Happy New Year

I have been conducting an unofficial poll regarding the changing of the years. A significant number of folks have said 2009 can't come to an end soon enough.

Today I encountered a group of people who told me that they intended to celebrate the end of the year by consuming enough alcoholic beverages to ensure 2009 would be forever wiped from their memories.

I don't know that I'm prepared to go to that extreme - there were some good things that happened in the past year. There was the ah..... Well, there was... uhm, ah... That is to say there was....

Anyway... here's to a Healthy, Happy, and Hopeful New Year.

Unnatural Silence

I was struck this evening by the complete lack of noise when I walked out my back door.

There were no murmuring voices carrying from neighboring houses, no dogs barking, no doors slamming. Not a single automobile could be heard, neither was there the drone of an airplane engine. Not a bird chirped, not a leaf rustled, not a critter scurried.

Silent as a grave came to mind and I was suddenly anxious for even the annoying yap of the dog down the street. I stood willing some sound - any sound - to reach my ears, but none came.

Hurrying inside I was greeted by the stereo playing. Reassurance that the natural order of things had not been disrupted. I wondered if the outdoor world would still be unnaturally quiet should I step back across the threshold - then decided I didn't want to know.

Eskimo Chill

Blue sky, sunshine, scattered clouds, rolling surf.

Sounds like the perfect day at the beach doesn't it?

Indeed it was a great day for watching the ocean - from inside my toasty warm car.

Others, hardier than I, decided it was a great day for actually frolicking on the beach. Wind chills that would make an Eskimo shiver necessitated that said frolicking be conducted beneath multiple layers of clothing. Blue, red, and green parkas trimmed with white almost-fur were the attire of the day.

I watched a few people return from the water's edge with cherry red cheeks despite woolen scarves pulled up to their noses and wondered what they had been thinking before setting out for their stroll. Surely the angry howl of an untamed wind should have served as warning against a December sojourn.

The arrival of a family dressed in nothing more than long sleeve T-shirts, vests and earmuffs set my teeth to chattering. Despite the hot air blasting from the dashboard vents, I found myself shivering on behalf of the under clothed contingent and I abandoned the parking lot overlook in search of a steaming hot beverage.

Christmas Rediscovered

I frequently hear it said that Christmas is for kids. It's true that Santa and gifts wrapped in colorful paper certainly capture the attention of children.

But traditions passed down through the years, gathering of family, and visits from friends make the holiday season special throughout our lives.

I very nearly didn't decorate our house this year. My ongoing search for full time employment had me feeling less than enthusiastic about the approaching holiday. Once the decorations were up, I found them to be more reminders of better times past than harbingers of hope.

But once College Dude and Language Lass arrived home to complete our family I realized how much I had to be grateful for.

Sitting in front of a blazing fire and brightly lit Christmas Tree, we were the family we have always been. A family that values being together and sharing love for one another. A family that appreciates both quiet companionship and jovial exchanges.

In this difficult year, I rediscovered Christmas for what it is meant to be. The celebration of family.

Happy Holidays

Whatever your religious persuasion, I wish you all a happy holiday season.

Almighty Holidays

I've been remembering a time when the world stopped on Christmas - and all major holidays.

I've been remembering a time when we made sure we had our errands finished by the eve of the holiday because on Christmas, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July nothing - and I do mean nothing was open.

Gas stations, grocery stores, hardware stores, bakeries, butcher shops, drug stores, they were all vacant - locked tight. Everyone, with the exception of hospital staff and members of the armed services, had the opportunity to gather around a backyard barbecue or a Christmas tree because family came first. Folks attended parades in honor of the servicemen who fought for freedom, gathered around tables to give thanks for families, and went to church to give thanks to God. There were priorities, and while the dollar was important it wasn't yet the almighty dollar.

When the title of Almighty switched from the Supreme Being to the greenback things went into a downward spiral.

It seems to me we've come darn close to the bottom of that spiral - and it seems to me that this unhappy place is where we're destined to linger until Almighty is set back in its proper place.

Light, Hope, and Promise

Here it is, December 21st, the day of the year with the least amount of daylight.

It's a turning point day. From here on, we get a little more daylight each and every day for the next six months.

So I view December 21st as a day of promise. We need a little promise and hope in our lives right now. The unemployed need the promise and hope of a job. People without power and buried beneath feet of snow need the promise and hope of electricity. Members of the military who have been overseas for interminable periods need the promise and hope of being reunited with their families. Homeless people need the promise and hope of a warm meal and a place to eat.

Let's all pray that this December 21st is the start of a long run of promise and hope. Let's make it the start of a new beginning by doing something, however small, that will have a positive impact on another person's day.

Think of it. A single person could add encouragement to the lives of 182 people by the time of the summer equinox. Multiply a single person's efforts by billions and quickly hope and promise would grow into a rushing river of optimism.

Ready to pitch in? Smile at someone tomorrow, buy someone a cup of coffee, help someone dig out from under the snow, give someone a lift to work - anything. Then ask that person to do the same for another.

It might come back around to you just when you need it most.

Snow Silence

The first thing I noticed when I walked outside at 6:00 a.m. with snow shovel in hand this morning was the silence.

Yes, it's always quietest just before the dawn, but this morning even more so. The three inch layer of snow that coated roads, shrubs, and rooftops alike muffled even the sound of my shovel scraping across the pavement.

Just as someone might step through a doorway, I stepped into the silence and traveled back to 1986. It was eight o'clock on a February night. The snow had reached a depth of ten inches since beginning only hours earlier and was showing no sign of letting up.

The only sounds were the squeak of my rubber boots in the wet snow, wind howling in the trees, the panting breaths of my dog, and - oh, yes, an occasional rumble of thunder. I was struck by thought that I had somehow stepped outside of time; that my extended stroll through the neighborhood was taking place between one click of the second hand and the next. Everyday sounds lay on either side of that click, and I suspected that when the second hand finally jumped to that next hash mark on the clock face the blare of car horns and the spinning of tires would infiltrate the quiet.

The absolute quiet that occurs only between seconds in a new fallen snow.

Empress of the Universe

I refuse to acknowledge the weather outdoors.

I refuse to accept that after thinking our pocket of the world was going to deal only with rain, that some of other form of precipitation is occurring.

I refuse to acknowledge that morning will bring anything but sunshine and dry roads.

Motivated Mom, Empress of the Universe has decreed that it shall be so.

With the decree having been issued, I can go to sleep knowing that my dreams of Calypso music and sun block will be premonitions of the morn.

Four Letter Forecast

The four letter word beginning with S is in the weather forecast.

A lot of folks would consider snow on a Friday night to be a non issue. They're planning a weekend in front of the fireplace with holiday music playing.

I would have felt the same way at one time, but now that I'm part of the workforce that makes their way to their place of employment before the rising of the sun on Saturday, I'm seriously bumming over this unwelcome forecast.

Preparing to type today's post, I accidentally clicked on a bookmarked link to an earth-cam site showing the beaches of Aruba.

Eighty-eight degrees with palm trees waving in the wind looked more than a little appealing. Much as I enjoy Christmas, I would trade steel drum music for holiday carols in the blink of an eye.

Hmmm... perhaps I should investigate employment with the cruise line industry. I could handle being at work on a weekend morning if I were surrounded by sunshine, blue water, and warm breezes.

Over the River and...

...through the woods to Lancaster County she goes.

Motivated Mom is preparing for the annual Christmas cookie bake at the home of a friend in Lancaster County. As I write this, Motivated Mom is mixing up gobs of dough for the big event.

Every year at this time a devoted group of women descend on a single home with bowls of premixed cookie dough and set about baking said cookies in production line fashion.

I've never attended this holiday extravaganza, but I've heard of the no nonsense management incorporating rotating job assignments, specifically timed tasks, and intense quality control that allows ten women to turn out 150 dozen cookies in an eight hour shift.

Nine of the ten women refer to the leader of this event as the Cookie Nazi. Absolutely no finished products are allowed to be sealed beneath plastic wrap until they have been decorated to the Cookie Nazi's satisfaction.

I guess that's why the Cookie Leader provides copious amounts of wine. The Nazi has to squelch the ability of the work force to coordinate a mutiny if she is to guarantee 1800 sugary treats by the end of the shift.

Obviously the effort is enjoyed by all as this year marks the 20th anniversary of the Great Cookie Bake.

The Chicken Answer

At last I have the answer to the age old question Why did the chicken cross the road?

The answer struck me just as I nearly struck a chicken yesterday. Chickens (plural) actually.

There were a pair of fowl strutting on the shoulder of the road in front of a nearby farm. They were busily foraging for food amidst the gravel when they suddenly decided there might be better pickings in the road itself. The very stretch of road that the tires of my car were eating up.

It was during my perfectly executed accident avoiding swerve that I noticed the wire mesh gate hanging ajar. The adrenaline surge of the near collision brought my surroundings into crystalline clarity and the unlatched gate shone with the promise of ancient knowledge. And in that moment of oneness - that instant of universal understanding - I knew the answer.

The chicken crossed the road because someone left the gate open.

From a Zen Master

I recently came upon a fascinating excerpt from a work titled Genjokoan, written by the Buddhist Zen teacher Dogen.

I found the words so thought provoking, the mental image so defined, that I feel a need to share.

...Moon reflected on the water:
The moon doesn't get wet, nor is the water broken.
Although its light is broad and great,
The moon's reflected even in an inch-wide puddle.
The whole moon and entire wide sky
Lie mirrored in one dewdrop on the grass.
- Dogen, Genjokoan

Adopt-a-Pet

I can say with absolute certainty there is nothing that will shake you from the beginnings of an afternoon nap like the words Daddy, I have adopted a dog.

Media Girl uttered those very words to me just as I was battling heavy eyelid syndrome brought on by the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

Do you want to see the dog? Media Girl asked.

It seemed obvious to me that my daughter was looking for a early inheritance. First shocking me emotionally with the news of a new canine, then sending my heart into irregular rhythm by bringing the dog to our doorstep.

My near death experience lasted only as long as it took me to spin in my chair and find Media Girl holding her cell phone up to my face. The screen on the phone displayed the picture of, I had to admit it, a cute puppy.

With the realization that the dog was not going to be panting in my ear, I was able to draw life-giving breath. The bright white light faded into the background. I wouldn't be crossing over after all.

My friend's dog had puppies a couple month's ago. Media Girl explained. My friend hasn't been able to find a home for the runt of the litter. I agreed to adopt the puppy and I've been visiting her as often as I can. I want to bring her home now. Can I?

I had the feeling that Media Girl already had a counter-argument prepared for each and every objection I could come up with.

Media Commentary

Warning, I am straying from my usual format and going into commentary mode here. I know some of my readers share my blog with their children. I urge those readers to review this particular post before sharing.







Two days ago I read the article about the Inappropriate Frosty The Snowman.
Most of us are familiar with the holiday cartoon classic of Frosty the Snowman.
Someone chose to pervert the happy go lucky snowman into a collector of adult entertainment that comes in various media formats.

Today I saw the photo-shopped picture of Sarah Palin dressed in hunting garb, holding a rifle, and standing beneath the mounted head of a certain reindeer with an unusually colored nose.

While adults are certainly entitled to adult level humor, we as a society need to remember that today's world of mass communication makes virtually anything available to virtually anyone.

It becomes the responsibility of today's adults to censor themselves before committing anything to paper, microchip, DVD, or any other permanent format.

There is too little protection for children these days. Let's not destroy the little magic left to children - the magic of holidays.

Days and Nights

It has been a long, busy day preceded by a restless night.
My creative juices have taken flight.
I'm trying to keep my eyes open but am losing the fight.

The rhyme is lame but it's the best I can do.
So for now good night from me to you.

Of Maps and Summer Strolls

I've been using Mapquest a lot recently and I've been wondering how the service began.

Did the company hire people, give each employee a key to a car, and instruct them to take copious notes on distances and turns as they traveled across a geographic region?

Yeah, right - you're saying to yourself.

Well, it's possible.

One of my first jobs after high school was a summertime gig with the state. I was given a car and a measuring wheel, and told to make mileage notes to within a tenth of a mile.

I drove to specific developments, parked the car, and started measuring mileages from the nearest main road. I walked up and down every street in the development, taking every conceivable combination of twists and turns. The reason for my daily strolls was to establish boundary lines between school districts.

It was a great job. Folks would come out of their houses to ask what I was doing, then walk along and chat for a block or so.

If Mapquest builds their database the same way perhaps I'll submit an application. I've always wanted to see more of the country. To get paid while I'm doing it.... well you couldn't beat that with a stick.

Phones and Simplicity

I made a phone call today and was shocked when there was neither an answer nor an answering machine at the other end. I let the phone ring over twelve times before realizing the ringing would continue until I hung up.

Oh my gosh, I thought, I'm going to have to keep calling this person back until I catch them at home. Who doesn't have an answering machine these days?

I was brought up short by the realization I was feeling inconvenienced by the prospect of having to make multiple attempts at reaching my party. Me, the guy who was dragged kicking and screaming into the cell phone era. Me, the guy who used to view the blinking light on an answering machine as an unwelcome intrusion in my schedule.

It really wasn't that many years ago that an unanswered phone was commonplace. Those same relatively few years ago, friends were appalled that I didn't run to answer my home phone when it rang.

Whoever it is can call back, I would say with a shrug.

Perhaps, instead of feeling inconvenienced, I should applaud the person with the unanswered phone. Just maybe they have taken the first important step in simplifying their life - or maybe they never allowed the world to encroach on simplicity in the first place.

Baking a Home

Yesterday evening marked the beginning of Motivated Mom's holiday baking season.

There is nothing that turns a house into a home so much as baking cookies.

When you read the above sentence, the first thing you probably thought of was the smell of freshly baked cookies.

And while the aroma is a big part of the happy to be home experience, there's so much more.

There's the toasty warmth of the kitchen heated by the oven. A warmth that can only be equaled by snuggling under a down comforter or spooning with your loved one.

The clatter of cooking sheets and the scraping of spoons in pots and bowls tell clearly that the chef is at home in the kitchen.

Then there's the ringing of the cooking timer that brings family members from all parts of the house.

The sound of the timer is quickly drowned out by the chatter of family members reliving holiday's past while impatiently poking at the piping hot pastries - waiting for the treats to cool just enough that they won't burn salivating mouths. Almost without fail, patience runs out too soon and the anxious cookie samplers end up blowing on fingertips or trying to simultaneously chew and suck cool air into their mouths.

These are the things that make four walls a home.

Sleepless in the City

I don't know how people who live in the city manage to sleep.

It's been a long time since I spent the night in a private home within city limits. I had forgotten that life in the city never stops.

I was fortunate to get a reprieve on my first night at College Dude's place in Pittsburgh. The city was dead on the eve of Thanksgiving. Things were so quiet that even College Dude remarked on the lack of noise.

But in the wee hours of Friday morning, the city's pulse returned. I was repeatedly awakened by night prowling pedestrians, horn-happy drivers, police cars, fire trucks, and med-evac helicopters.

After twenty-two years of country and suburbia living, it was impossible to ignore the racket.

I don't think I could have ignored the noise even if I had been an accomplished city dweller.

Patchwork Jeans

I was sewing a button back onto a pair of pants last night and I got to thinking about the lost art of patchwork jeans.

These days it is a fashion statement to have tears in a pair of jeans, but back in the 60's torn jeans were not cool - patches were the thing. No, not those navy blue iron on patches made of some variation on fiberglass, but bright colorful patches. Anything from a NASA commemorative patch to the logo of a favorite sports team was acceptable.

I had several pair of jeans with more patches than denim. In fact the waist and belt loops may have been the only denim remaining. I suppose I should have accepted the need to move on to a new pair of pants when I started spending entire Saturday mornings sewing new patches to the existing patches. But by that time the pants (I couldn't really call them jeans anymore) had become a piece of art.

Yes, I did all the sewing myself - by hand. I could thread a needle with one eye closed. The tip of my right index finger was permanently imprinted with the scaly texture of a thimble. It was tough going driving a needle through two or three layers of overlapping patches, but I was an accomplished craftsman.

So why was it that sewing on that one button last night took more time than running to the store for a new pair of pants? Perhaps it stems from my need for a magnifying glass to supplement my magnifying glasses.

Mailbox Contortions

I want to know who designed the Postal Service's curbside mailboxes. The mailboxes with the extended necks that allow you to drop off your mail without getting out of your car - supposedly. I'm curious to know about the designer because I want to satisfy my suspicion that her or she had arms as long as an orangutan.

Because unless you're in a van or SUV, trying to get mail into the curved neck of the mailbox is like trying to scratch a giraffe behind its ears.

I pulled up to one of these curbside conveniences yesterday. I was in my Honda Civic and the first thing I discovered after lowering my window was that I would need to release my seat belt. Naturally the obnoxious buzzer immediately alerted me I had violated safety protocol.

Even with the freedom to lean out the window, it was obvious that from the confines of a compact car the deposit slot would remain elusive unless I could somehow mimic the circus contortionists who twist themselves into pretzels.

I wedged my right foot against the firewall in an effort to leverage myself upward - and quickly realized I should have first set the parking brake. The mailbox was suddenly half a car length behind me.

Fortunately I was the sole visitor at the time and was able to shift into reverse. With the car now repositioned, I set the brake, boosted myself out of my seat, twisted to the left, and snaked my arm into the mouth of the mailbox. Had I been anywhere other that in front of a faded blue mailbox, onlookers would have been calling 911 to report a man having a seizure.

How Much Longer

How much longer until we get there?

This is the question that has come to define road trips with children in the car.

Let's face it - kids just aren't good at sitting still for extended periods of time. Put a kid in the backseat of a car, drive more than twenty miles, and THE question is going to come.

If the trip is less than an hour, parents can breath a sigh of relief at being able to cheerfully say we're over half way there at the twenty mile mark.

But if the destination is seven hours away what do you say to your child - Hey how about that stock market - rebounded nicely today didn't it?

So I sort of cringed when, on our way to Pittsburgh this past weekend, we ran into one monster of a traffic snarl. I knew The question was coming as soon as we slowed to 10 miles per hour.
Media Girl didn't disappoint, she threw THE question out there with no hesitation whatsoever.

....And then THE answer came in a blinding flash of brilliance. I asked Media Girl how many bars her phone had.

Media Girl was instantly plugged into her friends back home, diffusing the possible hysteria caused by a seven hour drive turning into a nine hour drive.

Of course, I did have to listen to the eternally repeated question so what 'ya doin' now? as Media Girl tried to discern what the person on the other end of the phone was doing that might have been different from three minutes earlier.

I was on the verge of asking How much longer until that call is done?