Who's A Tarheel.....Me?

Yes, I suppose so. Considering I was born in the great state of North Carolina I can unequivocally declare that I am indeed a Tarheel. I have not lived there for many years but as I grow older, the desire to return to the land of my roots grows stronger most every day. It didn’t seem to be such a great place when I was young. Being the tender hearted kid that I was, it took some getting used to the bullying and fist fights that young boys are prone to favor. I guess it’s no different than any other place on earth where boys are growing up but, back then it seemed like a very rough way to live one’s life. By the time I was 12 years old it seemed apparent to me that each day when I left our little home I was gonna have to fight somebody. In the beginning I got beat up a lot but in time, I learned to adapt. Once I figured out the very real truth that I needed to pick some fights and win them then followed through on this knowledge, it did become more bearable for me personally. Fundamentally I had to adopt the credo to never back down and really, it boiled down to a question of respect and bragging rights. By the time I turned 14, my folks wanted to move to South Carolina where my stepdad was from and I remember the day we left, clearly thinking how happy I was to be moving. The years do roll on by though and with that comes some wisdom and understanding. Though I have traveled the world and all over this country, I’ve always had this soft voice in my heart whispering “come home”.

I remember the years that I attended junior high school there and I clearly remember having to study North Carolina history. The sad truth of the matter is that I wasn’t very interested and really didn’t learn much. That is truthfully a shame and the reality of that fact came to visit me one day when I was on active duty in the US Armed Forces. I had been assigned to do a stint in the galley (kitchen and associated appointments, for you land lubbers) and one of the young men there asked me where I was from. He was from Virginia if I rightly recall. When I told him North Carolina, he looked at me for a moment and called me a Tarheel. I bowed up proud with a grin and said yes I am. That’s when he asked me if I knew where that name came from. Though I did not, I said that I did and he of course put me on the spot by asking me to explain. When I fumbled around with the thing for a bit he told me in a condescending tone that the name Tarheel came from the Civil War (some people in the south call this the War of Northern Aggression). He went on further to say that it derived from the fact that soldiers from North Carolina were reluctant to get into the fight, holding back while soldiers from Virginia were leading the way in combat. In his explanation, the Carolina soldiers had tar on their heels using this as a metaphor for cowardice. Of course I blustered about that for minute but then went my own way. Honestly, I was ashamed because I did not know the truth of the name’s origin and could not refute this goober’s accusation. If I had only known then what I know now someone else would have been walking away shameful that day.

Tarheel, it is an odd name, yeah? Though the guy from Virginia did have one aspect of the origin right, the most questionable part was a total reverse of the truth. Historically, when North Carolina was a colony of the British Crown, they were an important source of the naval stores tar, pitch and turpentine used primarily by the English navy. It is said that at one time over 100,000 barrels of tar and pitch were shipped annually to England. Some historians claim that North Carolina led the world in production of naval stores from 1720 to 1870. Back in those days, they made the tar by piling up pine logs and burning them. The tar ran out of the pile into a channel for collection. The people of North Carolina were often referred to as Tar Boilers during that time and the name was not meant as a kindness but rather as a slur. Somehow along the way, about the time of the Civil War, the name had evolved into Tarheel but was still seen as derisive. Time passed though and the war progressed. The men of North Carolina that fought were brave and courageous. It is written in the third volume of Walter Clark’s “Histories of the Several Regiments from North Carolina in the Great War” that the nickname Tarheel came from the Carolina troop’s ability to hold ground in a battle. According to the book, North Carolina troops held their ground in Virginia while other supporting troops (Virginians) retreated. I’m sure the supporting troops were ashamed of their own running away from the conflict and taunted the Carolinians about the tar they were famous for and asked if there was any more for sale “down in the old north state”. The boys from Carolina said “No, old Jeff has bought it all up. He’s going to put on you’ns heels to make you stick better in the next fight”. In my mind, it is shameful and dishonorable to mask what is ones own historical cowardice by falsely claiming that cowardice belongs to another entity that had proven themselves valiant in the face of open war. If I could only face that question, from so long ago, again today.

Originally, I’m from an area of the state known as the Piedmont. You may wonder what that means and if you look it up in a dictionary you’ll find that it is defined as a plateau region between the Atlantic coastal plain and the Appalachian Mountains. The Piedmont extends from New York down through Alabama. It’s not exclusive to North Carolina but my home is the only place I’ve ever known that identifies itself to that geographic region. The state is divided into three sections, the Coastal Plain, the Piedmont and the Blue Ridge/Appalachian Mountains. It’s all beautiful and has a rich history that worth knowing. For the most part, the people are kind, wise and generous. There are some of the best universities in the world there. It is a center for some of the most advanced technical and medical research on the planet. Thinking back on what others have said about my own countrymen, I have a tendency to sneer “Tar Boilers, Indeed!”

When I was younger, I didn’t think about such things. Looking back on most of my adult life, I feel as if I’ve been somewhat a vagabond. Moving from here to there, I’ve never really had the feeling of being still. Like this is where I’ll live out the rest of my days. This is the place where they will put me in the ground. Funny how life seems to come around full circle, isn’t it? I just think that it may be time for me to go home.

Lightning

It’s the spring season here. Last night, we were graced by a little rain with the added bonus of some lightning and soft thunder. I heard a rumble in the distance and went out on my porch to take it in. Off to the south, I could see the lightning as it flickered across the sky. It seemed almost alive, as if it were its own entity, absorbed in its own interest. As if it had its own consciousness and, an awareness that I was watching from a distance. It’s voice of thunder telling me “not yet, not yet, I will visit you in time”. I was reminded a movie that I once watched where this Fire Marshall was interviewing a known arsonist. Of course, the interviewee was a bit nuts but he asked the investigator, who had been present at a particularly dangerous fire, “did it look at you”? That thought crossed my mind as I watched. Did it look at me? I guess it is human nature to try and rationalize powerful things that we really don’t understand. Maybe we do this so we can deal with them emotionally and psychologically in our humanness. Kind of like bringing them down to our level, though we see the power and grandeur of such things and inherently understand that they are beyond us, we seek a connection that we can deal with. That seems reasonable on the one hand, arrogant on the other. I suppose it could be our penchant for possession and control that drives this. I wonder, is that why we make so much effort to humanize God? In the Bible, Isaiah wrote “shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, what makest thou?”. We humans are so fragile and yet we don’t seem to realize it. There are so many powerful forces in our world, this earth, that we have absolutely no control over. This is just one of them. It really is pretty amazing stuff this natural phenomenon, lightning.

It’s interesting, don’t you think, how given any number of people there will be an equal number of differing perceptions about something like lightning. When I was a kid, the older people in my family would tell us children to be quiet and still during a lightning storm. It’s God’s work and voice in play and we needed to be still in reverence. Dean Koontz wrote a book named Lightning (which I read several times and thought was an excellent story) where the power of a lightning storm was used as a vehicle for time travel. Throughout history various peoples have accounted lightning to their own gods. According to Wikipedia, the Greeks felt that lightning represented Zeus. Supposedly when Zeus was at war with Cronus and the Titans, he released his brothers Hades and Poseidon along with the Cyclops and the Cyclops gave him the thunderbolt as a weapon. The symbology for a thunderbolt is evidently a zigzag with non-pointed ends and represents speed and power. Lightning and thunder has also been used as a means of divination and is called ceraunoscopy. Divining what, I’m not so sure of but I am confident that it would have been used to resolve most of the same human questions and problems that we experience today. In the Jewish religion a blessing is to be recited when seeing lightning, “He who does acts of creation”.

After doing some reading and research, I was pretty much amazed at the amount of information available about lightning. Of course, there is much scientific data that can be digested about it and a seemingly endless supply of resources to learn from. Honestly, I was struck by how ignorant I really am about this thing. I’ve always loved earth science but I guess this area must have escaped me. It forces me to consider just how many other aspects concerning the earth’s physical properties have also escaped my understanding. The most significant thing I can remember is a discussion in class about whether lightning strikes up or down. Considering the basic concept of electron flow in an electrical circuit, it would seem that electrons would flow from negative to positive. The lightning bolt should discharge from the earth, which appears to be negative or at ground potential, to a more positively charged cloud once there was an imbalance in the two charges, kind of like a capacitor. Yeah??? I think this is a very basic synopsis of what’s called “leader and return stroke” so I’d have to say that fundamentally, yeah it does but it really happens in both directions and most catastrophically in the cloud to ground sort. What I thought was interesting is the variety of different types of lightning and their descriptions. Take these names for instance: Cloud to ground (of course), Bead, Ribbon, Staccato, Forked, Sheet, Heat, Dry, and Ball lightning. There are even descriptive names like Sprites (taken from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream), Blue Jets and Elves which is really an acronym for Emissions of Light and Very Low Frequency Perturbations from Electromagnetic Pulse Sources. That really is a handful of words. I say just stick with Elves.

All in all, I enjoy the logic and science behind this sort of thing but in my heart am more akin to feelings of awe, mystery and the power behind it. To me, it’s like the mist in the mountains or the movement of the sea. Something I have no control over and am, by the very nature of it, force to accept as something beyond myself. Not something to worship, but still something to see as created by the one that deserves my worship. Lightning, like other natural events such as volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tidal waves, floods, the aurora borealis, etc, have a way of putting things in perspective for me. It helps remind me that I am human, that I am not invincible, that there is a higher power and that I need to be grateful for the existence that I have. I am always astonished by such events in that they always bring me a sense of relevance in this wide world. They bring a sense of place and occasionally, a little inspiration.

Incomprehensible Loss

Nearly every day of my life, my youngest daughter calls me on the phone to ask how my day was and to say she loves me. How wonderful and faithful is that? When my cell phone rang the other day on my drive home and it said “mom’s cell” on the caller ID I immediately asked, when I pushed the green button, “child, why are you calling me on your mom’s phone”. The response wasn’t what I expected. “Because it is the mom”, the voice replied. Now my former spouse and I do talk to each other on occasion and since we got past the three year mark in this divorce, it has mostly been open, warm and connected. This day however, she was crying and distraught. You see she is a midwife and delivers babies, primarily in the home of expectant moms. I can’t tell you how many she has delivered but there are hundreds of children, alive on this earth today, that were caught with her hands. I know from living in that world for so long that midwifery is a very personal thing. Most of the time there is real bonding between her and the pregnant mom. It isn’t just a business relationship. It’s a very human and intimate thing. From a bystanders perspective it’s really quite amazing. I think it’s kind of like a love relationship, that of family and home. As if those who touch us, and those we touch, teach us and help us to grow into who we are. Somehow, being close to the birth of a child always seemed to make me feel better as a person. It’s as if the experience is pure joy, a renewal of life that seems to make us whole.

Though we chatted briefly, it didn’t take long for her to say that she just needed someone to talk to. She was on the way back to her house and was thinking about the loss that one of her families had just experienced. A child that she delivered had died and she had just left the funeral. I know she was grieving for the baby and the parents and that was a part of what she was feeling but her primary concern was for how the service was handled by the men of the family’s church. Now this isn’t my former spouse’s church. She doesn’t attend any kind of Christian services. She is, in fact, a pagan by her own profession. When we were married, we lived our lives as Christians but once that marriage relationship ended, she almost immediately renounced Christ and declared to all concerned her distain for Christian values. From her perspective, the Christian faith is cruel. How could a God of love threaten His people with the prospect of hell? How could a God of love allow a two year old child to die such a sudden, tragic and apparently painful death?

During the service, one of the men stood up to speak. From what I was told, he basically had a cavalier attitude about the whole thing and said that at least now the parents wouldn’t have to deal with another rebellious teenager. Then he mentioned that the child’s death was the hand of God, moving with the purpose of bringing others to Christ. Listening to her on the phone, I have no doubt those were his words. If it had been me, I want to believe that I would have chosen to say something different. I would have said something that would have brought the child’s beauty and brightness and joy back to remembrance, if only for a bit. I would have recalled how she had brought happiness and love to the family and how sorely she will be missed. I would have tried to console the parents and other children of that family with the knowledge that the little girl was with the Lord and that she is at peace and happy. Taking in the words of my former spouse, it was obvious to me that she felt angry with the man because of his apparent insensitivity and manipulation of the dire circumstances to try and proselytize those in attendance to the service. To me, the adults that were there are most probably intelligent enough, sensitive enough and aware enough of the precepts offered by Christianity to know that the choice is theirs. God offers salvation through grace to any that will accept it. The choice belongs to each individual.

In time, I asked her about the circumstances of the accident. It seems the mom was away on some errand and the dad was there at the home with the children. From what I understand, this two year old little girl was in the front yard playing with a nine year old neighbor. The two children wandered over to a neighbor’s driveway and the small child was standing behind an automobile when a seventeen year old ran out of the house and jumped into the car, put it into reverse and started to back out of the drive. He, or she, didn’t look to see if the drive was clear. Do any of us, most of the time? I felt immediate sorrow for that teenager. How must that child be handling the fact that he (or she) ran over a little baby? My first reaction was “where was the dad”? “Why had the dad allowed his two year old out of his sight for even a moment”? I felt an initial surge of anger that he had faltered in his physical responsibility as a father. Then, a moment later, I realized that it could have happened to me just as easily. I don’t know how many times I told one of my other children “watch your sister while I’m on the phone, in the bathroom, getting this pasta off the stove”. It can happen in an instant. Maybe it is God’s will. Maybe there is some greater purpose that He has in store. We can’t know the mind of God and the bible says, that He says, “my ways are not your ways”.

I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before in my life. A young child dies, the parents can’t forgive themselves or, assign blame one to the other. The marriage deteriorates and divorce follows. I reminded my former spouse of one incident in particular that she did remember. I tried to console her. I told her that even though it seems cruel that such a bright young light had been extinguished on the earth, God is still in control. The child’s soul, the very essence of who she was on the earth, still lives. I encouraged her to intervene if possible with this man and woman and help them understand that though this tragic thing has happened, they need not let it tear them apart. It could end in guilt and divorce but it could also be a force to hold them together. It can serve as something that will provide the glue which will hold them together for the rest of their lives. Strength and love from this tragedy is just as valid as anger and separation.

Truthfully, this is a sad story. I just hope the family survives. They have my prayers.

Thoughts on a Spring Day

I think most people really enjoy the Spring season. It seems to remind them that life always buds anew. I like it too but on this day, I feel some trepidation about life. Like I’ve said before, I feel a bit lost sometimes. Today is one of those days. There seem to be so many questions in my life that do not have answers and I truthfully do not know where to turn or where to seek those answers. It leads me to daydream about how things could be if some of the circumstances were different in my life. What if I had stayed in the military for 30 years instead of 20? Would I be geographically situated in the place I am now? What if I had not gone through divorce? Would the attitudes and perspectives of my kids be as they are now? Would my oldest daughter be estranged from her mother and siblings? What if I had chosen a different, second, career path? Would I be working the 9 to 5 grind with a daily commute and the struggle to pay debts? I guess my feelings about some of these things aren’t so different from many people on earth today. Possibly, there are millions and maybe billions of folks that are in the same situation as me. I heard this guy on the radio talking about how kids see their parents. One of the things he said was that parents weren’t always boring. That they were at some point interesting and fun to be around. It was the daily grind of paying the bills, feeding the kids, cleaning up after the kids and worrying over them that made them who they are today. I can see that as truth. It seems like the years get heavier as they pass on by.

Things aren’t different though. They are today just as they are and no amount of speculation changes that. As I sat on my porch this morning, drinking coffee, looking out at the street in front of my house, I easily slipped into a fantasy of being in the mountains. Sitting there looking out over the forest covered hills and the little coves of green that have been carved out of the valleys, I could see myself financially secure and without an obligation to run with the rats. My kids all loved me and wanted to spend time close to me. I did not owe anyone money and could pursue the day as I chose. Some of that firewood needs to be split and laid up for winter. The early garden wants to be weeded a bit and eggs need to be collected from the chicken coop. I want to plant those sunflower seeds on the southeast side of the house. Later, in the afternoon, I may go down to the village store and hang out with some of those guys. It’s a nice place really. An old building that sells food, gas, hardware and an assortment of oddities that somebody may want in time. There are chairs to lounge in, coffee to drink and the conversation is always good. Maybe a drive though the mountains would be nice. I’ve been wanting to hike that one trail again. It’s not a tough hike, there are some beautiful vistas and it’s mostly shaded. There are a few streams and low waterfalls that are just magical.

I really don’t want to be without an occupation and I think it’s important for a man to be employed at something. Maybe a small restaurant that just does really good soup and sandwiches. I think that morning coffee with homemade scones, cookies and cinnamon rolls, serving the local people in the small town would be a good thing. The money made would not need to be as important as the connection with the people and the positive impression of grace that could be made on their lives. I believe that volunteer work could be considered an occupation. Being an interpreter for the natural setting that visitors find themselves in would be good. When I was a kid we used to visit the mountains every year and one of my favorite things to do would be attend the lectures given by the park rangers in the campground amphitheater. Being a natural history guide on the trails would be fun I think. In our busy lives we cruise through beautiful places oohing and ahhing, snapping a few photos and moving on at a fairly quick pace. I know how vacations are. With limited time and resources, there is an inherent sensation that we’ve got to move on to the next place so we can see it all. The opportunity to lead a few people through a few miles and helping them open their eyes, ears and minds to the flora, fauna and history of a place would be good for everyone involved. I like physical stuff too. Clearing and maintaining mountain trails has always been an interest of mine. Though it could be solitary work at times, the peace and quiet of the environment, the connection to the land would be worth it I think. Doing work that benefits others seems like a noble and satisfying endeavor. I know that I have at many times thought with kindness of those unseen, unnamed souls that made my hike doable and even pleasant.

To be in a place where you can do what you want with the time you’re given in this life seems ideal, doesn’t it? How did we get to where we are now though? Certainly there are things that most of us would never do over again as it would take away some of the joys and sorrows that made us who we are. I suppose everyone makes mistakes in life that seem regrettable on down the road and they, in part, shape us into the people we have become. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. I wonder though if I can take who I’ve become and allow that person to grow into who I want to be. Where to start at this late stage in my life? If you don’t like who you are or the circumstances you find yourself in, how do you turn it around? I’ve seen people do it and I know it requires focus and work, which I’m not fearful of, but which direction do I turn to take that first step? Life shouldn’t be just daydreams. Even in the Autumn of one’s days there must be a path to the end and not this aimless wandering. Honestly, I don’t want to accept the ordinary, common existence that I have now as the termination of my trip. Though some might see my morning musings as plain and uninteresting in their mind, to me it would be an exultation. It would be something unequivocal. I understand that any existence has its own set of problems and worries. Maybe I’m just ready for a change and that change is manifesting itself in these, nearly constant, daydreams.

I guess it’s time.

Lonesome Highway Man

As I drove to work a couple of days ago, only mildly irritated at the rush hour traffic, I started thinking about the incredible diversity of all those people. That the cars keep moving at all is a wonder in itself. Hundreds of individuals as different as finger prints all moving in a controlled and somewhat chaotic dance to as many destinations. All of those brain cells firing at the same time, thousands of thoughts ebbing and flowing in the course of a few miles. Amazing. So many singularities expressing their individuality in everything from what they drive to how they drive. It made me think of that Mission Impossible movie where the lead actor, who is really a spy but has a cover as a transportation specialist, is at a party and tells one of the guests that traffic is like a living organism and can be predictable depending on the overall stimulus that it’s subjected to. At least I think that’s how it went. Kind of like a “hive mind”, I suppose. For anyone that drives in traffic I’m sure one would agree that you can just feel what is happening and can almost communicate without any physical cues.

As we moved along I started to notice more than just the cars themselves. There were all manner of bumper stickers, everything from political statements to school logos to espousals of love for one’s wife. You have to wonder what motivates someone to put a particular sticker on their car. Aside from the obvious that the person wants to be heard, I started thinking about that particular person’s life and what brought them to say definitively “Coexist” where the letters are all stylized religious or cultural symbols. I think in all of my life I’ve only had one bumper sticker on a vehicle that I drove, Love Your Mother with a symbol of the earth at the end. To me it was just a simple way to say “take care of this planet we live on, it’s the only one we have”. Of course that was long before it was popular to see something like that as a pagan imperative to worship gaia, some primal Greek goddess that embodies earth. If I could have seen that coming there’s no way that sticker would have made it to my bumper. It wasn’t just the stickers though. License plates of a large variety graced many of the cars. Some advocating for helping schools, others with duck stamps or images of field and stream, the ever present university tags, farmers, retired military, reserve military, veterans of foreign wars and the personalized alpha numerics like “LITIG8R” or “MS TUTU” or “POOTIE”. Have you ever noticed the Toyota symbol on the back of that type car when they are turned upside down? It’s pretty suggestive.

Though there seems to have always been stickers in the rear windows of cars, I’ve noticed more and more the last couple of years that lots of women feel compelled to put their monograms back there. I really don’t get that. Maybe that’s what one does when you don’t really have a political or cultural statement to make but still want to personalize your ride in some way. Possibly a “herd mentality” that mandates a need to get in there with something. There are lots of Buck marks, big deer antlers with a note saying “size matters”, pink John Deere logos, Calvin peeing on some other brand of car or truck, stickers advocating some web site. Like the one I saw in town the other day that advertised “PickaStateParanormalResearch.Com”. The ones I like best though are the “In Loving Memory” ones. Gone but we still love you and miss you and you are not forgotten. After seeing so many lewd Calvin stickers, it kind of blew me away the first time I saw one where he was kneeling at a cross. Calvin was a brat at times but all things considered, he was pretty good kid with a highly active imagination. Somehow, the kneeling at the cross one seemed more appropriate to me.

You know, I suppose all of those labels mean something to these people. I wonder if it can be expressed in how I felt when seeing the Tattoo person or the Piercing Saved My Life person. Did these folks pursue those courses because they needed a way to express how they felt about life? Were they so disillusioned by what the largest part of society said was correct that they followed a path less travelled, standing there in the world’s face with a pride that says I did it my way? Hoping that someone will see through it all and in this wide world will notice that they are alive, intelligent and have some purpose and value in life? It’s easy to see how anyone can get to a place where they feel so ignored and outcast that when promised hope and change it’s like cool water in a dry land. Maybe they had a lonely or misunderstood period in life when what they now advocate was all they had to hang onto. Surely all of these people have some reason for taking a stand on whatever issues they so openly offer for others to think on.

As my drive came close to the end, I noticed one last window label on a pick-up truck ahead of me. At first I couldn’t make out what it said and thought “Yeah, it’s got a hemi” or “Can Ya Hemi Now?” but as I drew near, I realized it said Lonesome Highway Man. When I got closer I could see that he was a big fellow with a beard and he was wearing a baseball cap. He didn’t seem to be dejected or sad, just a guy on his way to some place. I wondered what his story was. Did he travel a lot of back roads? Was he forever driving to far off places, never able to be at home? Did he have a family that he wanted to be with? Maybe he was always on the road and didn’t have time for a life outside of the drive. Maybe he had accepted his life and decided to live it in peace, recognizing it for what it is and who he is. Maybe the man was just as content as he could be with his own company. As I drove on past, I figured it’s possible that he knows his name and is ok with it.

Chemistry Lesson

Lately, I’ve noticed more big trucks running up and down the interstate. Most of the time, it’s your standard box trailers with a company logo on the side but I’ve also seen flat beds with all manner of cargo being transported to who knows where. Wide sheets of steel, pipe, machinery, military equipment, you name it. Though the big rigs can be an inconvenience, I’m actually happy to see them out there. It says to me that the economy is still moving. It tells me that interstate commerce is alive and that’s a good thing. What caught my eye the other day was a truck hauling carbon monoxide gas. Now I’ve seen those tanks with oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, helium, etc., labeled on the side but never carbon monoxide. It seemed really odd to me. What earthly purpose could this gas have in industry that would require it to be produced and transported? As far as I knew, it was nothing more than a poisonous gas that had no purpose and was to be avoided if at all possible. The thing stuck with me the whole day though and piqued my curiosity enough to do a little research.

After searching the web for a while, it occurred to me just how little I knew about chemistry. I have never had any formal education in the subject but felt that I knew enough to be at least a little conversant in this area. I’ve always had an affinity for science subjects but my interests were geared more toward earth science and astronomy. Of course I’m not an expert in those areas either but I have studied some and am curious in those regards. Looking back on my life, if I had chosen a career field in the sciences, I believe that I would have enjoyed volcanology. It’s mountainous, of course.

The first place I looked for information about carbon monoxide was Wikipedia. I quickly realized that I needed more basic information about the chemical structure of things to understand just what the article was trying to tell me. This led me to a site that is geared mostly toward children and explains the periodic table of elements. It was actually a sort of two edged sword as on the one hand it reaffirmed how inadequate my knowledge base is in the subject but on the other hand gave me a sort of elation to know that there are very young people out there who are studying chemistry. It made me feel confident that difficult technical matters are not being abandoned by our youth and that brings promise for a brighter future. Anyway, it didn’t take long to understand that carbon monoxide is not a basic element in the periodic table sense but is actually a compound made up of one atom of carbon and one of oxygen. Though it occurs naturally in some ways, this natural occurrence seems insignificant in the larger scheme of things. It exists primarily due to the partial oxidation of carbon containing compounds. The interesting part is how it is produced by chemical manufacturing processes and its ultimate uses in our world.

This understanding that the stuff is dangerous to humans and animals has been around for a long time. The Greeks and Romans used it to execute people. The Nazis used it to euthanize people. During times when gasoline was in short supply, it has been used to fuel automobiles and is currently used to convert coal and biomass to diesel fuel. Though there are some absolutely nefarious applications for it, there are also some relatively benign uses as well. Take the creation of acetic acid, for instance. Plastic water bottles, photographic film, wood glue, synthetic fibers and fabrics are all by products of acetic acid and a result of carbon monoxide manipulation. This same acid, when diluted, is a common household product. Think vinegar. One thing that surprised and disturbed me a bit was the use of carbon monoxide to enhance the red color of meat we buy in the grocery store. Apparently, it keeps the red color longer so we mere mortals are enticed to believe that it is fresh. Food producers use this type of processing in many of the products we consume, like fruits and vegetable, pasta, cheese, ready to eat meals, seafood, etc. They call this MAP or Modified Atmosphere Packaging. Ever wonder why some of those packages of meat in the store have that puffy clear wrap on them?

It is truly amazing to me how little we know about the world we live in. Life on planet earth seems so “every day” on the face of it. Little do we realize how complex our existence is. Something that we all know can be dangerous but at the same time is as innocuous as carbon monoxide has so much impact in our daily living. It just leads me to believe that I am actually very ignorant of my surroundings. It takes me to the modern adage “question authority” and speaks to me of the need to understand that there is more to my existence than meets the eye.

Spring, She Comes.

We’ve had an unusual winter this year. There was actually snow on a few occasions. Though it wasn’t that beautiful, dry, fluffy snow I longed for, it was snow none the less. It didn’t stick to the roads and create the hazard that would be inevitable for people in this region, but it was lovely in the trees and on the roof tops.

Now though, the tentacles of winter are starting to recede. I’m beginning to see signs of awakening. It just feels different. As much as I do love the cold weather, I guess that I could welcome the change to a new season. For some reason, I had the strongest remembrances of spring and summer the other day. It’s funny how some things from childhood come back so bright and clear at times. Where I grew up there was always a distinct changing of seasons. With winter pulling back we could smell it in the air, feel it in our bones. We would open windows to let fresh air inside the house. My mother would think of planting flowers. To a kid like me it meant that summer wasn’t far off and there would be a break from school. You could start to spend more time outside in the evenings and the leaves came back to the trees. Of course, we had evergreen trees too and they always offered the whisper and moan of the wind but it was in spring that they became the most noticeable. I guess it was the rising sap that made them smell so strong. Sometimes I would just sit outside in the evening and breathe in the strong aroma of pine. The earth was greening up and the soil smelled old and rich, as if there was an untold history there. It felt moist beneath my bare feet. Dusk was pretty much my favorite time of day. There wasn’t much man made noise back in those days. No cars running up and down trying to get somewhere fast. Mostly what you heard were the Whippoorwills and Bobwhite Quail. We live next door to my grandfather, who we all called Papa, and I think spring was a favorite season for him. In my recollection, he seemed to be more energetic at that time of year. I remember him painting that metal porch furniture in the spring and how he seemed delighted to sit in the rockers with me and tell me stories.

As the weeks passed, the birds would nest and soon there would be eggs in them. Being the boys we were it was hard to resist climbing the trees and taking some. They were like jewels from the natural world for us, something to present at Show and Tell. The teacher would fuss that we shouldn’t have done that but the other kids were wide eyed with delight. The spring was a time for thunder storms and though the earth turns and time passes, the ones I witnessed as a child seemed to hold so much more power then. It was as if God was reminding us that He was still there and wanted us to know that He was still in control. All of the older folks used to say we needed to be quiet in a thunder storm. I suppose it was in reverence for that power. As children, we didn’t realize that birds and nests and eggs were also His power, manifested in gentler way.

With the change in season came yard work. Cutting the grass wasn’t my favorite but after it was done, I loved the smell of the mown grass. The mower we had was an old pusher that took forever to start and the yard seemed to be huge then. My Papa had two mowers and they both were self pulling. He wouldn’t let me use them to cut our lawn but he did let me when I was cutting his grass and it was pleasure incarnate. There was a shaft with a large knob that you pushed and pulled to make it stop and go. Those things were wonderful and gave me such a feeling of power and control. I still don’t like cutting grass much but I have learned how to keep a mower in good working order so they are much easier to start. Funny about the smell of mown grass though, these days it doesn’t seem to smell as sweet. I suppose getting older dulls the senses in some ways. I believe that it’s good that we can still remember when such things made us feel happy and content.

As the days pushed toward summer, all of the fruit trees and bushes on Papa’s place started to bud out and bloom. Sweet smells and the promise of fruit picked fresh from limbs were on me and I looked forward to sitting on his porch and sharing it with him. He used an old Barlow knife to peel the big fruit with. It gave it a metallic flavor but it was still delicious. There were apples, pears, peaches, cherries and grapes. To this day I’m still amazed at how grapes grow. Purple ones, white ones and red ones. A thick, gnarly old vine trained to run along some old clothes line wire. I suppose the leaves were even good to eat but I didn’t know that then. Often I would climb the cherry tree and sit there on a limb eating those bright, beautiful red things until I’d had my fill, spitting out the pits at bugs or nothing. Good times.

Caught up in the world of 2010 there doesn’t seem to be a place like that anymore. Maybe it could be re-created but I suppose the wonder of it all would be for another generation. At this stage in life, it would be mostly a visual memory for me. Somehow the remembrances of spring that I have don’t seem to be as shallow as the one we have today. I know time passes and things change, the world moves on, but it doesn’t really mean that things get better. Sometimes I tell my kids about what it was like for me when I was young and they seem interested, even enamored with the tale but when it’s over, they move on in their minds. Too bad we can’t keep all the good things going for future generations so they can see with their own eyes that what was once good, important and valuable could still be today for them and those that follow them.