Monday, August 6, 2012

Measure twice

When I started my campaign for county commissioner I gave up my writing and banjo playing and I miss them both.  Win, lose or draw I will be back in November with a regular column in this space – but for now this will have to do.
Today I was going door-to-door handing out brochures hoping people would read them and vote for me.  One older fellow was sitting in the shade of his garage on a lawn chair.  As I walked up the driveway I said “Hello.” He returned my greeting and I handed him my brochure.  I noticed he was holding a tape measure in his hand.  What struck me was the tape was extended out some. What was he measuring I wondered - the hours, the days or just time?
Make good use of your time today. Click my Facebook page link on this page for more information on the campaign and remember to vote for me in the primary Tuesday, Aug 14th
Have a good day.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Conversationalist

Last November I read a story written by Kim Ode of The Star Tribune. The headline read “Taylor Baldry is on a campaign to return conversation to being something that people do while sitting right next to each other.”

 Ms. Ode told about how Mr. Baldry sat in a park nicely dressed at a nicely adorned table with two extra chairs.  He had brought the whole set-up with him along with a sandwich board that proclaimed “Free Conversations.”

People, strangers to each other and Mr. Baldry, would stop and choose “from a menu of options.” They would begin with an ice breaker a “Starter…a book recently read, or the weather.   "Main dishes" were meatier: Politics, religion, love. "Specials" provided a personal glimpse: Advice, dinosaurs, brainstorming, famous American Indians, weird dreams.”

I love the story, and I love the idea because I like to think of myself as a conversationalist. A couple summers ago I left the comfort of this column and, like Taylor Baldry, I began a campaign. Our goals were similar:  we wanted people to talk to us, not just small talk but actual conversations, but we also wanted to listen to what they had to say.

I didn’t have a table or a sandwich board, and I wasn’t dressed sharply. I was on my bike or in my truck going from house to house. One conversation I had that summer started before I could ring the bell.  Almost on cue, a guy came out and introduced himself,

“Tom Melchior, Belle Plaine class of 1954.”

I took his hand and said, “Jerry Kucera, Belle Plaine class of 1977.”

He and I talked for a few pleasant minutes, and I was on my way. That introduction and the pleasant conversation that followed was one of the highlights of my travels that summer.

Tom Baldry, “The Conversationalist,” had a menu of topics for people to choose from.  Even though I had things I wanted to bring up on my travels, I let the other person choose the subject matter. We could talk politics if they wanted, or we could talk about the weather or that bicycling is a great way to exercise. I just never knew what direction the conversation would go and that made it interesting.

I ran for political office that year, and even though I came in a close second, I had a whole lot of fun and I wouldn’t trade the experience, well maybe not all of it.  Being in parades is probably best left for marching bands and young women on floats and convertibles.  And as much as I like dogs, apparently not all dogs like me – I will have to remember that. 

I’m pretty sure I am going to run again, it’s just something I feel I have to do.  So if I do, this will be my last column for awhile.  There are just some things that aren’t allowed: Newspapers don’t run weekly columns written by political candidates, unless they ran one for all the candidates and nobody likes that.

I don’t give up this space lightly, I enjoy writing and the whole process of finding the right word or phrase, and I treasure all of my readers, all 101 of them. Thank you and I hope to write in this space again soon – maybe this fall.

 By this time next week you will know whether Jerry Kucera is on a campaign to return conversation to being something that people do while sitting right next to each other or on a bike or from the cab of a pick-up truck.




Friday, May 25, 2012

Saying "Yes" just in time


 I tried to not be overprotective when my kids were younger, but it was a challenge. I found it easier to say ‘No,” instead of “Yes.” I had not found a need to change.

One summer day when Nathan was about 10 years old he asked if could go exploring in a ravine with some friends of his, brothers Matt & Chris.   The ravine lay beyond our pasture, and he had asked to go there before.  I had always said no. The reasons included too cold, too hot, too far, too late or just no. I looked across the field to the ravine, which was calling to them.

            “OK, but be careful. 

            “Thanks Dad.” 

            Forty-five minutes later the three adventurers returned to the barn excited and out of breath.    “Dad, I think we found an animal – a dog or something,” Nathan said. “It might be dead, but Chris thought he saw it move.”

            “I think I saw it blink,” Chris said. “It looks like there’s a wire tied around its neck.”

            I slipped on my mud boots and followed the boys through the pasture and over the fence. The plowed field was muddy, and I was glad I had my boots. I asked Nathan why he wasn’t wearing his.  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.

            “I think he was over here,” Chris said, pointing to the edge of the ravine.

            What I saw was only a mud covered log, but with another step it became a dog entangled in barbwire. I cautiously placed my hand near his mouth to test his reaction.  If he ever had any ferocious tendency, it was gone; he just licked my hand. His long floppy ears and the rest of him were caught in the barbs, and in his struggle to free himself, the wire had become wrapped around his neck and through his collar.          

As I tried to untangle this mess, I sent the boys back for a wire cutter.  Before they left, I was able take the collar off with some minor cuts to my hands. Attached to the collar was a tag with a vet’s name and number. I handed it to Nathan to give to his mother, Rhonda, so she could call the vet. 

            After the boys ran for the house, I worked to free the dog as the barbwire still held him prisoner in a death grip. The way the dog’s head lay he had been able to catch some rain water as it trickled down the ravine.

            The boys got back remarkably fast. After some agonizing, painful work the dog was free.  I stood him up to test his strength, but he immediately collapsed. I placed him around my neck as a shepherd would a lamb.

            As I started for the house the dog lifted his head for the first time.  It was a long trek through the mud and over the fence, but soon the happy parade of boys, man, and dog made it back to the farm. 

            Rhonda was waiting for us in the barn with water and food; I was glad to see that he was able to lap up some water. Other than his emaciated state and his cuts, he looked in pretty good shape.  The dog calmly lay in the hay and allowed us to clean and dry him.

“The vet wouldn’t give me the name of the owner,” Rhonda explained.  “But they told me they would pass on our name and address.  So I guess we’ll have to wait.”          

            Soon we had visitors.  The sun had set about half and hour earlier so the lights in the barn told the dog’s owners where to find us.  An elderly couple entered the barn and introduced themselves as the dog owners.  The dog let out a cry as soon as he heard them.  It wasn’t a cry of pain; he was happy to see them, and they him.  He had been missing for about two weeks from their home having traveled almost a mile.

            After that night I learned to look for reasons to say “Yes,” when asked because you never know when or where a need might lie.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Two dogs, two young boys, one week.


            I was 9 or 10, my brother, Terry, was 7 or 8 when we got hired for our very first job.  Our neighbor, Mr. Logelin, a teacher at the high school in town, had just finished a year of teaching English.  He was getting ready to go on vacation, and he needed someone to take care of his dogs while he was away.

            He lived across the alley from us in a four-unit apartment building. The four units were usually occupied by young teachers new to town with little money and a need for a home.

             Mr. Logelin had us come over before he left to introduce us to his two Dalmatian dogs.  I don’t remember the dogs’ names (we can call them Spot and Dot or Smokey and Lady if you like), but I had seen them running about on and off the leash, so I knew them to be friendly enough.

             He showed us where he kept the dog food, (a big bag leaning in the corner of the kitchen), what dish the food went in, and what dish the water went in.  He told us the dogs needed to be let out at least twice a day (once in the morning and once in the early evening).

             Mr. Logelin was to be gone for a week starting the very next day, the first day of our first job. He gave us a key to his apartment, and we walked home excited about our new responsibility.

             I don’t know for sure if Mom and Dad were aware of our job or if this was a private arrangement, because I don’t remember talking about it with my parents or being reminded to go over and take care of the dogs.  It’s hard to imagine they didn’t know, but what happened after a few days of dog-sitting doesn’t make sense any other way.

For the first few days things went very well. We would take the short walk over to the apartment and let the dogs out for a little exercise and their bathroom break.  While the dogs were outside we filled the food and water dishes. The dogs obediently came back inside when asked, a simple job for two young boys.

Like most of the summers of my youth, it was great.  We spent our days watching old movies on TV, riding our bikes up and down the streets and through the alleys; we built dams, ate breakfast, lunch and supper, and sometimes we successfully sneaked money out of the house to buy candy from the machine at the gas station in the next block. We played ball, caught bugs, spied on other kids, climbed trees, played hide-and- seek and chased dogs.

Dogs? All of a sudden one morning it dawned on us – we had forgot all about   Mr. Logelin’s dogs for two or three days. We grabbed the key and ran over to the apartment.  We were glad to see the dogs still alive, but we knew we were dead. The apartment looked like the dogs had invited ninety-nine friends over for a three-day party.

 With no one to feed them, the dogs had dragged the big bag from the corner and ripped it open spreading dog food everywhere.  At least they didn’t starve, and with the bathroom door open they were able to drink from the toilet – so at least they had water.

But as self-sufficient as these dogs appeared to be they lacked one necessary skill – they couldn’t let themselves outside. Unable to get outside, they had turned the three-room apartment into a three-room doghouse. 

Fortunately, the mess was confined to the one apartment as the dogs hadn’t yet chewed through the walls to spread the mess to the other three units. Terry and I cleaned it up as best we could, but we did tell Mr. Logelin of the minor mishap when he returned (it was pretty obvious anyway).

Naturally, he was pretty upset (smoke was coming out his ears), and he renegotiated our contract (I don’t think we got paid). I guess you could say our first job was strictly on a volunteer basis.


Thursday, May 10, 2012

Serenity in Anonymity

It’s been awhile, but at one time I thought success and happiness hinged on attaining riches and fame. I wanted to be rich and famous – not just one or the other but both. I once told my dad about my dream. “I’m going to be rich,” I said. “No, you will be comfortable,” he said. Was this an admonition, a correction, or a path he set before me?

For most of my life these words tumbled around inside my head. Initially, I thought he had concluded I didn’t have the skills to be rich. Later, I considered that he must have meant something in keeping with the old joke about a guy attending to the needs of his guest. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. “I make a nice living,” his guest replies.

Dad had a perspective gained over a lifetime of hard work with a goal to provide and not hoard and hide. Like most of his generation he had known hard times during the depression when money was tight and jobs were scarce.

To provide a comfortable life for his family Dad had worked a variety of jobs. He farmed; for Red Owl and Indianhead he drove truck “over-the-road;” he drove bus for Greyhound and the school district; he was a mail-man; he installed water softeners and he was an insurance man.

For Mom and their five kids he worked to put food on the table, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads. Plus he put five kids through school. His goal was never to be rich, and yet our lives were filled with everything we needed. We were comfortable, and therefore he was. Maybe that’s what he wanted for me.

But where does that leave fame in the fame and fortune partnership if being rich is no longer a target or attractive? To be famous means to be recognized. But lately when I introduce myself people gasp and question me.

“You’re not Jerry Kucera. Are you?” “What happened?” “Did you get a haircut?” “Really, I never would have recognized you.” That’s what happens when you don’t update your photo. The picture you see with this column was taken in 2006.

I liked the picture as much as I like any picture of myself, (given the subject matter) so I kept it and never changed it. But during the last six years a lot has happened in my life: both my kids graduated from college (the picture was taken at my daughter’s graduation), my mom passed away (Dad in 2003), I turned fifty, both kids became teachers and my daughter got married.

And somewhere along the line my beard turned grey, and to avoid being mistaken for Larry Fine of The Three Stooges, I keep my hair shorter. I no longer look like I once did, nor am I the man hiding behind the curtain. I am who I am. I am not rich or famous, but I am comfortable with my lot in life. And with that comes contentment, as a man has all he wants when his family has all it needs.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Sawing Logs

Snoring is one thing that is best done in the privacy of your own home. It’s really nothing to be embarrassed about, yet people deny ever having done it. 

“Wake up! You were snoring.” 

“I was not.” 

“Yes you were.  I heard you.” 

“I do not snore, you must have been dreaming.” 

“Dreaming? In order to dream I first have to sleep and how could I possibly sleep with all that noise?”

I’m Jerry Kucera, and I snore. Sometimes I snore so loud I wake myself up. I first started snoring back in …”

Last fall I was talking with a friend of mine named Kim who was participating in a sleep apnea study.  With several sleep disorders to keep me up at night (insomnia, narcolepsy, restless leg syndrome, and delayed sleep phase disorder) I can’t keep them all straight.  

But with a little help from those folks at www.helpguide.org it began to make sense.

“Symptoms of sleep apnea include:

·                     Loud, chronic snoring

·                     Frequent pauses in breathing during sleep

·                     Gasping, snorting, or choking during sleep

·                     Feeling unrefreshed after waking and sleepy during the day, no matter how much time you spent in bed

·                     Waking up with shortness of breath, chest pains, headaches, nasal congestion, or a dry throat.

“Sleep apnea is a common sleep disorder in which your breathing temporarily stops during sleep due to blockage of the upper airways. These pauses in breathing interrupt your sleep, leading to many awakenings each hour. While most people with sleep apnea don’t remember these awakenings, they feel the effects in other ways, such as exhaustion during the day, irritability and depression, and decreased productivity.”

It was also stated that sleep apnea is “potentially life-threatening.” Apparently, it’s possible to fall asleep, stop breathing and not wake up. So Kim wanted to see what she could do to improve her chances of sleeping and waking by participating in a clinical study.

During her visit Kim was outfitted with electrodes that monitored her brain waves while she slept. In addition to the uncomfortable electronic night-cap that she had to wear, a nurse kept interrupting her sleep when she came in to check on her.

It didn’t sound like it was a very successful session. It almost seemed as if Kim had walked into the wrong room and had unwittingly participated in a sleep depravation study instead.

Or maybe it was just one of those things that seem instinctively contradictory, like cutting down trees so new ones can be planted. That’s what I did last weekend.

My family and I planted 50 trees, an even number of spruce and fir. We picked these particular trees for two reasons: One was to supply Christmas trees for the entire family in the not-too-distant future. Nothing against the Boy Scouts, we just like cutting our own tree without leaving the farm. But unless you live on a tree farm you have to replenish your inventory or one December you’ll be standing in a tree lot trying to decide which tree really needs you.

The second reason was for a wind break.  During a normal Minnesota winter it actually snows and blows. When that happens our driveway can get drifted over in a few hours, and this can happen several times a season.

So this last weekend I cut down some dead trees, and one or two live ones to give the new evergreens we planted a fighting chance. After a day of cutting and planting I fell into bed dead tired. I was even too tired to hear myself snore, although I haven’t spoke to the neighbors.




Thursday, April 26, 2012

Driving Distracted

When my brothers and sisters and I were young we used to play games in the car to help keep us entertained and distracted on long car rides. For his part my dad used to tell a story about a man named “Falling Rock.” A long time ago Falling Rock went on a long journey and never returned. Although he was not seen again his people never gave up looking for him. Once in a while you will still see a road sign that reminds us to watch for him.

In addition to watching for Falling Rock our mom led us through the alphabet by reading passing billboards. We also looked for license plates from the other states (especially the elusive Hawaii plate). Sometimes we would split up into two teams and count cows on each side of the highway, and whenever a cemetery appeared on your side of the car you had to “bury” all of your cows and start over.

The cow game usually went pretty well unless Grandma O’Meara was along for the ride. Then horses became cows and excessive exaggerations were passed off as conservative estimates.

We didn’t have phones, smart or otherwise, no portable DVD players, and the only music in the car came from the AM radio that Dad controlled. The only distraction Dad ever had to his driving came from the back seat and it was easily corrected by pulling over to the side of the road.

Other than the minor disturbances within the car I can’t imagine Dad’s attention ever wavered from the road, but we live in a different age now and the police are cracking down on distracted driving. From what I read in the papers texting and talking on the phone are considered the biggest causes of inattentive driving.

While I avoid those (most of the time) there are so many other possible diversions that adding a couple more seems unnecessary. It’s easy enough for me to get caught up in the conversations of passengers, the radio, my own thoughts, and all that stuff passing by the window.

Auto manufacturers are playing both sides of the game. In addition to the regular instrument panel which shows speed, oil pressure, etc., they give us even more to do with a 5-inch touch screen. It can display maps, dozens of radio stations, song titles (and lyrics), gas prices, movie listings, weather radar, and a bunch of other stuff. Then on top of that they provide a way for others to monitor your driving habits remotely.

Tattletale technology, such as GM’s On Star and Ford’s Sync, while giving drivers in distress a quick and easy way to get help, also makes it easy for others to keep an eye on us.

If you give them an inch they’ll take your miles. At first it will start out as monitoring distances driven, but once they get their foot in the door of your car there’s no telling when they’ll apply the brakes. I believe that if we willingly let others keep track of our driving habits, sooner or later they’ll tell us not only how far we are allowed to drive, but when and where as well. Distracted driving can take many forms.

That’s why we all need to keep our eyes on the road. Driving is a privilege and gives us a great deal of freedom. It should have our full attention; it should not be taken lightly or for granted, otherwise the sign may someday read, “Road Closed – Unauthorized Vehicles Prohibited.”

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Questions for God

A couple nights ago I was getting ready to go to bed when a fly started to buzz around the bedroom. It was one of those stupid slow flies that bump into walls and the insides of lampshades. Nobody likes that. It was obvious that he (or she, I don’t care) was going to keep me annoyed and awake as I obsessed about its presence.

I grabbed a fly-swatter and an old t-shirt as I began my quest to vanquish the beast. I seem to have better luck with a shirt than a swatter with this type of fly that never seems to land. Whenever Dad saw me miss hitting a fly with the swatter he would say, “Don’t scare him to death.”

After a few minutes of patient waiting I knocked him (or her, again I don’t care) out of the air. I then finished the job with a generous amount of toilet paper (two-ply I think). I don’t like flies or mosquitoes, but I guess everything has a purpose, even that which I don’t understand.

One-hundred years ago today (April 15) more than 1,500 people died when the Titanic went to the bottom of the Atlantic. One-hundred years ago is a long time, and yet we are still fascinated by it. We know what happened and how, but we don’t know why.

Why would God allow such a thing to happen? On a cold November day in 1975 the Edmund Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior taking 29 lives with it. Of that tragedy, Gordon Lightfoot wrote, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

As a man who believes in God and in God’s sovereignty, I try not to question His wisdom when bad things happen. But the closer the stab is to the heart, the more I wonder why.

It seems to me that when a father or a mother loses a child the agony would be unbearable and nightmarish. I have experienced the ache of losing my father and mother, whose passing was perhaps easier to expect and accept in the grand scheme of things because of their age. Still, I miss them.

Of the many strange and silly things I do, one is to put out a chair for Dad when I am barbequing. Whenever there was a fire burning Dad and I were drawn to it. When I was a kid and Dad had the grill going I would go out and watch him and the fire work together. In my head I can still hear the ing-ing-ing-ing-ing of the rotisserie motor.

When I became a father the responsibility of cooking meat in the outdoors fell to me. When Mom and Dad were over visiting he would join me outside. We would sit side- by-side on our chairs and talk about whether the coals were “ready,” the state of the country, old dogs, and the right time to flip the burgers.

He’s been gone for several years, but I still put out a chair for him. I pretend he’s sitting next to me, and I imagine what we would talk about. I would tell him about plans I’ve made and those I’ve changed. I think he would approve (which is still important to me).

Buddy the dog hangs around the grill waiting for a handout. I look at Buddy’s grey whiskers and wonder why God didn’t let dogs live longer. It seems a dog’s life span matches the time from when parents believe their child is old enough to take care of a puppy to when the child is old enough to live on their own. It’s a shame because an old dog knows everything there is to know about being a dog.

In dog years I am 7 ½ , and the things I don’t understand scare me to death. I don’t presume to know God’s will, so I will just have to trust and obey.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Grocery Store Waltz

I was shopping with my wife the other day. We were in one of those “big-box,” stores where you can buy shoes, cereal and siding. She was looking for a kitchen sink, I for everything but. One of the things I saw had me wanting a broom to sweep the aisle.

There was an older couple, handsomely dressed, looking at sinks, I guess. Nothing unusual about that, except the man kept dipping his hand into his coat pocket. While his wife was fixated in front of plumbing fixtures he would crack the peanut shells, toss the peanuts into his mouth, and let the shells fall to the floor. He repeated this eating exercise as the couple strolled throughout the store.

I don’t know if this practice of throwing peanut shells on the floor of a store is acceptable, or if it is something new. I don’t remember anyone doing anything like that in any of the stores in Belle Plaine. Other than inside the bars, it simply wasn’t done.

There were many stores in town, but one in particular seemed to have it all. Hahn’s had groceries, clothing and those old standards: notions, domestics and dry goods. The store occupied a building on a downtown corner. It was almost like two stores under the same name; through the north door one got their groceries; everything else was purchased through the east door, and somewhere inside these two retail lines converged.

Sometime in the 70’s the store changed hands, name, and location. It became known as Beck’s, with just five letters and one syllable the name was similar to Hahn’s. I suppose somewhere in the world there is a gentleman named Hans Beck, but that has nothing to do with this story.

One day in response to my dad’s strong suggestion, I hopped on my bike and went to Beck’s to apply for a job. I was hired. Tim Brown, a guy about my age, was hired at the same time for the same type of work, and that summer he and I would spend our days together.

Our duties included sweeping, waxing and mopping floors. We also stocked shelves, bagged groceries and carried them to station wagons and four-door sedans. We also tried to shake out rugs.

Every morning Tim and I would arrive at the store a few minutes before seven and wait for Mr. Beck to unlock the doors. We would then grab one of the two large rugs from the entrance way. I can’t be sure but I believe each rug was about 5 feet wide and 10 feet long. They were thick and heavy with a rubber backing on one side and coarse fabric on the other.

With Tim on one end and me on the other we tried to dislodge the dust and dirt, but the rugs were just too big and clumsy for us to get the job done. Although Mr. Beck was usually patient with us, he could not stand idly by and watch two boys goof up what he considered an easy task.

“Don’t waltz with it,” he said once as he grabbed my end of the rug. Then, with passion normally reserved for hand-to-hand combat, he assaulted the rug until it and Tim were visibly shaken.

When Mr. Beck was satisfied with the rug detail Tim and I swept the grocery section of the store before it opened. One day after we told Mr. Beck we had finished sweeping he said, “Tim, Jerry, come here.” We followed him to an aisle where he proceeded to kick a rock the size of a large walnut from underneath a shelf.

“Boys, I put that rock there to see if you were doing a good job.”

We tried to convince him that we had found the rock earlier but decided to leave it as we figured he must have put it there for a reason. I don’t think he believed us but he let it go.

I wonder what Mr. Beck would have said if he saw a man dropping peanut shells all over his store.

“Tim, Jerry, clean that up and waltz that guy out of here.”

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Planting and Picking

Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest, and while writing and playing the banjo (not at the same time and not that well) certainly couldn’t be called work, I seem to find many ways to avoid doing either one. But, I need to do both because tomorrow is Monday. My column/story/article/essay/mess is due to the editor by noon, and I have my banjo lessons on Monday afternoon.

With that kind of pressure those pastimes feel more like work than pleasure, and I am always looking for a distraction or reason to interrupt the work flow. So to while away the hours today I played basketball, read the papers, played some Scrabble and fixed the fence so the chickens would at least have to fly over instead of strolling through the fence (this should help insure that I get a good night’s sleep).

Before I started the fencing project my wife, Rhonda, sensed that I needed something else to do. She had heard about a way to grow vegetables in pallets and she wanted to try it for her strawberries.

She has been frustrated by some stubborn grass that takes over her strawberry beds, so the pallet idea seemed worth a try. The plants are confined within the slats and the bottom of the pallet has a garden cloth stapled to it that allows water to seep out but keeps weeds from coming through.

Thinking that pallets is more my department, she asked if we had any. I was pretty sure we had some somewhere around the place, and without too much searching I located three in the barn. I took the two best-looking ones and relocated them to the garden.

Of course, the two I chose were wrong – too narrow between the slats. I made some modifications on one (removed every other board) and went back to the barn for the one I had left behind. One of the boards was cracked but the spacing seemed just right for growing strawberries. I replaced the board (even I possess the skill set to do that) and carried it over to the garden.

So after I pulled apart pallets and fixed the fence, I went back inside the house to practice the banjo. I need to get quicker with the foggy mountain roll, which is a three-finger movement created by Earl Scruggs.

Earl Scruggs, “The” banjo player, died this last week. Joe Edwards of The Associated Press described his influence.

“The North Carolina native's use of three fingers — instead of the limited clawhammer style that was once prevalent — elevated the banjo from a part of the rhythm section to a lead instrument that was as versatile as the guitar and far more flashy. He is credited with helping create modern country music with a string-bending style of playing.”

His playing technique is known as “Scruggs-Style Picking.” There is some disagreement on whether he was the first – but he’s the one that made it work. So whether it’s planting in a pallet, or using three fingers instead of just two – don’t be afraid to try something new.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Chasing Chickens

I do some of my best thinking in bed as I wait for sleep to overtake me, at least that’s what I tell myself. I may fall asleep thinking of the events of the day, things I should have said (or left unsaid), things I should have done (or left undone), or something I want to write about.

At night the bedroom is dark except for the yard light and the monthly moonlight, and the room is quiet except for the sounds from the dark such as a dog barking, an owl calling from the woods, or a truck on the highway below the hill.

A couple nights ago I awoke to what I thought was a rooster crowing. Just in case I might have been dreaming, I lay there and listened. After a few rotations of the clock I concluded it was a rooster, a little early for my liking as it was still dark. But perhaps the rooster was right on schedule.

I grabbed my glasses and looked at the clock – quarter to two. Any time that includes 2 in the morning as part of its description is way too early for just about anything, and that includes being awakened by a rooster.

I got up and went to the window. There underneath the yard light was a bantam hen and rooster. I thought of grabbing a gun and realized that would only increase the noise level, if only temporarily.

Those two idiots had not found there way back into the barn for the night and now sitting in the glow of the artificial light they, or at least he, thought it was time to announce the light of a new day.

I grabbed a denim button-down shirt to ward off the cold night air. I shuffled downstairs in the dark on a mission to try and keep the neighbors happy. Slipping on my Crocs (never worn off the property) I went outside to see what I could do.

The quickest and easiest solution was to open the gate so they could cross the yard to get to the other side. As I herded them down the fence line, I assumed they would take advantage of the open gate.

What I didn’t know is that chickens can’t see very well in the dark; they walked right past the gate, circled around a large fir tree and returned to the security of the light. It was shortly after the fifth trip around the tree that I thought it best to consider another option before sunrise. Grabbing a chain saw and cutting the tree down seemed a little extreme, yet I considered it.

By then the two cats in the yard had joined the fun and made life so hard. Herding cats is an idiomatic phrase used to describe attempting an impossible task; herding chickens is also very difficult, but cats herding chickens is just wrong. When I began to curse both fowl and feline I knew it was time to get the landing net.

A man chasing chickens with a net makes for an insane scene at any hour, but it’s more acceptable when done in the privacy of your own yard at two in the morning. Once I had the net the chickens were cornered and caught in just a few minutes.

With the exhausted chickens secured in the dark barn and the cats off in search of new sport I crawled back into bed. As Grandfather Clock announced that 2:30 had come, I tried to relax. I lay there and mulled over culled chickens, what I should have done (or left undone), and something to write about.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Summer of my discontent

My clever cousin, Sheri, wrote on Facebook last week, “Lots of wide open water on the neighborhood lake late afternoon today. And to think I saw someone ice fishing on a local lake last weekend... They're dead now, of course....”

I laughed when I read it (and it won’t help if I have to explain why). The weather has changed so fast that I can imagine skiers stuck on chair lifts above grassy slopes and skaters swimming back to the warming house. I like change, but I prefer that the four seasons follow a pattern and that all four get their due.

We normally get about six months of winter weather in Minnesota, with the other three seasons scrambling to split-up the remaining six months. However, this year winter, at least for now, has ended about six weeks early (somebody get the groundhog on the phone . . .). The calendar says it’s still winter, but eighty degrees yells, “Summer.” Winter never really had a chance this year and this last week seems like we skipped spring. As unpopular as this may sound, I don’t really want my summers six months long.

My reasons have nothing to do with the pleasant conditions we’re experiencing, it goes deeper. First off, I would hate to think that the global warming/climate change people may be right. If this keeps up we may have 140 degrees in the shade in August. Nobody likes that.

Secondly, this kind of season skipping activity goes against the natural order of things: There are certain steps that must be followed, there are no shortcuts to success, you don’t spend your way out of debt, you learn to walk before you run, one thing leads to another, you don’t get to Carnegie hall without practice, you don’t get to the top without a lot of hard work, and spring – not summer – follows winter.

Everything needs a turn and there is a time for everything. The Byrds made popular a song written by Pete Seeger with lyrics taken from the Biblical book of Ecclesiates.

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

If you skimmed those lyrics because you think you know them well please read them again, as there is wisdom in those words. Since there is a time for everything, I conclude that timing is indeed everything.

Dad said, “You have to pay your dues.” The warm weather is here and I greet it with guarded happiness because the timing is off and we haven’t yet paid for it.

I like long winters and long winter naps; I like the snow and the way it drifts along the road; I like the first gasp of cold air in the morning; I like reading by the fire, quilts and candle light.

It’s over now and I lament its passing, along with those poor fishermen.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Mr. Baker, the Fuller Brush Man

Several years ago a salesman stopped at my office, which is not unusual. It comes with the territory; I’m a salesman so I guess I am considered fair game. Every week I am set upon by men without appointments hawking their wares; those I know are greeted with a reasonably warm welcome, others are usually shown the door once their intentions are determined.

But this one salesman was special: a Fuller Brush man. I was surprised that his kind still existed – the door-to-door salesman. Although full of energy, he could not be called a young man. I guessed him to be around eighty-years-old, but time had not slowed him down. His big smile and bright eyes told me he was happy in his line of work. Outfitted with a cummerbund, white shirt and bow tie, he had my full attention.

He showed me a few things from his expansive product line, but it was an old-fashioned carpet sweeper that caught my eye. After he gave me a quick demonstration of its usefulness and showed me how to empty it, I was sold. Of course, I had already decided that I was going to buy something because I sensed I was part of a fading scene, and this moment required that I play my part.

Even though I still have (and use) the carpet sweeper, I hadn’t thought of the man who sold it to me until I read the paper last week. Paul Walsh, a writer with the Star Tribune, wrote about him in the March 8 edition. It was the picture that accompanied the story which caught my eye.

There he was, my Fuller Brush Man, Lyle Baker. He had one arm draped casually on a counter with a cup of coffee held in the other hand. His bow tie, big smile and bright eyes stared at me from the paper. Mr. Baker had died.

Lyle Baker passed away at the age of 90. The story told how Mr. Baker was, “among the top 100 retailers up until the day he retired.” This was according to Larry Gray, the vice president of sales for Fuller Brush. I was not surprised. “To this kind of fellow, no one is a stranger,” Gray said. “They hardly make them like that.”

The Star Tribune story included excerpts from a 2003 University of Minnesota interview.

Lyle Baker said, “People ask me why I’m still selling at my age. I guess part of the reason I’m still selling is that I’ve worked long and hard to be a good salesman. Now that I am a good one, I don’t want to quit. I’m fortunate. I bet 50 to 60 percent of people don’t like their work and can’t wait to retire. I’m not there yet. I’m looking forward to enjoying the satisfaction of being a better salesman than I am right now.”

He retired at age 85, a very good salesman. Too often I hear that the measure of a good salesman is his ability to “sell ice to Eskimos.” I bristle whenever I hear that. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.

A good salesman does not sell someone something they don’t need (or can’t afford). That is a con man, a deceiver. A good salesman should be like a good man. He should practice the Golden Rule and treat others the way they wish to be treated. And that includes treating them with respect, even if they don’t have an appointment.

Thanks for stopping by Mr. Baker.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Keeping Up With the Jones

When I was younger I lived in a neighborhood in town. My neighbor’s houses were close by, just a stone’s throw away as they used to say. Now I live in the country and my closest neighbor is about three stone throws away, and that’s if you’ve got a good arm, which I don’t. I asked my wife, Rhonda, for her opinion on my distance estimate. She suggested I go outside and give it a try, but then quickly followed it up with, “But that won’t look very good – you throwing rocks at the neighbors.”

For now, let’s just say the closest house is three throws from mine. The other houses are beyond that and I would throw my arm out trying to figure out how far away they are, plus I would make some enemies in the process.

So who are my neighbors? Jesus was asked that question, and now I am asking my gas utility company the same thing.

About once a month we get a notice from the gas company. They keep reminding us that we are not using the gas they send us as efficiently as our neighbors. They never name these pagans, and I think these unidentified utilitarians are more fiction than fact, but let’s call them the Greens.

The Greens are being propped as the settled authority on many aspects of day-to-day activities. The established ideals are changing and even the Joneses are having trouble keeping up.

To keep their natural-gas consumption so low the Greens’ house is usually cool in the winter and warm in the summer; if they shower all it is either quick or cold; they prefer damp clothes over dry ones and they never cook with gas.

The Greens probably don’t own any eight-cylinder SUV’s, choosing instead to drive hybrids or the Chevy Volt (apparently so much in demand that this car is hard to find anywhere).

Their wardrobe is made from recycled hemp, they eat food organically grown from fair trade farms and they don’t eat meat. They live in sustainable communities where international law is considered superior to the U. S. Constitution.

Well good for them. Their personal preferences are becoming models for responsible behavior. Examples are paraded in front of the masses as “best practices” for living, suggestions are given, good behavior is rewarded (tax credits) and poor choices are punished (taxes and fines).

I don’t mind innovation and the opportunity to try new things, and I have a feeling that the utility company may just be trying to help, but I resist having my behavior monitored and mandated. So when the faceless utility company tells me I don’t hold a candle compared to my neighbors gas usage I say, “So?”

I honestly don’t know who they’re talking about anyway. I don’t know anyone who would fit there ideal. Around here the mix of people, houses and lifestyles would make a good story, but we do not provide enough similarities to be making comparisons. We are different than one another.

That’s one of the things that make this a great country; we are allowed to live our own lives. If I want to keep my thermostat a little higher, or pretend that I was born in a barn and keep the windows and doors open, that’s my business. It may be careless and foolish, but it’s not yet against the law.

But it might be a sin as we have been entrusted to be good stewards of the Earth. Clearly I have failed; therefore, I will not cast the first stone at my neighbors or anyone else who does not measure up.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Kaliedoscope

Last week I brought a kaleidoscope into the kindergarten class my daughter, Jennifer, teaches. I thought maybe the kids would be as fascinated by kaleidoscopes as I am.

Outfitted with internal mirrors and small, colorful shapes, kaleidoscopes turn out an endless variety of beautiful and interesting patterns as the individual objects meet with each twist of the cylinder. All you have to do is look for them.

It has occurred to me that if a kaleidoscope contained letters instead of geometric shapes words, could be created with a turn of the wrist. I was invited into the classroom as the “mystery” reader for the day. Jennifer supplied the books, but I brought along a kaleidoscope for an object lesson. These 5-year-olds were learning how to read and I wanted to help.

I held up the kaleidoscope and explained a little bit how it worked. I showed them how they could change the picture by rotating the tube. I went on to tell them that even though I liked kaleidoscopes, I liked letters better. I told the kids how the letters in one word could be rearranged, like in a kaleidoscope, to form other words.

On the whiteboard (blackboards have fallen out of favor) I wrote “READ.” Then I erased the “A” to produce “RED.” Then I added the “A” back in and erased the other letters. Then I wrote “READ” again and showed them how by mixing up the same four letters we could produce the word “DEAR,” a word I hoped they heard used affectionately in their homes. I left out DARE, ERA and AD as I was losing their interest.

I’m not sure if the kids grasped what I was trying to do or if it was even age appropriate. Perhaps it was just an excuse for me to give the kids a toy. It’s certainly not the way I was taught to read.

My mother, who had been a first-grade teacher, taught me to read at home by reading to me, and then the Nuns at the Catholic school I attended continued the instruction. Reading and fighting were two subjects that were a big part of my day there. Sister Roselia and Sister Cyril used phonics to teach reading in the classroom; Mike and his brother Pat conducted lessons in fighting during recess.

Mike and Pat were impossible to defeat. They were bigger, stronger and better fighters than me. But just like the nuns, they were patient teachers and eventually I learned my lesson: avoid them. After several years I left the Catholic school and had very little contact with either one of them.

About 15 years ago my wife and I decided to sell a horse that was dear to us. Mike had read the ad in the paper and came out to the farm. I recognized him immediately, but this was a different era so instead of seeing red I calmly introduced myself.

Life’s kaleidoscope had spun enough times to bring Mike and I back together. We had tumbled through life and now found ourselves face-to-face again. He was still bigger and stronger than me, but I was no longer the scared little boy. The past had passed and we could not turn back the clock. Even though I did not dare speak of specifics, I assured him that all past injuries and injustices are forgiven.

Mike had my horse do things I didn’t know she was capable of. He took a length of rope, and with him standing in the middle the horse began to trot, canter and gallop around a circle with only his voice commanding her. Mike then took the rope and with a couple twists of his hands turned it into a bridle. He hopped on the horse bareback and galloped around the barnyard. That day it became his horse.

I haven’t talked to Mike sense then, but the calendar, like the kaleidoscope, keeps turning up interesting combinations. All you have to do is look for them.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Hands

I am puzzled by the saying “I know it like the back of my hand.” I know it means that someone knows something very well, as well as the back of their hand. But what makes the back of a person’s hand so well known by them?

Is it because they look at it all the time and have memorized its shape, color and imperfections, or is it because the back of their hand is at the end of their arm, and therefore it must be theirs because who else could it belong to?

It is things like this that keep me awake at night; that and the rash on the back of my hand. I have had this rash, this itchy redness for several weeks. This has happened before so it didn’t alarm me.

Several years ago I visited my physician about my pre-leprous affliction, and he referred me to a dermatologist. Either my condition or my insurance coverage didn’t warrant an audience with the dermatologist herself, so I was treated by her assistant.

I was given a prescription for some cream that made my hands look like my grandmother’s. I would have been happier with large strong hands like my father, but instead I got these.

I don’t want to complain about my hands because, well, because I have hands and they work reasonably well. But they do have their shortcomings. For instance, they can’t tie a good knot or build something sturdy out of wood. When I get a cup of coffee at a shop I have to either get a cup sleeve or ask for a second cup to insulate the first cup, as I can’t hold hot things. But I can type and I’m learning to play the banjo.

I used the prescribed cream faithfully, but after a couple refills I was told I needed to see the doctor again. Again? I hadn’t seen her the first time. So, instead of going back to the dermatologist who had handed the handling of my hands over to her assistant, I took matters into my own hands.

I tried to treat myself with an impressive collection of balms, creams, emollients, gels, lotions, moisturizers, ointments, and salves. However, the rash would come and go seemingly without regard to my treatments.

Recently, the itching began to dominate my thinking and interrupt my sleep. I started to go to bed with socks over my hands to keep the salve from staining the sheets and to keep me from scratching. Other than producing some late-night sock-puppet shows, I wasn’t making any progress.

I scratched and rubbed my hands until I couldn’t take it any longer. Concerned that I may have contracted some rare case of flesh-eating bacteria, I made an appointment with a dermatologist who had come highly recommended by a friend.

The first available appointment was more than a month out. For the next thirty or so days the condition worsened with the rash spreading up my arms towards my heart and, what I imagined, certain death. Shirts, coats and questions from the curious irritated me; I found myself hiding my hideousness from the peering eyes of the public, lest I be labeled “unclean” and shunned as a social outcast.

When the glorious day arrived I was at the doctor’s office an hour early, hoping that perhaps my enthusiasm would be rewarded with an early entry. When the doctor entered the room he reached out to shake my hand – something I had not expected a dermatologist to do.

He spent the next 20 minutes looking at my hands and conversing with me. He explained that I had eczema (Greek) or dermatitis (Latin), the same general skin ailment but with different names. He suggested a light coating of olive oil (Italian) and a prescribed cream on top of that. I expected him to add oregano and basil to the menu.

Although I may have to be deal with this the rest of my life, the good doctor has given me relief. My hands are healing, the puppets are back in the drawer and I am beginning to recognize the backs of my hands again.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Hostess

My friend Jeff, who enjoys stretching the truth (he likes to fib for fun), recently told me that Hostess had filed for bankruptcy. The company brought me the nutritional foundations of my youth: Ding Dongs, Donettes, Twinkies, Suzy Q’s, Hostess Fruit Pies (with real fruit filling), Sno balls, Zingers and Ho Ho’s. I couldn’t imagine life without them.

I’ve been burnt a time or two by Jeff’s stories, so at first I refused to believe him. But, unfortunately I found out its true. The Wall Street Journal ran a story on January 12th of this year: “Hostess Brands Inc. filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection Wednesday to confront burdensome debt and labor costs that the Twinkies and Wonder Bread baker says have left it fighting to compete.”

While Hostess is reorganizing so it can survive I thought it would be a good idea to show some support. Wonder Bread, as we all know, “Helps build strong bodies 12 ways.” Here are my 12 suggestions to help build a strong Hostess.

1. Not long ago I became aware of a great way to take care of myself – candy- flavored vitamins for adults. They not only taste great, they’re good for you. So let’s add some zip to Zingers by loading them with all the recommended daily requirements.
2. The government stepped in to save GM, Goldman Sachs, Bank of America and AIG because they are too big to fail; I submit that Hostess is no less important. I demand that Washington keep Hostess from expiring
3. Certainly business would step up if Hostess products were included as part of the school lunch programs. Twinkie the Kid would ride again
4. Make Hostess snack cakes and fruit pies popular again with a new ad slogan. “Hostess, we’ve been ruining appetites since 1921.”
5. Pre-packaged snack cakes make great gifts. And since they seem to last forever, stock up with a case or two so you’ll have some on hand.
6. Everybody likes pie, and what better way to say “Welcome to the neighborhood,” or “Congratulations on your engagement,” than with a delicious Hostess fruit pie (made with real fruit filling). Be sure to have an assortment on hand for the holidays.
7. Hostess could hold a national essay contest with the theme “What’s your favorite Hostess memory?” Mine would include a Hostess blueberry pie (made with real fruit filling) enjoyed on the hood of my car during a summer job lunch break.
8. The Minnesota Twins could sponsor “Twinkie Day.” A pack of Twinkies would be given to everyone at the game.
9. Host a Hostess Party and serve sandwiches made from Wonder bread. Be sure and save the bags. Your guests will be impressed when you demonstrate the many uses of those brightly colored bags. Feet stay warm and dry when protected by stylish Wonder brand bread bags; paint brushes will be ready to use the next time when sealed in a Wonder bag; keep some in your car for trash, and a couple in your pocket just in case.
10. Pack a few Hostess snacks in your vehicle for emergencies. What you consider an emergency is up to you. For some it means being stranded in a snow storm in Northern Minnesota; for others missing lunch qualifies.
11. Bring some Ding Dongs and Sno balls on your next trip to the airport. Whether you choose the pat-down or the full body scan the TSA agents will appreciate the humor and all that delicious Hostess goodness.
12. If the first eleven ideas don’t increase profits to help Hostess “confront burdensome debt,” then perhaps a pack of Donettes could be included in the severance package for their labor force when the company closes its doors.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Into the Fog

When I was young the fog used to come up the river from Mankato, stopping only briefly in town to rest before it continued on to the Cities. Walking to school with my brothers and sisters we would have to cross Highway 25. The state road would drop into the valley, cross the river and climb back up again before heading west and then north.

On those damp mornings we would gaze down into the valley and imagine we were on the granite shores of Lake Superior. That’s what it looked like to us. We couldn’t see through the fog, so instead we pretended we couldn’t see across the Great Lake.

The fog obscured what was there and allowed our minds to imagine what was not or perhaps could be. Maybe that’s why fog is found so often in stories – the fog fuels our imaginations.

Walking shrouded in fog on a quiet country lane far beyond the reach of the street lights can be very peaceful when done in the morning. But the same stretch of road takes on a different feeling at night when it’s foggy. A rolling fog often precedes death in movies and books, so you have to keep your imagination on a short leash lest it run out ahead of you in search of Vincent Price and Edgar Allen Poe.

The warm days and cool nights of these past few weeks have ushered in the fog around here. The poet Carl Sandburg said, “The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” I try and enjoy its short, infrequent visits before it lifts.

Fog comes in when the proper mix of temperature and moisture has created the right conditions. According to those unpredictable people at www.weatherquestions.com “Fog can be considered a cloud at ground level. The processes forming it, however, are usually different from those that form clouds.”

You can have your head in the clouds or you can have your head in a fog. The first describes someone who is out of touch with reality. The second tells of a person who is confused, forgetful, or unable to concentrate.

But I find that fog actually forces me to focus on the matter at hand. It’s good to have vision that lets you see in the distance, but to really concentrate it sometimes becomes necessary to shut out all distractions.

Take driving for instance. Driving in fog is especially risky. I’ve come dangerously close to missing turns and curves on a foggy night. But I suppose any activity can be dangerous if not accompanied by care and concentration (throwing knives, shooting guns, making toast, etc.).

When everything else is blocked from your view you pay attention to what you can see, what is close at hand. Otherwise the important things can be taken for granted – like taking a walk with your family.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Can I see some ID?

I have a pretty good idea who I am and I can prove it when required. Several times a month I am asked for some kind of identification whether it be at the bank, the library, or some other American institution. I accept this minor disruption in my day as the price I pay for protecting my identity. However, some folks bristle at the thought of being required to provide proof of their identity when voting.

In this country we have privileges, duties and obligations. I believe our constitutionally protected right to vote qualifies for all three. There is talk of amending the Minnesota constitution so that a photo ID is required to be eligible to vote. I have read, heard and listened to the opposition, but I still believe requiring a photo ID would help remove fraud from the voting process.

There are at least two sides to every issue. I, like many others, want voter identification to be a part of the election process, and if it was added as an amendment to the state Constitution it would be protected from judicial tampering. It is easier to prevent fraudulent votes before they happen than trying to correct vote counts afterward.

Those opposed to photo ID for voters claim that if there is any fraud, it is very rare and infrequent. Maybe, but fraud, like many crimes, is invisible until detected. Those opposed to requiring photo ID for voters say it would be an inconvenience to the democratic process. So what? If I have to prove who I am in order to be allowed to vote so be it. That is a small price for liberty.

Let’s examine our day to day comings and goings and see how many hindrances and inconveniences could be removed to make our lives easier and void of responsibility.

Air travel could be smooth sailing without all the fuss over identification and security. Commercial airplanes could be like taxis with wings.

“Atlanta, Georgia please, and step on it.”

“Yes sir…Mr….?

“None of your business – just follow that plane.”

Cashing a check at any bank would be a profitable and easy transaction if you weren’t required to prove your identity.

“I’d like to cash a check.”

“Do you have an account with us?’

“I think so.”

“Great. How much money do you want?”

The appearance of a police car would no longer strike fear into the hearts of wayward drivers because almost anyone would be allowed to drive.

“May I see your license please?”

“License? I don’t need a license. My neighbors can vouch for me.”

If you want to get some books at the public just go get them. You don’t need a library card. Hunting and fishing would be fair game all year long. Anyone and everyone could carry a gun as the permitting process would be considered inconvenient. Proof of citizenship and passports could become a thing of the past (at least in this country). Titles, deeds and other proof of ownership would give way to such time-honored traditions as “finders, keepers” and “possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Of course that would be silly. No one would expect such careless treatment of our identities, laws and freedoms. So it makes sense to me that our most important one, voting in our elections, should be held to the same standard. Let’s vote on it.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Buddy and Olivia

Like most everyone, I enjoy an uninterrupted night’s sleep, and I usually get one. Before I retreat to my bedroom I let Buddy the dog out for the last sales call of the evening. We then have a conversation where I remind him not to bark unless it’s an emergency. He then spends the night in the garage below our bedroom, where he usually lays quietly.

Sometimes during the night he will bark to convince an outside trespasser to retreat to the woods. That kind of bark usually comes in a quick series of serious warnings, which gets me out of bed to survey the situation.

But more often it comes as a single sound meaning, “Are you awake?” If my feet don’t hit the floor within a minute or two, it changes to “Can you come down here for a minute?” “Please?” comes a few minutes later.

If I lay in bed long enough hoping that he’ll stop, his bark will change to “I’m not going to quit, so you may as well come down here so I can show you what I want.” Walking through a cold, dark house to check on a barking dog can test any man’s patience. Most often it’s nothing – he just wants to come in, and that’s against the night time rules. But once in a while he can’t wait for our early morning appointment.

I try to take Buddy for a walk the first thing most every morning and last Thursday, the coldest of the season, we gave it a good try. That morning’s walk was shorter and quicker than usual. Normally the half-mile takes a leisurely 15 minutes. But 11 below and a burning northwest wind sent Buddy running back to the house immediately after his two business appointments. I was content to follow him.

The morning routine is the same. I go out to the garage where Mr. Important (the name he prefers) greets me with a strong nudge. He’s a big dog – a cross between a black Labrador and a Great Dane. He’s not as big as an elephant, but when I am lacing my boots he almost pushes me off the step with his large head.

Usually we have two cats waiting outside the door for us. Pretzel, named one summer day by two young sisters who were visiting from town, and Olivia. Olivia and her two brothers, Newt and John, were given to me by a guy who had been in a band with a singer who had an Australian accent.

Pretzel prefers to sit in the warm garage on Buddy’s pillow purring loudly to show his appreciation, while he waits for our return. Olivia insists on walking with us. I have tried to dissuade her from what I consider an unnatural act for a cat, but she’s as stubborn as a mule, so she joins us. Staying close to the side of the road she trots to keep up. After about ten minutes she will casually cross my path, which is her way of asking for a lift.

The three of us walking together probably looks kind of strange; a cat and dog, sworn enemies, walking together on the same path with the same goal in mind. I suppose if a dog and cat can walk together, then it’s possible for elephants and mules (or donkeys) to get along as well. Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals should quit fighting like cats and dogs and treat each other respectfully as fellow humans.

I know it’s possible because I’ve seen it done. But, I’ve also read poisonous prose personally attacking someone because their politics differ. Hissing and snarling should be left to animals. Strive for clarity and civility in your communication, or take a walk to cool down. You’ll sleep better at night.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Peter's Essays

Saturday I took the tree down, and with Buddy the dog happily prancing ahead of me, I dragged it through the pasture. Then without any fanfare, I threw it on the brush pile, thus ending another Christmas season. We like to hang onto good times a little longer at our house I guess, but sooner or later you have to move on and rely on memories and pictures to keep the spirit alive. Please allow me to share just one more story about this Christmas.

A friend of mine showed me a present she received for Christmas this year. It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t useful or even practical. It was just six pages written in beautiful cursive handwriting.

Once upon a time a 9-year old boy named Peter sat down to write. I can’t tell if this had been a school assignment, a suggestion from his mother, or if the mood had just hit him. Peter talked about how much he weighed, how tall he was, the color of his hair and eyes. In Peter’s first essay I learned that his father was a farmer and that Peter had to walk two miles to go to school.

The following year Peter wrote a letter to his friend James (and perhaps never sent it) happily reporting about the skates he received for Christmas and he included a “hearty,” thank you for the “kind present’ James had given him.

The next four essays, written during the next few years, were about Christmas. According to Peter, his “family likes to sing hymns on Christmas evening.” Winter was a “jolly season,” with “sleigh bells jingling on the streets.” The house was decorated “with holly and mistletoe.” But even as a little boy Peter knew that winter was hard on some because he wrote, “poor people don’t like winter because they have not enough money to buy coal to keep their houses warm.”

It’s obvious that this was written a long time ago. When Peter sat down to write he had no way of knowing what a great gift he would be giving his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren 90 years later. Fortunately, Peter, or most likely Peter’s mother, saved these writings in a special box.

Recently, that box was discovered by Peter’s granddaughter. Recognizing how special these words were, she and her mother made several beautiful copies and gave them to Peter’s children this past Christmas.

What a wonderful legacy. The words of a little boy, written long ago, saved by his mother, then again by him, to be read and shared over 90 years later are priceless. We only have a glimpse of a little boy and his world. Both are gone now, but because Peter’s written words were preserved, his family can learn a little more about him and feel a little closer to the man who was once a little boy.

Learn from Peter and write. Write your story and leave a legacy that time cannot erase. Write a letter to a friend, describe yourself, write about your father, record how your family celebrates Christmas or keep a journal, because someday somebody will want to read what you wrote.

When I turned from the brush pile toward the barn I was surprised to see the trail left by the tree and me. Dragging the tree through the pasture had mixed the leaves on the ground with the dusting of snow that fell last week. I had left a mark that showed I had been there. Soon time, wind and weather will erase all evidence of my passing. To leave a more permanent trail of life’s journeys, Peter’s family recommends ink and paper.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Cloning

It’s nothing to brag about but I believe I have a good imagination; at least I imagine that I do. However, I am not sure I can imagine all the changes (good and bad) science and technology will bring us. The other day I shared my lack of vision with my smart friend Jim. Like most of my friends, Jim had an opinion. He thinks cloning will be the next big thing and that if people our age live another 30 years they will most likely live past 100. That got me thinking.

Let’s imagine that someday cloning yourself would be as easy as copying a document. Maybe Time-Life will introduce the “Home Cloning Kit,” (some assembly required, must be 18 or older, and has been know to cause depression in some cases).

Having a duplicate me to have around would make old age more attainable. With someone to help shoulder the stress my life expectancy should naturally increase. Plus, if I can get past all the creepy stuff that accompany cloning, it would help solve the all too frequent problem of needing to be in two (or more) places at the same time.

For instance, last Saturday I needed to be in four places. To begin with I have found that I am much happier if I have my column written Saturday instead of Sunday night (Grandfather Clock is about to strike nine).

I couldn’t do that though, because my younger sister, Joanne, and her family had come down from the North Country to have a weekend at a hotel in the Cities. Some things can wait and some are clearly more important than others.

I didn’t have all day to do that either because I wanted to watch the basketball team my son coaches play in a tournament here in town. But, I also wanted to go see my cousin Sheri perform with her band, “Locklin Road,” in Le Center for the official kickoff of the St. Patrick’s Day season.

I would never trust anyone else to write my column (not even another me) – even if it meant an improvement. Maybe time with my sister would have been a better option to send my clone to. Family comes first. I could get a full report from my clone at the end of the day.

“So how was time with Joanne and her family?”

“Not so good. I kept mixing her and her daughters up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t keep their names straight. They look so much alike. They should wear name tags.”

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Maybe the basketball tournament would have been a good choice.

“How was the tournament?”

“I didn’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently there are expected rules of decorum that you aren’t aware of.”

“Such as?”

“Well it seems that referees are sensitive about their eyesight. I was asked to leave.”

Forget that one. Perhaps I could have sent my clone to see my cousin play Irish music.

“What’s this I hear about your behavior in Le Center?”

“I thought you liked to dance.”

“But not on tables, and certainly not the jig, how embarrassing. And singing with the band? I can’t sing.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. It was fun. You know you should spend more time with your cousins. They’re fun.”

“I know, I know. Don’t start OK?”

You know when I think about it, I can’t imagine how cloning would add years to my life; it would only seem like it. One of me is more than I can handle anyway.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Sliding

Now that we finally have some snow on the ground we may be able use the new inflatable plastic/rubber snow tubes that were under the tree; a very big change from the sleds or toboggans of my childhood. They lack any steering apparatus, but you can ride down the hill in cushioned comfort. Some changes are easier on the body than others.

Several sliding conveyances have coasted through my life, leaving their tracks. My first memory of sliding was at “Leonard’s Hill.” It was across the highway and Dad used to take us there. I don’t know that anyone ever asked for permission, but often on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon (or during Christmas vacation) you would find five or six cars parked along the county road on top of the hill.

Dressed in boots that covered itchy wool socks, two pairs of patched pants, bulky coats that fit over layers of sweaters and sweatshirts, scratchy scarves wrapped tightly around the face and neck, stocking hats to keep the head warm and dry, with mittens clipped to coats kids would climb out of station wagons and pull sleds, saucers and toboggans out of the back.

The sleds, “Flexible Flyers,” had metal runners and a wooden platform. They were supposed to steer, but it was rather an unreliable method. During one memorable run down that hill my sister, Colleen, and I had our faces cut up when we lost control of our sled on an icy spot. On another day I watched my brother, Terry, lose his hat half-way through an involuntary air-born flip on a saucer.

Before the roads were paved Dad would pull us around the neighborhood behind the car. I’m not sure Dad had his seatbelt on, and we certainly weren’t wearing any helmets – considered very dangerous now. The rolling hills that bordered our town and the wooded ravines which opened inside the city limits provided many sledding sites.

Below the hill, a half-mile from our house, was Goetz’s farm. When conditions were right I could walk to the end of our block and slide on the road almost the whole way. There in the woods above the old brewery was “Runaway,” a wild sliding run named by the boys who lived below the hill from my house. It took some skill and luck to make it all the way to the bottom. Shari, a neighbor girl, broke her arm on a tree when she missed a turn on this hill.

Across town was a deep ravine near my friend Jim’s house. In junior-high we spent many hours sliding down there with our heads covered with long tasseled stocking hats or something borrowed from Frosty and his legion of snow men. Those long runs and long days seemed to last forever.

Somewhere along the line, plastic began to replace wood and metal in sled construction, and then during high school I put away the sleds for snowmobiles, skis and a Chevette. It wasn’t until many years later that I rediscovered the joy of sliding with my children. About that time I went to Mom and Dad’s house and grabbed the old flyer off the garage wall.

I pulled my two kids around on it for trick-or-treating in 1991 before most of the twenty-nine inches fell. We replaced the steel and wood sled with a series of cheap plastic models after Jennifer, my daughter, and I hit a bump on a steep hill behind our house and the sled hit her in the face. The snow angels protected her from harm greater than a big bruise. I carried the sled and a very unhappy little girl up the hill.

Jennifer is now a happy, married young woman and the sled has made tracks to her house. There was a day when that sled flew down the hills, but now it sits quietly in her yard; a gift to decorate her home during her first Christmas out of our house. Some changes are harder on the body than others.