A Low Grade March

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope that these words find you doing well. Why would you think that I would not hope that you were doing well?  I would never hold it against anyone who so brazenly took off their flannel sheets in the first half of April. This especially the case on the Sunday after a week of very cool temps. Weather.com having alerted us to freeze alerts on Thursday and Friday. As the Lovely Miss Beverly said this morning, “Come on April show up!” “Yeah, April 2015 wouldn’t want to be known as the April that never was.” I responded. To which Bev quipped, “Only to be replaced by a low grade March.”  

A low grade March, we are stuck with you. Payment for overreaction to a day or two of 70 degree temperatures. I hope that it doesn’t get colder than the low thirties for an hour or two on any given night and that the apple blossoms stay in the bud for a few more days. The guilt of a ruined apple crop could prove to be crushing for many people’s spirits. This is especially true since you had been warned; warned to stay calm, don’t overreact, and leave the flannels on, more cold weather was on the way. We have not had black raspberry winter yet. If we keep a united front, show no weakness, it will go away. The cold knows that its time is almost up. Its reserves are weakened. It has to pick and choose its moments. It must search out the most vulnerable and least protected and then attack. And there you are sleeping without the flannel sheets.

I am doing fine. Thanks, for asking. Our flannel sheets are still snuggly in place. Things were a bit warm a night or two, but I was sleeping with a clear conscious. I was doing my part to keep the cold at bay. Letting Jack Frost know that there was no advantage to be gained by hanging around. “Why don’t you go on up to Michigan, or Wisconsin, or Minnesota? Just leave us be.”

All of this beseeching, begging that the flannels stay where they belong for how long they belong reminds me of a parenting story. There was a Facebook post a couple of years ago from a frustrated mother whose children refused to wear their coat from the school doors to the sidewalk where the car was parked. “Does anyone know how to get their kids to wear their coats as they walk to the car from school in the freezing cold?” To which I replied, “Park farther from the door. If they haven’t put on their coats by the time they almost reach the car just pull forward another 100 feet.”

Parents really waste a lot of time getting their children to dress warmly enough during the winter. Let the law of consequences rule. Oh sure, when they are newborns, you have to put your foot down and force their rebellious waving arms into coats, and feet back into socks and shoes. The poor little things don’t know what they are doing. However, about the time they have learned to sass or throw a tantrum, your responsibility for ensuring that they dress warmly. Yes, you have to provide the instruments of warmth, make them readily available, maybe even keep a bag close and handy in case their rebellious actions freeze and they start to warm to the idea that mom and dad are onto something with those warm cloths.

My dad spent years trying to get my sister to button up her coat. He used guilt, haranguing, logic, everything and reaped nothing but frustration for his efforts, well frustration and a daughter who would not zip up her coat. It is the same with you. I have given helpful advice. I have threatened you with dire consequences. I have used the guilt of appleless falls, all to no avail. The first stray 70 degree day in April comes along and you go packing the flannels off to the summer linen closet where they will do no good in helping you through the last fitful days of a stubborn northerly wind.

So we all suffer, we suffer because you have given Jack Frost hope. He is lurking out there, the sun getting higher in the sky. He knows that his days are numbered for this winter. But seeing weakness, he will strike, and I must confess that it does warm my heart just a little knowing that you are there shivering between you cotton sheets the last week of April, or is it the warmth provided by my flannels.

Take care and stay warm.

Roger

View from the top of a hill

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am very well. The past two weeks have seen me in a variety of noteworthy situations. Last weekend I rode my bike to Bloomington to visit Ben. During the past 3 years, my bike riding has resulting in an annual 100 mile ride between Sharrittland and Bloomington. This ride has been on Good Friday the past two years, and this year in a huge nod to flexibility, I postponed it for a day while I let the rain pass and rode on a sunny Saturday in early April. The rain had passed but the lingering spring zephyr came in its wake. Consequently, I rode into a 14 mph wind for 6 hours or so. Certainly not my best time. Plus, I had to get off and walk my bike up four hills that my cramping legs would not or could not take me up.

It was pretty humbling having all of the college boys practicing for the Little 500 pass me. But what are you going to do? Legs that will not turn the crank any longer are of no use to you no matter how bad your ego is lamenting the sad facts of the situation.

While only a baby tradition, I really do look forward to this ride annually. With the variable dates for Easter and the daily crapshoot for predicting Indiana spring time weather, you never know what flora and fauna will be greeting you as you pedal your way through rural Indiana. There were plenty of daffodils. The tulips were just forming buds, but the flowering shrubs were still hunkered down trying to wake up from their long winter’s nap.

Of course there is the lunch stop in Franklin at the Bar Grill on Main Street. The Bar Grill is home of the “best burger in Indiana”, and owned by completely unimaginative proprietors. They really should have used a thesaurus when coming up with the name of their fine eating establishment. The food is good and the service friendly. This is especially true when you consider that I am walking into their establishment in full bike spandex after sweating through the first 50 miles. I do leave a little to be desired on the freshness scale.

My favorite part of the ride is turning South onto Hurricane road just West of Morgantown. That turn takes you down into a perfectly flat valley at the back entrance to the Monroe State Forest. This valley floor is covered with the black loam of a glacier at its pinnacle, just before its retreat in the face of global warming. Juxtaposed against the next 15 miles of Monroe county hills, you get a true sense of the leveling power of all of that ice. If it would have stayed cold, those hills that were so hard to get up would have been ground down to easy riding prairie land also. I do love to ride through that valley floor.

I do not know if it was the pain of exertion from riding into the wind for 6 hours, the pain from riding up hills with very painful cramps getting ready to jump off just before they seized completely, or the pain of a bruised ego of being passed by others as they rode triumphantly to the top of the next hill, but this ride opened my vision to things that have been hiding just under the surface for a while. The lovely Miss Beverly has been my support and gear person on many of my long rides. She has graciously dropped me off or picked me up at the beginning and end of these long rides numerous times. She is so gracious and loving. I am sure that I have not shown enough gratitude.

This time the lovely Miss Beverly was coming on Sunday leaving my care and recovery in the very capable hands of Ben. It is that care and the juxtaposition of glacier sheared valley floor against unbowed hills that I have been thinking about for the past week. Ben graciously went out for milk and juice to aid in my recovery. He went out and foraged some excellent Chinese carryout for supper. Things turned a bit poignant when he came across the room to help me get up off the couch when a cramp hit my leg like a ton of bricks. He supported my weight as I cussed up a storm waiting for the waves of pain to subside.

The idea that keeps coming to mind was that this was the first glimmer of future role reversals for us. The roles reversed where the son is providing support for the father. At some point, the recurring scene will be son supporting father. It is the way of things. It has also brought to mind my father and our roles at the end of his life. My father died as a result of a farming accident shortly after his 53^rd birthday. I am coming to that milestone in June. There were many relationship milestones that were short circuited when he sustained those fatal injuries; providing support for my father was one of those shore circuits. As a result, I had to wait to experience the milestone role reversal of son caring for father.

When my father turned 50, I remember wondering if dad had lost a step. He was a mountain of a man; working 14 hour days running a dairy farm, making a living by standing strong against the weight of weather, prices, and debt. Losing a step might have meant that he cut back to 13.5 hours a day. He might have sent some of the younger help up to the hay mount to throw 1200 bales of hay in 100 degree heat. My wondering if he had lost a step was born of the ego of a 27 year old young man on the cusp of fatherhood amazed at the longevity my father’s ability to move mountains.

No my father had not lost any step. The steps that he had to take on a daily basis had made him more tired. It is that weariness that I recognized a month before that tragic day in August as we were visiting the farm with Ben his grandson. Recognizing weariness isn’t role reversal. It is a turning of the corner though; a dim view of things to come. It is the view from the top of the hill to the valley floor knowing that it took a lot of grinding to make it that smooth.  

Take care

Roger

I Know the Plans.

Dear Blog Reader.           

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. So many things to write about this week. It is hard to draw my focus to any one item. I am sure that you said a silent thank you for my admonitions from a week or two ago to leave your flannel sheets on your beds. The cold (down to 15 degrees in Sharrittland) of the past few days have been a toe stubbing reminder that during these last few days of March, winter can still establish its presence.

I must admit that the Sharritt household has bobbled on our commitment to cotton sheet free beds until Memorial Day. The lovely Miss Beverly is a free spirit not always standing by the traditional ways of her stolid ancestors. I believe that she understands why they were stolid. Not having antibiotics, it was vital that Gram and Dad leave their flannels on or they could catch their death from pneumonia. Now the stakes aren’t so high. You catch a late spring cold because of improper flannel installation and you can rub some antibiotics on it; take a day or two off from work binge watching your favorite Netflix show and you’re good as new; not so for our ancestors of just a few generations ago.

So the Lovely Miss Beverly on a flight of fancy removed the guestroom flannels and put on those nice cotton sheets. In a double whammy, the next guests to visit us were our lovely daughter Grace and handsome son-in-law Chris. They have left the Hoosier state this year on an infiltration trip to Michigan. They were visiting the ancestral home for a cousin’s wedding this weekend. The weather gods, sensing weakness, sent a Michigan cold blast with them and attacked when our guest room bed was unshielded by the protective powers of the flannel sheets. Emergency blankets were rushed to the room in the middle of the night, and we are happy to report that Chris and Grace only received slight injuries from the enormous weight of comforters that it took to replace the warming power of even the thinnest flannel sheet.

You may ask “why is the daughter of the lovely Miss Beverly living in that state to the north?” That is an excellent question; a question worthy of the high caliber of reader found ambling through the halls of this blog. It is quite simple really. Once a long time ago there was the Indiana Territory. The space consumed by the Indiana Territory was vast. It included the present day states of Indiana (thank you very much), Illinois, and Wisconsin. Along with part of Minnesota, Michigan and Ohio. In order to make it more governable in the time before the internet and Facebook, they divided up the Indiana Territory. In a move that continues to baffle me, the Hoosier state turned out to be the smallest land mass of the others just mentioned. Plus, we lost the naming rights to the lake to the north. Unbelievable!

It is time something was done to right these wrongs of the early 1800’s. To that end, the high command embraced a long game strategy for reclaiming the Great Lake that was so wrongly named many years ago. The high command believes that through the intrepid insinuation of our spies into the very fabric of Michigander legal and cultural society, it is only a matter of time before the map industry will enter it’s golden era when cartographers will be kept busy renaming the third largest of the Great Lakes; Lake Indiana. To that end, we have decided that our lovely young daughters can be courted by Michiganders and if our daughters find young men worthy of their nobility, charm, intelligence, and grace, Hoosier parents are not stopping the nuptials. There is much weeping and gnashing of teeth when it is discovered that said men are really making cross border raids and taking our daughters to that cold, dark, hostile land to the north, but this is for the greater good. As the tourist marketing plan states; “Say Yes to Michigan.”

Our goals were furthered this weekend as a niece was captured and taken to Sawyer, Michigan to live as part of a happy couple; to live as part of a happy couple and keep an eye on how those Michiganders are treating Lake Indiana.  Sawyer Michigan is in that 40 mile wide stipe of land just as you enter Michigan and right on the shores of Lake Michigan.  That 40 miles or so is commonly referred to as Michiana. Which is, I believe, native Michigander’s subconscious desire to really live in Indiana. You don’t see Hoosiers within 40 miles of the Michigan boarder referring to their home as Indigan. No the love is all flowing one way.

So Danielle, you and Matt take care. The wedding was lovely and you both married great people. As always it is a joy to see all of the family loving one another in celebration. Enjoy Sawyer. As Jerimiah wrote, “I know the plans that I have for you;” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me out on the shores of Lake Indiana.”

Take Care.

Roger

On the Road Again

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. In the pages of this blog, I have taken the opportunity to share some of the sights that I have seen while riding. Before yesterday, the most amazing sight was the big dog walking beside two people on a gray January day a mile down the road. Dogs are my biggest concern when riding. I am a little concerned that they might take a hunk out of my ankle. However, my biggest fear is that they will miscalculate when determining their angle of attack. They will overshoot and hit my front bike tire and send me head over handle bars and into six months of not riding while recuperating. It is the six months of not riding that worries me most.

Every dog concerns me. Will the dog behind the invisible fence make the leap though its operant training and finding itself suddenly free, go dashing to my death? Will the dog on a tether pull its stake loose and come dashing across the yard to tangle itself in my front spokes? Will that pit bull latch onto my throat when he dismounts me from my stead? Even the dog on a leash worries me. Owners with those retractable leashes seem especially foolish. With the dog acting like a yoyo going in and out, sniffing at this, peeing on that, the owner is lulled into complacency so that as I ride by, Fido will make a break and ruin my day. As you can see, dogs live rent free in my head when I am riding my bike.

On that January day, I swear that the dog ahead of me was 3 feet tall. I am confident that I can out run any of the short legged breeds. While their short legs can move like frenetic pistons, their short strides are unable to keep up with my own adrenaline fueled pedaling.  This 3 foot tall monster will easily be able overtake me with an easy lope no matter how hard I pedal; even if I pedal so hard that my heart nearly bursts.

The sight that I saw yesterday on my afternoon ride was just as affecting as that 3 foot canine monstrosity. This road that I bike is lightly traveled. It is a road to nowhere. One does not pass this way from someplace to someplace else. It is a dead end in southwestern Madison County. I ride alone on this road. I ride alone except for the walkers with dogs, the riders on horses, and occasional pickup heading to work or coming home from the store. Yesterday, I came upon another fellow traveler. There in the middle of the road was a red jacketed old man. He was walking down the middle of the road; oblivious to any traffic or bicyclist out for a spring ride.

He is walking very slowly; extremely slowly as a matter a fact. He is walking with the help of two 4 pronged canes. He is a slump shouldered, white haired old man, leaning heavily on those two canes. He is headed towards a house 100 yards away. A plastic patio chair is setting out on driveway. A white rickety plastic chair facing a winter worn garden that grew Black Seeded Simpson lettuce for wilted lettuce bacon sandwiches and 2 rows of okra for fried okra. A white plastic with slightly splayed back legs from holding a man who had been out soaking up some sun.

Here he was walking slowly down the middle of the road, determinedly placing one crutch in front of the other in his struggle towards the white chair. It is customary to let pedestrians and other bikers know when you are about to pass. I was reticent in this case. I somehow thought that the sudden voice behind him would disrupt what appeared to me to be a battle to maintain balance. So I went around him to the right; plenty of room to spare even though he was in the middle of the road. I lifted my hand in a friendly wave as I sped quickly by.

As I went by, I thought of the strange things I see on the road and how they often aren’t what they first appear to be. I thought of that three foot tall dog that turned out to be a pony. Going forward, I will think of that teetering frail old man that turned out to be a man of true grit determined to get on the road again.

Take care.

Roger.

I feel like I can breathe again

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I have identified the green tinge in the lawn as chlorophyll. I can already feel the oxygen levels starting to come up. Isn’t that the way with March; waiting for the winter to break? It is like we can finally breathe again.

I am very excited. Not as excited as the homeowner that I saw on my bike ride. On the way out he had his lawn tractor and trailer out. He was out picking up the twigs that had fallen from the trees during the winter. He had a pair of those extendo-grabs and was doing his thing up and down his yard. An hour later, on my return trip, he was mowing the lawn. Good for you Mr. Good House Keeping Seal guy. You really have to stay on top of that early spring growth. You wouldn’t want the dog poo patches to get out of hand with their extra burst of nitrogen stoked growth. Nor should you overtax your mighty mowing machine. Those sharp whirring blades would never cut through those pencil sized twigs. I suppose that he was trying to protect me and other passersby. One of those pencil sized twigs could come flying across his yard and put an eye out. His concern is admirable.

I also admire his stamina. I still remember the early warmth of two years ago when I too was cutting grass in March. My mower was lobbying to stop cutting the grass in September. “You need to let the grass get a little long in the fall. It stores up nutrients and develops the root system to get you through the winter.”

That zealous grass cutter wasn’t the only sign of spring this morning. I heard and witnessed a giant flock of sandhill cranes migrating probably 500 feet overhead while riding down a pothole strewn back road on my 2 hour bike ride this afternoon. Nature’s airport was doing brisk business today. I saw a groundhog come out of his hole this morning. He looked suspiciously tanned. I believe that he left town on February 3^rd for warmer zip codes. Now six weeks later, he came breezing back into town. I chuckle at the homeowner’s exuberance. I hate the ground hog.

Speaking of that early warm spring of two years ago that I mentioned a couple of paragraphs ago, tomorrow’s 71 degrees can cause hot flash backs. I could see you getting nervous. You are afraid to leave the flannels on too long. What happens if the overnight temps stay too high and you suddenly catch on fire? Chill out. (hah) You aren’t going to suddenly burst into flame.

Stay hydrated. There will be more cold weather. The stretches of cold will shorten, the warm stretches will lengthen. The time will come but you must be strong now. The weather gods are toying with you. They are waiting for you to get out of balance; starting to trust in the warm weather. As soon as you change to the cotton sheets, the cold will come slamming in and the apple crop will be ruined. So stay strong, it will all work out. My apple cider fix is relying on you. It is pretty unbelievable, but I have only eaten Indiana apples since September of 2013. So we are relying on you to keep your flannels on so that the weather gods won’t mess with us and slam us with a late spring frost or freeze.

You may be wondering “what is the best part of winter suddenly breaking and those first few days of warmer weather?” It could be the fact that I am happy that the wood supply lasted throughout the winter. It was close. I will probably cut a little bit more this coming fall. That is great but what I like most off all is riding up the drive on my bike quietly enough that the dog doesn't stir. He was stretched out on the grass soaking in the sun and  I waited for him to take that deep contented breath.

It’s going to be okay.

Take Care.

Roger.

Crisscrossing SHARRITTLAND airspace

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am doing very well. The ten day forecast suggests some hope for the future. I am afraid that my Bostonian readers will still have to import taller leprechauns in order to see them over the snow drifts that will still be around in a week. But you have that Superbowl trophy to get you through these trying times. Then yesterday, I was able to venture out of the house on my bike for my daily ride. I appreciate the solid service that my trainer provided; letting me do my best impression of a hamster on his wheel, endlessly pedaling furiously on a road to nowhere. I was excited to get outside, and my tires bike tires nearly burst in excitement when they touched pavement.

Two weeks ago in the blog, you read about humankind learning to fly right through the consequences of their own actions. As those words were written, I was thinking about the recent spate of drones in the news: here a drone there a drone everywhere a drone drone. Drones are the hottest fad since the hoola-hoops, beanie babies, or rubik's cubes. They are making Parisians nervous. They were used as a gag on the television show, Modern Family. They were featured on 60 Minutes where Amazon shared the great idea of delivering packages from warehouse to your door on the same day as ordered. 

In anticipation of that news, I have been feverishly working at making SHARRITTLAND a sovereign nation with the rights of airspace and navigable waters both above and contiguous to the boarders of SHARRITTLAND forthwith. No wonder my son-in-law is going to law school for three years. It would take that long to teach a sane person to speak and write in such a convoluted way. Wouldn't be easier just to say "that there air is mine and if you fly your drone in my air, I'm going to make it mine too"? That is what I mean.

I want one of those drones. Actually, I want to shoot down a drone and capture its booty. Wouldn't that be cool? Every drone shot down would mean a different surprise, much better than Cracker Jacks. It would an adjunct to the online shopping experience. Admit it. You love hitting the enter button and having the UPS Santa pull in the drive in his Big Brown Truck to deliver this gift that you begged Santa Bezos for. Much more so than that fake Santa whose lap you sat on in kindergarten who brought you the play tool bench when you really wanted the six shooter to play cowboys and indians with Sam and Max. Thankfully they weren't judgmental and fell dutifully and gloriously when shot through with bullets fired from a plastic clawhammer just as dramatically as you fell when shot by their pearl-handled cap guns. In spite of Max and Sam's graciousness, I still get a thrill hitting enter and knowing that Santa will bring me the Apple watch with the sport band on Christmas Eve.

The utopian vision of me sitting on my porch everyday watching the radar for incoming surprise toting bogeys was dashed a couple of weeks ago when the FAA said that "Thou shalt not use a drone for any number of reasons. I don't know if this is good or bad, but Santa Bezos says that the FAA is being naughty and deserves a lump of coal. Since my pie in the sky retirement dreams depends on thousands of merchandise ladened drones crisscrossing SHARRITTLAND for entertainment and supplemental income, what is bad for Santa Bezos is bad for me. 

What gives the FAA the right to say that Santa Bezos can't try this wonderfully quixotic vision of playing with drones? Sure there are going to be some mishaps. Some geese will be hit. Some buildings will be sideswiped. Some packages will be prematurely delivered from a great height. I know it is cliche but you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

Dear FAA please don't stand in the way of progress, or at least be fair. You might ask "what's not fair about keeping drones from buzzing around our heads like a swarm of Africanized bees who are mad about being brought to a land where the winter goes on and on? Well those Amazon drones may have a few misfires, but they won't be shooting hellfires at us. Strafing  your customers isn't a good business strategy. Yet we routinely use drones to make "deliveries" all over the world.  I am guessing that the Taliban wishes that there was a FAA regulating the use of drones over Pakistan. Don't get me wrong using drones as a 72 virgin delivery system is a good use of American ingenuity. I'm just saying don't get in the way of harnessing that ingenuity for delivering blessings from heaven.

Take care

Roger

(potentate of SHARRITTLAND)

Can't the Golden Rule be learned?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I feel that I must take a moment to apologize to my New England readers. No, I stand by my negative opinions about your cheating coach and quarterback. I do want to apologize that our wimpy weathermen and women sounded an alert and declared a winter storm warning for five inches of very fluffy snow. It is a bit embarrassing to call that a winter storm when you get feet of snow over and over again. It is just wrong that we would empty our grocery store shelves for what must seem like flurries for you.

I have another bone to pick with the weather people. What in the heck is the difference between a Winter Vortex and a Siberian Express? I do not remember the Niagara Falls freezing over with last year’s Winter Vortices. This year and a week of fast moving Siberians and we have pictures flying around the world of Niagara Falls doing its impersonation of an ice apocalypse. It is very convincing as an ice apocalypse I might add. I used to whine and complain that my kids never had a desire to take up the sciences and discover teleportation. I am mostly over it now. However, I would like to see Niagara Falls frozen over. But I don’t want to see them badly enough to drive 12 hours to go see them. A three second teleportation, now I could do that. I probably don’t need to see it for more that about ½ hour. I could zip right back then; download the video to YouTube and be ready for my Sunday afternoon nap.

I wonder if you were to teleport me from Niagara Falls would you teleport the air that was around me too. If it does, it stands to reason that you teleport blocks of cold air from one point to the other. How cool would that be? Pun intended. You could get a block of Siberia’s finest and teleport it to the beach where your sister is escaping from the ravages of winter and in a second have her rueing the day she posted that beach sunset on Facebook with the taunt "wish you were here" . The best part is she couldn’t do anything back to you. What is she going to do teleport a block of 80 degrees back at you. I say let her try. Oh wait a second, while I get my swim trunks on. I don’t want to sweat in the 3 flannel shirts that I am wearing these days.

I suppose that a sister could show some real imagination and teleport an alligator up to my living room. That would cause some real discomfort in a hurry. But it would be a warm alligator; every cloud and its silver lining. Things could get out of hand in a very big hurry. The next thing you know, the government would have to get involved. They would have to say “thou shalt not teleport alligators to another individual’s house; not even if they had taunted you with a blast of Siberian express while you were resting on the beach.”

There goes the government short circuiting our natural learning curve. Given a few months we would quickly figure out why the Golden Rule is golden. It works. If everyone uses it, no alligator bites in retaliation for Siberian Express attacks. Oh sure there would be an incidents of missing fingers and I suppose even a few deaths while the learning was getting started. But don’t we have enough rules to handle that? It seems that a few manslaughter convictions would set things right. You could publish pictures and results on Facebook and by and large people would straighten up and fly right all on their own. As would be natural with any learning curve some people would fail to get it. But in the end they would thin themselves out.

 And without all that red tape.

Take Care

Roger