Sunday, December 26, 2010

Top Ten?

I have never been a big fan of year end top ten lists. That is what I tell myself over and over again for fear that if I admitted this hidden interest I might be compelled to buy certain reading material in the check out line. I have found that my current practice of choosing the longest line and cross referencing via sideway glances the head lines from the myriad of publications leads me to a close approximation of the truth. For instance; determine the false headline from the following.
  • Tom Cruise is an arrogant sob that doesn’t deserve Katie Holmes
  • Katie Holmes wonders why she got involved with an arrogant jerk like Tom Cruise.
  • Tom Cruise is so arrogant that he doesn’t think that his poop stinks.
  • Tom Cruise is 6 feet 4 inches tall.

Everybody knows that number 4 is the falsehood. He is barely a munchkin on steroids and he over compensates for his diminutive stature by being an arrogant jerk to Katie Holmes.

 I admit it. I read all of the headlines and this time of year the headlines are all top ten lists. The worlds sexiest men, Top ten sports stories, Ten scariest Santas, Ten best gifts to get Roger Sharritt.

Well in an effort to keep up with the Jones’ Here are the top things to know about the “You said what Roger?

Top 4 blogs.
4.  Twas the night after finals.
3.  The snack that smiles back. (a surprise to me)
2.  Turkey in the straw.
1.   Girls gone wild. (which renews Grace’s faith in humanity that she didn’t get beat out by a turkey story).

The blog now has 7 followers which is pretty cool.

The blog now has readers in 8 countries. In ascending order, China, France, Germany, Denmark, Canada, Poland, Turkey, and the US.

The readers are equally split between Windows users and Mac users. It is always interesting that as I put out the notice on facebook, the PC audience grows and as Grace puts out a notice the Mac crowd grows significantly. Ah to be young and hip and to own a Mac.

In all, I am very grateful for all the support that you have shown this endeavor over the past three months. But then again does three months an endeavor make?  I think not. Lark maybe. Yes a lark. In all, I am very grateful for all the support that you have shown this lark over the past three months.

Here’s to a good new year.

Take care

Roger.

p.s.  You will notice a new feature at the bottom of the blog page. It is called One true fan. It is supposed to give more feedback on readership. It tries to encourage blog sharing and readership. I am not sure if I will like it, but a new year is a time to try new things.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Sharritt Christmas Letter

 Our Christmas letter which is a family affair follows.

Merry Christmas, 2010, dearest Friends

We hope this letter finds you doing well. With small variations, that is how Roger  starts his weekly letters to Ben and Grace as they have both left the house and permitted us to start on our new and excellent adventures.

It truly was a year split into thirds as we look back at events. Although, Roger contends that it could be  halves; pre and post IPAD (his June birthday gift).

The first third was all about Grace’s college visits, scholarship applications, graduation party, sacrifices to the Boilermaker admissions gods, and suddenly it was over. Decisions were made, whew! Scholarships won, woohoo! Cheese-cake eaten, mmmmm! Ball State chosen, curses! Then it was over.

The second was all about hair-raising summer experiences; a mission trip to build a house in Tijuana, Mexico, being dumped by a rapid called Surprise in West Virginia, a tree top tour in West Virginia, two and a half days in Gettysburg, and ending with a 25th anniversary square dance.

In mid-June, Bev, Grace and Roger got on a plane to San Diego then across the border to Tijuana to help build a 20 x 30 two room home for a family of four. If the new math still works, that is 600 square feet. We had the privilege of assisting Youth With a Mission in their Homes of Hope project. Feliz Navidad!

After a week at home and hooking up with Ben after the completion of his assistance with the constitutional mandate of counting the huddled masses, the Sharritt’s  took off on a traditional family vacation for a week of fun in West Virginia, Gettysburg, and with friends in Ohio.
We had the most wonder tour guide for our whitewater trip. George took the 20 minute ride to our white water rafting drop off point to give us a few safety pointers. Number 1, wear your helmet and your life jacket. Number 2, if you fall out of your boat lean back and point your toes in the air. If you don’t your feet will get caught under a rock and you will have to exercise your evolutionary skills and breath through your gills. Number 3, if one of the safety crew is worried about you they will tap their head and if you are okay you should tap your head in response. If you don’t, they will come and rescue you and hold your hand while the ambulance takes 45 minutes to get you evacuated. Imagine Roger’s surprise when he was blatantly breaking the rules by trying to find the bottom of a rapid called surprise with his foot and looking up at George tapping his helmet—and vaguely thinking, “Why is George tapping his helmet?” as the rapids swirled around him.

The next day, Bev and Grace went on a tree top tour, across cable bridges, stopping on platforms looking around the Appalachians and flying down a zip-line. Ben’s skate park sonar kicked in and he went skating. After the near miss in Surprise and a prior near miss in a van in the hills of Mexico with a high center of gravity, (and several stupid gringos that flunked high school physics), Roger decided not to tempt the fates a third time. Also the concept of dying in the air seemed very possible after land and sea nearly did him in.

Off to Gettysburg: we highly recommend going with young children. They are much less likely to give you sass when you insist they stand at the bottom of Little Round Top while you throw rocks at them just to give them perspective. Roger felt quite blessed that he has a family who would tramp around several square miles with him while he teared up with emotion over things unseen and not fully understood. The vacation finished at friends where they took care of some very road weary travelers. Thank you Moe family!

This middle part of the year finished with Bev and Roger celebrating 25 years by doing what we did that day in 1985: square dance with each other and our favorite folks. Eugene Peterson compares the work of the trinity with dancers in a square dance, weaving in and out of each other in intricate, but coordinated movements.  What a joy it was to whirl and twirl with so many of you that have been part of the dance of our lives through the years. Bev tried to run with the momentum of Roger’s enthusiasm after this dance, and invited Roger to a Contra Dancing group that meets in Indy. We have gone once, but some of the moves require making eye contact with strangers; something Roger avoids like ……um …… Bev avoids guys who have B.O and wear skirts . . . oh, yeah, they were there too. Here’s to many more years of dancing!

September: Part 3, 2010. Sharritt’s spreading out in all directions, except, alas, west, to Purdue. Bev and Roger, after finding that aiming their laser-like parental attention on each other leads only to situations involving unwanted eye contact, are discovering a new rhythm to life. We both have set fitness goals, exercising more, and eating food that Roger brings in from his garden. Roger has re-started writing his blog, with great discipline and enjoys readership from here to Turkey! Fall brought Roger’s entry into the world of social networking, allowing him to spread the word about the blog, and to talk smack with his nieces and nephews about holiday dodge ball shenanigans.

Ben’s news: This year I continued studying elementary education at IU, and I am now more than halfway done, hopefully. I went door to door for the census this year, to make sure all of the people were counted, not only did this provide some good exercise in the months of May and June, it also paid for my rent for the whole summer. I also worked at Woodward Skate Camp this summer, if you have an extra 1000 dollars laying around and have a child that is excited about skateboarding, send them to Woodward, just be wary that your child might O. D. on Red Bull. The camp was not what I expected, but I got to meet a lot of awesome people.

Grace’s news: This spring, after running myself ragged with senior year business, I received a blessing from Ball State University in the form of free schooling. Ball State was a place I never seriously considered, but I love it there. I’ve made a lot of new friends and experienced new things like musical puppet shows, skydiving, swing dancing, goodwill pranking, and one a.m. fire alarms. I’m getting ready for spring semester and a trip to Rome and London for the summer followed by (hopefully) a year of study abroad in Ghana. I have never been so excited about my life.

When Ben left for college two years ago, we wrote him that it was like he was going through a door where he could keep his life private from us except those parts that he wanted to  show us. With Grace’s departure, it became truer for us. They are learning to time the telling of their adventures with their folks (Grace, you tell us AFTER you go skydiving, not before!)  We love the people they are becoming.

Adventure, heartache, uncertainty, success, there is so much more to share but so little time. We hope that your life adventures both confront and restore you!

 The Sharritts

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Twas the night after finals?

Twas eight days before Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse,
The cupboards were stuffed. The fridge, it was full
In hopes into the drive the children would pull
The children had nestled at IU and Ball State
With visions of going out on a date,
And I in my sweats and Bev in her PJ’s
Had just gone to bed at 9:00 on a Friday
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
Ben on his skateboard the silence did shatter
Into the kitchen he strode then did stumble
Tore open some chips as his tummy did rumble.
The moon shone bright on six new inches of snow
Making me think that to Tampa, I should go.
I would  have moved too until I realized
That In-state tuition is really the prize.
Two nearly grown progeny so lively and slick
We knew in a moment that we must act real quick.
More rapid than reindeer the doggies they came
I whistled and shouted and called them by name
Now Lucy, Now Henry, Now Hugo stop barking
We know a strange car in the drive is out parking
Up to the porch, on through the door
Please kids, don’t leave your wash on the floor.
(I am omitting a couple of lines as the bard
Cause I’ve found that this task is really quite hard)
So on up the stairs the children they flew
Their arms full of stuff but no presents for you
Then in a second I heard from upstairs.
The Bare Naked Ladies were starting to blare
As I turned to Bev and started to pout
“Turn down the sound” she yelled with a shout.
Dressed all in sweats was our daughter Grace
Off to the laundry she started to race.
That bundle of cloths tied up in a pack
She looked like a Sherpa who had just lost her yak.
The couch----how it beckoned! The afghan: how cozy.
I was all covered up. My cheeks turning rosy.
“Come on down here kids, grab me a coke
No I really mean it. It wasn’t a joke.”
“Tell us your story. How were your grades?
Tell us about all the friends you have made”
Mom’s making breakfast what would you like?
Biscuits and gravy. But what’s for tonight?
Go look in the cupboard, there are some baguettes.
But keeping you full, there may be regrets
So much to share and so little time
We’ll stay up way late, way on past nine.
They’ll miss their friends, we’ll miss the quiet
For them it’s all facebook, but to us sounds of riot.
One week's okay, two weeks a stretch
Parents cramp our style when they ask us to fetch.
We’ll poke and we’ll tease, then have serious talk,
Ineffable love keeps us close in our walk.
In two weeks they’ll exclaim as they drive out of sight.
Great Christmas Break to all, you all are alright.

Take Care

Roger

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Whew!?

Whew! I am so glad to be back.

Christmas preparations are so time consuming. Last weekend we were overwhelmed by them.  Getting the tree, going Christmas shopping, and Grace had some friends visit from college for the weekend. Also, the snow last weekend really turned up the pressure on my preparations for a long winter’s nap. We burn wood to heat our house and water. The system trades efficiency for safety. The firebox is outside. It heats water and pumps it through insulated tubing into the house where we use it to keep warm and toasty. The quantity of wood needed for this operation is large and takes the determination of Henny Penny as she worked that wheat crop during the summer and fall in preparation for that loaf (get it? worked hard and loaf) of bread.

In an average year, the weather turns really cold around December 15. I have a goal to start cutting wood around Labor Day and put the last log on the stack on December 15. Then I put on my cap and settle down in the man cave and come out March 15 get my summer wood pile cut for hot water.  But it appears this year that the cold came a couple of weeks early and I may have to look for a window of opportunity during a mild break in deep winter.

All of that stuff took up the time allotted for writing. That was last weekend. This weekend it is raining in Indiana (for my international readers). So I am yours for the next however long.  The weather channel has posted its severe winter weather warning for the flurries we might be receiving tomorrow. I do believe that the advent of the weather channel has been a bad thing overall. Sure who doesn’t like seeing Jim Santore being blown sideways with a back drop of pounding surf during hurricane season.  And I never get tired of seeing a tornado racing across the Kansas prairie.

But every time I turn around they are warning me to get eggs, milk and bread at the supermarket because the next big snow is just around the corner, and everyone needs their French toast. Usually it is for nothing. It seems to me that we are much better prepared for the weather than we were 30 years ago. Our vehicles are much safer and reliable. We have cell phones, under armor and thin-sulate. So why do the folks at the Weather Channel try to keep us worked up with these warnings. Back in the bad old days, if we were stranded on a rural country road, the drifts would be high enough that we would walk over to the nearest telephone pole, bend over and use our trusty lineman’s handset to call out the emergency crews. And thin-sulate sminsulate, we used to stay warm by putting 30 lbs of cloths on and utilizing the shear exertion of moving that much wool and cotton around to generate body heat to keep warm. And trust me, I never kept my chestnuts protected by under armor. That’s why we roasted them on an open fire.  Toasty.

And what happened when we had no forewarning with the blizzard of 78? Thousands of people were stranded in our homes for a week with nothing to eat, a few decks of cards, and a 1000 piece puzzle that had one edge piece missing. Argh!  What did we do? I’ll tell you what we did. We cheated at solitaire, we turned the house upside down looking for that one piece, we ate our young, and made new ones. How many of you are 32 years old and have a vague sense that you had older siblings that no one ever talks about.  Weird.   

Whew! It is good to get back. I just needed to get that off my chest.

Take Care,

Roger

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Dessert?

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I hope that it was enjoyable. I and the family units had a great time in the greater Story City, Iowa area, the Mayberry of the Mid-west.  This blog was started  the day after Thanksgiving.

The day after Thanksgiving, Black Friday, the day that was tacked on to Thanksgiving because the powers that be knew that they couldn’t get us back to work after stuffing our faces with stuffing. What was honest Abe thinking; giving into Sarah Hale’s 30 years of persistence and making the 4th Thursday of November Thanksgiving? 

“Look at you Abraham. You’re all skin and bones. Sure the last 7 presidents have said no. “No national holidays on Thurdays in November. It’s cold, rainy, the days are short, my cable provider doesn’t have the NFL channel.”  But if anyone needed a national day of gluttony it is you Abe. Look at you. You’re all skin and bones.”

“You know Sarah. I would love a big ole slab of pecan pie, but…”

“No buts Abe. The women of America would love to get up early in the morning to start the turkey, with stuffing, and roles, and mashed potatoes, and mac and cheese. I know how you love mac and cheese Abe.”

“I really do.”

“And Abe after that complex carbohydrate love fest, we’ll push ourselves into a coma with 2 slices of pecan pie.”

As the many of the families that made up the 2010 Hoover Thanksgiving, were gathered around the Comfort Inn’s breakfast table on Black Friday morning making plans for the day, I shared that my plan was to hang out at the hotel and try to write the blog. Someone commented that I had plenty of material to draw upon from this weekend to make this a great blog.

I demurred and pointed out how that would be a disaster. A large percentage of the participants in the Thanksgiving festivities to be written about are my loyal readers. Never make your core demographic mad by telling the “truth” about them is one of the first dictums that any successful blogger knows. I hear that to write a successful blog, you have to write the “truth” about all of the other people in the world, make them mad, and let your core demographic feel the warm glow of superiority and affirmation. Besides, I would have too many witnesses to the exaggerations that I might make in these paragraphs, and the family would know that these pages are filled with lies and damned lies.

And you know, I never finished that blog. I tried and tried. Worked, edited, erased and it would not be written. And I think that was because the weekend had not had it’s dessert yet.

It had been a great three days. The travel out, while rainy and a bit icy in a spot or two, was not dangerous and went without a hitch. Wednesday evening was fun, watching the dance, dance revolution participants, catching up on college exploits, eating the exquisite rolo-chocolate, crack cookies, and talking smack about the epic dodge-ball game that was to be held on Friday evening. It is a game whose build up has been so great that the family generated pages of facebook, smack down, comments in anticipation.  The uncles figuring out the new arithmetic when they found out that nephew Ben likes Miller Lite too and turned 21 in July. The food, the pie, the spirited Demons game Thursday was a blast too.

Black Friday was spent doing a little shopping, watching some TV, eating leftovers, and napping, getting ready for the epic dodge ball tournament. It was huge. The anticipation had mounted for a year. A dodge ball game was promised a year ago but due to cutbacks in the Story City recreational equipment budget, no dodge balls were found in the big chest of balls in the corner of the gymnasium.  Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed when one crazy uncle suggested that the basketballs could be used instead.  Finally, the competitive juices were somewhat sated with a vigorous volleyball game. But let’s be honest, vigorous volleyball while somewhat alliterative, pales in comparison in vigor and shear excitement to dodge ball. A game so dangerous, that one according to one Stilger nephew, an Illinois Jr. High Gym teacher claims that it is illegal to play dodge ball in Iowa. Well let me tell you that the Hoovers, Stilgers, Rathmachers, Sharritts, and Pyles say nuts to the nanny state. We love our dodge ball. And YES YOU ARE STILL OUT IF IT HITS YOU IN THE HEAD!

This kind of unrequited passion does not go away with the passage of time. So when the Facebook invitation went out in October for the second annual “volleyball” tourney, it was game on. No budget cuts this year. Play ground balls were bought and transported across state lines, some one found a professional grade dodge ball distributer (who knew), and a referendum was passed in Story City to be used for the purchase of balls. 

5:45 came. Face paint was applied. Leftover plates were put away and a gang of ruffians so noisy that every dog in a 4 block area was barking as the infernal hoard of hellians, tramped through the sleepy alleys of the Mayberry of the Midwest.

Crashing through the doors at 5:55, teams were picked. The balls placed on the center line. The rules explained one last time. YES YOU ARE STILL OUT IF IT HITS YOU IN THE HEAD. I SUGGEST YOU GET TALLER IF THAT’S A PROBLEM. An impartial bystander was chosen to yell 1, 2, 3, go.  And the games began. Teams against teams, Aunts and uncles against cousins, Boys against the girls. Always just one more game.

“Sarah, can we have whipped cream on that pecan pie?”

“You got it Abe. All the whipped cream you can eat.”

“I Love Thanksgiving. You can have it any old Thursday you want.”

Take care.

Roger



Saturday, November 20, 2010

Turkey in the Straw?

I am often asked if I miss farming. I don't. That doesn't mean that I love my new career, or have found some new task to fill a hole that stopping farming left. I haven't. I do not miss farming because none of it was romantic for me. At least the romance was worn off very quickly by the harsh realities of scrambling to out wit the weather, the bugs, and the market.

That paragraph isn't completely true. I miss farming one day a year. I miss farming the Monday before Thanksgiving each year, which was the day we would butcher the range turkeys that we had raised since June. The following is a narrative about that day. I hope it captures the romance of that Monday before Thanksgiving because it is the one day each year that I felt awe while farming.

Frost under the moon making the 100 yards to the barn a silvered landscape. Hunting for the light switch flicking it. That light blazing against the deep 5:00 a.m. dark in the old milk parlor where his grandfather and father had held the daily ritual of harvesting what God had provided. That twice daily ritual, which he himself had participated in through high school, had taught the lesson of a long obedience in the same direction with unerring certitude to all three men. The harsh barn lights illuminating the fog of his breath as he set up the barn before the crew arrived at 8:00. The scalder had to be filled. Standing close to the scalder to stay warm while doing the final honing of knives, he would listen to the hiss from the burner underneath the scalding pot and be enveloped by its steam as its temprature crept closer to the feather loosening 145 degrees. After the knives could shave the hair on his arm, he would move on to sanitizing the knives and every square inch of equipment and counter top that he could find.

Every element of the ritual of preparation;  the hour, the cold, the breath, the hiss, the steam, the peripheral warmth, the smell of the bleach, would hone his thoughts to the task at hand. He would contemplate those sleeping birds, roosted in the barn after being herded in from the range last evening with the kids in the slanted dusk of late November.

He had learned through the years that a good turkey butcher started in early June when those 3 day old poults would come in a box to the back dock of the post office. Chicks so fragile, it takes constant attention and perfect care to only loose 25% over the 1st week. Perfect care rarely happened on this farm. There was the one summer where the intern, trying to help, shut the 4 week old turkeys up in the brooder allowing no ventilation. Remembering he could see, Jim coming to the house, ashen faced, saying "come quick something is wrong with the Turkeys." Going out on a run, opening the brooder lid and seeing what good intentions and lack of attention had caused. Jumping inside the brooder picking up the young turkeys, caring for the ones that could make it, piling up the ones that would not. Watching Jim weep from his mistake saying he was going to quit. "You can't quit now. You have to work hard enough the rest of the year to earn back what we lost this morning." was the only reply he could muster through his anger.

How could he forget the Saturday morning loading out for farmer's market, Doug coming to the barn, out of breath panting that a dog was in the turkey coop. Hopping on the 4 wheeler, racing the quarter mile to the pasture field where the mobile coops were located, finding a big old German Shepard had pried up the protective poultry wire and was just pouncing from one turkey to another. Grabbing them in its slobbery jaws and with one powerful shake; kill it, drop it, and chomp the next one. Picking up a stick swinging at the dog getting it on the run and chasing it through the town to its owner’s house. Pounding on the door bringing a bleary eyed, leopard print, boxer short clad, man to the door. Having to explain that those feathers around his dog's mouth came from his turkeys and leopard print would have to pay for them. He would be back with the tally in the afternoon; 27 dead - 5 maimed to not recover - 8 week old turkeys, half way to Thanksgiving. Him knowing from reputation that none of the $640 due in compensation would be collected.

No there were many years that the work to be done on the Monday before Thanksgiving would count less than 75 from the 100 poults that arrived in that box. Each year's setbacks were with him as he made his way to the barn; making the day that would stretch out before the crew feel like a miracle.

At 7:30, the crew would start to arrive. Bleary-eyed and not quite ready to go, they had self-selected over the years, so that they were all returners with a friend or two they had brought along so they could share where that Thanksgiving turkey really came from.  By 8:00, the preparations all made, and jobs assigned, the first cut would be made.

He knew that objectively the business at hand was messy, smelly, hard work. And on an industrial level, many argued that it was dehumanizing for those who participated. At this level and with these people, he had never felt more alive. Each person took care to do their part well and quickly, taking time to share their lives with each other, often through silence as the day wore on.  

That silence disappeared at lunch. His wife, a farmer’s daughter, would create a spread fueled by memories of hard working families coming together to put long past harvests in the barn. A practice that was lost in one generation of industrial farming that migrated a rural population of producers to an urban population of consumers, and left the farmers that remained as competitors and not community.

After a time of sharing lives, he knew the crew was coming back to the task in the barn when someone would ask, “So you think that we are half way done yet?”  He had made sure that they were. He knew from experience that it was always best to break a little past half way. It was hard work for him and for a crew that spent most of the day thinking and not doing physical work it was doubly so. He knew that it was best to push hard in the morning when you were fresh and then “coast” during the afternoon. So while 40 of the birds had been finished in the morning, four long hours of work remained during the afternoon.

So back to the barn, and back to work, they went with stomachs full. As the day wore on, the silences grew longer. The novelty wore off and it just became work. Wasn’t that what summer had become? The dog days of summer wore on through the weather changes of September, October’s Indian Summer, and November’s short days, killing freezes and low gray clouds until this day and the job was done.

The sun was down. The barn washed down. The birds were in the cooler. The parts hauled to the wood chip pile where the alchemy of composting would break everything down to a rich compost for use next year as the farm woke from its winter solace. The chill had returned to the barn, and the harsh light illuminated the clouds of breath as he turned to the door and turned the lights off.

Turning to the house, he was thankful that another long obedience in the same direction had blessed his life.

Take care,

Roger

Friday, November 12, 2010

Bee candy?

A bit of business first; I want to thank everyone who passed last week’s blog along to your friends. The feedback that I got was fantastic and frankly is one of the reasons I sit down every week for this therapy.

Also, to the right is a button that you can click on that will let you follow “You said what, Roger?”.  I don’t know what happens when you are a blog follower. I do not think that there is a decoder ring, but I did not try it myself. I thought it would be a bit silly to follow my own blog. It would be like the dog chasing his own tail. It’s fun for a while. Everyone paying attention, laughing, saying cute dog, but after a while you get tired of looking at your butt and you start building up static electricity from that hideous green shag carpet in the basement and then your master touches you on the nose and then he wonders why you are reluctant to come when he calls.  When you click the button, I suppose that you get a notification that I have posted a blog and you can read it if you like. So don’t think too long about the above simile, and sign up to follow if you want. Off we go.

Bill couldn’t stop crying. The moment his mom called to tell him that Mr. Walls had died the tears caused his vision to blur and built until they started running down his cheeks. The call wasn’t unexpected; just unwelcome. As he closed his phone, he was thankful that his mom hadn’t used skype. Watching her face react to his tears would have made it that much worse.

As he sat there awash with the loss, Bill’s mind filled with the spring that started his apiarian love that lead to his proposed vocation. He was 9 and Billy then. He had just started 4H and had run into the project hall looking and hoping for a blue ribbon on the circuit board that he and his father had put together at the last minute. The ribbon wasn’t blue. It was red and while no amount of words would make it better. It wasn’t so bad that it kept him from noticing the working bee hive that was on display in the back corner of the hall.  The frames all lined up behind plexi-glass. You could see the brood, the queen, the honey, and all of those bees. Constantly moving, buzzing, taking pollen and making something as good as honey. You could watch the bees travel through a tube through the wall; going out clean coming back yellow with pollen. And the thrumming; even behind the plexiglass you could feel them vibrating. Alive filling that corner with life and there was Mr. Walls patiently answering questions about what bees eat, how they make honey, showing the queen as she worked at laying eggs. Billy was transfixed.

Mr. Walls lived down the street. He had been on the periphery of Billy’s life. They were older than his parents, but he and his wife were friends of his mom and dad. Billy’s dad would visit  as he borrowed tools. His mom always credited Mrs. Walls for her killer pie crust recipe. (You have to use Crisco.) And there was always the story of how his dad called Mrs. Walls one night when his mom was gone and Billy would not stop crying. She came down just to help him rock that inconsolable baby  and  listen to the exercising of some very healthy lungs; because “sometimes that all you can do.” Mr. Walls saw Billy and offered to let him get really close to bees if he was interested.

Billy had always been too busy to notice the hive on the back corner of his lot. But that next week, He was at Mr. Walls’ house early on Saturday morning. Mr. Walls said that while he usually did not work the hive much during the summer but “it wouldn’t hurt anything if we worked it early in the day before the heat came on. They were there at 6:00.  Mr. Walls didn’t use gloves or a bee veil to inspect a hive. He said if you go slow they won’t sting. . . very often. Jerking his head up looking at him wide-eyed and paler, Billy saw in his face that look that he came to trust more that his words. A kind smile and a liveliness in the eye that told Billy “Don’t pay any attention to that. It will be okay.” And somehow it was okay. He used his hive tool to pry off the top and invited Billy up to look. It was okay. He didn’t know why but there was no fear; looking in that hive, letting the bees come and go and just a breath away. It was okay.

He was hooked. 9 more years of 4H and while the bee project was often put off. Mr. Walls prodded Billy like his mom and dad could never do. He learned all there was to learn about bees. And there has been a lot to learn about bees since then; mites, foulbrood, and now colony collapse syndrome. Nervous, Billy was sure that Mr. Walls’ bees were on the brink of extinction. Billy was always imploring Mr. Walls to make bee candy in the spring, mite strips in the fall, and antibiotic year around.  “Bee candy? Billy you want to make those bees lazy? They are supposed to make us candy. Where do you think the saying “busy as a bee” came from. Not from a bunch of sissified bees eating candy. But from bees busily working in their colony.” He would scoff at the use of all of those other remedies because his bees weren’t sick.

Finally, Billy found Mr. Walls’ secret. He had learned in biology that bees can trek over 5 miles to get pollen for honey. When sharing his knowledge with Mr Walls one April as he was inspecting the hive, Mr. Walls asked, “5 miles?

“Sure. Not often. But sometimes and most of the time it is at least two miles.”

He told Billy of a way to track bees in their flight. He had learned it as a child and it always worked. He wanted to know if Billy was game. “Sure.” Mr. Walls  suggested that he go home and get a bike because that would make it easier to keep up with the bee tracking. Running home and back minutes later, Mr Walls was coming out of the house with a cotton ball and a bit of glue. He reached into that hive, pulled out a bee and glued that cotton ball to it’s belly. He took that moment to encourage the mounting of the bike and to prepare Billy for the ride of a lifetime. 1, 2, 3 go and he threw that bee into the air and Billy was off. Looking around for that white ball of cotton and there it was. It was flying around in a circle to get its bearing and it was off. It headed off 10 yards to a patch of early snow peas (pees see last weeks blog), landed on those white-pink blossoms and did its thing. Crashing, Billy nearly ran through the garden fence. Mr. Walls came over and picked boy and bike up. Chuckling with that look, he said, “I guess bees only go as far as they need to go.”

Take care of yourself and find what you need close.

Roger

Friday, November 5, 2010

The best?

I had a great Tuesday this past week. Our work gets off on election day and I must admit that it was the best election day that I have ever had. In fact, its greatness coupled with the memories that I shared in last week's blog triggered the memory for the second best election day of my life.  I was in 2nd grade; attending Ingalls elementary. The polling place in Ingalls and Green township was held in our 2nd grade classrooms. As a consequence, the 2nd grade class got the day off on election day.

Well the fall of 1969 coincided with my 2nd grade year. Second grade was a great year for me. Mrs. Manifold taught us about homonyms that year. She had a large piece (peace) of butcher paper that she would write, (right, rite) the homonyms, discovered by we students, on and keep track of them during the course (coarse) of the year. She would spur us on to greatness with (I am sure in hindsight) bogus comparisons with other smarter classes that she had taught. We were proud of ourselves when we came up with the biggies; two, to and too, (The two boys were too smug until they had to go to the principal's office.) there, their, they're, (They're over there looking for their books.) Then at the 104th entry I pointed out on a dare that but and butt were homonyms. Mrs. Manifold's non-plused response do my definitions that "yes, butt is also the end of a cigarette." emboldened me that dam and damn should go on the list. (Is it any wonder I consider myself a word smith?) And  to her credit it went up there (they're, their). Number 111. I lost interest after all of the risque words were used up.

The spring of my second grade year also saw my father make the required Sharritt male (mail) sacrifice to the limb gods. Three fingers on his left hand in a farming accident were his generation's contribution. I have been fortunate to not make my contribution yet. I remember being picked up by my grand mother who said that he hurt his hand at the elevator. I remember saying that it was impossible for him to hurt his hand at the elevator. However, she insisted that it was the elevator where he hurt his hand. I was right of course. He couldn't hurt his hand at the elevator but the forage chopper was another story.

Finally, my second grade year gave me what was until last Tuesday my favorite election day memory. It had been an incredibly wet fall. We had not gotten all of the soybean cut and put into the bin and it was November. Which meant that it would be January before we finished picking corn. Picking corn in January is no fun. It was election eve. The beans weren't combined yet. It was just drying enough from the last rain to get back into the field and the weatherman was promising heavy rains (reigns) for the next three days. We had a farming acquaintance that had finished combining soybeans already and was willing to earn extra money doing combining for (four) other farmers. Dad acquired his services and the race to get finished before the rain was on.

Mom took dinner to the field that night. I went with her and I convinced dad to let me stay with him since I did not have school the next day. I don't remember much until around 9:00 when we had to change fields. The farm that we moved to had, like all farms in the 60's, fences around all of the fields. The gates into the field were 10 footers plenty big enough to accommodate our modest farm equipment. But, 10 feet (feat) was too small for the 12 foot header on the machine doing the work that evening. We tried everything. We tried putting one (won) end through on an angle and then turning the wheels sharply to wiggle the head through. No (know) go. We tried blocking one side of the combine up thereby tilting the head so that it go through on the diagonal. That would not work either. So dad decided to cut the fence, pull it back and let the combine through.

I remember his anguish at doing that. First, he believed that you could never restore a cut fence. It was never as tight after the splice. The splice added weakness to the fence. Second, every time he drove by (bye) that fence he would see that splice and its sight (site) would remind him that he had introduced that weakness to it. Third, no matter how late he worked that night, the job wouldn't be done until he came back on a later date to finish the job by fixing the hole (whole) in the fence. I (eye) remember him actually voicing these items one by one as I held the flash light and he worked feverishly with a pair (pear) of pliers cutting and pulling that fence apart.

Later, after getting the combine into the field, all of our wagons were getting full and we were not going to beat the rain because we had no place to put the beans. Fortunately the farmer who was combining the beans was willing to allow the use of his wagons to finish the harvest. So we hooked dad's 1954 cherry engine red (read) to the front of one of our wagons and take off for his farm. This farm was amazing. The patriarch had made all of his money in heavy construction. Though long dead, his family refuse to sell all of this huge construction equipment. The farm was a bulldozer, excavator, and crane graveyard. They were everywhere and huge to a seven year old.  And then dad took me into a barn that housed a complete saw mill that had not (knot) been operational for 15 years, but was the most amazing thing that I had ever seen (scene). There was a huge amount of equipment and was all powered by a single engine through (threw, thru) a series of pulleys, belts and shafts. I can close my eyes (ayes) even today and see (sea) a giant buzzsaw hanging from the ceiling that was so perfectly balanced that it would transit its arc (ark) with the slightest nudge of a finger.

The empty wagons made (maid) their way back to the field in time for the race against the rain to continue. And about midnight the low clouds had made their way over South Madison county. The reflected Indianapolis lights off of  those hanging clouds portended how heavy they were burdened with the rain that was on its way. That is when dad started to doubt that the race would be won. But we keep on. We shuffle 3 full grain wagons back to various barns, wondering if there will be enough wagons and enough time.

I remember subcuming to fatigue around 2:00 a.m. The study thrum of the old truck. The luminous dials on the dash. The light from Indy reflecting off of those lowering clouds were getting the best of me. Finally around 2:00 a.m., dad had fixed the heater in the truck. This heater rarely worked. I swear it was a post market add-on to this truck. Can you imagine if our cars had heaters as an option? This heater had to be fixed every fall because it's exposed position in the cab made it vulnerable to the kicking feet of restless boys. We were getting cold around 1:30. Dad found some wire, crawled up under the dash and went to work. 15 minutes later we had heat and I was laying down on the fake leather seats, whose holes were covered old scratchy burlap bags, with eyes too heavy to continence the race any longer. 

Those eyes fluttering open at 5:30 that morning; wipers beating on the window. Ears hearing "go back to sleep. We got done. "And I was carried into bed.

And until last Tuesday that was my best election day memory. Now it is second.

Take care.

Roger

Friday, October 29, 2010

Vote for me?

I am a political junkie. While I often write about ideas that are political, I try to not write about republican or democratic politics because to do so would result in the complete and sudden loss of 1/2 of my loyal readers. That's right. Never broach politics or religion in polite dinner conversation or your weekly blog. Those are words to live by. But the fever pitch of this political season has caused me to throw all prudence to the wind. To that end a religious, political, joke; Did you know that religious scholars have recently discovered that Christ lived in Chicago? That's right. They just found an ancient voting roll. It seems he voted in the May primary 39 days after Easter.

These are my 3 earliest political memories. Monday, November 4, 1968, I am walking home from Mrs. Quackenbush's first grade class and two high school kids were running down the street chanting "________, _______, he's our man. We'll throw _____ in the garbage can." Over and over incessantly. I was distraught by the time I got home. The first two blanks were my parent's guy. I go running into the house searching for comfort from mom. "how can they say that about _____? He is such a great man." That is when I learned that "those people didn't have the proper respect for other people". And that "I shouldn't worry because they won't be crowing tomorrow night."


Tuesday, November 3, 1970, I am inconsolable because my father had just gotten back from the Madison county court house and he had lost to that ________. How could people vote for him and not my  father? I don't want to hear that it was probably a good thing because dad would be busy with the farm. How could my father who I adored not win a popularity contest. I must admit that my faith was not restored in the democratic process when 6 years later dad's opponent, "the winner" was placed in the pokey for stealing township funds. I suppose that Mr. Nixon was the foreshadowing the public's ability to pick "the winner" between my dad and Mr. Griggs.  Cosmic huh?

Tuesday, November 7, 1972, mom is inconsolable because the __________ poll workers would not challenge obvious fraudulent voters who lived outside the precinct. I suppose she was trying to find the number to the secretary of state office to report it. Of course, one of the poll workers was arrested 10 years ago after a long career of voter fraud. Yes for many years, politics were a contact sport in our family. I don't know why but over time mom and dad both mellowed about politics. If they hadn't, I am sure that they would have both been in Florida in 2000 and Minnesota in 2008. We all have our moments.

I am glad that I know that the reason for my party affiliation is because my parents were _______, and people of the other persuasion are just well inferior. But I only feel that way once every couple of years. After that the fever passes and I love everyone.

Well I really need to get to the title of this blog. I am looking for your vote. While I haven't filed the appropriate papers, you can remedy the problem through the time honored institution of the write-in ballot. If in the sanctity of the voting booth, you are faced with choices that you don't want to make. Just write me in. Doesn't really matter what office. If nominated, I will run. If elected, I will serve. 

Maybe you are a republican and you don't want to vote for a Secretary of State candidate who can't remember where to vote in the primary and then is too stupid to read the fine print on his campaign material and get the stupid disclaimer on it correctly, but can't bring yourself to vote democrat, write me in. Or maybe you are a democrat and are tired of the family of the democrat state Representative always bragging about "my son the state legislator this; my son the state legislator that." You knew that dweeb in high school and well his character references outside the gene pool aren't that great, but can't bring yourself to vote for  Daniel's republican toadie, write me in. I would prefer state-wide office. Fewer residency questions to deal with. But with enough ground swell support; the residency questions can go away. As Otto Bismark said on Sunday, August 11, 1867, "politics is the art of the possible." (I remember that day too. My great-grandmother was beside herself. "That nasty old Prussian was full of himself mixing politics and religion like that.") To my Denmark, Poland and Turkey  readers, I apologize. While your following is loyal, I don't believe that we would be able to overcome the "birther's" objections to the violation of your country's constitution for me to serve if elected. (If you don't get that joke don't worry you just aren't a political junkie. If you don't think that joke is funny, don't worry you just have good taste."

I know what you are saying. "I can't vote for you, Roger." "I don't even know what you stand for."  You are absolutely right. You can't vote without knowing exactly how a person is going to represent you on the important issues of the day. Why that would just be a silly popularity contest.

Here is what I stand for. Provided to you by my own hand without the help of a ghost-writer. I call it the "Independence Day" platform; after the movie "Independence Day". Here goes. I believe that the government should only work on big a**ed intergalactic weapons and not provide any other assistance, roads, bridges, libraries, schools, health care, research and development, garbage pick up, dog catching, foreign aid, any of that stuff. We the People should have the self-awareness to provide those things for ourselves. That's right. As you can see at the following web-site http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/02/01/us/budget.html our budget is just way too complicated. There should be just one column and it should say development of big a**ed intergalactic weapons $3.69 trillion. That $3.69 trillion wisely invested now will provide great dividends by the time our annihilators arrive unless they arrive next year.

I can hear you. "Visionary", your saying. You're darned right. Because someday ET's evil twin is going to come down here and be wanting to eat our young and our middle aged. (I suppose the old will be too tough to eat. I never see them getting eaten in the movies.) And we won't have any big a**ed intergalactic weapons to take out their force fields and their humongous mother ships that block out the sun. Thanks to Jeff Goldbloom, Will Smith, and Randy Quaid giving away the $42 million  plan of infecting the mother ship with a virus while driving a captured scout ship and then letting the war-damaged, drunken, pilot earn redemption by driving an F16 into it's exposed "heart"; plan A is out. So we have to start working on plan B. which is put all of our resources into hiring the Chinese, Indian, and Japanese scientists, programmers and manufacturers to build big a**ed intergalactic weapons.

Why the Chinese, Indian, and Japanese out-sourcing? Well some would say we have already lost the "battles" that count.

Take care 

Roger.

If you like it, pass it around. I enjoy a crowd.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Assets?

Bev and I have been gallivanting over southeastern Kentucky in search of pumpkin pie. We have taken a wonderful three day fall break to Berea, Kentucky and on to Cumberland Falls state park. As luck and good planning would have it, there was a full moon. Which at Cumberland Falls State Park means, it is moonbow night. The Cumberland Falls is a 60 ft fall that generates enough mist that on the night if a full moon enough refraction occurs that you can see a moonbow. For the rest of my life any time that you see me utter the word moonbow, you should hear the words snipe hunt. Moonbow isn't even in my spellchecker. I started to get suspicious when I went into the gift shop and did not see t-shirts that said "memaw and papaw went to moonbow and all I got was this lousy . . . Don't get me wrong. I loved the park. To sit there in the gloaming and listen to the roar of the falls relaxed me and lowered my blood pressure 10 points and will long be a favorite memory.

By the time the spectral or specious moonbow was sighted, Bev and I were tired and hungry. We got out of Dodge and started our search for pumpkin pie. Did you know that Cracker Barrel doesn't do pumpkin pie until November. What? According to my TV Guide, "Its the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" always showed during October. So we spent the next 18 hours rueing Cracker Barrel and set off the next morning in search of Indiana and Bob Evans. 250 miles later the crisis was averted. We were sitting in the Shelbyville Bob Evans eating pumpkin pie in one of it's twelve appropriate months.

The back story to this trip though was the cd that I have in the car. I have been listening to Shelby Foote's "The Civil War; A narrative." The cd version contains 3 volumes and runs for 110 cd's. I have been listening since the family summer vacation to Gettysburg in July. Well, the end had finally come. Lee was holding off Grant around Petersburg and one Union probe went a little too well and the South had ran into the end of its assets. It had used up or had its men, material, and morale destroyed. Suddenly what had been defiant and stood for four years disappeared in just a few weeks.

Listening,  I kept being taken back to  my biggest collapse. When after 10 years of struggle, I had to stop farming because there were not enough assets to continue the fight. That was a constant refrain in telling the story about farming to interested supporters. I can't remember how many times I would say, "we are making our operating expenses but I am not saving up any capital." In the end,  it finally caught up.

You see that all over agriculture today. It is very seldom that you see a farmstead that is in good repair. I know that Bev and I are even now considering what to do about a couple of 100 year old barns that are on our farmstead. We have no use for them. They need $15,000 in new roofing and currently, we are paying the county government approximately $400 a year in property (rent) taxes. While we all sat behind some very expensive equipment this fall during harvest, much of it is bought on credit only to be repaid by the hardest effort and often in need of replacement before that last payment is made. The one place that I have not seen that was in Kentucky. Bev and I made a commitment to not drive on the interstate to our destination this weekend. So we went on the state roads of Kentucky. What amazed me were the number of farmsteads that were not falling in. All of these barns, well painted, well roofed and full of tobacco.

Now I don't want to get caught up in the great debate surrounding tobacco. I am only acknowledging that tobacco farmers have carved out a segment in this  society that thrives there with long term asset creation and is not failing through asset depletion.

It seems to me that we live in a time of unreal assets. Instead of farms, barns, houses, businesses creating long term wealth, most of our thriving enterprises are in pursuit of the transient. The cell phone industry creating moments that last long enough to transmit "OMG did u c what she was wearing? lol." TV whose assets are (in some cases) the wiring to our houses and the intellectual property of the latest show that is a hairs-breath away from jumping the shark. Look at Indianapolis, the only buildings in town with brick on their exteriors (which has long been an outward sign of stability and wealth) are the hospitals and our sports venues. Hospitals at best as supplying short term remedies to the ultimate asset depletion and our sports venues provide nothing more than palliative benefits to a city that can't keep its kids in school, businesses open, or buses running.

Certainly, our biggest repository of asset valuation is the stock market which to my mind makes us even more susceptible to sudden collapse. How much did the 2008 crash cost investors?  The market lost 54% of its value from 2008 to 2009. Which means nothing to me. How much was that worth? Other than a lot or gazillions. The ability to create and destroy so much wealth in months is unprecedented and unstable. Even more troubling is the fact that it is controlled by so few people. 300 million people in the US. Certainly there are less than 10,000 people of influence doing that creation and destruction. While many good and honorable people work in those positions of influence, it does appear at times that their numbers are not enough to warrant our trust.

There is no solution is this blog. Only the vague sense that we are using assets that were provided by those before us and in some cases to be paid or defaulted on by those who will follow.

Shelby Foote ended his work with a quote from Lincoln given on the night of his re-election from the balcony of the White House.

"What has occurred in this case must ever occur in similar cases. Human nature will not change. In any future great national trial compared with the men of this, we shall have as weak, and as strong, as silly, and as wise, as bad, and as good. Let us, there-fore, study at incidents of this as philosophy to learn wisdom from."

A store of wisdom;

take care.

Roger

Saturday, October 16, 2010

That was fun.

First off, everyone thank Bev. Because without her being willing to drive, I would not have enough time to expound on the issues of my week. It has been a hectic weekend already and there is no relief in sight. The block of time that I had carved out for writing was filled in with a rescue effort. Grace had planned on going to W. Virginia for a friend's wedding. And in the spirit of my blog on "girls goon wild" the obvious answer to "dad I want to drive across the continent what do you think?" is "you're old enough to go to war you'll certainly be able to handle any "deliverance" hill Jack that you come across in the hills and hollers." Then I think about that reasoning and it occurs to me that yes she is old enough to go to war but she would go with a freaking big A**ed army, navy and air force. But then there are all of those well reasoned arguments, written by my own hand about letting go and I have to curse "drats foiled again batman." Blessing in hand, she and a friend take off. Well her Taurus isn't cooperative and the transmission gives way just outside Economy, IN. Poetic dropping a $1000 transmission in Economy. Talk about your economic stimulus. Someone call congress.

Then today, Bev and I are going to the Purdue game. Buoyed by the unexpected victory over the previously undefeated and ranked wildcats we are looking forward to a day of fun with family, friends, and victory. So thank you Bev for driving and giving me this hour and a half.

Back to the theme at hand,to my readers who like more coherent and cogent theme development, I apologize. Last Monday state employees got the day off in honor of founding Ohio's Capitol. Weird, but I was not going to argue. My day was to be filled with cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood getting ready for the winter ahead. . .

We just got back home. Sadly, Bev was unable to drive home. It appears that a day of sunny 70 degrees, a beer, and a shrimp fajita with 3 nephews will make Bev groggy. So I did not get to finish on the way home. What started out as tome to fall, was obliterated by a fantastic day. I love college. I want to go back. It started on the way into the stadium and a 20 something had purchased a foam boilermaker special hat. It is much classier than the lowbrow foam cheese head hat. My fashion sense was confirmed by a 6 year old boy who stopped following his dad, who was loaded down with a nacho, coke, and wooden train whistle. This boy was transfixed by the sight of a pound of injected molded foam black rubber painted with gold highlights. He kept moving closer and closer; wanting to ask; needing to know where to find get one. Then quietly at first with firmer projection each time repeated, "Jason, Jaason, JAyson," his father called and slowly, gently the spell was broken. Attention shifting, shifting, finally breaking and poof, looking around. Where am I? More importantly, where is dad? Ah, there he is and off he goes but one last look back at that hat.

Then there was the kit helicopter that was buzzing the stadium early on. It was way too close for my conspiratorial theorist mind. Which as Bev pointed out, if it wasn't that, it would be something else. She is so right about that. But even she got nervous when the light breeze caused it to shift around like a ufo in a 1950's sci-fi film. These terrifying possibilities were quickly obliterated with Purdue's first first-down. The student sections starts pointing north, the band starts to play and the student voices all raise in 1, 2, 3, 4, first down bmumble mumble.  All of the alumni around us start asking, "what was that? what did they say?" I was prepared because the last time I had attended a game 3 years ago I heard the mumble and went down to inspect it at a closer range.  It really isn't a mumble. It is just unexpected. We old folks couldn't believe our ears. But at closer range, the enunciation is undeniable. I am so proud of those college students. Sure it is profane, rude, uncultured, but they are dedicated. From the first series to  a meaningless first down late in the 4th quarter when most of the stands had cleared there it was 1, 2, 3, 4, first down b****. Now that is dedication to being a smartaleck. I can respect that. I love college.

As half time approached, hydration became a significant concern. This is the point where I miss the kids most. Bev and I had nearly resigned ourselves to the main drawback of empty nest. We have had to make accomodations since both of the kids are gone. I have bought a dorm fridge to set between the lazy boys in the living room. I have the kids stock it when they come home about once a month and that helps. I have velcroed the remote and cordless phone each to a leg on my pants. But nearing halftime, with a hydration crisis at hand, I was resigned to hauling myself down to the concession stand  for a cold one. And suddenly my sister came to the rescue. "The boys are going down to get drinks. What would you like?" We are thinking about renting the nephews a month at a time. Sure enough 10 minutes later, here came my 32 ounces of $7 goodness. $7 what? Wow. But then I drank and found out why it cost so much. I believe that Pepsi was 40% wetter than any of $5 drinks that had 3 years ago. An a $1 McDonald's drink is down right arid.

Of course, it wasn't all fun and games. There were down turns. In the second quarter, the Purdue kicker missed an 18 yard field goal attempt. I could have hit that kick. I pointed it out to everyone around me and was so inspired that at half time went down the locker room and offered my 4 years of eligibility anytime the team need an 18 yard field goal kicked from the right hash mark. I thought that I would be perfect since you almost never have to kick an 18 yard field goal and I love college.

Sadly, the low point of the day was at the bookstore later. We were there to buy souvenirs. That was until I saw a shirt that shook me to my soul.  There it was an $18 T-shirt hanging from a black plastic hanger. Mocking me. Causing me to throw up shouts of anguish. Those cursed words "Purdue Dad" mocking me. Oh how I hate those Hoosiers, and Cardinals, enticing my beautiful children away from the promised land. Trust me. My tears were bitter.

But . . . not so bitter though that a victory, family and friends couldn't make it all better.

Take care

Roger

Saturday, October 9, 2010

The snack that smiles back?

“OPTIMISM . . .  is a skill children can learn and leads to greater happiness and resilience.”  -- Dr. Karen Reivich

I found this bit of wisdom on the outside of a 3 ½ lbs box of Goldfish and immediately felt a flush of excitement. I felt optimistic that I could consume this 3.5 lbs with 0 grams of trans fat.  I probably shouldn’t cross my unit references.  Fortunately, I can do the conversion in my head. 0 grams trans fat is 0 lb trans fat.

After several handfuls of munching on those cute little golden crackers baked with real cheese and according to the ingredient list made with smiles, I got to thinking. Optimism is a skill????? Well I have a bone to pick with my counselor. “Identifying feeelings is hard work. You just have to get in there and wrestle with them. They won’t crush you they are just feeeeelings. They aren’t good or bad. They are just feeeeeeeelings.” I thought optimism was a feeling. I never used it with  the counselor, but was, and am sure that optimism is a feeling. It would have produced a nod from the counselor on a Thursday night. Now, I question. Optimism A Skill? Feelings aren’t something felt they are learned and mastered? I want my money back.

I looked up Goldfish on the web because I thought that this free bit of wisdom from a highly paid psychological professional might be part of an advertising campaign. That’s right. After reading the local newspaper, I thought there might be a catch. In this case, I  found that just because there is a catch doesn’t mean that it is bad.

Dr. Reivich sells skill development for children. Specifically, she sells skills that will help children become more resilient.  Optimism is one of the feelings that can support resilience.

Food and feelings, Feelings and Food. It seems that there is a market segment to be explored.  I have no ability or knowledge, or expertise to be even remotely qualified  to comment about all of the connections being made by Pepperidge Farm and by extension Campbell Soup, the owner of Pepperidge Farm,  (Mmmm, Mmmm, Good). I have no sermon here only confession. I am part of that segment. Eating 3.5 lbs of goldfish and glad that someone knows how I strengthen my resilience in those handfuls speaks to my prehistoric brain.

I do want to find resilience without covering the fragility with those cute, yellow, cheddary, smile-filled crackers. So many of us do. And all of us want those we love to escape that struggle. If your path leads through fishfulthinking.com to learn optimism, I am happy for you. If you path leads you to feelings are feelings, and they all can provide a framework for resilience, I am happy for you too. Or if your path leads you through Costco where they carry that handy 3.5 lbs (0 lbs trans fat) size of Goldfish, I’m really happy especially if you share.

Food and Feelings, Feelings and Food,

Take Care


"Gaining" Insight

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Racy

Oh you have been on my mind since the last blog. I have been fretting that I had piqued your interest in the motivational messages that will be in Conseco field house later this month. Having that interest level raised, I was sure that you would get some friends together, fork over the $9.95, and the expose yourself to those investment opportunities.

Don't get me wrong. If your motivational levels are low and want to listen to investment opportunities by all means go. But if you are suddenly interested and want to be motivated sans advertising, I have been working hard for you. I have sent out all of my spies to bring back the messages from the 9 great speakers. So over the next few blogs, I will be bringing you their uplifting and inspirational comments. Hopefully without redundancy.

Now it is too early for my spies to have returned with these inspiring manuscripts. But I am undaunted. Isn't that why you trust me with your blogging needs? I go the extra mile. To that end, I read up on channeling other people. I went to the website for the national association of channeling honorable omens. Www.nacho.com. I was very disappointed to find out that you can only channel the departed unless you have a great deal in common with the channeled.

What do I have in common with the uber-motivational? I did not know. So I studied the list, Colin Powell, Laura Bush, Terry Bradshaw, Joe Montana, Robert Schuler, Rudy Guliane, Danica Patrick, Steve Forbes, and Zig Zigler. I have been  researching these people all afternoon long. Finally, I used the channeling apt from NACHO and I must say I was suprised at their match until I saw the photographic evidence.

See for yourself;

http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.dancewithshadows.com/tech/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/danica-patrick-4.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.dancewithshadows.com/tech/danica-patricks-superbowl-enhancement-ad-is-most-watched/&h=500&w=400&sz=56&tbnid=kXfheYfKXPyqOM:&tbnh=130&tbnw=104&prev=/images%3Fq%3Ddanica%2Bpatrick&zoom=1&q=danica+patrick&usg=__FmPL-2ZPUiDyAfafIuM6DmUFbG4=&sa=X&ei=YJinTKLgI4Kdlgfj4dioDg&ved=0CDkQ9QEwBA




Yep! it appears that we have the same plumber's crack.  Who knew?

And this is what Danica has to say to motivate you. "You have to respect yourself if want others to respect you."

You go gurl!

Take care

Roger

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

All the news that is fit to print?

On the front page of the Indianapolis Star 9/29/2010 is the following hard hitting headline "Motivational seminar comes with a catch." Granted it comes below the fold. But it is on the front page. The vaunted guardian of democracy is trying to protect us from the deceitful promoters from Get Motivated! business Seminars.

The gist of the story is that there is a motivational seminar in Indy that is offering 9 speakers for $9.95 for your entire office or $1.95 for the friendless. (I haven't seen this kind of deal since we used to sneak a into the drive-in in the trunk of my grandmother's Buick.) It appears that the Star has uncovered that the hopeful under-motivated are going to have to sit through the torture of advertising (the catch) in order to satisfy their need for that motivational spark.

How could anybody with the good sense God gave a goose think that this is news? The star did the math for everyone. If all of Indianapolis is friendless and shows up @ $1.95, the gate is $35,000. Not even half enough $$$ to listen to Colin Powell's wisdom. Not to mention if Eli Lilly and the GM stamping plant show up. That lowers the gate to a grand total of $19.90. That won't even pay for the wisdom of Colin's colon.

It appears that this shortfall will be made up from investment pitches. It appears that Get Motivated! Believes that the marginally motivated can be convinced that there is enough shore front property in arizona to make up the difference. It appears that p.t. Barnum has found a rich vein of prospects in the desperate dissuaded.

Ironic? Yes. Newsworthy? No. Not in our city at this time.

Our society has a long history of relying on advertising to pay the freight. Or more aptly, the profits made off of those susceptible to the messages advertising. News flash to the Star; it costs more than $0.75 per paper to publish your rag. The catch is that I have to look at the Meijer ad to offset the actual cost of gathering the "news".

Dear reader please don't be dissillusioned. You can get motivated for free. Where you ask? Who is this entity that will share their wry observations with no catch?

Me right here in this blog. That is until some day after all of you have shared it with all of your friends and they share it with all of their friends and everyone starts following my blog. On that day I will hit the monetize button on the screen and you will be sent ads and I will make 5 cents. A fair wage.

Until the next post.

Take care

Roger

Friday, September 24, 2010

Girls gone wild?

Our youngest went and started college this fall. Within three weeks, she had gotten the idea that gravity does not apply to her or that she has suddenly developed aerodynamic tendencies that will allow her to abandon perfectly good airplanes and plummet to earth without getting hurt. During a visit and an evening out to eat, she informs me that she "is going sky diving tomorrow". I had been warned but still after hearing it come out of her mouth I wondered why she could not have informed me after the fact. But there it was. "I'm going sky diving." It all turned out okay. Gravity still exists. And you can partially overcome the affects of gravity by creating enough wind resistance from certain light weight rip resistant fabrics. And by all accounts it was a fun and exhilarating experience.

My daughter is no dummy. In a few years, she will be a college graduate, and in a testament to that innate intelligence and the marketing skills that she learned from running a farm market during her formative years, she purchased the video because "you all wouldn't believe me" and "a picture is worth a thousand words." Then, she posted it to facebook and let the comments roll in.

And roll in they did; "u go gurl", "omg; my heart was in my throat the whole time", "you officially rock. you are who I want to be when I grow up," "next time jump over a cemetery and eliminate the middle man," (mine). Which generated a comment to me about writing about a wild daughter's first few weeks of college.

I have been silent to that idea until now. Wild? My daughter? What tone do I take? Is it to be a tone of admonishment? Praise? How do I feel about a wild daughter? What is my role as commentator on wild daughters?

Every time I have thought about all of these questions ( and all of the similar questions brought about by my son), I have been transported to an office looking out a large window on a gray day the spring after my father died in a farming accident. Twenty-nine, I was agonizing on what road to take with a friend. Do I go back to the farm, or do I stay here? I wonder what my father would suggest. Grieving that he had been taken away just as those suggestions would be welcomed again. That friend said "I never met your father but knowing you, I know that he spent every waking moment of his fatherhood training you to be independent. Independent enough for this day." That gift from Lee made all of the difference and provided a touchstone for every parental decision that my wife and I worked out.

From that touchstone, I say. Wild? I hope so. Do you know what my daughter wants to do some day? End human trafficking. An estimated 27 million people world wide are slaves. She had better be wild. Wild. WILD!

In watching that video, everybody sees so many different things; Fear, Excitement, Anxiety, Exhilaration. This is what I see. At the very beginning of jump, when the door is open and she is sitting on the floor of the plane with her feet out the door two miles above the ground, she is leaning back as far as she can. I see someone who is uncomfortable with where they are at but getting as close to it as situation requires. Leaning back but not backing away. What beauty, strength, wildness. Taking a look at the situation, facing all of the voices of caution that I must confess that I helped put into her head, counting the cost and then answering the call.

No. The door to that plane will probably be the most defined challenge she will have to face in the call of her life's arc. There will be many more that produce all of the aforementioned feelings and more with much less evidence as to the success of the outcome on hand. That wildness will provide the ability to accept those feelings as feelings and let go and answer the call.

What do I say about a wild daughter's first weeks at college?

Ger
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             ooooo!