A friend was complaining to me about a speeding ticket the other day. I had related to him a conversation I had with the two teenaged drivers I have. I told them that if and when either of them gets a ticket, they should feel free to be mad, but only at themselves. Few people get tickets from obeying the law; most break it and get written up. So no matter how much of a smart alec the trooper is, or how rude he or she may be, or how long the lecture that accompanies the little piece of paper, the only one that caused the situation was the speeder, or stop sign runner, etc. Of course neither of them liked that, but at least both saw the truth in it. Back to my friend. He was complaining that like everyone, he had spied a "55" sign up ahead, and had started speeding up. On went the blue lights, off to the shoulder went my friend, and he got to contribute to the state. His defense was that once you see the sign, the limit is effectively 55, even if you aren't abreast of it yet. That didn't fly, but it got me thinking. If I'm doing 70 on the interstate, and see a sign saying "45", which happens all the time with road construction, what should I do? If I follow the trooper's logic I should continue at 70 until I get abreast of the sign that says 45, then start slowing down, right? Wrong! They want us to be doing 45 when we pass the sign. So let's go back. Why don't they want us to be doing 55 when we draw abreast of the sign coming out of a slower limit zone? I guess since they are the ones with guns, fast cars and judges on their side they can have it both ways. I just thought I'd point out that somewhere in there logic breaks down. I'm just saying. And for the record, it really wasn't me that got ticketed. I have a total of 4 - 2 at age 18, one at age 40, and one at age 60. If I'm still driving at 80, watch out.

All Memories Aren't the Same

My extended family got together last week for a memorial service for my mom. As usual, the room was full of relatives I hadn’t seen for decades, some I have never met, and others that I didn’t even know of. Of course, we reminisced, grieved together, and caught up on years of our lives, but then, that’s what one tends to do at such times. We planned a family reunion that all of us knew would never happen, and we all agreed that only funerals bring most families together these days. There are just too many weddings, births and graduations once the family gets older and dispersed. I did learn something, though. Even though some of us shared experiences growing up, our memories don’t always match very well, and even when they do, different versions have been passed down to the next generation. In fact, sometimes, no version at all has been passed. Here’s a case in point. One of my first cousins, some 4 years my junior, teamed up with my own brother and another first cousin, all of whom were within a year of each other, to swipe some honey from my Uncle Teddy’s beehive. They were all about 5 at the time. Their prank was discovered when my brother showed up at my grandparents front porch with a handful of honeycomb, the honey dripping off his arm and elbow. His two partners in crime trailed along as though it were something that happened every day. To say it caused a riot would be an understatement. The upshot was that three little boys were in trouble, and my uncle set out to put the hive box, which they had tipped over, back upright. When my aunt got him to the hospital, the emergency room crew pulled over 100 stingers out of his forehead alone. He was just lucky the hospital was only 5 miles away. My kids all knew the story – none of my cousin’s sons had ever heard it. The other example is different, but only slightly. I managed to get lost in a swamp for an entire day when I was 5 years old. My uncle Tommy found me as night was setting in, and carried me on his shoulders several miles back to my grandparents’ house. He rescued me, and all of his children knew it. What he “neglected” to tell them, though, was that he was the one who helped me get lost to begin with. Selective memory strikes. Needless to say, I filled in the gaps with his children, much to Tommy’s chagrin.

Daffodils

It's been a short 44 years since I graduated from high school, and I've probably either forgotten or replaced most of the things I learned there. Now, though, it seems that some of the old "files" I created then have been dragged out of storage and put back into play. Some of them are more welcome than others, but then, isn't that the way life is? Maybe that's what is meant by entering one's second childhood. I hope I don't digress any further than high school. I mean, my formative years were as good as they could be, even approaching idyllic, but I'd rather remember them with a half century of filters in play than go back and re-live them. But sometimes things long buried come back with clarity, and today was one of those times. The daffodils are in full bloom here, and I've been out taking pictures of them all morning, for no reason other than I couldn't help myself. And then I surprised some of our chickens, and countless birds clustering around the bird feeders for their breakfast by reciting the entire poem by William Wordsworth (not really one of my favorite poets), complete with arm waving oratory. Me, a grown man! Was it Mrs. W.W. Watkins, Mrs. Carmen Haynes, or - crazy as it may seem - Mrs. Blanche Mayfield that made all of us stand in front of the class and stumble through that poem? Whichever, the two of them who have passed on I thank, and the one still correcting my postings I thank, too. I'm not going to post the entire poem here, but do this: If you want to smile and tear up a little, go read it. If you have children or grandchildren, read it to them. If you just need a pick-me-up on a beautiful spring day, read it twice. If you are completely insane, ask me and I'll record it and send it to you to listen to - but your tears will probably be from sympathy for a man who's gone all the way around the bend. Read it. It's more than worth it. In the meantime, "My heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils."

Breathe Deeply

Sometimes I am reminded how naïve I can be, and how sometimes I just can't see the forest. Only after I got well into my 7th decade I realized something most people probably put together early on. You see, I stupidly smoked cigarettes for 11 years of my life, until I finally caught on that I was being not only dumb, but that I was shortening my life and making those around me smell as bad as I smelled. So I quit. But one thing about smoking stayed with me - any time a smoker gets upset, or something bad happens to them, they immediately light up, take deep drags, pull the smoke all the way into the lungs, and blow it all out. That has a calming effect, and it's universal for smokers. I did it, too. Then all of a sudden we were expecting a baby, and I dutifully attended natural childbirth classes. I learned the right way to relax muscles, and became a breathing coach. Guess what? Deep, cleansing breaths and long, slow exhalations are the best way to remain calm and as relaxed as is possible between contractions. You coach the expectant mother to pull in air all the way to the bottom of her lungs, and then slowly blow it all out. But I didn't get it. I didn't put the two together. Fast forward through breaking the cigarette habit - not nearly as difficult as I thought it would be - and more children, and I still didn't get it. Then, my present wife (yes, I have had more than one) started practicing yoga. And she brought it home to me, in a myriad of poses, conversations, and readings. And guess what, again? The word "pranayama" cropped up. I asked her for a definition, and she said it means, essentially, fresh breath. And then she demonstrated by taking deep breaths, all the way to the bottom of her lungs, and blowing it out slowly. Finally, the light bulb in my brain clicked on. It wasn't the cigarette, or the time between contractions, it was, simply, calming down by concentrating on controlling the flight or fight impulse. Does that sound like a major breakthrough to you? Not to me, either. But as I said earlier, some things come slowly to me. Those guys a few centuries ago in India figured it out. Duh.

Election Eve, Small Town, USA

As the candidate approached the microphone, the air around the town square was filled with the usual noises: babies crying, little kids laughing and playing, the buzz of conversation from small groups of adults as they met, exchanged greetings and moved on. He stood in the fading light, the old courthouse behind him a perfect backdrop to the bunting draped stage, and gathered his notes. He looked at the crowd for a few moments, then stuffed the notecards back into the inner pocket of his coat. “Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. Thank you all for coming to our election rally today. As you know, I’m running for the office of County Mayor. Our incumbent has spoken eloquently, as always, and now it’s my turn.” He paused, and let the few seconds of silence bring quiet to the square. “I just decided to change what I have to say. Tomorrow you should each vote for your first choice to lead the county for the next four years, and I suspect that nothing I say tonight will change tomorrow’s outcome. So let me tell you what standing up here, in front of you, really means. If this town square were somehow transported to say, China, here’s what would happen within the next few minutes.” He paused again, then gestured at two of the streets leading away from the square. “Tanks would roll up those streets, and the alley there,” he gestured again, “the alley there would be full of soldiers. You, I, all of us would disappear. Most of us would die in a Chinese prison. But not here.” He had everyone’s attention now. Even the other candidates who were gathered in the shadows behind the grandstand had begun trickling out to see and hear. “What if we were in any of several countries in South America? We could all expect to hear automatic weapons any minute, and not from way across town. Everyone here would be on the ground, covering children with our own bodies, and praying that the next bullet would miss. That’s how they change their leaders. But not here.” Mothers were gathering their children close to themselves, and men were muttering, some of them looking over their shoulders. “Let’s shift the scene to any of the third world countries in Africa. We wouldn’t be worried about tanks, or machine guns in most of them. They still use machetes to replace their leaders over there. But not here.” Some of the children were crying, and he was momentarily afraid he’d gone too far. But no one was walking away. Everyone was standing still, listening. “We’ll only take one more trip, and then we’ll stay right here at home, just like Ebenezer Scrooge finally did. In Russia there wouldn’t be tanks, like there would have been 40 years ago. And they’ve never used machetes, at least not in my lifetime. I would disappear into a gulag, along with most of the other candidates, and you’d never hear of us again. But not here. I could go on and on, but I think I’ve made my point. Think about Iran, Iraq, the Congo, Sudan, Syria, Afghanistan, a dozen others, just from recent memory. Then count how many other countries you can think of that would let us stand up here in public, not worrying about being run over, shot, beheaded or just locked up for the crime of telling you all what we think about how we should be governed. I’ll bet you can count them all on your fingers. There aren’t that many. Just think about that, and then go home and give thanks for where we live and how we change our leaders. It’s a precious freedom. Free from fear, free from danger, free from bloodshed. That’s what a free country is all about. And think about one more thing. Luck. We are all lucky that our forebears founded our country to be free, and that our men and women in uniform have kept it free. Thank you all for coming. Thank you all for listening. Good night.” With that, he left the stage and disappeared into the shadows as the crowd began chanting “USA, USA.”

Small Town Living

There was a time in my life when I would have sworn that I’d never live in a small town. I’ve never been one of those who complain that there’s nothing to do; I always seem to have more than enough on my plate. But provincial attitudes bothered me, and I perceived entrenched views that often were at odds with what I thought was right and proper. And it seems that everyone knows everyone else’s business, and that they tend to mind it instead of their own. It’s also very difficult to change your social status in a town that you’ve grown up in. You’re always somebody’s son or daughter, you’re always “from” over there or out yonder, and you keep that stamp on your forehead no matter what your education level, choice of occupation, or even annual income. So much for the stereotypical small town ways. About the only thing I’ve learned that I think is worth repeating is that there are always two sides to every story. We often don’t stay for the flip side of an issue, but I finally have experienced first hand the good things about small town life. Granted, I moved into the community as a stranger, so that the preconceived notion of where I fit into the town’s fabric was not an issue, but at first I was wary of what I expected to be small-town small-mindedness. There is some of that, but then there has been some of that in all the places I’ve called home, and they span the country and a little bit of Europe. Now I’ve found some things that I thought had gone away from our society. I really enjoy walking into a store and having people recognize me and call me by my first name. That makes me feel like I belong. Getting packages is easier, too. I used to have to go to the post office to retrieve anything large. Now I’m likely to find a note in my mailbox saying “Package in your truck”, and I’ll go find something on the front seat of my farm truck. Talk about home delivery! I have arrived as a member of the community. Kids I coached in junior league soccer, and then high school soccer show off their kids to me, and I may coach that generation, too. Being a member of the community is a great feeling. I recommend it. I read about a town like mine in an old National Geographic this week. When everyone in town turned out for the local high school baseball game, and it was rained out, everyone stayed to watch the storm. When you are a community, you have time for things like that, because you are home, and that’s the best place to be.

Penance for My Last Posting

I got in a fair amount of trouble with my last post, called “We Need To Talk”. As penance, I will attempt to tell the other side – not as easy for me, but I’ll stick my tongue into the other cheek and give it a try. If you recognize yourself in any of the following situations, expect to hear “We need to talk”: 1. To celebrate your anniversary, you bought 4 tickets to the Knicks game. It’s not the tickets that cause the problem. Most wives these days like to go to ball games. Who doesn’t? The trigger here is that you bought 4 tickets instead of 2. Who else is going? Your 2 best buddies from work? So now she’ll be ignored while the 3 of you hoot it up. Nice going, dude. When you get home, don’t bother reaching for the remote. 2. Fact is, women still do the majority of meal preparation. If she’s worked at it, and you sit down to a really nice dinner, don’t turn up the volume so you can enjoy food and television at the same time. And don’t say things like, “Sshh, this is a good part”, and hold up your hand in her direction when she’s telling you something. Show a little class. You’d think that TiVo was invented for a reason, but no, that must have never occurred to you. So instead of enjoying your program together, snuggled up on the couch after dinner, you’re going to get to sit and listen to the magic 4 words, and their follow-on monologue. Guess whose fault that is? Not hers. The word “oaf” comes to mind. 3. Fashion is a safe conversation item, within certain parameters. It’s okay to point out a pretty dress/top/bikini/figure to your wife. But it’s not okay to go on about it. There exists in every couple a magic number that equates to the number of times you can mention how good someone else looks before tipping the scales in the direction of a monologue. Think about it – how many times are you willing to hear her comment on how good some guy looks, how nice his butt is, how sexy that stubble on his face is, or what a hunk he is? In fact, your magic number is probably smaller than hers. The three important words here are: think about it. 4. Before you show up with 3 of your fraternity brothers and a couple of 6-packs, think about how much fun you had the last time she had sisters over without warning you in advance. Plus, if you are like most of us, your volume will be louder, your mess bigger, and you’ll expect more from her than she would from you, given the same situation. Most of the time, even if it’s your man-cave, it’s surrounded by her territory. A little kissing up in advance goes a long way. There are other triggers, but we all know them. Mars vs. Venus? No, just everyday life, with a little exaggeration thrown in. We’re slightly different, but remember, we’re all a lot more alike than we are different, and it can all be fun.

We Need To Talk

"No, we don't." "Why don't I just apologize now, and save the hassle?" First, a caveat. Wendy and I are word nerds, and this post does not in any way describe our relationship. In fact, I told her she could write a better post with this subject than I, and she said "forget it." So I'll do the best I can. The title of this post contains the four most feared words in a relationship. Without fear of being labeled sexist, I will also state that they are uttered most often by the female partner, directed to the male partner. That's easy to believe. Take this example, for instance: He walks into a room and finds his wife or significant other sobbing into a tissue and says, "What's wrong, honey?" When she answers "Nothing", he is content to take that at face value and exit the room quickly. The moral? Don't say it if you don't mean it. He'll almost never say those 4 words. So when she comes into the room, snatches the remote from his hand and snaps off the game, he knows something is about to hit the fan. Then she says it - "We need to talk." That may be what she says, but that's not what he hears. He hears something like, "Sit there and be quiet and listen. I'm going to tell you what you're doing wrong, and what you need to do to correct it. I will probably make uncomplimentary references to your mother, your brothers and your sister, so listen closely and listen good. If at any time you try to defend yourself, or argue with anything I'm saying, you'll regret it." With that as prelude, what can he do? Leave the room? No. She'll consider that flight is evidence of guilt. Try to reason with her? No again. She didn't come in the room to listen, she came in to talk. Stomp out of the house and go to the neighborhood bar? That's a good idea, but it just prolongs the agony. She'll be waiting, and the wait will only add venom. How about just trying to look pitiful, and saying something like, "Aw, honey"? Not much hope there, either. The best thing to do is just say, "Okay, sweetie, why don't you have a seat and tell me what's on your mind." Face it guys, you're about to take some lumps. It won't be the only time, but if you play your cards right, it could be one of few rather than one of many. Here are a couple of suggestions to make it short and as un-sweet as possible. 1. Do not attempt to explain your actions or lack thereof. Agree that you either failed to do something, or that you did something wrong. 2. Be penitent. You know you're wrong, she knows you're wrong, her best friend and several of her coworkers know you're wrong. Its futile to argue with that. 3. Promise to be a better human being. This is sort of like New Years Resolutions every few days/weeks/months. Be earnest. 4. At no time do you pick up the remote thinking she's done. You'll know when she's done. It's when she storms out of the room, either in tears or in a fit of pique. 5. Do not try to turn this into a romantic moment. The ice will give your fingers frostbite. 6. Ride it out for as long as it takes. She started this, and she will finish it. If it goes into overtime, pray for a golden goal. 7. Keep in mind throughout that this is the woman you love, and that you want her to be happy. Good luck. They'll give the final score and highlights at 10:00.

Why Can't You Act Your Age?

I was going down an aisle in WalMart the other day, like all good Americans do periodically, and I heard a little family fuss going on in the next aisle. Over all the usual noise, I heard a mother say “act your age!” I’ve only heard that a few million times, and most of those times I was the one saying it. As I rounded the corner I couldn’t help but peep, just to see what was really happening. She was maybe 30, and her little boy was probably 6. As I got closer, I saw that his eyelids were red and puffy, and that he had those telltale dark colors around his eyes that told me he was way overdue for a nap. He was alternating between sobbing and hiccupping, and stood under the watchful glare of Mom. I had a blinding flash of insight. He was acting his age. He couldn’t have been more than 6, and he was obviously worn out. What he really needed was a nap. I thought back to all those times I had told my own children to act their age, and I realized that they probably were doing just that, too. So what do we really want them to do when we tell them to act their age? I think we want them to act like small, quiet, well-mannered adults. The only problem with this is that they don’t have the coping tools or the life experience to act that way. And oh, by the way, next time you’re in WalMart, take the time to observe the first 25 adults you encounter. Do you really want your kids to act that way? I didn’t think so. So what’s a young mom to do? I can think of a lot of “touchy-feely” suggestions, but most of those only work in the abstract, and most of us live in the here and now. Things like timing shopping trips so that the kids are not too tired to behave; or timing them so that the kids can stay at home with Dad – there are all kinds of good suggestions out there. Problem is, we no longer live in a June and Ward Cleaver time and place, and sometimes going shopping with a sick, tired, cranky little one is the best one can do. Just try real hard not to be a sick, cranky parent in return. One bad actor to a scene is enough.