Room for Improvement

“The best is the enemy of the good,” wrote Francois–Marie Arouet, a philosopher born in Paris in 1694. Arouet, known by the nom de plume Voltaire, knew, as we all do, that perfection is difficult, if not impossible, to achieve.

I was made aware recently of a problem with the water at our house. Apparently, the water coming from our well has taken on an unpleasant odor, so say regular visitors to our home who feel comfortable enough to help themselves to the water coming from the tap, and comfortable enough to point out its perceived shortcomings. The residents of the house, had not noticed.

Has it come to this I wonder? Is this a sign of me becoming like my grandparents? I used to notice an unusual aroma when I visited my grandparent’s home as a child. I wouldn’t call it unpleasant, yet I cannot imagine it would sell very well as cologne or air freshener.

I went on the Minnesota Department of Health’s website to learn how to clean a well. Although it seems doable, there are plenty of warnings. Electrocution is always a possibility when dealing with electricity, but it’s shocking how quickly the situation can become dangerous when water is thrown in the mix.

I drove to town to purchase some supplies. Fresh laundry–type bleach is recommended, as well as rubber gloves and a hazard–materials suit. I’m kidding about the hazmat suit, but my wife, Rhonda, did warn me about “not wearing anything I care about.” That pretty much describes my entire work–around–the–farm wardrobe. It may improve my appearance if I spilled bleach on my pants or shirt.

A funnel was also a suggested item for the project. Apparently, splashing beach around carelessly is to be avoided. I briefly considered using one of the funnels I have laying around for adding fuel to the tractor and lawn mower, but then I remembered something about the need to keep drinking water safe for human consumption.

After I got back home with my bag of tricks, I examined the well cap to determine how I was going to remove it by loosening the bolts that secured it. Since I hadn’t attended the class on how to choose the correct wrench size, I gathered four from my collection and returned to the well site.

I got close on my first try. Of the four similarly sized wrenches, I was missing a 13/16, the one I needed that I didn’t have – lucky thirteen. I tried a couple monkey wrenches for laughs (both right and left–handed) and a large channel lock pliers. Still there was no movement of the bolt other than a slight rounding of the edges,

With much of my Saturday down the drain, I was still no closer to fixing the problem. In the short story, “The Skylight Room,” O. Henry wrote, “You know you can see the stars even in the daytime from a bottom of a well.” Figuratively, I was gazing into the other end of the abyss. No light, just darkness. For now I was content with leaving well enough alone. 

Shadowed

Sometime last week my grandson, Micah, discovered his shadow. Unlike when the groundhog from Pennsylvania sees its shadow, there is no weather significance attached to this event. Nevertheless, it was a big deal.

Micah waved his hand, moved his arm and walked back forth toward his shadow with the shadow staying true to his movements. It wasn’t until he turned around to see if his shadow was behind him that he found it was only front of him.

We usually only see our shadow in front of us, but the shadow we cast behind us may have a longer–lasting effect. What legacy do we leave behind? Who will remember that we once walked the earth blocking out the sun with our silhouette?

People often speak of shadows in foreboding and ominous tones, but when we project our shadow it means there is a light shining upon us and we are alive; the dead and buried cast no shadows.

Our shadows are reminders that we live and breathe. Right there in front of us, they remind us we have a presence, and that just by being here we have influence – good or bad.  

We are teachers, whether we have a classroom or not. We are ministers, whether we have a congregation of one or many. When we speak our audience may fill an auditorium or just the seat across from us. Our words may be read by many or only one.  

With the shadow we throw we can block the sun to protect against its harmful rays while providing cool and comfort from the stress of the day.

Now is the age of discovery for my grandson. Almost every day he may turn and notice something new, but from now on he will never walk alone. For many years, perhaps the rest of his life, Micah will be aware of his shadow and find it fascinating, perhaps even comforting. Late at night, when he can’t sleep, he may turn to find that his shadow is close by, ready to entertain him with silhouettes of birds and rabbits.

When I was young I walked in the shadows of my father and his father. When I was a small boy they were my giants; they were large in stature, and as I got older they grew in my sight as I learned what it means to be a big man. Honesty and hard work won’t guarantee success, but any victories attained without them are transparent and fleeting.

For now, I over shadow Micah; I am one of the giants that walk among him. As his grandfather, I walk before him. May he find comfort having lived in my shadow long after my light has gone out.

Peter Pan, the boy who wouldn’t grow up, had trouble getting his shadow to stick on. I want Micah to remain a little boy forever, if only for my selfish reasons, but just as the shadows lengthen as the day wanes, Micah will grow tall and strong as he grows up. I pray he always walks in the light and that he discovers where to cast his shadow.

Nan

Last week I received a letter from a woman reminding me, not once, but twice, how important the relationships between siblings are. I’ve never met Nan, but I can guess from the content and style of her letter she has welcomed about seventy springs.   

Her hand written letter (the best kind) used a beautiful cursive style that required me to slow my reading pace. By taking my time I was able to imagine that I could hear her speak to me. Her words seemed audible instead of just readable. In addition to her attractive script, I also appreciated her choice of words. “Keenly,” “lovingly,” and “commentary” aren’t words I often come across in our modern, digital world.

Nan wrote some kind words about my weekly mish–mash of ill–conceived thoughts. I have referred to it as “my column,” when I wanted to sound literary, “essay,” when I wanted to appear thoughtful, and “weird” when I felt stupid. Others have called them “stories,” “articles” and “letters to the editor.” Nan referred to my weekly offering as “your commentary.” I like it.

Her perspective regarding the importance of family has been sharpened recently. In a little over three years Nan has lost all three of her siblings. Brothers and sisters, in her words, “are quite often our oldest & closest relationships, & when we lose them it somehow severs that most important connection to our past.”

She wrote about her past that included a father who was a newspaper man, both a writer and an editor. Like me, Nan prefers books over electronic devices for reading. Her love of reading and writing was apparently learned at home. “My Mom and Dad read to each other & I know a device couldn’t replace that.”

As a grandmother she has read local newspaper articles about the “activities,” of her grandchildren, but now “they have all graduated and moved on in their lives.” At some point, we must all move on in our lives. The printed page records a moment in time; sadly it does not allow one to go back in time.

My wife, Rhonda, and I have had brothers die early in their lives. Whether death comes when a person is in their thirties, fifties or another time, reading your sibling’s obituary in the newspaper is too late for wishes of how things could have been. However, it is a good time to take stock of your relationship with those that are still living.

If there are letters to write, phone calls to make or fences to mend, remember that it will take some effort; they won’t get done on their own. My dad used to say, “Go the extra mile.” I used to think he meant distance, I now know he meant effort. I have a letter to write.

I got Nan’s letter on the second anniversary of my brother Dan’s death. You may call it coincidence if that suits you; I prefer to think of it as divine intervention. In the closing of her timely letter Nan added “P.S. Hold your siblings close!!” Thank you Nan, lesson learned.

Take a Walk

I once looked at walking simply as a means to an end – something that must be done to get somewhere. At one time walking simply for the sake of walking seemed silly to me; it sounded like a lot of work just to relax.

My wife, Rhonda, and I have different views of what constitutes a vacation activity. She thinks there must be walking and biking to truly enjoy a vacation. I, on the other hand, think that while a walk on the beach looking for seashells is a wonderful way to spend an early evening, rest and relaxation is best achieved by resting and relaxing.

Lest you think I have been lazy all my life, let me tell you about the two really long walks I went on in the early 70’s. For two consecutive summers I and a few friends participated in the Walk for Mankind. The idea was to raise some money for some cause deemed worthy enough to get people to pledge so much a mile. The first year I walked for nothing because I was too lazy to raise any money. The next year I raised five or six dollars. Now I wouldn’t walk that far for anything less than five hundred.

We walked the streets of Bloomington; I seem to remember ending the walk at the Met Stadium. At some point during the walk there seemed to be hundreds, if not thousands of people (mostly kids), stretching both before and behind us. The actual course was twenty–two miles, but one year we tried to take a short–cut through some woods and got lost; we probably added several miles to our journey that day. I still remember the course ranger hollering through his megaphone “GET BACK ON THE TRAIL! GET BACK ON THE TRAIL!” We ignored him and ran even faster. We wandered aimlessly through backyards and deserted streets until we rejoined the exodus.

The next year, at a rest area, the Bloomington Police Department had cans of Pepsi available for the taking from a squad car seat for the very foolish, others stood in line for cups of water. Between the times when we ran, we walked and talked. We were twelve and thirteen with nothing better to do and the whole day to do it. The sun shined on us and the breeze cooled us. When we got too tired we hung on to each other like the weary travelers we were.

I look back on those days and remember how close I felt to those guys; I don’t think you can get the same feeling running a marathon, as there is not much opportunity for quiet conversation. When the finish line appeared we sprinted to it. The people at the end congratulated us and gave us buttons for our efforts. Our shoes gave us blisters.

I’ve walked all over this country – Washington D.C., New York City, Door County, Orange County, Scott County, paved roads, dusty gravel roads, and dirt paths through state parks. As I think about it, walking needs no justification, it stands on its own two legs.