YULE BOCK

Have you ever noticed that any obstacle, no matter how small, can keep you from doing what needs to be done if the ‘needs-to-be-done’ thing is something you didn’t really want to do? 

Oh my! That sounds like something Andy Rooney would have said in his little, 3 minute gig that closed out the CBS program, “60 Minutes”. I wrote a piece about Andy a few years ago: he passed (died) in 2011 but was one one of my favorite television personalities. He did have a way with words. I don’t try to copy Andy’s style but then again, neither can I escape his influence. 

I will soon be stuck on the bubble between years. It begins to inflate like a Sleep Number Bed until you are teetering for balance on its north pole. The annual bubble doesn’t have a special day. It is just the period when you feel conflicted between last year’s number and the new one. It matters when dating cheques and forms you have to fill out every time you go to the doctor or dentist. Let me see, nooooo. . . I don’t think I’ve had pulmonary diarrhea in the last year; now where do I sign and date this, and how many more places do I have to sign? The bubble lasts until after the last time you write in the wrong year and you have to start over with another blank page. Then one day you wake up cured. 

This holiday season has been filled with parties and open houses more so than any season I can remember. We Unitarians celebrate this season with a month of Yule Bock open houses and parties. There have been 2 or 3 per week, one on Christmas day; they run on well into January. A full week after the New Year we turn Pagan with the burning of the goat. Old Norse custom was to honor Thor, the God of Thunder who rode around the heavens in a cart pulled by two bocks, (goats). So his followers, that would be us (tongue in cheek) fashion a huge, straw goat with festive red harness and bridle. At our last party someone is appointed (a great honor) to set the Bock ablaze. We torch the old Billy in the parking lot, stand by with a fire extinguisher as the straw crackles and the smoke unfurls. A shot of Scotch or Grog or Vino or even Cider will be lifted and a spiritually correct toast will be raised. 

Last week I went to the old, warehouse district, 6th & Central Street in KC. The building was built in the 1880’s but has been upgraded to quarter-million dollar condos. The woman who lives there opened up the Yule Bock party to her neighbors in the building so I met some new-to-me people and that was cool. The 16’ ceilings created an echo chamber effect which rendered my hearing aids useless. I went back to reading lips but body language was crystal clear. I was in a safe place with like minded people. I drank hot-spiced cider. I’ve learned that my alcohol tolerance allows for responsible behavior but balance and coordination take a hit with the first drink. So away from home I might sip a few ounces of wine or an even thinner slice of brandy but it was hot cider for my toast and nobody cared at all. 

When I arrived I had to announce myself through the security key pad at the door. When my host answered I identified myself, confirmed I was talking to the right lady, who I did not know well enough to connect the name with the face. She would have to give the door permission to open. She said she would call her daughter to come down and let me in. I thought it a little odd but then what do I know! Another party goer with their own pass word let me in and I arrived not knowing still, who was who. As the night progressed I learned that the mother, whose party it was, had unexpectedly been needed in California, where she was when I spoke with her through the key pad security connection. Her daughter, the lady who hosted in her mother’s place is a Unitarian as well. I recognized her face and thought I had connected the dots but again, what do I know! I didn’t give it a second thought but I’m sure Andy Rooney would have given it a 3 minute ride had he been around. 

BLESSING

This morning as I was doing my morning chores, hygiene, clothes, winding my watch, coffee, it occurred to me that I had no direct contact yesterday with another person. I can’t be certain but odds are that over the day and night, I never said a word out loud. I am not bemoaning a case of the lonesome blues. Solitude is a blessing if you believe in blessings. I did text message my son a photo and did text two of my favorite women, one with a ‘Good Morning’ and the other with a ‘Goodnight’. I got warm replies from the ladies which was indirect but affection in any form is worth the wait. 

Yesterday was a damp, cold day with no reason to go out into the post-Christmas decompression. Working in my wood shop has been a blessing: I need a better word. ‘Blessing’ is back loaded with Holy-Moly hyperbole that I don’t embrace. Believers qualify blessings by the source rather than the blessing itself.  ‘Good Fortune’ is blessing enough but the word lacks something. On a word search I came up with ‘Favored’ and ‘Lucky’ but either way, when something good happens that I didn’t earn, maybe don’t deserve I feel blessed. Blessings can come from anywhere, precipitate out of thin air like fog on the glass. I can give my own, personal blessing; ‘Bless You’! You have been blessed. There is no cheque in the mail nor will I be dropping off a fruit cake for your delight. Still, when I have the chance I’ll be a good listener and a willing accomplice. it may be a thin, short lived blessing but a blessing no less. 

In my wood shop, since I’ve reorganized and added some new tools, even house keeping leaves me feeling blessed. I can work for an hour, maybe and hour and a half, then I have to go do something else. Yesterday was a four-session day in the shop. When you are waiting for glue to dry, four rounds in the basement take all day. Today will find me there but I will go out. It’s not that I need the human interaction but I actually do have things to do. It’s getting light outside, my new coffee maker is out of brew and I have a list. I never used to make lists but that was when memory was a pup.  I have an easy-erase white board on the kitchen door and it’s organized into columns and numbered with things-to-remember. All in all, I’m feeling both enriched and endowed and if that ain’t blessed it’s close enough. In my lexicon the words ‘bless’ and ‘curse’ are antonyms of each other and to be cursed does not require a pious caveat. If, in certain contexts ’Good’ and ‘Bad’ can switch identities, then a ‘Blessing’ can be secular and I can be blessed with blessings whenever it suits me. Actually, after all my word play, leave out the Holy-Moly and I think blessings are good Karma coming back around. When you get down to it Karma is like God, a metaphor to which we attribute things we can't deny but don't understand.

SNEEZE

  Kalamazoo to Chicago makes a great day trip, where we went to the Museum of Science & Industry. Naturally, for a science teacher it would bring out the inner child, like a kid in a toy store, so many cool exhibits and hands on displays. Full size airplanes hung from the ceiling, light was scattered by a great glass prism and there was even a captured German submarine from WW2. But the most impressive, best remembered feature was the Gravity Well. It is large, a meter or more in diameter, a funnel that is nearly flat at the top like the bell of a french horn. But as you move inward the pitch steepens until the neck of the funnel drops into a vertical shaft with a radius of only an inch or so. Around the top edge is a slot-like track where you can drop coins and watch them roll down onto the surface of the gravity well. Momentum carries it out onto the nearly flat surface but the gentle slope to the middle makes the penny’s path start to curve in a downward spiral.

Once the penny has acquired an irreversible trajectory it seems to gain speed. But it doesn’t really gain speed, not if the designer got the math right, it only sounds like it. The sound of the coin going ‘round and ‘round would be boring but the doppler effect holds your attention. Moving around and away from the ear, the sound pitch lowers, only to rise again as it makes the turn and starts coming back. The sound gradient is so small but still important to keep the onlooker engaged.  

Obviously, everything has been calibrated to keep the penny on course, not to lose its way, not to wobble or fall. Its round shape and the coefficient between its mass and the pitch of the slope keep the coin rolling, descending on a predictable path. This is really, way-cool stuff. As the coin sinks deeper into the well its speed remains the same,(speed=distance/time). So said, revolutions inside the well increase their frequency. The coin makes more circles in less time but without any change in (d/t). At the bottom of the well the penny disappears into a black hole. Wow; gravity wells and black holes, you should have known that was coming. That story will have to wait for another day. By that time the penny’s ‘round-&-‘round is at seemingly break-neck speed. It loses the pulsating doppler RRRRrrrr-RRRR-rrrr to a buzzing sound. The impending fate of the whirring coin was our only concern. Then it’s all quiet.

In our case, my kids all respond the same: heads turned with a wondrous grin. They looked back to the bottom of the gravity well, turn to their dad and held out a hand, an unspoken request for another penny. They had no reservations about putting several coins in the slot, one after another so the sight and sound were compounded. The museum doesn’t make a lot of money on the gravity well but still, they got all of my pocket change. When you run out of pennies, all you can do is graduate to nickels and dimes. I tried to stop the run on my coin purse but we were hooked. We rolled quarters down the chute until there was nothing left in my pockets but lint. When was the last time you went to the Museum of Science & Industry! Next time, take a roll of pennies.

It’s a pretty good model, a metaphor for the lead up to Christmas. The slow, day to day calendar watching follows a set cadence but the tempo picks up just like the coin down the chute. Finally, in the moment of truth, all the money has been spent and everybody grins. My Xmas started unfolding on the 22nd. We ate too much and filled a barrel with wrapping paper. There were four generations of family in the house and we all went home friends. 

The come & go of New Years is more like a sneeze; not much preparation, little or no warning, your eyes blink and it’s over. The New Year can be a new beginning but you have to make it so. I experience new beginnings all the time, who needs a holiday or a season to start over or try something new, sort of like a sneeze. I don’t think life, at least no mine, is metered out in years. We try to make it so but I think this life is served up in moments that pass so fast you can’t capture them like hanging your hat on a hook. The moment is so busy, so complicated, it passes so quickly that assimilating a year in one day would require a wild imagination, run amok no less. But I’m starting to feel a New Year’s Sneeze coming on. I will be ready with some eggnog and a handkerchief. 

. . . AND I SAY, IT'S ALL RIGHT

I am feeling sort of like comedian John Candy, the bumbling houseguest who wears out his welcome. But somehow he redeems himself, making his exit with enough grace and affection to get a thin but real invitation to, “Come back again.” It seems, in the weeks since Thanksgiving that I’ve worn friends and family thin with my enthusiasm for Winter Solstice. I have the self imposed task of promoting Solstice. If I don’t do it, who will? Western (Christian) civilization has systematically supplanted Baby Jesus’s birthday in place the world’s oldest, longest continuously celebrated holiday. Baby J was born in the spring if the biblical account is correct. Shepherds were back out in the fields with their flocks; it was tax time in the Roman Empire, spring time. Christmas is awesome with wonderful stories to suit everyone’s appetite but my mission, if I accept it (Mission Impossible), is to restore a calendar correct Honoring for the first begotten Sun. 

So for those who have forgotten, for sure in the past 6,000 years and certainly long before that, humans have noticed the sun’s orbit sinking lower and lower in the south (Northern Hemisphere) as summer slips into fall and the onset of cold weather foretells the approaching winter. Way down in Africa of course, where it all began, the shadows stretched north. They saw it coming and knew the hardships that came with it. As shadows lengthened, old people in their 30’s and even kids would commiserate; “Oooh man, it’s gonna’ get cold, really, really cold.” Then, when the resident Shadow-Shaman noticed, the shadow cast by the sacred post or rock stopped its longer-ing and began to shorten. The Sun was on the rise again and that was good news. It would take a long, hard winter before it got high overhead again with warm breezes and mild weather but you gotta’ have faith. Every year, same-o same-o; they counted the days and there was a pattern. So they were able to anticipate the awesome day that the Sun started coming back. It did not spare them the hardships of winter but like other mysterious, unexplainable, miraculous things, it also carried the promise of Spring. Devout believers of all religions are still invested in promises of one kind or another. Something really troubling is going to get a lot better if you can stick it out a little longer. 

I will celebrate that shortening of shadows here in a few hours. I usually have company where we sit around a wood fire, commune with dark chocolate and brandy, listen to Sun significant music, stand up and shuffle our feet if it feels just right. I think about my long-distant forbearers, what it must have been like when you were educated if you knew the difference between 20 and 25 and you were really old if you lived long enough to see your grandchildren. But they were every bit as smart as the 21st Century smarty pants. They just had to know for sure about a jillion things that are no longer relevant. When snow is on the ground we don’t have to know where to look for leeks or dandelion root. 

I remember how good it felt to sing with my class mates, “. . . above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.”  Now I take comfort singing along with George Harrison, his song “Here Comes The Sun”  My solstice song goes, "It seems like years since its been here. Little Darlin’, here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say, it’s all right." I like the heretic’s life, it is a good fit. Take away believing in the unbelievable and the Obedience clause: doubt doesn't address the hereafter but it's really liberating in the here and now. Not to fault anybody’s religion. If it fits wear it, go in peace, judge not lest you be judged, do no harm and live as best you can. 

Tomorrow the daylight hours will have increased by a few seconds, not that we will notice but it is the implied promise and year after year, it hasn’t failed in all of human history. By tomorrow night I will have shifted completely into Christmas mode. My family will be celebrating Christmas together with sinfully rich food, plenty of outrageous foolishness and my pagan tendencies will either go unnoticed or be forgiven. 

SIT WHEREVER YOU LIKE

Any Tuesday evening around 6:30, you can get a free meal at 9th & Oak Street in Kansas City. Last night it included hot dogs, lasagna, green bean casserole, chicken chili, that baked, sliced potato dish all covered with cheese that my mother used to make, dinner rolls, cookies, brownies, energy bars, bottled water, coffee and hot cider. You don’t need a coupon and there’s no password, you just show up, get in line and take your turn. You say, “Yes, please” and hold out your plate for whatever you want and hold back on what you don’t. In either case you say “Thank you” and move on. Once served you can sit wherever you like. Behind the serving line is an urban green space, a well maintained city park with trees, walkways and benches. There is a low retaining wall along the sidewalk that sits well and curb seating accommodates latecomers. 

Last night there was several inches of snow on the ground; the wind had settled but it was cold. Still, as if by magic, at 6:20 several cars, trucks, vans pulled up, set up tables, quickly organized and put out containers of donated food. I was on the handle end of a ladle, loading 10 oz coffee cups with chicken chili. I wore really good, wool socks and insulated hiking boots, long johns, jeans and several layers up top under a heavy, hooded Carhartt coat. My gloves kept my hands warm but fingers and toes went cold after 15 minutes of standing in one spot. Hungry humans off the street were dressed, catch as catch can, as best they could. When you see beggars carrying backpacks, loaded shopping bags and dragging suitcases to dinner, it’s because it is all of their possessions. 

David was next to me up the serving line pouring coffee and hot cider. A crusty old guy with long white hair and beard, he is a regular, reliable volunteer with “K.C. Heroes”, a volunteer group that figures largely in the Tuesday meals program. Last night, besides his task, he helped me keep cups and containers organized. Cleaning up afterward I checked my smart phone; the temp was 23 degrees. 

If my friend Mark is like Don Quixote then I would be Sancho Panza; he drives, solicits and collects donated food, cooks and organizes along with K.C. Heroes. He convinced me that I should volunteer. David the coffee dude needed a ride last night so we drove him across town to a seedy neighborhood, a borderline barrio with residents and business’s that reflect every ethnicity; let him out in front of an old, 3 story, brick apartment building. 

On our ride home I asked about David and Mark explained, he was homeless as well. He noted the difference between being homeless and unsheltered. The latter being, not only homeless but not having access to any public or private buildings for the purpose of shelter. David lives unsheltered in a tent in the woods near the VA Hospital. There is a camp there; not a safe place but the folks who call that wood lot Home do try to take care of each other. In extreme cold, he has a friend in old NorthEast, just off Independence Boulevard who lets him sleep on the sofa. It violates her lease agreement so they have to sleep dressed, in the living room with the lights on and a card table set up. The landlord does watch who comes and goes and if it looks like unauthorized dwellers are present, he calls the police. When the police announce and enter they find friends playing cards; no vagrants, no problem.

As much as I’d like to think otherwise, I volunteer as much to ease my conscience as to exercise altruism. I truly identify with disenfranchised people. I don’t think anybody deserves anything; we get what we get. Nobody makes bad choices so they can fail. All decisions are inert until they unfold and you find out how well you read the tea leaves. I think about all the people who did the right thing and went to work in the towers on 9/11. We are creatures of habit and what worked once upon a time can be your undoing when the winds change. Ben Carson is the current Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. One would think that a famous surgeon could connect the dots but he confirms my doubts about narrow minded intelligence. At his senate approval hearing he said, “Poverty is a choice.” The people I served chicken chili to last night didn’t choose to be homeless or unsheltered. Privileged bigots profess; “We choose our station in life by the choices we make.” They may not be 100% wrong but they are dreadfully, irresponsibly incomplete. We have to make choices as if we Captain our own boat but in fact we are passengers. We can sit in a deck chair, hug the wall or lean against the rail but we go where the ship goes. I know David ate well last night and I hope his sleep was undisturbed. 

IF MOTHERS . . .

Sometimes I get distracted and wander off the subject, tracking down some piece of trivia that has nothing to do with what I’m doing. Add to that, I am drawn to quotes. If and when someone I respect and admire says something powerful or insightful, I add it to a long list of quotes I keep. As the list grows I tend to reread and review the list, rebooting those ideas. Yesterday I was looking for the source of, “If mothers ruled the world there would be no wars.” The quote pops up in various forms regularly. The best, most likely source is, Anonymous. But many famous people have leaned on it. In 2007, Sally Field won an Emmy for a dramatic role. In her acceptance speech she embellished her remarks paraphrasing “Anonymous”. She said, “If the mothers ruled the world there would be no God Damn wars anyway.” Fox Broadcasting  Company which aired the show, when they saw where she was going they killed the mic and camera so, with the time delay the tv viewing audience missed it. Fox knew her politics and were prepared to cut her off. So much for Sally and Fox, no secret who gets my respect or which one I admire. 

It takes something dramatic in the short term or something consistent and compelling over time to get adults to change their ways. We are creatures of habit and giving up anything that feels both good and right, it doesn’t come without a fight. A big part of that human paradigm would be; “Women are from Venus, men are from Mars.” The gender gap has, I think, always been a stumbling stone. One doesn’t need a story to understand male privilege and how primitive men dominated by physical power. Still, civilization came along and very little changed at the gender gap. Long story short, women still come up short on the equity score card and the rhetoric over the bitchiest bitch or (men) the shittiest ass hole still mucks up the gender bias. Men believe they are superior by historical precedent  and divine declaration while women defend their position by simply doing the math. 

I was a typical male, still believed in common sense and it told me, all those other men can’t be wrong. But I would change. When my daughter was born I began to consider the possibilities and pitfalls she would encounter. It was a sobering experience. When her three older brothers were born I had no such concerns. It took years of noticing holes in the male-myth, like a neural maze where every argument for male superiority petered out in a dead end. My cohorts would lean on double talk and fiction to sustain their egos but I was vulnerable to reason.  I thought of my own growing up, of my parents and their roles. Using a ‘sailing ship’ metaphor; if our family was a schooner then my dad would have been the main sail. He was larger than life, up high in full view, harnessing the wind, driving us forward. My mom on the other hand was nowhere to be seen. She was under the stern, she was the rudder but had full control over where we were headed and she could change course without permission, leaving the sail to flap and hang useless. 

Honey bees have adapted to the gender gap quite successfully. Drones are good for one thing. When they no longer serve a purpose and food gets scarce they are banished from the hive and starve. In the human realm, I tend to be critical of male hegemony. You do the math and numbers are so much more reliable than made up hyperbole. All we are good for is, like drones, sewing our seed. In the long time lapses between servicing queens we have become hopelessly competitive to the point of ultimate competition, waging war. Even then, the gain is measured out in prideful ego and temporary power. With women, if you can’t overpower your gender opposite, being bitchy works. At best, the weaker sex has a way of having their way. But times change and women are competing with men successfully, at least in my culture. They haven’t crossed the bar yet, (another sailing reference) and they don’t have parity just yet but who knows? 

Sally Field was right, she was right on the mark! If you don’t have a uterus and you haven’t nurtured life in the womb, brought it to fruition and launched it on its way, then you can’t appreciate the wonder of it all. Mothers are the glass half full. Men have to settle for half empty. Maybe it’s true, all we men are good for is ego driven pride and sending our progeny off to wage war. Men do a thorough job of over-inflating patriotism and the virtue of waging war. I didn’t want my baby girl to grow up the vassal of some man by way of a Y chromosome. Now I have granddaughters to further my concern. I feel fortunate to be a man who both understands and appreciates his role in the scheme of life. My role may be that of a boorish self-seeker but I can adapt and improvise, the gender gap gives me good cause. Civilization doesn’t have to be right, it just has to work and it's been working more for men than for women. Women are after all from Venus, and men are from Mars. 

I'LL HUFF AND I'LL PUFF

I served in the military for 4 or 7 years depending on how you count reserve status, worked in factories for several years, spent 5 or 6 years at college or university again depending on how you count. Then there was that 30 + year stretch, depending on how you count that I went to school because it was my job. But I have always been a storyteller. If all my mother wanted were facts she asked my brothers, but if she wanted the story, she came to me. 

About the time I retired from teaching I experienced a calling, not unlike righteous minded pilgrims who feel chosen to do the Lord’s work. I have been writing for a long time as well and writing is important, you don’t stop writing because you sense a new or different calling. Nothing takes the place of writing. Writing is a utilitarian endeavor that links language with information, then comes understanding. Story has a life and a purpose of its own. As a writer I am a source. As a Teller, I am an instrument. In the 20 years since, I’ve traveled the world with a bag full of stories. In all that time I’ve never made money, seldom broke even. Like Johnny Appleseed, I was planting story at my own expense. All those years in the classroom, the downside was low pay. But in retirement, the upside is good benefits and time to explore, wherever you want to go. It is not an extravagant life style, if you are frugal and if you live modestly, you can do just that; wherever you want to go. 

Inside the storytelling community the craft unfolds much the same way preachers accommodate religion. In many cases, preachers are the best tellers in the business. Their story can be so digestible, so satisfying, for thousands of years civilization has taken it to heart, both its fiction and its fact. But religion is only a small slice of the story pie. Story is the archive where human history is preserved, with an ever so thin, muddy boundary between myth and truth. When the story is so complicated or so big that the ear and the mind can not process it, there comes a simple story with metaphors and fictional characters to fit the need. Story-Teller-Listener, if they join hands with the teller in the middle, the circuit is closed and a light comes on. A window to possibility opens that otherwise the listener would never discover on their own. 

Beyond the fiction, history more than suggests that evolution has employed a BigBrain imagination and recently (at the time) acquired language to share complex ideas and experiences. Think of it; one person can describe to another, the differences between the footprints of buffalo and zebras, miles away from any foot prints, in the dark. They shared information on where it was safe to cross a stream and which roots were good to eat and which were not. Those stories and every other story have been linked together and they bridge the gap between campfires and solar panels. 

Can you imagine a chimpanzee trying to tell a rain forest version of the “Three Little Pigs”? What would, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” sound like? We are, as far as we know, the only animals to tell stories. Whales and primates certainly do communicate, very well as their needs be. They can show how to do but they have no language to thread together like beads on a very long string. They can’t use the same words to tell very different stories. The fact that humans have such a rich history is more about language than it is about intelligence. Without story, every generation would have to reinvent the wheel. I am a StoryTeller and I want people to know that story is as much a part of our legacy, maybe more so than any other smart thing we dreamed up. Flush toilets are irreplaceable but without the story, we would still be squatting in the woods. 

POPCORN

I am in that loop between Thanksgiving and Christmas, trying very hard to be merry if not joyful, and I am for the most part. Still, it ain’t easy. I avoid news media with a sense of purpose. I don’t know much of anything that comes from talking heads or headlines that pass for news. If not depressing then certainly disturbing or worrisome; not a dooms day thing but like fatty meat, hard to digest.

When I was teaching school there was a one-word expression that described a particular type of ‘out of control’ classroom. It went like this: one kid (K1) does something disruptive that requires teacher (T) attention. Normal activity stops. With that break in the flow of instruction (T) gives undivided attention to the perpetrator. Whether they think about it or not, other students seize the moment. (K2) on the other side of the room, out of the line of sight, blurts out something intended to draw a response. If (T) doesn’t respond to (K2), everybody starts talking. (K3) who is triangulated away from (K1 & K2) screams, knowing that (T) won’t know for sure who screamed. If (T) doesn’t disengage with (K1) in an attempt to restore order in the room, it goes from a simple ‘Ping’ to zoo-chaos in 15 seconds or less. The word is “Popcorn”. In the lounge or in a meeting it was common to hear an adult confess, “Yeah, they went Popcorn on me this morning.” Everybody had their own way of counteracting Popcorn, some better than others but you had to have a plan. Even if you go nuts, act crazy, you become the center of attention, gain some control, do your job. That was my strategy. 

The news: on the local scene it’s all bad, or nearly all bad. Sometimes a sports star does something for poor or sick kids. Sometimes the police have an uplifting encounter with ordinary people or a new company brings jobs to the city. In national news, very little good news. It feels like the Popcorn effect on a global scale. When one bully-leader burns the house down and has his critics murdered, his neighbor, the bully across the border feels empowered to do something even worse, and so on: Popcorn. 

If the bully-leader is a narcissist demagogue, like the Donald, then his indiscretions go viral. Other wanna-be Donald autocrats model his self obsessed, bad behavior. In congress you get Popcorn, with partisan-tribal obsession between competing political interests. Out of that we now have Fake News and pushback against any and everything that doesn’t satisfy competing partisan whims. In a classroom where I am the biggest kid I wield at least some influence but when I step outside my door I’m just another kernel of unpopped corn. So I’m taking the coward’s way out. I’m not going to pop at all. I don’t need to know all the dirt or listen to any of the propaganda. Good music or educational programs are entertaining and even better, they digest without the gas pains.

My own personal ideology, if taken to its other end will offend or annoy typical citizens. Simply stated, I think we do well enough for high functioning monkeys. At the core of our dilemma, we are conflicted between an instinctive need to throw poop and take what doesn’t belong to us and biological/anthropological limitations that make us interdependent; we need each other. I guess that makes us narcissistic altruists, an oxymoron but what the heck, looking too hard, too long in the mirror isn’t very rewarding, neither is watching the news. 

HOME

Thanksgiving falls in two days and I get to family (the verb) twice this year. I am old enough to remember when the word family applied only to blood relatives and marriage mates. Over a lifetime my sense of family has expanded from the traditional circle to include a “Backdoor” clan, birds of a feather. They enjoy the recognition and benefits without a pedigree. Family is qualified by ‘this, and’ rather than ‘either, or’. I live in the light of family status as a spectrum rather than a data point. Not that I love one more and the other less as love is not a commodity. In my book, if it requires a score card and pay backs it isn’t love, it’s an arrangement. So if you spread love wide and deep there is no need to save some for another day. The source won’t dry up, there is always plenty to give away and; it is well to remember, what goes around comes back around. That’s how family works. 

My Three Rivers, Michigan family is having traditional turkey and dressing on Thursday; I’ll be there. My niche there is pretty well defined. When my Backdoor brother succumbed to cancer in 1996 I acquired a surrogate something -or-other role that has endured. My surrogate little sister and I are going shopping tomorrow on the night before. She is a bit of a scamp which means we will probably stretch a few boundaries. Then I’m sure, we will all be competing for counter space Thursday morning. I make a mean cranberry relish with more pecans and orange zest than the average turkey & dressing freak would attempt. But when you turn me loose in the kitchen this time of year, that’s what you get. 

Come Saturday, back home in Ravenna, Michigan the Watson’s will close ranks for their holiday get-together. Duane is my Backdoor brother there. When I retired in 2001 I had no place to call home and he resolved that dilemma in short order. Duane announced that I would live with them on their 40 acres of woods and blueberries. Lori, Duane’s wife is my Backdoor sister, she collects my mail and keeps track of where I've gone and what I leave behind. Their 3 kids, my former students, they descend on the homestead for holidays with marriage mates and 8 new descendants, all age 6 and under. It is a maelstrom of chaos and affection when they all converge. I am expected to take my turn reading to and playing with the little units. I don’t know how long or how well I could sustain that engagement but certainly, it is always entertaining and comforting to know that my station with the kids is equal to that of the dogs. 

Come Sunday I will point my Ford F-150 south and begin the trek to Missouri. I used to make it in a single day but that was when I drove at night. Now, in the season of short days I find shelter for the night somewhere in between. It allows for some creative routing and that opens up a new window for discovery. Every new stretch of unexplored highway offers a variety of photo opportunities. On the way up, in the back waters of western Illinois I discovered a cleanly harvested, rolling network of corn and bean fields and two old barns that still had some function. Otherwise they would have been demolished and retasked  as productive farmland. The photo op was irresistible. Time lost stopping, sometimes going back for photos is well worth a late arrival. 

Once back in Missouri I have plenty of family, by both blood and the Backdoor to keep me in the loop and on the busy.  I used to push back against where I’m from but lately it has become a pointless hangup. I realize that people are simply conditioned to starting conversations with that inquiry. They don’t attribute much meaning to origins and the implications it begs. Since I got out of the military I have not really wanted to be from anywhere. That fact that I am here or there at the time is enough identity for me. So, for the sake of clarity and compliance I concede that I am from Michigan. Duane told me so last night. He said that I live with my brother and sister, no matter where I go or how long I stay away between the going out and coming home. I find that comforting, a little weight off my conscience that few understand or care about and I won’t miss its passing. 

GREAT POTENTIAL

I know a little bit about a lot and I know a lot about a little, nothing profound but there you are. My voyage of discovery has followed a trajectory that ends with the glass of water, half full or half empty. Which it is depends on a bazillion little data points, too many to put in order and decipher. In my case it’s more about the size of the glass. Mu glass is small and it doesn’t take much to fill it. Even if it were half empty I would drink from it without reservation. 

It's fair to say that my profile is very normal, middle of the curve, predictably average in nearly every aspect of human experience. Given the culture and the way I have assimilated, nothing stands out. The Human condition guarantees, being unique simply means that we are not all exactly alike. At best I am statistically insignificant.

Honestly, the little bit I do know is terribly vulnerable, subject to error. I can be, I am frequently incorrect about beliefs, ideas, information and data. It’s like trusting a good compass. It always points true except for when it doesn’t. The earth’s magnetic field gets distorted (something about the iron in the earth’s core) and the needle wanders. Good maps have (declination tables) providing where to make correction and how much is needed. If only there was a declination chart for emotional imbalance and wannabe common sense. 

When it comes to intelligence I tend to skew away from the norm. Not that I have more or less but that I think it is over rated. It has a lot of potential but I was put in my place when my college mentor cautioned me, “You have great potential but that simply means there is so much you haven’t accomplished.” 

If you’ve ever watched an 8 year-old learning to drive by trial & error, that’s civilization (that’s us) believing that he can control a 2 ton machine at 200 mph going into the 3rd turn at Daytona. The old axiom about not learning from history dooms us to employ the same flawed intelligence that yielded wars and oppression in the past. It is much more alluring to pursue what feeds the ego or makes us feel righteous rather than doing the math and follow the curve. 

Ny humanity feels special even if I’m terribly normal in a relatively safe, prosperous society. Considering over 7 billion souls around the world, I’m not so normal. I would be at least a standard deviation above the norm, maybe two when it comes to life style and material wealth. I am very lucky as I was born into it, can’t take credit for choosing the circumstances. Everybody wants to improve their station in life. Being born out of a slum in Caracas or a river bank in Mumbai, my chances for the good life I live would be miniscule. Those who say it’s about choices and that anything is possible would also tell you that climate control is all about building a better thermometer. Here I am preaching again. At least the sermon was short. No singing, no benediction today, just be glad you woke up this morning and that you won't have to go to bed hungry. 

TRIBAL

I don’t care much for traditions, they may be alright if they do no harm but for the most part they just strengthen tribal bonds and the status quo. We (people) are tribal creatures, even if in the last two or three thousand years, civilization lets us individualize more and conform less. I love my own personal individuality but I don’t think the shift away from Greater Good serves our long range best interests; sort of like drug addiction. In spite of all that, my family is three generations into a ‘Nick Name’ tradition. Everything in our house, our animals, machines and inanimate objects; they had unique names, lots of nick names. Everybody has a pet name, every pet, vehicle, toy, even furniture has several unauthorized names. I have a house and a yard but the place goes by ‘The Woods’ in recognition of the trees I’ve planted. 

When I started telling story I needed a name. My given name is dreadfully forgettable so, mindful of my tree fixation, SycamroeStory has more class and is easy to remember. I am also a geology amateur; something about picking up stones, throwing them at first but eventually it enveloped the big one, the really big rock; 3rd rock from the sun. On canoe trips in South Missouri a friend kept picking up stones from gravel bars and stream beds, asking what they were. Chert is a stage in the transition of limestone that is very hard, fractures easily and comes in any number of colors. The streams we canoed had rocky sections where the stream bottoms were nothing but pieces of chert. So my answer was predictable. Rock samples were fractured and eroded into different shapes, different colors, she thought I was making fun of her but I wasn’t. She started calling me, “Chert man” or “Chert” for short. When I formalized my writings the name, Chert Journal was the name that stuck. 

In 2012 I started a blog that kept friends and family informed as to my travels and location. Naturally, it needed a name. Backstory: In the first grade, I went to a little, 3 room school in what is now Kansas City. But in 1945 it was in the countryside, on a short, tree lined, dead end road with several houses, a small factory and our school. We had two playgrounds, one for the little kids on the hillside behind the building and another for the big kids on a flat section at the bottom of the hill. At the far, low corner of the “Flats”, there was a big culvert under the road that serviced a small stream. Beyond the creek there was a wooded hillside and a house at the end of the street. The culvert was big enough for us to stoop and walk through but going in there was forbidden. We were not to go inside the culvert. At water’s edge it was 6 or 7 feet up to the road  with a guard railing above that. 

One day several big boys coaxed me down onto the Flats, ending up over by the culvert. We were throwing stones, trying to hit the power pole on the other side of the road. A stone about the size of a small lemon left my hand on a perfect arc but it disappeared beyond the guard rail. The sound of impact was followed by screeching brakes. A car that I hadn’t seen crossed the culvert at exactly the same moment my stone let fly, cracking its windshield. I got in trouble, was banned from The Flats for the next 3 years. My parents did not beat me or get overly angry, just wanted an explanation. I guess my story was acceptable, a precursor to many more to follow. I’m sure my mother was the cooler head and my dad did his cursing out of my earshot. How much it cost to replace the broken glass I never knew, never asked but the whole experience did nothing to curb my attraction to stones and the throwing thereof.

In 2008 I was in Seward, Alaska, interviewing for a Volunteer position at Kenai Fjord National Park for the next season. It was winter and the park was closed to the public. C.J. Rea was Dir. of Education, a pleasant, witty, wiry, thirtyish woman. After a casual introduction in her office she invited me to lunch. She lived only a few blocks away and had clam chowder in the crockpot. The interview was informal, sharing food across her kitchen counter. We had so many things in common I couldn’t fail if I tried. At one point she asked, did I know anyone who carries rocks around in their pockets. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a flat, black, heart shaped rock. She was Director of Education after all. Graywacke is a form of sandstone that has morphed into something else, on its transition to shale. It came from a beach on Fox Island, in Resurrection Bay (Seward, AK) that is loaded with heart shaped,  graywacke stones, just right to fit in your hand or your pocket. She pulled several other rocks from her pocket, each with its own story. All I could do was pay attention. The stones were awesome and she was cool. 

She was surprised when I stood up and begged pardon. She must have thought I needed to go to the necessary room. But I reached into my own pocket and pulled out a Petosky Stone, the state rock of Michigan. Petosky stones are the remnants of coral that grew in shallow seas some 350 million years ago. Tourists and locals alike spend hours upon hours sifting through the sand on Lake Michigan’s shores, looking for these little treasures. The hexagon shape matrix is special, not only for good luck but something spiritual for closet pagans. C.J. Rea and Frank talked a lot more about rocks and their travels than about National Parks or job descriptions.      

Back to the 2012 creation of my blog: it needed a name. The first thing that came to mind was the nature of kindred spirits, to C.J. and the rocks we carry in our pockets. Stones In The Road might suggest obstacles to be avoided but that would only appeal to someone who only cares about getting where they’re going. Every stone I turn over is like setting a bird free from its cage, like being there for the first story’s first breath.  This blog serves me like a hungry ear. Story is what separates us from all the other creatures, the only animal that combines experience and imagination, we use language to frame a narrative and a deep vocabulary to detail the story, for anybody who will listen, anyone who can read. I suppose one could think of our family nick-name thing and the stories that are stitched together there as a tradition. My family, all of them, they can tell story. You should hear what unfolds when they all gather ‘round their mother’s kitchen table. Maybe I should embrace that tribal tradition a little more and just let it feel good.

WHAT GOES AROUND. . .

Back in the summer I got started helping a friend with an organization that feeds homeless and destitute people in the city. I usually ride with him but yesterday I went by myself. Marc had been in a car crash so I took our (his) food to the park in downtown Kansas City for the Tuesday night meal. In June we set up tables on the sidewalk under pop up, sun canopies. At serving time (6:30) it was still 90 degrees and the sun was beating down. Ice was popular on the menu. Last night I arrived at 6:15 and it was dark already. The line was already forming but they were bundled up like Eskimos. The temperature was hovering around freezing and the organizer didn’t want to set food out too soon, lest it get cold. I was assigned server duty with a large aluminum pan full of tossed salad. By 7:45 the line had melted down from a crowd to a few stragglers, time to clean up and disappear. 

I am not a do gooder. I understand that life is what we get and then what we do with it. We don’t have much control over what we get but what we do with it is, to some extent up to us. In our culture we have a self righteous fixation that we are masters of our own fate . True, we must behave as if we are, even if that popular view is largely myth. I’m not trying to change the world but I do think we have a collective responsibility to help each other, especially when life has dealt bad cards. Nobody sets out to be homeless and people don’t make bad decisions on purpose. We do what feels right in the moment and live with the outcome. I believe good luck and random chance are at least as important as high minded industry. So I participate in the giving back, for the sake of the greater good. 

What I get back from the experience is an opportunity to treat people  who get little respect, with respect, and it is an opportunity. I don’t know when or where I adopted the attitude but I’m stuck with it: the way you treat people says more about you than it does the other people. Sometimes our hungry folk are grumpy and rude but I have a choice. I could say, “Beggars can’t be choosy.” but I haven’t been in their shoes. So I ask how I can help and wish them well. After all, I have a warm place to sleep and food in the pantry. If they wanted a self righteous insult they get that all the time. Life isn’t fair. To me that means, you don’t deserve what you get, even when it’s good. I profit by simply knowing I had a hand in meeting that shared responsibility; take care of each other. I also believe in Karma; what goes around comes back around. What you put out into the system may bounce around and connect through ever so many people but ultimately it comes back to the sender. So I’m doing the charitable thing in my own self interests as well. That’s my little sermon for the day. Now we will sing our closing hymn: “What Goes Around.” 

IT'S GONNA HAPPEN

Here it is the last week of October. When jack o’lanterns and sugar skulls should be at the center of celebration, time change grumblings are popping up like April dandelions. Up front; I don’t care, at all. Daylight saving - Daylight losing, all that changes is the position of the hour hand on a clock face. It’s no different than jet lag. Your circadian rhythm is jiggered for a few days but it self corrects and you make do; no one to blame. In lieu of bonafide credentials (I can tell time)  I feel qualified to address this stupid line of nothing-to-say, oral calisthenics. Resisting change is human nature, it has served us well for a long time but that was before the microscope and social media. Seek pleasure-avoid pain; human nature in a sound bite. With no wild beasts hunting us and few wars of occupation and oppression, we grasp at any handle that can be perceived as a threat. With no threats at the door, people vent that anxiety on inconveniences or as a last resort - change. 

Whatever the change involves it doesn’t have to be harmful, it just  has to feel wrong. Americans felt wrong about self absorbed politicians so they turned to a self obsessed, narcissist, wanna-be-god, business man: can you believe that? Now the same people are trying to paint a smile on that blunder because reconciling one’s own stupidity is inexcusable. So now, at the end of the day, someone is inconvenienced or simply frustrated by whichever change is in the news. Set your clock back one hour; time doesn’t change, just where the sun is when the little hand is on the 12. 

If Wikipedia can be trusted, Daylight Savings was introduced about a hundred years ago in New Zealand, then adopted across Europe. It was intended to save energy (all those candles.) At present, over a billion people in 70 countries observe some form of daylight savings. So it isn’t something particularly American and it has endured for a century without any significant fallout. I remember a local concern, once upon a time: the extra hour of daylight at the end of the day would put lights out an hour earlier. They didn’t say anything about lights coming on an hour earlier but blah, blah, blah. The concern was, people didn’t want kids walking to school in the dark and that makes some sense. I tend to be both critical and skeptical with new ideas but not so with change. It’s gonna happen and I would think it far better to be at the front of the parade with the band than be last, behind the horses. When my mother got tired of my grumbling she would tell me, “You would complain if they hung you with a new rope.” I’m not complaining about the narcissist, wanna-be-god but I’ll feel better when he falls off the cart. Human nature again, it’s all about feeling better. That change will make me feel better. I would set my clock ahead two hours or even skip a day for that.

LITTLE CHROME BUTTON

I’ve been keeping this journal for so long it’s difficult, really difficult to remember what I’ve written about and what I’ve not. Revisiting an idea or experience isn’t so bad but I like to think I’m tracking forward rather than looping a subtle arc. Reflection is a good thing and repetition certainly, for memory’s sake, fixes story in the mind. So I think I’ll let myself go this morning and dredge up stuff from my growing up that belongs to the past: then again, live long enough and that’s what’s left.

We moved from Tracy Street in Kansas City to Blue Ridge which was more rural than suburb. It was 1945, just a month before our atom bomb ended the war with Japan. Our car was a 1937 Ford, 2 door sedan. To start the car my dad put the key into a lock on the steering column, turned it to unlock the steering wheel then raised a toggle switch on the lock that turned on the battery. On the dashboard next to the lock was a little, chrome starter button. He would pump the gas pedal several times or pull the choke cable (another knob on the dash) then push the starter button. The starter would stay engaged with the motor for as long as you pushed on the button and you didn’t want the starter engaged with the motor running so there was a timing/skill factor. The manual choke on the dash was a pull/push control that sent a rich fuel mixture to the motor to help get it started and smooth running. A cold motor simply would not run on the lean mix for normal driving. A short wait, a couple of minutes, when the needle on the temp gage began to move he would slowly ease the choke knob back to the off position and the idling motor would smooth out, ready to go. 

There was no radio but there was a slot on the dash where the controls would go and a chrome grate to cover the speaker. Heaters were aftermarket features. Any mechanic could instal one on the firewall, under the dash on the passenger side. Our heater was a SouthWind brand. It ran on gasoline, from a ’T’ in the fuel line between the gas tank and the motor. With a little fan blowing warm air down on the passenger’s feet there was another small fan mounted on the dashboard. You could turn it as needed to keep the windshield defrosted. Sometimes when it was icy cold, you needed a rag or scraper to keep it clear. The ’37 Ford was roomy enough in back but the front was narrow and cramped. With a floor shift between the seats, only space for a toddler to fit on the passenger’s lap. Who would have guessed that 75 years later the ’37 sedan, intact, would be worth a fortune.

My first car was a ’47 Ford coupe; same lock on the column, same starter button. The big advance was the gearshift on the steering column and a more powerful motor. It would be worth big bucks as well now. Old cars are wonderful to look at, wonderful to play with, especially if you can remember when you were both new. 

LOVE THE SINNER

He sat on an upturned bucket with his one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, pipe clutched in one hand, his knee in the other. I went up and stood beside him thinking he would break the ice. We shared space for what seemed a long time. A column of blue smoke rose from the pipe bowl then lost its way going by his shoulder. Roy was my grandpa, my mother’s father. He lived with us. I asked, “Did you plant that tree?” alluding to the freshly planted, 4 ft. maple sapling in our front yard. The dirt that clung to the shovel point was still dark and damp. His smirk was authentic: I had set him up with a straight line and he would supply the hook. “What did you think I did with it?” He looked off in the other direction; I answered with something juvenile like, “Yeah.” We had a thing, just between us. Today the phrase would be, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” What went on between us, stayed between us. 

My folks loved the sinner but not the sin. He was a widower which gave him license, partial to drink and to ladies with died hair and painted faces. There was no alcohol allowed in our house but I knew he kept a half pint of bourbon under the driver’s seat in his car. I knew more than I was supposed to know and it was alright. So many obvious things I remember modeled by my parents but with Roy it was subtle, indirect but perfectly clear: when you have prevailed, leave your adversary an honorable way out.

I was always trying to provoke him, trying to catch him off guard but his silent scorn was as telling as a cutting remark. Whatever his part, there was a kernel of truth and a tinge of coarsely framed affection. I sensed that my contribution had not been sufficient and it was still my turn. “How long before it’s big enough to climb?” For him to come back immediately would have broken the spell. Finally, “Maybe 10 years,” followed by a short pause, “You’ll be too busy to be climbing trees.” I shot back, “No, I’ll never be that busy.” He stood up slowly, took his shovel and bucket and started for the garage. Over his shoulder he spoke just loud enough for me to hear, something about, “Planting trees is always a good thing.” I uncoiled the garden hose and watered the immigrant maple; it wasn’t the first tree we had planted. 

THE ONLY DIFFERENCE

Trains: don’t you just love’em! Late morning and I hear the horn. Its message is crystal clear; “I’m coming through, get off the tracks because I’m going too fast to stop. I’m out-bound and even though I like your little town I don’t have time to sit idle on your siding.” After a short pause I hear it again, “Hey! I meant it about the (too fast to stop). I can see lights flashing and the crossing gates are all the way down.” Even though it is 5 blocks away I relate to that (passing through) sense of urgency. None of that creepy-crawly throttle-down stuff. None of that slow motion sag beneath the weight of those steel wheels. Up close you can hear the rails rattle and feel air gust between passing freight cars and no matter what your purpose was at the moment, you wish you were onboard with nothing to do but roll out on the dash down-line and see who is watching and waiting at the next crossing, and the next. I love trains. 

I was supposed to be on my way to Nashville, Tennessee.  By now I should have been halfway across the state but my trusty F-150 had a suspicious burp and hick-up, something too risky to let it pass. I was 20 miles up the road and the needle on my temp gage hadn’t moved. The heater was still blowing cold air. After a short consult with my mechanic-son I checked the coolant reservoir and found it empty. I had a leak. So I added a half gallon of anti-freeze and the problem goes away. But that fix was temporary at best. A long road trip leaking coolant is a recipe for disaster so I turned around and headed back to a local garage. 

I told my story while the man with the wrench smiled and listened politely. Not unusual I learned, for Fords of that era to need new hose and O-rings on the coolant reservoir. It will take  several hours but I’ll get it back today. My plan was to cold-camp in the back of my pickup in Paducah, KY at the Pilot Truck Stop; avoid the hassle of Nashville traffic. A folding cot, two sleeping bags, sweats and a hoodie make it warm and snug. But I need to get there in daylight to set my system up before it gets cold and my schedule now has been compromised. So I need a new plan. If I go to bed early and get up in the wee hours, say 3:00 a.m., I can be in Nashville by 10:00 a.m. That will be timed exactly with the doors opening at the National Convention for Manufacturers & Sellers of Recumbent & Electric Assist Bicycles & Tricycles. 

I have a recumbent tricycle that does not have Electric Assist and I want to change that. I could just have the motor & battery kit installed on the one I have but that’s sort of like getting false teeth. It is better than gums on gums but it’s still false teeth. The resulting boost in power and speed on that light frame and skinny tires doesn’t instill confidence or appeal to my better judgment. So I’ve been researching larger trikes with fat tires that are designed from the get-go for Electric Assist. Then, as if preordained, I learn about the once a year convention in Nashville. In a few hours I connected all the dots; I can talk to the manufacture’s designers and mechanics and take test rides at the fairground track next to the arena - not unlike, the metaphor; shortest distance between two points is a straight line. 

A last minute decision to make the Nashville dash was going well until my coolant/antifreeze malfunction. I had been on the first train, “No time to stop on the siding”, but here I am, sitting on my hands, waiting for the green light. But this life is pretty good. I have someone, a very good mechanic, working on it as I type. The parts are available and even if the cost is more than I think it should be, I understand that everything is more expensive than I think it should be but I have more money than I think I should need; probably the best of all protocols in that unraveling of events. All things being equal, this time tomorrow I’ll be in Nashville at the toy store and it’s true what they say about men and boys, the only difference is the price of their toys.

NOT SUPPORTED BY ALL THE FACTS

Like the little Dutch boy who plugged a leak in the levee with his finger, had he pulled it out the deluge from the sea would have swept everything away: I don’t want to pull my finger for the same fear. Something this morning led me to a John Muir quote, one that I keep at my finger tips. It has been paraphrased over and again but whatever form it takes, I employ it. In so many words he said, “Whenever you try to pick out any one thing, you find it is attached to everything else in the universe.” Framing simple questions is easy but not so the answers. In my experience, the closer one examines an issue there are many more new issues and concerns raised than there are resolutions. I am suspicious of those who want a simple, universal truth that will serve the moment. The hang up is, how much proof is required to satisfy your need and how does one remain consistent with the frequency of unanticipated issues? 

I use an electronic tuner with my guitar. The face glows red behind the note I’m after and when the needle lines up, everything turns green: that string is in tune or close enough that I don’t care. It meets my need. But making decisions that change your life, change other people’s lives, I take that with a greater sense of responsibility. As the gravity increases so does my reservation with simple, universal truths. 

‘This American Life’ is an NPR radio program. True stories are researched and retold. They reveal the broad range of the simple and the complex in the whole of Human Experience. Today’s story was of an 18 year-old woman in Washington who was raped in her apartment. Her backstory was stereotypic if nothing else; a ward of the court all of her life, shuffling from home to home with foster parents. The last two years were with a good, supporting woman and they became friends. At 18, she moved to an apartment nearby and they continued to work at her transition to independence. After the rape the police did an interview and rape kit and began an investigation. 

From the beginning, her story was inconsistent, contradicting all of the normal responses and behaviors associated with sexual assault victims. Quickly the focus turned from identifying the perpetrator to the credibility of the victim. In the end she was outed publicly and humiliated, advised that she was lucky not to have been prosecuted for filing a false report. Even her foster mother rejected her. With no reason to remain, she moved to another town. Several years later, in Colorado, two rape cases were reported in a short time span that matched the Washington rapist’s unusual mode of operation, likewise the questionable behavior and testimony of the victims. Through a series of coincidental and highly unlikely circumstances, the perpetrator was captured along with damning photographs of the Washington victim in his computer.

The story takes a sharp turn from the shamed, wannabe victim to condescending but respectable, well intended people and their painful revelation. They had been so wrong about something so serious, something they had been so sure about. The story ends well. Relationships were reconciled but the Washington victim had moved on and was living a new, better life; no need to dig up old bones. The courts awarded her some restitution, not a big windfall like men released from death row after decades of wrongful incarceration but enough for her to gain closure. 

So here I am like the Dutch boy, fearing the deluge; tugging on one of Muir’s strands and feeling all the universe tugging back. Too many stories, too many ideas to chase at one time but they keep tugging anyway. I understand that we (people) act on emotion long before we resort to reason and I try to keep balance in that regard but then maybe, probably, that’s just a perception I indulge myself. 

Sources of wisdom (truth) are infinite and nobody can absorb all of them. That’s what Jonathan Haidt calls, ‘The Paradox of Abundance’. Donald Rumsfeld appealed to that principle with the ‘Weapons Of Mass Destruction” debacle but his credibility was in question, not the principle itself. There are things I don’t know and I don’t know what they are. So I have to rely on understanding that hangs on 1st or 2nd hand sources but in either case it has to be sorted through numerous inherited and acquired, emotional/psychological filters before I can perceive a reasonable path. 

Culture is not something we can manipulate arbitrarily for the desired result: the Law of Unanticipated Consequences is much more reliable than we are. Short story; ‘Shit Happens.’ We react to our culture, not the other way. But that’s another strand of Muir’s universe and I hadn’t planned on going there. He also said, “It is easier to feel than to realize or in any way explain, the grandeur of Yosemite.” My sense is that he would expand that view to include the maelstrom of civilized life. Likewise he said, “The world, we are told, was made for man - a presumption not supported by all the facts.” Here I go again. I wonder how I would have reacted to the Washington victim’s story. I’ve come to take seriously any wrong-doing, reported by any woman, against any man. That deep-seated conviction is rooted in emotional-feeling more so than in logic; not something one can rationalize in a vacuum. Then again, pushing back against your own culture is terribly difficult. Thanks be for our mothers, our source of wisdom for what is fair and for the wisdom of altruism, of needing and helping each other. Thanks be for our fathers too but their virtue comes on another of Muir’s strands and I can’t plug the levee now, much less add a new challenge.