Fog

We’ve had a string of foggy days and I love it!

Of course, we’re not talking about the Tule fog we used to get when Mary and I lived in the Central Valley, where dozens of cars and trucks would wind up in one big crash on I-5 or SR-99. Nor do I refer to the huge billowing clouds of the stuff that roll into San Francisco from the ocean side.

Naw, today’s was regular old fog. And I loved it!

It was hugging the hills that border Lake Washington as I rode the bus across the floating bridge this morning and obscured all but the very top of the mountain (that would be THE mountain, Mt. Rainier, doncha know) and it turned the late afternoon a velvety gray while I was walking from home from the bus stop.

Fog eases the edges of everything you see and brings your focus in close. And McKuen was wrong – it doesn’t come on “little cat feet” but rather, just seems to be, a condition of the air that changes the light and the dark, both.

I feel warmer in fog than on a clear, cold day. Maybe that’s where the clichéd term “blanket of fog” comes from, you think?

In the dark of the morning all the cars have their headlights on and quite a few drivers have hit the high beams. How come people don’t know that turning on the high beams actually degrades night vision because of the reflected glare?

Streetlights are cooler in the fog. As a kid, I used to love that halo effect and I feel a bit like that long ago kid when I see it today.

The fog was just off the water of the lake as we crossed the floating bridge on the way home. It looked as though if you ducked just a little, you could kayak the whole three miles across without getting your hair wet. Speaking of which, it always surprises me just a little to get to work and realize my hair is wet when it hasn’t rained.

I like bright, shiny days well enough, I suppose. But a bright, shiny day would never seem so bright or so shiny if there were no foggy days.

We need all kinds. Just now, I’m rather enjoying the fog.

Det's Toyland

If you were a kid in Bellevue, WA in the 60s, you probably remember a store on Main Street called Det’s Toyland. It was a precursor of the big box toy stores we have now but it had a very hometown flavor. We’d swivel our heads keeping the Det’s display window in view for as long as possible whenever we drove down that street. Det’s published a Christmas catalog that – along with the Sears big book – was required reading for any self-respecting kid on our block.

Det’s had their own pavilion at Century 21, the Seattle World’s Fair of 1962. The store was a fixture in the childhoods of uncounted now-geezers like moi and a chance reference to it by a friend earlier today got me to thinking about it.

I remember going to Det’s with Mom to buy a stuffed animal as a birthday present for my sister and another time to get Matchbox cars for my brother. But the time I remember best I don’t remember at all.

Let me explain…  I had gone to Det’s with my Dad and since he had me along, most likely it was a trip to purchase a gift for one of the other kids. I don’t recall exactly the mission, nor do I recall actually shopping with my Dad. But I remember the day as though it was yesterday.

My memory of that day begins back home later that evening with my Dad noticing I’m playing with a new stamped metal train that he didn’t recognize and asking how I’d come by it. I recall in detail the shiver that went down my spine. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he said next but I know I sat alone in the bedroom I shared with my brother while I waited for sentence to be passed. Seems like it was forever and I spent the whole time trying to figure out a way to just disappear before Dad came back. I thought I heard him talking on the phone to someone and I imagined the police showing up at my bedroom door, handcuffs and truncheons at the ready.

Next thing I know, Dad’s telling me to get my coat on and bring the toy train and meet him at the car. It slowly dawned on me as we drove that we were heading back toward downtown. I wanted to ask but I didn’t dare and my father said not one word the whole trip. Didn’t even look at me.

When we parked in front of the toy store, the marquee lights were off and I had a fleeting moment of hope that I’d been reprieved by the simple expedient of closing time. But then I saw the front door open and the store manager looked out gravely and waved us in before stepping back inside. I looked up at my Dad and he looked at me and said five words that changed my world, “You know what to do.”

I gathered up the now-hateful toy and opened the car door. I remember stepping down, turning back to close the door, stepping up onto the sidewalk and advancing on the store entrance. The manager had gone back to the sales counter and was leaning his rump against it, his arms crossed in front of him. I felt like the Cowardly Lion advancing toward the Wizard. Let me just say that walking up to that man and confessing that I’d swiped the toy train was not a peak experience. I was so scared I can actually remember precisely how dry my mouth was, and that my throat squeaked when I took my first run at making my confession.

I put the cursed thing in his hand and I apologized and then the oddest thing happened – it seemed odd to me at that moment, that is. He reached around and put the toy down on the counter. Then, with the same frown on his face that had occupied it since we’d first arrived, he reached out and shook my hand.

I must have gone back and got in the car, must have ridden home with my dad. But the last thing I remember is my hand being swallowed up in his bear paw.

I was about seven that year, so now it’s been about fifty-three years since I stole anything of any description from anyone. Dad’s disappointment and the disapproval of the store manager weighed pretty heavily on me that day and for a long time after.

These two men worked out a solution that taught me a life lesson. I don’t suppose that’s how folks handle such things these days. Wish it was. That was one good lesson.

Some wisdom from Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou posits that you can learn much about a person through observation of how they deal with three situations: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. I understand what she’s getting at and even why she chose these three conditions. Most people would find each or all of them at best annoying and at worst, maddening.

The thing is, none of these situations is particularly troubling to me. We get enough rainy days where I live that dealing with precipitation is more a matter of deploying long-practiced technique than disruption of plans.

Lost luggage just doesn’t happen that often. Speaking as someone who flies on average thirty times a year and whose luggage has failed to arrive in place and on time  maybe three times in the last twelve years, I have to say it’s not the huge problem people would have you believe. And frankly, anyone who puts anything irreplaceable in checked luggage is simply not planning ahead. Okay, so yes, I did once attend the first day of a conference wearing jeans and a printed tee shirt. I lived through it.

Tangled Christmas tree lights are also not a problem I encounter. Mary and I put up enough lights to guide astronauts back from the moon and we’ve long since devised a method for wrapping them that leaves them pretty much tangle-free when it comes time to put them up again the next year.

I’m not trying to gloat here. Lots of situations do send me off my nut. Just not this three. And it doesn’t matter which three you choose because Maya is on to something. You truly can tell a lot about a person by how they manage in untoward situations.

 

 

Manastash Ridge and other sights

I was driving to one of our agencies today and found I just could not drive past the observation point on Manastash Ridge without stopping for a notice. I can’t recall a time when I drove this route without at least swinging through the loop road for a quick gander. And for good reason – it affords a fantastic view.

The terrain falls away in front of you and across the wide valley, the wind farm marches into the distance with the snow-capped cascades beyond. Ellensburg is in the middle distance with the towers of the university in plain view if you know what you’re looking for.

As you pan left to right, you’ll want to traverse slowly lest you miss any detail of the farmland that fills the bowl of the valley. Then, more wind farms on the ridge to the far right just before the high ground ends abruptly as the Yakima Fold Belt is cut through by the Columbia River Gorge.

Beyond the Gorge, Eastern Washington is a totally different animal. But that’s a story for another day trip.

Breasting the ridge and continuing south, there’s so much more to see. A somewhat scary bridge (for those of us who don’t appreciate high structures) spans a canyon whose breadth and depth doesn’t seem it could possibly have been cut by tiny Selah Creek.  

Coming down the retrograde, one can hardly miss the view of Mt. Adams to the southeast and Mt. Rainier to the Southwest. They are two of the ten volcanoes in Washington State.   Adams hasn’t erupted for over 1,400 years. Rainier has produced massive lahars much more recently (about 1,000 years ago) and geologists estimate that the next big one will easily make it to Puget Sound, thirty-some statute miles away. That’s as the crow flies; as the slop slurps is a somewhat greater distance.

Seeing these two behemoths in the same view reminds me of how tiny we are and how vast the stage upon which we play out our lives. It occurred to me, looking at Rainier, that the mountain is utterly oblivious to the ant-like humans who regularly ‘conquer’ it with their crampons and oxygen bottles and ice axes. One medium-sized shrug of its glaciated shoulders and the volcanic detritus would drown tens of thousands in a steam-temperature mud slurry. Of course, the mountain won’t care. It’s not paid to care. The mountain’s job is to hang out and every now and then, spew death. It’s our job to care. Not that we can do anything about it…

The drive continued through the vineyard and tree fruit farms from Wapato to Richland and of course, this being Fall, the colors were to die for. (I didn’t want you to think I spent the whole remainder of the drive worrying about spewing mountains.)

It was a good drive.

Self-refection

So, as I turned the corner into the men’s locker room, I stepped to the side to make way for a couple of guys who were just coming out – hm-m, make that ‘leaving the locker room,’ ahem – and glancing to the right, caught sight of an upper middle aged, fat, sweaty jasper with a weekend beard, plastered hair and a thoroughly exhausted mien.

Then I realized it was a mirror.

Those of you who laughed are not my friends.

The "Tea Party"

I tend toward fiscal conservatism, socially more liberal but of course, those are just labels. What I would prefer to be described as is reasonable, thoughtful, and well-informed.

The thing is, it’s getting harder every day to be well-informed but still maintain a reasonable stance.

The current political climate is making my head spin and not because of what’s right or wrong, what’s smart or not, even what’s good or bad for the nation. The argument these days revolves around who can make the electorate believe the “other side” is evil.

We have a potentially disastrous situation facing our nation in the confluence of two terrible truths: first, the electorate has degraded over time to the point that these days, most citizens seem more interested in reacting to sound bites than in observing actions or thoughtfully analyzing arguments; second, leaders of a new group, the so-called Tea Party, are intent on applying a scorched earth approach if they don’t get their way. And their ‘way’ is elitist, racist, and wholly misaligned with the intent of the Constitution.

The Tea Party, it seems to me, has two goals that overarch all their political calculus – the ascendancy of powerful, moneyed interests and the destruction of a truly pluralistic society. This group is intent on preventing the full deployment of the first comprehensive health care reform legislation in my lifetime. They are dedicated to taking any action that will prevent a positive legacy of the first non-white-male chief executive. They care not one whit for the fact that they are a minority or that poll after poll indicates that most Americans disagree with their aims. And their elected members are willing to shut down the government – the effective and efficient and fair operation of which should be legislators’ primary objective – in an attempt to prevail by tantrum.

The Tea Party would have us accept the outrageous assertion that this country was founded on – and should hew to the canons of – the Christian religions. Never mind that many of the founders and the clear majority of our current citizens are not adherents to this particular belief system. They question the legitimacy of a freely elected President born in Hawaii but talk about a national office in the future for a guy born in Canada (note to TP’ers – not legal; not gonna happen).

It seems to me not particularly surprising that the power basis of this group resides primarily in states south of the Mason-Dixon Line and in pockets elsewhere with overwhelmingly white populations. Let me be clear – I DO NOT believe that membership in this group is proof prima facie that one is evil or racist or elitist. But I do believe that the organizers of the group are precisely those things. This is a latter day John Birch Society, made infinitely more malevolent because they’ve assumed the false mantle of respectability.

The Tea Party is intent on redefining some terms we all thought we understood since childhood. A ‘patriot’ is now someone who believes as they do and everyone else is anti-patriotic. ‘Compromise’ means browbeating the rest of us until they get their way. Even ‘Tea Party’ is redefined – it no longer refers to an act of civil disobedience against unreasonable taxation by a foreign king. Now, it simply refers to their ‘us,’ with the rest of us, the majority of us, redefined as ‘them.’

Too bad we’ve come to this. I love discussing politics but to do so these days frequently means damaging longstanding relationships. I don’t care if you’re a Republican or a Democrat or even a Tea Partier – we should at least be able to talk.

I have friends and family members with whom I can no longer discuss politics or even current events. That’s tragic. Adams and Madison and Hamilton were able to talk and debate. Reagan and O’Neill were both respectful and friendly even when their view of the world was most at odds. I guess those days are gone.

Damn.

Education

“(Education gives) children something that can never be taken away.”( Julia Stiles’ character to David Walton’s character in The Makeover. )

The movie, one of a multitude of takes on Pygmalion, is not exactly a masterpiece but it’s entertaining enough if your primary reason for watching it is to have some sort of excuse for not going outside to mow the lawn. And a good quote is a good quote (or “Truth is truth,” as we learned in Enemy Mine) so I’m going with it.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve a passion for considering the best nature of education and as I may have mentioned in previous posts, I understand that transforming that nature will unavoidably mean revamping the structure of our educational enterprise. On a macro scale, this will involve a massive and excruciating effort to turn the ship around. And that’s assuming that we can come together as to what education should look like. And unfortunately, government will be involved. Recent ‘discourse’ regarding affordable health care does not fill me with hope in this regard but heck, I can dream, right?

There are all sorts of discussions going on in various nooks and crannies about how best to educate ourselves and the next generation, and the next… And lots of those discussions question the fundamental definitions we’ve assumed we all understood. Questions like, what is education?

For at least a half-dozen generations, we’ve drawn a line between ‘education’ and ‘training’. Training means preparing people for work and has traditionally been the province of technical schools, apprenticeship,  in-house job training and preparation for untoward events (safety training, etc.). Education, on the other hand, has been designed to prepare us for lives driven by higher order thought. Or so the story goes.

As the world is changing, the line between the two is becoming less bright and probably, less useful.  Ascribing this change to the emergence of an Information Age does little to describe the sea change we are currently undergoing. Education and training are necessarily interweaving as we struggle to keep up with the phenomenal burgeoning of both knowledge and the dissemination of it.

Harvard, Oxford, Princeton, ETH Zurich et al are great schools but they may be on the brink of losing their pre-eminent status – the Times rankings notwithstanding – not because of any diminution of the quality of their teaching but rather by a loss of relevance of both their approach and their target audiences.  Certainly, a lot of the change is driven by the explosive increases in both information and interaction through the Internet. But the voices currently claiming that the Web is the sole driver of change in how we order the acquisition of knowledge miss the point by a wide margin.

The Web is a tool and a very important one. But the change in our ways of knowing has everything to do with how we make use of the tool. And this fact both encourages and worries me.

I am encouraged by the serendipity created when minds can readily find each other across distance, time and disciplines through the power of the web search. Where in the past a researcher could only be found through a sort of Old Boys network of those who considered themselves and each other eminent, now the construction of search criteria is more likely to be centered on content than an eminent author’s name.  

On the other hand, when anyone can stand at the virtual bully pulpit, we can’t control or even keep sight of the provenance of what we think we’re learning. Schlock reference sources such as Wikipedia abound and the researcher must go to some lengths to ensure that they’re reading from a legitimate primary source.

So how do we use this great tool? As a delivery medium? As a research platform? As an uber networking group?

Probably all of the above but the truth is that while the Internet will be used to expand the range of possibilities in how we share knowledge, it most likely won’t alter the way education works – people engaging with other people to expand their collective understanding.

Still thinking about where this one goes next so I’ll end here.

Thoughts?

A travel day

I was wandering around O’Hare airport the other day, working out the kinks from three days of mostly sitting and I spent a couple of hours noticing the people who inhabit this, one of the largest and busiest airports in the world.

I had the Rosemary Chicken at Wolfgang Puck’s. I strolled H and K and L concourses.  I watched a young couple who were obviously smitten with each other and wishing they were alone, remembering what it was like when Mary and I first travelled together (to Ohio for my baptism of fire with her family – I survived).

The massage station fascinated me. I can’t imagine allowing a stranger to knead and push and poke my body and it’s amazing to me that people will actually pay to have it done. Different strokes, I guess (pun intended). I moved on when I realized one of the masseurs was looking at me oddly. Probably thought I was a creeper, especially if he’d noticed me the first two times I’d trundled by.

I watched people queuing up for a flight and wondered if I look that stressed when I am waiting to board. One airport employee came up escorting two elderly passengers, pushing both wheelchairs, one in each hand, seemingly effortlessly. I really hope he makes good tips.

A plane landed from Orlando and I chuckled at the parade of kids sporting mouse ears and princess costumes. There’s almost nothing more precious or funnier than a little girl in a food-stained Cinderella ball gown and wearing a plastic tiara, with missing front teeth and well-worn galumphy tennis shoes with falling down socks.

I wondered if these kids had posed with a certain Tigger of my acquaintance or if they’d noticed a particular stilt walker.  Did they meet Mickey and Minnie and have breakfast with all the characters?

Of course, the Disney kids were accompanied by parents who looked uniformly bedraggled and just generally used up. No surprise, I suppose.

They weren’t all vacationers who came off that plane. There was the obligatory workaholic gal with the barely legal roll-on and the phone plastered to her ear. The lost souls who clearly had no idea where to go to catch their next flight which, judging by body language and panicked expressions, was due to depart momentarily.

I saw a whole congo line of emergency vehicles screaming down the flight line toward some catastrophe off stage right. I wondered briefly what the problem might be and hoped everyone was okay.

Soon enough, it was time to head for my gate and as I was about to walk through the ‘MVP Line,’ I was almost bowled over by a middle-aged couple who were clearly in a big hurry to board. The man threw a glare over his shoulder. Guess he told me!

I travel by air a lot and so I sometimes get upgraded to sit in the non-cramped seats. This was one of those times. I was in the last row of first class and the unpleasant couple-in-a-hurry were two rows behind, clearly indignant to see me in First. Whatever….

The guy next to me was a Microsoft exec with a fourteen year old daughter who does not yet know what she wants to do with her life. I assured him that was part of the plan. We talked about TED talks and Randy Pausch and living your passion. And daughters.

Lots of turbulence as the pilots did their best to skirt storms that made the national news. I love turbulence. One thing about riding in the front of the plane – it’s generally inhabited by folks who fly enough not to be bothered by the occasional bump or slump. And the flight attendant was a middle aged pro who did her job without a stumble.

And then we landed, and Mary was waiting in baggage claim.

It was a good travel day.

Unwelcome ampleness

Having just come in from six out of eight weeks on the road, I am more than happy to not eat any restaurant food for awhile. And not the least reason is that I just weighed my ample self.

I’ve been good about using the gym, enjoying it immensely. Unfortunately, I’ve also been consuming fatty road food and conference room treats at a rate that’s clearly not healthful for me.

I have to do better. I want to be around for awhile.

Faith (or lack thereof)

Interesting word, faith.

People sometimes treat it as a synonym for belief but of course, it’s not that.

I believe the sun will come up tomorrow but I don’t have to take it on faith. The empirical evidence of sixty years on Earth supports my belief that Orphan Annie was right. And a basic knowledge of physics demonstrates that if it doesn’t come up, I won’t know it, anyway.

I have faith in Mary, based on the definition “complete trust or confidence in someone or something.” This is a faith based on confluence of life goals, physical attraction and twenty-six years of working together to build a life. It’s a faith based on experience and the sure and certain knowledge of shared truths.

I believe in the Constitution and our system of government. But my faith in equitable outcomes based on them is frequently shaken. Now, for instance. I won’t go farther, since this is not meant as a political treatise. Another time, perhaps.

Most of the time when someone suggests that I should have faith, they simply mean that I would be well served to assume a hopeful stance. I can do that. Usually. At least, I try.

Just recently, I have on several occasions encountered expressions of faith of a sort I can’t personally embrace. The trouble with religious faith is that it generally requires a leap of faith, a belief in something for which by definition no direct evidence can exist.

And that’s where I leave off.

I was raised a Roman Catholic, including parochial school through eighth grade, years of serving as an altar boy and lector, singing for guitar masses as part of a group in San Jose and Santa Clara and as a soloist in Glendale. I wrote and performed biblically-based songs and performed for Catholic wedding ceremonies innumerable.

Speaking of biblical study, I’ve taken bible class and read the thing from beginning to end twice. I‘ve spent hundreds of hours trying to find truth in its pages.

The thing is, I can’t.

Just the fact that I don’t see it as revealed truth (the word of a god) would be enough to make me walk away. But the damning aspect is that I just don’t find it likely.

I wish this didn’t bother some of my friends, but it does. And I can’t help that. I have to live by my own lights, and the whole discussion of religion has become for me – as I’ve indicated in earlier posts – moot. I don’t find it an important topic of discussion simply because I am pretty well convinced of two ‘truths’ of mine own:

·  No currently available religious tract adequately explicates the breadth and depth of the question, "From whence did humans arise?”

·  If there is such an entity as a god, the plethora of conflicting descriptions among the various sects indicates that the god in question has not revealed itself to humankind.

One of the most annoying postulates I hear is the old saw about our existence serving as evidence prima face of divine intervention (This could not have come about by accident.).  Sorry, doesn’t wash. In fact, in my mind, this existence in which we find ourselves could only have come about by accident, assuming you consider evolution to amount to an accident.

Of course, I could be wrong. There may be a god whose judgment upon my death will send me to dwell in the where/when in which people like me are sent to dwell. I know, tautologies aren’t logically defensible. But we aren’t talking about logic here, are we? Rather, we’re talking about the Great Unknowable.

If a god is going to send me to live with other people who lived their lives as did I, it behooves me to live that life in a way that will yield satisfaction with my eternal neighbors. I’m going to continue working on that.

I don’t have much to offer in the way of what you might consider faith. But I do have beliefs. And I believe there are right and wrong ways to order one’s life.

It comes down to the Golden Rule.

Center of the universe

I went for a half-hour walk during lunch time today. It was nice and blustery but not raining and loads of folks were out and about. I walked maybe a half dozen blocks and it was quite a nice break from a fairly stressful day. I’d been working several deadline projects after being out on the road five of the last seven weeks and while I love the work I do, the prospect of being on the road again next week was making me wonder if I would ever get caught up on my desk work.

My universe was a bit off kilter and since I’m the center of my universe, this does not bode well for the rest of you who occupy various nooks and crannies in it. Thus, the walking break. It’s about caring, you know.

I found myself making note of some of the people I encountered:

·         The guy in the Purdue sweatshirt, pushing a baby in a stroller;

·         The imperious woman with her  hair in a severe bun and wearing a trench coat with neither crease nor wrinkle;

·         The young Asian guy who was wrapping up and putting away his ear buds while he walked;

·         An African mom and little daughter in animal patterned head wraps, looking at the walk-through fountain (they opted not to walk through);

·         The monorail driver who looked as bored as ever a man has looked;

·         A mother and daughter from out of town, carrying shopping bags and gazing around in wonder;

·         An older, thin gentleman (okay, he could be an ass, but I imagined him a gentleman) in tight pants, with a tightly wrapped umbrella in one hand and holding his shirt collar tightly, tightly  closed with the other as he walked primly down the precise center of the sidewalk;

·         Howling tourists on the DUKW (yes, a duck tour);

·         The girl on the cell phone around whom others were steering because she was clearly not going to alter her course to avoid collisions;

·         The CADMAN transit truck driver creeping slowly through the crowded intersection because you just can’t stop a loaded cement truck in a hurry;

·         The ancient guy with long, gray hair selling Real Change and shivering;

·         The busker just breaking out his guitar and getting comfy on his stool;

·         A beggar on the corner with a sign that read “I need a fat bitch.” While I watched, not a person put money in his cup. Justice lives.

·         A couple of hard hats walking the perimeter of the shopping center remodel area, making sure there were no safety hazards.

Each of these folks is a center of the universe. It’s all about point of view.

That walk calmed me right down.  Walks do that.

Things about which I decline to care

All things Kardashian

Professional football

Or baseball or basketball or hockey or…

Fancy cars

Dancing with or without stars

Bifidus Regularis

The latest sale, unless of course, it’s a really good one for something I want

Republican politics

Democratic politics

Celebrities in general

Cats or other rodents

Whether it will rain tomorrow

Almost anything currently shown on the TV news

Upcoming movies, except of course the next in the Hunger games series

 It’s possible I’m in a bit of a mood this evening, so I could possibly care about one or more of these things tomorrow. But probably, not.

A bunch of women in Valley City, North Dakota

I spent the week providing training and technical assistance for one of our affiliated agencies in Valley City, ND. Tuesday and Wednesday were taken up with workshops for the supervisors from several non-profits and I had a great time with some wonderful people. Thursday was the capper, though.

Thursday, I spent time shadowing supervisors in various work areas, mapping their processes, asking questions, putting in my two cents when it seemed appropriate. Most of what I had to offer they already had well in hand. I helped one supervisor re-imagine her work area to make for a more efficient layout. She’ll be able to train and supervise her crew of persons with learning disabilities with less strain to herself and therefore, have more of herself left over to help her workers expand their horizons.

This is what I do for a living. I notice things. I read and research a fair amount but mostly, I watch people do good work and then I put that learning into my memory banks so I can share it with other folks down the line. Hardly ever do I think up something original, mostly because I don’t really need to be all that creative in order to steal other people’s good ideas and hard won experience.

Mainly, I just have to notice and if you’ve picked up one thing from reading this blog, it’s probably that noticing is kind of an obsession with me. Noticing required no particular effort in Valley City. I would have to be an utter dolt not to have realized what I was seeing there.

Gene the maintenance guy spent three decades in law enforcement before coming to this agency as a sort of retirement job. He told me he loved being a cop but even so, wished he’d made the change twenty years earlier. And after spending Thursday with the women who run the Open Door Center, I understand why he feels this way.

I watched them operate a food preparation business, mixing, filling, bagging and boxing, labeling and packing for shipment. The work is mostly done by the disabled clients under the supervision of women who could be running a fill operation for any packager in any city large or small but choose to do it here, in this town, with these workers.

I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to spend a few hours with a woman who is both eager to hear what I might have to suggest but sure enough of her own competence and knowledge to quickly sort through my comments to get to the nuggets. What nuggets there were, that is – it was difficult to find good suggestions to offer when they were already doing so well.

Perhaps the most joyful and heart trending was my visit to the day activity center, where the most severely disabled citizens spend their days. I watched one guy crush cans for recycling. He works from his wheelchair, taking the cans one by one from the hands of a staff member and dropping them in the chute, where the machine does the rest. On a good day, he can crush fifty cans.

This doesn’t qualify as high tech, high volume production, I agree. But for this guy, it represents achievement. Engagement. Membership in the great ‘us.’

While I was there, other staff were helping severely disabled adults eat, entertain themselves, interact with each other. As I left, I glanced to my right into the room where a young woman was changing soiled sheets after having changed and cleaned one of her charges. She grinned and waved. She was dealing with the detritus of an adult client’s bodily functions, performing a function that would make most people gag. And she grinned and waved.

The Americans who are served by the Open Door Center are routinely marginalized by many of the ‘able-bodied’ in this country. These are the folks who are used as punch lines by the Ben Stillers of the world.  They are the ones that Peter Singer would encourage us to euthanize if born this way and Clint Eastwood would smother with a pillow if they came to their conditions through accident or illness. They are the folks whose protections under the Americans with Disabilities Act Rand Paul would erase with a quick vote and the stroke of a pen.

The women (and a few men) who run the Open Door Center see people as people and dedicate their lives to making a society in which we all work together to make a life for all of us, not just those upon whom the good fortune of healthy bodies and facile minds has been bestowed. These folks are why our society works.

I have a couple of weeks at home now and I’m glad for the time to recharge and catch up on my admin and other work. But pretty soon, I’ll be itching to hit the road again. There’s a lifetime of learning out there waiting for me in various nooks and crannies of this country. And having come late to it, I need to suck it in as quickly and fully as I can.

I wish my daughters could spend some time with the strong women in Valley City. We all have a great deal to learn from them. The Ann Coulters of the world may get press explaining why their use of words like ‘retard’ is perfectly fine. The women of Valley City don’t get national notice. But what they do is far more important for this country than any of the ‘accomplishments’ of the Coulters and Eastwoods and Singers of the world.

Noticing in North Dakota

Alice, ND is not a major destination city. In fact, I guess it’s not a major anything, except perhaps to the folks who live thereabouts. To them, it’s the world. If you Google the place, most of the information you’ll see involves census figures. Forty residents as of the 2010 census.

John Steinbeck mentioned Alice in Travels With Charley, and I guess that’s why my eye was caught when I passed the sign for Buffalo and Alice as I motored along I-94 / US 52 on my way to my appointment with Delta Airlines in Fargo. I’d really enjoyed that book many years ago and had always wondered about Alice.

And here it was.

This is a tiny crossroads town, unnoticed even by most of those who pass within three miles of the town center as they cruise by on the interstate. Other than Steinbeck, the biggest celebrity known to have come within a country mile of Alice – and they’re all ‘country’ miles out here – is Alice Cooper, who was given the key to Alice during the ‘Alice Cooper in Alice’ celebration in May, 2006.

Eleven miles north of Alice on the other side of the interstate, Buffalo provides local area residents with much more in the way of infrastructure. At 200 souls, Buffalo boasts a library, a licensed day care center among “several business to make life pleasant,” according to the town website. The motto “Shuffle off to Buffalo” banners a site that is clearly meant to encourage immigration.

Driving through this corner of one of our least populous states made me feel good. There is something to see in each and every mile between Valley City, where I spent the week teaching, and Hector International Airport in Fargo.  Even the trucks on the highway provide a show, hauling machinery and goods never seen on the roads around Seattle.

Folks, this is a drop dead gorgeous part of the country. Especially with so many of the crops at or near harvest. Miles of green and a true horizon view. In spite of the tininess of some of the farm towns, this part of the country is an incredible and fascinating economic engine, its agricultural output forming the bedrock upon which much of our national economy is based.

 I know it’s popular in some circles to poke fun at the rural parts of our country. Even when an Academy Award-winning movie was set in and around Fargo, rather than celebrating the lushness of the farmland and the honest hard work of the people who live hereabouts, we all sort of chuckled at the characterization of the area as, shall we say, quaint. Shame on us.

One of the truly glorious things about my job is that it takes me to places where I’m reminded of how this country really works. I wish all of you could have shared the experiences of my last week. I’ll probably share more with you in the next few days.

News

I consider myself a reasonably bright guy. If I’m not, about ninety people are going to be real disappointed with the workshops they’re attending this week.  Not brilliant, not earthshaking intelligence but bright enough. So how come I can’t decide what news to read and then understand whatever I choose?

It’s getting late and I need to get some sleep before my morning flight. So when I pop onto Reuters or CNN  or Le Monde to check out the haps, it’s disconcerting to be confronted with a sea of topics, for any one of which I would have to do an hour’s research just to be able to understand import of the post.

I like to keep up to date but the “information age” seems to be getting closer to the “confusion of channels” age. With a few keystrokes, I can locate and peruse much more really important information than I can possibly absorb on a given day.

So, why is it that the TV news rooms in this major market spend most of their time talking blood and guts or laughing at each other’s stupid jokes?

Apparently, I'm a stalker

A young woman of my acquaintance has recently entered into a relationship with a young man, not of my acquaintance. Or so I am to believe, based on the comments recently posted on Facebook, then confirmed in conversation with the young woman.

Naturally, I’d like to know more about the young man in question. So I clicked on a link and checked him out on Facebook.   The young woman would be happiest if I would accept her assessment of the young man and just stay away from his FB page. She even accused me of being a stalker.

Call me what you must but keep in mind my primary identity: I. AM. A. DAD!!!!

Note to daughters everywhere: When you find a universe where dads don’t care to know all they can about boys who might come sniffing around daughters, feel free to move there. Meanwhile, deal with this simple truth: WE. ARE. DADS!!!!

So as soon as she realizes whose page I’m perusing, she starts in on me. You know the rant. “Don’t be a stalker!” Et cetera.

First of all, it should not fall to a 60-year old semi-geezer to explain to a twenty-something college graduate how FB works. But just in case the young woman in question feels the need to be schooled in the basics of social media, here it is: Facebook is not private. It is more about advertising than communication. It is not a place to cache information over the distribution of which one means to exercise any measure of control.

Humph!

Moving on…

Referring back to the preceding paragraph, it seems clear to me (but of course, I’m only a geezer with little significant life experience, so what do I know?) that if there are aspects of his life and times that the young man would as soon keep out of the realm of inquiring Dad-minds, it might behoove same young man not to post them on social media. And to borrow a phrase from their generational lexicon – Ya think?!?!?!?

So the entirely unrepentant and thoroughly self-absorbed Dad of this story went merrily traipsing through the young man’s life history or at least, that portion of it that can be espied through his FB page. I shamelessly read posts, I looked at photos, I checked out friends and friends of friends.

Here’s the tragic, crushingly disappointing truth – I think maybe I’ll like this guy.

Crap.

Space frog

I was looking through the “Week’s Best Pictures” on the Reuters site and one of them just cracked me up. It’s a picture of the liftoff of NASA’s latest rocket, replete with the usual clouds of smoke and steam and the foreshortened perspective achieved by shooting obliquely from below. The gantry has been pulled back and a mechanical arm of some sort is falling away, almost off screen to the lower right.

All in all, this picture is just like any of the thousands of photos we’ve seen since Project Mercury first caught our imaginations.

Except for the frog.

You read that right. In the middle distance we see a frog silhouetted against the clouds of space machine effluvium. The frog ‘s limbs are splayed in skydiver-in-freefall style and it’s clear it leaped from somewhere. Perhaps it was sunning on the gantry and is now in mid escape from the roiling clouds of exhaust. Perhaps it just happened to jump from an off-camera platform at the perfect moment. Or perhaps it fell from space.

Doesn’t matter to me from whence it came. I just really love this picture. The frog leaping just as the rocket lifts off. We make cool machines. But we can’t make a frog.

Spending the future that remains

“Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.” Barack Obama

No, this is not going to be a tribute to the current President. I don’t know or care if he wrote this himself or if it came from an off-camera speech writer. Doesn’t matter. It speaks to me.

I’m sixty years old and (one hopes) currently working at what will be the last job of my career. My children are pretty well launched and have proven self-righting when the occasional rogue wave hits. I’ve finally finished the degree so my bucket list is shorter by one major item.

So I have x number of years remaining to do the things I should do. But what are those things? And what is the fundamental principle that should drive my choices and decisions and efforts going forward?
I have an incredible life partner, better friends than I probably deserve, a decent education and lots of varied experience. Time to get down to it.

How do I bring these things together in aid of – something – so that when I leave the world my last sense can be of a deep and abiding satisfaction?

In the next couple of weeks, I’ll have lots of time on airplanes or sitting in hotels. I plan to spend some of it contemplating this question: If I am indeed the change I seek, what should be the nature of that change?

And what am I waiting for?

The Worm King

In 1485, King Richard III forfeited his life in the process of losing the Battle of Bosworth Field, thus opening the way for a Tudor ascendancy and ending the War of the Roses. But of course, that would be old news.

The new news (Redundant? Just news, you say?) is that Ole King Ricky had worms. Roundworms, to be specific.

According to a story posted today by CNN online, researchers digging in the soil around the monarch’s pelvic bones found roundworm eggs just about there his intestines would have been, had they not rotted completely away about five centuries ago.

The dude was buried in the then Greyfriars’ Friary (Hey, if ‘new news’ is redundant, how come they get to call their church Greyfriars’ Friary? I guess they had fewer annoying grammar rules in the fifteenth century A.D. ) and after much research and hand ringing, scientists determined the burial site lay beneath a current parking lot. So they dug down and sure enough – Kingly soup bones.

Scientists compared DNA from the bones to that of a couple of Richard’s modern descendants in order to confirm the identity of the corpse.

Is anyone still reading? And if so, why? And why do we spend money and the time of what must be some really smart people in finding out this guy had worms? Aren’t there more important pursuits these scientists could, you know, pursue?

Hmph!

If you are still reading – and I certainly don’t blame you if you aren’t – you may want to know that the remains will be reinterred in Leicester Cathedral. Refreshments back at the parking lot immediately after.

Gordon Lightfoot

I was listening to some Gordon Lightfoot while sweating at the gym today and I got to thinking about the lyric. I can get lost in his words. Lightfoot is still performing occasionally at age 74 and I wish I could see him once again before, well, I can’t. But no matter - I’ll be listening to and singing his songs until, well, I can’t.

I’ve always loved his songs. In the days when I was singing for tips – with Bill and with Vala and with Mike G. and solo at various times – I always had Lightfoot songs in the mix. His lyrics are so human and it felt like he was speaking directly to my life.  For example, anyone who has found themselves still longing for a lost love will be moved by the opening stanza from I’m Not Supposed to Care:

I think you have somebody waiting outside in the rain to take you away
You got places to go, you got people to see, still I'm gonna miss you
But anyway
I wish you good spaces in the faraway places you go
If it rains or it snows may you be safe and warm and never grow old
And if you need somebody some time, you know I will always be there
I'll do it although I'm not supposed to care.

He wrote If You Could Read My Mind when his marriage was breaking up but even if you didn’t know that, the song sings just to you. Old Dan’s Record’s can’t fail to put one in mind of family good times. Canadian Railroad Trilogy brilliantly captured the timbre of the Canadian Centennial and a whole country embraced it as its own.

A Minor Ballad is one of the shortest and perhaps one of the most touching love songs ever written in English. I believe I’ve sung it a thousand times and it never gets old. Other faves include Crossroads, Your Love’s Return (Song For Stephen Foster), Did She Mention My Name, (In The) Early Morning Rain, Ribbon of Darkness, the list goes on and on.

I love singing Pussywillows, Cattails simple because it feels so good to sing it. Race Among the Ruins and  Rich Man’s Spiritual  are great up songs to balance out the heart renders like That Same Old Obsession.

I don’t go to concerts a lot – not a fan of long lines and big crowds and half the time you can’t hear the musician, anyway. But I’ve been to a half dozen of Lightfoot’s over the years. And once through an odd happenstance I sat next to him at someone else’s gig that we both attended. Wish I had a cool story for that one but I’m not into doing the drooling fan thing (okay, okay, there might have been drool involved but my heart was in my throat and I could hardly bring myself to look – what of it?) so we basically just exchanged pleasantries. Nice enough guy, it seemed.

I could have him to dinner I think except what would we say? He’s said things in his songs that are so perfect, they need no further discussion. The back story is in most cases revealed in the lyric. Such as in Song For A Winter’s Night:

The lamp is burnin' low upon my table top
The snow is softly fallin'
The air is still within the silence of my room
I hear your voice softly callin'

If I could only have you near
To breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you

I don’t care to explore Lightfoot’s personal life. I suppose he’s had his foibles. But at the end of the day, he’s spoken to me in a way that illuminated some of the best and worst times in my own life.  I hope each and all of you will take the opportunity to come to know at least some of his songs.

Where is Two?

Some of you have noticed that Two's Facebook page is currently down. Not to worry - this is temporary. It's a requirement for something she's doing for her school.

Auto didacticism (or not)

This word pops up every now and again but seldom enough that I always have to stop and remind myself that it means self-education.

But what does self-education mean? Is it Leonardo Da Vinci or Copernicus exploring beyond the known to find new paths in pursuit of truth? Is it Clara Barton redefining nursing practice by designing new protocols based simply on observation, imagination and a great deal of practicality?

Lincoln was said to be largely self-taught, at least in his youth.

I frequently wonder the extent to which I am an autodidact. I’ve received a lot of education through the good offices of some amazing (and a few less-than-amazing) folks who dedicated their professional lives to bringing to me and others new information, ways of knowing, ways of thinking. But in a very real sense, I defined my own winding, tortuous path to becoming ‘educated.’

Does this make me an autodidact? And does it matter if I am?

A few years ago, I might have said it didn’t matter much. But now, I’m not so sure.

The sheer weight and volume of information that comes our way, through myriad channels and from sources innumerable, makes the construction of a curricular approach to learning somewhat inadequate, don’t you think? How do we understand a pedagogical approach that is so seemingly random in terms of input.

Kahn and Brainerd and others are daily encouraging us to revisit our concepts of how we seek out knowledge and make it our own. But while Kahn et al can put topics uncountable at our fingertips, what we grasp is more than ever up to each of us to decide for ourselves.

I just led a two day learning experience in which I’m pretty sure I learned more than any of the other participants. Oh sure, the ‘students’ learned how to use the software and the managers learned how to make use of the information that will aggregate as they use this system moving forward. But I learned about learning and about not assuming that just because I’m the putative teacher, I’m not also one of the students.  

It seems to me that self-teaching is going to emerge as a critical undertaking for any thinking person. When a few strokes of a keyboard can bring almost any topic within reach, how do we decide when to reach out and grab and when to take a pass?

I’ve worked on a couple of international teams tasked with constructing bodies of knowledge around particular subject matter areas and I can tell you that while such a team must come to consensus, it will almost never reach unanimity. And I think that’s a good and necessary condition. Unanimity on most topics feels too squeamishly close to group think, which is of course the opposite of anything resembling what I would term learning.

On our kitchen counter is the diploma for a degree I recently completed. I’m a bona fide Magna Cum Laude, doncha know. But does that mean I’ve learning anything? I completed concentrations in three different disciplines, wrote and defended a ninety-three page capstone thesis. I did a lot of thinking and reflecting and considering.

But have I learned anything? Anything of real value?

I hope so. But still, I wonder.

When noticing takes a bad turn

Those of you who have been following this string for awhile know that one of my favorite activities is noticing. I notice when I’m on trips, when I’m walking around, when I’m talking to people or watching strangers talk.

I don’t know where I’d be if not for my penchant for noticing. Certainly, it would have been difficult to have written many of the posts you’ve seen here. I believe that most of what people call artistic imagination is closely tied to simply noticing.

I love noticing. So it may come as at least a mild surprise that I’m bothered by noticing today and for the foreseeable future. Of course, it’s not my noticing that worries me.

Mary is at home recovering from rotator cuff surgery and her activities – at least those of an active physical nature – are constrained for the next six weeks or so. But you see, me beloved is not given to sitting around twiddling her thumbs. The more sedentary she’s forced to be, the more her mind works.

And therein lies the rub, from my point of view.

You see, Mary is no slouch at noticing. And I expect she’ll do a lot of it in the next few weeks. But she won’t be noticing glacial peaks or interesting people or much of anything outside our property. No-o-o-o… Mary will be noticing things around the homestead.

You see where this is going, right?

She’ll notice things that need to be fixed. Walls that need to be painted, lamps that blink, loose doorknobs. Mary will pick up on the need for new wallpaper and floor covering, the as-yet-unrefinished hardwood on the main level, a patio in need of pressure washing and lawns in need of pre-rainy season treatment.

The dog house needs painting and some finish carpentry and there are several pickup loads worth of detritus awaiting runs to the dump. One tree needs pruning and another removal. I should really put an extra coat of paint on the front railing, and the gutters probably need some scooping. And all of these things fall within easy visual range of my spouse.

There is nothing – NO THING – more potentially damaging to my future status as a relaxed husband than a Mary with time to notice and ponder.

It’s going to be a very long six weeks.

More about heroes

I’ve been reading Anton Myrer’s Once An Eagle . I loved The Last Convertible and I thought I’d read this one years ago but apparently not. Anyway, it follows U.S. military and social history of the twentieth century through the eyes of an Army officer.

Myrer was a fine writer and a great storyteller.  More than that, he clearly gave a lot of thought to the whole idea of human conflict. Since we’re currently engaged in a major conflict of what I consider questionable legitimacy, reading this book has given rise to a welter of thoughts and feelings.

One of the central themes of this book is the nature of heroism. It’s a subject we could spend hours discussing and never come close to consensus as to what it means. Heroism, that is.

 The word is overworked of late. Professional athletes are heroes. People who do good works are heroes. Folks whose approach to life we admire are heroes. It seems that heroes may be found in all walks of life, seemingly everywhere we look. And that bothers me.

A hero, for me, is a person who has done something heroic. Beyond the pale goodness displayed at some significant risk to self.

Salman Khan is a brilliant guy and a top notch visionary. It’s likely the Khan Academy will lead the charge in re-forming our collective educational enterprise and just might finally – FINALLY – make stellar educational opportunities accessible to everyone. I’m working with a group applying his principles to adult learning and his simple but brilliant reconsideration of pedagogical approaches is changing my world for the better. But is he a hero? Hmm, maybe not.  I’d give anything to have dinner with Khan and I’m fascinated by and beholden to his vision but that doesn’t make him a hero.

Malala Yousafzai was shot by the Taliban for daring to go to school and then encouraging other girls to do the same. Recovered from her head wound, she is back in school and even more vocal than ever about the importance of access to education for girls. Now, Malala - she’s definitely a hero.

We refer to our uniformed military as heroes whether or not the individual in question has ever done anything heroic. The folks who wear their country’s uniform deserve our appreciation and respect. And some of them are indeed heroic. But still…

When we use too wide a brush in painting our heroes, we cheapen the term. And I think it’s a term that deserves to be preserved in its original meaning and import.

Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu was fascinated from an early age with the lives of missionaries. She gave her life to the “poorest of the poor,” exposing herself and her sister nuns to poverty, malnutrition and truly horrible diseases. The world came to know her as Mother Teresa of Calcutta. For me, she defines the term ‘hero.’

Wayne Morse and Ernest Gruening opposed passage of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution and they were widely censured for being the sole standouts against sending our troops into a conflict in which we had no legitimate interest except in the minds of Domino Theory adherents.  58,000 American deaths later, they were proven right. They were heroes.

 Gerald Ford was one of my heroes. He had to know that in pardoning Nixon he was signing his own political death warrant. And that pardon was necessary if the country was to start to move on from the toxic political climate that Nixon and his evil crones created. Ford didn’t do it for Nixon, he did it for all of us. And it cost him dearly.

Elie Wiesel – at a time when so many acted as bystanders to the holocaust – devoted his life to explicating the nature and ever ready presence of evil among us. While others assigned the blame entirely to the evils and excesses of the Nazis, Wiesel correctly and courageously pointed the finger at those who knew or should have known of the mounting horror and did nothing.  He’s one of my heroes.

There are folks out there, or at least I hope there are, who will help us find a way to resolve conflict without killing people and blowing things up. It’s the only way the human race will survive.

Cruising at altitude

Yesterday, Mary and I spent about twelve hours driving 360 miles through the Colorado Rockies with Pat and Patty, all above 5,000 feet and maybe two thirds above 8,000, topping out at 14,000 and change. The day before, we took the cog railway to the top of Pike’s Peak (14,000-plus) and then today, we flew home (commercial airliners are pressurized to the equivalent of about 8,000 feet).

This evening, I feel like I’m in a permanent yawn.  And I’m as tired as I can recall having been. Turns out, altitude does not become me.

That’s okay. Mary and I had a fantastic time visiting with Pat and Patty and their friends.

Don’t get me wrong - I couldn’t live in a mile-high location. I’m too fond of oxygen. But I definitely understand why people would go through acclimating themselves to the rarified atmosphere in order to be able to live where they do.

We saw bighorn sheep and elk and deer and marmots up close. Rock formations that could only be formed by the patient hand of erosion. We witnessed virga and pouring rain, dark gray clouds and blue skies within an hour of each other. Babbling brooks and roaring rapids and dry gulches abounded.

We travelled through high tundra and conifer forests. Granite canyons and high plains. And saw firsthand the ravages of fires and bark beetles and time.

We saw where Katharine Lee Bates was inspired to write the lyric to America The Beautiful and understood why.  

Mary and I are unlikely ever to have the scratch to afford whirlwind tours of Europe or cruises to the Pacific islands. Doesn’t matter. There are some truly wondrous things to see right here at home.

Exploring the Rockies

Turns out it’s a sight easier to explore the Rocky Mountains now than it must have been in the 1850s.  

We’re in our last day with Pat and Patty in Colorado before flying back home for Mary’s rotator cuff surgery. Yesterday we took the cog railway to the top of Pike’s Peak and it was truly a lovely day. Today we’ll do a Rockies loop and visit with Mary’s old work buddy in Leadville.

We’ve also done a nice drive up the Poudre River drainage which has been one of my favorite scenic drives since I first did it with Pat years ago.

We have cameras and binoculars and bottles of water. A Garmin gps has replaced hand-drawn maps. Nary a pack mule nor a Sharps rifle to be seen.  Donuts and muffins have replaced jerky and beans in our travel  larder.

Both in the car and on the railway, internal combustion engines have replaced leg power and the sweat on my brow is due solely to the heat of the day. Speaking of the heat of the day, we’re only exposed to it when we step out of the rental car to get a closer look.

We have it a lot easier than those earlier touristas.

Little girls and wishes

When One was in about second or third grade, her grandmother – my Mom - sent her and her sister  Disney princess costumes for Halloween. They were orders of magnitude grander and more expensive than anything we could have afforded at that point and One decided she wanted to wear hers for her class costume party.

Being a good Dad and a total pushover, I agreed to deliver the Belle costume to One at Stevenson Elementary at the appropriate time.  Having signed in at the front office, I was walking toward the classroom costume in hand when two little girls of approximately pretend-Belle age came around the corner and stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the costume of their dreams.

Seeing the longing on their little faces, I quickly ran through my options:

·         Instantly produce two more Belle costumes;

·         Work out a sharing arrangement that allowed each of them to Trick or Treat in their own neighborhoods, with me running back and forth with the costume;

·         Skulk off toward my daughter’s classroom;

·         Die.

I may have told you the story to this point before. What I haven’t told you is that at odd moments, such as when Two is about to leave for another several months at school on the other side of the continent, I find myself wondering about those two little girls. My little girl got to be Belle that day and now she works at the magical place they all dreamed of back when.

How did things turn out for those would be Belles from Stevenson? I hope well. I hope they still pretend and that one day they’ll be able to provide the perfect costume for their own little girls.

Every little girl deserves to be Belle just once in her life.

A week in the country

I was in Southeast Idaho this week, leading workshops with a good friend of mine for some of the best people in the world. It was a great week both professionally and personally.

I always enjoy the area around Blackfoot and Idaho Falls. Probably not my cup of tea as a place to retire, but a lovely place to visit.

We finished the last day’s workshop about 3:00pm and decided to go check out Yellowstone Bear World before dinner. You drive through – with your windows UP – and gawk at bears and deer and woodchucks and birds and wolves and a moose… You get the idea. Admittedly cliché touristy but it was fun so don’t judge me.

The best part was the petting zoo. The two month fawn fawned over me.

Then, this morning as my plane waited its turn at the runway, I happened to glance out the windows to either side. On the left, no more than a hundred, sixty or so yards away a herd of cows was grazing, udderly (couldn’t hep masef) unconcerned at the jet engines spooling up so close to them. Maybe four hundred yards to the right a classic Midwest Protestant church steeple, improbably pointy and impossibly white, poked up through the trees.

So, just before being propelled to four hundred miles per hour, I got this little dose of country.

Cool trip.

Age and foibles

Last night, I did something truly dumb and it was only by an incredible stroke of dumb luck and fortuitous timing that it didn’t turn into an honest-to-goodness disaster. (And before you ask, no, I’m not about to tell you what dumb thing I did – it’s too embarrassing.)

The thing is, my faux pas had to do with mental failures. Failure to notice and failure to recall and failure to predict. Failure of situational awareness.

And that scares me.

Maybe it should and maybe it shouldn’t but the simple fact is that at age thirty this would have been a woops, sorry about that. At sixty, it’s more of a “is this how it begins?” And therein lays the genesis of my discomfort.

I’ve never been an athlete or developed any particular physical skills but I’ve always been able to rely on my brain. My work is centered there, as are most of my leisure activities. Noticing and recalling and situational awareness have always been my strong suits, my go-to abilities. So when I fail to notice and correct a simple but potentially catastrophic situation, it sets me reeling.

I’ll provide a more entertaining post soon, I promise. But for the moment, I’m sort of tied up with spinal shivers.