PING

. . . It just started raining. The raindrops are really big but still, it’s only a shower. I can hear them hitting on the roof. Those landing on shingles make a hollow “Thud” sound while the drops that hit the free-spinning vent resonate with a metallic “Ping.” Many more thuds than pings as the vent is only a basket size island in a sea of shingles. Simple math explains the random distribution. Where would we be without simple math; it’s the proof to everything quantitative, everything objective. Even if we draw familiar comparisons in lieu of reliable numbers, like, ‘bigger than a bread box’, you can estimate after all, when close enough is close enough. When math goes rogue with brackets inside of parentheses, factoring the alphabet instead of numbers it becomes a convoluted language of its own and I default back to estimation, ‘fine as spider web.’ 

Rain had stopped but it’s falling again. My estimate on Pings to Thuds is about 1:10 or 10%. The nice thing about estimating is; there is a measure of critical thinking required but also, a wide margin for error. So, if we arbitrarily accept a + or - 5% margin for error it would seem the ratio of Pings on my ventilator is about equal to the ratio of Americans with graduate degrees from accredited universities. Now that I’ve equated raindrops on my roof to people, that’s called anthropomorphizing, attributing human traits to things or animals, each Ping and Thud have human qualities, able to think and speak and behave like I might. I do that; anthropomorphize things and such. 

If I were a raindrop I would have begun life as a microscopic dust particle, adrift in the atmosphere. Then, because of polarity and the adhesive nature of water molecules, one of those little H2O’s would stick to me, and another, and another until there were enough to form a microscopic droplet, on and on until uplifting forces in the sky were overcome by gravity and I began my plunge toward the ground. Gaining speed, I would collide with other H2O molecules and droplets, adding them to my mass, growing like crazy. I would take the shape of a sphere, slightly elongated by a low pressure zone on my back-side and, emerging from a cloud, my destination would come into sight. There it is, the bull’s eye, the roof of a house covered with shingles and a ventilator vent. The odds are against it but if I’m lucky I might hit the vent, make a ping. It would improve my chances of prosperity even upgrade my social status. 

I got lucky. So I’m a ‘Ping’, so what! I know some big words and I can do math as long as we use numbers and four functions. That’s where the anthropomorphizing kicks in. Taking credit and placing blame is such a human thing; math, even with a huge margin for error, is preferable to ego, greed and denial. Random raindrops  don’t care. I was more lucky than industrious, more charmed than deserving. Coincidentally, I landed in the right place at the right time. If I have been blessed, it has been by good fortune, karma, yin & yang, the thin difference between “Thud” and “Ping.”

ME & MOBY

My truck slept in the snow last night. He sleeps where I leave him without complaint. At 7 years now, been with me the last 2, going on 3 and as good a road companion as I’ve ever known. Funny, how we attribute gender to machines and things; maybe for little particulars we associate with someone we know or to things we stereotype one way or the other. I’ve been driving for over 60 years, don’t like to think of my vehicles as possessions, more like amigos. Some definitely behaved like ladies or petulant little girls while others belch and fart, take to bumpy roads, didn’t mind sleeping in the snow. 

I’ve had so many internal combustion, self propelled amigos I wouldn’t try to put a number to it. I can think of at least 10 pickup trucks, and cars, 30 or more I would guess; some you remember more fondly than others. In 1973, Ford’s full size pickup was the F-100; we had a red one in ’78, a V8, stick shift on the column. From the first day its name was “Duke”. One summer-Saturday we (2 adults, 4 kids 10, 6, 6 & 4) took it to Chicago, 140 miles, to Six Flags-Great America. The boys, 10,, 6 & 6, rode in a big, cardboard box in the back, amazing what you can do with duct tape and twine. With the sliding window open and a hole cut in the box it was like a big back seat with a small crawl-through space. That was another time & place; you could do that and nobody thought the less. I can’t imagine what we were thinking but it felt alright at the time. 

Then there was “Huggy”, a fiberglass roadster body, V-W dune buggy. He was nothing but fun. By then, 11, 11 & 9 took turns standing watch, sitting in the passenger seat or hanging on the roll bar so I couldn’t drive off without them. It had a soft top but no side curtains so getting wet was always a possibility but never a deterrent. “Moby” is currently my only motorized vehicle, a 2012 Ford F-150, with an aluminum shell and roof rack, too big to fit neatly in the garage. The side mirrors have to be folded in and the passenger side snugs up tightly, just a few inches from the wall. Pulling in and out is equivalent to making a fist and worming it into your pocket. With great lines of sight, visibility is unparalleled and the big side mirrors are better than a submarine’s periscope. His name of course honors the great, white whale in Melville’s novel, Moby Dick. 

Moby is outside in the driveway, under several inches of fresh snow that arrived last night. I suppose I’ll go shovel rather than drive over it but it can wait for now. I’m set to get back out on the road again soon, to Michigan. Why would anybody want to go to Michigan in February, they can’t understand down in Baton Rouge where 40 degrees and rain keeps those civilized folk huddled and shivering inside. In West Michigan, lake effect snow is perfect, has a warming effect on the lake shore, great for following your foot prints from the mail box back to the house. With a little luck, outside in the dark, you might see the Northern Lights; Aurora Borealis. Sooner or later they light up the dark, dance across heaven. Southern Culture folk in Louisiana aren’t wired for Aurora Borealis but that’s about them. I’ll be happy to cross over, out of Indiana and up the lake shore. Me and Moby, or is it Moby and me, or Moby and I, we know the way, we’ll make it. I don’t need an IT Tech to work the control panel, the radio and CD player keep me informed and entertained, the heater is an over-achiever and every gage is easy to read. Stepping up-into and down-out-of is much preferred to the opposite. 

At my age, with diminishing eyesight, Moby should be my last great ride. There is a vehicle on the market now, solar charged-electric assist, enclosed, pedal-mobile that doesn’t require a license or insurance. It gets you where you want to go at 20-25 mph, even if you chose not to pedal and gas mileage never figures in. It will be a big departure from Moby but I bet it will earn its own name. Certainly not going on the interstate but if you plan on growing old you can’t very well get there if not for working with what you’ve got. 

DÉJÀ VU AGAIN

I left Baton Rouge, Louisiana yesterday at 6:30 a.m. At 11:30 p.m., 17 hours, 845 miles, an hour layover at a sawmill just south of Jackson, Mississippi, 2 sandwiches, 3 fuel stops, as many potty breaks, a 10 minute pizza break in West Plains, Missouri and a 50 minute nap in the WalMart parking lot in Clinton, Missouri: yes, truckers all understand “White-Line Fever”, when you notice zombie symptoms, that the truck has been driving itself for who knows how long and you need to get off the road, on purpose, before you discover the road has turned without you; no, you don’t push on believing you can summon up fresh eyes and 30 year-old reflexes because you can not, that’s the zombie in you that would just as soon die then and there but pretends to be your friend: so, at 9:45 p.m. I did a WalMart pitstop, took a nap, woke up with cold feet just like I knew I would with a familiar bed less than an hour away but then better that than being upside down in the median. 

Unlocking, opening up, carrying in only what you don’t want to freeze, then closing and locking after yourself, checking the basement for water leaks, setting the clock but leaving the alarm turned off, washing down the night regime of vitamins and supplements, going through the motions, before-bed bowl & bladder protocol, I was ready to turn out the light and slide into my sleeping bag, barefoot, in long sleeve pajamas, that’s how it works in winter; feet zipped inside a warm pocket with the rest of me free to unzip or cover up as my biological thermostat requires, an hour after the old, F150 shut down I was in bed, I don’t remember closing my eyes.

I am a dreamer, literally, I dream every night and I usually wake up glad to be not dreaming anymore, either the ‘searching for something’ or ‘being pursued’ or ‘being naked in public when you’re the only one that notices’, that one is crazy but coincidentally, very common just nobody wants to share even the idea of being naked; or my specialty, being a substitute or new teacher with no instructions, no job description, no map or floor plan, only a class list, crowded halls, inattentive or disruptive students and staff members who don’t know anything, can’t help me, not even a nod in the right direction, I didn’t do any of that last night. Last night I dreamt I was in a conversation with a longtime friend about something we disagree on but the exchange was unusually accommodating, thoughtful and honest; we patiently waited for the other to finish a thought or response without the typical, confrontational, talking-on-top-of before one has time to finish a point of argument, the other’s rebuttal presumes an inalienable right to interrupt and dismiss the opposing point before it’s even made, not in last night’s dream. 

When I did wake up, the feeling was one of incompletion; the exchange was going somewhere and I’d liked to have been there for the conclusion. In the etherial breach from unconscious to subconscious to conscious, the body starts checking in; it’s dark, it’s not only warm but just right, feet toasty with fresh air on shoulders, arms and face: good morning, I’m me and I’m awake in my own bed, and it feels so good, how does that work? Back 250 generations removed, when my ancestors slept on the ground on a mattress of vegetation, under animal skins; that would have been somewhere near the boundary between the Stone Age and the Bronze Age, around 3000 B.C. I wonder if any of them ever experienced a reassuring, peaceful wake up in their own space with warm feet and cool, fresh air on their face. 

Evolution is a simple but generally misunderstood process that would seem to have some kind of control factor, guiding us to where we think we need to be, but that’s now how it works. We, People, tend to get our ‘Cause & Effect’ relationships reversed when it comes to evolution. The idea that giraffes evolved long necks so they could feed on treetops is backwards. The way it works is; when food got scarce, longer necked giraffes enjoyed the advantage of access to food short-necked giraffes did not, they were more successful with reproduction because they were better fed, with food from treetops, they made more long-neck babies that survived than did their short-neck cohorts. Over time, DNA for short-neck giraffes was culled out of the gene pool and all that were left were long-necks. Short-necks didn’t stop breeding initially, they just couldn’t get their offspring to breeding age. It’s all about making babies that survive and make more babies. There is no long range plan of evolution that keeps us pointed in the right direction. Doc Brown in “Back To The Future” was right, the future has not been written yet, nobody is in control. When the longest necks if all long-neck-giraffes out compete the regular long-necks, then original long-necks DNA gets culled just like short-necks before them and giraffes get even taller. When long necks become a disadvantage and they lose out in the maternity ward-reproduction derby, the characteristic that gave them the edge earlier will disappear from the gene pool. It’s like driving in reverse, seeing only where you’ve been. As long as that serves you well, you think you know where you are going. When the wind shifts, whoever is best suited for the new normal, they will replace the old, outdated version, life will take on a new direction, things change and generations later it will all seem normal, even predetermined. When brute strength comes back as the dominant survival trait, intelligence could be culled out just like short-neck giraffes were. 

So I’m wondering, that wonderful wake up in my own bed; does it have a purpose or is it just a random side effect that makes me feel good? They, People, have researched it and it seems we do have a fail-safe function in the brain that makes us less relaxed and more on guard when sleeping in a strange place, which does dilute the quality of our sleep. But it only seems to last for a short period, a night or two. When the feel or the smell or the sounds; when I sense my own personal niche I’m like a baby with his pacifier. It’s not that I didn’t sleep well in Texas or Louisiana, I did but I’m still asking the same question; what is it about waking up in your own bed? In the meantime, I’ll sleep a little better, wake up with a little more grace and gratitude, a little more forgiving. It doesn’t mean I’ll keep that civilized edge throughout the day but it’s a good start. Then I’ll be off on another road trip and we’ll do it all over again; Déjà Vu.

VALENTINI

A few years ago I realized that I didn’t know anything about Saint Valentine. Officially, he is a canonized saint in the Roman Catholic Church but his backstory gets murky very quickly. I went to wikipedia first, then crosschecked another source and found a story about a 3rd century priest named Valentini who defied Roman law by performing weddings for soldiers who were christians, who didn’t want to live in sin. The rule was, no married soldiers. Rome didn’t want wives or children, not anything competing with troops loyalty to the emperor. Valentini had neither romantic nor sentimental purpose, no hearts & flowers, only passion for his religion. Beheading was his punishment. Valentini was considered a martyr for his sacrifice, leading to sainthood. The date of his death coincided with a pagan holiday. Over time his legacy became entangled with pagan fertility traditions. Now we celebrate romantic love on February 14, in the name of a less than romantic, religious zealot. 

I went back looking for that story and couldn’t find it. What I found had been documented by an order of Belgian monks who had been researching the history of all the saints, using only original texts. It took them hundreds of years, finishing in the mid 1940’s. They noted that sainthood always requires a miracle. They focused on two separate but similar stories, both involved 3rd century priests but from different regions, both named Valentini. At the time, persecuting Christians was common practice across the Roman Empire. If they didn’t keep a low profile, any Christian might be dispatched indiscriminately. Both priests performed miracle healings on relatives of local officials, leading to conversions of the officials. In both cases the officials were punished summarily but the priests were beheaded. The Belgian monks concluded that the two stories were different versions of the same story, thus only one Saint Valentine. There was no mention of popular, romantic holidays.

Getting back to current research that does appreciate popular, secular holidays, the modern concept of romantic love didn’t find its way into western literature until the 14th century. Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales) noted letters between courtly gentlemen and ladies where affection and emotion were clearly expressed. Sometime between Chaucer and Shakespeare it was noted that birds began their mating behaviors at about the same time as the lusty, pagan holiday, Valentine’s Day. It became popular for poets and lovers to express their romantic feelings through printed poems and notes (cards) that could be purchased and exchanged. After a long, cold winter, “Warm & Dry” should be the first order. Who would have thunk it; birds doing their little flutter-flutter, hoochie coochie, come and get me dance might have triggered the same response in people. I think the amorous urge is all about timing, it doesn’t matter if you’re bird or human; I discovered “hoochie coochie, come and get me” when in my teens but then, “Birds & Bees” had to originate somewhere.

I like the Belgian monk story and the way it converges with Chaucer. I remember in the 2nd grade, the night before, you addressed little, penny valentines for everyone in your class. At school, several helpers passed out valentines that had been dropped in a box that morning. There were three kinds of valentines. The small, one sided kind; getting one of those meant that your name was on the class list. If you got a folding card that opened up, with writing on both sides it meant that someone thought you were alright. If you got a valentine in an envelope it meant someone thought you were special, at least that’s what we thought. Our valentine from Mrs. Loncosky came in an envelope, we all got at least one valentine with an envelope. It’s that time again, I have a few days to buy a card that is both clever and affectionate. It will cost more than all the cards in that box back in 2nd grade but that's the price of progress. The lesson I draw from this story is that martyr’s names can be remembered for the wrong reasons and they will still be dead. 

DRIVING TEXAS

Recently, in the past 4 or 5 years, I’ve been on Texas roads and highways racking up lots of miles. From the New Mexico line to Louisiana, I-10 stretches nearly 900 miles, all in Texas. Once off the inter-state system there are good, divided highways like rivers of concrete flowing from who-knows-were, with only exits, never a destination. Then the local, two lane roads that interconnect rural Texas; they can be picturesque but between towns it can feel like you are on the moon.

I have a cousin who lives in the Texas outback, several miles from one of those old, bare bone towns, hadn't seen him in 50 years. He promised that my GPS would lead me to his driveway so I plugged in his address and followed the wandering arrow on my device. After what seemed like forever, the last mile was a one-lane, gravel road that wound through small cedars and scrub oak. When I got the word that I had reached my destination on the right, there was only an old, dilapidated, mobil home and I knew he had built the house he lived in. The road made a sharp turn with no view of what lay ahead so I drove on. Shortly, an open gate on the right framed a dry but deeply rutted driveway; it led back to a simple little house beside a pond. The number on the mailbox matched the number he gave me, I was there. My overnight visit was warm and familiar. Even though our lives had taken very different trajectories, we were old men who shared the same beginnings. His whole family, parents, siblings had taken to religion since last I saw them; I thought it strange. My side of the family had been the church-goers and his, not so much. He alluded to his Faith frequently, prayed over our food with well practiced precision. He spoke of God a lot but nothing about Jesus. That could have meant something but I wasn’t going to explore it. My unbelief never surfaced and our visit was blessed, whatever that means. 

The next morning I left early as I had another long day of driving, much of it on Texas backroads. I’m not so good with maps as when my eyesight was 20-20 and maps unfolded big as bed sheets. So I followed the digital arrow and turned when I was told. Driving into one little hamlet I heard; “In 400 feet, turn right on Texas 1486.”  I slowed down, passed a string of red brick storefronts that had been forsaken for decades; a photo opportunity. So I stopped, took some photographs and realized I didn’t know the name of the town. 

Up the road, on the way in there was a modern fuel stop with an orange and green lettered neon sign advertising gas prices. I drove back to it, the only person there was an Indian or Pakistani shop keeper. I asked the name of the town, he told me but it sounded like he was speaking his native tongue. I asked if he could spell it, realizing after the fact that I had put him in a cultural bind. He wrestled with it for an uncomfortable moment and said, ”S-S-I-R-O.” 

That night in Baton Rouge I tried to look up, Ssiro, Texas but no town by that name. I checked Google Map, looked up Texas route 1486 and traced it back to its intersection with highway 30. There it was, Shiro, Texas; zoomed in on the RR crossing and the old brick buildings. Now I know. The railroad is the Burlington - Rock Island, the town formed around the railhead in 1902. By the 1930’s there were over 500 people living there. Singer, Lyle Lovett recorded “This Old Porch” a nostalgic look back on how Texas used to be. One line goes; “And you know this brand new Chevrolet, hell it was something back in ’60 . . .” I thought about how the song fit Shiro, Texas. I bet it was something back in ’35 when life there was large, when the train stopped, when over half-a-thousand people listened to the whistle as it pulled out of town, and it’s never been the same.

LEVER SET

         Most of my adult life I wore a wrist watch; a busy life requires being on time. The Rabbit from Alice In Wonderland knew very well; “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date - not time to say hello goodbye I’m late I’m late I’m late.” I knew all about that but had nothing to lose, they couldn’t fire me. The last year I worked I put my wrist watch in a wooden bowl on my dresser and left it there. Then came cell phones that double as alarm clocks. With smartphones you don’t have to look, just ask and it announces the correct time. Crossing from one time zone to another it switches automatically. So I don’t need a wrist watch and it’s great not having that thing strapped on my wrist. 

         In 2009 I spent the summer in Seward, Alaska as a volunteer with the National Parks Service. I went to Anchorage where my daughter lived; we went down town to an outdoor flea market. An old man with a Russian name and accent from up the Matanuska Valley had a little tent and table set up with a display of antique pocket watches. They were all ticking and I was charmed. He gave me the short course on antique watches, showed me how to wind and reset them. I bought a gold plated, 17 jewel, Illinois pocket watch and chain. With its back removed you could watch the gears oscillating, layered one on top of another and I couldn’t walk away without it. Now, a decade later I don’t have the 17 jewel Illinois any more but I do have three 21 jewel, Railroad Grade pocket watches. The story behind this collection is both long and complicated but the good news is, I have three great, Railroad Grade pocket watches. 

         By the mid 1800’s, accurate railroad schedules became necessary. At every train stop along the route they determined their own correct time by observing high noon. 12:00 p.m. in every town was when the sun was at its highest point. Not so much an issue if traveling either north or south but east and west, you had to reset your watch at every stop. In Great Britain they had the same problem. There, they established Prime Meridian through the city of Greenwich and used that High-Noon for their standard. It was 12:00 everywhere in England when the sun was highest over Greenwich. With telegraph, they could send a signal at exactly high-noon for all railroad workers to set their watches by. Then the earth was divided into 24 time zones, one for each hour of the day. At noon Greenwich time it would be one hour earlier in the next time zone west of Greenwich, one hour later per zone as you move east. 

         In the USA they needed 4 time zones to cover the vast distance from coast to coast. With trains moving in opposite directions on the same track, the risk for train wrecks needed to be addressed. Every train had to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time; thus the need for incredibly accurate watches. Congress set standards for such a watch. It had to be American made, accurate to within 4 seconds per day and made with a mechanical feature that guaranteed against any accidental adjustments. That feature is called a ‘Lever Set’. It requires you remove the bezel (lens) off the front of the watch, release a locking lever that keeps the hands of the watch from being reset. Then you can turn the knob, set the hands to the correct time, reset the lever set, replace the bezel and rewind the watch as needed. Adjusting and resetting the time was a tightly sequenced procedure. 

         Watchmakers set about to make such a watch and thus we have Railroad Grade pocket watches. They were expensive in their day and the antiques are expensive still, collector’s items. With electronic clocks, not to mention smart phones, wind-up watches went the same way as steam locomotives but the their popularity has never wained. I have a 21 jewel Elgin that is my everyday watch. In 1948 it was a no nonsense, working man’s watch used by porters, mail handlers, yard hands and other such railroad employees. I correct and reset the time about once a month, after it loses 3 or 4 minutes. Then I have a 21 jewel Hamilton from 1939, the year I was born. Its case is classy enough for engineers, conductors and station agents. I haven’t had to correct and reset its action in so long I forget. My 1915 Illinois is also 21 jewels, plain and simple, bought it a year later from the same old Russian at the Anchorage flea market. It was stolen from my home a few years back, treated roughly but ultimately recovered. After repairs it ran great for a year but now loses over a minute per day; don’t know if cleaning and calibration will fix it or if repairs are in store but it still runs smoothly and has a great story either way. 

         I don’t need three Railroad Grade pocket watches. I don’t need a watch now any more than when I retired my wrist watch. But I’m old; I keep out of trouble and I deserve a few toys. I could have invested in the stock market, then I could admire quarterly reports. But I get great satisfaction, pulling my watch chain with one hand and cradling the watch in the other. It’s heavy and that feels good. One look at the face and I know I am within a few minutes of Greenwich accuracy. I don’t need to be within a millisecond. Modern watches use a battery to make a quartz crystal vibrate then count the vibrations, so many to a second and they are absolutely accurate. So wind-up watches are the timepiece equivalent to Model-T Fords where you must turn a hand crank to start the motor. My ‘39 Hamilton and ’48 Elgin are of my generation, the ’15 Illinois is a generation removed, older than the rest of us. What we have in common is that we keep on ticking. 

        Keeping track in minutes and hours and another song comes to mind; “Now that my life is so prearranged, I think that it’s time for a cool change;” - The Little River Band. Time is like the proverbial tree, falling in the woods. If no one is there to hear it, there is no sound. Without people to count the seconds there is no time; only the moment. I don’t need a new app for my I-Phone. In my ever-fleeting-moment I can hear my pocket watches tick-tick-tick-tick, I can feel the weight in my hand. I know inside that gold plated, brass body is a delicate arrangement of tiny, precision, fragile springs, needle bearings set in precious stones, brass gears no thicker than tissue paper, smaller than your little finger nail. Someone long before my time imagined how it would work, how to fashion the tiny parts, how to put them together and make it work; no lasers, no robots, no micro-circuit boards, no 3-D printers and that still boggles my mind, makes me feel good.