Dear Blog Reader
I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. Hope that you were not too concerned with the lack of posts. Yes, I know that the blog recently passed a milestone. It is a milestone that I had hoped I would not have to pass on this journey of the "you said what; Roger?" Blog. June 2016 was the first month that I have gone without blogging since "Girls gone Wild"; a blog about Grace a newly minted college freshman spreading her independent wings ironically by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, in September 2010.
On the one hand not a bad string; almost six years opening my brain and watching what pours out onto a screen to by released into the world. On the other hand a string broken is a broken string. You pull on one end and the other end does not, cannot move. Also, this broken string reminds me that all of the strings will be broken sooner or later.
Strings are important to me. The most precious string in my 54 years (except my 54 years and 31 years of wedded bliss to the lovely Miss Beverly and the string of one successful jump from a perfectly good airplane for Grace) was Pete Rose's 44 game hitting streak in 1978. I vividly remember in late July of 1978 going to River Front Stadium with the family for Farmer's Night and watching Pete Rose (may he never get to the Hall of Fame), get a bunt single to extend his string on the way to 44 consecutive game hitting streak. The 16 year old Roger went crazy. Sure it wasn't a real hit. It was a bunt for goodness sakes. He wasn't using skill, hand speed, or eye hand coordination. He was using cunning and sneakiness to extend the streak. But I was delirious with joy that the string was extended one more day. A string that was cut 12 games short of the record by Joe DiMaggio. Joe's string was a string that was cut at 56 games far short of going on forever, which is how long any 16 year old fanboy thinks a string should last.
The Sharritt household is atwitter with the causes and excuses for the blogging string breakage. There has been the adoption of multiple new hobbies. I am like a high school Jr. trying to get into Harvard by trying to pad my resume. Two hives provide bees that are buzzing in the expanded garden. It is not just any garden. It is an Amish child garden. An Amish child garden, for those unfamiliar with the blog, is a garden tended by Amish children who have no access to TV, or video games, and still have a tendency to get under their mother's feet. Mom gets frustrated and tells the kids to get out to the garden and hoe a row; viola a pristine weed free garden. In addition to those two full time past times, I plan on riding 5000 miles on a bike this year. Plus, my woodworking skills had rusted from years of non-use and I have decided to revive those. No wonder my blogging string was frayed.
If that weren't enough, as you know if you have read the blog, the lovely Miss Beverly and I have taken in two children with Safe Families. The placement at 10 months has continued longer than expected. I think that it is not coincidental the blog writing string started when Grace's departure created an empty nest allowing space for the blog and the girl's stay refilling the space crowding blog writing to the edges. I personally think that it is the empty nest connection but as I wrote the Sharritt household is hotly debating the causes and effects of the situation.
I am sure of one thing though. The lack of blogging does not come from a lack of topics to blog about. This month you almost heard about the assassin deer being caught at the scene of a raccoon's death on CR 750 at 5 a.m.; the sliver of time granted to me each year when the sun almost rises at the end of my early morning bike rides; and the books that I read for self help and the strange places that I find good advice. It would have been a good month.
No crying over spilt milk. They did not get written. They can still be written about. That is the thing about broken strings. They can't be put back together again. They can't be made into a whole string. You are certainly left with four ends and not two. I suppose all that is true unless you are a magician and can magically repair the strings that you so ostensibly cut in two in front of your bewildered audience. If I were a magician, the string would not be broken. But as you can see there are no tricks up my sleeve. Until next time.
Take care.
Roger,
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Monday, May 23, 2016
Sallying Forth to Disaster or Greatness or at Least the Great Unknown
Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The spring continues. The garden, or parts of it, have germinated. I am expecting a 3 pound box of bees this week. I started this blog 4 weeks ago. Then, as you know, current events intruded into our esoteric pursuits and there were limericks to write about the carnival called the primaries that had parked itself in our Hoosier driveway. I couldn't look away and ignore the easy targets as they sashayed into our collective conscience.
Since then other earth shattering events have occurred in central Indiana. The frost that we had on the morning of May 15. I warned you. You were warned. Do not take the flannel sheets off of the bed until Memorial Day. But someone did not listen. Someone did not listen. I will not go all mid evil on you and publicly shame you; no 3 days in the stocks on the public square for you. Simply go off in your private shame and swear that you will leave your flannels on until Memorial Day next year.
So the bees arrived three weeks ago to fill the hive that I had purchased last summer. It had been sitting outside the old henhouse where I would see it everyday as I turned into the driveway as I returned from a long day at work. That daily reminder pointed to a commitment that I could no longer back out of. Treasure had been spent. I needed to learn about bee keeping. I have been interested in bee keeping for a long time. I gave up thinking about it 20 years ago. It just seemed too complicated; mites, black foul brood, Apistan, queen excluder, honey super, honey extractor, queen cells, drones, sudden colony collapse, scout bees. What the heck? I watched in fascination as the neighbor guy brought one of his hives to the farm "because an organic farm would be a safe healthy place; free of harmful pesticides for his bees." I was surprised when I could walk up to the open hive while he was working it without a bit of fear. Bees were flying all around my head. I had no protective gear and I wasn't worried at all.
That fall, I remember feeling terrible that my turkeys had used the hive for a night roosting spot. Turkeys, being the clumsy animals that they are, knocked the cover off just in time for a 1 inch cold rain to pour in the unprotected hive and kill the colony. I put the idea of bee keeping far away. My life is too chaotic for the structure of bees. We are working on two different wavelengths; two different planes of existence. I am PigPen the bees are the Lucy of Sharritt land. While Lucy and PigPen can coexist on Charles Schultz world, somebody's gonna get hurt in the land of Sharritt.
Then two years ago, in September a small swarm split from a hive someplace close by and used a small cherry tree sapling that I had recently planted in the front yard. That sentence described some very unusual things. First, I saw a swarm. I had been on this earth for 51 years, 1/3 of my total 150 year expected life span (read other of my blogs) and had never experienced a honey bee swarm. Oh sure, I had convinced a swarm of wasps to sting the crud out of me after 10 year old me had used a stick to bang on the shed where they lived. I was surprised. I tried to say that I was sorry. I didn't know that shed was their home. It appears that wasps aren't great reconcilers. They are Old Testament, wrath of God, creatures. They came out of that building with vengeance on their mind. It was eye for an eye time. Five stings on the lip and a PR seven second 100 yard dash later, I was prepared to never see a swarm again.
But I did see a swam again; a swarm of honey bees. They had congregated around their queen on that branch in our yard; a collective catching of the breath, while the scouts went out to find a place to rent; the new hive. This brings us to the second very unusual thing described in the first sentence in the previous paragraph. The bees had swarmed in September. Bees come out of the winter. Their stores of honey are low. They haven't been producing brood; there is no food available to feed their young. No, they are laying low, hoping that the food holds out for spring and the pollen and nectar flow. Then one day, spring leaps upon us. Food is everywhere, maple pollen, crab apples, apple trees, tulips, daffodil. While you reach for the Zyrtec, the bees are getting down to business. With all of the food, they are making babies. The next thing they know that 2 bedroom bungalow just won' do any more. It is much too crowded.
Faced with an intolerable situation, the bees send out scouts. Through bee magic, they create a queen. Then one day, half of the hive escorts the old queen to a tree limb where they lounge around while the scouts find a nice condominium to move into. The new hive will work hard the rest of the summer to build the hive, raise brood and store enough honey to get through the winter. That takes time. September leaves them no time. It was a bit depressing knowing that that group of bees made a fatal mistake. They were not going to make it through the winter. A week later, the scout bees reported back and the swarm made its move. What possessed those stupid bees to make the leap in the wrong season. Maybe the abundance of sunflowers that I always plant on August 1st in my annual race against the frost confused them. They saw tons of pollen waiting for them. Maybe, they were in the slow but steady wins the race camp. They kept plugging away. Getting their hive stronger and stronger and they weren't bursting at the seams until late in the season. Perhaps, they suffered a setback early in the spring that was not of their making, but they persevered, overcame and full of renewed optimism sallied forth on their great adventure.
That is the way of sallying forth. We do it with great optimism or big naïveté. If we knew that winter was coming, we wouldn't split our resources and numbers in September to sally forth into certain doom. If I knew that bee keeping was a difficult task and probably doomed to failure without constant vigilance; vigilance that I haven't shown in the past, I would never have bought a 3 pound box of bees just to see how things turn out. We know that the frost gods will frown on our sallying forth with Egyptian Cotton Sheets before Memorial Day and then complain about how cold it is on May 15th and that the tomato plants were frost killed.
Yet again, if we didn't sally forth, we would be stuck in our overcrowded hives and never thrive in another setting. I would never have the opportunity to become a fair to middling bee keeper. And you wouldn't be able to complain about a few cold evenings in mid-May before summer really gets started like you always do.
Take Care
Roger
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The spring continues. The garden, or parts of it, have germinated. I am expecting a 3 pound box of bees this week. I started this blog 4 weeks ago. Then, as you know, current events intruded into our esoteric pursuits and there were limericks to write about the carnival called the primaries that had parked itself in our Hoosier driveway. I couldn't look away and ignore the easy targets as they sashayed into our collective conscience.
Since then other earth shattering events have occurred in central Indiana. The frost that we had on the morning of May 15. I warned you. You were warned. Do not take the flannel sheets off of the bed until Memorial Day. But someone did not listen. Someone did not listen. I will not go all mid evil on you and publicly shame you; no 3 days in the stocks on the public square for you. Simply go off in your private shame and swear that you will leave your flannels on until Memorial Day next year.
So the bees arrived three weeks ago to fill the hive that I had purchased last summer. It had been sitting outside the old henhouse where I would see it everyday as I turned into the driveway as I returned from a long day at work. That daily reminder pointed to a commitment that I could no longer back out of. Treasure had been spent. I needed to learn about bee keeping. I have been interested in bee keeping for a long time. I gave up thinking about it 20 years ago. It just seemed too complicated; mites, black foul brood, Apistan, queen excluder, honey super, honey extractor, queen cells, drones, sudden colony collapse, scout bees. What the heck? I watched in fascination as the neighbor guy brought one of his hives to the farm "because an organic farm would be a safe healthy place; free of harmful pesticides for his bees." I was surprised when I could walk up to the open hive while he was working it without a bit of fear. Bees were flying all around my head. I had no protective gear and I wasn't worried at all.
That fall, I remember feeling terrible that my turkeys had used the hive for a night roosting spot. Turkeys, being the clumsy animals that they are, knocked the cover off just in time for a 1 inch cold rain to pour in the unprotected hive and kill the colony. I put the idea of bee keeping far away. My life is too chaotic for the structure of bees. We are working on two different wavelengths; two different planes of existence. I am PigPen the bees are the Lucy of Sharritt land. While Lucy and PigPen can coexist on Charles Schultz world, somebody's gonna get hurt in the land of Sharritt.
Then two years ago, in September a small swarm split from a hive someplace close by and used a small cherry tree sapling that I had recently planted in the front yard. That sentence described some very unusual things. First, I saw a swarm. I had been on this earth for 51 years, 1/3 of my total 150 year expected life span (read other of my blogs) and had never experienced a honey bee swarm. Oh sure, I had convinced a swarm of wasps to sting the crud out of me after 10 year old me had used a stick to bang on the shed where they lived. I was surprised. I tried to say that I was sorry. I didn't know that shed was their home. It appears that wasps aren't great reconcilers. They are Old Testament, wrath of God, creatures. They came out of that building with vengeance on their mind. It was eye for an eye time. Five stings on the lip and a PR seven second 100 yard dash later, I was prepared to never see a swarm again.
But I did see a swam again; a swarm of honey bees. They had congregated around their queen on that branch in our yard; a collective catching of the breath, while the scouts went out to find a place to rent; the new hive. This brings us to the second very unusual thing described in the first sentence in the previous paragraph. The bees had swarmed in September. Bees come out of the winter. Their stores of honey are low. They haven't been producing brood; there is no food available to feed their young. No, they are laying low, hoping that the food holds out for spring and the pollen and nectar flow. Then one day, spring leaps upon us. Food is everywhere, maple pollen, crab apples, apple trees, tulips, daffodil. While you reach for the Zyrtec, the bees are getting down to business. With all of the food, they are making babies. The next thing they know that 2 bedroom bungalow just won' do any more. It is much too crowded.
Faced with an intolerable situation, the bees send out scouts. Through bee magic, they create a queen. Then one day, half of the hive escorts the old queen to a tree limb where they lounge around while the scouts find a nice condominium to move into. The new hive will work hard the rest of the summer to build the hive, raise brood and store enough honey to get through the winter. That takes time. September leaves them no time. It was a bit depressing knowing that that group of bees made a fatal mistake. They were not going to make it through the winter. A week later, the scout bees reported back and the swarm made its move. What possessed those stupid bees to make the leap in the wrong season. Maybe the abundance of sunflowers that I always plant on August 1st in my annual race against the frost confused them. They saw tons of pollen waiting for them. Maybe, they were in the slow but steady wins the race camp. They kept plugging away. Getting their hive stronger and stronger and they weren't bursting at the seams until late in the season. Perhaps, they suffered a setback early in the spring that was not of their making, but they persevered, overcame and full of renewed optimism sallied forth on their great adventure.
That is the way of sallying forth. We do it with great optimism or big naïveté. If we knew that winter was coming, we wouldn't split our resources and numbers in September to sally forth into certain doom. If I knew that bee keeping was a difficult task and probably doomed to failure without constant vigilance; vigilance that I haven't shown in the past, I would never have bought a 3 pound box of bees just to see how things turn out. We know that the frost gods will frown on our sallying forth with Egyptian Cotton Sheets before Memorial Day and then complain about how cold it is on May 15th and that the tomato plants were frost killed.
Yet again, if we didn't sally forth, we would be stuck in our overcrowded hives and never thrive in another setting. I would never have the opportunity to become a fair to middling bee keeper. And you wouldn't be able to complain about a few cold evenings in mid-May before summer really gets started like you always do.
Take Care
Roger
Saturday, April 30, 2016
A Little Political Clarity
Dear Blog Reader.
I hope that this finds you doing well. I have never been better. Never in my life has there been a Presidential primary election that mattered in Indiana. That has all changed now. Next Tuesday, it matters, at least on the Republican side. I know that I have some readers who will say that the nomination process is undemocratic or unconstitutional. You readers are not along. I am in a hotel in Iowa this morning waiting for a nephew's wedding. The breakfast buffet included Fox TV. I had to listen to the "smartest people in the room" tell me that It wasn't fair. To you (and them) I say, "I am sorry your education was so sorely lacking." It is simply not your responsibility to decide who will the republican or democrat party's nominee. (Presumably, the person most likely to bring success in the general election.) it is the members of the republican or democrat parties responsibility to decide. If you don't think that it is fair get over it, or get your own political party and nominate your own candidate any fair way you choose.
My political education was extensive and hands on. Estelle and Lloyd Sharritt immersed me in art of political warfare at a young age. My mom spent many an early May day at the polls challenging democrats requesting republican ballots. Another time, I remember running home crying because two high school kids were obviously bullying by chanting "Humphrey, Humphrey, He's our man. We'll throw Nixon in the garbage can." How could they be so mean? How could they be so stupid. When I was 11 years old, I watched all of the Watergate Hearings. I watched in fascination as big old jowly Sam Ervin questioned Halderman and Eirlichman. I seethed when that traitorous Howard Baker crossed the aisle in bipartisanship to sink Nixon's ship. Each day my father reassured me that these were things that all presidents had done. Nixon just got caught. There was even an episode when members of the John Birch society were out to ruin mom and dad. I have to admit that my recollections are fuzzy with regards to this event. I only remember hushed dinner conversations and the promise to shoot those people if they show up.
So you can imagine the glee that I find in this hot political climate. We are a country that was forged in full scaled rebellion based on the political suppositions of representation. We are a country that had to go through armed rebellion to answer the question of state's rights and people's rights. A little anger at a Trump Rally is a minor kerfuffel. This is democracy. We are people with varying opinions. We will reach some sort of consensus by our collective November vote.
So the participants on the ballot, comes down to Hoosiers. On Tuesday, we will walk into the polling place, request our ballots, step to the machine and place our vote.
Who will we vote for? One of 5 people will win our proud Hoosier votes. Who will you vote for? As fate would have it, I mentioned earlier in this blog that I have traveled to Iowa for a wedding this weekend. Iowa the place that the primaries began last January. Eight hours on the road thinking about primary season, gave me the perfect opportunity to weigh the pro's and con's of each of the candidates. These eight hours have resulted in 10 limericks (one pro and one con for each of the candidates.)
I share them here with you, a gift of clarifying poetry to help you make an educated selection next Tuesday.
They say I should mention Kasich
Although, Indiana he did ditch.
A moderate sort,
He failed to thwart,
With his party-line centerist pitch.
The firebrand candidate Trump,
Whose celebrity gave him a bump.
They say, "it's a sin,
If he should win,
The country will slide to the dump."
They say he looks like a Munster,
He certainly isn't a funster.
The moderates whine,
'Bout his conservative line,
Ted Cruz is still trailing the Trumpster.
There once was a Madam named Hillary
Whose mouth brings to mind loud artillery,
Her email kerfuffle
Some feathers did ruffle,
She, Republicans all want to pillary.
There once was a commie named Sanders.
Voted in by many Vermont-landers.
What's yours is mine,
He things is just fine,
A Mercedes for all the pan-handlers.
All the fans of little Teddy Cruz
Say that he should never ever lose.
The constitution is pure.
To be followed for sure.
President Hillary would make them drink booze.
My job was shipped overseas
All I want to do is work, yes please.
I am a Trump fan
He is the man.
I'm begging you down on my knees.
They say she has tons of experience.
So how can you still ride the fence?
In the Senate she rocked.
At state was top jock.
Her brain is rather immense.
Oh Bernie will care for the poor.
Banks and Wall Street he'll choose to abhor.
With college, he's shown,
You won't need a loan.
All to show Hillary the door.
Yes, John's the only one sane.
SO don't throw your vote down the drain.
He won't rock the boat,
And keep us afloat
And won't cause the Democrats pain.
Happy voting.
Take Care.
Roger
I hope that this finds you doing well. I have never been better. Never in my life has there been a Presidential primary election that mattered in Indiana. That has all changed now. Next Tuesday, it matters, at least on the Republican side. I know that I have some readers who will say that the nomination process is undemocratic or unconstitutional. You readers are not along. I am in a hotel in Iowa this morning waiting for a nephew's wedding. The breakfast buffet included Fox TV. I had to listen to the "smartest people in the room" tell me that It wasn't fair. To you (and them) I say, "I am sorry your education was so sorely lacking." It is simply not your responsibility to decide who will the republican or democrat party's nominee. (Presumably, the person most likely to bring success in the general election.) it is the members of the republican or democrat parties responsibility to decide. If you don't think that it is fair get over it, or get your own political party and nominate your own candidate any fair way you choose.
My political education was extensive and hands on. Estelle and Lloyd Sharritt immersed me in art of political warfare at a young age. My mom spent many an early May day at the polls challenging democrats requesting republican ballots. Another time, I remember running home crying because two high school kids were obviously bullying by chanting "Humphrey, Humphrey, He's our man. We'll throw Nixon in the garbage can." How could they be so mean? How could they be so stupid. When I was 11 years old, I watched all of the Watergate Hearings. I watched in fascination as big old jowly Sam Ervin questioned Halderman and Eirlichman. I seethed when that traitorous Howard Baker crossed the aisle in bipartisanship to sink Nixon's ship. Each day my father reassured me that these were things that all presidents had done. Nixon just got caught. There was even an episode when members of the John Birch society were out to ruin mom and dad. I have to admit that my recollections are fuzzy with regards to this event. I only remember hushed dinner conversations and the promise to shoot those people if they show up.
So you can imagine the glee that I find in this hot political climate. We are a country that was forged in full scaled rebellion based on the political suppositions of representation. We are a country that had to go through armed rebellion to answer the question of state's rights and people's rights. A little anger at a Trump Rally is a minor kerfuffel. This is democracy. We are people with varying opinions. We will reach some sort of consensus by our collective November vote.
So the participants on the ballot, comes down to Hoosiers. On Tuesday, we will walk into the polling place, request our ballots, step to the machine and place our vote.
Who will we vote for? One of 5 people will win our proud Hoosier votes. Who will you vote for? As fate would have it, I mentioned earlier in this blog that I have traveled to Iowa for a wedding this weekend. Iowa the place that the primaries began last January. Eight hours on the road thinking about primary season, gave me the perfect opportunity to weigh the pro's and con's of each of the candidates. These eight hours have resulted in 10 limericks (one pro and one con for each of the candidates.)
I share them here with you, a gift of clarifying poetry to help you make an educated selection next Tuesday.
They say I should mention Kasich
Although, Indiana he did ditch.
A moderate sort,
He failed to thwart,
With his party-line centerist pitch.
The firebrand candidate Trump,
Whose celebrity gave him a bump.
They say, "it's a sin,
If he should win,
The country will slide to the dump."
They say he looks like a Munster,
He certainly isn't a funster.
The moderates whine,
'Bout his conservative line,
Ted Cruz is still trailing the Trumpster.
There once was a Madam named Hillary
Whose mouth brings to mind loud artillery,
Her email kerfuffle
Some feathers did ruffle,
She, Republicans all want to pillary.
There once was a commie named Sanders.
Voted in by many Vermont-landers.
What's yours is mine,
He things is just fine,
A Mercedes for all the pan-handlers.
All the fans of little Teddy Cruz
Say that he should never ever lose.
The constitution is pure.
To be followed for sure.
President Hillary would make them drink booze.
My job was shipped overseas
All I want to do is work, yes please.
I am a Trump fan
He is the man.
I'm begging you down on my knees.
They say she has tons of experience.
So how can you still ride the fence?
In the Senate she rocked.
At state was top jock.
Her brain is rather immense.
Oh Bernie will care for the poor.
Banks and Wall Street he'll choose to abhor.
With college, he's shown,
You won't need a loan.
All to show Hillary the door.
Yes, John's the only one sane.
SO don't throw your vote down the drain.
He won't rock the boat,
And keep us afloat
And won't cause the Democrats pain.
Happy voting.
Take Care.
Roger
Sunday, April 17, 2016
On Bed Clothes, Gardening, and Voting
Dear Blog Reader.
I hope that this finds you doing well. Overall, I am doing well. Winter continues to hold on. This in spite of the fact that we have passed the Vernal Equinox. It is a little tough to have to look at more than 12 hours of cold and windy weather on the outside. The winter wood pile continues to dwindle. I am thankful that the Sharritt's maintained the flannel sheets on the bed. Those 4 days in March made it tempting to run to the cool light embrace of those cotton sheets. You thought that you had it made didn't you. Those rigid unbending traditionalists are roasting in their beds and you were cool as a cucumber between your 1000 count Egyptian Cotten sheets.
Some people ask "Do you really sleep better on $175 sheets? Is it worth it?" Recent scientific studies show that you really do sleep better on $175 sheets when compared to $25 sheets from Walmart. The scientists studying 10 subjects found unequivocally that those sleeping on $175 sheets slept better, tossed and turned less, woke more refreshed and with significantly less lower back discomfort than their $25 counterparts. The reason? Scientists hypothesize that when you pay $175 for a set of sheets, your wallet is significantly thinner allowing for better lumbar alignment and hence a better nights sleep.
No, you linen sheet lovers thought that you had pulled one over on the flannel sheet traditionalists. Look who's laughing now. It certainly isn't you. No you can't laugh because your teeth are chattering so loudly as your body tries to generate enough core heat to keep you from slipping into hypothermia.
Now it is a week later. My best plans for another timely and cogent blog were thwarted by the passage of time and the turning of seasons. I should have stayed with it. I should have kept writing long into the night. I quit. I went to bed. Now, I am writing about a lingering winter in 75 degree sunny delight.
A week has passed. The season has shifted for a while. Now, you good sleeping Egyptian Cotten cool cats have the upper hand. Your teeth have unclenched. You are free to ridicule the bitter clingers. You are free to go to the local garden shop and stock up on your July ripening tomato plants. I am free to listen to the voice in my head "cold weather can still hit." I am free to look at the Old Farmer's Almanac. It says that the frost free date is May 15th. I am free to remember watching that one really late frost on May 25th that stunned or killed thousands of acres of germinated corn. I am free to remember sitting in the grandstands for Indy 500 qualifications on May 12th 1973 and watching snow flurries just before practice started. I am free to chuckle just a little when that seasoned citizen plunks down his $10 for 5 tomato plants on April 16th.
Yes, I must confess to a bit of hopeful day dreaming; seeing in my mind's eye, this kindly gentleman waking up cold under his Egyptian Cotton, running to the garden to find a blackened, wilted, frosted tomato plant. I also get a bit of self satisfaction knowing (hoping) that he will spend a total of $20 for his 5 viable tomato plants. All the while, I imagine that he is hoping (knowing) that he will be eating July 4th tomatoes while I say that my cabbage in high in antioxidants and if I shred it up and mix it with kale and brussels sprouts I will never die because will be eating a super food. I will just wish that I were dead because I am eating this crap instead of a fresh BLT.
The big questions remain. How long can I hold out and keep the flannel faith? How long can I delude myself and believe that this year's apple crop is dependent on my stubborn adherence the words of Grandma. I want to be right. You tomato killing, Egyptian Cotton sleeping dreamers want to be right too. It is good to remember that our rightness will depend on whether the wind blows out of the North or from the South and has little to do with the cogency of our arguments.
It strikes me that bed clothes, gardening and electing are a bit similar. People of dissimilar outlooks are thrown together, doing the best their temperaments will permit. We cast our votes to the wind in the hope that we are right or at least you are proven wrong.
Take care
Roger
I hope that this finds you doing well. Overall, I am doing well. Winter continues to hold on. This in spite of the fact that we have passed the Vernal Equinox. It is a little tough to have to look at more than 12 hours of cold and windy weather on the outside. The winter wood pile continues to dwindle. I am thankful that the Sharritt's maintained the flannel sheets on the bed. Those 4 days in March made it tempting to run to the cool light embrace of those cotton sheets. You thought that you had it made didn't you. Those rigid unbending traditionalists are roasting in their beds and you were cool as a cucumber between your 1000 count Egyptian Cotten sheets.
Some people ask "Do you really sleep better on $175 sheets? Is it worth it?" Recent scientific studies show that you really do sleep better on $175 sheets when compared to $25 sheets from Walmart. The scientists studying 10 subjects found unequivocally that those sleeping on $175 sheets slept better, tossed and turned less, woke more refreshed and with significantly less lower back discomfort than their $25 counterparts. The reason? Scientists hypothesize that when you pay $175 for a set of sheets, your wallet is significantly thinner allowing for better lumbar alignment and hence a better nights sleep.
No, you linen sheet lovers thought that you had pulled one over on the flannel sheet traditionalists. Look who's laughing now. It certainly isn't you. No you can't laugh because your teeth are chattering so loudly as your body tries to generate enough core heat to keep you from slipping into hypothermia.
Now it is a week later. My best plans for another timely and cogent blog were thwarted by the passage of time and the turning of seasons. I should have stayed with it. I should have kept writing long into the night. I quit. I went to bed. Now, I am writing about a lingering winter in 75 degree sunny delight.
A week has passed. The season has shifted for a while. Now, you good sleeping Egyptian Cotten cool cats have the upper hand. Your teeth have unclenched. You are free to ridicule the bitter clingers. You are free to go to the local garden shop and stock up on your July ripening tomato plants. I am free to listen to the voice in my head "cold weather can still hit." I am free to look at the Old Farmer's Almanac. It says that the frost free date is May 15th. I am free to remember watching that one really late frost on May 25th that stunned or killed thousands of acres of germinated corn. I am free to remember sitting in the grandstands for Indy 500 qualifications on May 12th 1973 and watching snow flurries just before practice started. I am free to chuckle just a little when that seasoned citizen plunks down his $10 for 5 tomato plants on April 16th.
Yes, I must confess to a bit of hopeful day dreaming; seeing in my mind's eye, this kindly gentleman waking up cold under his Egyptian Cotton, running to the garden to find a blackened, wilted, frosted tomato plant. I also get a bit of self satisfaction knowing (hoping) that he will spend a total of $20 for his 5 viable tomato plants. All the while, I imagine that he is hoping (knowing) that he will be eating July 4th tomatoes while I say that my cabbage in high in antioxidants and if I shred it up and mix it with kale and brussels sprouts I will never die because will be eating a super food. I will just wish that I were dead because I am eating this crap instead of a fresh BLT.
The big questions remain. How long can I hold out and keep the flannel faith? How long can I delude myself and believe that this year's apple crop is dependent on my stubborn adherence the words of Grandma. I want to be right. You tomato killing, Egyptian Cotton sleeping dreamers want to be right too. It is good to remember that our rightness will depend on whether the wind blows out of the North or from the South and has little to do with the cogency of our arguments.
It strikes me that bed clothes, gardening and electing are a bit similar. People of dissimilar outlooks are thrown together, doing the best their temperaments will permit. We cast our votes to the wind in the hope that we are right or at least you are proven wrong.
Take care
Roger
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Just Kidding
Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. Specifically, I hope that this does not find your emotional wellbeing held hostage by the hoops prowess of a 22 year old kid who has been worshiped by a sports mad society since the moment his genetics indicated that he had a good chance at being freakishly tall. As you can probably surmise, I have given emotional control over to such a 7 foot man-child and have been sorely disappointed in the first round of the tournament. Maybe your emotional wellbeing was postponed for a week even two but now all except two of us have had our hopes and dreams dashed.
I should know better. My guy had an interview in the newspaper that gave enough red flags to any discerning person. The paper says that he loves to watch SpongeBob "all day long." That is quite the resume declaration. "I would love to do a good and conscientious job except for those times when I download SpongeBob and binge watch every afternoon. I like to stay fresh." With that kind of mental fortitude, one shouldn't wonder that when up 13 points with 3 minutes left, your team folds because the other team becomes desperate and hits you with an intensity much stronger than Plankton's diabolical schemes to steal Mr. Krab's secret recipe. (No I don't watch SpongeBob and you shouldn't either. I looked the premise of the show up on google.)
It is not just that I like to feel good about my team. I have to make you sorry that you root for your team. I am shameless in my emotional manipulations. I have friends and relatives that I have personally ridiculed because of their allegiance to a school that their dad, mom, aunt, or uncle loved. Maybe, they spent their formative pre-adult years maturing at that school, forging lasting relationships, beliefs or lives that were their own and not their parents. Maybe their allegiance to that school is based solely on these intangibles and finds outlet on the basketball court in March. It doesn't matter. I have spent great effort denigrating the embodiment of their hopes and dreams. Look at my Facebook feed, or text message threads. They would make a Trump rally participant (pro or con) blush.
Oh sure, it is good natured teasing. You in your IU shirt giving the choke sign to your office mate on Friday morning. In his brain, he knows that he did nothing to contribute to the inability to handle the press, to score just one more point in 3.5 minutes. He did not attend a single practice, run a single drill. He could not dribble the ball down the court with both hands. He was not in charge of making sure that 7 footer's Nickelodeon cable feed was uninterrupted. He's an accountant for goodness sakes. He is not responsible for this loss. His brain knows that it shouldn't matter. But it does.
My office mate also knows that the proper response to this good natured teasing is to laugh at it; to chuckle and shake his head sadly side to side. He just has to say "what you going to do?" To do anything else would be thin skinned, petty, and a poor loser. We should not be those things. We have been well trained through the years. If you are less than magnanimous in the face of taunting, the heat will be turned up. The most obnoxious might even get you a little choking Boilermaker doll. Your life will be a living heck.
Why? Why do we tolerate the emotional thuggery? At best they are only bucking themselves up. They know that the fickle fates will turn against them soon. They will be on the bottom. Hopefully, a boost now at your expense will get them through the tough times ahead.
No wonder we have March Madness straddle April Fools day. Why go and forebear idiots more than once during a calendar year? Let's just test our patience one time for three weeks. Let's do it in the early spring while working our way out of the winter doldrums. We're not doing much. We're just waiting on the warm weather to get here in earnest. One day basking in the 70 degree sun; tempted to remove the coat and the flannel sheets. However, we know we can't. Tomorrow we may have 40 mile an hour winds and snow flurries. No, laughing at the good natured fool's attacks on our team, or reading the April Fools Memes Ad nauseam is good training for our fortitude. It helps build our character.
Go a head an pile on. We don't care. Sure your 60 years old and you suddenly found out you were pregnant. Of course, the boss says that you get the rest of the day off with pay. I am sure that you just cut your finger off. It must really hurt. I love it when you put that kick me sign on my back. Yes, my team is worse than yours. Your ability to pick the bracket is amazing. No wonder we call you Kreskin behind your back. It is all just hilarious.
An now, it is down to just two of you. We started with 64 winners, and have made losers out of 62 of you. We have questioned their drive, their dedication, and their determination. Don't worry in a couple of days, we will even make a loser out of another one. People will be disappointed, downhearted, and depressed. Don't worry though. Things are looking up. We have nearly gotten past the fools for another year.
Take care.
Roger
I hope that this finds you doing well. Specifically, I hope that this does not find your emotional wellbeing held hostage by the hoops prowess of a 22 year old kid who has been worshiped by a sports mad society since the moment his genetics indicated that he had a good chance at being freakishly tall. As you can probably surmise, I have given emotional control over to such a 7 foot man-child and have been sorely disappointed in the first round of the tournament. Maybe your emotional wellbeing was postponed for a week even two but now all except two of us have had our hopes and dreams dashed.
I should know better. My guy had an interview in the newspaper that gave enough red flags to any discerning person. The paper says that he loves to watch SpongeBob "all day long." That is quite the resume declaration. "I would love to do a good and conscientious job except for those times when I download SpongeBob and binge watch every afternoon. I like to stay fresh." With that kind of mental fortitude, one shouldn't wonder that when up 13 points with 3 minutes left, your team folds because the other team becomes desperate and hits you with an intensity much stronger than Plankton's diabolical schemes to steal Mr. Krab's secret recipe. (No I don't watch SpongeBob and you shouldn't either. I looked the premise of the show up on google.)
It is not just that I like to feel good about my team. I have to make you sorry that you root for your team. I am shameless in my emotional manipulations. I have friends and relatives that I have personally ridiculed because of their allegiance to a school that their dad, mom, aunt, or uncle loved. Maybe, they spent their formative pre-adult years maturing at that school, forging lasting relationships, beliefs or lives that were their own and not their parents. Maybe their allegiance to that school is based solely on these intangibles and finds outlet on the basketball court in March. It doesn't matter. I have spent great effort denigrating the embodiment of their hopes and dreams. Look at my Facebook feed, or text message threads. They would make a Trump rally participant (pro or con) blush.
Oh sure, it is good natured teasing. You in your IU shirt giving the choke sign to your office mate on Friday morning. In his brain, he knows that he did nothing to contribute to the inability to handle the press, to score just one more point in 3.5 minutes. He did not attend a single practice, run a single drill. He could not dribble the ball down the court with both hands. He was not in charge of making sure that 7 footer's Nickelodeon cable feed was uninterrupted. He's an accountant for goodness sakes. He is not responsible for this loss. His brain knows that it shouldn't matter. But it does.
My office mate also knows that the proper response to this good natured teasing is to laugh at it; to chuckle and shake his head sadly side to side. He just has to say "what you going to do?" To do anything else would be thin skinned, petty, and a poor loser. We should not be those things. We have been well trained through the years. If you are less than magnanimous in the face of taunting, the heat will be turned up. The most obnoxious might even get you a little choking Boilermaker doll. Your life will be a living heck.
Why? Why do we tolerate the emotional thuggery? At best they are only bucking themselves up. They know that the fickle fates will turn against them soon. They will be on the bottom. Hopefully, a boost now at your expense will get them through the tough times ahead.
No wonder we have March Madness straddle April Fools day. Why go and forebear idiots more than once during a calendar year? Let's just test our patience one time for three weeks. Let's do it in the early spring while working our way out of the winter doldrums. We're not doing much. We're just waiting on the warm weather to get here in earnest. One day basking in the 70 degree sun; tempted to remove the coat and the flannel sheets. However, we know we can't. Tomorrow we may have 40 mile an hour winds and snow flurries. No, laughing at the good natured fool's attacks on our team, or reading the April Fools Memes Ad nauseam is good training for our fortitude. It helps build our character.
Go a head an pile on. We don't care. Sure your 60 years old and you suddenly found out you were pregnant. Of course, the boss says that you get the rest of the day off with pay. I am sure that you just cut your finger off. It must really hurt. I love it when you put that kick me sign on my back. Yes, my team is worse than yours. Your ability to pick the bracket is amazing. No wonder we call you Kreskin behind your back. It is all just hilarious.
An now, it is down to just two of you. We started with 64 winners, and have made losers out of 62 of you. We have questioned their drive, their dedication, and their determination. Don't worry in a couple of days, we will even make a loser out of another one. People will be disappointed, downhearted, and depressed. Don't worry though. Things are looking up. We have nearly gotten past the fools for another year.
Take care.
Roger
Sunday, March 13, 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
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.
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.
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