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.