Balance

The older I get the more I realize the need to balance my schedule with regular exercise, but I struggle with time and motivation. I’ve never been one who enjoys exercise just for the sake of it. I prefer an activity where getting a workout is a benefit, not the sole purpose; things like playing sports, splitting wood, and bike riding come to mind.

My wife, Rhonda, and I have some good friends who live near a bike trail, and last week Mark and Lynn invited us (and our bikes) to their house. It was a beautiful Saturday, like so many we have enjoyed this October.  

Before we left home there were a few things I had to attend to. First, I had to give the bikes the once over and see what they needed. My skill set for bicycle maintenance is putting air in the tires, spaying some silicone on the moving parts, and wiping off the dust. After that I put the rack on the truck and the bikes on the rack and us in the truck and trekked over to do some biking.

Mark and I have been friends since childhood, but it had been four decades since we had rode bikes together. After he got his license in 1974 we rode around together on four wheels instead. But up until then the preferred conveyance was a bicycle.

Often we would be part of pack of boys on their ten-speed bikes moving through town. It took a couple trips to learn that changes in direction need to be agreed upon by the group in advance of the change. Abrupt, unannounced alterations often resulted in a pile of bikes and boys blaming each other in the middle of the street. 

We also biked around town at two and three in the morning. There were a few summers when several of us would set up a large tent in one of our backyards for a sleepover, except there was no sleeping. In the early evening we would eat junk food, drink pop and laugh, and later, after the parents in the house were sure to be asleep, we would push our bikes off the property and ride into the night.

During those years there were no police in town, other than infrequent visits by the county patrol car, so biking around town in the middle of the night was never challenged. Sometimes we would ditch our bikes a couple blocks from the swimming pool and jump the fence. Eventually, the noise level would wake the neighbors and they would alert the authorities. Running through backyards in the dark with your head down was a necessary posture to avoid being clothes-lined.

Later, as I got older, slower, and wiser swimming lost its adventurous appeal. However, I kept on biking through the years, but not with any of my childhood friends. It was as if we had outgrown it.

Last week boys and bikes were back together again and this time we had a designated trail to follow. Mark and I rode side by side, just like the old days and several yards behind us our wives happily conversed. The trail pushed through the woods and leaves crackled under the tires – so thick in spots that the trail would almost disappear. The lake, sparkling with the autumn sun, was just off our shoulders. Of course, it helps to have a destination, a reason for biking.  Someone had wisely opened a winery just off the trail and our bikes rolled in without much coaxing.

I will continue to bike, to exercise, because a sedentary life leads to a sloth-like existence.

”Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Albert Einstein.

Main Street

I drove down Main Street in Belle Plaine late Friday afternoon to say good-bye to an old friend of the family. Even though much has changed since I left there over thirty years ago, I can still see the old town and remember how it was. As I pulled off the highway, I thought of the café that shared space with a gas station.

I remember four full-service gas stations: Standard, Texaco, Skelly and Sinclair. There was no such thing as self-service. While you stayed in the car, the gas tank was filled, the oil was checked, the windshield was cleaned, and the tires were visibly inspected for pressure.  The stations had a garage with a mechanic on duty – often the same guy who pumped the gas, and if he was not too busy, he would vacuum the interior of your car after it was serviced

One of my favorite stops with Dad was the Sinclair station. I never sat in the car when we pulled in there, because Dad would get out and talk with Louie Lieske, the proprietor. While Dad talked I played on the big green dinosaur in front of the station. Dad and Louie had an easy way with each other; their conversations were snappy and filled with laughter, and it made everyone around them smile.

The trademark logo for Sinclair Oil was a green brontosaurus, and one day Dad brought home an inflatable one. I don’t remember how big it was, but it was big enough to support a small boy in a lake. I don’t know if Dad purchased it from Louie or if Louie just gave it to him. I suspect it was a gift, a thank-you for Dad’s friendship and patronage.

Louie was generous in other ways too, especially with his time. He was a volunteer fireman, and he spent four years as chief. I used to see him at the fire station, which was just a block and half from our house.

As the town grew, so did Louie’s participation. He owned several businesses and served on several civic organizations. For over forty years he was on the board of directors of The Lutheran Home Association, with four years as its CEO. Ironically, he worked all those years to make it home for others, but never stayed there himself; Louie died at his own home instead of at The Home.

The last time I saw Louie was a couple weeks ago at a football game. We sat and talked in the rain while he watched his grandson play and I watched my son, Nathan, coach. He got to know Nathan when Louie was driving bus and Nathan was a student teacher at the Belle Plaine schools. Three generations of Kucera men (my father, my self and my son) connected with Louie. I never met anyone else who had Louie’s ability to make friends so easily. I suspect many people considered him their best friend. That kind of guy never goes out of style.

But things change, they don’t stay the same. Almost one hundred years ago the book “Main Street” was published. The fictional book is about Gopher Prairie, an ugly little town filled with unhappy, short-sighted people. Ignoring the difference in years, I think the book would have had a different slant if the author, Sinclair Lewis, had stopped at Louie’s Sinclair in Belle Plaine (which means beautiful prairie).  He would have seen what I saw, a great little town because of men like Louis Lieske.

Click and Connect

Friendship has never been more confusing than it is today, where being someone’s “friend” and “following” them takes just a click without any real connection or commitment.  I used to have a pretty good idea what being a friend meant; I’m not so sure anymore. I am certainly willing to shoulder my share of the fault for this confusing development; but most of the blame has to be thrown at the imaginary feet of social media.

Let me be the first to point out that I am a hypocrite. I have “friends” on Facebook who I barely know. After this essay is published in the local paper I will post it on the internet and provide a link to make it easier for those “friends” to read it. But just so I don’t offend everyone, I have some very good friends who are also Facebook “friends.” One size does not fit all. However, I am convinced that it is next to impossible to develop meaningful relationships there.

I believe the deepest, most sincere friendships are where genuine, one-on-one conversations take place.  However I fear this is falling out of fashion as we only have so much time and energy. It takes work to cultivate and grow a long-term relationship;

It’s getting together, not just saying you will. It’s remembering to call just to talk. It’s a card or a letter (maybe an email) sent at the right time or just because. It’s dropping everything because your friend needs you. “Keep your friendships in repair.” Ralph Waldo Emerson (1864)

I can almost here the laughter and shouts of disagreement from my old friends, but I think I am better at being an old friend than a new one because of the work required to get there and stay there. It’s challenging to give new friends the attention or time they deserve. Unfortunately, because of that, I may be missing out on building great new friendships, because, as I said, there is only so much time and energy, and I refuse to take short-cuts and substitute small talk for sincere dialogue.

The consequence of that behavior is the appearance of being aloof, stand-offish, and even arrogant. I know you only get one chance to make a first impression, and unfortunately, I don’t always give a good one. I am often impatient, rude, and self-centered; qualities that my old friends have either learned to tolerate or ignore, in the hope that someday I may improve. Though I don’t deserve it, they are patient with me.

Last Sunday in church, the pastor was talking about connecting with people and forming friendships.  Not once did I hear him mention using social media as a way to achieve it. He talked about have a conversation over a cup of coffee, maybe even sharing a meal together. The thinking being that you should be able and willing to reach out and make friends at church. If we can’t or won’t put the effort in there –Lord help us all.

In 1728, James Thomson described what I believe to be the ideal later years of a man’s life. “An elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books.” Just as surely as I do now I will need friends as I get older. An old man with plenty of time but no friends to spend it with is a sad way to finish life. I need both old and new friends; I will learn and grow with the new ones and recommit to click and connect with the old ones.

Suitable for Framing

Rhonda, the kids, grandkid, and I got together Sunday and put on our very best (or close to it) to take our Christmas picture. Yeah, it seemed a little early to me too, but to beat the rush, I guess it’s a good idea to get it done sooner than later, or at least get it over with.

It was rather chilly, more November than October; cold weather can hurry an otherwise slow process. “Stand here, move there, let’s try the bean field, sit on this blanket, how about with the fire truck, okay, just a few more, maybe some with the pumpkins.” It’s times like that where I find smiling especially challenging.

Generally, I am rarely satisfied with how I look in photographs (or the mirror for that matter), but I always hope for a little help from the camera. I can almost picture my school pictures from each year in my mind. Oh, the horror.

In the one for my high school senior year I am wearing a suit: a mint-green coat, green-striped tie, and green plaid pants. I think the shoes (thankfully hidden from the camera) were some brown/cream two-tone platforms; flashy, even for 1977. Up until then I had never seen a get-up quite like it, and I have not seen one since then either. It truly was one-of-a-kind, and I thought I looked good in it. But then, of course, the pictures came back from the studio with a different story to tell.

Judging from what I see on Facebook, it seems that many people are pretty happy with how they look in pictures, as they put them up for all to see. A series of black and white photographs I have seen recently stands out among the others. The four Brown sisters from Connecticut have had their pictures taken together every year since 1975.

The annual photographs were taken by Nicholas Nixon, one of the sister’s husbands, who, after the first year, asked if he could do the same thing with the sisters standing in the same order. As I looked at the pictures I was thankful for the wisdom and willingness of all five, but at the same time I felt sad as I watched the girls grow older far too quickly, almost as if I were Rod Taylor in “The Time Machine.” The passing of time happened all too fast.

Most families have photo albums they can page through to look back at the years; we have many, but not too many. What if the Brown’s had skipped a year or two because it was inconvenient, one of the sisters didn’t feel like it, or they weren’t getting along that year?

In the past, including last Sunday, I have grimaced Grinch-like when asked to sit for more than one family picture. It’s obvious the camera doesn’t slow time down, but it does capture that moment for all time.

Because of the wisdom of my wife and daughter, we pose at least once a year (usually more) for a group photo. It’s not always matchy-matchy, and every one looks better than me, but that’s okay – I’m the oldest. Later, we will pick out one for our Christmas cards; every year we care enough to capture and then send our very best.

Messy Business

If not done properly, feeding a baby can be a messy business. I took a turn feeding my grandson, Micah, the other day. Other than finger-food (Cheerios, cut-up/smashed-up bananas and Puffs) placed on the tray of his high-chair, he can’t yet feed himself.

Micah likes to eat, and he isn’t very patient with someone unaccustomed to feeding a baby. His body language lets you know he’s ready to eat: his arms are extended, but slightly bent at the elbows; both his hands are flexing, eyebrows up, eyes big, mouth wide-open, accompanied by an occasional holler if you are too slow.

I had to ask what I was feeding him, as most everything has been blended into an unrecognizable consistency, although generally it’s color-coded. Green is peas, beans or zucchini; beige/oatmeal is oatmeal, rice cereal or ground-up chicken. Pears mixed with raspberries look like neither one, and pureed prunes look like so much mush. This time it was sweet potatoes, which look remarkably similar to carrots in their orangeness.

Micah likes fruit, and he’s learned to clap; so you have to be careful while feeding him applesauce that applause doesn’t suddenly erupt. I did have an audience when I was feeding him, and from what I could tell, we made a very entertaining pair.

At first I thought his mother and grandmother were laughing at Micah, but it became clear that I was the clown. It’s hard to hit a moving target with a spoonful of goo and all the while tiny hands are trying to grab it. At least half of the spoon’s contents ended up all over his face, which had to be scraped off for another go around.

As I repositioned myself, I mistakenly set the bowl down, which he quickly grabbed. By then food was everywhere – hands, face and hair.  I was a mess, so I took a break and went to the sink to clean myself up as best I could and then returned to the battle. But I had been relieved of my post by Rhonda, who finished the job in expert fashion.

Micah’s mother, my daughter Jennifer, is quite particular on the foods she will feed him. She prefers natural food of the organic variety, nothing I would want to eat mind you – but she’s the mom. She and her mother share a garden at our farm, and my job is to till it twice a year.

This year I added some ingredients to the soil. Our neighbors, the Duklets, have horses, and while I was removing the corn stalks from the garden I made arrangements over the fence with Duke to get some manure. As I was driving the tractor back from his place with a bucket full, the wind caught some and blew it into my face. Lovely.

After my third trip Rhonda reminded me that we had a pile of chicken poop (manure didn’t sound right) in the barnyard that had been seasoned and was ready for garden application. By then I had learned to lower the bucket beneath head height to avoid getting a face full. 

Then she suggested that I clean the old hay bales from the barn and put them in a compost pile for next year’s garden. The hay was dusty, moldy, rotting and rather unpleasant.  I added it to the list of things I was wearing on my shirt and pants. 

Even though usually I will wear clothes on a Saturday that I can rip, stain or soil with no regret, I found by the end of the day my clothes were ready to be washed separately from everything else. If not done properly, gardening, like so much of life, can be a messy business.

                                                                                                                                               

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.