My lucky brother is retired. Not only is he retired, he is busy, and happily so. He and his wife ride bikes and travel, much of it your usual retirement fare. But they also have started to play bluegrass music. Both my brother and his wife decided a few years back to take up an instrument in retirement. He labors away on the guitar and she on a violin.
Luckier still, they live in a suburb of Portland, Oregon, a city populated by people who know how to live and choose to be part of the game rather than simply populate the sidelines. An example of that spirit manifests itself in Taborgrass, a local effort to bring aspiring bluegrass musicians together to learn, well, how to be bluegrass musicians.
Recently my brother sent along a link which included a video of their spring concert. I dialed in the other morning and watched the whole 60-plus minute production. I'm not the world's biggest bluegrass fan although I do enjoy it in small doses. But this was great. More than just the music, I was struck by the beautiful portrayal of community illustrated by this group, standing and sitting together, plugging away at producing a beautiful and common sound. As I watched the concert I couldn't help but think this is what it is to be a successful community. Although a racially homogeneous group, there certainly does appear to be a good variety of age, gender, and personality types. Everyone is in their version of a white shirt but, even in that, there is variety. But the end product is a beautiful sound, a sound which every member of this diverse group is applying their skill to accomplish. Wouldn't it be great if we all lived our lives in the same fashion as the members of this orchestra, working with every effort made to ensure the success of all? Truly a community. Check it out.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Memories Of My (mother) Father
I did dishes after dinner the other evening. I found myself carefully washing out a large styrofoam tub and its lid we had brought home from the Chinese restaurant the day before. I'm thinking, "why waste a perfectly good container with a well fitting lid when all it would do otherwise is occupy space in a landfill for the next 3 to 4 thousand years? This will be good for something." And then it struck me: This is exactly the type of thing my mother would do that drove me crazy as a kid.
If you had opened our refrigerator in 1968 you would have found all manner of containers enjoying a second, third, or fourth incarnation. Cottage cheese? Not on your life. That would be left-over mashed potatoes. See? Look at the masking tape label. And that jar? Lemonade? No. That would be potato water. And that coffee can? Bacon grease.
Here I am 40+ years later doing pretty much the same thing. I have a cupboard full of empty cottage cheese and sour cream containers awaiting the call to return to service. My wife is tolerant but I'm dumbstruck: How does one end up doing the very things they most despised in a parent's behavior? With respect to mom there are a few traits I'd like to divorce.
But today is Father's Day. For learning kindness, caring about the welfare of others and for knowing concern, I thank my dad. For a sense of style and believing in the importance of appearance when meeting with those who come to me for help, I thank my Dad. For the love of trains, planes and automobiles, it's Dad. But to be clear, and for the record, I do not ever foresee a time when I'll be strolling about in a red velour jumpsuit. Smoking a pipe? Well, maybe. But not any time soon. And never while using the bathroom.
If you had opened our refrigerator in 1968 you would have found all manner of containers enjoying a second, third, or fourth incarnation. Cottage cheese? Not on your life. That would be left-over mashed potatoes. See? Look at the masking tape label. And that jar? Lemonade? No. That would be potato water. And that coffee can? Bacon grease.
Here I am 40+ years later doing pretty much the same thing. I have a cupboard full of empty cottage cheese and sour cream containers awaiting the call to return to service. My wife is tolerant but I'm dumbstruck: How does one end up doing the very things they most despised in a parent's behavior? With respect to mom there are a few traits I'd like to divorce.
But today is Father's Day. For learning kindness, caring about the welfare of others and for knowing concern, I thank my dad. For a sense of style and believing in the importance of appearance when meeting with those who come to me for help, I thank my Dad. For the love of trains, planes and automobiles, it's Dad. But to be clear, and for the record, I do not ever foresee a time when I'll be strolling about in a red velour jumpsuit. Smoking a pipe? Well, maybe. But not any time soon. And never while using the bathroom.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Innie vs. Outie
I've had a busy week at work and I'm on call now through the weekend. This afternoon I was done early. Being tired and not knowing what the weekend holds in store all I wanted to do was lie around and rest on the couch. That, unfortunately, is the problem. I lie here and I see those big white clouds crossing the blue sky and I feel guilty for not being out there. I should be walking/running/riding my bike instead of laying around here indoors. It drives my wife and little son crazy how I could prefer indoor inactivities to out.
People are surprised when I say I don't care for daylight savings time and summer weather. I enjoy a bike ride occasionally, and I usually walk back and forth to the hospital, but basically I'm an inside kindaguy. It's only late spring but the temperatures are well into the 70's and 80's and it really is beautiful outside. Here in Michigan we only get 3, maybe 4, months of hospitable weather and people like to squeeze every last drop of daylight out of the day when it's like this.
Perhaps I need to move my practice to Iceland or Norway, somewhere dark and cool and overcast. That way I can stay inside and write and draw and otherwise waste my time with a conscience as clear as the blue Michigan summer sky. Only I'd get bored pretty quick: I'd be living there alone.
People are surprised when I say I don't care for daylight savings time and summer weather. I enjoy a bike ride occasionally, and I usually walk back and forth to the hospital, but basically I'm an inside kindaguy. It's only late spring but the temperatures are well into the 70's and 80's and it really is beautiful outside. Here in Michigan we only get 3, maybe 4, months of hospitable weather and people like to squeeze every last drop of daylight out of the day when it's like this.
Perhaps I need to move my practice to Iceland or Norway, somewhere dark and cool and overcast. That way I can stay inside and write and draw and otherwise waste my time with a conscience as clear as the blue Michigan summer sky. Only I'd get bored pretty quick: I'd be living there alone.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Chemistry of Coffee
If you study chemistry at the college level there are two things you should definitely come away with: an understanding of the importance of accuracy and the ability to measure with precision. I have two years of college chemistry under my belt. It's been 34 years or so but I like to think it's still in there.
Funny, though, how just the smallest things can really shake one's self-confidence. Take, for instance, making coffee. It's simple: One scoop for every cup. Or is it? Is that one tablespoon or one teaspoon? Is that a 6 ounce cup or one of the 10 to 12 ounce cups used more frequently these days? And those little measuring scoops you buy-- you can't convince me they're all the same volume. Yet, in spite of all those significant question marks I forge ahead and make coffee on the weekends,
If this were organic chemistry and my wife were good ol' Dr. Hudak I'm not sure I would still be going on to medical school. But I take comfort in the uncontrolled variables above. It's not me. I have the training. I remember the rules. I kinda measure. No. It's not me, it's the equipment!
Funny, though, how just the smallest things can really shake one's self-confidence. Take, for instance, making coffee. It's simple: One scoop for every cup. Or is it? Is that one tablespoon or one teaspoon? Is that a 6 ounce cup or one of the 10 to 12 ounce cups used more frequently these days? And those little measuring scoops you buy-- you can't convince me they're all the same volume. Yet, in spite of all those significant question marks I forge ahead and make coffee on the weekends,
If this were organic chemistry and my wife were good ol' Dr. Hudak I'm not sure I would still be going on to medical school. But I take comfort in the uncontrolled variables above. It's not me. I have the training. I remember the rules. I kinda measure. No. It's not me, it's the equipment!
Wing Shots
My wife says I have enough wing shots. She may be right. It seems like every flight I’m on where the wing is visible and I’ve got a camera I snap a shot. Sometimes even at night. This has been going on for years.
For whatever reason I love the image of those wings set against the background of the wild blue yonder. I love airplanes and I love to fly.
Of the two most dangerous things in the world they say one is a doctor piloting an airplane. I don’t do that. My wife can but I’ve always had the wisdom to realize I would not be the sharpest tool in the drawer when it comes to the operation of an engine powered heavier than air flying machine. I leave that job to others whose only concern is the operation of that type vehicle.
Native Americans long ago claimed that to take a photograph was to capture the soul of the thing. Thus they long avoided the photographer’s lens. It is one of the features of the work of Edward S. Curtis that makes his images so remarkable: He was able to pose the Native American in full regalia and capture their images for posterity. Some feel his bribery and trespass was tantamount to theft but he did preserve a somewhat authentic image of a great society fallen and about to disappear into the abyss of modern western industrial life.
My aim is not so high and my subjects neither endangered or noble. But I do think I am trying to take a piece of that airplane, that flight, home with me. I think I want that great wing cutting through the dark blue of flight at 6 miles high to become a part of me. So, if you wouldn’t mind just leaning back a bit……
For whatever reason I love the image of those wings set against the background of the wild blue yonder. I love airplanes and I love to fly.
Of the two most dangerous things in the world they say one is a doctor piloting an airplane. I don’t do that. My wife can but I’ve always had the wisdom to realize I would not be the sharpest tool in the drawer when it comes to the operation of an engine powered heavier than air flying machine. I leave that job to others whose only concern is the operation of that type vehicle.
Native Americans long ago claimed that to take a photograph was to capture the soul of the thing. Thus they long avoided the photographer’s lens. It is one of the features of the work of Edward S. Curtis that makes his images so remarkable: He was able to pose the Native American in full regalia and capture their images for posterity. Some feel his bribery and trespass was tantamount to theft but he did preserve a somewhat authentic image of a great society fallen and about to disappear into the abyss of modern western industrial life.
My aim is not so high and my subjects neither endangered or noble. But I do think I am trying to take a piece of that airplane, that flight, home with me. I think I want that great wing cutting through the dark blue of flight at 6 miles high to become a part of me. So, if you wouldn’t mind just leaning back a bit……
License to Thrill
For the past couple of years or so I've found myself looking at BMX bikes. Not the motorcycles but the bicycles that outlaw teens and young adults ride around the neighborhood, often in the evening hours, always en route to a trespass involving stairs, curbs, walkways and railings. These are the direct descendants of those bikes featured in the movie E.T. all those years ago and which, even then, if you'll remember, were being used in the defiance of authority.
I've seen these bikes in bike shops and wondered, are they as much fun to ride as my old stingray? Not that I would. I mean I would be too embarrassed to even ask to slip one around the block on a quick test drive. I couldn't. Nothing is worse than watching a mature man trying to act beyond his years--- in reverse. The inverse of seeing a 15 year old smoking a cigarette. But when I was a kid I had a stingray, small s, because it was actually a look-alike made by Murray to compete with the more expensive Schwinn. The Murray had a knobby for the back tire which definitely didn't offer the same je ne sais quoi as the Schwinn's slick. But it was cooler than no stingray at all and I could jump curbs and do wheelies of sorts.
Unlike the old stingrays of yesteryear these BMX babies ring in at $300 - $400 min and have seats small enough to fit deep between the buns of a guy my age. Dangerous. As it turns out, however, one doesn't sit when riding a BMX bike. How, might you ask, would I know?
As much as I hate becoming that writer whose stories are forever incorporating one of his children, I'll forge ahead: Recently we were in one of those massive sporting goods stores that sells everything. Two floors and a escalator to connect them. They have everything from lacrosse gear to tents and fly rods. I can't even remember why we went in the first place but we quickly got busy and tried the miniature basketballs, played catch with a small football, spent 20 minutes on the indoor putting green, and then stumbled upon the bikes at which point we immediately decided Evan needed a bike for Phoenix. And there they were: BMX bikes. And like my Murray stingray of 1966, these were affordably priced.
I still had the age and image issue to hurdle. And then fate took a hand: Evan found a sweet little blue number with training wheels and immediately took off on a massive indoor loop of the store. What could I do? This was a big store with multiple opportunities for a four year old to get lost or abducted. Without the least bit of embarrassment or hesitation I grabbed a tangerine orange BMX bike (clearance priced $100 off) and lit out in pursuit. I continued to pursue the little suspect for the next 15 minutes never once sitting down.
In sunglasses, a bike helmet and loose fitting clothes sometimes it's hard to tell just who it is ripping down the street on a BMX bike. One thing I need to figure out is this: Where do I find a banana seat with a sissy bar? I can get by without a slick.
I've seen these bikes in bike shops and wondered, are they as much fun to ride as my old stingray? Not that I would. I mean I would be too embarrassed to even ask to slip one around the block on a quick test drive. I couldn't. Nothing is worse than watching a mature man trying to act beyond his years--- in reverse. The inverse of seeing a 15 year old smoking a cigarette. But when I was a kid I had a stingray, small s, because it was actually a look-alike made by Murray to compete with the more expensive Schwinn. The Murray had a knobby for the back tire which definitely didn't offer the same je ne sais quoi as the Schwinn's slick. But it was cooler than no stingray at all and I could jump curbs and do wheelies of sorts.
Unlike the old stingrays of yesteryear these BMX babies ring in at $300 - $400 min and have seats small enough to fit deep between the buns of a guy my age. Dangerous. As it turns out, however, one doesn't sit when riding a BMX bike. How, might you ask, would I know?
As much as I hate becoming that writer whose stories are forever incorporating one of his children, I'll forge ahead: Recently we were in one of those massive sporting goods stores that sells everything. Two floors and a escalator to connect them. They have everything from lacrosse gear to tents and fly rods. I can't even remember why we went in the first place but we quickly got busy and tried the miniature basketballs, played catch with a small football, spent 20 minutes on the indoor putting green, and then stumbled upon the bikes at which point we immediately decided Evan needed a bike for Phoenix. And there they were: BMX bikes. And like my Murray stingray of 1966, these were affordably priced.
I still had the age and image issue to hurdle. And then fate took a hand: Evan found a sweet little blue number with training wheels and immediately took off on a massive indoor loop of the store. What could I do? This was a big store with multiple opportunities for a four year old to get lost or abducted. Without the least bit of embarrassment or hesitation I grabbed a tangerine orange BMX bike (clearance priced $100 off) and lit out in pursuit. I continued to pursue the little suspect for the next 15 minutes never once sitting down.
In sunglasses, a bike helmet and loose fitting clothes sometimes it's hard to tell just who it is ripping down the street on a BMX bike. One thing I need to figure out is this: Where do I find a banana seat with a sissy bar? I can get by without a slick.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
The White Problem
I don't know if it's age, gender or genetics but I have no business wearing white. It seems like all I have to do is put on a white t-shirt and wait. I don't think I even need to move from a seated position: I can just sit there and it happens. Yesterday I went through three.
In all fairness to myself, the first one was in the line of duty. Evan and I went out for a bike ride and he, slightly over-confident on a new bigger bike but still trailing training wheels, crashed three times which got my plain white T involved in picking up and righting the wreckage as well as using the soft fabric to mop up tears. Line of duty.
The second one was less understandable but still, I can find the space to forgive myself. Go for a swim, hang up the wet suit, change into dry shorts and toss on a clean white T. Miniature golf, sporting goods store, pick up a new stool for the kitchen, stop in to check out a local daycare and reward ourselves with a MoJo Yogurt. Chocolate. I just sat there eating my frozen yogurt watching Volume II shorts from the Three Stooges Collection they had playing. I was fully aware of the inherent danger of eating chocolate frozen yogurt while wearing a white shirt. I was fully aware and careful in my cautious handling of that paper cup and green plastic spoon. And yet, as we walked back to the car, my wife laughs and tells me I have chocolate all over that shirt. Laughingly. And she was right!
As with any good story, it gets worse: Back to the pool for an evening swim then change into, what else?, a clean white T. Bathe the boy, get him a snack and then off to bed. Before I do the same I decide to have just a couple of bites of the watermelon he'd been eating. Nice, safe, small cut-up pieces of watermelon. I even took the precaution of standing over the sink and leaning with each bite. Next thing I know I'm looking at a dumb-ass brushing his teeth with a single, well-placed spot of watermelon juice on his plain white t-shirt.
Has it always been this way with me? Is it a guy thing? I look at elderly men, shuffling along with their walkers and I study them for signs of spillage. Am I witnessing the first signs of advancing age, the relentless march of time, the undoing of my macho self? Is a walker with wheels and tennis balls just around the corner?
This could be genetic. My well-performing University of Michigan daughter seems to have the same ability to soil herself. I don't recall either of my parents having the problem. It's times like this when I wish they were still around to ask them about such things as whether or not they had a problem when wearing white. There would be comfort in knowing.
I'd be out of white T's today if I hadn't spotted that watermelon juice at first sighting last night. As it is, I did and have it on right now. Clean and pristine, I'm ready to make coffee. Wish me luck.
In all fairness to myself, the first one was in the line of duty. Evan and I went out for a bike ride and he, slightly over-confident on a new bigger bike but still trailing training wheels, crashed three times which got my plain white T involved in picking up and righting the wreckage as well as using the soft fabric to mop up tears. Line of duty.
The second one was less understandable but still, I can find the space to forgive myself. Go for a swim, hang up the wet suit, change into dry shorts and toss on a clean white T. Miniature golf, sporting goods store, pick up a new stool for the kitchen, stop in to check out a local daycare and reward ourselves with a MoJo Yogurt. Chocolate. I just sat there eating my frozen yogurt watching Volume II shorts from the Three Stooges Collection they had playing. I was fully aware of the inherent danger of eating chocolate frozen yogurt while wearing a white shirt. I was fully aware and careful in my cautious handling of that paper cup and green plastic spoon. And yet, as we walked back to the car, my wife laughs and tells me I have chocolate all over that shirt. Laughingly. And she was right!
As with any good story, it gets worse: Back to the pool for an evening swim then change into, what else?, a clean white T. Bathe the boy, get him a snack and then off to bed. Before I do the same I decide to have just a couple of bites of the watermelon he'd been eating. Nice, safe, small cut-up pieces of watermelon. I even took the precaution of standing over the sink and leaning with each bite. Next thing I know I'm looking at a dumb-ass brushing his teeth with a single, well-placed spot of watermelon juice on his plain white t-shirt.
Has it always been this way with me? Is it a guy thing? I look at elderly men, shuffling along with their walkers and I study them for signs of spillage. Am I witnessing the first signs of advancing age, the relentless march of time, the undoing of my macho self? Is a walker with wheels and tennis balls just around the corner?
This could be genetic. My well-performing University of Michigan daughter seems to have the same ability to soil herself. I don't recall either of my parents having the problem. It's times like this when I wish they were still around to ask them about such things as whether or not they had a problem when wearing white. There would be comfort in knowing.
I'd be out of white T's today if I hadn't spotted that watermelon juice at first sighting last night. As it is, I did and have it on right now. Clean and pristine, I'm ready to make coffee. Wish me luck.
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