Burning Up The Days

Last Saturday I gazed into the future. This was after I slopped around in the slush and mud splitting and cutting wood during an unusual forty-plus degree February day. I have two stacks of firewood in the barn: The smaller one is what is left of this year’s supply. The larger one, needing another year of drying, is for next year and beyond – perhaps three or four year’s worth.

I keep enough firewood in the garage by the house to last a couple weeks, and occasionally I will change my mind about a piece or two before I put it into the woodstove. As is often the case, my perspective changes when I get closer to the target; the firewood looks smaller in the barn.

The pieces that somehow grew between the barn and the house get a return trip where they are split and/or cut into smaller chunks. My dad used to say when you heat with wood it warms you twice. These must be special, as they have done their job about half-a-dozen times.

After I cut the wood down to size, I restacked it in the barn. This year’s supply of wood was disappearing fast, and for a while it looked like the cold would outlast the fire, but a few days of unseasonably warm weather has turned the tide in my favor.

As I contemplated my stockpile of wood for the next few years, the warm weather hinted of the coming spring. Then my mind raced past the summer, through the fall, into next winter and the three winters after that until I realized I was looking at wood that would be warming me (once or twice) when I was sixty.

It wasn’t that long ago, maybe twenty years or so, when sixty seemed old. But as is often the case, my perspective changes when I get closer to the target; the years seemed a long way off when I was younger. Obviously, I no longer feel that way.

I now know that the seasons of life pass by far too quickly. One of my favorite passages from the Bible is, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12 NIV. That verse reminds me to not waste time on futile activities, to treasure time with family and friends, and to live as if I will never have this day again. Sadly, I can’t even count on tomorrow.

On Friday mornings, after I meet with a group of guys at a coffee shop, I stop by my daughter’s house; if I time it right I can give my son-in-law a ride to work. It’s just a few blocks and it’s just a few minutes, but it means a lot to me to spend some focused time with him.

Then I swing back to the house where Micah, my two-year old grandson, greets me at the door. His beaming smile melts my heart, but when he says, “Hi Pa,” I forget everything else. I never would have chosen the name of “Pa,” but I wouldn’t change it for anything now.

Jonah, his younger brother, doesn’t talk yet, but his smile and wide-eyed look makes me laugh and cry in the same moment. In turn, I scoop both of them up and count my blessings. Their mother makes Micah and I bagels and eggs which we eat together with Micah sitting (and occasionally spilling) on my lap. It’s the perfect way to start any day and one of the most important things I do in my life.

The future isn’t here yet, and there is still plenty of firewood left in the barn, but I am learning to number my days.

507 Holes

One of my childhood homes is to be torn down later this year. We can argue whether a college freshman is a child (I suppose it depends on the individual) and whether a dormitory qualifies as a home. Perhaps, we can agree that at least the first half of the premise is true.

Mark, my college roommate, informed me of the tragic news this last week. It seems that our freshman dormitory, W. W. Holes, is no longer suited for today’s discriminating college students.

The first time I lived anywhere other than my parent’s home was in that fifteen by twelve foot room. Even though it was spacious in a cramped sort of way, the room was richly appointed with two of everything – matching beds, desks, chairs, and closets.

From five floors up the window overlooked the corner of 3^rd Avenue and 4^th Street. That corner marked the northwest border of the St. Cloud State University campus. I was a freshman there and had never shared a bedroom with anyone but my brothers. Now a stranger and I were thrown together to share this dormitory room. Besides serving as our bedroom, it would become our study, breakfast nook, den, living room, rec room, and whatever else our activities directed it to be.

The bathroom was even less private. It was down the hall and Mark and I shared it with about fifty other guys, most of which I would come to know on some level. Women occupied the floors above and below us; I did not get to know most of them on any level. They lived on the even numbered floors and the men on the odd ones (naturally).

Holes Hall was a nine-floor co-ed dorm. The main floor had a front desk (not at all similar to your nicer hotels), unsecure mailboxes for the insecure freshman residents, and a recreation area (for those who never thought to use their own room for such a purpose).  There was also a TV lounge. It was like going to a well-lit movie theater to watch something you normally wouldn’t, with people you would not normally associate with, on furniture you would not choose to sit in.

Outside our room were the two elevators. Through careful study and observation, Mark and I learned to listen to the movement in the elevator shaft and judge the arrival of the elevator car. Within an acceptable margin of error, we could determine whether it was faster to take the stairs or wait for the elevator. Everyone else had quickly concluded that it was usually faster to take the stairs.

I learned quite a bit on the fifth floor of Holes Hall that year: I learned to save time and money by washing colors and whites together; studying leads to knowledge; knowledge is preferred over guessing; actions have consequences; and a good reputation is easier kept than recovered.

Fortunately, what I learned will not disappear when they tear the building down. After that first year Mark and I lived with each other for another four years (extended learning) in various dormitories and apartments. When he told me that our freshman dormitory was going to be demolished, I was thankful that he and I, the former occupants of Room 507, survived to tell about it.

Unnoticed

Today I am going to dispel a myth (or is it dispell?) and try and solve a mystery. It is generally believed that men are clueless when it comes to noticing changes to someone’s appearance, or at least less vigilant than women. This last week I discovered that women are not any better in this regard, and I am not sure why.

We have all heard the ill-timed comments such as, “Have you lost weight?” (when clearly you have gained), “When is your baby due?” (you are not pregnant), and  “Are those new glasses?” (first pair ever in thirty years). But I suppose some comment, no matter how wrong, may be better than none at all.

From time to time I will grow a beard, usually when the cold weather sets in.  But not in November because that’s when everyone else does it – well maybe not everyone, men are the ones who participate in Movember.

This year I quit shaving shortly after Christmas. It didn’t take long for the women in my life to comment: My wife, my daughter and a woman I work with all asked the same thing, “Are you growing a beard?”

I kept the beard for about a month and then, like so many other things, I grew tired of it and shaved it off – but not completely. I went back to the look I had before the beard – a goatee (so named because the originator of the style was a goat).

Last Sunday I told my wife I was going to shave my beard, so I took the clippers, a mirror and went out to the garage where messes are tolerated.

After that I went upstairs and put a blade to the stubble.

Now I will allow that I am not the most striking of men, and that perhaps my appearance does not lend itself to comments, but it seemed that I could expect a favorable word or at least a nod of affirmation from my wife. I mean after all, I had announced it. Nothing.

On Monday I went to the office where I presented myself to my female co-worker. More nothing, but in her defense she hadn’t seen me in a couple days (much to her satisfaction), and I had made no declaration of my intentions on the Friday before.

A few days later I saw my daughter and heard not a word about my changed appearance. It was then that I considered that the beard just wasn’t that noteworthy.

On Thursday, my friend, Pat, stopped by my office and immediately remarked that I had shaved my beard, and I in turn commented that he had shaved his as well. Over lunch he relayed a story about how the lady he keeps company with had not noticed his changed appearance either – even after he had declared that he was going to comply with her desire that he shave.

The nice thing about hearing that story was that I was able to take comfort in knowing that I was not alone – instead it may be that women generally brush aside the removal of a beard. They notice when you start growing a beard (because they detest it), but they don’t notice when you shave it  (because they learned to ignore it).

I don’t know the reason, but women generally seem to overlook a shaved beard. However, it does highlight one more difference between she and he, one more difference between the myth and myster(y).

Sick Days

I don’t get sick often (thank God), and therefore I rarely miss work due to an illness. I like to brag that my immune system is not easily penetrated, but like Achilles, everyone has a weak spot, a chink in the armor where viruses can get through.

Today (Sunday) I stayed home from church because I wasn’t feeling well. I have one of those colds that began without much fanfare. Earlier in the week I had an extra sneeze or two, then a cold-sore began to develop the next day which was followed with a couple coughs, a series of sniffles, itchy and irritated eyes, scratchy, sore throat, a headache and general irritability (a picture of health). All this can take several days until the full blunt of the invasion is felt, which for me was Sunday morning.

When I began to notice some change in my health earlier in the week, questions came to mind: Am I too sick to play with my grandson’s? A few sniffles and a controlled cough – I’m fine. Should I stay home from a party because I don’t feel well? No, it’s just a tickle in my throat – nothing to worry about.

By Sunday morning my cough was uncontrollable, and I had no desire to see anyone or leave the house. My wife went to church by herself, where she made my apologies and perhaps said a prayer for my well-being.  I was left home to suffer on my own.

I started a fire in the wood stove to warm the house and myself, read some newspapers, fooled with the fire and felt sorry for myself. For me, being sick can be a very self-centered experience. I began to wonder who got me sick. It’s never a question of just getting sick on my own – someone must be held responsible. I considered refraining from any future physical contact with almost everyone outside my family; the handshake would be replaced with a hearty fist-bump, high-fives with a knowing nod, and hugs with a wink and a smile.

Throughout the morning I come to the realization that I may never be well again. In fact I barely remember what’s it like to be one hundred per cent healthy. I have no motivation to do anything. I should practice my banjo, but I don’t feel like it. Actually, I don’t feel like doing anything; I drink some water, but not too much as I can’t remember whether it’s drown a cold and water a fever or something else like that.

About the only thing I can do is write this silly commentary about being sick at home – and perhaps I should have waited on that too, but the deadline looms and Monday comes whether I like it or not.

I’m not completely sure, but I think I am past the age (or stage) when I will use almost any excuse to get out of doing something like going to church or work. No one has adequately explained to me the number of sick days a self-employed person is allotted, so I suppose that’s part of the reason I rarely miss work.