Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The heat is good for the garden unless you really need lettuce or arugula. The kale is going to burn up and forget about the spinach; nothing doing as the temperature creeps up above 85 degrees.
Yes, as promised last week, I am here to discuss the weather surrounding the July 4th weekend. I really hated giving homework. But I really needed you to remember the rained out July 4th weekend. As the list of blog topics piles up, some are given away to the outer recesses (what an oxymoron; outer recesses) of my brain; the 12 foot tall sunflower that broke off before blooming, the beauty of hanging clothes on the line, the beauty of central air, why are some bees so mean, or if we don't stop misbehaving we are going to have to stop buying tall flag poles. The world has been bumping from one crisis to another. Over the past month the flag has flown at full staff for only 4 days. The other 26 it has flown at half-staff under the direction of our governor. Other topics stick in the forefront of my brain and I can't shake them. They wait until the traffic jam of life and my brain clear out and I get around to doing it.
So you were tasked with homework last week. You were supposed to remember the miserable rainout we had for the July 4th weekend. I want to take a moment to marvel at the lesson in the failings of big government. I know there are many of you who think that the purpose of government is to solve our problems and make the lot of our lives better. Bless your heart. You keep on thinking that. And don't read the rest of this blog.
Yes, the 4th of July was predicted to by rainy. Not only the 4th but rain was predicted everyday of the big weekend. All of the big 4th of July firework displays were threatened. They were threatened early in the week. The five day forecast predicted 100% rain on each of the days of the weekend. We were given early warning that the festivities were in danger of being rained out. The only fit time to shoot off fireworks was going to be Friday evening, the night when no festivities were planned. We had just finished a big week. We were on the brink of a three day weekend. Collectively, we needed to gather ourselves for the big weekend. So Friday was out, there was no time to reschedule. Fire personnel, police, and public safety personnel of all stripes could not be mustered in time for the events to take place on Friday evening.
So we went into the weekend, wringing our hands with anxiety and the cold sweats of those who know the entitlement of a city with an indoor football stadium whose roof opens for those three days a year when it is sunny and 70 degrees at kickoff. Would we be able to see the fireworks this weekend? Would the parade and street fair occur Saturday? Maybe it could be postponed until Sunday afternoon or Monday. Our face paint shouldn't run. Life would continue its uninterrupted string of successful holidays and celebrations. But Henny Penny could look at the weather forecast and see that was not going to happen. There was an 80% chance of rain each of the days. Yes, it was going to rain and rain hard. Still Penny wrung her hands.
I started this train of thought saying that a wonderful lesson was taught to us. The teachers came in the most remarkable form. We usually don't look to those DIY pyrotechnic experts, those who keep an eye on the seasonal fireworks shops, those who proudly sign the "I promise to light my fireworks at the approved fireworks lots placed around the state." They sign this proudly and without compunction under penalty of perjury knowing that they have no intention of lighting their fire works any place other than their own back yard barbecue, on their deck, after consuming multiple adult beverages and shooting towards your house.
Usually, they are not the paragon of virtue and good judgement. Yet, this time they got it right. Adam Smith called it the "invisible hand". According to Wiki the invisible hand theory states "that individuals' efforts to pursue their own interest may frequently benefit society more than if their actions were directly intending to benefit society." Yes, the invisible hand if those perjury committing hill-jacks single handedly saved our Independence Day. You may consider them and their home fireworks of shells, Roman candles, and sparklers a nuisance. However faced with a weekend of certain rain these sons and daughters of freedom stepped up and pursuing their own interests benefited society by jumping the gun and firing off their works on Friday night.
I know what my law and order fans want to say. "But Roger, they put the public and themselves at risk. Also, I hope that you weren't being insensitively ironic about the whole "invisible hand" thing." I wasn't and the fact that you brought it up shows how cynical you are. Sure some of them lost a finger or many fingers. Yet in the end this small subset provide a precautionary tale for the rest of us. Make sure that you throw the explosive after ignition. If it doesn't detonate in the prescribed time, let it be. Go get another one of the six free ones you got when buying one. Even the guy, on YouTube who put a "magic fountain" in his pants and lit it, provided millions of hits and shares bringing the world closer together. It was actually quite impressive until something went askew, as it was bound too, and started shooting million degree sparks at his belly button.
What was the rest of the world doing besides criticizing the Liberty loving patriots? They had their spokes-people on the news looking all glum about the show that was postponed on Saturday night. It was repeated for Sunday night. Some governments cancelled. Others postponed theirs until September. The news used the same breathless sense of urgency that they use for 4 inch snow storms. I was a little worried I wouldn't be able to have my traditional French toast 4th of July breakfast because all of the milk, bread, and eggs had been bought off the shelf in the panic.
So there you have it. On the one hand, government stood on the sidelines fretting about the rain and what to do and creating quite a stir in the mean time. On the other hand, the invisible hand, people went out and did what needed to be done. Sure, the rest of us had to show a little more forbearance and understanding for people who can sometimes be obnoxious in their exuberance. But in the end, they had a celebration the government couldn't get off the ground.
Take care.
Roger
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Fading Daybreak
Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I mentioned last week that I had a lot to write about. It was the time to write it that is the problem. I have two good blogs and time to write one. So I need you to remember the weather July 4th weekend. There are some observations about a rained out 4th of July. They can keep for a week or so.
Big news alert; my daughter Grace and I will be riding across Indiana in the RAIN ride. It is 160 miles from Terre Haute to Richmond on SR 40 with a detour around Indianapolis. It will be my second time and Grace's first time. It is exciting and a bit nerve wracking at the same time.
Speaking of riding my bike for special events, I am coming to the end of a special annual set of rides. I ride early in the morning for training during the week. When I started riding, I would ride in the evening. Get started by 6:30 or 7:00, and except for the small time from November to March, I would be riding in the light. Of course, they say you should never vigorously exercise immediately prior to going to bed. There were a few nights at the beginning when my endorphin charged blood stream would not let me go to sleep. My body adjusted however and I was sleeping fine. This schedule allowed me the opportunity to get up in the morning and veg out for an hour or so. For some reason, I love to get up at 5 and sit, read through the news and Facebook, browse a couple of sites where I get other news and generally contemplate life.
The only drawback to this plan was that I lost that hour of lovely Miss Beverly time in the evening. Compromise is the spice of life. So, I changed up the routine. I started biking in the morning. In order to ride for an hour and make my hour commute, I need to leave the house at 5:00 a.m. I found pretty quickly that I still needed some time to engage the brain before my butt hit the bike seat. So I get up at 4:19, spend 26 minutes doing the mini cross word, checking the weather,reading the news. At 4:45, I get in my bike gear and am out the door by 5:00 or so.
Speaking of lost hours, the hour that I routinely give those who have enough power to take with Daylight Savings Time means that these morning routines never see the light of day. Well almost never. For 3 and a half weeks, centering around the Summer Solstice, I get to ride in first light and I get to see day break for about one week. First light is that lightening time. You can't see the sun over the horizon. However, it provides enough for shadowing to be able to turn off the headlights.
I do not get this benefit for the entire ride even on the longest day of the year. Even on June 21st, the first half of the ride is made in the dark. I am using every light I have sweeping the fields and side-ditches for assassin deer or skunks out for their morning constitutional. I am also on the look out for any road kill that might be littering the road. It is never pleasant to try to rekill the already dead and somewhat squishy on a bike going 16 miles per hour. You kinda have to brace and hope for the best. A certain amount of mouth breathing helps also.
So 40 minutes in the dark and eventually 20 minutes in the light gives me the perfect ride for three and a half weeks every late June and early July. It is perfect because 6 months ago I found a different ride. I used to do two laps through the countryside and finally got bored. So I went East and went through the small town on Pendleton. Pendleton has a great downtown consisting of mainly restaurants, antique stores, and a donut shop. They also have a neon sign maker. Many of the shops have his handy work and like to leave it on all night long. So riding through down the street under the mercury lamps and the bright neon signs brings joy to my soul in the predawn hours. Plus I get the added benefit of riding past people's houses wondering if they are having a good nights rest.
That joy is doubled during these 3 and a half weeks, the first half through downtown Pendleton, the second half 20 minutes later turning down 750 W. and heading north the first light slowly fading the lighting ability of my headlamp. Last week, I found myself delaying may departure by a couple of minutes a day. I have just been trying to hold onto to the perfection for a few days longer. This week I am sure that I will make the choice to stay gainfully employed and avoid speeding tickets to make up the lost time. I will leave the house on time. I will accept the single joy of the lights of Pendleton. I will ride in the dark for the next 11 months.
I know that this dark riding is the fault of the "powers that be." Who knows who those powers are? It could be big golf. It could be big evening barbecue, I suspect that big keep you up until the 11:00 p.m. news is part of the cabal. I used to be angry at all of you. But that changed this time through the joy of these few weeks.
My journey to releasing this anger is a stretch. But riding my bike thinking things often stretches me physically and mentally. Every time that I thought about the time that is taken by those in power, I would flash back to a passage written by C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity. He was answering the question is "psychoanalysis okay within the Christian tradition."
To paraphrase; he stated that the idea of mental illness is one of the reasons that Christ admonished us not to judge others. Those with mental illness combated forces that were ingrained and brought upon themselves with little fault of their own. He went onto say that it is impossible to determine the blame for another. Maybe the alcoholic that was able to forestall a drink for a couple of days or who swore to stay sober for the 10th time to fail two weeks later was showing more of Christ's grace and sustaining power than a teetotaler who never drank a beer in his whole life, simply because he never liked the smell of alcohol.
Somehow on those rides, I came to feel the same way about the stealers of light. You are doing the best that you can. I wish you well with your 9:00 p.m. sunsets, and am thankful for the 25 days of watching this sliver of joy rise in the East, having it erase the beam of my headlamp, and letting me see the deep greens of deep summer in the quiet of a warming morning.
Take care.
Roger
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I mentioned last week that I had a lot to write about. It was the time to write it that is the problem. I have two good blogs and time to write one. So I need you to remember the weather July 4th weekend. There are some observations about a rained out 4th of July. They can keep for a week or so.
Big news alert; my daughter Grace and I will be riding across Indiana in the RAIN ride. It is 160 miles from Terre Haute to Richmond on SR 40 with a detour around Indianapolis. It will be my second time and Grace's first time. It is exciting and a bit nerve wracking at the same time.
Speaking of riding my bike for special events, I am coming to the end of a special annual set of rides. I ride early in the morning for training during the week. When I started riding, I would ride in the evening. Get started by 6:30 or 7:00, and except for the small time from November to March, I would be riding in the light. Of course, they say you should never vigorously exercise immediately prior to going to bed. There were a few nights at the beginning when my endorphin charged blood stream would not let me go to sleep. My body adjusted however and I was sleeping fine. This schedule allowed me the opportunity to get up in the morning and veg out for an hour or so. For some reason, I love to get up at 5 and sit, read through the news and Facebook, browse a couple of sites where I get other news and generally contemplate life.
The only drawback to this plan was that I lost that hour of lovely Miss Beverly time in the evening. Compromise is the spice of life. So, I changed up the routine. I started biking in the morning. In order to ride for an hour and make my hour commute, I need to leave the house at 5:00 a.m. I found pretty quickly that I still needed some time to engage the brain before my butt hit the bike seat. So I get up at 4:19, spend 26 minutes doing the mini cross word, checking the weather,reading the news. At 4:45, I get in my bike gear and am out the door by 5:00 or so.
Speaking of lost hours, the hour that I routinely give those who have enough power to take with Daylight Savings Time means that these morning routines never see the light of day. Well almost never. For 3 and a half weeks, centering around the Summer Solstice, I get to ride in first light and I get to see day break for about one week. First light is that lightening time. You can't see the sun over the horizon. However, it provides enough for shadowing to be able to turn off the headlights.
I do not get this benefit for the entire ride even on the longest day of the year. Even on June 21st, the first half of the ride is made in the dark. I am using every light I have sweeping the fields and side-ditches for assassin deer or skunks out for their morning constitutional. I am also on the look out for any road kill that might be littering the road. It is never pleasant to try to rekill the already dead and somewhat squishy on a bike going 16 miles per hour. You kinda have to brace and hope for the best. A certain amount of mouth breathing helps also.
So 40 minutes in the dark and eventually 20 minutes in the light gives me the perfect ride for three and a half weeks every late June and early July. It is perfect because 6 months ago I found a different ride. I used to do two laps through the countryside and finally got bored. So I went East and went through the small town on Pendleton. Pendleton has a great downtown consisting of mainly restaurants, antique stores, and a donut shop. They also have a neon sign maker. Many of the shops have his handy work and like to leave it on all night long. So riding through down the street under the mercury lamps and the bright neon signs brings joy to my soul in the predawn hours. Plus I get the added benefit of riding past people's houses wondering if they are having a good nights rest.
That joy is doubled during these 3 and a half weeks, the first half through downtown Pendleton, the second half 20 minutes later turning down 750 W. and heading north the first light slowly fading the lighting ability of my headlamp. Last week, I found myself delaying may departure by a couple of minutes a day. I have just been trying to hold onto to the perfection for a few days longer. This week I am sure that I will make the choice to stay gainfully employed and avoid speeding tickets to make up the lost time. I will leave the house on time. I will accept the single joy of the lights of Pendleton. I will ride in the dark for the next 11 months.
I know that this dark riding is the fault of the "powers that be." Who knows who those powers are? It could be big golf. It could be big evening barbecue, I suspect that big keep you up until the 11:00 p.m. news is part of the cabal. I used to be angry at all of you. But that changed this time through the joy of these few weeks.
My journey to releasing this anger is a stretch. But riding my bike thinking things often stretches me physically and mentally. Every time that I thought about the time that is taken by those in power, I would flash back to a passage written by C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity. He was answering the question is "psychoanalysis okay within the Christian tradition."
To paraphrase; he stated that the idea of mental illness is one of the reasons that Christ admonished us not to judge others. Those with mental illness combated forces that were ingrained and brought upon themselves with little fault of their own. He went onto say that it is impossible to determine the blame for another. Maybe the alcoholic that was able to forestall a drink for a couple of days or who swore to stay sober for the 10th time to fail two weeks later was showing more of Christ's grace and sustaining power than a teetotaler who never drank a beer in his whole life, simply because he never liked the smell of alcohol.
Somehow on those rides, I came to feel the same way about the stealers of light. You are doing the best that you can. I wish you well with your 9:00 p.m. sunsets, and am thankful for the 25 days of watching this sliver of joy rise in the East, having it erase the beam of my headlamp, and letting me see the deep greens of deep summer in the quiet of a warming morning.
Take care.
Roger
Sunday, July 3, 2016
The magic of broken strings
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,
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,
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
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