Late Winter Therapy?

Dearest Blog Reader:

I hope that this finds you doing well. I must admit that the feelings of panicked claustrophobia are starting to rise in my sternum. I look out at the ice covered frozen tundra, sun pouring through my blog writing nook window, mother hen at my feet. I am despondent. When will it end; this endless winter? I braved the boxing day “blizzard” and the deep darkness of January. I rejoiced when the Ground Hog did not see his shadow. Yet, I sit here struggling through my birthright as a Hoosier. What was the dromedary back breaker? I believe that it was the facebook post last evening from a so called “friend” Their son was enjoying the evening practicing baseball; spring training for little leaguers. Argh. Looking at the young man all tanned, smiling, in short sleeves, is that perspiration on his brow, it was almost too much to bear.

Who am I kidding? It is too much to bear; hence the despondency. When I close my eyes, I can see Klinger on MASH running out of the mess tent, tearing off his fur coat, yelling “I can’t take it anymore.” I really can’t take it any more. In six short weeks, I will have rendered unto Caesar that which he felt due. The tulips will bloom. The wedding meadow will be mowed, and this day will be a distant memory, but today it seems so far away. I have an ache in my heart for warm weather, spring flowers, and growing gardens. In theory, in 9 short weeks, I will be embarking on the big bike tour. (Thank you Sue and Amy for your sponsorships).

I believe that the only thing that makes this day bearable is the hope that if it stays cold for a while longer, if we commit to leaving our flannels on the bed until early May, the apples will bloom at the appropriate time and we will be blessed with unpasteurized apple cider from Tranbarger’s apple barn in late September. Won’t it be worth it? The golden brew of fuji, MacIntosh, Granny Smith, red and golden delicious, all squeezed together. Their nectars of sweet and tart mixing together, trickling out of the press as the pressure builds, running down the trough to the holding tank.

 

The first gallon bought along with 2 pecks of an assortment of apples. Service paid for with the question. Change given with a quick answer; "pretty good, should have apples through October." And then at home, the lovely aroma caresses your nose as you open the gallon jug straight from the fridge. You carry the glass out to the patio, sit in the Adirondack, and look out over the woods, the leaves starting to change, and you savor what you have not had for two years.

Then you understand, the cold should persist through early or mid March. Last year, was wrong. Cutting the grass the second week of March is not what God intended. Patience will be rewarded. In time, everything will be put right. While the earth is tilting back to the sun, it is too early to reap all of its benefits. Its lengthened presence is really just the harbinger of the good.

Wait. Wait. Wait. It will come. It will be okay.

Take care,

Roger

Pigtails are forever?

Dearest Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am trapped inside with cold weather; waiting for the sun to melt the little snow, that fell last night in an unexpected squall, from the road so that I can get a good ride in. As I sit here, I am contemplating the 10 boxes of pigtails on the kitchen table. “Pigtails” is my affectionate nickname of compact fluorescent bulbs; the squiggly cork screw reminding me of a pig’s tail. I suppose that if I a bit more precise in my nicknaming processes, I would call them albino pigtails. However, the nicknaming exercise has never been one of precision. For example, while called chief, I have never worn an elaborately plumed headdress.

Back to the boxes of pigtails on the kitchen table; these are the culmination of a Costco trip by the lovely Beverly. As she came around the corner, passing the samples of pulled pork, a cheesy sandwich wonder, and a small splash of coffee, they were laid out in spectacular display; box upon box, row upon row. A banner is spread above proudly proclaiming that with the rebate, each box is only a dollar. One dollar for four bulbs, two bits for a quad, is a deal that is hard to ignore. According to the box, for this one dollar, you will be able to excite photons for 40,000 hours. 40,000 hours of illumination for 100 pennies. That is 4.5 years of 24 hours a day lighting. That is impressive.

Let’s see here; 4.5 years a box. “How many boxes did you get Bev?” The silence spoke volumes. One, two, threee, fourr, five, sixxxx, sevinnnnn, eighttttttt, nineeeeeee, tennnnnnnn. We got 10 boxes of pigtails. That is 400,000 hours of photon excitement. 45 years in the light. Amazing. It is a good thing that I have just passed the 1/3 marker post of the race of my life. I am making a note, just in case I find myself standing in Costco wondering how many lights we need to illumine our path through old age. We will need 12 boxes of lights at the age of 95. That should just about do it. We should get to 150 illuminated.

Sensing that a 45 year supply of light bulbs may be perceived as a bit much, Bev quickly leapt to her own defense. “We have a lot sockets. It’s not like we will only burn one light at a time, doggedly unplugging a lamp, moving from room to room in search of an outlet.” “Of course not,” I respond. “We have to have two lamps. We have to leave one of the two plugged in at all times in order be able to find the outlet when moving from room to room in the classic leapfrog maneuver.” I found out that wasn’t what she meant at all. She meant putting one of the pigtails in all of the 30 or so sockets through out the house. If that is the case, it is completely possible that the one we put behind the knee wall in the attic where we store the Christmas decorations and keep the digital TV antenna will still be viable long after the world is wiped out by a meteorite striking in Siberia.

It is nice to know that future highly evolved cockroaches will have the opportunity to stumble upon this lost technology and be left in frustration when they turn on the light in a cold house and have to wait 15 minutes while the phosphorus molecules become excited enough to emit little bundles of light.

We all have that something don’t we? Well at least everyone in the Sharritt household have that something; that something that you just can’t get enough of. It appears to be pigtail florescent light bulbs for Bev. For me, it is utility knives. I cannot get enough of them. I need one at arms length at all times. Who knows when a box with particularly tough packing tape may arrive from the tightest ship in the shipping business? The only thing standing between you and that new Lands End coat may be that 1 inch retractable razor sharp blade. There is another bonus to owning tons of utility knives. If all of the utility knives are lying around your house and workshop, then jihadists maybe thwarted in their evil attempts at mayhem.

I have to admit that I am also partial to flashlights, tomato product, and toilet paper. But the toilet paper is totally legit. When I was growing up, there were times when the supply at home ran out and we were forced to using leaves, corn cobs, and other products in “off label” use so to speak. I and my sisters were permanently scarred. Scarring that runs so deep that in one case an entire closet was tasked to hold only this most precious of commodities. So for Bev, the thing is energy saving long lasting light bulbs.

It is good to know that as long as the electrical grid is intact the Sharritt household can leave the light on for you.

Take care,

Roger

This just in; I just read the fine print the 10,000 hour average life is “based on normal household use of 3 hours a day. These bulbs last up to 10,000 hours.” This is very disappointing. It would appear, if I am understanding their convoluted advertising bs, that the bulbs last for 1.5 years when burning 3 hours a day. Well, in that case, we’d better get back to Costco.

Take care,

Roger.

A cautionary tale?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Last Sunday, I found myself sitting in front of the mother hen trying to bring my core temp back up to an acceptable level. The mother hen is a space heater that Bev and I move from room to room in order to keep comfortable during the cold winter months. Things have moderated in the past week, but mother hen continues to provide deep and immediate comfort.

We like to sleep in a cold room. We are gone most days at work. Consequently, we find it difficult to heat the house instantly to the balmy 72 degrees demanded by our ancestors, and by upbringing ourselves, when they heated the house with the brute force of a 60% efficient gas furnace. A house that was poorly insulated; where half of the storm windows fit so poorly, they rattled in the wind, and at some points, snow could be seen drifting in. This was done with furnaces so powerful that stepping on the register could cause pain or even leave waffle brands on the bottoms of feet. Sitting on the register required asbestos shorts or at least a pot holder. Such were those heady days of inexpensive natural gas.

Not so today, the 99% efficient furnace/air pump, throws heat into the room barely the 98.2. The same temp of we the people. Longing for the olden days, Bev and I bought a space heater. We are ever mindful of the danger that its comfort giving warm could turn on us in a moment of inattention and set our quilt on fire as we try to create that magical bubble of 80 degrees in our immediate vicinity. We love the mother hen and the warmth and protection she creates.

I mentioned that I was sitting in front of the mother hen trying to warm up. I had just gone on an invigorating 23 degree bike ride with 16 mile per hour winds blowing in my face half of the time. Argh! I was so cold. In the delirium brought about by the burning sensation of frost bit toes warming up ever so slowly, I panic trying to remember if you warm up frostbit extremities with warm or cold water. I panic further hoping that the wrong choice won’t leave me with some sort of permanent damage.

Some place along this mental journey, I some how remembered that it wasn’t this bad last year. I went on numerous, enjoyable, even balmy bike rides in January and February.  In fact on Super Bowl weekend Bev and I rode bicycles around downtown Indy with light jackets on. Oh it was glorious; watching the world bask in the glow of Indianapolis’ wonderful party. Do you remember the build up to the Super Bowl? The city fathers and mothers assured us that if it snowed we would just remove the snow. Every thing would be okay. We are Midwesterners. We can handle a little snow. We won’t panic like Jerry Jones and those Dallas Texans.

As it turned out, our human sacrifices paid off. The weather gods smiled upon us. We were able to zip down the line, drink plenty of over priced beer, and mob up to the stage for the free LMFAO with nary a glance at the “warming” station. We are Indianapolis in the middle of winter. We don’t need no stinking warming stations.

Those were heady times. We are Indianapolis and things turned out okay. Better than okay, we were great.

That was then. Now a year later, the mommas and the papas of Indianapolis are making noises. We can do that again. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. We have the plan in place. We can snaz up the zip line. We could zip line over pits of alligators; our toes mere inches from their fearsome snapping, bone crushing jaws. How hard can it be? We have proven that we can keep the lights on through the half time show.

Well this is your old uncle Rog, with a bit of advice. We live in Indiana. It is February. Last year was a mirage, an anomaly, a freak of nature. Yes, it was probably brought on by inappropriate removal of flannel sheets from beds during a brief warm spell in January. The lack of apples this past year has chastened us. We will leave our flannel sheets on through the first week of May. Won’t we!?

If we have the Super Bowl again, the weather will not be kind. The cold Ying will slap last year’s Yang right in the face. And city fathers and mothers before you go writing checks you can’t cash about our fantastic snow removal abilities, we are not good at snow removal. Case in point;  the major interstate going past the “international” airport was closed down for hours because of a snow “shower” on the Thursday before the Super Bowl. Talk about great publicity. We would have had more public scrutiny, than Beyonce’s whoha in that outfit she was wearing, with elephants walking down the interstate. Another case in point; Homeland Security opened the emergency center for a six inch blizzard the day after Christmas. We won't stand up against the wrath of nature.

No! We are Hoosiers. We know our place in the cosmos. Sure we are hospitable. We will lick the world’s face like a big ole Labrador in search of acceptance. Deep down, we know that we live in a place where the winter winds will turn against us. Our leaders want us to believe that Mother Nature can be controled, contained, and coraled. We know better. We know its not nice to fool mom nat.

Take care.

Roger

Friends Forever?

Dearest Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The weather was a bit cold, then warm but windy and stormy, now cold and windy and snowy. As a result, training for the early May ride about, came inside to the stationary bike. It was either that or do my best abominable snowman wicked witch of the West impersonation. That is just too much role playing with riding my bike at the same time.

Thanks to everyone who has started to save their pennies for supporting me in the Cover Indiana bike ride;  Even better, I am getting word of some really good ice cream flavor suggestions. Vanilla, French vanilla, homemade vanilla, all natural vanilla, Neapolitan, cookies and cream, butter pecan, moose tracks, chocolate champion, double strawberry, birthday party, banana split, monster cookie, peanut butter panic; those are the flavors from one company. So many flavors yet so little time, we may have to extend the tour of Indiana. I will keep giving updates. If none of this makes sense, please read last week’s blog. It will all make sense then. Miss a week; you miss a lot.

I have struggled with the Monti Te’o. Do I write about him? Is there anything else to be added? Was he telling the truth? Is he an idiot? Is he just naïve? Is he a big faker; a hoaxer? I have heard it all. “That’s impossible.” “I believe him.” “It could happen.”

It appears that the Couric interview allowed the public opinion jury to come in. A Purdue professor said that based on his facial expressions Monti Te’o was telling the truth when being interviewed on Katie’s show. Monti was genuinely hood winked says non-tenured assistant professor Chris Krowel. That settles it. The Dr has spoken. He uses technology to measure muscle micro movements. I am impressed. This scholar of retail sciences actually measured how believable Monti’s facial expressions appeared to people who believe that Alec Baldwin is really just a misunderstood boob who can actually laugh at his bad behavior. Monti is believable to people who believe Lindsey Lohan is prepared to turn her life around. The same people who believe Peyton Manning actually sets Pappa John’s sales promotional strategies, believe Monti when he says that he was the victim of a horrible prank.

In a side note, Dr. Krowel can now use this sarcastic endorsement in his curriculum vitae on his way to tenure. Way to go Doc.

Fine! I get it. The masses have spoken. Monti (can I call you Monti) was the victim of a cruel hoax. He was in love. He was in love with a cruel and manipulative man/woman; which to me is even sadder than if he had been a perpetrator of this mess. Monti may be the poster child to generation C; the connected generation. Youse guys are connected via your smart phones, tables, laptops, twitter, facebook, you tube. You are hip, happening, and in the know about everything. You know the what, how, when to who almost before who does. You can face time, skype, with people from around the world for a little bit of nothing and more minutes on your data plan.

You can order tickets, check your homework, take your tests, find out what your friends are wearing to school, learn about tornados, crime, or gun toting, rampaging homicidal school shooting crazies. All of it received, processed, and believed instantly.

You are  CONNECTED!!!!!

The problem is what you are connected to is not experienced. The warning of Monti’s “experience” is that something is lost when it is not touched, wrestled, grieved, and lived. How can a romance be lived without touch? How can great loss be lived without sudden separation? How can love be lived without connection? They had a “romance” and never touched. He “lost” his true love and never participated in any ceremonies of grief; no reaching out to other survivors to share the burdens of grief.

Gene Roddenberry, that soothsayer who gave us Star Trek and thereby such great future insights like cell phones that flipped open like a “communicator”, tried to warn us in one of his episodes. In the Gamesters of Triskelion Captain Kirk and company came upon this collective consciousness that did away with bodies a few millennia before the Enterprise’s arrival. The collective kept a few tractor beams around grab Kirk and some crew and have them do battle to provide stimulus for their oversized brains. Read it in Wikipedia. It’s all there.

The point being. . .  Well I’m not quite sure. Oh yeah. It is better to experience life. Connectedness is messy. It will hurt. There will be discomfort. But it will be a bit easier to know the hoax when you see it.

Take care.

Roger.

 

 

This just in from Dr Chris Krowel, non-tenured assistant Purdue Professor. "this man has no micro muscles to move. No one believes him.