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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.