Look Again

Looking out the window with my grandson, Micah, is one of my favorite activities. When I am at his house we go to the couch, where I am content to sit and gaze while I wait for the action outside to begin. Micah, because he is only about two feet tall, needs to stand to get a good look out the window. But he also likes to jump, climb and move about on the couch in between acts.

By sitting there together we help each other. I keep him from falling off, and he keeps me young by showing me how to once again marvel at the world on the other side of the glass.  Because he sees through the eyes of a child – almost everything is amazing, almost everything is new and astonishing. He is flabbergasted much of the time. 

The wind picks up a leaf and dangles it in front of the window before carrying it away. Micah looks at me with his eyes and mouth wide open as if to say, “Did you see that?”

A squirrel scampers up a tree and we laugh. We hear a low rumble, and we look at each other, and then Micah squeals when a truck appears around the corner. A bird flies low over the yard, and it takes Micah’s breath away. Some time during the last fifty–five years I had forgot to remember how miraculous winged flight really is.

I am not sure when I stopped noticing the wonder of normal, everyday life. I suspect at one time I was probably like Micah – filled with awe at even the little things, the things that really matter. Last week, my sister sent me a picture of our family taken in 1968. I was a little kid back then – eight or nine years old; I was still young enough to be innocent and naïve, but old enough to not fall off the couch.

About that time I was perfecting my trademark drawing: The Happy Window. It’s a fairly simple concept – almost anyone can do it. It’s a drawing of a window with four panes. Then two circles are added for the eyes in the upper panes and a curve for the smile in the bottom ones.

I never progressed very far past that level as I got older. Once (in eighth grade I think) I was given an F minus by the art teacher for my drawing of an apple. I wasn’t finished when she snatched it off my desk; I had been struggling with the form – the shape of an apple is somewhere between a circle and a square.

Since I am somewhere between a child and an old man, perhaps it’s not too late for me to once again appreciate the spectacle that is going on around me. Every day life offers something to shout about, something to write about.

As the snow begins to falls outside my four–paned window creating a beautiful scene, I pause for a minute to pray.  I pray that as Micah ages, he will not lose his happy disposition, his sense of awe, his love of life and all things new and beautiful right outside his window.

Bend Don't Break

I try to be flexible in my schedule; I like to allow for unforeseen possibilities. I have a general sense of what needs to be done, and when, beyond that let’s just see what happens. It’s kind of like crossing (or burning) that bridge when I come to it.

I am aware of several trees in the pasture that need to be cut down before they fall down – which isn’t always so bad, unless they fall on something – like a fence or two. I asked my dad once when’s the best time of the year to trim a tree. “The wind doesn’t care,” was his answer.

Apparently, neither does the wind have an opinion when it’s the right time to fell a tree.  I think it was Thursday when the tree came crashing down; however, I wasn’t home to hear it so I can’t be sure it made a noise. I discovered it Friday lying across the inside of a corner resting on two crushed sections of fence. It missed the gate, but in its current state of repose, the tree was blocking the lane.

I knew the tree was dead and needed to be cut down, I just didn’t know it was that dead – it was rotted near the ground and just needed a push by a strong wind. So although I no longer had to concern myself with when to cut the tree down (I had considered doing it sometime this spring), I now had a more pressing problem.

I don’t mind cutting up a tree, I just don’t like doing it with little kids running around and Saturday we had a couple little kids running around. My niece and nephew (seven and six years old) had spent Friday night at our house and I wanted to send them home whole and complete.

Rhonda, their aunt and my wife, had an idea to have her and the kids help me. It would be good for the kids to get outside for some fresh air, plus they would get some exercise.

I went outside ahead of them to saw a pile of logs that had been waiting for me to cut into shorter lengths (one pile of logs is enough – two is too many). In about an hour the three of them appeared around the corner of the barn ready to help. I turned the saw off and showed them what I wanted done. Soon, Rhonda created a game of it where these little kids were having fun doing work. They carried the smaller pieces into the barn and she stacked them.

While they laughed and worked, I walked down the lane and started to dismember the tree limb by limb. Between the sawing, carrying, stacking, and rides on the golf cart it turned out to be a good morning.

Later on in the day, I replaced the switch on a lamp that had finally failed (prior to that you just had to fiddle with it a little to get it to work). When I was done and the light shone, I realized you can put things off for just so long and then you are forced to address them. However, I still contend it helps to be flexible so you don’t get bent out of shape by the surprise of unscheduled events.

No Secret

It is no secret that I am not a school teacher. In my family there have been many teachers: my mother, her mother, my wife, and my children. I, however, was not blessed with that skill. Teachers share their knowledge and experience in a way where others can learn. But you don’t have to be a traditional teacher to share your knowledge with others.

For instance, my artist friend Lana Beck, has created original works, painted murals and has written and illustrated books. She also conducts a painting class a few times a week where she helps others discover the beauty and pleasure of painting. Obviously, Lana is talented, and yet she does not keep it to herself – she shares it.

I have never felt comfortable in declaring that I have a talent or a skill. I was a fast sprinter when I was younger – but that’s about it.  I strive to be a writer, and yet I do not call myself one; I keep that title just beyond my reach. Everyday I work to better myself by writing or reading so that someday I will feel comfortable with the reference.

Once in a while someone will comment on something or other I have written and ask me a couple questions: where do I get my ideas, and how do I get them down on paper. One answer I like to give for the first question is to retell the answer Stephen King gave when asked a similar question. He said he gets his ideas from Utica, New York.  The obvious problem with retelling that story is that clearly I am not Stephen King (or even close), and on top of that I have never been to Utica. I work with who I am and what my experiences are. Namely, I grew up in Belle Plaine, and I live on an old farm in Sand Creek Township. Now I admit that’s a smart–alec way of answering the first question.

My point is, we all grew up somewhere, and we all live somewhere. Everyday there is a story that begs to be exploited, an idea that needs to be explicated, and a memory that wants to be explored. As any conscientious pedestrian knows, “Stop, Look, Listen and Think,” is a good way to approach a street. This catchy phrase, first developed in the UK to promote safety, also works well in approaching life. There is always something going on, even when there doesn’t seem to be. I keep a small notebook and pen with me at all times because you just never know.

The answer to the second question, the how, requires more discipline. I sit at my writing table in my bedroom and stare out the window, and then I stare at the blank computer screen (a blank sheet of paper works just as well). Eventually, I type a word or phrase, and then several more until a theme is developed and a pattern begins to take shape. The key is to hit the keys or put the pen to paper and do this on a regular basis.

There are hundreds of books that will tell you how to get started writing, the process to follow (there are many), and the form it should take. I have read about two dozen of them, as I searched for the secret or magic formula. I didn’t find it because it doesn’t exist. There is no right way, and the only wrong way is not to write. However, a writer needs to read regularly, if not religiously, to sharpen his or her style.

So, whether you are submitting an essay to your local paper for publication, keeping a journal, writing poetry, recording your memories so your grandchildren may read them someday, or writing a mystery, all you have to do is write. Right?

I probably can’t teach you how to write – but there is no secret to it.

Lights Please

Fashions come and go quickly, but internet sensations travel at the speed of light. Who could have (or would have) predicted that the colors of a striped dress would be such a popular topic of conversation and debate (if only for a few hours). Was the dress white and gold, or blue and black? The colors were clear, even to someone like me who does not readily participate in color games. Why play when you know you are going to lose? Is that sport coat caramel or gold, the shirt – cherry or merely red?

Variations in shades of color are one of those things that are defined in the eye of the beholder – it often is subjective (based on personal opinions and beliefs), whereas an objective view can be measured and observed. People will often disagree on issues where there is no clear answer, yet they find it impossible to entertain the other side’s perspective.

Is the sound system volume too high? Ginger or Mary Ann? Stripes, plaids or neither? There is simply no accounting for taste. I will like what I like and you may like what you like – can’t we all just get along?

But what about the issues that lie on a grander scale – those that have important immediate consequences or eternal significance? When the discussion involves topics such as choosing abortion instead of adoption, accepting creation over evolution, professing to know God or preferring no god, the tone can be less than cordial.

I have my opinions, and like many friends of mine, I will be happy to share them at the drop of a hat, or cap (if you prefer). To keep the number of friends from dwindling, it is important to tailor my words when broaching a potentially sensitive subject.

Bernard Meltzer said “If you have learned how to disagree without being disagreeable, then you have discovered the secret of getting along – whether it be business, family relations, or life itself.”  I haven’t learned yet.

There are those that will end a discussion by agreeing to disagree. I don’t usually go along with that. I always want to make sure the other person sees it my way. This, of course, leads to problems. I can more readily tolerate another person’s perspective only if I believe they have understood mine. Dennis Prager says, “I prefer clarity over agreement.”  Indeed, I have so much to learn.

Last Thursday at the office Kathy, Ruth and I were divided over what color the dress was. What was remarkable is that I was allied with one of them.  Usually in the matters of colors I am left standing alone, embarrassed and humiliated. But this time, I witnessed two women, who were looking at the same picture, disagree (without being disagreeable) over what color this stupid dress was.

At first I thought I was being teased and set–up for a joke. But, in the end, it came down to a matter of perspective and lighting. While the subjects of religion and politics have fallen out of fashion, most of us can still calmly discuss the color of a dress.

All that glitters is not gold – I have learned it might be black. Truth doesn’t change – we just need to be enlightened.

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.