Roof Top View

What a difference the passage of time can make in changing one’s perspective. Last week I was enjoying the long winter – the quiet evenings, the warm house. This week I am beginning to wonder if winter will ever end.

Friday a half-dozen cars and trucks were stuck on the road in front of our farm, and I almost got stuck as well and would have had it not been for the frantic urgings of my neighbor on a bobcat who was fighting to keep the pass open. This year I have spent more time clearing snow than any previous year, I am running out of places to put it and one of my snow blowers blew its last breath. Plus, the roof of the house needs to have snow removed – again. But, because of a new purchase, that chore is now kind of fun.

Through the magic of TV, I became aware of a tool that removes snow from the roof without damaging the shingles. It has an axle with two small wheels on the ends and a long vinyl sheet that trails behind as if a carpet was being spread out for Lords and Ladies, but instead chunks of snow slide down the sheet and off the roof as the axle cuts them loose. It comes with four plastic poles to extend your reach, so you can really get after the snow.

I have an older style rake, which along with the snow will also remove the sand from the shingles. At the end of a long metal pole is a stiff blade that has very little flexibility in its application. Electrocution was always on my mind when I had it up in the air. I believe that with very little modification roofing contractors could use it to remove shingles.

I've also taken the step of climbing on the roof to shovel the snow. If you’re not careful you can exit the roof quicker and sooner than planned. At the end of the task there is usually enough snow on the ground to make for a nice landing spot. Jumping off the roof into the snow is a reward for the hard work, provided you have allowed for the landscape boulders buried under the snow.

But before I jumped I would stop to enjoy the view. Even with the cold wind cutting into my face I was reminded of past summers. When I was kid my friend Jim and I would spend many summer nights on the roof outside his bedroom window talking and listening to music.

Standing on a roof surveying all that there is to see is a great way to see sunsets, reflect on the past, and ponder the future. Isaac Newton, who understood falling objects, said on a February day in 1675, "If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants." He was acknowledging all the scientists who had gone before him, which made it possible for him to build on their successes and failures.

I am no scientist, rocket or otherwise, but I have learned from my past failings: There are better ways to do things. When clearing a roof or raising a child, you can sit back and watch as the sun will get the job done eventually, but there are only so many seasons in life and neglect can cause as much damage as hitting the roof when problems pile up. Gentle coaxing, even from a distance, can do a much better job of breaking up icy barriers than being inflexible and unwieldy, which can leave scars.

As I hold my wonderful, little grandson I realize this winter will end soon just as certainly as children will grow up too fast. Standing upon the roof allows one to see farther and being a grandfather melts your heart as you can see further.

Hit and Miss

Rhonda looked up from her book and said, “I am enjoying the long winter.”

My wife, Rhonda, loves to read before falling asleep at night, whereas I fall asleep whether I read at night or during the day. Anyway, we were talking about the long stretch of cold days and how I was secretly hoping it would set some kind of record so someday I could look back and say, “Oh yeah, I remember the winter of ’13-‘14.  Now that was a cold one.” And that’s when she told me she was enjoying the winter – at least that’s what I heard.

“Finally,” I thought, “she has learned to appreciate the quiet, still nights with warmth from the fire, light from the candle, and entertainment from a book or movie.”  I can recommend those winter relaxations.

“Life is Beautiful,” is one movie I really like. It stars Roberto Benigni as Guido, an Italian-Jewish man who, along with his young son, is imprisoned in a Nazi camp. Guido pretends to understand German so that he can interpret the orders from the guards for his Italian speaking son. To hide the terrible truth about their situation, Guido makes up an elaborate story to fool his son into thinking they are part of some harmless game.

I have seen the movie two or three times, and I suggest watching it with English subtitles so that both the German and Italian languages are spoken. It forces an intense viewing of the movie, but it makes the experience more realistic. It would be better if both Italian and German were understood, but I only understand English and sometimes that’s not completely clear to me.

I don’t understand sign-language either, but I know enough to get the attention of a waiter or how to hitch a ride, and I think I can tell when someone is just making it up. For instance, when I watched the sign-language interpreter at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, the interpreter’s hand movements seemed comical.

Thamsanqa Jantjie, the sign language interpreter has admitted to being a fake, and I admit it was one of the funniest things I have seen in awhile. To be clear I don’t think the memorial service was funny, I don’t think sign language is funny, but I think a fake interpreter (sign or otherwise) on a world stage is humorous.

Whether its misinterpretations or misunderstandings it’s easy to get the wrong message.

Thirty years ago I graduated from college with a degree in Speech Communication, and I have been communicating on a daily basis since then, and yet with all that talking and listening, misunderstanding is ever present.

“No one would talk much in society, if he knew how often he misunderstands others.” (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832).

I dislike being misunderstood and will, to the point of being annoying, make sure I am understood. Yet, no matter how closely I listen to what someone is saying, I will still misunderstand them sometimes.

Today I heard the weatherman say snow coming tonight and tomorrow. I may be the only one in the house who likes long winters. What I heard Rhonda say about long winters was wrong, because that night she reminded me she prefers spring and summer over winter. She would rather be in her garden or swimming; she likes being outside and having the windows open.

When she said, “I am enjoying the long winter,” I had misunderstood her; she didn’t mean she likes the weather, she meant she likes the book she was reading The Long Winter, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

“Until you understand a writer’s ignorance, presume yourself ignorant of his understanding.” Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1722-1834)

Rhonda had decided to reread a book from her childhood to remind her that the hardships associated with the winters of long ago no longer exist today. However, we are no closer to understanding each other.

Reflect and Reflex

It has been a long time since I have changed a baby’s diaper, and to be honest, the few times I did wouldn’t put me among professionals. I firmly believe that taking care of a baby is not exclusively a woman’s responsibility, even though it seems they carry the load most of the time. Nor am I opposed to taking up the task of freshening up a baby when it presents itself, but I’m afraid I won’t run to the front of the line either.

In just under two weeks my son-in-law, Adam, has probably changed more diapers than I did during my two children’s pre-potty training tour of duty. I had jumped in with both hands early on but was summarily dismissed when things got a little messy.

My wife, Rhonda, is normally a rational woman, but one day (for reasons still not entirely clear) she left me alone to change our baby’s diaper. The procedure was going poorly, as I was not too sure of myself; I think the baby knew that for babies seem to sense doubt and uncertainty.

Fearing the worst, I slowly opened the diaper to see what I was up against. The sight and smell were certainly bad enough, but what put me over the edge was when I got some on my hand.

When a baby is startled it will exhibit what is known as a “Moro reflex,” named after Ernst Moro, an Austrian pediatrician, who probably discovered it when changing a diaper. According to Children’s Hospital of Wisconsin, “The Moro reflex…usually occurs when a baby is startled by a loud sound or movement. In response to the sound, the baby throws back his/her head, extends out the arms and legs, cries…”

When I got my hand dirty I screamed in disgust, which triggered a text-book example of the Moro reflex. The secondary reaction of the Moro reflex is the mother reflex.  Upon hearing her baby cry (the infant, not me) Rhonda came flying into the room demanding to know what had happened.

“I got some on my hand,” I explained.

She unsympathetically kicked me out of the room. As I left I could hear Rhonda comforting the baby.  I knew I was wrong, but I needed to wash my hands.

As I reflect on my reflex I realize I could have handled things differently. Now, with a new baby in the family, I have a chance to make things right. So, to demonstrate my willingness to lend a hand I have made a list of activities where I believe my skills are best suited.

Now I can hold Micah until he begins to fuss; I can watch him while others do the laundry, cooking and various household chores, and then I can alert them when Micah needs something. When he begins to crawl and walk I can follow him around to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.

When he gets a little older I can read stories to him and wrestle with him; we can play games and go on great adventures, both real and imaginary.  We will go outside to look for bugs that crawl and jump and stay inside to play checkers when it rains. We can go get ice cream because we are hungry for some.

Then someday I can teach him how to throw a Frisbee and play the banjo. We will have long, easy talks filled with questions and wonderings. I can teach him how to back a trailer and drive a truck with a stick shift.

As his grandfather I hope to help him learn to value integrity over intelligence; hard work over a hand-out and kindness over cleverness. My Dad once told me you have to bend a tree when it’s young. I want to help Micah while he’s young, because it’s hard to change someone when they get older.

Meet Micah

January 28^th was one of those days when I was reminded how important it is to get the right information. That morning my wife, Rhonda, called me at the office to tell me that our daughter, Jennifer, had sent her a text message: “Going to the hospital, pray.”

“Did she say anything else?” I asked.

“No, that was it,” Rhonda said.

“Lovely.”

Even though Rhonda was convinced everything was going as planned, I was less sure. Being blessed with an over-active imagination allowed me to consider several unpleasant scenarios; of course, it could be that Jennifer was just letting her mother know that the baby was on the way, but why think positively when there are so many negative thoughts pushing their way in? So I prayed.

Usually the regular events of the day can distract me, or I can pick up a book or a newspaper and busy my mind with something – but not that morning. I paced the office as if it were an old-fashioned waiting room. I worried and I waited, but no nurse appeared to tell me any news.

I plugged in my cell phone to make sure it was charged, and I turned the ringer volume up to eleven. I checked and rechecked the office voice mail; I looked through emails, text messages and Facebook; I even checked the fax machine – just in case.  When the mailman walked in I almost asked, “Any word?”  None of the letters he delivered hinted at any news of a baby either.

Finally, my phone rang. It seemed that I was moving in slow motion as I looked at the phone and saw Jennifer’s name displayed. Fearing the worst and hoping for the best I said “Hello?”

“Hello Grandpa,” she said.

“Did you have a baby?” I asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Is he healthy?”

“Yes, he’s healthy.”

Sometime during our conversation I remembered to ask the weight because I was sure my sisters would want to know.

When I called them I had my piece of paper right in front of me. “8 lbs 6 oz” I said. But it quickly became apparent that I didn’t have his name, length, or time of birth. I also didn’t have his width, shoe size, or waist and in-seam measurements. Of anyone, my sisters should know better than to ask me too many questions.

That afternoon I drove Rhonda and our son, Nathan, to the hospital with great anticipation. When we walked into the room I found it hard to believe that our daughter was holding her own baby, for it doesn’t seem that long ago when we took our baby girl home from the hospital.

Naturally, my wife would be the one to hold the baby first (and most). When I held him I immediately loved him. He seemed very nice and reasonably content, considering what he had just experienced. I’m afraid I dominated our conversation, as I had so much to tell him. I couldn’t understand him, but fortunately there were those in the room who knew what he needed. I didn’t get much of a chance to have any “alone” time with just the baby, as he, being the most popular one in the room, was constantly hovered over.

I did get his name: Micah James. However, I’m still not completely sure of the rest of the vital statistics, but I do know I am the new Grandpa Kucera; that I am sure of it.