following the north end of a south bound dog

Dearest blog reader

I hope that this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my hand in a bicycle ride, endorphin fueled bliss. I really needed it tonight. Work has been pulling me in too many directions lately.  So, fifteen miles on the bike and I feel good as new; focused and ready to write. 

Mother's Day, in this father's humble opinion, was great. After ignoring all of the sage advice in the last blog, I went out and purchased the "single most important kitchen utensil available." That's right I went out and bought the perfect Mother’s Day gift; a pressure cooker. Being the highly evolved male primate that I am, I looked thru the instruction manual and found that setting one is 8 lbs of pressure and setting two is 15 lbs of pressure (more power).  Armed with this information, Bev was able to whip up a very nice bean and bratwurst lunch.  I'm just kidding. We live in a fair and high minded household. She looked it up herself. Just kidding again. I made the beans and brats, (5 minutes on setting 2) and followed it up tonight with that other Sharritt family pressure cooker favorite; maggot meatballs. We have been without the "single most important kitchen utensil" for way too long. 

Mother's Day being over, the summer holiday season has shifted. This weekend finds us in search of the next summer celebration; high school graduation. Our Facebook demographic has been displaying it’s newly minted under and unemployed college graduate offspring. In an effort to lift our economic spirits, we headed to the land of greater hope, the high school graduation. (Maybe the economy will turn around after four or five years and that art appreciation degree can be put to good use.) Bev and I found ourselves in Iowa for a graduation celebration. (Bitter economic irony though, we went past Herbert Hoover’s Presidential Museum on the way. Look it up high school graduates.) That's right our empty nest has dumped us back out on the road; so it's off to the Mayberry of flyover country, Story City, Iowa. After arriving, I found myself at the little league ball diamond observing a tableau of 10,000 blogs.

But I promised that I would stay focused for this blog. Just say no to little league blogs. Just say no to little league blogs. I must stick with graduation blog.

This blog started 6 weeks ago for me. I was enjoying one of those glorious 80 degree March days. Walking up the sidewalk to the house after a long day at work, I noticed the dog track that leads from the back yard to the front yard. That first spring flush of lawn had manifested itself, and the tireless wanderings of our two Jack Russell Terriers had kept the grass from coming back on this slender sliver of our front yard. It leads off towards the front yard where numerous bicyclists, diesel trucks, and the occasional squirrel would pique their interest and send them tearing off in a barking frenzy as fast as their 4 inch legs would take them. The beginning of this path is precisely placed. It is on the very rim of their universe. Four inches further to the West and the invisible-fence, collar of death starts to beep its Death Star warnings of electro-shock therapy.

So their path takes a gentle arc towards the front yard, until it approaches a flower bed with several shrubs, and plantings of perennials; there their path becomes paths and it splits off to go between some plantings in the bed. The day in question found me looking at their decision point, wondering what made them split off there. What from their five inch high perspective convinced them to zig and zag several times during the course of the winter and early spring so that their wanderings sank in, making their mark on the world.  Those gentle thoughts took me to Carl Sandberg and his poem about the road less traveled; which led me thank fully to Robert Frost and his poem “The Road Not Taken”. (Thanks Google and Wikipedia.)  Robert Frost -  Carl Sandberg is an easy mistake for the common man to make. In my mind, Carl Sandberg is just Robert Frost with calluses on his hands. I have no idea why.

(Semi-interesting note; Carl Sandberg was born on the same road as Herbert Hoover’s Museum; which I was on while traveling to Story City, Iowa. High school graduates can look up these factoids also )

Looking at my dog trails, contemplating hugey flob’s poem about the less traveled road, it occurred to me that he was really just following one of two dog paths. What’s the big deal Bob? No big choice here. Maybe one smelled better to stupid dog a few days in a row making it more traveled, or stupid dog had a tick near his right ear that pulled his head right and viola, his body followed. In the end, you’re just following the north end of a south bound dog. But no, Bob somehow made this big choice and followed the “road less traveled by dogs, chipmunks, squirrels, cows, farmers, traders, horses, wagons, cars, and trucks. Which by the way, is the evolutionary path of the road that passed Carl Sandberg, and Herbert Hoover’s house on the way to Story City, Iowa was marked for creation.

How many times this spring will principals, superintendents, presidents, and valedictorians, encourage the newly minted graduating class to take the road less traveled? “You’re choice will make all the difference.” “You’re life is out there now go and seize the day.”

I figured that before I became too presumptuous and started talking smack to Robert Frost, I should read the poem and familiarize myself with some of its subtler points.

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Low and behold, I think that Bob and I are on the same page here. Let me paraphrase; fork in road, this path looks like that path, Being stuck in this time and space continuum thing, I choose one. Since I am the kind of person that doesn’t look back and change my mind I keep going. Until one day in order to feel better about myself, I make up the part about choosing the one less traveled and who’s to say it didn’t make all of the difference.

He really was just following the north end of his south bound dog, but recognized the future failings of his reinterpretations of the past. And for the most part, we have just followed along.

Take care,

Roger

what every mom wants for mother's day

Dearest Blog Reader:

 I do hope that this little tome finds you doing well. It leaves my hand in an ecstatic state. The weather finally turned. Mother Nature, no fragile flower herself, stared Bev Sharritt deep in the eye and quaked at the steely resolve found residing there and said "Fine, I will give you warm weather without flannel sheets in May. What do I care if the natural order of things is permanently disrupted?"

What a celebration? Wednesday night the first 84 degree day was filled with a cacophony of joyous sex crazed tree frogs. It was loud and sustained all night long. You can tell that these frogs are empty nesters. Well maybe you can’t, but Bev and I can; wink wink. So I don’t know if all of the tree frogs are laying back in bed smoking cigarettes or if they follow the adaptive process of the preying mantis whose version of cuddling has the female eating the male. Either way things have quieted way down making sleep much easier.

My bike rides have been filled with forgotten sounds also. As I labored through a nearby neighborhood, the same one the provided the beautiful Christmas lighting last December, I could hear the click and buzzing crescendo of air conditioning units firing up. That was a sound that I hadn’t heard since last . . . March.

I mentioned that sleep had gotten easier with nature’s quieting down. That isn’t exactly true. This super moon phenomenon has gotten to be a pain in the tookus lately. I have taken to wearing sun glasses in bed. Eye lid penetrating lunar rays have disrupted my sleep patterns the past three nights. However, I must admit that it was fun riding on Friday night in the full moonlight. This super moon has caused a bit of self-conscious defensiveness though. Everything I hear someone say look at that super moon I want to turn around and shout; “come on, I’m wearing a belt. These pants aren’t riding that low.” I am such a Hoosier. Why can’t I accept a well meaning complement for what it is?

Sunday put me into a panic. I realized that I only have one more week before Mother's day. I know that I should have no angst about this day any longer. My mother passed several years ago. So technically, my job is done.

(For those of you loyal readers who are frustrated that I have no profile on my blog spot page, that is another clue; orphaned. In fact this is a call out to all of my people out there. I will post the best submitted profile page along with author accreditation. So comb through past blogs, and tell the www all about me.)

Somehow at a critical juncture of my children's development, I bailed them out. Hearing the Hallmarkean call, and seeing her beautiful yet tired face, I took it upon myself to get Bev a wonderful Mother's Day gift on behalf of Ben and Grace for their first five years before the forces of all-day kindergarten could join together and fill the kids' afternoons with craft making after morning calculus lessons had ceased. (Wow, that was a sentence. Whew, you may need to rest.) . . . I should have said "Sorry, Ben, if you want to show your mom how much her suffering the pain of child birth meant to you, you will have to step up and come through for her.” Or, “Here is the card section, Grace and a cup. Use those adorable good looks and panhandle until you can afford one of these great $5 cards." I didn't show that tough love then and now find myself enabling 20 years later.

Of course, the kids have stepped up. They do a great job showering Bev with affection. However, I still find myself wondering what to get Bev for Mother's Day. My attention is piqued with every conversation; is that a clue, does she want that?  My fingers poised over the amazon web page. She loves using the flip camera for a project at school. $129 - 32 or 64 gig? I wonder if she wants that in red or black.  "No, she says. That's not what I want." I think; of course it is. It is an electronic device, and she said how much fun it is to create things with. Using malemillian logic, my finger hovers over the buy it now button.

Somehow I hear, "that's not what I want.". and keep my finger from hitting the confirm button. Using hard won listening skills, I ask "what would you like?" Leaving unsaid, “please hurry because if I don't order this today I am going to have to get expedited shipping.” See, good communication skills can be taught and learned.

It turns out she wants a big rock float (a rock float is a big flat piece of steel that you roll a rock onto, hook it behind your mules and it "floats" across the dirt out of the field.  It was used before the advent of hydraulics. Did I mention it has been there for a while?) moved out of the yard and for me to make her a picture collage with photos.

It turns out that what she wants is time; time spent with her and focusing on things that she sees as important. And she wants me to get her what she wants, and not what I want to get her.

Take care.

Roger