Sticks and Stones

As a child I heard over and over that, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me.” Although you may have learned a slightly different version, I have concluded that after fifty–five years of painstaking research, the statement is not true. Besides, it doesn’t even rhyme and the rhythm is choppy.

Although this saying was intended to help children survive the cruelties of childhood, it ignores one glaring truth: words can indeed hurt. While it’s true that broken bones will heal, a sharp word may leave a wound that never completely heals and is easily reopened with a careless remark. Even adults, who should be long past the age of knowing better, still regularly run over people with their words.

Last Friday morning, when I backed the truck out of the garage, I felt something underneath the rear tires (don’t jump to conclusions – I hadn’t run over anyone, at least no one you knew). Although it wasn’t much of a bump, it was discernible – although not easily describable. I knew right away it was snow underneath my tires. Now, I grant you that snow in Minnesota during the month of February is not that unusual, but I was surprised I had felt it as so very little of it had accumulated on the ground. As I drove through a minor snowstorm, I mulled over what I had just experienced.

This short episode in my life may sound unbelievable or perhaps just unusual. I know I am hyper–sensitive (both emotionally and physically). I have been told so by many people throughout my life. The slightest irritation can annoy me, and while I go through the day itchy. I try not to be ____.  I suppose you could call me thin–skinned. But I wonder if my skin was thicker and I no longer itched or cared what was said to me, what would I lose as a result of being less sensitive? Why I would be even harder to live with.

I know I should become more sensitive to the feelings of others so I don’t trample them. I concentrate on my word choices and am constantly editing; I try hard not to say things that will hurt others. But, when I sense that I have, I will follow up with clarification and explanation and perhaps a rewording and even an apology to the point of being annoying. Yet, will all this effort, I continue to fail miserably.

Unfortunately, my poor wife is painfully aware of my shortcomings. As part of her tasteful efforts to decorate the house, she has selected the space above my dresser, the area I visit several times a day, to hang a simple, two–word phrase: Kindness Matters. I can only suspect this was hung with the hope of having an effect.

I have learned that, once words are spoken there is no taking them back; there is no reverse gear available to undo any damage. Sticks and Stones may break a bone, but unkind words make me feel sad and alone.

February

Many people are glad that February only has twenty-eight days because it lasts such a long time. To them, it is cold, nasty, brutish, and thankfully short (paraphrasing Thomas Hobbes).

They will concede that February does have its good points. In addition to Valentine’s Day, there are birthdays, weddings, and the mail carriers get a Monday off to recover from delivering all those valentines. The lawn doesn’t need to be mowed, the pool needs no attention, firewood splits easier as it has been in a deep freeze, and sidewalks stay unshoveled because most everyone has ceased to care.

They know spring is coming but are beginning to have serious doubts. I suppose that’s why some people go south (at least temporarily) – they can do without the cold and/or the snow. As a child no one I knew left the state during the winter. Perhaps it was because most of my friends were required to attend school and their parents were staying put, but the older I get the more aware I become of people who spend much of the winter in places where they don’t seem to have winter.

It’s all well and good for them – but so far I cannot imagine that I will either be pushed or pulled to warmer, southern states for any extended period of time. It’s a nice to place to visit, but it would be hard to pack up and go now anyway, as there is the matter of my employment and monthly obligations. But in ten years or so I will have other options, and yet I find no compelling reason to plan for a regular seasonal relocation.

It’s not because I ice fish (I have, but I don’t), ski (it’s been a while), skate (did – but never will again). Rather, I think it’s because winter allows for a certain lifestyle that is not held in high regard other times of the year. It is unimaginable that in June I would come home from the office, dine by candlelight, read, write, play music and go to bed, and repeat this routine again and again without comment or criticism. I tell you these are good days if approached with the right attitude.

My dad, who was not afraid of hard work, described our farm as a place “where the work just won’t quit,” when he first saw it over twenty years ago. Perhaps he had forgotten about February. This is the time of year where I have options. If I want to freeze my nose off to spite my face I can split some wood, but if I choose I can stay inside and quote W.C. Fields, “it’s not a fit night out for man or beast,” and no one would think me lazy.

On Saturday mornings most other times of the year I have to be outside mowing, trimming, cutting, or something. In February I can get up, start a fire in the woodstove, pour a cup of coffee and work on a crossword puzzle. Later I will check the water dish in the barn to make sure it’s not froze over, then back to the house to put more wood on the fire.

Life is good in Minnesota; I don’t think I’ll ever leave. You know, I could get a lot more reading done if February was a little longer.

Finding Harmony

Since it’s not all about me, occasionally I will stand back and provide the accompaniment. In “Rolling Down the Neck Backup,” an article about the banjo as a backup instrument, Bob Altschuler writes, “The main goal of backup is to support and enhance the overall sound, which includes helping other musicians sound as good as possible and not competing musically with other instruments and vocals.”

The more I play banjo the more I appreciate its place as a backup instrument. I’m still not any good but I’m learning, and to learn anything well requires a good teacher. When I started playing a few years ago I took lessons twice a month for almost a year. Then I got distracted with something else and never went back. The internet and lesson books provided a temporary substitute, but I reached a point where my rolls began to gather moss and I began to fuss about my frets. Then along came Bob.

Bob, a friend of mine called me one day several weeks ago and suggested we get together and play some music with Wade, a mutual friend of ours. The idea sounded preposterous. Wade is an accomplished guitar player, and Bob is a retired high school band director; I had very little in common musically with these guys. True, I had been a drummer in high school with one accomplishment: One day, due to artistic differences with the band director, I was permanently dismissed, along with another drummer and the baritone saxophone player.

Bob, Wade, and I finally did get together in spite of my protests. Wade brought his guitar, I had my banjo, and Bob had his harmonica. Those two sounded good together and I tried to fit in. It was a pleasant evening, and we harmonized well, if not musically. Bob, being an astute band leader, was able to recognize the obvious shortcomings of the banjo section and suggested we meet regularly. 

So, for the past few weeks Bob and I have been getting together at his place for casual conversation and music lessons. While avoiding any deeps discussion regarding music theory, I am learning chord progressions, the relationship between majors, minors, sharps and flats, how to recognize chord changes, and how to harmonize and follow patterns of rhythm.

I have much to learn and Bob has a lot of knowledge to share.  In any relationship I always wonder what my contribution is. In my friendship with Bob, I feel quite inadequate. Clearly, he is the teacher, and I am the student.

Bob is a little older than me, and he is obviously keenly aware of something that, up until now, had escaped me. Sometimes in life it is a good idea to be the support, to be the backup. Bob is setting a wonderful example by reaching out to help me be as good as possible without competing for attention and recognition. Bob has taught me that to be a good companion is to provide the best accompaniment one can offer in life.

Collecting Syrup

I like to collect stuff. Fortunately, I usually grow tired of one thing and want to move on to the next thing, so my collections are never extensive, but they can also become clutter quickly.

To properly store a collection requires garage, floor or shelf space, depending, of course, upon the items coveted. Once I even purchased some wine racks in anticipation of starting a wine collection. That was before it became apparent that the only kind of wine I like (white zinfandel) isn’t even considered wine by high-browed wine snobs (I say that using the most affectionate meaning – really).

Currently, I am toying with the idea of acquiring various bottles of maple syrup. My private stock would be stored in the cool of the cellar (syrup cellar?) provided my wife would allow it. I’m not sure if others are doing this or if there are syrup tastings offered in quaint villages situated near maple forests.

I know I’m not alone in my fondness for the boiled down tree nectar, because like Buddy the Elf, I believe the addition of it can improve just about anything. But unlike Buddy, I don’t have a bottle with me at all times – although recently I did purchase a small plastic jug of it that could be easily transported and hidden from hyper-sensitive dinner hosts. In the meantime, it makes a great sipping bottle – kind of like a small flask.

I have been stuck on sugary sweetness for most of my life.  As a kid, I would come into the house and grab sugar cubes, or a spoonful of brown sugar (I still will partake of that goodness from time to time). I was putting sugar on spaghettiOs forty years before an elf applied syrup to spaghetti.

I spooned sugar liberally on cottage cheese, pancakes (on top of the syrup), cold cereal (Cap’n Crunch, Super Sugar Crisp, Frosted Flakes, etc.) and hot cereal (oatmeal, malt-o-meal, coco wheats). I also made cinnamon-sugar toast and sugar sandwiches (two slices of bread, butter and sprinkle sugar to taste – serves one). It wasn’t until I was married when I learned most everyone else was missing out on the sweet side of life.

But now, as an adult, my tastes are more refined and sophisticated – I add pure maple syrup to my cup of tea. Up until recently I was using tablespoons (3-4 per cup) to ladle the natural sweetener, but I was forced to change to teaspoons and cut back the application (2-3), as the bottles were being emptied rather quickly.

Through exhaustive research, I have learned that most of the maple syrup comes from Canada, while Vermont is the largest producer in the United States.  This has led me on a quest to find the finest maple syrup available. Having previously detested grocery shopping, I now like to go and see what maple label they have on their shelves.

Genuine maple syrup is available in bottles and jugs with fancy designs (maple leaf, log cabin, covered bridge, etc). It makes a great gift.

Like any fine wine, maple syrup has its own characteristics and quality, depending upon the region where the maple sap is drawn and boiled. For example, I found the Canadian syrup pleasant without being over-powering. It had a rich, robust flavor that whispered of clear, cool nights found north of the border. 

The bottle from Vermont had a good nose with a back-east bouquet. Its dark amber color was born from the deep Vermont snows that insulate the trunks of the maple trees.  The syrup has an old-fashioned vigor that makes no apologies for its flavor.

Two weeks ago I was given some that had been bottled just outside Belle Plaine. As I let the syrup gather on my tongue, I could taste the rustic river wood with notes of clover and honey. It was heavy, yet its texture had a smooth edge; the finish was surprising and the warmth lingered like a favorite flannel shirt.

I don’t pretend to know all there is about how maple syrup is made – I’m just glad someone goes through the work to collect the sap.