Problem Solving

I’m starting to get travel information in the mail – email. My wife, Rhonda, seeing the end of the long winter, has started to send me links to sites she wants to visit this year and beyond. She may be getting the cart before the horse, or the camper before the truck, as there is still a three foot drift in front of the barn. When the weather finally does warm and the snow disappears for a few months, I will open the big doors and hitch up the truck to the camper and lead it out of the barn for some adventures.

The camper, although somewhat cramped, borders on being comfortable while providing few of the comforts of home; that’s what makes the coming home so much sweeter. As I have said before, I like traveling, I don’t like camping; I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay. Robert Louis Stevenson said it better in 1878 in Travels with a Donkey. “For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” 

In the past Rhonda has done a good job of planning our trips; not all of them had us pulling a trailer, however. One year we flew to the East coast and rented a car. When we were driving through Virginia, it became apparent that we were about to go across a very long bridge (I should have listened better when the itinerary was announced for the day). I have been on long bridges before, but never one with tunnels that go under the water.

U.S. Highway 13 crosses over and under the Chesapeake Bay where it meets the Atlantic Ocean. It connects Southeastern Virginia and the Delmarva Peninsula (Delaware plus the Eastern Shore counties in Maryland and Virginia). It opened April 15, 1964 – 42 months after construction began.   The tunnels were built to allow large ships to pass through the water over the highway traffic which is underneath in the tunnels.

From shore to shore the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel covers over 17miles. After being on the bridge for a span, the road drops out of site and disappears into an underwater tunnel for a mile.  Then as if it were a giant sea serpent, it rises out of the water for another segment, and then dives again for an additional mile before ascending on the other side for its final arch. It’s kind of an unnerving experience, even if you don’t mind long bridges and tunnels, but it is pretty amazing.

That type of driving requires focused concentration with a fixation on the task at hand – tunnel vision, if you like. There is no stopping to get a view from the bridge, and there is no turning around because you forgot your camera.

Bridges and tunnels accomplish the same result in the end; their approach to solving the problem is what’s different. One goes over and one goes under; both require faith that you will get to the other side. “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” Robert Louis Stevenson Virginibus Puerisque (1881)

Summer is coming – we can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I really don’t know where we’ll go this year. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Smile or Smirk

There are those who think I may be overplaying my new position of grandfather. Perhaps, but the whole thing makes me feel suddenly very old. Change can come very quickly, as it did in the Franz Kafka short story, The Metamorphosis. In it Gregor Samsa discovered that he had turned into a giant ugly bug overnight. Instead of becoming a bug, my fear is that one day I will wake up and find that I have become a grumpy old man (some would suggest there is not much difference in how either one are received).  

I have been married to Rhonda for over thirty years. We started out about the same age, but whereas she seems to be getting younger, my aging has accelerated. When I look in the mirror I am much older than the image I carry in my mind and my wallet.

I was walking in the lobby of church a week or so ago with Rhonda when I stopped for some reason (I don’t remember what), and she moved on to take care of something. Two women thought they recognized me and asked if I was who I am. When I happily agreed that I was he, they continued with their questions. 

“Your daughter just had a baby right?” one of them asked.

“Yes, she did,” I said.

“It was a little boy wasn’t it?” asked the other.

“Yes, it was,” I replied

“Now was that your daughter or your wife who was just with you?”

There are at least a couple ways to interpret this conversation: I look old, Rhonda looks young, or both. She certainly smiles more than I do – maybe that’s it.

I was watching a rerun of the Bob Newhart show (the older one) and Emily, his wife, said to him, “Smile Bob,” and Bob said, “I am.”  I couldn’t tell if he was, he may have been. At least he thought he was. I know how he feels; I very often think I am smiling, and then someone says, “Smile.” There was this one woman at church, Charlotte, who whenever she saw me always said, “Smile.”  She passed away and now her husband has taken up the task. I am inclined to ask “Why?”, but that would just start an argument.  So I smile in a Mona Lisa sort of way.

Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting of a woman has been the subject of debate for hundreds of years. Is she smiling or serious? I read where it depends on the angle of the viewer, the size of the image, the distance to the image, and the lighting. It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose. But I guess it is better to put on a happy face and remove all doubt – or at least appear crazy.

Clearly, a smile can be misinterpreted. When I was in high school Kenny, a friend of mine, took the superintendent’s command, “Wipe that smile off your face,” literally and was escorted to the office for attempting to do so.

There are people who genuinely always seem to be happy. While conducting preliminary research, I asked a cheerful woman named Carole for her secret. “Attitude and gratitude,” she said with a smile. “You have to work at it.” I wrote that one down.  

My grandson is beginning to smile – that big broad toothless grin of a happy baby. When I look at him I am reminded that I need to take care of my teeth, or I may wake up someday an old man with a similar toothless smile.

My Friends

In a few days I will be putting away my winter wardrobe and transitioning into lighter weight fabric more suitable for the promised spring weather. I will say good-bye to my heavy corduroy coats, but I will hang on to my two pair of corduroy pants through the change in seasons. 

The first pair is more formal - cuffed and pleated, olive colored in which one might have sipped a martini. The second one is casual and mustard color – more likely seen around a fire where hotdogs were roasted. However, they are now restricted to private affairs within the property, as they are thread bare and tired looking.  Still, they are comfortable and great for any task around the farm.  In them, I can follow E.B. White’s advice and split an infinitive as easily as a stick of round cordwood.

We can argue politely about whether corduroy coats or pants are fashionable, but there was a time when I had several pair of Levi corduroys pants in colors from beige to burgundy; it was the mid-seventies and almost everyone was wearing them – at least my friends were.

My brother, Dan, older by three grades, often remarked how unusual it was that I had such a large group of close friends. Depending on the year, there have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty of us with varying degrees of comradery among and within the group.

While most of us still live within a few gallons of gas of our hometown, Belle Plaine, we still stay in touch; we call, we text, email, write and see each other. We work at it, because even though we have our church friends, work friends, friends of friends, friends of the family, Facebook friends, and people we are friendly with, we know you can’t replace a friend you have had since childhood.

I could write a book about these guys and the things we have shared – and I probably should, but until then here a few words of appreciation if you don’t mind, because these guys are still my friends after over forty years; I’m not really sure why, as I can be difficult and trying.

I owe these guys much; some of them I owe my life, others I probably owe money. Every time we see each other it’s like being in the halls of school again with only minutes having passed instead of months and years. I am thankful that they have stuck with me; I do not know what I would have done without them through all these years.

Gentleman, I would love to list you all by name but there are obvious risks in doing so. I may have misunderstood our relationship; you may not like me in that way – and I would subject us both to public humiliation and scorn, and secondly I may have mistakenly left out someone because I am too stupid to remember their name.

Fashions come and go, clothes that once fit no longer do, but my old friends remain comfortable and will never be replaced no matter the season.

Looking back and forth

This summer when I turn fifty-five I will be closer to sixty than fifty, but it may be like turning thirty-five instead, because I heard sixty is the new forty; we’ll see. The future gets closer everyday, and although we still don’t have time machines, we do have flying cars and 3D printers are bringing us closer to having Star Trek-like replicators.  

Almost forty years ago, when my grandfather was eighty-nine, he asked me to imagine what life will be like when I reach his age. Although I believe I have a good imagination, it really is a stretch for me to say that in the year 2049 we will do this or have that. But still I can dream and desire.  

Of course, I wish for health and happiness for my children, grandchildren, siblings and friends – but everybody does that. So my wish list is much broader and has the good of most (if not all) in mind.

In the future I still hope we have trains that blow their horns and make us think of places far away. Trains carrying freight and dreams on their rails tie us together in a way airplanes can’t.

I am increasingly dissatisfied with commercial air travel, so I think having the ability to fly like Peter Pan would be fun and useful; a little pixie dust and straight on til morning. I have heard about those who have tried to conjure their own version of the magic dust in garages and abandoned sheds and found it wanting and unsatisfying. Plus it’s illegal, so never mind about that pipe dream; it’s best to keep your feet on the ground anyway.

Perhaps we could stop trying to control the weather. In the seventies we feared the coming ice age, then we overreacted and heated up the planet; now we find ourselves in a deep freeze again.  Well, at least it gives us something to talk about.

In addition to all of life’s mysteries, I hope we keep looking for the Loch Ness monster and Big Foot or the Abominable Snowman, as he is known in his winter retreat (Yeti, to the locals). But I hope they remain ever elusive, for just as joy is found in the journey and not the destination, the adventure lies in the looking and not the finding.

I hope we will still have books – actual tangible books with real paper pages. I think these may be the real time machines. They are capable of propelling a person forward to a place not yet here or pulling them back to a simpler time.

I live in a farm house that was built in the late 1800’s; about the time my grandfather was born. Grandpa talked to me about his life on a farm when he was a boy; soon I will share those stories from another century with my grandson who may pass them on to his someday.

Thirty-five years from now I will be almost ninety (the new seventy), the age my grandfather was when he sat with me and discussed the past, present and future. At that time I was sixteen, an in-between age not shared by those younger or older.

My dream for the not too distant future is that all human life will be valued from the very young to the very old; especially the middle-aged as we seem to be confused as to how old we really are.