Let's Make a Deal?

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am doing fine. It was like a collective sigh went up; a great disturbance in the force on Tuesday. As Obi-wan said, “I felt a great disturbance in the force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.” We only received snow showers but the wind was cold and biting. Our friends in the Northeast had to face a full on winter storm that bordered on a blizzard. Even now, on Saturday morning, the white fluffy stuff is falling from the sky as I type in front of a space heater wrapped in a quilt, trying to get these ice cubes that I call my feet thawed out. When will it ever end is our collective petition. Many of us have entered the bargaining phase with our higher power. For some that higher power is God; others mother nature, still others Jim Cantore. I have a theory that our higher power is pushing back. “So you say you’ll stop cussing and go to church if winter just ends. Well after another snow storm, I’m guessing that you will promise to become a missionary. I think that I’ll wait.”

Who are we kidding? We all enter into those negotiations with our fingers crossed. Our intentions are good or at least benign. We really want winter to end. We need to let the sun shine on pale arms while wearing a T-shirt. We yearn to let the wind caress our toes through sandals. I am the biggest offender. How many times in the pages of this very blog have I said that winter was nearly over? Six weeks from Ground Hog’s day was a whisker’s width from warmer times and peas sown in the garden. I was in there offering platitudes and b.s. to the downtrodden. I could defend myself by saying that I was only trying to bolster the spirits of the masses; folks desperate for warm weather.

It’s a lie. I am desperate for warm weather. I have unfriended everyone heading to Florida for spring break. I know that they will post pictures of sunsets on the beach. I don’t need that. It will only increase my grief. It is like Job’s friends showing up in their fine robes “encouraging” him with “bummer about the sack cloth, ashes, and boils dude. What you need is a travel agent and a good dermatologist.” Grasping for straws; I even went out and bought $30 worth of garden seed is some delusional frenzied belief that all spring needed was a little jump start. That’s right. Its battery was a little low. If I hooked up the jumper cables, suddenly, the sun would shine and I could start my annual quest for an Amish child garden. (Several of last summer’s blogs speaks of the Amish child garden phenomena.)

Why do we bargain and grovel with God or any deity of your choice (depending on your preference) when let’s face it most of modernity is pretty fuzzy on what they believe? Why do we throw up these incantations when in certain circles a pretty fair percentage of mankind believes that the weather is man made? Here we go again, attempting to have our cake and eat it too. If the weather is man made, someone better come back from vacation, sit down at their control panel, and flip the switch. No need to bargain with the man; he just needs to do his job or get fired! We make fun of the ancients; making sacrifices to the sun or winter gods, dancing naked on the vernal equinox, or paying attention to the predictive capabilities of large burrowing vermin. “They are so unsophisticated. It is a wonder mankind survived to be as evolved as we are today.” Let me tell you, right now, I’d offer up my neighbor’s goat in a heartbeat if there were antidotal internet proof that it had worked once in the past 50 years.

The most curious bargaining chip that I continue to encounter is the “I won’t complain about the heat no matter how hot it gets this summer.” Why not? We are suffering now. When it gets above 85 degrees and 60% humidity, we will be suffering then too. In fact if the evening temp isn’t at 65 degrees or below by 9:00 in the evening, I am going to complain about being uncomfortable as I try to get to sleep. Why give up the right to complain to whatever about future suffering just because the current suffering has been so pronounced and continued for so long. The two events are unrelated. It would be like promising not to complain about cutting your finger off in the wood shop because you had complained so grievously after hitting your thumb with a hammer twice. One should not forfeit the right of the secondary complaint just because the reason for the primary complaint left a bruise.

Besides, isn’t all of this promising just a little bit of sophistry? Can’t we believe in a God that has figured out that the churches are still pretty empty after 2000 years of bargains and still the sun shines? Or it will someday . . . God willing.

Take care,

Roger

I was happy when?

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Today is a big day. As I start to write, it is early Saturday morning. I hope to write until daylight, and then get on my bike and start the serious work of 80 miles. This will equal one half of the Ride Across Indiana ride that will be happening in July. I am excited and a bit scared. 160 miles in one day is a greater challenge than any I have faced on a bike. One of the questions old people are asked from time to time is do you wish that you would have done anything different. For me it will be one thing when I get asked that impertinent question by some whippersnapper. I should have ridden across Indiana when I was 21 years old. That would have been easy peasy.

As I have been out riding more, I have encountered more and more of nature. The glowing eyes of raccoons and opossums have been tracking me from the side of the road. Last Wednesday evening, I interrupted a herd of does having a baby shower for the next generation of assassin deer. That’s right. I came over a rise in the road to find 8 pairs of eyes staring at me from the side ditch. The ensuing panic sent deer running every where. If they ever shift from flight to fight, I am a dead bicyclist. A look at the calendar shows that the next generation of my enemies will be hitting the ground in about 8 weeks. It appears that the go to gift for fawn showers is the Propeal antler sharpener; “as seen on TV.”

The hunt continues for the Malaysian flight. If you are a passenger on that flight and are violating the no electronic devices rule and reading this blog, send me a text; “Oli Oli In Come Free.”  You have been hiding long enough. The news coverage is getting out of hand here. The lack of information has created an information vacuum and as everyone knows nothing fills a vacuum like stupidity; well that and the little beads from a bean bag chair that has exploded after trying to body surf across the kitchen floor. It is hard to fill the time of wall to wall coverage with; “it still has not been found.” I admit that last week I offered a bit of speculation as to what happened. My thoughts about its disappearance being rapture related generated a couple of interesting responses. The best was “I never thought that heaven’s population would be skewed so heavily to the Asian race.”

After listening to two weeks of speculation, I am sad to say that my rapture bit isn’t that far out of the mainstream. I have heard the Bermuda Triangle, alien abduction; the CIA stole it, terrorists, pilot suicide. The dumbest one by far is “could the disappearance have been caused by a black hole?” Really, Mr. Newscaster? That’s what is rolling around in your pea sized brain. You do realize that the gravitational pull of a black hole is strong enough that it sucks in everything; whole planets, galaxies, are sucked in by a black hole’s gravitational pull. Even light speeding by (at well the speed of light) can’t escape the forces exerted by a black hole. It would be more likely that Scotty was the engineer on that flight and he got the warp drive working at Captain Kirk’s insistence and earth was sucked in by the black hole and they escaped. Right now, the Malaysian flight is looking to land on Mars. Its passengers wondering “was I just left behind?”

Don’t you have to question the value of a humanities education when it leaves you with the impression that it is possible that a plane was gobbled up by a black hole lurking around Asia some place. I mean really at some point one has to consider unplugging life support in this case. There is no discernable brain activity.

I was sucked into a metaphorical black hole just last Sunday. You will remember that it was cold, gray and windy. I had just sat down in front of a little electric space heater, a quilt thrown over my shoulders. The warmth and the noise of the little fan transported me through time. One of my earliest memories is sitting in front of the dryer in the laundry room of our home. For some reason, there was a hole in the venting near its front that let warm moist air escape into the house. I remember spending hours in there. I remember the slight clunk of an out of round drum, the whir of the motor and the warm moist air enveloping me. I learned to tie my dad’s work shoes there. Practicing the loop, loop, over, under and through over and over until I could pass kindergarten. Maybe I had to learn to get into kindergarten. I don’t remember. I would mourn when the cloths would get dry and became very excited when using a stool, learned to turn the knob and add more time.

As I grew older, and became useful on the farm for bucket feeding calves and other chores, the visits to the dryer became fewer and farer between. That is when I found the chair in front of the bulk tank cooler. It was an aluminum lawn chair with green and white webbing that sat in the milk house. For warming effect and mesmerizing mechanical noise it was a stealth bomber compared to the biplane of the dryer.

The bulk tank cooler was a heat pump that through the application of gas laws, using Freon, compressors and two huge fans would cool 300 gallons of 100 degree cow’s milk down to 36 degrees in about 3 hours. It was a serious example of the laws of thermodynamics. It also created a lot of heat, but it was a dry heat. For those humanities educated newscasters, a black hole came down and sucked all of the heat out. That heat, the wind blowing across your body, and the mechanical noise of the vacuum pump and pulsators from the milking equipment all combined to the perfect resonance for who I am way down in my core. In my core, I am an introvert. I am a day dreamer. I like a bit of background noise to sooth my slightly autistic tendencies. I loved sitting in that chair.

I loved it so much that my dad spent years chasing me away from there, giving my tasks to fill the time, so I wouldn’t be found there feet propped up, day dreaming, or napping. He rightly knew that discipline and ambition when not naturally present were lessons to be taught and learned. He was persistent and at times frustrated by my persistence. A kid asleep in a chair wasn’t going to feed very many calves. Over time the lessons paid off. The time in front of the heat became a reward and a not a right.

I am grateful for that lesson. I am living the dream. I am married to the lovely Miss Beverly. I have lovely well adjusted kids, a good job, and good home. I am blessed. I am blessed like I never would have been blessed if left to sit in front of those fans to while away the time. And you know, some day when that young whippersnapper asks me when I am 149 years old, “when where you happiest?” I will say “when I was sitting in that chair in the milk house.” It was nice to visit last Sunday.

Take care,

Roger.

Hey! That's My Time!?

Dear blog reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am getting better by the day. The days are getting longer and a bit warmer. Slowly we are climbing out and up. Within the next four weeks, my next installment of tree seedlings will arrive. It is always exciting to plant something that will mature in the last chapter of my life. As these oaks turn 100, I will be tottering out there on my walker and my remote control chainsaw. How cool will that be? Hopefully, I can trick my great, great, grand children into stacking the split cords of wood for a scoop or two of ice cream. The thought of rank upon rank of promised BTUs slowly accumulated over the span of the last 2/3 of my life always makes me smile.

I had another epiphany this past week. As the time approached for the great time heist, known as daylight savings time, I figured out that I no longer have to play this game. Just because Uncle Sam says jump, I don't have to respond "how high sir?" Let me tell you that is liberating. I have pondered on the problem for a long time. I considered moving, protesting, legislative action, succession, armed revolt. All either seemed useless, senseless or feckless.

My frustration peaked again this week as I thought about giving an hour of sleep over to the authorities. Suddenly, the solution presented itself after I had fretted and worried. One night tossing and turning, exhausted; I gave up. I cleared my mind and the solution presented itself. Like a burning bush in the wilderness, my brain said “you don’t have to play their game.” So, I am not going along with daylight savings time. I am leaving my clocks alone. I am not springing forward. I am putting masking tape over the lower right hand corner of my computer.  Another piece of tape is going over the upper middle of my Ipad and Iphone screens. I am free of the tyranny.

I am living in the world though with people who have not seen the light. The first person in any parade is lonely; wondering if anyone will follow. But you have to take that first step and see who will follow. In order to show the world what a great idea this is, I am meeting it half way. I plan on going to everything an hour earlier than I did pre-DST. I went to church at 8:00 a.m. this week. I am thinking about changing to the Methodists. They meet at 9:00 a.m. now. I am going to arrive at work every day at 7:00 a.m., and plan to enjoy leaving at 3:30 every afternoon. (or is that every aftereleven.) Supper will be a bit early at 4:30. But one must stay disciplined and be ready for bed around 8:30 because that 4:00 wake up alarm waits for no bleary eyed dreamer.

The lovely Miss Beverly thinks that it is a great idea. However, it will not work in her situation. She is an early morning exercise enthusiast. The idea, of getting up at 3:30 a.m. to get to the Y for a 4:00 session of Bosu or an Insanity strength session, is . . . well, insane. So, we will be a house divided; a house observing two different time zones. It will be like in the bad old days in Union City, Indiana/Ohio. Those houses which straddled the state line when Indiana was an independent state and did not observe DST lived in a state of duality 6 months out of the year.

All of this prattling about DST has revealed yet another epiphany. On Sunday morning as I was waiting for the time thief to arrive and reset my clocks, I was sleeping fitfully. I was up every 15 minutes looking at my phone. Has it happened yet? Has the ghost of Steve Jobs traveled down the internet to steal an hour of my sleep? How does he get to all of the houses in the world in one night to complete his appointed rounds? It’s just like Santa; only Steve does it twice a year.  He taketh away and giveth back.

While waiting on this theft in the night, it struck me in blinding clarity. DST is just a mini rapture. Instead of a major overhaul of the space time continuum, the government just messes around with an hour here and an hour there; no forever folded in upon itself. My exposure to the rapture predates all of the “Left Behind” franchise by Lahaye and company by 30 years. My exposure came in the fellowship hall of Fortville Christian Church watching “A Thief in the Night.” Pre-CGI special effects; this movie depicts Ford Pintos weaving back and forth as they became driverless going down the interstate. The sincerity of the pre-rapture, post tribulation, the world’s going to end so you better be ready, crowd at church was appreciated. They were in a struggle for my soul after all. The depiction of planes falling from the sky, driverless cars and empty pulpits on Sunday, was a persuasive tool for a 16 year old.

(Speaking of planes falling from the sky, do you think the Malaysian plane was a rapture dress rehearsal, or was it the real thing. Did God get all of the chosen on one plane in Asia and then pulled the curtains shut on this old world? It makes you wonder.)

In the end though, it was all just too confusing for me. Being a simpleton, I didn’t understand the jargon. So I just gave up caring and went on to pursue more important things like dating.

Lying there Sunday morning, keeping a constant vigil, it struck me that if I dislike these mini-raptures so much, how much complaining will I do when the real thing comes? “Ummm, I’m sorry God. I really hate to complain but I have been training for the Ride Across INdiana all summer long and now I don’t get to ride in it? What’s up with that?” Or “Excuse me. Yeah over here, what’s with this rapture thing now? You made me go through the entire winter and just when the tulips are about to emerge and life is about to resume you pull the plug? Why not November? Wouldn’t right after the big turkey dinner; me being all thankful, and sleepy; wouldn’t that be a much better time. No thinking about it, after Christmas would be better. I already have all of those Christmas presents bought. Plus, I was hoping for a new carbon bike this year.”

Some how over my fifty years, I have decided that time is mine to manipulate and control; to bend to my will; to use or waste as I see fit. All of the time is mine and you have to let me have it in the increments that I deem appropriate. In my brain, I have climbed to the top of the mountain, firmly planted my feet at the summit, hands on hips, jaw jutting out as I survey all that is mine and declare that I am the time god. Even if it’s a delusion, it’s good to be king.

Take care.

Roger

 

 

Despair on the corner of Happy and Healthy?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am on the mend. My health has been a bit rocky the past three weeks. I have not been my usual robust self. I have a theory. I believe that the doctor who performed the colonoscopy three weeks ago must have been the spawn of Lex Luthor. Upon seeing the Superman qualities “colon of a 20 year old”, he jealously left behind a trace of kryptonite. In the intervening weeks, this green glowing outer space element has been sapping the strength from me. This sapping has left my constitution a bit weakened. First, I succumbed to a really bad sinus cold and then this week I came down with . . . with . . . “male pattern baldness.” Thaaaaaat’ssss right. Let’s just say that I had a really bad case of “male pattern baldness.” So bad in fact, it was untreatable.

So buckle on your reading glasses. Sit back and prepare to be amazed as I regale you with my trials and tribulations trying to find a prescription for “Rogaine”.

On Thursday, I woke up and looked into the mirror and said “Egads, I appear to have come down with a mild case of “male pattern baldness” overnight. My appearance now makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.” By the end of work, what with being around people staring at me, hearing their snickers as I passed, once swearing that I hear a whispered “old baldy”, I had decided to be proactive and seek medical attention. I wasn’t going to tough this one out. Besides, things had proceeded from a bit uncomfortable to “darn that hurts my feelings.”

I phoned the lovely Miss Beverly and told her of my plans. She suggested that I stop by minute clinic. They had helped her with a similar situation a couple of years ago. It is hard to believe that the perfection that we know of as the lovely Miss Beverly ever suffered from a thinning pate; she with the thick and gorgeous raven hair. No problem, “male pattern baldness” isn’t brain surgery after all, I’ll go to minute clinic

Using all of my internet savvy, I found a Walgreens on the way home. “Walgreens at the corner of Happy and Healthy”, the corner of Happy and Healthy is just a couple of blocks off of my usual route home. And look there, it appears you would have less than a 30 minute wait. This is not bad for the cure for “male pattern baldness”, which if left unchecked might leave me a feverish ball, curled up on the bathroom floor sobbing after finding clumps of hair on the brush.

Well let me tell you the corner Happy and Healthy has its trash picked up in the alley of Despair. I go in. I see only one person in the waiting area. Great! I sign in on the kiosk. Yes, I can pay. I am no doctor, but I am sure that “male pattern baldness” is a minor illness. I mean I can still go to work. It isn’t contagious. I didn’t need an ambulance for transport. Yes, I am here for treatment of a minor illness. I pressed enter. I looked up at the waiting room screen. Roger Sharritt is second in line. Cool. I walk over to the waiting area and take up a seat well away from the woman who is suffering from a major illness from the sound of that hacking cough she has. She is going to throw a lung if she isn’t careful. I sit down, pull out my ipad and I overhear her say “that’s weird; I was first on the waiting list now I am third.” That is weird, and stupid and a poor way to deal with customer service. It appears that like a five star restaurant, you can make a reservation at the corner of Happy and Healthy.

How un-American is that? If I wanted to make a reservation, I would have called my regular doctor and made an appointment. It has always been survival of the fittest in the clinic waiting room. Americans know and accept this. You go in sign the paper and sit down with the rest of humanity in that putrid ark of contagion. You sign the paper and you know that you are 18^th, or 10^th or even (hallelujah) 3^rd. Even if you are 18^th, you have a little bit of hope. You look around the waiting room and you figure that there is a good chance 1, or 2, on a good day 3, of your compatriots aren’t going to make it. It is the law of averages. One or two of these poor souls are not long for this world and this line is too long. But at the corner of Happy and Healthy, you can get bumped by the unseen, the unknown gods of the internet. A little tip from your Uncle Roger, make an appointment. It appears that they will hold it for you so that when you come waltzing in for your TB test 5 minutes late, you are first in line. Yes the corner of Happy and Healthy has trash pick up in the alley of Despair. Now I am not making any crazy suggestions because it would be mean. I wonder what would happen, if all the friends of the blog logged on to different public access terminals and made reservations at the corner of Happy and Healthy completely randomly. No! Don’t do that, or at least use a fictitious name if you choose play around.

As you can imagine after waiting for an hour and a half, I was becoming quite crazed. The fever from my “male pattern baldness” was starting to affect my lucidity. But the door had opened; the angel of mercy had said “Roger Sharritt.” I was leaving the alley of Despair and going in the front door at the corner of Happy and Healthy. The nurse practitioner had some important information to get from me, my insurance card, my license, the answer to the question “why did you choose Walgreen’s?” Only searching for relief of my malady, I gave her my card, my license and my answer. “I heard that you had world class treatment.”

Appeased and a bit pleased, the nurse practitioner asked “so what’s the problem?” I like that-- short and to the point. No need to ask about the dog, the kids, no comments about the interminable winter, just, so what’s the problem? I took a deep breath and said “I believe that I have “male pattern baldness”.” She looked at me with wide eyes which I mistook for disbelief me being such a handsome man. She shook her head slowly from side to side and said “I am so sorry.” I briefly thought to myself that is the most empathy I have ever heard from a health care practitioner. I found myself wanting to change my answer. “I chose Walgreen’s because of how much you care.” Then her next words slowly registered. “I’m sorry we don’t treat “male pattern baldness”.” I confirmed what she had said by asking “What?” “We don’t treat “male pattern baldness”.”

The way that she said it led me to believe that they did treat female pattern baldness; which I had assumed since they had cured the lovely Miss Beverly, the woman of the thick and luxuriant raven hair. Sure enough, way down in the fine print they only treat female pattern baldness even through we are all created equal. I have checked it out with real doctor’s receptionists since.

Universally, two real doctor’s receptionists say that’s the stupidest thing that they have ever heard of. Rogaine is the answer. Besides if Rogaine isn’t the answer, I am not going to postpone follow up care. I doubt that I could have made it past day 3 of a 5 day script without some relief. I was starting to dread walking by a mirror just thinking about the grief my reflection would cause. If the Rogaine didn’t help, I would gladly go to the Mayo Clinic for follow up care and a possible a cure.

I was shocked and stunned when the practicing nurse said that she couldn’t help. Where was I, Arizona?  Walgreens can’t treat “male pattern baldness” on religious grounds? It’s just company policy sir. I hate to berate the underlings for company policy. With my composure and my hat slipping, I just said “I just waited an hour and a half for some relief from my “male pattern baldness”. I am just leaving before I make a fool of myself.”

“But sir.”

“Good bye.”

I left the clinic but somehow remembered that I was to pick up hotdog buns to compliment the lovely Miss Beverly’s supper. No problem. Drug stores have long ceased selling only controlled substances. Less than a quarter of the floor space in most stores is used to sell drugs. On the way in, I had seen that they had a well stocked grocery area. Alas, it appears that the corner of Happy and Healthy does not let the weenie man set up his weenie stand out front where he could sell most anything from hotdogs on down. Who know what happened to his dreamy weenie fiancé? I suppose that she is in the alley of despair. They sold no weenie buns. Don’t know the reference? Your parents should have sent you to camp, and you should send your kids this summer.

I drove home hat pulled firmly down over my head, gritting through the discomfort of “male pattern baldness”, completely bunless. What did it mean? Was I the victim of religious discrimination, cruel bigotry, medical ineptitude or bad market segmentation? I only know that it is a cruel world that forces a man to keep his head hidden while leaving his weenie naked.

Take care,

Roger