I Didn't See That One Coming.

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. We have finally had two cold mornings back to back and the insect world has taken it on the chin. The one cold morning in October damaged the little buggers but the subsequent mild temperatures let them up off of the mat. These were evolved insects. Their stupider brethren had died off long ago. They knew that the respite from the cold was temporary. They along with the mice were headed indoors. How did they know that indoors was the only place to come in from the outside? I do not know. But there they were loitering around the front and back door waiting for that opening, letting them buzz into that constant 70 degree weather. Or so they thought.

Actually, they were actively seeking their own demise. Once inside, they had to dodge the fly swatter. Yes, we are old school in the Sharritt household; no toxic chemicals for us. The lovely Miss Beverly and I arm ourselves, with the trusty swatter, against the winged invaders.  As with all great athletic feats, the secret is in the wrist. You have to keep it limber. Poise the swatter above the fly, cock the wrist, take a deep breath, let it out slowly and pull the trigger firmly and decisively. The goal is to stop the swing just as you reach the surface. Any more is over kill, and is going to leave a greasy mess on the table. No, kill the fly and wipe it to the ground.

This extended run of glorious weather has made the perfect setting for the harvest and bike riding. I have a favorite road. It is narrow and winding and some up and down. During the fall, the overhanging foliage is a cave of red, gold and stubborn greens holding on to their photosynthetic lifeline. I find it soothing to ride through this cave. It is interesting that while I get comfort from riding down this road, I have a cousin close in age and, during our formative years, close in geography. He found this road absolutely horrifying. He always thought that snakes wandered the branches above and at any second one would drop out of a tree onto the tractor that he was driving an kill him. To each their own.

I have to admit to a guilty pleasure of fall riding. That is squishing wooly worms. I know that I said I wanted to stop squishing them a couple of years ago in the pages of this very blog. That year while riding in the Hilly Hundred, I must have squished 50 of them in Southern Indiana. The superstitious part of me started to believe that the cold weather later that winter was nature’s retribution. So I glibly promised to stop the wanton killing. But this fall once again, they were crawling across the road. They were trying to get to greener pastures after their current field had been harvested. While their legs are many, they are also very short. If they just had two longer legs, they would be able to see that the field on the other side of the road was just as bear. With that foreknowledge, they would not have been out in the road while I rode by. However, that is not the way of the world. They do have short legs. The did not have foreknowledge of harvested fields across the road. They did slink out to the middle of the road, and . . . Squish, squish, squish, let it snow, snow, snow.

We are down to the last few fields to harvest. In our area, they are mostly part time farmers who can’t afford to keep the mechanical miracle of a combine running with any reliability. In this new age of agriculture, you would be hard pressed to find a combine more than three years old on any farm. I just got on the internet and found that I could buy a used 2014 John Deere for $330,000. They do throw in a hat with it for no extra charge. So this machine has been through the 2014 and 2015 harvest. There is a farmer out there who crunched the numbers and determined that it was cheaper to buy a new one rather than take the time and expense to replace the hundreds of bearings chains and belts all with no guarantee that sometime in 2016 a bearing will go out leaving him stranded in the middle of the field. Yes, in today’s agriculture, time is money.

The small farmer cannot afford that kind of capital outlay to afford even a slightly used combine. It would take them about a million years to pay off a $330,000 combine harvesting 200 acres of corn. So often they wait and then approach one of the big farmers who isn’t tired of riding around in his combine yet, and they custom combine the small farmer’s crops for a few dollars an acre. A good deal for everyone involved.

Please don’t think that the big farmers have it made, riding around in their $400,000 rigs. First, they have to push those rigs around a lot of acres to make the payment on that much green. Which brings me to a question that I have been pondering for a few years. How in the world do big farmers remember where their farms are? There are over a thousand farmers in Indiana farming acreage of more than 2000 acres. These farms are not in one big field. No they are spread out hither and yon; across several counties in many cases. I would just lose track. I know that they use GPS and have maps. But I know that I would lose track around acre 1756 and just quit for the year. What’s 46 acres between friends?

This loop hole makes me wonder if there isn’t an opportunity for the aspiring farmer wanna be. We need to come up with a date in November when once it expires all fields become public domain. Sure it can change, just like the deer hunting season can change. If there are a lot of deer in a year, the DNR extends the season some. An extended season means more deer taken from the woods. I am sorry for the digression but a week ago during my early morning bike ride, I came around the corner near my house only to find an 8 point buck standing in the middle of the road loitering under a street lamp. Obviously, the assassin deer are feeling frisky this year. I aggressively pedaled toward him and he scampered off like the coward we all know him to be.

See I told you they were out there.

The dates would work in reverse. Some years the harvest proceeds more smoothly than other years. The weather is the determining factor usually. Dry years the harvest is done earlier. You could make the free for all as early as election day. Other, wetter years the harvest is delayed and so should the harvest free day. Let’s push it back to Thanksgiving. Then release the hounds. That way you would not have those unsightly fields of forlorn corn all broken off; a sanctuary for hundreds of assassin deer. Nor would there be rank upon rank of stubby soybeans standing defiantly against the rising snow. Although you don’t have to worry assassin deer being sustained in the bean field. They would never be caught dead eating tofu.

Once we get the day of “free for all” established then the real fun can begin. The biggest current challenge that I see is farmers know which fields they have to harvest because they logged the planting of those acres with a GPS and computer combo way back in the spring. A system so precise that once they have driven over the ground, a farmer can replant or harvest it by pushing a button, taking their hands off of the steering wheel and relaxing and reading the paper or taking a nap. Self-driving vehicles have been here for a few years. Google is way behind John Deere. Although to be fair, the challenges for Google are much more daunting. If you were to set a car or a baby stroller in the middle of the field, the combine would run right over it. Its technology is simply following a line on a map and there is no detection of boundaries or obstacles. If the field got 100 feet shorter because you built a house in the corner during the summer, the combine would be harvesting in your living room that fall.

Yes, the GPS - computer combination is simple, and elegant, but stupid. Utilizing that stupidity is where my ingenious plan comes to fruition. We simple give the North Koreans a few hundred bucks and have them hack the John Deere computer system. You could easily wipe out 10% of the memory of farm fields from the farmer’s database. The “Free for All” date would be established. The calendar would turn, and viola, we can all be thieving rotten scoundrels.

Wow, I didn’t see that one coming. What I thought was a great plan for taking a little bit of corn, still standing in the field, away from the assassin deer suddenly turned dark at the end; thieving rotten scoundrels. I did not see that one coming.

Isn’t that the way with the world? Not having the height or proper perspective leaves us blind to the other side of the road, so we go crawling inch by inch toward that greener place only to find it just as desolate, if we are lucky or squished if that idiot on his bike rides by.

Take care

Roger

Self Control of Halloween

Dear Blog Reader.           

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. We are turning to the end of October. The remnants of hurricane Patty will soaked us last Tuesday and Wednesday. Thankfully the shingles were secure on the roof and we were okay. I must admit that the rain was appreciated here in Sharritt Land. I have spent much of the last three months toting a hose around the garden in an effort to keep the greens growing. I am glad to report that the arugula, mizuna, chard, and lettuce all look great; the spinach not so much. I believe that I was using some old seed and spinach seed does not age well.

While this contrary farmer is planting clover and rye cover crop to take advantage of some warm weather and some rain in spite of the shortening day length, the rest of American Agriculture is busy wiping the slate clean. They are nearly done now. The big famers have not only pushed their combines across the acres like giant erasers; they have also taken advantage of the dry weather to erase all of the corn stalks and bean stubble from the scene. It is an amazing transformation. I am not here to comment on the wisdom of exposing your soil to the wind, snow and rain for the next six months. Some say that the winter landscape can benefit from some patches of green cover crop. It does my heart good to think that the oxygen generation will continue for those rare sunny November days and get a bit of a head start next March, and I like seeing a patch of winter rye and alsike clover getting established and knowing that there will be green emerging when the snow melts.

Who knows? With El Nino brewing away out in the Pacific we may have some photosynthesis in February. I hope not. I vividly remember three years ago (that’s my motto “Keeping forgetfulness at bay since 1962”) when we had the very warm winter and many of you removed the flannel sheets in March. Suddenly, the apple trees, sensing the portent of warmer weather, started to bloom only to be nipped in the bud by a three day freeze in early April. Thankfully, all will be revealed in the fullness of time.

I love October. I love the way that it makes you wait until the very last day to enjoy its major celebration; no early days off for good behavior like September’s Labor Day, no unseemly impulse control issues like January, celebrating on the first day and just a week after the last big celebration. Sure, December, May, and November make you wait for most of the month. But October is an unyielding task master making you wait until the very end.

It is trying to teach us valuable lessons. Natural consequences, that best teacher of all, shows us that good things come to those who wait. How many first week of October Jack-o-lanterns have melted by mid-month on the porch, their orange gapped tooth grins turning to black grimaces of horror? “I’m melting.” How many bite sized Snickers bars have been gobbled down long before the goblins and ghosts arrive to be disappointed by smarties and candy corn on the 31^st. It is sobering to realize that your lack of impulse control will cause so much sorrow as you wake up from your coma sitting on the couch, surrounding by snicker’s wrappers, a thin line of brown drool tracing down your chin. Better luck next year sparky.

But October must become very frustrated as a teacher. While it is unyielding in desire to make us wait and to develop patience to become more temperate in our lives, we often rebel. Thousands of pumpkins are sold the last week before Halloween as replacements for their sad saggy brethren being hauled off to the compost heap. I have been eating Halloween candy at work since mid-September. I have learned to wipe my chin thoroughly after waking up on the couch. Very few adults are showing any kind of impulse control while choosing costumes. Parts that have blossomed with age and calories and have been tastefully disguised in vertical stripes and layers are suddenly being displayed loud and proud. It is all very frightening.

And tonight we shall release the hounds in the annual blood lust of trick or treat. Millions of pounds of candy will be redistributed this evening. Garbage bags and pillow cases will be filled. We used to like to send the kids out early, have them bring back their candy and augment our reserves. We all know it is too much. How can 15 lbs of Snickers bars be good to you? As I typed that last sentence, my pancreas started crying in the corner. When I was younger, it would have broken into a Scottish brogue screaming, “I can’t do it Captain. No way to create that much insulin. It can’t be done.” My brain would have screamed back, “Dammit Scotty. You have to. These are Snickers bars and I am going to eat them all tonight. No way is my sister going to get her hands on them.”

We know it is obscene. We know it is too much. We dread the thought of the little sugared up monsters coming home and having to be wrestled into bed. It isn’t their fault. We created them.

As with every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Thank God Newton was so smart. I have come across a new phenomenon to combat the largess of the season; actually, 2 phenomena. I developed one and the other I choose to argue against.

I love the candy tax. I rationalize it that it taught our children valuable life lessons. Nothing in life is free; now you know the pain that I feel with my pay check; it is the way of the world, you are going to have to get used to it. The plan is simple; go trick or treating, pour all of your candy out on the kitchen table, divide it into groups of ten, I get to choose one piece from each group. Yes, I get to choose. No pile of smarties for me. I get all Snickers. And there you have the candy tax. Sure, the kids scream it’s not fair. I agree. They are paying a 10% tax. The people who bought the candy paid as much as 25% on the money they earned to buy the candy, 6% on the sales tax, 3 to 5% on the property tax so that they would have a door for you to knock on and scream “Trick or Treat”, and 12% for the social security tax so that they will be able to continue to finance your candy stealing in their old age. You’re absolutely correct 10% candy tax isn’t fair. It isn’t but it is the way of life. Get used to it.

As usual my suggestions for life’s little conundrums are a bit harsh. There are people who believe that children should spared the cruel realities of adulthood. You can understand. It is a compelling argument. Taxes are a scary concept for a 3 year old dressed up a Freddy Krueger. Yet caring, sensitive, parents know that their children should be separated from as much candy as possible for the sake of their poor little pancrei. Necessity is the mother of invention. I have a co-worker who, faced with this situation, went searching for a solution. As with all of modernity’s solutions, it was to be found on the internet. It is a book. This book sensitizes guileless children that the witches are in desperate need of candy but that they will exchange a toy with the child for their candy on Halloween night.

As Goebbels once said “when one lies, one should lie big, and stick to it. They keep up their lies, even at the risk of looking ridiculous.” To that end the authors have created an “elf on the shelf” type doll that the parents can use to repeat the lie for 30 days. Thirty days of operant training will probably have your kids drooling just like Pavlov’s pooches as they hand over their hard won loot for a rubber ball and some jacks. It shouldn’t take more than a session or two on the couch to get your children over the lies you told them growing up. Maybe you can get a two for one discount for Elf on a Shelf and Witch on a Shelf.

There you have it. All of you Frostians at your fork in the road. Which path to choose in your parenting wood? Should I lie or bully them into behavior that they should choose? That is often the problem with quick and easy parenting advice. It relies on coercion rather than recognizing that parenting is a long road of constant urging, encouragement and correction. And just like October, you are going to be pretty frustrated with the results.

Take care

Roger.

My Brush with the Academy

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I know that it has been three weeks since I last put my missives in electronic form for the eyes of the world. I have been busy. It is the first time that I have had a three week vacation from writing. I thought that I would have plenty of time to write last week. The lovely Miss Beverly and I spent last weekend with friends at a rental house built into the side of a tall dune in Beverly Shores, Indiana; a scant 200 yards from the shores of Indiana Lake. Yet, the weekend slipped away; time sitting on the beach, time going out to fine dining, time playing games in front of a fire place as the temps outside fell quickly during the evening.

Thankfully, people looked at their calendar instead of their thermometers when making decisions about how to spend this weekend before the day we pause to pay homage to the Capitol of Ohio. By not paying attention to the thermometer, we were left with a wide open beach and balmy 75 degree weather. It wasn’t warm enough for swimming but I wasn’t going to do that at any temp below 90.

We certainly have pushed the first frost date of fall around this year. The tree color has suffered but my greens garden has flourished. With the help of a little plastic and some hoops, I may have arugula for Thanksgiving. I look forward to it. It was close; this race with Jack Frost.

Each fall, the lovely Miss Beverly and I play a game of chicken with the first frost. Every year on August 1, we plant 500 sunflowers and sit back to see who will blink first. The sunflowers are a 75 day variety, but they seem to sense that time is short and usually get the job done in the 61 days allotted. With frost coming nearly two weeks later than usual this year, the sunflowers came, saw and even produced nice seed heads for winter aviary consumption.

While the sunflower frost chicken game was uneventful, the fall has not been without high drama in the garden. We have been too busy to bring in basil and cilantro. Bev makes a great curry sauce with basil, cilantro, garlic, onions, and cumin. She uses it in a couple of yummy dishes. The recipe calls for copious amounts of basil and cilantro. I had planted a couple of rows late in August. It had not grown very fast with all of the dry weather. It was getting close but so was the frost. I thought that we were sunk on Wednesday morning. The frost wasn’t on the pumpkin but this far out from the big city heat sink the frost was on the top of my car as I left for work. Thankfully, the frost didn’t make it all of the way to the ground. A trepidation filled trip out to the garden after work showed that we had barely been spared. So it was out with a knife and a plastic bag for some harvesting. An afternoon of hard work later the lovely Miss Beverly has a winter’s supply of curry sauce safely and a bit ironically in the freezer.

 

In unrelated news, I have had occasion to help with the youth of America’s homework. The reason for this close encounter is complicated and unimportant to the theme of this entry into my blog. So don’t worry about that. Two weeks ago, I came across two assignments that have given me pause. The assignments have been part of packets that were sent home to be completed over the course of a week in an attempt to convince the youth of America to not procrastinate; to show that a little bit of work each night is easier than a last gasp effort on Thursday evening.

The first pause inducing assignment had a man holding up a sign that said the following:

VOTE FOR STEVE JONES FOR MAYOR.

STEVE IS HONEST.
HE IS SMART.
HE HAS LIVED IN THIS TOWN HIS WHOLE LIFE.
STEVE WILL MAKE OUR TOWN SAFE.

Then the youth of America were given a series of statements that they were to agree or disagree with based only on the information provided above.

1. Steve would not make a very good mayor.
2. Steve is the best person for the job.
3. It is important to have lots of money to be mayor.
4. People want to feel safe in their town.
5. Steve does not like the old mayor.

After reading this tripe, it was all that I could do to instruct the youth of America not to respond HTFWIK. There is no information there. It is basically a tweet by someone who may not know anything. Why would the academy try to show that tweeting is a good basis for making informed decisions about anything? Of course, it is the kind of communication that the youth of America know about. However, I thought school’s purpose was to teach us things that we didn’t know.

Steve may not be honest. He may have paid this poor schmuck to tweet out this message for $15. This poor schmuck may not have been a poor schmuck but a local celebrity to which Steve paid $1500 for his endorsement. We don’t know if Steve likes the old mayor or not. He doesn’t call him any names in the post. We haven’t seen if Steve has written any scathing letters to the editor calling the mayor a repugnant, money grubbing, pedophile. There is no opinion expressed about the old mayor. For all we know the old mayor is old and is retiring from his many years of selfless (and low paid) public service. For all we know, Steve may want to give millions of $ to an NFL franchise to move to town, so he can make sure that the city has a suite where he and his cronies can watch the game in comfort.

The thing that gives me the most pause is this is what public life has become; a series of tweets with no depth of thought or analysis to the situation. It is not an indictment of the academy. It is an indictment of a society that chooses to make public discourse a hashtag for solution. An indictment who’s most egregious charge of lazy, shallow discourse was embodied by the picture of the first lady holding up a sign saying #bringbackourgirls. That was a year and a half ago and to date none of the girls kidnapped by Boko Haram have been returned or rescued. Can you imagine the horrors suffered by those girls and their families? Yet we feel like we did something.

The second assignment had the youth of America use their imagination to invent a scary monster that had super powers and would unleash those super powers on a defenseless community. The assignment went out of its way to say that the monster could be humanely trapped and taken away. It would not be killed or harmed in any way. I mean the assignment went way out of its way to communicate this message.

It is a bit ironic that free public education will be replaced by paid psychological sessions where the therapist will help the adult patient kill those old irrational fears that were humanely trapped in the youth of America’s mind many years earlier. Isn’t there a thoughtful way to teach that the scary monsters in our head should be killed, banished, trussed up like the wild nasty vile things that they are and done away with? I can guarantee you that given enough time to grow and ripen they will not go quietly into the night. They will gnaw at the wires of your humane trap and demand to be released because “you are hurting me.”

It isn’t like the youth of America aren’t learning to kill the enemy in HALO, or Assassin’s Creed. There is plenty of killing going on. It just strikes me that the adults want the youth to learn that off by themselves; away from the adults where uncomfortable questions will have to be answered.

In that vacuum of teaching, we let the weeds grow. Not uprooted by critical thinking, those weeds flourish unchecked, choking out the facts and insights that will permit learned, mature development which could someday lead to a race well ran against a “frost” that has no intention of humanely trapping us.

Take care.

Roger

Manifest Destiny's Child

Dear Blog Reader,

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The world spun on its axis recently and a truth that was beaten out of me has been re-established as true. Once a long time ago, a very long time ago, I was forced by a well-meaning educator to adjust my world view and accept, through a coercive grading regime, what I at the time thought was obviously wrong. We were learning about countries and borders. As any child would notice, I figured out that not all countries are the same size. As any competitive child would have noticed, the USA was larger than the evil Soviet Union. For all of those in your 20’s and younger, the USSR was the country who had the US targeted with their InterContinental Ballistic Missiles. Fairness dictates that I point out that we had our missiles aimed at them. So it wasn’t like we and they were not following the Golden Rule.

Being a second grader, I intuitively knew that size mattered, and that while staring down your nemesis in a game of mutually assured destruction, bigger was better. You could imagine my shock that any teacher could be certified when they could not make the visual spatial comparison of the obvious. The United States of America was larger than the USSR. She was none too pleased that a mere 2^nd grader could so patently show her the error of her ways. I am guessing the Mrs. Gesundheit felt the same kind of inferiority when little Albert Einstein corrected her regarding the relations between energy, mass, and the speed of light.

I was patient. Our country was called the United States of America. The size of North America was bigger than the USSR. Mrs. Torrence told me that North America contained both America and Canada. What? What nincompoop let that happen? It was called North America not North America and Canada. Sure there wasn’t much happening in Canada past the southern 100 miles or so except herds of reindeer. Who knows? In a great conflagration with the evil empire, it may have been the reindeer that turned the tide; releasing a Vixen could have had devastating effects on those Russian commies. Then we could have unleashed Rudolph’s red nose on them and it would have been game over.

I was heartened three years later to find that second grade Roger understood more than he knew when in fifth grade I learned that other great Americans thought that Canada should be annexed through the Monroe doctrine. For those of you saying “huh, the Monroe Doctrine, Manifest Destiny? We didn’t talk about that in school.” I pity you for your lack of education. I suppose that you can have binge watching House of Cards on Netflix as a substitute teacher.

In the end, like Monroe I had to give up the idea of a United States extending from the Rio Grande to Santa’s workshop. It is a shame when the political will expends itself before one’s destiny is fulfilled. Then last weekend 46 years later, I was reading the international news in Flip Board and this headline caught my eye. “Chinese General: “Of course we have the right to build islands in the South China Sea. It has China in its name.” God love his little commie heart. He did not succumb to the strictures of an onerous grading system. He simply had his teacher killed in the Cultural Revolution and suddenly he was getting A’s for such stellar thinking. Rather than bend to the will of his teacher, he broke her and was able to start looking for a really big dredging machine to fulfill his Machiavellian schemes.

I would condemn the Chinese General for being an imperialistic goon, and wag my finger at him and go tsk, tsk, tsk. He should know better. Sure I thought that the United States of America would include all of America. However, I was in second grade. I got over it. He should get over it to. I would condemn his egotistical, center of the universe way of thinking, but then I realized that we all live in glass houses.

It hit home as I was reading another newspaper article recently. In last week’s Indianapolis Star, they were desperate for news. So in the life style section, they had an article answering the age old question “What if James Dean had lived?” Which is a little stupid. Of course he lived. I suppose they meant what if James Dean hadn’t been killed in an automobile accident 60 years ago at the tender age of 24 (not very catchy but more accurate.) The question was posed to a variety of people of no particular importance. It was good to see that a cousin and a high school classmate were asked. At least they knew him, had spent time with him. As a result their hypothesis seemed the most plausible. “He would have continued to make movies,” said one. The other, “I think he would have stayed in show business.” People who knew him thought that he would stay in his world of make believe not a world of make believe of their own design.

But when the same question was posed to those who didn’t know James Dean the person; only knew James Dean the persona, the answers flew off into flights of whimsy. According to some, he would have taken movie roles away from Dennis Hopper in Hoosiers and have been the God Father instead of Marlon Brando. He would have come out of the closet at age 80 “like his good friend Jim Nabors.” A closet, which according to the internet, whose door was not completely shut even in a more circumspect time of the 1950’s. Others thought that he was going to be the next Paul Newman and worry more about race cars than acting as he aged. The oddest prediction was that he would have beaten Ronald Reagan for the Presidency. Of course that would have put him in his early 50’s for the first presidential run. He would have had to put his political career into over drive to go from Rebel Without a Cause to the Oval Office in 25 years.

It intrigued me that when describing James Dean’s destiny, others were merely proposing what they wished to be true. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. One wisher said that James Dean would have pushed through the Gay Rights Act in 1966 just two years after the Civil Rights act got African Americans off the back of the bus.

Why don’t we realize that destiny is really wishing? Dangerous wishing since manifestations of destiny are wishes of people who have set themselves at the center of the universe and projected their wishes out to the ends of time and imposed them on all of God’s lessers.

To know the design of the world is a practice we all participate in. However, it is a game that should be left to 2^nd graders. It just seems safer that way.

Take care.

Roger.

Sweet and Crisp

Dear Blog Reader.

Well we went and did it. We let summer get away from us. You have spent entirely too much time reading this blog and not finding the cure for cancer, or discovering the secrets of teleportation. You could have become a fairly good marathoner for your age group, grown the biggest pumpkin at the state fair, or hiked the Appalachian Trail. However, you have chosen to fill your time reading this blog. You might as well validate the decision and become a follower of this blog. Go ahead and hit the button to the right and declare to the world that you would rather be entertained with odd ball observations of life. You will join the ranks of the thirty other followers of “You Said What, Roger?”

Summer was rolling along without any problems; highs in the 90’s, lows in the 70’s. Suddenly, it rains, and we have to go scampering for the sweat shirts and jackets. I hope that you were blessed with a found $5 bill or $20 bill that was abandoned one day last March or April. Aren’t those the best? It makes you wish that you had a 90 degree day so you could go to the ice cream shop for a double flavor of the day in a waffle cone. So you decide to leave that $5 bill in the pocket and wait until that first warm day of spring when you will go out and get yourself a cone.

Yes, we have turned the corner. We are headed towards fall. The days are shorter but at least there exist honey crisp apples. I sometimes wonder it honey crisps are God’s way of distracting us from the shortened days.

“Oh no the days are getting short. I am moments away from seasonal affective disorder.”

“HERE HAVE A HONEY CRISP APPLE. EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY.”

“Oh my gosh that is so crisp and good. I love these apples. What are they called?”

“HONEY CRISP. THEY ARE GOOD. AREN’T THEY? WE ARE PARTICULARLY PROUD OF THOSE. THEY ARE THE PERFECT BLEND OF SWEET AND CRISPY.”

“Yeah, what was I worried about? OMG, these are good apples.”

“THANK YOU. IT IS NICE OF YOU TO SAY.”

Why is it that so many bible stories center around apples and distraction?

Last weekend, we had a wonderful opportunity to spend time with family friends whose young daughter tied the knot. It was even more fun because yours truly was invited to help cut up watermelon for the reception. I quickly harkened back to our wedding reception. While cutting up the thirty watermelons, the lovely Miss Beverly and I realized that we must have given away a ton of watermelons at our wedding. I had shared my misgivings with the father of the bride when informed that a mere 30 were purchased for 275 people. As recollected in a recent blog, the Lovely Miss Beverly and I had 100 melons for 300 people. After this most recent watermelon endeavor we still had seven melons left. So using the same proportions, we probably gave 65 melons away to well-wishers.

The ceremony was beautiful. The vows were beautiful. It is always interesting to see the things that the young put into their vows. Love is young and bold. Promises are made. The reception was fun. As the lovely Miss Beverly and I have matured, we have enjoyed the anniversary dance more and more. It is interesting. The pace of moving the couples off of the dance floor based on marital endurance is leisurely at the beginning. “Those who have been married less than a day, a year, two years, five years, and ten years. Then the deejay panicked, he had 2 minutes left on the song and the dance floor was still crowded with old coots and coot-ettes, enjoying the strands of “Stand by Me” and dancing really close. In an effort to clear out the love birds, the countdown jumped to 35 years, then on to 45 and finally fifty. What’s the big hurry? Skipping through those tough years, it was like someone had put banana peels on our walkers and we were sliding right off the dance floor.

 We were down to the final two couples; grandparents of the bride and grandparents of the groom. Then there was one. The grandparents of the bride had been together for more than sixty years. That was amazing. We are barely half way there. I cannot imagine how well I will get to know this lovely in 30 more years. Who knows? We may find a way to short circuit the fight that we have where I don’t include the Lovely Miss Beverly in decisions about the farm. We may come to some agreement about living on the farm or moving to town in a smaller house.

The hurried pace of clearing out the enduring couples gave me pause. Did we make the young folks uncomfortable? Were we unattractive? I am sure that I didn’t mind giving short shrift to the old fogies when the lovely Miss Beverly and I tied the knot. We were just paying lip service to the old ones. Thankful that they had contributed to the towel and toaster fund, let’s get on to more fun things. Now I see that they had tried to provide much more. We put up with firm handshakes from uncles and hugs from aunts. But from this side maybe I should have thought to ask are these vows too much or do they ring a little empty. What was that “as gold refined by fire so our love will be tested and made more pure?” I am sure that Nanny or Aunty Mid would have encouraged use to ask for a little less fire and a few more cool iced teas on the porch.

How much would we learn by giving those married for fifty years the microphone and asking a few pointed questions? How do you make it work? What happens when she won’t help with the housework? What do you do when he wants to change you? You thought you were fine while you were dating. How do you recover from the personal tragedy of a miscarriage, a sick or dying child? How can you stand that he is a worrier about everything? How did you ever get her to save for any rainy day? I hear that she was quite the spender back in the day. What caused you to lose faith in him? How did you rebuild your faith in her?

Certainly, you wouldn’t want to ask all of the old ones out on the floor after 40 years. Some of us don’t age well. Some of us turn moldy and rotten instead of gaining a rich patina of age and maturity. They are easy to see and easier to ignore. The others? You would think that they would have good advice to give if asked.

What would the answers be? “Of course we were too young. We just held on. I looked at myself and changed the parts that would make me a more loving person. I let her wash her own cloths and dishes. Those were hard times. I am not sure how we made it through them. We were just both so sad. His worrying prepared us for some things that allowed us to spend all of that money on your wedding present dear. He made some pretty dumb decisions. I decided that I liked her once. Those things were still there. I decided to like her again.”

“I promise the world to you my love. Will you love me back?”

“HERE HAVE A LOOK AT THIS LONG LONG MARRIAGE. IT MAY HAVE BEEN TOUGH BUT LOOK AT HOW SWEET AND CRISP IT IS.”

“Oh my gosh! that is so good. They have ripened well. How did they do that?”

“OH THEY WERE MARRIED. IT IS GOOD ISN’T IT? WE ARE PARTICULARLY PROUD OF THOSE. THEY ARE THE PERFECT BLEND OF MATURE AND GIDDY.”

“Yeah, what was I worried about? OMG, a good marriage is possible.”

“THANK YOU. IT IS NICE OF YOU TO SAY.”

Take care.

Roger

Sweet and Crisp

Dear Blog Reader.

Well we went and did it. We let summer get away from us. You have spent entirely too much time reading this blog and not finding the cure for cancer, or discovering the secrets of teleportation. You could have become a fairly good marathoner for your age group, grown the biggest pumpkin at the state fair, or hiked the Appalachian Trail. However, you have chosen to fill your time reading this blog. You might as well validate the decision and become a follower of this blog. Go ahead and hit the button to the right and declare to the world that you would rather be entertained with odd ball observations of life. You will join the ranks of the thirty other followers of “You Said What, Roger?”

Summer was rolling along without any problems; highs in the 90’s, lows in the 70’s. Suddenly, it rains, and we have to go scampering for the sweat shirts and jackets. I hope that you were blessed with a found $5 bill or $20 bill that was abandoned one day last March or April. Aren’t those the best? It makes you wish that you had a 90 degree day so you could go to the ice cream shop for a double flavor of the day in a waffle cone. So you decide to leave that $5 bill in the pocket and wait until that first warm day of spring when you will go out and get yourself a cone.

Yes, we have turned the corner. We are headed towards fall. The days are shorter but at least there exist honey crisp apples. I sometimes wonder it honey crisps are God’s way of distracting us from the shortened days.

“Oh no the days are getting short. I am moments away from seasonal affective disorder.”

“HERE HAVE A HONEY CRISP APPLE. EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY.”

“Oh my gosh that is so crisp and good. I love these apples. What are they called?”

“HONEY CRISP. THEY ARE GOOD. AREN’T THEY? WE ARE PARTICULARLY PROUD OF THOSE. THEY ARE THE PERFECT BLEND OF SWEET AND CRISPY.”

“Yeah, what was I worried about? OMG, these are good apples.”

“THANK YOU. IT IS NICE OF YOU TO SAY.”

Why is it that so many bible stories center around apples and distraction?

Last weekend, we had a wonderful opportunity to spend time with family friends whose young daughter tied the knot. It was even more fun because yours truly was invited to help cut up watermelon for the reception. I quickly harkened back to our wedding reception. While cutting up the thirty watermelons, the lovely Miss Beverly and I realized that we must have given away a ton of watermelons at our wedding. I had shared my misgivings with the father of the bride when informed that a mere 30 were purchased for 275 people. As recollected in a recent blog, the Lovely Miss Beverly and I had 100 melons for 300 people. After this most recent watermelon endeavor we still had seven melons left. So using the same proportions, we probably gave 65 melons away to well-wishers.

The ceremony was beautiful. The vows were beautiful. It is always interesting to see the things that the young put into their vows. Love is young and bold. Promises are made. The reception was fun. As the lovely Miss Beverly and I have matured, we have enjoyed the anniversary dance more and more. It is interesting. The pace of moving the couples off of the dance floor based on marital endurance is leisurely at the beginning. “Those who have been married less than a day, a year, two years, five years, and ten years. Then the deejay panicked, he had 2 minutes left on the song and the dance floor was still crowded with old coots and coot-ettes, enjoying the strands of “Stand by Me” and dancing really close. In an effort to clear out the love birds, the countdown jumped to 35 years, then on to 45 and finally fifty. What’s the big hurry? Skipping through those tough years, it was like someone had put banana peels on our walkers and we were sliding right off the dance floor.

 We were down to the final two couples; grandparents of the bride and grandparents of the groom. Then there was one. The grandparents of the bride had been together for more than sixty years. That was amazing. We are barely half way there. I cannot imagine how well I will get to know this lovely in 30 more years. Who knows? We may find a way to short circuit the fight that we have where I don’t include the Lovely Miss Beverly in decisions about the farm. We may come to some agreement about living on the farm or moving to town in a smaller house.

The hurried pace of clearing out the enduring couples gave me pause. Did we make the young folks uncomfortable? Were we unattractive? I am sure that I didn’t mind giving short shrift to the old fogies when the lovely Miss Beverly and I tied the knot. We were just paying lip service to the old ones. Thankful that they had contributed to the towel and toaster fund, let’s get on to more fun things. Now I see that they had tried to provide much more. We put up with firm handshakes from uncles and hugs from aunts. But from this side maybe I should have thought to ask are these vows too much or do they ring a little empty. What was that “as gold refined by fire so our love will be tested and made more pure?” I am sure that Nanny or Aunty Mid would have encouraged use to ask for a little less fire and a few more cool iced teas on the porch.

How much would we learn by giving those married for fifty years the microphone and asking a few pointed questions? How do you make it work? What happens when she won’t help with the housework? What do you do when he wants to change you? You thought you were fine while you were dating. How do you recover from the personal tragedy of a miscarriage, a sick or dying child? How can you stand that he is a worrier about everything? How did you ever get her to save for any rainy day? I hear that she was quite the spender back in the day. What caused you to lose faith in him? How did you rebuild your faith in her?

Certainly, you wouldn’t want to ask all of the old ones out on the floor after 40 years. Some of us don’t age well. Some of us turn moldy and rotten instead of gaining a rich patina of age and maturity. They are easy to see and easier to ignore. The others? You would think that they would have good advice to give if asked.

What would the answers be? “Of course we were too young. We just held on. I looked at myself and changed the parts that would make me a more loving person. I let her wash her own cloths and dishes. Those were hard times. I am not sure how we made it through them. We were just both so sad. His worrying prepared us for some things that allowed us to spend all of that money on your wedding present dear. He made some pretty dumb decisions. I decided that I liked her once. Those things were still there. I decided to like her again.”

“I promise the world to you my love. Will you love me back?”

“HERE HAVE A LOOK AT THIS LONG LONG MARRIAGE. IT MAY HAVE BEEN TOUGH BUT LOOK AT HOW SWEET AND CRISP IT IS.”

“Oh my gosh! that is so good. They have ripened well. How did they do that?”

“OH THEY WERE MARRIED. IT IS GOOD ISN’T IT? WE ARE PARTICULARLY PROUD OF THOSE. THEY ARE THE PERFECT BLEND OF MATURE AND GIDDY.”

“Yeah, what was I worried about? OMG, a good marriage is possible.”

“THANK YOU. IT IS NICE OF YOU TO SAY.”

Take care.

Roger

One, Two, Three, Go?

Dear Blog Reader.           

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I received quite a surprise two weeks ago. I started writing one blog and another came out. It was a very nice one if I do say so myself. I had intended to write about riding a tandem bike with the lovely Miss Beverly. It might be better to say learning to ride a tandem bike with the lovely Miss Beverly. As I started writing two weeks ago, it had been on my mind.

We had gone on an excursion in southern Indiana the weekend before: 32 miles in hilly Brown County. As we turned our Subaru with our tandem bike in the back, onto the back road leading to our start point, we were faced with a huge downhill followed by an equally daunting uphill. The lovely Miss Beverly said “That’s a reality check.”

Reality before that moment of clarity had been several 8 mile rides on the flats around home. We were game and plucky. We were committed to riding the 32 mile “Nuthugger” route of the Tour de Upland. Yes, that Upland. The little brewery that could in Bloomington Indiana. They were in the vanguard that thought that they could carve out a niche and brew beer better that the big boys. They seem to be very popular and keep expanding the store.

I am afraid to say that they are not good at logistics. In retaliation for the disappointing experience, I am encouraging everyone who goes to their wonderful Bloomington store to take a Subway sandwich with them. Go ahead order your favorite Upland Brew, pull out your cold cut combo special and enjoy. If the wait staff seems indignant, simply respond with two words. Tour de Upland. Or is that three words. It’s so hard to tell when southern Indiana hillbillies mistaken think that they are a distant cousin of the greatest annual biking event in the world. It matters not. Those two or three words will shut them up. I know that it may make little sense to you. But isn’t it better when faced with a complex issue to shout out a couple of words in solidarity with the cheated? I digress.

That’s right. The lovely Miss Beverly and I are gingerly taking baby steps into the world of tandem biking. It fits our styles of riding very well. Actually, it makes allowances for our different styles very well. The Lovely Miss Beverly is all about the event, the rolling hills and trees opening up to grand vistas through a valley, a concert at the end of a long day of cycling, meeting new and interesting people while sharing a meal with them. Her goal for the next RAGBRAI that we participate in is having a roadside stop with free beer each day and asking those who stop one simple question. “How did you learn to ride a bike?”

I am all about the road, the next crank of my pedal, getting up the next hill coasting down the other side. While on RAGBRAI, I saw the following slogan on a jersey. “Who needs a Reason, Just give me a road.” That is me. I have been scouring the internet trying to find that jersey. It is why I don’t mind riding at 5:00 a.m. in the dark. I really don’t need to see very far in front of me to get more road which is what drives me.

So a tandem allows us to pursue these two very different pursuits in close proximity. It keeps us moving forward toward a common goal from two different directions.

Tandem riding has proven pretty challenging. After thirty years of marriage, we could justly be accused of taking certain communication patterns for granted. You can’t do that on a tandem. You have to be very clear. You have to be very clear in advance. You can’t say coasting the same second you decide to stop pedaling. There is nothing more jarring as you get ready to push down hard with your left foot as your partner with the same mechanical advantages had decided to stop. Such actions result in gritting of teeth, saying “I’m sorry”, and pledges to do better next time. The same goes for trying to gut it out a little too long. If you are experiencing discomfort in the nether regions from the bike seat, it is much better to say something than wait for your partner to tell from your body language that pedaling needs to cease immediately so that butt realignment can take place and the pressure be relieved. It won’t take a moment. However, it is impossible for your mate to know. Neither of you can see the other’s face. You are both concentrating on pedaling, the road, and staying upright. ESP does not work.

Tandem riding also is not conducive to meaning something other than what you say. I am bad at this. I confess. A perfect example occurred on Tour de Upland. In our short riding practice, we always start by putting our left feet on the pedals at the bottom of the stroke and taking three quick pushes with our right feet to get enough speed to stay upright as we scramble to get our right feet on the pedal and our butts on the saddle and starting to pedal. “Go on three, one, two, three, up.” I actually have a corollary playing in my head. “Go on three, one, two, three, up, (unless we don’t have enough speed according to my internal gyroscope and then it is four, five, or six. Whatever it takes to meet the gyroscope threshold and then up.)

It appears that the lovely Miss Beverly is a literalist. Go on three means go on three no matter how the laws of gravity will be violated without proper speed. We were struggling up a hill early on in the “Nuthugger.” We had to stop. The start was required on the uphill. As captain, I thought that we could make it (on five or six.) “On three” I said. One, two, three, Bev jumped on the pedals. I held my left foot still at the bottom stroke desperately trying to will the lovely Miss Beverly to turn the page to the obvious corollary. It was not to be. Stuck in some weird physics problem of vector analysis and center of gravity overload, we went down into the side ditch.

Did I say that this was in the first mile of the 32 mile “Nuthugger”? Yes we were not off to a very auspicious start. Maybe getting a tandem wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe, we couldn’t communicate well enough to pull this off. Two head strong people fighting for pedaling superiority. My inner voice flashed to when we picked up the bike after buying it on Craig’s list. “My fiancé and I got this so that we could ride together. She went to law school and we don’t have time to ride anymore.”

The lovely Miss Beverly kindly asked “when’s the wedding?”

After a few awkward moments, the response came, “we’re no longer together.”

It does give one pause. Is our tandem cursed? Did it cause their break up? Will it come between the lovely Miss Beverly and me?” Not to worry. We made it. The lovely Miss Beverly was very gracious to being spilled on her tuffet. We got better as the day went on. We got over walking up the really big hills. And yes go on three really and always means “one, two, three, go.”

As the lovely Miss Beverly and I like to say, the road to a lovely marriage in an interesting journey.

Take care.

Roger