Leafing Through Life

Autumn has come and the leaves are turning. Soon they will fall, and the wind will push, and the rake will pull them into piles. It has been a long time since I raked any leaves; I rely instead on my lawn mower and the breeze, which seems to blow through the yard without ceasing.  But now the obligations of being a grandfather call me to have a pile of leaves to jump into – not this year, but perhaps next year. There is a large cottonwood behind the barn with enough leaves for dozens of piles.

At our last house there was a giant cottonwood tree standing tall in the front yard; it was so big it dwarfed the one behind our barn. The leaves it dropped were so numerous they had to be raked and removed just so we could see out the first-floor windows of the house (I may be exaggerating).

When I was kid, very few people bagged their leaves; they burned them instead. People my age may be the last ones to have enjoyed the woodsy smell of burning leaves. I am sure we can have a discussion concerning burning leaves, bagging and burying them, collecting and composting or just letting them lay where they fall, but that’s another day.

I grew up in a time where kids raked leaves into rows to create a floor plan for a modest one-level home and played house in its small walls all afternoon. After supper the house was demolished and their father would burn the remains. He would stand there tending it, as if he were smoking his pipe, fussing with the dried leaves periodically while he enjoys the aroma and relaxation that goes with the task.

I don’t know when burning leaves fell out of favor, but I suspect it was about the same time burning barrels were outlawed. Most backyards had a barrel where the household garbage was burned, never completely, of course, as not everything burns. Like most others, ours was an old, rusty fifty-five gallon barrel that stood next to the utility pole between the garden and the alley.

I watched in horror one day as my favorite stuffed animal was thrown unceremoniously into the fire. I had been quite ill, and the theory was the big blue dog was harboring the black plague or some such thing.  Despite the pleadings of me and my compassionate older brother, the dog was burned alive in the barrel. 

I don’t remember the day Dad found out he could no longer use his barrel to burn the trash, but I know it bothered him. For one day I was watching him work the soil in the garden when his eyes rested on the decaying empty cylinder.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with this country, you can’t even burn your own garbage anymore,” he announced, leaving no room for disagreement or comment.

That was many years ago, but it seems like yesterday. Things change as fast as the seasons. I love this time of year, but I cannot help feeling a bit melancholy. Summer ends, the temperatures drop, and the sun goes down earlier every day.  

But it is also the time of year life begins to quiet and move indoors; I recognize the need to make some changes. Colorful sentences don’t get written and musical instruments don’t sound better without daily discipline. I guess you could say I am turning over a new leaf. 

Retirement

I am reminded, almost weekly that I don’t look my age. “So, when are you going to retire,” people will ask. It’s not quite as bad as asking a non-pregnant woman who appears to be in her second trimester when her baby is due, but I can’t help sounding defensive in my reply, “How old do you think I am?” Perhaps they are just making polite conversation, or maybe they are being rather forward in their thinking.  

Personally, I don’t view half-way between fifty and sixty as the age to retire, unless, of course, you hate your job and have enough to live on for several decades. Neither is true for me.

People work past sixty-five for a variety of reasons: a sense of loyalty, they find the work cathartic, they love the job, they need the money, or they need something to do. When my grandparents sold the farm and moved to town Grandpa got a job at a lumberyard for several years. He finally retired at the age of eighty-five. I got a job at the same lumberyard three years later when I was sixteen.

One day we were short-handed, and they called Grandpa to help out. Andrew, as he was known around the yard (I never called him by his first name, not even once), showed me that age is no yardstick of ability. The two of us spent a memorable summer afternoon unloading a train car of lumber by hand. Grandpa laughed at how I struggled to keep pace with him.

His son, my father, passed away before he reached eighty. I hope to pass by that age in good stead. However, I am quite sure I do not want to be unloading train cars at eighty-eight years old, with or without my grandson (alright, maybe just one afternoon). But do I want to be sitting in my office at that age? Probably not, but how will I know when enough is enough?

A friend of mine, who is about ten years older than me, is contemplating retirement. She talks about retiring sometime next year after she has marked a work anniversary. But someone asked her a question the other day that broadened her perspective. “What if you knew your time was limited, would you wait another six months to retire?”

The truth is time on planet Earth is limited for each of us. So now what? It gets kind of confusing. How do you choose to spend your remaining days – work, leisure, or somewhere in between? I know, too many questions and not enough answers right?

For me the answer lies somewhere in the middle.  Work is good for the soul, but all work and no play makes Jack and Jill too dull to fetch anything but ulcers. If you can, find work you enjoy, and if not, find enjoyment in the work you do. Develop a hobby, learn a new language, play a musical instrument (some would say a banjo doesn’t qualify), volunteer, play with children, visit the elderly, read a book, take a walk, live life.

Live a life that has purpose, satisfaction and contentment. That’s what I’m trying to do.  I don’t know when I will retire, but apparently I look old enough. 

Public Housing

Having stayed at a private campground after attending a wedding in Wisconsin, my wife, Rhonda chose to extend our trip and camp at a state park for a Walden Pond-like experience without all the fuss.  It wasn’t that we couldn’t have driven straight home after the wedding, but that defeats the whole point of camping – staying somewhere else when you could be at home. The countryside in that part of the world is beautiful, so we decided to see it during the daytime instead of dodging deer at night.

The next day, with a trailer still in tow, we pulled into Interstate State Park. That particular state park has a Minnesota side and a Wisconsin side, with the St. Croix doing its best to keep them apart. We chose the Minnesota side, as we didn’t want to wear out our welcome in Wisconsin, and we already had paid for the season pass, which grants unfettered access to all the state parks in Minnesota.

The private campground had prohibited tents; the state park encourages tenting but limits the length of the vehicle-trailer combination. Fortunately, (or not) we were able to make the cut-off for length at the state park so I backed into a spot with a beautiful view of the river.

Several times during our stay we saw a paddle-wheel boat laden with waiving passengers. The first time or two I waived back, but after that I only nodded in their general direction, as I was grew annoyed at their tour-boat style of enthusiasm.

A site or two from ours was a young family in a tent. The vinyl-lining of the tent did little to dampen the sounds of the mother hollering at the toddler and the toddler crying in response. On the other side was a trailer so small that my father would’ve said, “you couldn’t change your mind in there,” yet three adults crawled in there that night to escape the rain. The mind reels.

Before I started a fire to cook our hot dogs, I mistakenly volunteered to go for a walk. I knew Rhonda wanted to go for a walk, and I had calculated that walking around the small campground circle would have us back to our trailer in no time. However, I had not counted on the walking trail, which was partially hidden from view, but it was too late to back-out, hence my offer would be seen as shallow and insincere (which, of course, it was).

Rhonda loves to walk, I enjoy sitting, but there we were walking in 80 plus degree heat. Luckily, it was also humid so I could sweat through my shirt while avoiding poison ivy and certain death should I stumble off the path and fall hundreds of feet into the waiting waters of the St. Croix.

I struggled to keep up; it really is amazing how long a mile and a half is when you are going up and down over hills and through woods. We finally reached the end where it was suggested we take another way back.

We followed the fill-in-the-blank style of directions to get us under the highway, through the town and back home, or at least the camper. The return trail was on an old railroad bed, which had the advantage of being on an even grade without all that up and down business that nobody likes. Other than the distance, the only problems we encountered were the missing trestle and the hobbit-size culvert.

Many years ago when the train was running there was a trestle that spanned a deep ravine, but it was no longer there, so we had to negotiate our way, first down then back up, on steep stairs with only a smattering of hand-rails. The trail ended at a dank culvert, where we walked hunched-over. When we finally reached our camper Rhonda suggested I go shower, as it looked like I had just walked out of one.

So ends Part II of this travel essay. I apologize for the length, but in the words of Henry David Thoreau, “Not that the story needs to be long, but it will take a long while to make it short.”

Camping

Last week after we got the camper fixed, we dragged it across the border to Wisconsin to attend a wedding. The camper wasn’t invited, so we parked it nearby at a campground. In my experience I have found that there are generally two types of campgrounds: the public (State or National Parks) and the privately owned campgrounds. Both offer advantages, but in the end it comes down to a lifestyle preference. As I prefer to stay home, I don’t like either one of them – but eventually you have to park somewhere for the night and most people are opposed to letting you park in their driveway, run an extension cord and build a fire in their yard – even if you bring your own firewood.

For the first night we stayed with the private sector in a campground at an old resort on a chain of lakes. The “office,” shared a corner space in a wood paneled bar, where you could have a beer, play pool, watch the game and eat a pizza. I dropped fifty cents and played pinball instead while I listened to John Prine and Iris Dement sing “In Spite of Ourselves” on the juke box.

From its hilltop perch, the bar had a panoramic view of the lake. Outside, ancient concrete steps dropped unevenly to a shore line boardwalk, where a series of white docks with peeling paint exposed rotting piers. Rental rowboats saddled with outboards restlessly tugged on their moorings. Further down the line pontoons bobbed up and down; the waves slapped their sides sounding a hollow, tinny report luring fisherman to their decks.

Having ventured out to the one of the docks, Rhonda and I sat a bench and took it all in. Looking back towards the bar a sign, which was hung high on the building, flashed OPEN, OPEN, OPEN across the water. Every lighthouse should be so welcoming.

While we were sitting a little boy, about nine or ten years old, had carried an inflatable boat down to the water. For only a moment or two we watched him struggle trying to get into the boat without falling into the water. Always the motherly type, Rhonda asked if he needed help.

“Okay,” was all he said.

Rhonda bent down and held the boat while I held his fishing pole. Soon he was sitting amongst his two oars, his yet-empty wire basket, his cup of worms, and his can of root beer.

“Looks like you’re going fishing,” Rhonda said – trying to extend the conversation.

“Uh-huh,’ he said.

“Where’s your life jacket?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” was his trademark two-syllable reply.

“You want us to hold your boat while you go get one”, Rhonda asked.

“Yes, please.”

In a few minutes he was back safe and sound. We helped him in the boat and wished him well. As we walked back to our camper we wondered which camper was his and where were his folks. Many of the campers were situated in a semi-permanent stage. They ranged from almost new to forty some years old.  Some had decks attached, some had screened-in porches adjoined to their trailers. Many had the green and yellow Packers colors flying proudly next to the Japanese lanterns and “Welcome to our Cabin,” signs.

“Where you folks from?” we were asked by the Fred half of the “Fred and Carol’s Camper.”

“Southwest of Minneapolis,” I said. Fred went on to explain that he and his wife, Carol, come here every weekend. Carol would be joining him later because he had been at his grandson’s football game.  Wanting to avoid getting dragged into a Packers/Vikings discussion, we excused ourselves and went to the camper to get dressed for the wedding.

Tomorrow night we would stay at a state park.

Plus and Minus

I like to be optimistic and stay positive. I consider myself a clear thinker; clearly I’m not, but I like to think I am. When given a set of circumstances where a problem is to be solved I am confident in my ability to examine the options, consider the possible outcomes, and choose the best solution available.

But when I am in a hurry and there are only two possible choices and I have some, albeit limited, knowledge of the problem at hand, I will guess and get on to the next thing. Guessing or assuming based on incomplete information is bad form and is usually punished.

As a public service please allow me to let you in on a little secret. Just as you cannot judge a book by its cover, you cannot judge the charge of an electrical wire based only on its color.

AC (alternating current) and DC (direct current) are too confusing for the average person to grasp without getting electrocuted. One is for the house; one is for the car, and when you combine both you get a pretty good rock band from Australia.

It gets even more confusing. On the DC side of the things red is positive and black is negative. In the unfriendly world of AC, the black wire is hot (not to be confused with positive), and the white is neutral (not negative).

Last fall, thinking I was being smart, I disconnected the battery from the camper and brought it (the battery, not the camper) into the house for safekeeping and an occasional charge. We got a slow start on the camping season this year, so last week on the night before we were supposed to leave I reconnected the battery, only stopping briefly to consider the colors of the wires.

Having jump-started dozens of cars and trucks over the last forty years, I was used to black and red wires for car batteries, but I only had black and white to work with on the camper. So instead of crawling underneath the camper and following the wires to wherever they may lead, I concluded that black must be negative because it always is with a car battery, and the folks at the camper factory must have run out of red wire and grabbed a length of white instead.

Unfortunately, I chose unwisely – I connected the positive wire to the negative post, and the negative wire to the positive post; I got my wires crossed and reversed polarity.  When that happens things get damaged and they won’t work properly. Who knew? Fuses blew, power was lost, trailer brakes locked up and wouldn't release, and I thought I my camping days were over.

With some adjustments we were able to salvage a weekend trip and visit some county fairs, and not once did my wife call me stupid; she could have – but why state the obvious?  As I have told my son, Nathan, and now my son-in-law, Adam, “I do these things so you don’t have to.”

When we got back into town I brought the camper to Noble RV, where they fixed the camper, and in true professional form, they politely ignored the opportunity to call me names and tease me. It all worked out, and I was able to maintain my positive outlook, even when things got negative.

Cloudy Days

I was blessed with a mother who, among other things, enjoyed looking at clouds and finding animals, funny characters and other shapes within the clouds. I believe it was games and activities such as cloud-gazing which expanded my imagination and showed me how to look at both sides of an issue. It taught me to look for the good, the silver lining in every cloud, but it also taught me to keep watch for the clouds as well. Good and bad will often share the same stage.

However it doesn't always end well – at least where the silver shines through. Childhood gives way to adulthood and troubles loom large on the horizon and block out the sun. In life, as in drama there are two masks we must wear from time to time – comedy and tragedy.  

Some of the men whose comic work I admire have bowed out early – John Belushi, John Candy, Chris Farley, Mitch Hedberg, Andy Kaufman and now Robin Williams. Williams died last Monday, and when I heard the news a feeling of emptiness settled in.

Robin Williams had a lightning quick wit and an uncanny ability to improvise. It seems to me in order to be that funny, to find comedy in so many areas of life means the tragic side of life is close at hand waiting its turn in the wings. I can’t find any bright spot in his death; I am glad he was here however.

In 1967 Judy Collins released, “Both Sides Now,” a song written by Joni Mitchell.

I won’t give you my stanza by stanza interpretation of the words (I used to argue with my teachers and professors over “the author’s use of symbolism and foreshadowing.”), but allow me to suggest a few things I got from the song. Children start out life happy and innocent, letting their imaginations go skyward, but soon childhood visions are pushed aside when adulthood responsibilities take over. Memories linger of the clouds and those empty illusions are replaced by love lost and an unfulfilled life. The writer is left to admit that they don’t understand clouds, love, or life.

We must keep looking for the silver lining. Robin Williams – He made me laugh, he made me cry.

I suggest you listen to Collins sing as you read the lyrics.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7Xm30heHms

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
When every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From win and lose, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now 
From win and lose and still somehow 
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Party Line

When I was kid it took just four numbers to call my friends; the prefix and the area code were not required. If you had to use the area code that meant long distance – and that meant a phone bill was being tallied by the phone company for every minute spent on the phone. This amount would only become known when the phone bill arrived; rates varied on the weekends, after six and on holidays.  In other words – nobody but Ma Bell knew for sure, and she encouraged us to dial a 1 followed by all ten numbers. After all, long distance was the next best thing to being there, so we were told.

But every word, every pause, every minute counted – time was precious. Talking on the phone with someone “long distance,” rarely allowed for a casual conversing experience even if you were paying the bill (which I wasn’t) as someone would eventually be heard saying, “better keep it short, this is long distance.”  I often thought – is the person on the other end only worth $2.95 and not $4.65? My older brother and sister were both in college hundreds of miles away so phone calls never seemed long enough – still cheaper and faster than driving I suppose.

Calling long distance could mean calling someone in another country or the next county. Rhonda, then my girlfriend, lived only about twelve miles from my house, but to call her meant to call long-distance.

Most homes had only one phone located in a very public place such as the kitchen where privacy was never served. Although many people had phones in their homes with their own phone number, many people had to share a line (a party line) with others in the neighborhood. For instance, when Rhonda, now my wife, was growing up her family had to share the line with two other families – seventeen people (nine teenagers) all sharing each other’s secrets. She would pick up the phone and discover a conversation already in progress. It was like turning on the radio in the middle of a talk show – except you were not welcome to listen in; although some did.

When we moved out here twenty years ago we were having trouble with our phone line – sometimes it became a party line. The problem was that the phone line was lying exposed in the ditch. The flimsy wires in the weeds were occasionally munched on by the neighbor’s horses. This went on for a couple years – the phone company would patch the wires and the horses would disconnect them.

Land lines are disappearing and are being replaced with cell phones and with that the long-distance charges are going away too.  I was talking to my friend Tim, the L.A. movie star, last week about the changes in the telephone. He remembers running in from outside because so and so was calling long-distance. Now his friends call him from all over the country to tell him a joke, even when they can’t remember the punch line.

It seems now almost everyone has a cell phone so it’s never been easier to reach out and touch someone. I don’t even have to remember my friends’ phone numbers, which is good because they are no longer just four numbers; they now include the prefix and area code. To call my friends and family just takes a tap or two on my phone.