, extras on the set of a John Huston or Steven Spielberg movie. 

He processed the couple first. When my turn came I had a clue as to how it worked. I opened my suitcase on a table behind the counter and moved away. Still too dark to read, he manned a tiny flashlight to check my passport and probe through my stuff. He didn’t check my back pack but mumbled in Spanish, ending with a slight rise in pitch which indicated it was a question. I was good with the bus driver when he spoke slowly but mumbling was beyond me. I shrugged and said, “Perdòn.” I’m sorry. With a grumpy look and more mumbling he looked over to the driver who translated; “He wants to know if you have any alcohol and where you are going?” I could handle this; “No alcohol y Puero Natales.” He wasn’t impressed but he stamped my passport, turned and walked back through the door he had come from. We repacked, got in the van and drove again, up the bumpy road. Within a mile or so, we came to another building in the middle of the road. This one was modern with big windows and electric lights. The van turned around short of a swinging, railroad style barrier, unloaded; the driver wished us well, gestured toward the outpost and drove back toward Argentina. We had crossed the frontier a few hundred meters back. 

Once inside, two young men in civilian clothes greeted us in both Spanish and English. “Welcome to Chile. You are safe here.” We did the border crossing protocol but with great attention to detail, more questions, had to empty my suitcase and back pack, checked pockets and containers. I passed easily, in my native tongue. An hour or so later, another van arrived from the west. It was our ride south, to Puerto Natales. The road was paved, down from the pass, through the valleys, the orchards and farmlands. The driver explained, on the Argentina side the village has a generator but they don’t make electricity unless it is something important like charging batteries, running computers or power tools. Each house would have several lanterns and maybe one light bulb, if they were hooked up to the grid. On both sides of the border, all over Patagonia, they heat with wood stoves or portable space heaters and they don’t heat unoccupied rooms. 

Chileans are proud with a condescending attitude toward Argentina. They have a strong economy with good government which has eluded Argentina since the days of military dictators. Still, I found Chileans to be self centered and (‘ambitious’ is the word we use for ourselves when ‘greedy’ is the word we use for others with the same condition’.) - they were - “What’s in it for me?” greedy. Argentines on the other hand, especially when you get away from big cities like Buenos Aries, have less but care and share more. They practice what I have believed for most of my life; sometimes you have a live and sometimes life has you - and we are all in this together. Both countries take their borders seriously, with a greeting or a grunt. But then you don’t judge a book by its cover. 

HAIDT

 

I am just rambling this morning, nothing special to process or share. I’m reading a book now that I find disturbing. The word ‘disturb’ can be taken to mean several things. In my case it’s not about anxiety or displeasure, rather, about the ordering or arrangement of things or ideas. If you rearrange the room, you have to relearn its new order or you collide with chairs and tables until you do. When old, familiar, trusted ideas are challenged, you can dismiss the challenge for the sake of comfort and convenience or you can pick it up to see where it goes. 

The link between psychology and philosophy is necessary. Philosophy presumes a credible understanding of how and why people behave as they do = Psychology. So they lean on each other until one or the other moves its feet and the relationship wobbles. We all dabble with both disciplines, some with intent and others by default but few make it a life’s work. I am a dabbler. What I’m reading now is challenging and I need to follow it through. 

Jonathan Haidt is a psychologist. Some psychology majors end up selling insurance or used cars but Haidt is the real-deal researcher. His book, “The Happiness Hypothesis” is about how the mind works. Through the early to late 1900’s, researchers had been content to think of the mind as a complicated but singular construct. In the age of technology, the computer became the metaphor for the brain, the mind and how it all works. It was all about processing information.

In the past 25 years, that model has lost its mojo, across the board. Haidt just happens to be the one who wrote this book. What is emerging is, a model where the brain is divided, sometimes competing with itself. With MRI’s and other noninvasive research tools, we can observe the brain at work, all of it. Metaphor: Imagine a man sitting on an elephant. The man represents the part of the brain/mind that is accessible; we have control over it. The elephant is the part that is unavailable. Not only can we not control it, we can’t even perceive it. It is the, always working, automatic function. According to Haidt, the man (conscious-available brain) believes he controls the (unconscious-unavailable brain) the elephant. But any time the elephant wants, it can refuse to be controlled and the man is simply a passenger. The updated metaphor changes from a data processing computer to a committee of share holders, each representing its own particular concerns. The man supplies important information but the committee (the elephant) decides on which behavior to act out.

Giving up the old computer metaphor is not going to be easy. Haidt’s book is to me, like preaching to the choir. I have been inclined to think and wonder in the same direction for a long time. The path he follows feels good and in the end, that’s more powerful than anything we can prove or understand. Die hard moralists, idealists, free will addicts will cringe and dismiss such stuff; after all, what do researchers know? We are truly addicted to believing we are in control. But if that control is corrupted before the decision is made, then the Dalai Lama was ahead of his time when he said, “Relax, no one is in control.” 

It is good to keep things in perspective. In spite of religious push back and human hubris, evolution is! It’s a reaction first, then a mover. Without a stimulus, evolution would stop in its tracks. Like a car, racing through the darkness, in reverse, with its headlights on: you only see where you’ve been and what you’ve left behind. You don’t get to see where you are going. The perception of control is intoxicating, it’s the stuff hubris is made of. I’m only three chapters in and I can’t put it down. Whatever I learn, whatever I can’t get my head around, it’s not going to be the last word on thinking or behavior. Life is short. Work! Play! Rest! Try to learn something.

LIP BLUBBERING

I have taken leave from my FaceBook account. I realized the other day that there is no joy there. It began as a cool way to keep in touch but that didn’t last. Now FB is just a lot of uninvited, electronic junk mail. If someone sends me a message, I get a notice on my telephone and I can check it without suffering through the adds, insults and pet pictures. Still, I took some pet pictures a couple of weeks ago that I’d like to share. 

Once upon a time, The ‘Robinson’ family was shipwrecked on a remote island and. . . no, wait, that was the Swiss Family Robinson. My story is about the Scottish Family Robinson. They lived on a wonderful old farm a mile or so west of us in St. Joseph County, Michigan. Mrs. Robinson was a teacher at our elementary school, had two of my kids in 3rd grade, different years. I was a high school science teacher in the same district; had her youngest in my Biology II class. James Q. was plenty smart but didn’t particularly care about being the Number 1 GPA in the class. He just wanted to learn everything about everything. His energy and motivation elevated the scope and depth of instruction, much to the angst of others in the class. I gave them open ended assignments to chose a research topic of their choice, from a list I provided; (anaerobic respiration, environmental succession, nerve impulses, etc.) write a paper, 3 pages, 3 sources. This was 1982 and they didn’t like it, all except J.Q. 

J.Q. was several years ahead of my oldest boy but they were friends. He went off to Michigan State to study Veterinary Medicine but we kept in touch. He went on to teach Veterinary Medicine at a university on St. Kitts in the Caribbean. We tried to get together last year in Michigan but something happened and we missed. A few weeks ago, we tried again. His father had passed away and he was back on the family farm, working at a clinic in Indiana. We had lunch and he invited me out to the farm. His mother at 96 still gets around very well in the big house. Two of his sisters lived there with her. I stayed for supper. 

I noticed Mr. Robinson’s pets outside in the pasture between the house and the road. He loved playing his bagpipes and working his draft horses, kept teams for farm work and for competition at county and state fairs. They had excellent tractors but you still have to feed horses when you use the tractor. Some people train small dogs to run obstacle courses; others train really, really big horses to pull heavy, heavy loads. They were his babies. We went through the gate at the corner of the yard. When they saw us they came running, not hungry, just curious, just wanting some attention. I understand when a Rottweiler or Doberman leans hard against you it’s a clear message. With half a dozen horses it’s not leaning, just getting close enough for some hands-on affection. Everybody gets moved around and we take it personally. The patting on the neck and smoothing the jaw; the smell of horse flesh is one of a kind. It only took a fraction of a second to digress, I was 8 or 9, coaxing our horse up to the gate with a hand full of grain. I would climb up, grab a hand full of mane and pull myself aboard, then turn around, lay down with my chest on his rump, put my head down on folded arms. We would lazy our way around the pasture, all afternoon, out of earshot, out of sight. 

With his dad gone, the horses don’t get the attention they were accustomed to. His sister still works them but not as often, not the same. They were happy to see us. As much as I loved having them so close, breathing on me, nuzzling my chest, doing that sloppy-horse, lip blubbering, I had to keep track of their feet. They weren’t interested at all where mine were. It was driving all day, back to Missouri the next day but I came with some great photographs. Thanks J.Q. 

NOBODY'S FOOL

All it takes to spoil my day is an exposé on private prisons or Dick Cheney and Halliburton. Then it trickles down to big business and businessmen. Who do I think of then? It’s not the guy who has the Sherwin-Williams paint store in the strip mall. It’s not the part time contractor who installed my on-demand hot water heater at night because he has another day job. It’s not the man whose restaurant burned last month, who is rebuilding in another location. I know they have to jump through hoops, keep more records and file more paper work than a special education teacher. I know they struggle just to be their own boss and if they go broke, only their insurance company cares. I don’t think of them. I think of CEO’s and managers whose only purpose is to grow the business, regardless of who goes under the bus. I think of men and women whose business is better bombs, bullets and mercenaries who call themselves contractors. I understand national security and the home of the brave but they profit from other’s misery, just like Pay Day Loans and private, for-profit prisons. 

Once, JFK made an off the cuff observation; “Businessmen are bastards.” Businessmen were outraged; the bastards. Before that, my mother was either incredibly perceptive or she listened to someone who was. She said, “Business works two ways. For everyone doing business, someone is getting it, the business.” When I was a kid it was the union that kept us from getting the business. Times change and people forget; some don’t want to know. Stockholders are too important to lose money, much less fail. They are too important to make just a reasonable return; it has to be unprecedented. People are expendable. So much for the new capitalism. 

I live a charmed life with low expectations and a low profile. My secret is; I am sustained by Educated, White, Male, Christian privilege. Even though I shun the church, I have been steeped in its culture all my life and I can’t shake it off. I know smarter, harder working black men who struggle, day to day while I can coast. A well meaning preacher told me not to fret over it; my job is to live the best life I can. Good fortune (Privilege) is not my fault. But I do feel its weight. It’s part of our Puritan legacy. It is sinful to receive more than you’ve earned. It is very important to ‘Deserve’ a good life. Even if it's only a small privilege, we want to believe we deserve every morsel of the good life we enjoy. After all, we are the 'Work Hard-Work Smart' people who made this country great. God approved of slavery then; in southern cotton fields and in northern industry where white immigrants had to solicit their own masters and then work forever to pay off the company store - and we'll call it the Land Of The Free. The preacher was full of the stinky, brown stuff because he was riding the wave on somebody else’s sweat and he knew it. But then Joseph Campbell said, “We can’t fix the sorrows of the world, but we can chose to live with joy.” So I’ll stay with Campbell, if not a hero at least an honest scholar. Then there’s JFK, and not to leave out my mother, nobody’s fool. I’ll feel better tomorrow. 

RIGHT HERE

“So, where are yah now?” Pause . . . I smile and reply, “I’m right here.” Another pause; you get that puzzled, hollow stare. “No, I know you’re here right now but where’re you from now?” I know it seems I don’t know where I’m from because I’m having to think about it. I have to decide if I concede to convention or be real. I understand that my Normal is comfortable for me but not so much others. I have intelligent, responsible friends who remind me as needed, I move to a different drum. The feeling of being different can either cripple or empower the psyche but sometimes all it does is make you feel isolated. My friend Kirk is waiting for an answer and I’m still thinking. All he really wants is a way into a conversation; how you’ve been, what have you been up to and so far, I haven’t given him anything. Do I cave-in to his version of normal? I could make up a story; that would be fun but someone would out-me. “I’ve been in prison in India for killing cows.”  There would be another pause; “Yeh, bread and water for 11 years, hanging upside down, getting the Chinese water torture. You should’ve been there.” Then, not everyone appreciates my humor and I guess I do move to a different drum. He’s still waiting for an answer.

I often answer that question honestly; “I try not to be from.” Social security, the IRS and your bank require an address where they can send registered mail. If you don’t check your mail now and then, respond to official notices; they get testy. So my driver’s license has an address on it and the IRS has the same one in their file. But my belongings live in another state and most likely, I’m not there either. I don’t want to be defined by where I’m from, if you will. I’m a long way from almost everywhere. I pay my taxes but I’m just a little fish still, bureaucrats with their lines in the water from every state and town where I receive mail think I should belong to them. Taxes are important but even so, we have been nurtured at the nipple of, “Where you from?” It’s about identity and I simply don’t want to be painted into that corner. 

I asked my friend, “Does it really matter?” He chews on that for a few seconds, smiles and says, “No, I guess it doesn’t.” We start talking and we’re into a good conversation. He likes traditional, familiar things, packaged in predictable fashion. He’s lived in the same county all of his life. His kids grew up and moved away but he’s still there. The worst thing that could happen to him is to lose that grounded sense of time and place. I was his football coach a very long time ago. Of all the kids I ever coached, running full speed, he could gather himself physically, drop his hips and extend his body up and through a ball carrier like nobody I know. All I ever taught him was where to line up and that failure is temporary; not to fear failure. He thanked me for being a good role model; I returned the compliment. 

Another former player saw us, came over and slid into the conversation. “Hey Coach, how you been?” I said I was finer than frog hair and we laughed. “Where are you now?” Pause. . .I looked at Kirk, we both smiled. “I’m right here.” You know what comes nest. “No, where do you live?” Kirk leans forward and asks, “Does it really matter?” In the next breath we were rehashing the ’75 White Pigeon game. We won in three overtimes on an automatic call between me, the QB and the center. If they lined up like we thought they would, the call was, 4-2nd man, a power play to the right. If the nose-man shifted to either side, then we snap the ball on the ‘Goose’ (as soon as QB’s hands go in) without a snap signal; and QB sneak in the gap they give us. Touchdown! We’re League Champs. Maybe the slickest coaching call I ever made. Forty years after the fact we were all leaning back in our chairs, hooting, little boys again. Nobody cared at all where I was from. 

Today I’m in a coffee shop in Grand Haven, Michigan. It’s as good a place to be from as I can manage. I think the, ‘WHERE YOU FROM - WHO’S YOUR MAMA” stuff is simply a Stone Age remnant. l think we do it without thinking, like dogs that circle before they lie down. We don’t need it any more but old habits are hard to break.