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.