Triple Threat

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine in spite of the harrowing times we face. It is that time of year when things shift. It truly feels like the shift is being compressed this year. The weather has shifted a couple of weeks early. It was 70 a couple of days last week. If that weren't enough, the Wizards of Time thought that it would be a good thing move Daylight Savings Time to early March a couple of years ago. This exposes us to that YouTube video about the horrors of DST. You haven't seen it? Don't worry. Get a few more hipper friends on Facebook, and it will show up on a news feed near you. We also face that awkward moment when St. Patrick's day is in the middle of the week. It is a question of timing and propriety. "Do I go out a drink green beer this weekend, next weekend, or like a true Irishman do I go out and get a weeklong drunk on?"

Yes it is a week of tumult and tempest. We are tossed to and fro by these mighty forces arrayed against us. We are gripped in the madness of March. "Beware the Ides of March" could be restated as I'd rather just skip March. Like Caesar, we would be better off with out it.

Can you feel it? For me it is palpable. It is 70 during the day; 50's at night. I walk to the bedroom at night and look at the warm flannel sheets and I struggle. I don't want to wake up at 3:00 in the morning in a sweat. I know that the cotton would be cooler. Those uncomfortable moments can be a thing of the past if I just change out the flannel sheets. Then I despair. I know that the second the sheets are changed a cold front will slam through the northern plains and leave me shivering in the night catching my death and lingering a couple of months to expire in the month of May; our month of memories.

No, leave the bed cloths alone. Be a good example for the trees. They are on the cusp. They are nearly ready to release their buds. We are just a few degree days away from bud emergence. If that happens, that cold front that will leave me low will kill those young apples, cherries, peaches, and plums. I still remember three years ago when we had no apples. Driving by the Apple Barn looking at that fore lorn sign "Closed;No Crop." It may be best if I do succumb in May if I have to face another winter of South American Apples.

I had a young man perfectly sum up my feelings of DST this morning at church. Here is his picture.
As an eyewitness to the events leading up to the moment of this collapse, I attest to the fact that he was barely able to make it this far. And I was sad that propriety kept me from laying down too.


To all of you who feel this way, take a day or two off, go down to the local pub and get your Irish on early. I do feel for all of you leprechaunic sympathizers out there. Your posts have been the  the right amount of whiney. It sounds like you have trouble deciding if you should drink the weekend before or the weekend after. It sounds like the conundrum of the ages; right up there with "tastes great - less filling", paper or plastic, and Bernie or Hillary. With such a weighty question and our propensity to make decisiveness a negative attribute since a decisive person can not be a considered person, you do what any sane, considered person would do. You go out and drink both weekends. Good luck with that.

As the lovely Miss Beverly and I drive home from visiting Chris and Grace in East Lansing, I bask in the glow of getting away for a weekend. It was nice to get away from some of these concerns for a while. It is that bit of distance and the promise of better things to come that allows me to pen this limerick.


They say the Irish drink beer
I fear DST every year.
It still will get cold,
Or so I am told
I'd be okay if March weren't so drear.

The time, the beer, and the cold.
March as a month makes me old.
The relief that I seek
Give the sun just a peek
A year without March would be gold.

So yes, it's a March filled with madness
I gained weight I can't fit in my dress
The weather will turn.
My skin, it will burn
On the beach, this summer I'll de-stress.

It will be okay.

Take care.

Roger.

May I have this Dance: Part II

Dearest Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The grass continues to show a little bit more green out there. Hints of photo synthesis showing on the brown landscape of winter. I also noticed that the willow twigs were starting to show a bit of yellow, another sure sign that spring is coiled tightly waiting to be released. However, the live oak is fiercely holding onto last year's leaves like Bruce Springsteen holding on to his glory days. So sad.

Speaking of the past, I had the opportunity yesterday to remember an old blog. While old, it continues to be one of my favorites. "May I have this dance" was posted back in May of 2011 and was a glimpse of a cyclist couple riding by Sharrittland and the lovely Miss Beverly and I out in the yard overhearing their conversation. The glimpse showed how couples are always dancing. Go back and read it. It is one of my favorite blogs and yours too if you believe the number of hits.

http://yousaidwhatroger.blogspot.com/2011/05/may-i-have-this-dance.html

As I was saying, I came across a slice of life yesterday that reminded me of the dance. I have been in search of a joiner for my wood shop for several months. I have been scouring Craigslist and eBay daily for the perfect and cheap joiner. To the uninitiated, boards rarely have parallel sides. They start out that way when they are first cut. However, those internal stresses that they suffered through while they were out standing in the woods minding their own business are borne out in their afterlife while they are drying in a kiln. If they leaned left, in life they will lean left as they dry. If they were right leaners in the woods then their grain will twist right as the moisture leaves the wood and the wood becomes stable. (I do hope that our afterlife isn't the same. Or there will be a lot of fighting over the remote in heaven and hell's TV room; CNN vs Fox News for eternity.)

After the wood drys, the moving is mostly over and it is stable. It is ready to be turned into beautiful furniture. It is impossible to make good square furniture with boards that twist to the left or the right. So the first thing that the woodworker does in make the board flat, square, and true. They do that with a joiner. It trims off the high spots as you slide it along a long flat surface with a spinning blade. You run the board along the long flat surface and after a few passes all of the high spots are gone and you have a true side to base some parallelograms on and soon you can build that wonderful bedside table to keep your IPhone on as it recharges every night. And you thought that you would never use geometry after learning it in 8th grade.

So you can see, I was searching high and low of a joiner. I found the perfect piece of equipment. I emailed the seller and nothing happened. A few days later, I emailed again and nothing happened. That was strange. So I emailed a third time and finally got an email answering my question but not acting like they wanted to sell this joiner at all. Something was wrong. The purpose of Craigslist is to sell things (and from time to time lure people into tragic circumstances.) But even then, people are keen to make contact and complete the transaction. I was intrigued, and I had joiner fever. So I pursued my quarry. Finally, contact was made. They called. Actually, the wife called and it immediately became clear that we had two different agendas. She was ready to sell. He not so much.

So a date was made and I was able to walk into a beautiful dance. Our dance was set at a retirement village on the NW side. Retirement villages are those loose accommodations for those of us who believe the lie that it is all too much to take care of. So we downsize. We get someone else to plow the snow, cut the grass, and change the lightbulbs. By eliminating all of these chores and opportunities for over exertion, we are escorted on to the full care facility a step at a time until, like the frog in the gently warming water, there is no escape. I believe that the grim reaper is the perpetrator of the lie that you can "retire in style in our community." He came up with the lie because he was tired of tromping all over the place to collect his charges. Much better to get them all in one place, and put a gated fence around it. Sort of like a big game hunting farm for the grim reaper.

The soon to be former owner of the joiner and his lovely wife had downsized a year ago. As so often happens something gets in the way of the good life. He developed an eye condition and a year later is nearly totally blind. Near total blindness and power tools do not work well together. So it is time to liquidate the shop holdings.

As I drove up the dance began. Before Matt got out to the garage, Joni opened the garage door and encouraged me make an offer on any of his tools. I am confident that if I had offered $5 for the lot, I could have filled the Subaru with some pretty nice wood working tools. Matt having danced with Joni for more than 50 years knew that something was afoot. He came out and shooed Joni back into the house and got me focused back on the joiner.

"Yeah, we moved here and I was hoping to do more wood working. But my sight started to fail and I can't do much now. In fact, I just had eye surgery last week and I am not supposed to lift any thing." He said as he was moving four pieces of wood before lifting the 25 lbs planer off of the bench.

Fifty years of knowing her man, the lovely Miss Joni came back out of the house and caught Matt red handed. "Matt you know that you are not supposed to pick that up. Put it down. He can carry it." I could too; no problem.

It wasn't about who should carry what or what should be sold or if dust would get into the surgical sight and damage the doctor's good work. No, it was a dance of sorrow. A dance that started fifty some years earlier; a dance that wasn't always about sorrow. It was a dance that took them across the country chasing good jobs and raising two children that are my age; a dance that has 6 grandchildren who were taken to Honduras last month by Joni to save the sea turtles.  It is a dance that retired in North Carolina for ten years. Before the daughter and son in law brought them closer to Zionsville. The arc is closing.

The current steps are a dance of sorrow and loss. Matt may not be able to look at the lovely Miss Joni if he isn't careful. Matt having been a strapping straight backed 6'2" specimen of manhood now stumbles in the garage over things he can't see very clearly any more.  While he can't see the worry on her face, he can hear the worry in her voice. While she never had to do anything for Matt, she knows that she will if this surgery doesn't work. She knows that will kill her proud, proud man.

I wrote in that earlier blog that there were stumbles and stepping on toes during the dance. But I wrote as if those were all past. I wrote as if the lovely Miss Beverly and I had it all figured out. It is a lie. Life causes us to stumble and step on each other's toes. It keeps us off balance and unsure of our next steps, leaving us wondering how to figure it all out. But as Matt and the lovely Miss Joni can testify, that only happens if you stay close enough to keep on dancing together.

Take care.

Roger.

A little more vigilance at the end

Dear Blog Reader.
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. It has been a while since I have set down to a blank screen and a blank brain. Most of the time the posts have marinated in my brain for several days. Certain lines and phrases have assembled themselves and been edited for maximum literary impact. The goal by the time I get to the blank page is to stitch those lines and phrases together into a semi-coherent essay.

Is it any wonder that my brain is blank? I am sure that several of your brains are blank too. We are at the end of February; at the end of a weird winter; a little cold, a little warm, very little snow. We were fortunate. We watched as blizzards went to our north and to our south, lining up to hit those out east or last week, our neighbors to the North. Like all winters, it has doing its best to sandblast my mind. The weather isn't the only problem. How many dark winter nights can you scroll through your Facebook "newsfeed" without some mental atrophy? You sit there scrolling cursing your cat because it doesn't do any tricks that are viral worthy. That kind of mindless pursuit is going to leave a scar. It is going to scour you blank.

I have found signs and portents of relief on the horizon. I was out in the pasture field yesterday. Sharritt land has 180 acres of tillable farm land and 30 acres of permanent pasture. Permanent pasture is an old time farm term. Back before farming evolved (or is that devolved) into corn and beans, farms had wet spots that wouldn't support a tractor and plow, or hills that tractors would tip over crushing the farmer. Yes, farming had limits. There were places where no farmer could go. Farmers, being practical, didn't try to go where they couldn't. They simply put a fence around those spots and put their cows, sheep or horses out there. Sharritt land has 30 of those acres.

Permanent pasture has several advantages. The tractor and the plow don't get stuck in bogs and the tractor doesn't fall on top of you. If managed correctly, a permanent pasture can provide the farm with meat, milk, even eggs for years on end. A cow can eat the tall grass in the wet spots and can eat the grass on the side of a hill without falling on top of you. Permanent pasture does take some management though. Nature left in a natural state long enough will return to its intended state. Indiana's natural state is timberland.

I find it amazing that 200 years ago Indiana was covered in trees. There may have been some prairie and grassland on the western edge but our natural habitat is woodlands. Our farming ancestors went out every morning with an ax and started chopping. That is a lot of chopping to clear the millions upon millions of acres in Indiana. Those trees don't return when plowed under every year or when hit with a dose of herbicide. However at the edge of those fields where the plowshare can't reach, in the fence rows the trees make their comeback. In the permanent pasture, where the plowshare never treads and for me, herbicide is never sprayed, the trees come marching back. It takes constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance isn't a hallmark of Sharritt leadership. I believe that we have a secret desire to see the wilderness win. The problem is the first rank of wilderness invaders is represented by the honey locust. In a field of lush spring grass a cow is not very discerning between a blade of grass and a two inch oak sapling. So while the cows are running amok, no wilderness is creeping back. Nature figured out a work around. It sends in the honey locust. A short lived tree with enormous large thorns come in and teach the cows a lesson. The cow takes a bite. The cow moos and moves on. The thorn tree survives that first year. Over the years they invite their friends and provide enough cover for the maples, oaks and walnuts to get established. As these bullies of the tree world spring up and blot out the sun from their lesser thorny brethren, the honey locusts fade away. The dominant trees shoulder their way into the sunlight until Abe Lincoln shows up with his ax fresh from Kentucky to spend his formative boyhood years cutting trees into split rail fences to section off the permanent pasture from the cornfield.

As I mentioned, constant vigilance isn't a Sharritt hallmark. This is the second time that the honey locusts have nearly made permanent inroads into our pastureland. Forty-three years ago, my father and grandfather marshaled forces to nearly clean out the pasture. I still remember being sent out as a ten year old with 5 gallons of diesel fuel and a book of matches to finish burning heaps of felled thorn trees during the winter on Saturday mornings. I know that you are shocked. A 10 year old with 5 gallons of diesel fuel and a book of matches with no adult supervision on January, Saturday mornings, it was paradise. To think that we don't even trust 25 year olds with their own health insurance these days. The decline of civilization is upon us.

Yes, you read correctly. My grandfather and father nearly cleared the pasture of thorn trees. They may have left 20 on a hill a quarter mile away from the house. The weather turned. It was time to build fences in that 2 weeks between ground thaw and  planting I time. Those tress were left until the following winter when there would be plenty of time to wipe them out. That winter never arrived and the thorn trees have steadily marched their way across the valley. Taking 43 years to reach the back door again. So, I have got out the tree girdler and started working my way back. I don't have the time or the energy to attack them all at once. In order to keep a honey locust from growing back out of the same stump with four new trunks, you have to use a pretty heavy duty herbicide. It is the hydra of the tree world. Cut one head off and four grow back.

 I could glove up and use protective gear, but as I mentioned earlier constant vigilance isn't a Sharritt hallmark. Before you know it I would be using the same cup that I measured out the herbicide to get a drink of water. It is just who I am. I read someplace that you could girdle a thorn tree. It would die. The roots would die. No suckers would branch off of the trunk. The thorns would decay on the trunk and the bark would slake off within two years. By utilizing a little patience the lumberjack experience would be vastly improved. I have decided to give it a try. So yesterday on a lovely late February afternoon, I was out girdling thorn trees. While I was out there stripping an inch wide strip of bark and cambium layer off, I noticed that the multi-flora rose had broken its dormancy. It's stems were turning green and the start of buds were appearing.

We are still a long way off from spring. There are still snow flurries in our future. However, the flock of  robins in my front yard toward evening yesterday let me know that with a little vigilance on our part, this too shall pass.

Take care.

Roger

We Have a Winner

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. To those of you out East, get out the sled and enjoy your self. Don't worry about the snow shovel. That just sounds like work. Maybe you haven't been keeping up on your aerobic activities. Your core is a little weaker. Who knows you may be one shovel full of snow away from a coronary. No you should stay in. Hopefully, the neighbor ignored the admonitions of those who know that statistically, we rarely need a snow blower. Hopefully, they went out and spent lots of $ on a really big snow blower as big as a Mack Truck. They have been waiting patiently for 24 inches of snow. All you have to do is wait. They will come by. It is best to play hard to get. Of course this will mean careful planning and listening to the weather persons every time they predict snowmagedeon; every time a flurry is predicted 10 days in advance. Don't worry Costco makes it much easier. You have to build an add on to hold the 1000 rolls of toilet paper. But you don't have to run down the the grocery every time a storm is named. So much easier than the olden days when you had to go out to the coop to collect the eggs and the barn to milk the cow and the granary for some wheat to make the bread. No French Toast snow days are much easier in these modern times.

Speaking of spending lots of $, I am assuming that since you are reading this you did not win the 1.5 billion power ball prize. That is amazing. $1.5 billion is mind blowing. Of course I did not win either. I am in awe of the power of those huge lottery drawings. My economics training is twisted all over the place. When I buy it, the ticket is worth $2. When I hold it in my hand, it is worth $1.5 billion. After mid-night on Saturday, it isn't worth a thing. Except for three lucky winners, at midnight it was worth $1.5 billion and by Sunday morning it was only worth $500 million. The same little sheet of paper was all of those things. Almost as confusing as Christianity and the Trinity.

Of course I didn't win. If truth be known, I should not win. It isn't some ethos against gambling. I don't believe that I will burn for playing the lottery once every three years. Although I do think that there is a moral prohibition against gambling for the good of society. In all honesty, society has left the station selling addictions to the masses. Cigarettes, alcohol, chocolate, purses and shoes, come one come all. The profit margins are high and demand stays high also. We are addicted. How else do you explain $4 Starbucks coffee?

No, I don't deserve to win. I am too greedy. The first thought out of my tiny, greedy little pea brain after I found that I would be sharing my $1.5 billion with two other people (3 if I count the government's portion) would be how can I knock off those other two people or destroy their tickets so that all of the $ would be mine. If no one claims the $ then they aren't winners. Someone contact Facebook, "Would you kill someone for $500,000,000? What about $1,000,000,000 would you kill two someone's for that?" There are a lot of people who don't deserve to win $1.5 billion. I must admit that I have that character flaw. It manifested early in life. I should have been happy and content with the candy bar from Grandma, but I was plotting how to get my sisters' and cousins' candy bars also. Even today, I charge kids candy tax for taking them Trick or Treating. I have found that if want to emulate someone emulate the government pilfering abilities. They are experts.

I'll bet that there is a movie or book idea in the premise. A maniacal sociopath wins the lottery for $1.5 billion and finds that he has to share it with 2 other people. He then sets out to find a way to destroy the other people and or tickets to have all of the money for himself and not have the guilt pinned on himself. It could involve wild car accidents, breaking into safe deposit vaults. All sorts of plot twists and turns avail themselves. Go ahead and take the idea. It is not on my resolutions list for 2016. I am way too busy for that. I see Joe Pesci or Dany DeVito in the lead. I would mind Justin Bieber getting whacked in a crossover roll from his "music" career. You could make it darker and have Christopher Walken play the maniacal sociopath. That's it. You have to do part of the work. Have fun.

This character defect also manifests itself when it comes to going in with your office workers to buy a block of tickets. I can't stand the idea of sharing my winnings with two people. Why would I want to share my third with an additional 10 people. Oh my gosh, I break out in hives just thinking about it. What started out as $1.5 billion is now suddenly approximately $45.45 million. That will put a crimp in your Life Style of the Rich and Famous.

Speaking of story problems, who was the genius who came up with $1.3 BILLION / 300,000,000 CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES = EVERYONE RECEIVES $4.3 MILLION: POVERTY SOLVED? Did you "Like" it? Did you repost it? Did you say "yeah, I knew it was bogus that the math was wrong. I just reposted because I thought that it was funny that it was so wrong. When the smart kid posted it is only $4.33 cents? Oh sure now you are all about keeping your decimals straight. Yeah, Leroy you were only off 6 decimal places. What is a million times wrong between friends?

If a strong democracy is dependent on an educated citizenry then I fear for our democracy. Yes, those people who don't know a million dollars from a hole in the ground get to vote. Bless their souls, their hearts are in the right place. Poverty is so intractable. We have been warring against it since the 60's and yet the poor are still with us. It is a problem looking for a solution and some well meaning, mathematically and economically illiterate human being thought that they had found 1,500,000,000 solutions. A little bit of math and an appropriations committee and we would be rolling in the dough. It does defy common sense. Most of the contributors to the power ball mania are poor hoping for a way out. The lottery is one of the most regressive taxes that we have. It is the poor who are throwing the Hail Mary for riches. The rich have access to much less risky ways of making money. 1.75% for tax free municipal bonds may only return $0.0175 on the dollar but you multiply that by 1.5 billion and let's just say the rich aren't looking for a power ball retailer near you. That plus their $26 million a year is tax free. So stick with me here, in 50 years they will have earned a second 1.5 billion tax free and even with inflation they are doing okay.

So the poor who don't have two dimes to rub together are putting most of the money into the pot and suddenly through the magic of randomly generated numbers it turns into $4.3 million dollars for all of the poor and the rich combined? Come on people. Let's just say if you believed it please, please stay away from the polling booth on November 7th. (I know it's the eighth but we are talking about people who believe everything that they see on the web. I am doubling down.)

This lack of economic common sense and mathematical ability concerns me in the opposite direction also. If a segment of society believes that you can make 300 million people millionaires with $1.5 billion, I am guessing that a larger segment of society has no concept of how much each of them owe on the national debt. The national debt currently stands a little north of $19,000,000,000. That's $19 trillion. A little quick math and you all owe $63. Quick do create a meme. Get it out there on Facebook. "If we all just contribute 30 Starbucks coffees the USA would be debt free."

I'm kidding. 19 trillion has 12 zeros not 9. You all owe $63,000. See how easy it is to lose track. I might be able to swing it with the equity in the house and a few trips to the pawn brokers but my 5 year old nephew is screwed. Yes, we won't be paying that loan off any time soon, and you can take that to the bank on your way to the voting booth on November 9th.

Take care

Roger

Batting 333

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. Winter has arrived in Hoosier land. The temperature is supposed to dip its toe below the zero mark tonight. I suppose that I will not be riding my bike outside tomorrow morning. Zero with a 17 mph head wind would make for some pretty frosty toes and fingers. Every time the temperature dips towards the nether regions of below zero, I teleport back in time to 1990. My father had passed the summer before and I had come back to the farm for a weekend to help with the milking of the cows; giving others who had thrown themselves into the breech for the Sharritt's a break.

On Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., the temperature had fallen to 15 degrees below zero. Walking through the barn, the harsh incandescent light bulbs cutting through the steam rising from the cow's breath to the low roof of the barn; on its way to adding to the frosting of spider webs from the prior summer. The animals were chuffing as I extolled the virtues of getting at it for another day. As they would stand, they would take their morning constitutional; releasing a semi solid cow flop that would soon turn into a frozen solid ankle twister in the freezing barn at it too released its steamy breath to rise and cling to the strands of blown spider webs. The morning was without wind or clouds. The stars shining like jewels with no competition from the moon which must have decided to vacate the hemisphere for warmer a climate to the south. Outside the barn the ground was covered with snow, that would creak as you walked through it with feet layered in insulated socks, and muck boots that were not up to the task of retaining warmth in such frozen conditions.

As I am transported through that scene once again, I remember thinking two things. First, this is a dangerous kind of cold. Cold that desires to enter your nose and throat deep into your lungs with the desire to freeze your lungs in its cold embrace. These temperatures could kill a person. If I weren't careful or at least cognizant of my surroundings and what I was doing, the forces of nature would kill me. Second, I thought, "it is 47 degrees below freezing. I have always felt that freezing is the point where it is officially cold. I can run to the mailbox in a sweatshirt and sock feet above 32 degrees, but at that point, I take the time to put on a coat and real shoes. But 47 degrees below freezing is COLD. If the temperature was 47 degrees above freezing, I would be close to sweating at a balmy 79 degrees. My oh my, 79 degrees on a sun soaked beach with the deep blue ocean waves gently breaking against the shore.

So I won't be riding on a bright sunny blue sky'ed Monday morning. It will be a morning off on a 5000 mile 2016 road trip. As you may have recalled from a late 2015 entry and the Sharritt Christmas letter, I managed to ride 5001 miles in the year of our Lord 2015. A cold day in January is a fine time to sit beside an electric space heater and reflect on the attained resolutions of 2015 and those unsuccessfully chased. 5001 miles is a long way for me. Although there is a man from Florida who wanted to break the record of riding 75,065 miles in a year. Yes, that is correct 75,065 in 365 days. That is more than 205 miles a day. Which means in order to pay for my resting in a comfy chair by this sunny window, I would have to ride 410 miles tomorrow. It is mind boggling.

The story written up in Bicycling Magazine tells of the rider's dog days in July when he and his wife were suffering the doubts of assailing such a lofty pursuit. There were days when he could only ride 160 miles. That's right on his worst days he was riding as many miles as I can ride on my best day. I know because I once road 160 miles across Indiana in one day a couple of summers ago. It nearly killed me. I remember it with such fondness that I have convinced the lovely Miss Grace to ride the same ride this summer on a tandem bike.

No my goals were much more sedate. Last January, I wanted to ride 5000 miles in one year. I had an ace up my sleeve. I knew that in July I would be riding 480 miles across the great state of Iowa in one week. That would jump the distance curve. 10% of the total goal in one week. That makes it easy peasy. And so I road. Everyday making a most careful count of my rides; doing my best to come close to the 100 mile a week average that I needed to maintain. As the calendar turned from October to November, I knew that I had to pick up the pace. A blistering 150 miles during Thanksgiving week, with the extra days off from work, put me over the top and let me coast home with 360 miles in December.

However, as the daylight grew shorter and the weather worse there were some doubts on the horizon. I was telling the lovely and supportive Miss Beverly of those doubts about halfway through December. She graciously mentioned that it would be okay. 5000 miles was just a number. I had been dedicated through out the year. No one could accuse me of being lazy and unmotivated. "Take it easy on yourself. There is next year and you can go for 5000 miles then." She was right. I could ride 4900 miles and be proud of my accomplishment. It would be 250 more miles than my previous best year. It would be a great improvement.

I would have been okay with it except for the mental exercise of realizing that on December 26 I was only 100 miles from my goal and on January 1 I would be 5000 miles from by goal. I was never going to be closer. So I put my head down, got up on my seat and started pedaling the 101 miles that I needed that last week of December.

Sure there were a lot of goals that I did not make during 2015. I did not learn Spanish 10 minutes a day using duolingo while at lunch sitting in my car enjoying a very inexpensive lunch of leftovers and a can of soup. I did learn about el hombre and una mujer for about a week and quickly learned to take a 20 minute power nap on a consistent and daily basis. Would I have been better off expanding my knowledge of other languages, languages that care way too much about the gender of the noun when choosing your articles? Argh. Maybe. However, those naps were very refreshing and provided the extra energy that I need to make up for the lack of caffeine since I swore off Diet Coke 2 years ago.

I also had wanted to write one blog entry a week for the year 2016. I know that consistency in posting is very important in building readership. You have your rhythms too. You need to be able to expect the next blog to be posted on Sunday afternoon like clock work. That allows you to plan your week. Get home from church, do the cross word, procrastinate doing the laundry by reading Roger's blog. These are important rituals, and if maintained will increase the readership of these ramblings. It didn't happen. The Sharritt life became complicated by opening our home to helping a family through Safe Families as described in the Christmas letter, and poof, that schedule was thrown off by practices, games, and homework and a sapping of energy that was much easier to marshal in my 30's. So posts slipped to one every other week.

That's it. I had wanted to do 3 things in 2015. I managed 1 of them. True, hitting 333 would get me into the hall of fame if I were an overpaid man child playing baseball. But I am not. Life is full of choices. Riding 5000 miles, taking a daily nap, and doing the best that we could for a family in need were very important to Bev and I. So that is what got done.

That's it. Life is full of choices. Do your best, and don't let the cold weather kill you. Pretty good advice while sitting in a warm spot by a sunny window on a cold morning in January taking stock of 2015 goals and wondering what I will accomplish in 2016.

Take care

Roger

Sharritt 2015 Christmas Letter 2016 version

 

Dear Blog and Christmas Card Reader.

 



Nursing home committee

The Sharritts hope that this finds you doing well. We are fine on the cusp of the new year. The lovely Miss Beverly leapt into the 2nd of her 3 half-century time blocks, and we both like the view from our fifties. One of our favorite exercises when we lead a small group or study at church is to have folks draw a timeline of their lives and mark 5-10 events significant in some way to share with the group. Besides giving Roger a chance to recount his bitter defeat in the 8-year-olds 4H cookie competition, the exercise opens a window to zoom out on the big picture of life.  Ben, Grace and Chris continue to light up their worlds and make mom and dad thankful that they compose our future nursing home admittance committee. When we draw our own timeline, we start to glimpse our 85 year retirements (150 life expectancy - 65 retirement age = 85 years of retirement) slowly approaching. Just a fuzzy dot on the future timeline, but feeling the downward rush of gravity on this side of over the hill--enjoying the wind in our face.

We made a wide, sharpie-sized mark on our timelines this past summer becoming volunteer hosts for Safe Families, an organization that works with families in crisis outside of the courts and foster care system. Their philosophy is based on Biblical hospitality and restoring families.

 http://safe-families.org/

 

After the vetting process, during which Roger managed not to rub his hands together too gleefully at the prospect of a new garden workforce, we welcomed a family into our quiet, uncomplicated nest in September, soon followed by connections with their extended family and their community. We have many stories to share. The intersection of these many timelines has disrupted and enriched our lives in big ways.

 


Sometimes the intersection looks like this:

 

 

 

 

And sometimes it looks more like this:

 

Roger also stepped his toe across an important age milestone this year. In early July, his timeline inched past the length of his father, Lloyd's who died too young. It is milestone for most men when they surpass their fathers in any endeavor. Ben remembers fondly the day he grew taller than Roger. Roger certainly felt the sting of being eclipsed by Ben and did everything that he could to keep it from happening; including rubbing Ben's feet with shortening every evening before bed from 8th grade on. So at 53 years and 15 days, Roger took a deep breath and came out of his protective cave.

 

The Sharritt world expanded with an opportunity to grow produce for the church's weekly community dinner. The premise was simple. Every Thursday night the church would provide a free meal to anyone who would show up. Some lovely people stepped up to do the cooking and clean up each week. The lovely Miss Beverly and Roger had a vision that they could provide fresh produce weekly in season. After a nine year hiatus, Roger still remembered how to order bulk seed from the garden seed catalog. Bev encouraged temperance. Roger committed to the tilling, planting, and weeding. The lovely Miss Beverly agreed to do the thing that Roger does not like, which is picking. (is it any wonder the market gardening didn't work out? What farmer doesn't want to pick and get it to market?)

t took a while. The tiller and hoes had to be overhauled and sharpened, and glorious spreadsheets built for planting/harvest schedules. In May, we invited the kids from the after-school childcare ministry out to set out the tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash. True, the rows were a bit haphazardly spread throughout the garden, but Roger calmed down and we were in business.



There was also a bit of customer education to accommodate, as the menu prior to our contribution only included anemic vacuum packed bags of iceberg lettuce. "Yes, that dark green stuff is lettuce." By the end of the season, those eating were taking more arugula and mizuna greens mix than the iceberg stuff. The green beans with sausage and potatoes were a big hit. We were sorely reminded that it takes a lot to feed a village. By a lot we mean 40 lbs of potatoes and 60 lbs of green beans. Roger wanted to help the lovely Miss Beverly do all of that harvesting but agreements were agreements. She managed to corral some kids into picking with her, but for the most part, the good thing to do sometimes became the hard thing to do.  We had a bumper crop of delicata winter squash, but no matter the amount of education, winter squash casserole did not make it past the menu committee.

 It was also a great year for traveling for the lovely Miss Beverly and Roger. Memorial Day weekend had us piling in to the car for a 14 hour road trip to Dallas and our niece's wedding. We remembered vaguely that we could once get into a car and drive for a  28 hour round trip on a three day weekend. Our memories were fuzzy and incorrect. Brenna's wedding was wonderful. The torrential Texas rains stopped long enough to let the outdoor wedding take place. An hour with the massage therapist prepared our 50 year old bodies for the trip back home a bit wiser and committed to saving enough money to buy plane tickets next time.

June took us to Seattle for nephew James' high school graduation. Having learned our lesson, we flew to Seattle. We also took our time and enjoyed a week of vacation in the environs of the Pacific Northwest. We found a cycling tour guide and took a fantastic riding tour of Bainbridge Island. Our guide was living the life of biking through beautiful scenery for pay. He showed us a cove where our hearty forefathers had cut down trees, floated them through the sound and chopped them into huge beams. The one picture that he showed us was of a finished timber about 16 by 16 ft. He also had a very wry sense of humor. As we started riding after a brief stop for pictures of the Seattle skyline, he pointed out that the next hill was very "walkable" (translation: straight up and down.)  Mr tour guide was a bit of a show off as he rode up to the top, rode halfway back down to see that we were able to walk up the hill. Reconnaissance completed, he turned back around and rode the hill to wait on us.

Next, we explored San Juan Island. (I was very surprised that Puerto Rico was located in the Pacific Northwest. I guess there is no substitute for traveling). We waited on a pod of Orca that mocked us with their absence, strolled through a lavender farm on the verge of full purple, and ate a great meal on the island. The lovely Miss Beverly searched out a mountain hike to a serene Alpine lake an hour east of Seattle. The hike from the trail head was listed as moderate and about an hour long. These things are relative. In hoosier land compared to our Turkey Run or Brown County State Park trails, it would have been considered a defcon 5 and hold the nitro glycerin tablets by my fellow elephant-ear-eating midwestern kinsmen. However, the view of the lake surrounded by snow melting peaks was a balm to my tired feet and weary limbs. The lake had the clearest purest water that Bev and Roger had ever seen. It was amazing. We may never see a more beautiful sight in our next 100 years and that would be okay.



Our third trip of the year took us to Iowa. In late July, Roger, Ben, Chris, and the lovely Miss Beverly decided that it would be good to ride across the great state of Iowa. Over time, I continue to search for opportunities to participate in big rides. This year we set our eyes on RAGBRAI. (Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa). Imagine 20,000 people hopping on a bike, stopping every few miles to drink beer to be followed a few more miles down the road to water the first few rows of the nearest corn field. (We had plenty to choose from it being Iowa and all.) The lovely Miss Beverly agreed to be Support and Gear for the ride. Chris, Ben, and Roger would not have made it without her tearing down the tent, washing the breakfast dishes, driving to the next town, finding the nearest Y with shower facilities, setting up the tent, getting supper ready. She was fantastic. 480 miles across Iowa on a bike, in a week. It was so much fun.

All of those great vacation memories and we still weren't finished. Our expanded family expanded a little further with a trip to a rented house at the Indiana Dunes on beautiful Lake Indiana. We met Kelly and Kevin Moe, explored the local sites and restaurants and sat on the beach. It was Columbus Day weekend. Thankfully everyone looked at their calendars and not their thermometers and we had the beach nearly to ourselves and the balmy 70 degree weather.

Bev took a creative journey last spring on a challenge from niece Cyndi Rae and nephew Jon. She did the 100 day challenge of choosing a creative pursuit (using the hundreds of fabric pennants from the Kozak wedding) and making something new or at least work on something each day. Her favorite projects were making jester hats for the dogs, and this crib quilt for a former intern's 4th baby.

What a great ride for the year. As our timeline stretches into our middle 50 years, our line looks more like a tree with branches through the garden, a visit at family milestones and and rejuvenation with beautiful scenery. It was a road that led Roger on 5001 miles riding a bike and the lovely Miss Beverly on igniting a passion for creating with pennants from past highlights. Finally, it led to opening our house and lives to a family in need. It is a timeline with many twists and turns, and highlighted with many blessings.

Take Care

Roger and Bev.

The Parable of Falling off my Bike

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. When I started this blog, I wrote, “I am sitting here on the eve of Thanksgiving.” That is the way of life for the lovely Miss Beverly and I this fall. With a complicated life, Thanksgiving blogs are published the 1^st week of December.

This blog is a little bit a Thanksgiving but mostly it is about biking. If you would like to read a very good Thanksgiving blog, look at Turkey in the Straw. It was one of the very first blogs that I wrote. It is one of my favorite all time blogs.

I am thankful for biking. To be precise, I am thankful for the lessons that biking has taught me. Because of biking, I now know that I am never as fast as when I have a tailwind, and I am not as slow as when I have a headwind. That is a lesson that serves me well in other areas of my life. I now know that if you are going to ride 5000 miles in one year, you are going to have to be doggedly determined from January 1 through December 31. While coming up a little short isn’t a big deal, if I don’t get 449 miles by in the next month and a few days, it will take 365 days of pursuing those miles to get there again.

I have learned that I can ride 160 miles across Indiana in one day. The lessons learned riding 480 miles across Iowa still sink in a little bit each day. I woke up last weekend hearing that the same roads that I rode in 92 degree heat were under 10 inches of snow. The contrast still makes me shiver. I have learned my friends are very generous in sponsoring a century ride for the fight against MS and sponsoring a 360 mile ride for Habitat for Humanity. I have learned that a 20 mile ride can become a warmup. That is hard to believe when a 7 mile ride was a struggle when I began 4 and a half years ago.

I have learned that assassin deer are not the biggest hazard on the road. While I have come upon the assassins staring at me from a distance while I ride past the fields they inhabit, I have also had closer encounters as I chased them down the side ditch along a corn field, watched them pass across the road 50 yards in from of me. Some have been very close encounters, like the 8 point buck that was standing under a street lamp in front of the house two weeks ago. Like I said assassin deer are not the biggest threat out on the road. That dubious honor is split between teenage boys in pickups with equipped with smoke boxes and, what I affectionately call the moth people. The moth people are those unfortunate souls who tend to drift towards small lights on dark roads. They continue to drift to my side of the road until the last second when the mesmerizing pull of my bike lights is broken and they jerk back into their lane.

Fortunately, I have also learned that the danger posed by these losers is pretty small. Small enough that I continue to enjoy my rides in spite of the occasional smoke attack or drifting car.

Three weeks ago, I learned a lesson that has had a profound impact on me. I am a bike geek. Any new gizmo or gadget I like. Now clips aren’t new. Competitive bikers and pretenders like me have been using them for decades. The smart people in the world figured out that traditional shoes and pedals only provided power to the bike on the down stroke. That left 50% of the time when one of your legs was freeloading at the expense of the other leg. Not only is the leg pushing down moving your bike forward, it is spending some energy pushing the lazy leg to the top of the hill. Bike geeks originally solved the problem by building cages over the top of the pedals. This allowed the overly ambitious the opportunity to lift the ascending leg. The toe of your shoe would bump against the top of the cage, lifting the pedal on the upswing, making mere mortals more like Greg Lemond.

This worked for a while. It was a simple solution. A few strips of nylon, a buckle, a little bit of aluminum; people were going faster. Muscles used to lift our legs were getting stronger. However, it was a simple solution. That was unacceptable because it was unattractive and cheap.  Someone called the engineers and told them to make lifting your leg more difficult, more attractive and profitable. So they went the way of ski boot binders and found a way to keep your feet firmly attached to the pedal through the full range of pedaling motion. Yet with the slightest turn to the left or the right the cleat detaches and your foot comes free and you can put your foot on the ground as you come to a stop. Claim that you can go ½ mile an hour faster and charge $100 for the increase in speed and you can sell millions of these gadgets to Lance Armstrong wannabes. 

As soon as I learned about what I was missing, I put my money on the barrel head and got a pair of cleats. I put them on my bike and quickly learned about the dark side of riding with pedal cleats. While you can detach with the “slightest turn of the heel”, that is not the most natural action to perform. This plus there is a timing issue involved. If you are going too fast, you are buzzing along with a foot dangling off like a participle; useless and leaving people confused about your intent. If you are going too slow, you are going to fall over with both feet firmly attached to your pedals. As you are buying the cleats, you are warned of this possibility. You are encouraged to get on your bike in a doorway, lean against the door jam and practice getting clipped in and out of the pedals. Even with practice you are warned that you are still going to fall, just be prepared for it and make it a “controlled fall”. I have fallen 5 or 6 times since I have been riding usually because I was not paying attention and did not unclip as a precaution and found myself in a situation where I had to stop or get run over or run into something.

The last time was completely unexpected. Three weeks ago, I was just finishing up my appointed 17 mile morning ride. I was coasting up the walk to the front porch. I had just unclipped and was slowing down. I took one more pedal to get me within 3 feet of my dismount. I felt my foot clip back in.

I was stuck, no place to pedal, no way to get my foot disengaged, nothing to grab ahold of and keep vertical. My immediate future opened up before my eyes. I was going down. I could have cursed. I could have shaken my fist at the laws of gravity. But I didn’t. I was incredibly calm. I coasted to a stop, felt the bike lean to the left. I crouched down, bent my knees and let my shoulder hit the ground. I went down as gently as you could expect for someone of my size and age. Laying on the ground, I took stock of my skeleton, my head. It was good. No broken bones, or even muscle trauma announced itself as I lay in the flower bed mere inches from my intended destination.

It is said that in instances of danger the world slows down and the person under pressure suddenly sees thing in great detail. All of the senses are recording events in intense detail. It appears that in this case at least, the recording was made straight to long term memory. I can recall everything; the click of the clip, the oh crap in my head, the loss of momentum, the attempt to disengage the clip, complete stop, keep your hands on the handlebars, no need for a broken wrist,  the lean to the left, the crouching of the shoulders, the ducking of the head, the look towards the ground, thankful that I was not going to crash into the huge planter at the corner of the porch, (man that would hurt), half way down, three-quarters down, knee engaging with concrete, shoulder to concrete, all is quiet. Well crap. -- Just as clear now as when it happened.

There was a residual clarity left from these events. A clarity that I have been chewing on and mulling over during the intervening time. My response to falling off my bike was unusual. Faced with any crisis no matter its severity or its inevitability, I have always responded the same way. I fight it until the bitter end. I try to twist my cleat out of its bindings. Once an idiot driver turned into my lane. The crash looked unavoidable. Rather than cringe and slam on the brakes, I mashed the accelerator of that stupid van to the floor, turned the wheel towards the curb and cursed like a mad man as she pass scant inches behind me. I thought that Windstar was ready for Daytona.  I run hundreds of what if scenarios when encountering a work problem and continue to expend resources in an effort to soften the landing. I spent 5 years of a 10 year organic farming career trying to save a fatally flawed business plan. I fight that is what I do.

So seeing an impending fall, accepting it and going down in a heap calm and serene, is an unusual response for me. It is not unpleasant, just unusual. In fact, it is far from unpleasant. I found it very soothing. I am not fooling anyone. At my age, one starts thinking from time to time that the end is closer than it was in the 1960’s. As I have firmly crossed the 1/3 mark of my 150 years in this sack of bones, I have started to think that there is a crash out there that will not be recoverable.

And after this little glimpse and parable of the future, I hope that I can recognize the inevitability of the end. To tuck myself in and watch my head but not fight the forces of gravity. Not because the fall is good, it just is and gravity is going to win, but because, it is inevitable and a little calm at that time could help me feel better.

Take care

Roger.