Til Our Contract Expires?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The fall is proceeding apace. Apples and apple cider no longer excites quite as much as those first tastes in early September. Saturday the daylight hours equaled the night time hours, reminding me that I would dislike living in the constant mediocrity of the equator. Come on, take a chance, give up those winter hours for a glorious summer of long days.

Today’s blog has been a long time coming. As you may remember, Grace was married in June. Later this summer, one of Grace’s friends, Becca, wrote a blog that has had me thinking. In it, she wrote that “No single physical, emotional, or intellectual element seemed to point to the true foundation of what makes a couple "married" to one another, beyond the public statement itself.”  The bold was hers. Coupled with the other passage in bold, “After all, beyond tax-discounts, what use is there in spending thousands of dollars to get "married,"” I am assuming that those were the most important statements in the blog. I want to be careful here. I do not want to attack the blogger. I would like to debate some of the ideas she brought up. The need to be careful stems from a certain talent that I have to be snarky. It is my “oh yeah?  Well your mother wears combat boots.” It is a retort that is unattractive and provides nothing relevant to the debate.

In thinking about the blog, another interesting aspect has surfaced; almost all of the points that I have to make come from other people. Nothing has been synthesized in my brain from marriage experiences in the building of a framework for this blog. In short, this blog will be attributed plagiarism taken to a new level.

It seems that taking the stance that “no single physical, emotional, or intellectual element” ignores the role that the spiritual or religious element may play in the underpinning of the marriage vows. The two shall become one flesh after leaving mom and dad from Ephesians 5 is a mystery to me. It is a spiritual mystery that Bev and I are bound together in oneness. It connotes mutual support. Two people bound together would have each other’s back when facing all that life would throw at them.

I suppose that religion was human kind’s way of wrestling with the unseen spiritual and giving it a physical, ritualized underpinning, the public statement, that mankind could grasp, see and feel. Even now as the population becomes more irreligious, many of its members flock to the church in search of talismans for a long and happy commitment. Do the rituals themselves have the juju for success? It would appear not divorce rates being what they are. After all, moderns have substituted the religious manifestations of the spiritual and many wedding have become a costume ball where the revelers aren’t what they seem. As Wendell Berry wrote in The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer, “If I have cried at many a wedding it is because I know where the groom has sunk his manhood and I know it will not be resurrected by a piece of cake.”

Even before religion showed up and got ancient man dressed in a tuxedo toga in front of the church with his lovely bride, in her exquisite toga gown with the intricate bead work and lace, making their public statements, wouldn’t the mutual support of oneness have been a driving factor for prehistoric people whether they spent “thousands of dollars to get married” or not? Wouldn’t prehistory have fallen apart without the commitment to this very physical reason of mutual support? I know that having the lovely Miss Beverly watching my back when attacking the wooly mammoth would have been a comfort.

Even in modernity, the evidence appears to be overwhelming for the existence of physical and emotional foundations of marriage. The experts repeatedly say that children from intact families are better off. The severed bonds of marriage are not put right by the contractual dictates of the court system. One is reminded of this every Friday evening and Sunday afternoon as the custody handoff is repeated in fast food parking lots near interstate exits across the country. A wise friend once told me that if he had spent as much time relearning to like his first wife as he spent in working through all of the “issues” of divorce, his marriage would still be intact. He had made the divorce work. His family is well adjusted on into middle adulthood. That was his point. Divorce is hard work; harder than marriage because by definition you lose the comfort of mutual support.

What about the public statement; those vows? I must admit that I am lifting the ideas and surely some of the words and phrasing from C.S. Lewis as he described marriage in Mere Christianity. Are nearly 50% of those standing up front intentional liars when they say “til death do us part”? I would think not. Not many people want to be known as liars to the general public. I would suggest that they are unintentional promisers. All dressed up, under the peer pressure to say the right thing, they make promises they really didn’t mean. Would society be better off to take a more business like approach and promise to remain true and married for not less that 5 years and not more than 7 years? That would free society up to practice the serial monogamy (someone else’s phrase) that pervades modernity with much less guilt.

How would that affect the alchemy of the interaction between emotional, intellectual, and physical elements? Would that be a deal breaker? How would people behave in the 6th year of the “contract”? As I contemplate the possibilities, it strikes me that each of those elements would be weakened. It raises my anxiety level. Surely, couples facing the 5 to 7 year plan would start to disengage in year 4.5. Who wants to be left holding the emotional baggage when your partner doesn’t want to pick up the final two year option because they are not satisfied? Wouldn’t it be better to get back into the market 2 years early because you’re not getting any younger and those laugh lines will only get deeper in 730 days?

Even if the public statement were eliminated, the act of covenant making becomes public eventually. Companies enter into private contracts all of the time but at the breaking of the contract either through expiration or avarice the future actions of the parties make it clear to the world what the contract was; how both parties were bound. The contract ends, the couple ends and the terms were met and they move on to the next contract or one breaks the contract and the courts find a way to “mend” it.

Where does that leave us? I have no idea. I do know that I am more blessed at 28 years with the lovely Miss Beverly than I was at 7 years. That at some point I slowed down trying to change her and worked harder at liking her thanks to the wisdom of a good and wise man. I also feel that the words we shared with the world about refinement of gold and its simile with marriage were words of prophecy for our marriage and were good to say out loud in “front of God and everybody.”

Take care,

Roger.

Fondly Fondled?

Dear Blog Reader.     

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Lately, I had found myself being chased by the dark earlier and earlier on my evening after work rides. It is official. I have been caught. There is no dusk left by the time my 15 mile sprints have been completed. The worst part of dusk riding is not inattentive drivers, slow moving farmers traveling to the next ethanol laden corn field, or even assassin deer anticipating the big Hilly Hundred weekend next month. It is the hordes of insects that descend as the heat of the day starts to pass. I don’t what kind they are but they love to eat my legs. My legs are nearly eaten to the bone and I find mom’s “if you don’t stop scratching those bites, you’ll get impetigo” loop playing in my mind with my legs on fire at 3:00 a.m. every morning.

In my preparation for the Hilly Hundred, I have made a commitment to lose some weight. In May, I had the opportunity to go up and down some of the hills that are featured in the fall ride on the cover Indiana tour last May. I decided that it would be in my best interest not to carry an extra bowling ball of weight up and down the same hills this fall. I have stopped/slowed down eating processed sugars, promised to only eat one bowl of fudge covered ice cream a week, and started interval training during my bike rides. All of those things have come together quite nicely and progress is being made. Last night I looked back at my ride diary and found that two and a half years ago my rides were 7 miles long and averaged around 12 mph. Now they are 15 miles long and average 16.5 mph. That is a great feeling of accomplishment and very comforting.

While the Hilly Hundred may not be a race, the congregation of assassin deer and their families from all over the Midwest watching “2,500 slowly perambulating cyclists walking their bikes up really steep hills” from “the gloriously fall colored woods” gives one pause. (See the 8/25 blog for context) It behooves (pun intended) one to prepare and take precaution and not appear to be the weakest in the herd. As the old joke goes, I don’t have to be faster than the bear, just faster than the others running from the bear.

It was a busy news week. Two stories caught my eye in my digital version (sorry paper boy) of the Indianapolis Star. The first one was last Wednesday when a small article appeared that a prostitution ring was broken up in Carmel, Indiana. The ring was broken up when the prostitute “performed a sex act on an undercover (pun intended?) officer.” I was a bit surprised. Most of the time prostitutes are arrested when they “solicit” the sex act. In fact in my 40 years of news paper reading, I do not recall events proceeding to the performance stage. I put it out of my mind. Other weightier issues were competing for my news reading minutes; what with Justin Beiber growing a mustache and . . .

Low and behold on Saturday, a follow up article decrying police methods was published. The method being decryed was the fact that one sex act performance was not enough. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the fifth time that a prostitute had performed a sex act on an undercover Carmel police officer. Chief Justice Rehnquist may know pornography (or prostitution) when he sees it but it appears that Carmel law enforcement officers are more tactile, more hands on if you will, in their learning style. I can imagine the meeting in the Vice offices after each investigation.

“What do you think Larry? She fondled your genitals and you paid her $100 plus a $35 tip with tax payer money do you think it rose to the level of prostitution?”

“I’m not sure captain. It could have been a misunderstanding. I think that I need to go back and make sure. She may have fondled me unintentionally.”

“You do what you think is best Johnson. Here take another $135, and thanks for taking one for the team.”

The other story that caught my eye last week had many similarities. The powers that be ordered the evacuation of the Indianapolis emergency response center that had been set up inside of the old East Gate Mall. I have been in the East Gate Mall. In fact, my mother took me there by purchase back to school clothing 40 years ago. Yes, kids 40 years ago people would bundle up in their Conestoga Wagons and drive 30 miles to get clothing for their families. Today, we have 5 malls that are closer and more convenient. Not to mention 3 dozen Walmart, Target, and Meijer stores between here and there. You kids don’t know how good you have it. Of course, your gun toting peers do even out the cost benefit analysis of the shopping equation.

Any who. Three years ago East Gate Mall was the perfect place for Indianapolis’ emergency response center. It was empty. It was big. It was . . . empty and big. The Super Bowl was coming soon and as one official in the Saturday story said “you need a big empty space because you don’t project world class excellence in small cramped facilities in a basement someplace.” So on the surface, Indianapolis found a good looking big empty space that projected excellence to the world and stroked the egos of community emergency preparedness officials.

Alas, beauty is only skin deep. The old East Gate Mall ain’t what she used to be and appears to be, in a bit of irony, unsafe for safety officials. Inadequate fire walls and uncharged sprinkler systems appear to have ruled the day. Also, it appears that big, empty, dilapidated, unsafe spaces are very expensive. The monthly rent was $57,000 a month for the first 10 years and $63,000 a month for the next 25 years: $18 million over the 25 years. That’s not all. If you act now, the city would have to pay for the upgrades to the building to move it from a big, empty, dilapidated, building to one that met code. What a deal. Now, it appears that clearer heads and sharper accounting skills have seen that the emperor had no cloths. The city has abandoned the building, and the lawyers will be left to figure out the small details of what to do with the next 22 years of promises.

Of course it leaves a sour taste in everyone’s mouth. The landlord didn’t hold a gun to anyone’s head to coerce a signature on the lease of this sweet heart deal. The people who signed the lease may recognize in hind sight that it leaves them looking like less than savvy negotiators, so they are spinning their bad judgment trying to make a silk purse out of a sows ear, which according to my grandma you can’t do. Finally the opposition is trying to capitalize on the decision maker’s incompetence in hopes of throwing the bums out so that they will have the opportunity to make really stupid decisions at the taxpayer’s expense.

It appears that time is of the essence. The city has decided that one Super Bowl was not enough. There may have been a misunderstanding. The city may have entered into an $18 million lease unintentionally. We need to make sure that our security officials make a world class statement in the facilities where they set up to do whatever they do. “Here you go Johnson. Here’s another $18 million. Now let’s get out there and get fondled.”

Take care,

Roger

I'm Here along for the Ride

Dear blog reader

I hope that this finds you doing well and recovering nicely from the long Labor Day weekend and the week after.  I am fine. The lovely Miss Beverly and I spent Sunday at the Indiana dunes on the southern edge of Indiana Lake. See "A Day on Indiana Beach" August 8, 2012, for a proper geography lesson. As the hottest couple in the near fifty crowd, Bev and I had a great day. The day was sunny and warm. A light breeze was coming in from the Northwest. The breeze was churning up small waves with moderate surf noise. A background soundtrack that effectively scrubbed my brain of all thought. Leaving my brain so thoroughly cleansed, no thoughts of a good blog topic would or could come to mind.

Returning home for Labor Day, I woke up on Tuesday morning, slowly trying to gather my wits about me, slowly rebuilding work synapses. As I went to the closet, I realized that I had not reconnected the house chore synapses and realized that all of the fun of the weekend supplanted the very important clothes washing. I was thankful that it was only a four day work week (the best part of a three day weekend I think) and Friday was jeans day.

This weekend our flow has been re-established. Sunday evening rolled around and it found us on the road to West Lafayette. In a prior life, I worked at Purdue and one of the many things that I was tasked with was starting a new student orientation program.

A series of events and fortunate coincidences came together and I happened to find myself in a vortex of a really good thing. It was called Corn Camp and started small. We were fortunate to have a group of students who could handle a huge amount of responsibility. As a result, orientation was build around a student ran organization and not around a professional staff in an office. It made all of the difference.

That was 20 years ago. Corn Camp became Boiler Gold Rush and grew. The first year had 100 students. BRG 2013, the 20^th edition, had 5,500 students participate, plus 650 unpaid student leaders who poured there hearts into building new Boilermakers.

I mentioned that I was fortunate. I was extremely fortunate. I had a group of students who liked me and as I exited stage right to become a delusional organic farmer, they created the “Sharritt Award” to recognize the outstanding volunteer student leader.

I had the honor last night of being invited back to campus and presenting the Sharritt Award. The following is the text of the speech that I gave.

It is an honor to be here tonight and an honor to recognize the outstanding BGR Supervisor with an award that bears my name. In preparing for this evening, I was looking through the BGR website and was surprised to see what a force of nature I was in 1994. Roger Sharritt this and Roger Sharritt that. It was a bit embarrassing.

It was a bit embarrassing and in spite of being on the web, it wasn’t true. At least, I do not remember it that way. I remember a group of 20 students who knew that they could create Boilermaker community in a vibrant, fresh and innovative way, year after year, if given a chance.

As the university’s spokesman,  I said “fine, you can do that if you throw all of your energy into it. It isn’t a semester project. You may be able to cram for a mid term or final an have it turn out alright. But you can’t do that with this. You have to apply yourself everyday for a year with a 4 day final at the end. Oh, and by the way, anything less than excellence will receive a failing grade.”

After those 4 glorious days of Boiler Gold Rush, something completely insane will happen. As soon as you have tasted that sweet success of excellence; those countless moments of helping apprehensive ex-high school students discover that they are part of the Boilermaker community, after that incredible accomplishment, all of it is going to be wiped away.  The student organization known a Boiler Gold rush will become the student organization formerly known as BGR. Everyone will be told “Thank you for your contribution” Now pardon us as the task starts to rebuild BGR, the best orientation program in the country, from the ground up. Every year.

It was those 20 students who had the vision, the dedication, and the commitment to pass excellence on to you here tonight 20 BGR’s later.

One of the traits of a great organization is that it takes time to recognize excellence. To the old Student orientation committee (BGR’s leadership board), excellent work. Nice job,  and as sad as it is goodbye. To the new SOC members you are being recognized for the excellent work you have provided to this organization and the excellent potential for passing it on to a new crop of Boilermakers. Welcome to the task at hand, and remember that anything less than excellence is a failing grade.

In a couple of weeks the task of applying for and selecting Supervisors will take place and those selected should know that you are being selected for your excellence.

The Sharritt Award is recognition of an outstanding supervisor (middle management). The early leadership of BGR recognized that with out the supervisors there is no BGR. Student leaders working with small groups of students is how Boilermakers are built. So in 1996, the SOC decided to create an award recognizing the outstanding team lead. This year’s winner of the Sharritt Award for the outstanding BGR supervisor is . . .

It is nice to be in the right place at the right time and to see a theory about community grow up to be 20 years old through the work of those who are young, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Take care,

Roger

In a World full of Controversy?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. Better than fine, I must admit I am a bit giddy. This past week I was validated. Like a conspiracy theorist who has found out that the N ational S oda A ssociates really are listening to our phone calls and reading our emails; I have have been validated. No matter that the suborning perjurists lied to Congress, the theorists were validated. My validation came last week, I received my registration for the Hilly Hundred. Deep in the recesses of the information booklet, between the "Guidelines for safe cycling" and "In Case of Emergency" the following tidbit was hidden in the minutia. "Be alert for fast moving deer."

I told you so. Now the organizers of the Hilly Hundred have given voice to the assassin deer plague. "Be alert for fast moving deer." The assassin deer have infiltrated the bicycling tour circuit. And why not? Any assassin worth their salt has to have a target. Assassin deer are no different. Why wait along a deserted country road wondering when a group of cyclists may pass by the assassin trying to identify the weakest link for proper culling when you can have thousands of them stretched out before you on a brisk autumn afternoon?

This new approach in the assassin deer community has really taken hold. My spies found the following in a brochure in the DNR pavilion at the state fair. "Come to Monroe County and enjoy a convivial hunt. The Hilly Hundred provides a target rich environment with more that 5000 cyclists unwarily enjoying the fall scenery; an autumn palette of soothing hues. As the name implies, the terrain is challenging; inducing over 1/2 of the riders to abandon their rides to walk up the steep inclines. That is 2500 slow moving tasty morsels slowly perambulating into your target zone. So sharpen up those antlers, fill up those coolers and enjoy one of the last free weekends before the hunt starts. Vengeance is sweet." DNR spokespersons had no comment for this blog.

It has been a long week of controversy. First, it appears that a group of engineering students were intimidated into pulling a parody video from youtube. Who knew there were standards for parody or Youtube? Watch out Weird Al.  Whatever happened to if you don’t like it don’t watch it, don’t tune in. They are sophomore engineering students for goodness sake. Second, Ben Affleck has run into a maelstrom of criticism about playing the super hero Batman in Batman vs Superman. Really? Not to worry Batman fans, the franchise survived Michael Keaton. Besides, it’s acting--and Ben did a very good job “acting” like a true life superhero playing that dude who got the Iran hostages out in Argo.

The final controversy of the week struck a little close to home. Ben our son is a real live teacher now. He is working in Bloomington, his hometown. He has signed up for Adopt a Classroom. Adopt a Classroom helps connect those with disposable income with those who need to dispose of income for a good cause and help kids out at the same time. Ben’s page is

http://www.adoptaclassroom.org/classroomdonation/results_classrooms.aspx?x=classroom&desc=1&lname=Sharritt&fname=Ben

Ben sent out a note to those who had contributed that he had bought several dry erase boards, pens, and dry erase paper. This helps the children (it’s for the children) while they are doing math. They have more room to spread out their work. They can correct mistakes quickly and move on. It helps boost their confidence and with a boosted confidence and Ben’s fantastic teaching skills they will be doing calculus by the end of the year. (Please, there is no sarcasm in that. Ben is a very good teacher.)

That is not where the controversy started. There is no controversy in dry erase. Dry erase is universally loved and adored and recognized for the magic that it is. Controversy raised its ugly head in the last line of his post. “I got a three hole punch because it is a pain in the ass borrowing one from the other teachers.” Well the internet world erupted. You would have thought that he cast Ben Affleck to play Batman.

Here are some of the comments posted.

Ben Sharritt: I can’t believe you. Three hole punches are taking away work from one hole punch operators there by taking food out of the mouths of their children. Sure they can be retrained to operate the three hole punches but by definition you need 2/3 fewer operators. – the one hole punch Luddite.

One hole punch Luddite: dude get over it. The world is moving on. Everyone knows that this new technology is relieving the onerous one hole work that no one really wants to do. – three holes are better than one.

Three holes: Your industrialized hole making processes eliminate the artistry, the soul of whole punching. In your sterile environment, all holes are precisely placed. There is no nuance. The paper and student have no say in the placement of holes. The student learns nothing about the attention to detail that is needed to thrive in today’s world. - The one hole punch Luddite.

One hole: Thank you for making my points. Everyone knows that imprecisely placed holes from your artistic process is the slippery slope that has long proven to be the downfall of incalculable three ring binders in the past. The first two holes are fine but the last is a quarter of a hole out of place and the student has to put a little tear in the paper. A tear that will snag and rip with the repeated opening and closing of the binder. Soon the paper will be flapping in the wind catching the dog’s eye at home. The next thing you know the pup has eaten the homework. Also attention to detail is grossly overrated. The dictionary Luddites were up in arms with the advent of autocorrect. The corresponding fall in spelling skills has not predicated the end of the world. – three holes are better than one.

Three holes: You gaseous wind bag . . .

As you can see things have gotten personal and spiraled out of control. These things rarely get settled once they get personal. Either watch the video or not, either watch the movie or not, either donate or not, it really is up to you.

Take care.

Roger

An Apple a Day

Dearest blog reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Yesterday was a red letter day. Last evening as the sun was sitting in the west, we were entertaining the limerick contest winner, presenting her with her cherry pie reward, surrounded by family and friends. As the festivities progressed, I opened the season's first gallon of cider and enjoyed it out on the patio. A gallon that was delayed for a year. A delay caused by last year's warm spring and some of my reader's cavalier attitudes surrounding the weather moderating effects of improper flannel sheet deployment. That unseasonably warm February and March coaxed the apple blossoms out in early April. Those tender blossoms were aborted by three days of below freezing temperatures on April 14, 15, and 16. No blossoms, no fruit, no cider, no lip smacking goodness.

Taking a long drink, the first sweet cold drops surrounding my tongue while listening to the fire crackle in the fire pit, thinking that delayed gratification can be okay in moderation. Taking a long drink, smacking my lips in satisfaction, I know that this isn't just any apple cider. It is unpasteurized apple cider. That makes it better for a lot of reasons. It tastes better. It gives the drinker a daring feeling of living on the edge with those natural germs and all. Well okay, it's better for two reasons.

I know what you're thinking. "I thought that unpasteurized cider was illegal." Not so uninitiated one. If you buy "pet grade" cider, you are fine. Nahhhhh! I'm just messing with you. That's milk. As long as you buy it from the orchard and not a third party, it can be unpasteurized. Fortunately, I have lived a mile and a quarter from such an orchard for fifty years. Tucked away in a faded white barn, up against a hill side that holds three hundred trees, hundreds of bushel apple crates will be filled with Gala, Granny Smith, Mutzu, Red and Golden delicious apples. Most years a bumper crop will come down the hillside, into the back room, onto the sorter and into the cooler. The discards into the press room where they are ground into pulp and pressed into higher golden nectar service.

Most years a bumper crop, but about every third or fourth year, a crop failure is visited on Tranbarger's small orchard. Rarely, do they experience one as severe as last year. Anticipation of the annual crop report means that the first fall visit is always the most important one. Walking under a low porch roof on that first day, I always ask, "good crop?" As good neighbors, they know that the question is really, "how long will the season last?" In the past, a good year was mid-November; a bad year mid-October. However, recently, a new elementary school opened just down the road with 15 soccer fields full of after school, snack loving, single serving, cider guzzling, waifs. A situation that has shown the need for recalibration. Now, a bumper crop may see a trick-or-treater, but it is unlikely.

So an eight week window has opened. It is fueled by doctor repelling cliches. Can you eat five apples a day for 56 days and will the effect be cumulative? Either way this cider and these apples remind me of my favorite time of year. As the year would slip past Labor Day, Sharritt's little dairy farm would start the calving season; sixty calves in ninety days. Each evening, it was our responsibility to walk through the dry cow pasture field looking for new borns, evenings with longer and longer shadows, broken beams of sunlight illuminating golden rod and iron weed. Looking high and low, we would find a calf and its mom and start herding them toward the barn.

A group of nine and ten year olds gain a world of knowledge about influence and pressure moving a cow and calf down a country road. A well placed and timed step produce a much better outcome that wild gesticulation and iron weed sword play; too aggressive and momma bolts, heading out through town. Not persistent enough, she doubles back on you wanting to return to the old haunts.

 After registering the cow's id number and the sex of the calf, we would run to my grandmother's kitchen for an apple and a glass of cider. Then back out to the evening with more chores; feeding the weaned brothers and sisters, picking pumpkins or shucking Indian corn, hopefully finishing early enough to play a game of kickball or two games of hide and go seek. It was the frenetic action of kids trying to play before night time and homework collapsed around our shoulders.

I hope this finds you doing well. It leaves me doing very well indeed. Cheers!

Take care

Roger

The Power of Residual Embarrassment?

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. We continue to glide through August. Kids are going back to school in a staggered start. The Amish child gardening efforts continue to pay dividends. My current tomato intake has crossed the mouth sore threshold. I know that the high acid levels are the culprits, but I can't stop eating the lovely miss Beverly's salsa. Finally, Hoosiers all over this great state are in the throes of that great agricultural, hot tub lovin spectacle, the Indiana State Fair. We lift our favorite fried food on a stick in salute.

Last week in the winning limerick blog, I had requested that you, the readers, send in any examples of Doyle's limericks. Thank you Danielle for two shining examples.

I had a rooster named Red.
Who could get Danielle out of bed;
With an early morning crow,
He'd be up and ready to go.
And make Danielle happy, "she said"!

I had a rooster named Red.
He was feisty and very well fed.
On a hot summer day,
He got sick on the hay.
And now my rooster is dead!

Doyle, we lift our collective pens in salute.

I had the strangest experience the other day at work. I was taking a break and quietly sitting there in revelry. Suddenly, I was struck by a memory of an embarrassing moment. I devolved into a shaking mass of emotion. I found myself saying over and over in my mind  "that was embarrassing, that was embarrassing, that was embarrassing." I was immediately transported back to a personal moment of shame.

It is even stranger that right now, 4 days later, I cannot remember what I was so vividly recounting 96 hours ago. Paging Dr. Freud, paging Dr. Freud. It is an epic battle of the conscious and the subconscious. The subconscious lobbing embarrassing memory hand grenades and the conscious cleaning up,  encouraging passersby to "move along, nothing to see here."

I remember thinking 4 days ago, that it really wasn't that embarrassing. It wasn't event that defined me. I survived. I learned to not act that way again; at least less and less often. I haven't done that in a very long time. Like the lesson of the hot stove, it is a lesson learned. And yet this semi embarrassing non-repeated event can still fill me with dread.

It reminds me of an essay by Gene Shepard, a Hoosier author of some renown. In a book of collected essays, "In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash," he writes about the difference between the famous and the rest of us, the great unwashed.

He writes, “There are about four times in a man’s life, or a woman’s, too, for that matter, when unexpectedly, from out of the darkness, the blazing carbon lamp, the cosmic searchlight of Truth shines full upon them. It is how we react to those moments that forever seals our fate. One crowd simply puts on its sunglasses, lights another cigar, and heads for the nearest plush French restaurant in the jazziest section of town, sits down and orders a drink, and ignores the whole thing. While we the Doomed, caught in the brilliant glare of illumination, see ourselves inescapably for what we are, and from that day on skulk in the weeds, hoping no one else will spot us.”

Ain't it the truth? Gene Shepard, we lift our blushing red faces in salute.

Take care

Roger.

We Have a Winner

Dearest Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well and excited. I am very excited. This is the winning limerick announcement blog. Two weeks ago, the lovely Miss Beverly using her lovely creative mind, (the creative part caused problems. I will explain later.) created a limerick contest in honor of her father, Doyle's birthday. He had loved to create limericks and share them with the family.

That's right 72 limericks to judge, to sift through, saying this one is a little better than that one, wondering if "her" and "better" are a true enough rhyme, not to mention does the meter match perfectly. I must admit that I was so overwhelmed with the overwhelming quality of entries, that I brought in help. The lovely Miss Beverly agreed then set her body of work to the side and help with the judging. It was a disaster. Remember the creative mind? Yes, Miss Beverly is of the free verse wing of the limerick party. She loves the story, the creativity, the whimsy. Me not so much. For me; does it rhyme, is it iambic, does it have five lines, then we can talk about story. How to pick a winner when coming at a problem from two opposite directions? We got so frustrated with one another that we had to get away from the other wrong headed person for the rest of the evening.

The next day a strong westerly wind blew through the house scattering you hard work all around. Still frustrated, we just left them lay on the floor for 24 hours. We considered letting Henry and Hugo sniff out the winner. Finally, twenty-four hours before the announcement, we set our petty differences aside and started working towards a solution--with a rubric that included both form and story.

Bev and I decided to divide the 72 into categories: the nearly interesting cousins, the interesting cousins, the outlaws, the siblings, and foreigners (those a bit removed from the Hoover nation as described in one limerick.) We picked two finalists in each category. Saturday morning we brought in two independent judges (thanks Julie and Becky) to verify the category winners. Then by the powers vested in me as the general commissioner of a great many things, I have selected the grand pie eating champion.

First the category winners,
The winner of the "oh I'm sorry you're late category" Bonita Hoover, It is lovely--an excellent sweet, true line at the end-- but it was late and 72 other people could meet the deadline. Life is hard and it is best to learn these lessons early in life. Here is her limerick:

Ate maggot meat balls and elephant turds
Liked to go to the barn and shoot some birds
Grew pretty hollyhocks
Picked up lots of rocks
Tall in stature and short on words


The winner of the nearly interesting cousin category (under 15):
  Max Young
Thanksgiving at the Sharritt's is best
I put a dozen rolls to rest
Though I gained two pounds
And my belly was quite round
I'll never look at this memory with detest

Winner of the interesting cousins (16 and above.)
Danielle Pyle
There once were six talented sisters,
Who easily found themselves misters.
They baked pies and desserts,
Milked cows and sewed shirts.
Their hands must be covered in blisters.

Winner of the outlaws:
Mike Stilger
Now Doyle a man of great vision,
Milking cows was his mission.
Sons will have I
Pie in the sky.
XY chromosomes have no collision.

Foreigners:
Tom Mathews
So I flopped while making my try,
At a poem to catch Roger's eye.
And my limerick did foil,
(Sorry, Grandpa Doyle)
Now Tom won't get any pie.

Siblings (bring on the rivalry):
Cindy Pyle
Thank goodness I'm not the judge.
Through verses and lines he will trudge.
The prize will be pie
But this is no lie
I prefer vanilla ice cream with hot fudge!

Someone had the thought that we could give each of the category winners a pie. Who am I kidding? It was the kindly Miss Beverly. Do I look like I am made of pie dough? Well okay, but the lovely Miss Beverly doesn't look like she is made of pie. You're out of luck.

Well the time has come; no more procrastination.

The champion is . . .
Danielle Pyle
There once were six talented sisters,
Who easily found themselves misters.
They baked pies and desserts,
Milked cows and sewed shirts.
Their hands must be covered in blisters.

We loved hearing the memories and stories that this contest evoked. It's funny that, with as much of an impact that Doyle's limericks had on people, it appears that no written examples exist; which is a bit sad. If you have one that he wrote, or remember one, let us know! But in a way, they do exist in the 72 submitted entries.

Take care.

Roger