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.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Go Fly a Kite
That’s something I haven’t done in a very long time. I do believe that I introduced my kids to it many years ago, maybe just once or twice. Looking back at it, I feel a sort of loss at not making it a more regular thing in our lives. When I was a child, all of us kids flew kites. Some made their own and were always looking for ways to improve their handiwork. For the most part, mine were usually bought at the dime store. They were diamond shaped flat kites made of paper with wooden supports. I used cheap cotton string for a flying line and made my own tails with whatever scrap cloth my mom would give me. Back then, it was just something we did that was fun. As an adult, I can appreciate the freedom it brought to be out in that field doing something that had no purpose other than my own personal enjoyment. To be on the ground and watch it undulating with the breeze was a peaceful sort of thing. With its tail wavering to and fro, billowing white clouds and the warmth of the sun on my face, it was like stepping out of time to a place of comfort and wonderment. Where has that pleasure gone to?
Things were less complicated back in those days. Televisions were black and white with only a few channels to choose from. There were no cell phones, personal computers or Internet. No Xbox, PS1s, 2s or 3s, no iPods or music downloads. By today’s standard, a kid had to be pretty creative to have any fun at all. Of course, we didn’t know that. Most of us lived to be outside and chaffed at the prospect of having to stay in for most any reason. We rode bikes, fished, swam, played Army, Cowboys and Indians, built forts in the woods and hung out at the community store and drank Cokes with peanuts in them. You don’t see much of that sort of thing anymore. These days, it never ceases to amaze me at how long kids can sit in front of a monitor or TV and play video games. I understand how the mind can get so absorbed while playing on the game machine, much like when reading a good book, but to what end? I honestly don’t see how the video games have any redeeming value. At least with a book you have the memories of the characters and how they interacted with their situation. One’s own visualization of the scene and circumstance must be more meaningful than the repetitive visual imagery offered by some of the stuff we’ve seen our own children play. Right?
I wonder sometimes how technology has shaped our existence today. Not so much the adults in our lives, more the kids that are coming up now. When I was in school, especially first through sixth grade, our teachers focused on reading, writing, arithmetic, history, earth science and geography. Every morning we stood with hands over hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. When it was appropriate, there was prayer in the classroom. When we were naughty there was a trip to the principal’s office which, more often than not, resulted in a stern talking to and a paddling. Yes, my parents approved. I guess they don’t do “show and tell” these days. We all did it. If for no other purpose to give us the experience of standing up in front of a room full of other people and speaking intelligibly about something.
I worry for children these days. Most young people I know have read very little in their lives and could tell you very little about the world they live in. How many continents are there? How many oceans? How many presidents has the United States had? When was the Civil War fought? How many planets are there in our solar system and in what position is the earth from the sun? I am amazed at how little my own kids know. I have some children that are adults now and I knew more by the time I was twelve than they know now in their twenties. One thing is for sure though, they can tell you how to level up in most popular games available today. They know the cheats to get around sticky problems in the games. Sometimes, it seems that’s all they live for. What does that stuff teach them? If you can’t accomplish the goal honestly…..cheat. If you don’t like the way things are running, reset. What kind of brain drain is all of this technology? Do you know of any young people today that can or will hand write letters? I don’t know about lots of others but most of the people I interact these days that are twenty five or younger, my own kids included, have appallingly bad handwriting. The bad thing is they know it and aren’t willing to do anything to improve it. E-mail and spell check is so much easier.
Flying a kite just may have more value than the obvious pleasure it offers. Perhaps it could teach that we need to slow down. To keep it in the air we need to be patient with the winds of change. We can’t always force our own will and sometimes it just may be better to bend with the winds of life, than to be broken by them. A kite requires diligence to keep it airborne. A slack line, like a slack hand often ends up in disaster. Most of the responsibilities in our lives need continual attention. Imagine investing in the stock of a certain company. Would you really just check on it occasionally? Probably not, that’s your money. What about the day in day out come home, don’t see the kids cause in their rooms playing games? Don’t really talk to the spouse because he or she is in their own world and you’re too tired. A slack line on one’s life, like that of the kite, is sure to facilitate a crash.
Do we really see what’s going on around us these days? Are we so enamored by the fast move, the fast buck, the instant gratification of this world that we’ve given up our powers of observation in things that really matter? Time is passing in my life. Some days I can hardly believe that I’m as old as I’ve become. They say that hindsight is perfect vision and I believe that’s true. If I had it to do over again there are definitely things that I’d do differently. Though I didn’t really see it in years gone by, I’ve come to understand just how significant my actions and attitudes affected other people in my life. How I should have walked softer, spoke less and listened more, loved more openly and deeper, smelled more roses, flew more kites. The Bible says that a good man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children. I don’t think that necessarily means money. What seems more important to me is the tools we give to those that follow us and how they will pass those on to those that follow them. Character, honesty, dedication, honor, a good work ethic, a good name, compassion, wisdom, understanding, a tender heart, freedom, an appreciation for simple pleasures. These things are an inheritance to be proud of. One that when your last day comes you can go in peace, knowing that you really did do the best you could with what you had.
It’s been a long time since I flew a kite but it may be time to try my hand at it once more. I miss that simple pleasure. Maybe this spring.
Things were less complicated back in those days. Televisions were black and white with only a few channels to choose from. There were no cell phones, personal computers or Internet. No Xbox, PS1s, 2s or 3s, no iPods or music downloads. By today’s standard, a kid had to be pretty creative to have any fun at all. Of course, we didn’t know that. Most of us lived to be outside and chaffed at the prospect of having to stay in for most any reason. We rode bikes, fished, swam, played Army, Cowboys and Indians, built forts in the woods and hung out at the community store and drank Cokes with peanuts in them. You don’t see much of that sort of thing anymore. These days, it never ceases to amaze me at how long kids can sit in front of a monitor or TV and play video games. I understand how the mind can get so absorbed while playing on the game machine, much like when reading a good book, but to what end? I honestly don’t see how the video games have any redeeming value. At least with a book you have the memories of the characters and how they interacted with their situation. One’s own visualization of the scene and circumstance must be more meaningful than the repetitive visual imagery offered by some of the stuff we’ve seen our own children play. Right?
I wonder sometimes how technology has shaped our existence today. Not so much the adults in our lives, more the kids that are coming up now. When I was in school, especially first through sixth grade, our teachers focused on reading, writing, arithmetic, history, earth science and geography. Every morning we stood with hands over hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. When it was appropriate, there was prayer in the classroom. When we were naughty there was a trip to the principal’s office which, more often than not, resulted in a stern talking to and a paddling. Yes, my parents approved. I guess they don’t do “show and tell” these days. We all did it. If for no other purpose to give us the experience of standing up in front of a room full of other people and speaking intelligibly about something.
I worry for children these days. Most young people I know have read very little in their lives and could tell you very little about the world they live in. How many continents are there? How many oceans? How many presidents has the United States had? When was the Civil War fought? How many planets are there in our solar system and in what position is the earth from the sun? I am amazed at how little my own kids know. I have some children that are adults now and I knew more by the time I was twelve than they know now in their twenties. One thing is for sure though, they can tell you how to level up in most popular games available today. They know the cheats to get around sticky problems in the games. Sometimes, it seems that’s all they live for. What does that stuff teach them? If you can’t accomplish the goal honestly…..cheat. If you don’t like the way things are running, reset. What kind of brain drain is all of this technology? Do you know of any young people today that can or will hand write letters? I don’t know about lots of others but most of the people I interact these days that are twenty five or younger, my own kids included, have appallingly bad handwriting. The bad thing is they know it and aren’t willing to do anything to improve it. E-mail and spell check is so much easier.
Flying a kite just may have more value than the obvious pleasure it offers. Perhaps it could teach that we need to slow down. To keep it in the air we need to be patient with the winds of change. We can’t always force our own will and sometimes it just may be better to bend with the winds of life, than to be broken by them. A kite requires diligence to keep it airborne. A slack line, like a slack hand often ends up in disaster. Most of the responsibilities in our lives need continual attention. Imagine investing in the stock of a certain company. Would you really just check on it occasionally? Probably not, that’s your money. What about the day in day out come home, don’t see the kids cause in their rooms playing games? Don’t really talk to the spouse because he or she is in their own world and you’re too tired. A slack line on one’s life, like that of the kite, is sure to facilitate a crash.
Do we really see what’s going on around us these days? Are we so enamored by the fast move, the fast buck, the instant gratification of this world that we’ve given up our powers of observation in things that really matter? Time is passing in my life. Some days I can hardly believe that I’m as old as I’ve become. They say that hindsight is perfect vision and I believe that’s true. If I had it to do over again there are definitely things that I’d do differently. Though I didn’t really see it in years gone by, I’ve come to understand just how significant my actions and attitudes affected other people in my life. How I should have walked softer, spoke less and listened more, loved more openly and deeper, smelled more roses, flew more kites. The Bible says that a good man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children. I don’t think that necessarily means money. What seems more important to me is the tools we give to those that follow us and how they will pass those on to those that follow them. Character, honesty, dedication, honor, a good work ethic, a good name, compassion, wisdom, understanding, a tender heart, freedom, an appreciation for simple pleasures. These things are an inheritance to be proud of. One that when your last day comes you can go in peace, knowing that you really did do the best you could with what you had.
It’s been a long time since I flew a kite but it may be time to try my hand at it once more. I miss that simple pleasure. Maybe this spring.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Written Word
What is it about writing?
I’m always thinking about it but never doing much of it. Honestly, I can’t figure out why it seems so hard to just sit down and talk about the things that are on my mind. Do you ever stop for a moment and consider all the thoughts that go through your head in a single day? There are just so many things that seem innocuous at first glance but really do have merit and would benefit from the light of your own insight.
Just the other day I was having lunch with a co-worker and he told me this story of how he made his first potato gun. The company that we work for had sent him to a weeklong school where he was to train on a subject that he’d already been taught. In fact, everyone in the class had already received the same training. The instructor, realizing the pointlessness of rehashing the material, suggested they make a trip to the hardware store and buy stuff to make the spud launchers. Using the liquid from glow sticks so they could see the potato fly across the interstate at night was a good scene. When I got home that night, I found hundreds of videos on the internet about folks and their experiences with the things. Apparently it’s a tired subject, but not that tired. It got me to thinking about primitive weapons and I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about slings. You know the kind that David used to slay Goliath. It was really quite fascinating. The length and type of materials to projectiles and their physical makeup to the history of their use for the last several thousand years. I suppose it may have been some deep seated, primeval instinct for survival that drove me there and held my attention. I can see how something like that could lead to a whole world in one’s imagination. That “Clan of the Cave Bear” sort of thing. The woman that wrote those stories seemed to have a special interest in herbal remedies which basically gave her the heroine of the books. I read them all and enjoyed them immensely. I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. Character and plot development seems to be something that eludes me. Just how far into the story must you imagine before you can begin? There is a line in the latest Indiana Jones movie where Marion says to their son Mutt that Indy just makes the stuff up as he goes. Writing should be like that, letting the story pour out of your mind onto the page like water from a pitcher into a glass.
Maybe my problem has always been one of expectations. I’ve worked at one job, or another, my whole life and to be honest, I’m tired of working. I am thankful for the employment that I have. It does provide for all of my needs and I feel blessed that I have it, especially in this time on earth. I just believe that I’m ready to do something else. Of course, writing seems like the best way to go. Though there is work involved, it can be done from your home. There is no daily commute. No requirement to wear the uniform of one’s employer. My mind is not fettered by the clothes I wear, the vehicle that I drive or corporate objectives. The question though still boils down to one of financial needs. I’ve read so many things that told me how difficult it is to make a living with the written word. How most writers do it their whole lives and never make any money with it. Is it possible that my typical American upbringing which encourages hard work at a job that has substance discourages, in a quiet and subliminal way, the notion that I can make a living at something cerebral? There are other objections to a life of writing. “You have no formal training”. “You don’t know anyone in the industry that can help you”. “You don’t have a clue what some publisher might be looking for”. Ask yourself the question, “Are you willing to commit the time and energy to learn a new craft”? What about all the stuff that’s in you right now that wants to be said that very well may be lost in the process of learning what some other person says is the right way? Shouldn’t it be spontaneous and free flowing? Aren’t my ideas about what is the right way just as valid?
I read somewhere that everything has been written about. There are no new subjects. Even if that is true cannot the old ones benefit from my internal light? In Chicken Soup for the Writers Soul there is a story where one person says to another, “If you wanted to be a writer, you would write”. Looking at it all from a glass half full perspective you can tell yourself “do what you love and the money will come”. I suppose one just has to believe in himself. When I was younger I thought that my special interest in woodworking, my passion for the craft, would allow me to make a living at it. After trying my own business for a while, I soon realized that I’m not cut out for all things I’m passionate about. Though I’m not an exceptional woodworker, I am adequate and have built a few really nice pieces. I realized after a while that my love of wood and creating something beautiful with it didn’t have to be defined by a price tag. The riches came from the personal knowledge that I had expressed myself in that medium and that there was some lasting thing of my own creativity. I suppose writing is like that as well. It may be possible that my children will read some of my musings one day and get a different perspective on their dad. That there was more to me than the guy that provided stuff for them. The guy that disciplined them at times. The guy that supposedly did the best he could while he was there but still failed miserably at times. I suppose that’s a reward in itself, isn’t it?
I don’t know what it takes to be a good writer. I’ve never tried really other than here at this blog and in a few other places where very few people ever read what I had to say. I will say this though, I like to write. It feels good to my soul to express what is in my heart and mind. I just need to get over the notion that it needs to provide something back to me other than the self satisfaction that someday, somewhere, somebody may take what I have written to heart and that it might give them insight into their own lives.
There’s always that one hope.
I’m always thinking about it but never doing much of it. Honestly, I can’t figure out why it seems so hard to just sit down and talk about the things that are on my mind. Do you ever stop for a moment and consider all the thoughts that go through your head in a single day? There are just so many things that seem innocuous at first glance but really do have merit and would benefit from the light of your own insight.
Just the other day I was having lunch with a co-worker and he told me this story of how he made his first potato gun. The company that we work for had sent him to a weeklong school where he was to train on a subject that he’d already been taught. In fact, everyone in the class had already received the same training. The instructor, realizing the pointlessness of rehashing the material, suggested they make a trip to the hardware store and buy stuff to make the spud launchers. Using the liquid from glow sticks so they could see the potato fly across the interstate at night was a good scene. When I got home that night, I found hundreds of videos on the internet about folks and their experiences with the things. Apparently it’s a tired subject, but not that tired. It got me to thinking about primitive weapons and I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about slings. You know the kind that David used to slay Goliath. It was really quite fascinating. The length and type of materials to projectiles and their physical makeup to the history of their use for the last several thousand years. I suppose it may have been some deep seated, primeval instinct for survival that drove me there and held my attention. I can see how something like that could lead to a whole world in one’s imagination. That “Clan of the Cave Bear” sort of thing. The woman that wrote those stories seemed to have a special interest in herbal remedies which basically gave her the heroine of the books. I read them all and enjoyed them immensely. I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. Character and plot development seems to be something that eludes me. Just how far into the story must you imagine before you can begin? There is a line in the latest Indiana Jones movie where Marion says to their son Mutt that Indy just makes the stuff up as he goes. Writing should be like that, letting the story pour out of your mind onto the page like water from a pitcher into a glass.
Maybe my problem has always been one of expectations. I’ve worked at one job, or another, my whole life and to be honest, I’m tired of working. I am thankful for the employment that I have. It does provide for all of my needs and I feel blessed that I have it, especially in this time on earth. I just believe that I’m ready to do something else. Of course, writing seems like the best way to go. Though there is work involved, it can be done from your home. There is no daily commute. No requirement to wear the uniform of one’s employer. My mind is not fettered by the clothes I wear, the vehicle that I drive or corporate objectives. The question though still boils down to one of financial needs. I’ve read so many things that told me how difficult it is to make a living with the written word. How most writers do it their whole lives and never make any money with it. Is it possible that my typical American upbringing which encourages hard work at a job that has substance discourages, in a quiet and subliminal way, the notion that I can make a living at something cerebral? There are other objections to a life of writing. “You have no formal training”. “You don’t know anyone in the industry that can help you”. “You don’t have a clue what some publisher might be looking for”. Ask yourself the question, “Are you willing to commit the time and energy to learn a new craft”? What about all the stuff that’s in you right now that wants to be said that very well may be lost in the process of learning what some other person says is the right way? Shouldn’t it be spontaneous and free flowing? Aren’t my ideas about what is the right way just as valid?
I read somewhere that everything has been written about. There are no new subjects. Even if that is true cannot the old ones benefit from my internal light? In Chicken Soup for the Writers Soul there is a story where one person says to another, “If you wanted to be a writer, you would write”. Looking at it all from a glass half full perspective you can tell yourself “do what you love and the money will come”. I suppose one just has to believe in himself. When I was younger I thought that my special interest in woodworking, my passion for the craft, would allow me to make a living at it. After trying my own business for a while, I soon realized that I’m not cut out for all things I’m passionate about. Though I’m not an exceptional woodworker, I am adequate and have built a few really nice pieces. I realized after a while that my love of wood and creating something beautiful with it didn’t have to be defined by a price tag. The riches came from the personal knowledge that I had expressed myself in that medium and that there was some lasting thing of my own creativity. I suppose writing is like that as well. It may be possible that my children will read some of my musings one day and get a different perspective on their dad. That there was more to me than the guy that provided stuff for them. The guy that disciplined them at times. The guy that supposedly did the best he could while he was there but still failed miserably at times. I suppose that’s a reward in itself, isn’t it?
I don’t know what it takes to be a good writer. I’ve never tried really other than here at this blog and in a few other places where very few people ever read what I had to say. I will say this though, I like to write. It feels good to my soul to express what is in my heart and mind. I just need to get over the notion that it needs to provide something back to me other than the self satisfaction that someday, somewhere, somebody may take what I have written to heart and that it might give them insight into their own lives.
There’s always that one hope.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Recital
I have children. I am a father of both sons and daughters. Though it’s easy to go through the days on earth not really thinking too much about that aspect of life, just accepting that you are a parent and trying to do what is good and right for them, it is I believe the most important thing that I’ve ever done.
Though I have quite a few children, nine actually, only one makes the effort to keep in touch with me. My youngest daughter is so faithful about calling me that I wonder what might be wrong if she misses a day. I cherish those phone calls. It is often when they come at inopportune times but I don’t want to miss one. As all of the others have been growing, my communications with them have become less and less frequent. With some, I’m reduced to writing letters that are never answered. Some I see briefly when I pick up the youngest ones for my weekend, sharing a quick hug, an I love you. I have such longing for them. I want so much for them to seek me out. To talk to me of what is in their hearts and minds.
I suppose my life isn’t much different than many others that have started out young, got married, had children. Work hard to provide for the family. Long hours, time apart due to work, chores and honey dos all use up the most valuable of commodities, time. There a myriad of things that can take up your time at home, leaving precious little to spend with children. In years past, I would get so focused on getting what needs to be done accomplished, that I wouldn’t even take them with me to the various stores to buy parts or even to shop for groceries. It would take a little extra time and that was something I couldn’t afford. I thought. The sad truth is that I didn’t make an investment in time for them that would have paid dividends today which are priceless. The woman I was married to, their mother, used to tell me all the time that if I didn’t change my ways I’d regret it in the end. She was wise in that assessment and often reminded me of that song by Harry Chapin, Cats in the Cradle. You know the one.
Recently, my two youngest girls have been taking piano lessons. Last weekend, they had a recital which took place in the teacher’s church. My baby girl called and asked me every day for two weeks if I was coming to the event. She had played her piece over the phone for me several times and it was just a simple little beginner’s tune. It took maybe 30 seconds to play and she did struggle with Roman Trumpets a bit in practice. My knee baby girl is a little more accomplished and had two pieces to play, Sonatina in C and Sleeping Beauty. There were other children and young adults there. Some of the students were absolutely magnificent. When the one young man played a piece by Rachmaninoff, it was as if I were listening to a professional, concert pianist. The real joy for me though was not the music. It was the light in my child’s eyes that said to me I love you dad. Thank you for being interested enough in me to come. I love you for being my dad and for being here with me on my special day. It was her happiness that gave me joy.
I have learned some hard lessons about the fruit of my relationships with my children. I would not have missed that recital for anything in the world. The music, and performing well, was important to my girls but they are young. They can’t yet look back and see the effects of time and energy misspent. What the ultimate cost is for neglecting the little things of love and for living a life that is fundamentally self centered. As I’ve grown older, I have begun to understand that even though work, money, security, personal space, etc. are all important in their own way, none of that can provide the kind of peace and comfort that comes from a warm, close, loving relationship with one’s children. I never thought much about grandchildren when I was younger. It’s on my mind often these days. Will I ever get to hold them in my arms, change their diapers or help to raise them? Or, will it just be loneliness in my old age with the obligatory yearly phone call to dad? It’s hard to think about these things when one is young. I just couldn’t see it then.
My daughters played flawlessly by the way. They had put their time and energy into something they cared about and were happy with the end result. All actions have consequences, be them good or bad. We may not want see that clearly while running down the road of life at full tilt but it would be wise to consider when children are involved. I may have shaped my kids into my own image, at least an earlier edition of me, but I want to believe there is still hope that I may become a better man for them and that I might find another chance to be the dad they deserved and do deserve today.
Though I have quite a few children, nine actually, only one makes the effort to keep in touch with me. My youngest daughter is so faithful about calling me that I wonder what might be wrong if she misses a day. I cherish those phone calls. It is often when they come at inopportune times but I don’t want to miss one. As all of the others have been growing, my communications with them have become less and less frequent. With some, I’m reduced to writing letters that are never answered. Some I see briefly when I pick up the youngest ones for my weekend, sharing a quick hug, an I love you. I have such longing for them. I want so much for them to seek me out. To talk to me of what is in their hearts and minds.
I suppose my life isn’t much different than many others that have started out young, got married, had children. Work hard to provide for the family. Long hours, time apart due to work, chores and honey dos all use up the most valuable of commodities, time. There a myriad of things that can take up your time at home, leaving precious little to spend with children. In years past, I would get so focused on getting what needs to be done accomplished, that I wouldn’t even take them with me to the various stores to buy parts or even to shop for groceries. It would take a little extra time and that was something I couldn’t afford. I thought. The sad truth is that I didn’t make an investment in time for them that would have paid dividends today which are priceless. The woman I was married to, their mother, used to tell me all the time that if I didn’t change my ways I’d regret it in the end. She was wise in that assessment and often reminded me of that song by Harry Chapin, Cats in the Cradle. You know the one.
Recently, my two youngest girls have been taking piano lessons. Last weekend, they had a recital which took place in the teacher’s church. My baby girl called and asked me every day for two weeks if I was coming to the event. She had played her piece over the phone for me several times and it was just a simple little beginner’s tune. It took maybe 30 seconds to play and she did struggle with Roman Trumpets a bit in practice. My knee baby girl is a little more accomplished and had two pieces to play, Sonatina in C and Sleeping Beauty. There were other children and young adults there. Some of the students were absolutely magnificent. When the one young man played a piece by Rachmaninoff, it was as if I were listening to a professional, concert pianist. The real joy for me though was not the music. It was the light in my child’s eyes that said to me I love you dad. Thank you for being interested enough in me to come. I love you for being my dad and for being here with me on my special day. It was her happiness that gave me joy.
I have learned some hard lessons about the fruit of my relationships with my children. I would not have missed that recital for anything in the world. The music, and performing well, was important to my girls but they are young. They can’t yet look back and see the effects of time and energy misspent. What the ultimate cost is for neglecting the little things of love and for living a life that is fundamentally self centered. As I’ve grown older, I have begun to understand that even though work, money, security, personal space, etc. are all important in their own way, none of that can provide the kind of peace and comfort that comes from a warm, close, loving relationship with one’s children. I never thought much about grandchildren when I was younger. It’s on my mind often these days. Will I ever get to hold them in my arms, change their diapers or help to raise them? Or, will it just be loneliness in my old age with the obligatory yearly phone call to dad? It’s hard to think about these things when one is young. I just couldn’t see it then.
My daughters played flawlessly by the way. They had put their time and energy into something they cared about and were happy with the end result. All actions have consequences, be them good or bad. We may not want see that clearly while running down the road of life at full tilt but it would be wise to consider when children are involved. I may have shaped my kids into my own image, at least an earlier edition of me, but I want to believe there is still hope that I may become a better man for them and that I might find another chance to be the dad they deserved and do deserve today.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Snow Day
There was a nice surprise when I woke this morning. As I made coffee, I glanced out the crack between the blinds and the window sill in my kitchen and noticed the white stuff on the ground. My initial view was through that small gap at the bottom edge of the shades but when I opened them, it was as if I had been transported to another place. I was amazed how during the night, while sleeping, my world had been transformed. The drabness of winter had taken on a new aspect. The sleeping trees with shades of gray that all seem to run together were more distinct now, the snow sharply outlining the differences between them. That monotonous color of the trunks and limbs were given depth and character that were of course there all along but hidden to my view somehow. The white carpet covering the lawns in my neighborhood seemed to reflect light upward enhancing the contrast. It all seemed so pure and clean. Like a fresh start in life after so many mistakes. As if I had been forgiven and blessed.
Snow is so rare here. It’s like finding a gem stone in a mountain of slag. I know there are many people who have it for months at a time, and have a hard time appreciating its inherent beauty. I have lived in places where it must be shoveled and driven in and dealt with. Even when I’ve had to work at negotiating snow, I have always loved it for some reason. To me, it’s like a gift from God. It causes me to stop and look and listen. It brings me peace and an awareness of its power. As I sat on my porch this morning drinking coffee and watching it fall, it struck me as manna softly descending from heaven.
When I was a child, we had snow every winter. For 12 of my 20 years in the military, I lived where snowfall was common. These days, I feel like a stranger in a strange land most of the time. I feel as if I’m living an unfinished life. There’s a troublesome notion that I need to go home. As if I belong in that Ansel Adams photograph and won’t ever be truly at peace until I go.
Today though, it feels right in a small way. The large and small flakes continue to fall. There is an incredible cleanness in the air and the sheer beauty of it all fills my senses. I have so many good memories associated with snow. Rosy faces, cold hands, warm fires all make my heart smile. It makes me happy and brings me peace.
It’s time now. Writing about it all is a good way to remember when the days become unbearably hot but no substitute for being in it. I need to go back outside for a while and take it all in.
Snow is so rare here. It’s like finding a gem stone in a mountain of slag. I know there are many people who have it for months at a time, and have a hard time appreciating its inherent beauty. I have lived in places where it must be shoveled and driven in and dealt with. Even when I’ve had to work at negotiating snow, I have always loved it for some reason. To me, it’s like a gift from God. It causes me to stop and look and listen. It brings me peace and an awareness of its power. As I sat on my porch this morning drinking coffee and watching it fall, it struck me as manna softly descending from heaven.
When I was a child, we had snow every winter. For 12 of my 20 years in the military, I lived where snowfall was common. These days, I feel like a stranger in a strange land most of the time. I feel as if I’m living an unfinished life. There’s a troublesome notion that I need to go home. As if I belong in that Ansel Adams photograph and won’t ever be truly at peace until I go.
Today though, it feels right in a small way. The large and small flakes continue to fall. There is an incredible cleanness in the air and the sheer beauty of it all fills my senses. I have so many good memories associated with snow. Rosy faces, cold hands, warm fires all make my heart smile. It makes me happy and brings me peace.
It’s time now. Writing about it all is a good way to remember when the days become unbearably hot but no substitute for being in it. I need to go back outside for a while and take it all in.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Road Rage
Like many people, I like to think of myself as a safe and efficient driver.
Lately though, in the last few months, I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly irritated at others and the way “they” drive. Somewhere in my consciousness I have been hearing this little voice that tells me to not be so aggravated with other people in traffic. Some voice of reason that says there is most probably a reason for that stupid behavior I see in others. I have tried to listen to it and believe in it but invariably I get caught up in the same thought processes while engaged in what, on the surface, appears to be a simple task. Driving.
In my job, the company I work for provides a vehicle for me to drive. They are very serious about safety and for the slightest safety infraction they will not hesitate to let you have the day off without pay. Anyone that saw my work vehicle would know immediately what I’m all about. Is that why the person ahead of me is driving so slowly? Are they intentionally driving slower than the posted speed limit just to irritate me? Surely they realize that I have appointments to keep, places to go and an important function to perform for the populace at large. I see them looking at me in the rear view, hoping for a reaction. The voice in my head tells me to calm down. Even when it appears that some folks accelerate at intersections just to keep me from making a turn across their paths. Hey man, my making the turn doesn’t hurt your drive at all! It’s easy for me to reject the voice of reason and become mildly enraged. As I make the turns, pass the slow ones, clear the congestion, I feel more free, less confined. I feel more righteous.
The bad thing about turning off the voice of reason is that it gets easier and easier to let the siren song of road rage have sway. Lately I have found that it’s not just in the city where I work, while in my company provided ride. The Interstate, oh man, I just can’t believe these people out here! How can so many drivers get caught up in the brain dead mentality of putzing along in the fast lane? Again, I’m feeling righteous. Indignant. Offended. I know in my mind that there are speed limits and these laws are there for good reason but the siren song is very seductive and speaks to me of my rightness in attitude. What? The state police won’t stop me if I’m doing 75 in a 70. Just gotta keep below 80 so if I do get stopped, the ticket fine won’t jump another hundred bucks.
Up until about a week ago, the voice of reason seemed to have all but given up. I remember clearly when it spoke again. A driver in a minivan attempted to cut me off at an intersection. Of course I accelerated and made the turn first, which was definitely my due. Though the traffic was fairly heavy in this urban area, I felt that I just had to look at the driver of the offensive minivan. I wanted that person to see me looking at them. I wanted them to know that I was offended and that I felt they should be shameful of such rude and inconsiderate behavior. While involved in my self-righteous thought process, the car in front of me made a sudden stop. Providence, I suppose, got my attention. I saw the stopped vehicle just seconds before I would have plowed into the rear of it at about 40. There was no time to look into the lane beside me. I just snatched the wheel over and was fortunate that there wasn’t another car in it. No accident. Praise God. I drove safer the rest of the day, believe you me. Of course, it didn’t last. A couple of days later on the Interstate, I just couldn’t understand why all of those people were driving so slow. I know it was a construction work zone but hey, I had to get to work. I was running ahead of schedule for a change and was going to actually be at work 5 minutes early. Didn’t want to screw that up. That’s when I saw the State Trooper. Just as I passed him, he started rolling. I knew that I was busted with a probable fine in the range of 500 dollars. I pulled over. The Trooper fussed at me for driving 71 in a 50 and asked for my license. The whole time he was back there in his patrol car, I’m thinking about how I can’t afford a fine like that. When he came back to the passenger’s side window, he starts asking me all these questions about which agent I use for insurance, where he’s located, what I do for a living and I answered them all, politely, humbly. It was odd that he seemed to be suppressing a smile. That’s when he handed me the warning ticket and told me to be more aware of the construction zones. Bless that man’s heart. I cannot tell you how thankful I was. Providence.
When I got to work, I noticed on the ticket that there was some information for all drivers on it. I want to share that with you.
“Somewhere in America tonight a little child will be killed. With him will die the happiness of a Mother…the pride of a father. He will be killed by the carelessness of a thoughtless driver. That driver may be someone who is reading this right now. For in this country a human being is killed in an automobile accident every 10 minutes. Most of these tragedies don’t need to happen. They are caused by human acts. They can be prevented by human caution.”
My personal vehicle weighs about 6000 pounds. I can imagine what it might do to a compact car. More so, what it might do to a 150 pound human.
In light of that, it helps me to see what a deceiver the siren song of road rage really is. Most of the time when I get past “those driver” that are irritating me with their intentional delay tactics, I can see that it’s an elderly person or a mom having to deal with rambunctious children or I see a look on the person’s face that is one of deep thought or sadness or worry. Sometimes that person is happily singing along to some song on the radio. Blissfully unaware of my existence. I hear the voice of reason say, “See, I told you”.
I believe that many of the situations I’ve been annoyed by are mostly my own doing. Most of it stems from an unwillingness leave early enough to be where I need to go on time. Rushing with minutes to spare. I realize that it’s just a bad habit.
I’m thankful for the voice of reason. It is my intention and promise to listen to it and to remember that we are all just human. Taking the time to think rationally about driving, I can see that the person, who seems so stupid, is really me.
Lately though, in the last few months, I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly irritated at others and the way “they” drive. Somewhere in my consciousness I have been hearing this little voice that tells me to not be so aggravated with other people in traffic. Some voice of reason that says there is most probably a reason for that stupid behavior I see in others. I have tried to listen to it and believe in it but invariably I get caught up in the same thought processes while engaged in what, on the surface, appears to be a simple task. Driving.
In my job, the company I work for provides a vehicle for me to drive. They are very serious about safety and for the slightest safety infraction they will not hesitate to let you have the day off without pay. Anyone that saw my work vehicle would know immediately what I’m all about. Is that why the person ahead of me is driving so slowly? Are they intentionally driving slower than the posted speed limit just to irritate me? Surely they realize that I have appointments to keep, places to go and an important function to perform for the populace at large. I see them looking at me in the rear view, hoping for a reaction. The voice in my head tells me to calm down. Even when it appears that some folks accelerate at intersections just to keep me from making a turn across their paths. Hey man, my making the turn doesn’t hurt your drive at all! It’s easy for me to reject the voice of reason and become mildly enraged. As I make the turns, pass the slow ones, clear the congestion, I feel more free, less confined. I feel more righteous.
The bad thing about turning off the voice of reason is that it gets easier and easier to let the siren song of road rage have sway. Lately I have found that it’s not just in the city where I work, while in my company provided ride. The Interstate, oh man, I just can’t believe these people out here! How can so many drivers get caught up in the brain dead mentality of putzing along in the fast lane? Again, I’m feeling righteous. Indignant. Offended. I know in my mind that there are speed limits and these laws are there for good reason but the siren song is very seductive and speaks to me of my rightness in attitude. What? The state police won’t stop me if I’m doing 75 in a 70. Just gotta keep below 80 so if I do get stopped, the ticket fine won’t jump another hundred bucks.
Up until about a week ago, the voice of reason seemed to have all but given up. I remember clearly when it spoke again. A driver in a minivan attempted to cut me off at an intersection. Of course I accelerated and made the turn first, which was definitely my due. Though the traffic was fairly heavy in this urban area, I felt that I just had to look at the driver of the offensive minivan. I wanted that person to see me looking at them. I wanted them to know that I was offended and that I felt they should be shameful of such rude and inconsiderate behavior. While involved in my self-righteous thought process, the car in front of me made a sudden stop. Providence, I suppose, got my attention. I saw the stopped vehicle just seconds before I would have plowed into the rear of it at about 40. There was no time to look into the lane beside me. I just snatched the wheel over and was fortunate that there wasn’t another car in it. No accident. Praise God. I drove safer the rest of the day, believe you me. Of course, it didn’t last. A couple of days later on the Interstate, I just couldn’t understand why all of those people were driving so slow. I know it was a construction work zone but hey, I had to get to work. I was running ahead of schedule for a change and was going to actually be at work 5 minutes early. Didn’t want to screw that up. That’s when I saw the State Trooper. Just as I passed him, he started rolling. I knew that I was busted with a probable fine in the range of 500 dollars. I pulled over. The Trooper fussed at me for driving 71 in a 50 and asked for my license. The whole time he was back there in his patrol car, I’m thinking about how I can’t afford a fine like that. When he came back to the passenger’s side window, he starts asking me all these questions about which agent I use for insurance, where he’s located, what I do for a living and I answered them all, politely, humbly. It was odd that he seemed to be suppressing a smile. That’s when he handed me the warning ticket and told me to be more aware of the construction zones. Bless that man’s heart. I cannot tell you how thankful I was. Providence.
When I got to work, I noticed on the ticket that there was some information for all drivers on it. I want to share that with you.
“Somewhere in America tonight a little child will be killed. With him will die the happiness of a Mother…the pride of a father. He will be killed by the carelessness of a thoughtless driver. That driver may be someone who is reading this right now. For in this country a human being is killed in an automobile accident every 10 minutes. Most of these tragedies don’t need to happen. They are caused by human acts. They can be prevented by human caution.”
My personal vehicle weighs about 6000 pounds. I can imagine what it might do to a compact car. More so, what it might do to a 150 pound human.
In light of that, it helps me to see what a deceiver the siren song of road rage really is. Most of the time when I get past “those driver” that are irritating me with their intentional delay tactics, I can see that it’s an elderly person or a mom having to deal with rambunctious children or I see a look on the person’s face that is one of deep thought or sadness or worry. Sometimes that person is happily singing along to some song on the radio. Blissfully unaware of my existence. I hear the voice of reason say, “See, I told you”.
I believe that many of the situations I’ve been annoyed by are mostly my own doing. Most of it stems from an unwillingness leave early enough to be where I need to go on time. Rushing with minutes to spare. I realize that it’s just a bad habit.
I’m thankful for the voice of reason. It is my intention and promise to listen to it and to remember that we are all just human. Taking the time to think rationally about driving, I can see that the person, who seems so stupid, is really me.
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