The Battle of Gettysburg

Between July 1 and July 3, 1863, the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania was the scene of what many historians call the pivotal battle, and the turning point of the Civil War. On this ground, the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia under the command of the legendary Robert E. Lee and the Union Army of the Potomac, under the command of General George Meade, met in a bloody fight, the result of which changed history. After three days of unremitting bloodshed, the two armies quit the field, having lost some 57,000 of their comrades dead, wounded, and missing. It was a battle characterized by bad strategy and stubborn leadership at the top, indescribable heroism in the ranks, and unbelievable luck and timing.

The battle was framed by events in the spring of that year. In May, Union and Confederate forces clashed at Chancellorsville, Virginia. The Confederates, as always, were outnumbered. Nevertheless, Lee divided his smaller force, sending Stonewall Jackson against the Union right flank. The Union 11th Corps under General Oliver Howard had been poorly deployed and were unprepared to meet an attack. The shocking appearance of the large Rebel force resulted in shock that quickly turned to widespread panic. They broke and ran. This attack sealed the victory for Lee. Unfortunately, even though they won the battle, the South lost General Jackson to friendly fire, as he was returning to his lines after reconnoitering the Union position. His eventual death from those wounds deprived Lee of a brilliantly aggressive battlefield commander, a loss that would prove pivotal at Gettysburg two months later.

In June, Lee embarked on an invasion of the North. The Army of Northern Virginia marched through the Shenandoah Valley, using the Blue Ridge Mountains to shield their movements. Up to that point, the Union Army had proven to be slow to react and even slower to move. Lee counted on that temporary paralysis to allow him to advance unchallenged. By June 28, Lee’s forces were stretched out on a 55-mile arc from Chambersburg, PA to the outskirts of Harrisburg, the Pennsylvania state capital, a line that roughly follows the modern route of I-81. On that day, however, Lee and his “Old Warhorse” James Longstreet, received information that not only was the Union Army on the move, but were perilously close. Considering his options, Lee looks at a map, and seeing a farm town with a large network of roads, issues orders for his Army to concentrate there. The town was Gettysburg.

On June 30, a Union cavalry force of 2,500 under General John Buford entered Gettysburg from the south. Buford’s scouts found signs of a strong force of 20,000 Confederate Infantry under Henry Heth, as well as other similarly strong units approaching the crossroads. Buford correctly surmised that Lee was concentrating his forces at Gettysburg.

Buford was a tremendous judge of the ground. Looking at the land, he realized that the ridge trailing south from the town itself, anchored by two round hills at one end and two smaller hills at the other represented the best place from which to fight the battle that was obviously imminent. He knew that if he kept the Confederates off that ridge, the Union could win. He sent immediate word to General John Reynolds, commanding the 1st Corps, the famous “Black Hats,” apprising him of the situation and urging that Reynolds advance on Gettysburg as soon as possible.

For a force of 2,500 to stand off an army of 20,000 on the surface would seem to be an impossible task. However, Buford had several things in his favor. He could place his small force on Herr’s Ridge, northwest of the town, and fall back to McPherson’s ridge, giving him two relatively defensible positions. He also knew that Heth would be advancing along a narrow road and would have to shift his forces from line of march into line of battle, a maneuver that would take time. Because of the nature of the road, Heth could not meet Buford on a wide front until he deployed. Buford also had the advantage of weaponry. The Union Brigadier had disposed of sabers, the traditional cavalry weapon, and replaced them with breech-loading carbines. He knew that the rate of fire of a musket, the standard weapon of the infantry was maybe two rounds per minute. His carbines could fire at a substantially higher rate, for some as high as 10 rounds per minute, effectively multiplying his small force. He also knew the quality of his men. Cavalry were considered the elite of the Army, and when led by intelligent and capable commanders, they fought like elite troops. With confidence, and hope, and told that Reynolds was on his way, Buford deployed his troopers and waited for Heth.

Meanwhile, the Rebel cavalry, led by the flashy Jeb Stuart, had embarked on what Longstreet disgustedly referred to as a “joy ride.” Once before, Stuart had taken his troopers on a wild ride, circling the entire Union Army and causing widespread panic. Stuart, always a lover of the spotlight, had now embarked on another such ride, acting on a very liberal interpretation of Lee’s orders. At one point, He captured a 100-wagon train of Union supplies, and always aware of the delicate nature of Rebel logistics, attempted to take the supplies back to Lee. But this is not the job of cavalry. Cavalry are supposed to be fast, mobile, and a tool for gathering intelligence on enemy movements. With Stuart chained to his booty of supplies, he was unavailable for his primary role of scouting the Union movements. Thus, Lee approached this pivotal battle with no knowledge of the terrain over which he would have to fight, or the size and disposition of the force his soldiers would face.

The battle was joined around 7:30 the morning of July 1st, fought pretty much how John Buford expected. The Union troopers fought stubbornly, giving ground slowly. Heth, who commanded part of the forces that had belonged to Jackson, proved to be hesitant and unsure. Despite heavy casualties, Buford continued to hold the line, now along McPherson’s ridge until Reynolds’ 1st corps began to arrive around 10:30. Unfortunately, as Reynolds was directing the last of his troops into battle, he was shot and killed by a Confederate sniper. Abner Doubleday took command of 1st Corps.

Troops of both armies continued to stream towards the battlefield. About 11 a.m., General Howard’s maligned 11th Corps arrived and took up position on Doubleday’s right, due north of the town. About two o’clock, General Richard Ewell, who commanded the other half of Jackson’s old Corps, attacked from due north. About 3, General Robert Rhodes, commanding the largest force on either side that day, attacked. A little while later, General Jubal Early hit the 11th Corps from the northeast, coming in almost behind Howard’s line. Assailed on three sides, the 11th Corps as they did at Chancellorsville, broke and ran, falling back through Gettysburg. This collapse left Doubleday naked on his right flank, forcing him to fall back as well. These troops passed through town and anchored themselves on two hills, Cemetary Hill and Culp’s Hill.

At this point in the battle came one of those make-or-break moments that occur in every fight. The Confederates were at the closest they would ever be to winning this battle. General Ewell stopped at the base of Cemetary Hill. Lee, ever the gentleman, ordered Ewell to take the hill…if practicable. Ewell was a good commander, but he was no Stonewall Jackson. Jackson would have ordered his troops up and over the hill without hesitation, knowing that if he occupied that hill and brought up artillery, the Union would find no sanctuary along the ridge. They would have to pull out of Gettysburg altogether. But Ewell, knowing his troops had fought hard all day, declined the option. And that night, Union troops dug in, reinforced, and held.  Ewell's decision, and apparent paralysis, frustrated General Trimble to the point where he threw his sword on the ground at the feet of General Ewell.

Late in the afternoon, General Winfield Hancock arrived, sent by Meade to take command of the battle after hearing of Reynolds’ death. There was some conflict, however. Howard, already on the field, was senior to Hancock and at one point refused to surrender his command, despite the orders of his superior, Meade. The orders were confirmed by Meade when he arrived late that night, leaving Howard angry and insulted.

Troops continued to arrive. On the Union side, three more Corps arrived and on the Confederate, the entire strength of the Army of Northern Virginia was gathered, save the divisions of George Pickett and Evander Law, who were still on the road. By morning, the Union Army was dug in, in a position resembling a giant fishhook. They held both hills in the north, and the entire ridge down to the two Roundtops in the south. There, they should have been unassailable. But the commander of the Union 3rd Corps, a highly ambitious New York City politician named Sickles, felt that his assigned position along the ridge was not good enough. So without notifying Meade, he took his entire force down off the ridge to a smaller ridge that terminated in a field of boulders called Devil’s Den. This meant that the left flank, which should have been anchored by two steep hills, was in the air.

Lee ordered two flanking attacks, on the two hills in the north, and on the southern end of the Union line. Longstreet, commanding the southern effort, took his force on a roundabout path, which although long, was out of sight of Union lookouts. Late in the afternoon, he commenced his attack, realizing almost immediately that Sickles’s position was vulnerable. About this time, Meade found out about his subordinate’s shift and angrily ordered Sickles back on the ridge. By that time, however, it was too late. Longstreet had turned the flank of the 3rd Corps.

General Gouvenor Warren, Meade’s Chief Engineer, climbed up the hill called Little Roundtop and discovered two things. (1) The hill commanded the entire battlefield, and (2) there was nobody up there. He saw Longstreet’s troops on the move and sent urgent messages out to any unit that could fill that gap. This commenced the most frantic action of the battle. Union troops rushed up the hill, often times meeting Confederate soldiers head-on, as both bodies arrived at the crest simultaneously. The 1st Minnesota hit their line at the same moment as the Confederate troops, but managed after violent fighting to push the Rebels back. The Minnesotans sent 330 brave men into the fight. 220 were lost. The 44th New York shared a similar success, and fate just to their south.

At the absolute southern end of the Union line, Colonel Strong Vincent placed three regiments, the 140th New York, the 83rd Pennsylvania, and the 20th Maine. To the commander of the Maine regiment, Vincent had special instructions. They were the end of the Union line. They had to hold at all costs, because if they fell back, the Rebels would be able to sweep around the hills and take the Army of the Potomac from the rear. The 20th Maine’s commander, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, had been a professor at Bowdoin College in Brunswick. He had volunteered his services to the Governor, and was appointed a Lieutenant Colonel, and executive officer of the newly-raised regiment. Chamberlain had never been a soldier before, but he was highly intelligent (he spoke 5 languages fluently), disciplined, and confident of his abilities. He learned quickly, and had distinguished himself in action to the point where when the 20th’s commander Adlebert Ames was promoted to brigade command, Chamberlain was given command of the 20th Maine.

Fortunately on this day, Chamberlain had a little time to place his vastly outnumbered troops, construct breastworks, and consider his options before the Rebels attacked. Facing him were three regiments from Alabama and Texas, who had marched for 30 straight hours in the heat before arriving, and were sent into battle without even taking time to fill canteens. Nevertheless, these remarkable men made 6 separate charges up that hill, almost taking the position. The Maine troops responded with fire that the Rebel commander described as “the heaviest and most accurate of any I faced throughout the war.” The fighting was fierce, and casualties were heavy on both sides. Sometimes, as Chamberlain later recalled, the troops of both sides were intermingled so completely that he could not tell where on line ended and the other began.

As he saw the Rebels continuing to move to the left, Chamberlain thinned out his remaining force and refused his line, bending it back 90 degrees. As the Rebels continued to storm the flank, that L bent back into a V. At this point, the Maine soldiers reported that they were out of ammunition. Knowing that his troops could not withstand another attack, Chamberlain ordered a bayonet charge down the hill, catching the exhausted southerners as they were starting up the hill yet again. The charge broke the rebel line and not only cleared Chamberlain’s front, but the attackers all along that part of the line. After hours of vicious fighting, the Confederate attack had been beaten back. At the end of the day, the Union still held Cemetary Ridge.

That night, the two exhausted Armies rested, except in the north where the action around Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill continued.

The next day, Lee decided to alter his tactics. Instead of hitting the flanks, he would concentrate his remaining force, reinforced now by the arrival of Pickett’s and Law’s divisions, and attack the Union center, the target being a “clump of trees” that stood along Cemetery Ridge. The attack was preceded by a massive bombardment by Confederate artillery, the aim of which was to blast a hole in the center of the Union line and also drive off or destroy the Union artillery. Unfortunately, Rebel gunners almost always overshot their targets, and instead of hitting the dug-in Union infantry, the shells fell mostly in the Union rear, unfortunately in some cases among the wounded. Yankee guns replied in kind and after two hours, they had accomplished little other than producing a roar that some say was heard as far away as Pittsburgh and Harrisburg.

Longstreet, painfully aware of the slaughter that was sure to follow, could only nod when Pickett asked permission to move forward. Soon after, 12,000 Rebel troops in a line a mile long, stepped out from the trees and marched up the hill.

By any reasonable expectation, this action, known as Pickett’s Charge, was doomed from the start. The Union was dug in securely all along the ridge, some soldiers behind a stone wall. Artillery was lined up in front of the Rebels and on either flank. The Rebels would have to march across a mile of open field into a blizzard of shot and shell, with no cover in sight. 
The Rebel line was momentarily stalled while climbing the fences on either side of the Emmitsburg Road, but once moving again, was ripped by canister fire from the Union artillery. Hundreds of Southern troopers fell just crossing the mile of open field. Union soldiers watching from the ridge were awestruck by the Southerner’s discipline as they continued to march forward, despite the hail of lead.

In defiance of expectation and logic, Pickett’s men reached and stormed the Union lines, and for a few moments, almost carried the day. But Union reserves, intelligently fed into the lines by General Hancock, stopped the charge and sent the Rebels back across the field.  This was the key to the action on that third day.  Hancock had reserves.  Lee had committed everything he had.  Even though the Confederates had momentarily breached the Union defenses, there were no reserves to send to exploit that breach.  Worn out by the charge, their ranks decimated by the Union fire, the attack ran out of steam, and the Confederate forces fell back.

As part of the attack, Stuart’s cavalry, having finally arrived, was sent around to the rear of the Union line to execute a pincer attack, coordinated with Pickett's Charge. But they were met head-on by Union cavalry led by, among others, one George Armstrong Custer. The Union force, although badly outnumbered, hit the Confederates hard, driving them back. Stuart’s attack failed.

The Civil War was fought not by strangers, but by friends and relatives. The divisiveness of the pre-war political issues had cleaved not only a nation, but families as well. Culp’s Hill was named for the Gettysburg family who owned it. One of their sons, who had taken up with the South, returned to his home that day, only to die on the hill that bore his family’s name. Among the Generals on that field were Louis Armistead and Winfield Hancock. The two had developed a close friendship before the war. They were as close as brothers, and both feared that moment when they might meet on the battlefield. On that last pre-war night in California before the soldiers split up to join their respective sides, Armistead grasped Hancock’s shoulders and exclaimed, “If I ever raise my sword against you, may God strike me dead!” God apparently was listening. Hancock was seriously wounded during the fight, and his friend "Lo" Armistead, leading the charge that nearly broke the Union line at the top of the ridge, was mortally wounded. The two fell literally within yards of each other.

The exhausted Rebels limped back to their line on Seminary Ridge, meeting General Lee on the way. The Old Man took responsibility for the defeat, crying, “It’s all my fault!” But despite the pounding they had just endured, the troops rallied around Lee, begging to reform and hit the Union line again. It was this remarkable spirit that had sustained the Confederate Army through the previous three years, and would sustain them again in the next two. Less inspiring was Lee’s encounter with Pickett. Lee, fearing a Union counterattack, ordered Pickett to reform his division in a defensive position. Pickett, in deep shock replied, “General Lee, I have no division.” Some 60% of his command had fallen. Pickett apparently never forgave his commanding general. Years later, after a reputedly icy meeting with Lee, General John Mosby reported that Pickett stated, “That old man destroyed my division.”

Thus the Battle of Gettysburg ended. Lee’s army had suffered its first major defeat, and was forced to withdraw to Virginia. Some historians insist, as did President Lincoln at the time, that Meade missed an opportunity to end the war. Lee began his retreat towards the Potomac but despite strong entreaties from Lincoln, the Union army was sluggish to move. In all fairness, they had just been through the biggest and bloodiest fight of the entire war and were beyond exhaustion. Yes, they had won the battle, but had suffered huge casualties as well. In addition, the days following the battle were marked by torrential rains, which would have made movement difficult. But if Meade could have swung around and trapped Lee’s force on the north side of the river, he could have destroyed them. Such a defeat coupled with Grant’s victory at Vicksburg in Mississippi that same week, would have forced Jefferson Davis to accept defeat. But Lee got his forces back across the river intact, and thus the war continued for two more bloody years.

Lee’s defeat at Gettysburg ended any further action in the north, and irrevocably changed the path of events.   A Rebel victory at Gettysburg would have left Washington essentially defenseless, and with a congress full of political cowards, it is possible that Lincoln would have been impeached and replaced by a leader anxious to arrive at an agreement that would have left the Confederacy intact. America would have been two separate countries, and history changed forever. There would have been no “arsenal of democracy” to challenge Hitler and Tojo, and no strong force to contain and eventually defeat the Soviet Union. It is frightening to contemplate the fate of the world in the hundred years after Gettysburg without the powerful presence of an intact United States.

Four months later, on a blustery November day, Abraham Lincoln came to Gettysburg and delivered a powerful 2-minute speech that gave context and meaning to the terrible losses. The Gettysburg Address has been memorialized as the greatest Presidential speech in American history. His words, simple, direct, and poignant, still resonate powerfully today:

“Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives so that this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we do this.

But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate;

We cannot consecrate;

We cannot hallow this ground.

The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract.

The world will little note nor long remember what we say here.

But it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated

to that great task remaining before us.

That from these honored dead, we take increased devotion

to that cause for which they gave,

The last full measure of devotion.

That we , here, highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.

And that this government, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom.

And that government, of the people, by the people, and for the people

Shall not perish from the earth.”

Today, the battlefield is a national park, preserving the memory of three costly days that decided the fate of our country, and quite possibly, the world. Countless words have been spoken and written about the battle since, but no words speak more clearly to the legacy of the battlefield, the men that fought and died, and the cause that fueled their sacrifice than these from Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain:

“Heroism is latent in every human soul, however humble or unknown.

In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays.

Spirits linger to consecrate the ground.

And reverent men and women from afar;

And generations that know us not,

shall come to this field to ponder and dream;

and the power of the vision will pass into their souls."

The Day of Dilemma

In the weeks prior to last Sunday, I experienced the growing realization that I faced a dilemma of major proportions, trapped between two competing loyalties.

I grew up in the Kansas City area, becoming a Chiefs fan when the team arrived in 1963 from Dallas. I was passionate in my support of the team, remaining loyal even during the crushing poverty the team experienced in the ‘80’s. The Chiefs began winning in the ‘90’s, but it was still annual exasperation and heartbreak as they never made it past the AFC Championship game.

In 2004, I moved to Pennsylvania, where I found myself unable to resist the Pittsburgh Steelers. I suppose it was natural. The Steelers and the Chiefs share some common attributes. Both are family-owned, The Rooneys and the Hunts beloved in their respective communities and supported by a fan base whose passion approaches religiosity at times. Both have a rich history and tradition. But the Steelers have won the Super Bowl twice in the last four years. The Chiefs haven’t even been to the Big Game in forty years. And the last three years have been exquisite agony.

So I am a guy who sports both Black and Gold, and Red and Gold with a clear conscience; you could call me ambi-teamdrous. Up until Sunday, it wasn’t a problem. The two don’t play in the same division, and due to the vagaries of the schedule, there never seemed to be time when I had to root for one against the other. But Sunday changed all that.

When this game popped up on the schedule last year, I knew I was in for it. My colleagues all worship at The Church of the Blessed Steeler, and knowing my history, they wasted no time in demanding that I declare my loyalty.

But as much as I have come to love the Steelers, you never ever forget your first love. I’ve tried to change; I even bought my first Terrible Towel. (From the reactions of my friends, you’d have thought I’d graduated from rehab.) I couldn’t, however become monogamous.

I went into Sunday, braced by the reality born by the evident disparity between the two teams. I fully expected that the Steelers would have at least a four-touchdown lead by the end of the first quarter. The Chiefs have been that bad. It would be, I decided, a very dark day.

With the runback of the opening kickoff, however, a sliver of sunlight began to peek through the clouds. But almost immediately afterwards, Big Ben got rolling. I sat back and grimly awaited the slaughter to follow.

But something happened on the way to the butcher shop. The Chiefs, bumbling and stumbling through the first half, refused to go away. A brand-knew utterly unknown linebacker named Studebaker was revealed as a Cadillac, intercepting two passes. Matt Cassel got…not hot…perhaps lukewarm, completing some crucial long plays in the second half. And by the end of the day, this team that had been kicked to the proverbial gutter by the rest of the NFL and ESPN, rose up, stood tall, and wonder of wonders, beat the defending Super Bowl Champions. For a brief, wonderful time, the sun shone.

I know this won’t last. The Chiefs go to San Diego next week, a team that crushed Denver on Sunday. The Chargers, looking like a team on a mission, will be ready to deliver a butt-whuppin’ of epic proportions. The Steelers, suffering two straight humiliating defeats and facing a playoff Alamo, will go to Baltimore seething for a win. I will admit to a twinge of sympathy for the Ravens. The dust will settle, the stars will re-align, and things will go on as they should. Pittsburgh will prevail, and Kansas City will likely retreat into the natal womb of a rebuilding team.

But for one glorious afternoon, hope arose from the ashes; the light of a better future shone, if briefly, then brightly. And we fans were reminded that football, like life, is an arena where anything can happen.

Meteorologist Jokes

And now for something completely eclectic...

How come it never rains inside a barn?
It's a stable atmosphere.

What did the Irish meteorologist name the stream behind his house?
The Mary O'Donnell Flow

What do meteorologists get after a long night of tacos and bad tequila?
Rear flank downdrafts.

Why did the meteorologist paint a big blue "L" on his house?
He wanted to be an area of low pressure.

If Jeff Foxworthy had invented the WSR-99, what might he have called it?
Necks Red Radar.

What do they call the main conference room at The Weather Channel?
The Inner Topical Convergence Zone.

What do meteorologists call a row of martinis?
The Dry Line.

What do meteorologists call a row of babies?
The Squall Line.

What do meteorologists call a beer tap?
The Gulp Stream.

To a meteorologist, what’s the most important consideration in a restaurant?
Atmosphere.

How do meteorologists become mountain climbers?
They study Climb-It-All-ogy.

What is a female meteorologist’s response to a bad pickup line?
Cold Front.

Why do meteorologists refer to sex as conduction?
It’s the transfer of heat between two bodies in contact.

How do meteorologists rate a tavern?
With a Bar-ometer.

Where do meteorologists go after work?
The Milli-Bar.

What happens at the Milli-Bar?
Downpours.

What if the place was outside of town?
It would be the Iso-Bar.

What if the Milli-Bar was at zero degrees latitude?
It would be the Equatorial Trough.

What do meteorologists call a promotion?
An updraft.

What happens when a male meteorologist forgets his anniversary?
An approaching cold front with explosive storm development.

What do you call a meteorologist super hero?
Adiabatman

What does a meteorologist call a Harley Davidson showroom?
Chromosphere.

What do meteorologists call PMS?
Conditional instability.

What meteorological condition is known as a "Marie Antoinette?"
Cut-off High

What meteorological condition is known as a "John Bobbit?"
Cut-off low.

What does a meteorologist cry before teeing off?
Fore-cast!

Who cuts a meteorologist's hair?
A Canadian Clipper.

Why do meteorologists like to eat ice pellets?
They have a sleet tooth.

Why is the DEA suspicious of meteorologists?
They keep talking about Canadian Highs.

Why did the Puerto Rican Meteorologist go for counseling?
He had a tropical depression.

What's the difference between a politician and a Santa Ana Wind?
Is there one?

What does a meteorologist's wife call the point at which the force of nagging overcomes the inertia of a day off?
The "Do" point.

What is the only sound heard by a meteorologist in love?
A Beau echo.

What do you call a psychic meteorologist?
The Weather Channeler.

What do you call a group of NEXRAD experts?
Dopplergangers.

How do meteorologists coats wear out?
They develop Gore-Tex breakdown.

What do you call meteorologist DNA?
Supercells.

What happened to Josh Wurman's hair?
Whiteout.

What's different about a meteorologist's dandruff?
Crystalline flake structure.

Why do teenage boys want to become meteorologists?
Because they get to work with weather models.

Lunch and the Lunch Thief

Waterbury, CT Republican-American, November 18, 2009

Like most workplaces, we have a breakroom, within which resides two refrigerators. They are placed there for the benefit of employees who bring lunches that might prove inedible after four hours in a desk drawer. In normal terms, the ‘fridge is one of the last refuges of safety and security. One can breeze through in the morning, drop the plastic discount store bag in an open spot, and proceed to the workstation with that confident feeling that your food is safe and secure.

A bag lunch is, naturally, an investment. You have to get up early enough (or stay up late enough) to make the sandwich, or package the leftovers, adding the bonus apple or thing of yogurt. (If you have a better name for those concave foil-topped plastic contraptions, let me know.)

The point being, time was taken; effort was expended. And when the noon hour arrives, there is a certain level of anticipation, even satisfaction in retrieving and consuming our custom-built repast.

But lurking among us are the lowlifes; the scum of the workplace; those whose own needs trump all others. They usually strike on bad weather days. They had planned to go out, but when visiting the window and seeing the driving rain, the blistering heat, or the biting wind, chose to be cowards to the elements.

These are the lazy; the slovenly; the careless individuals who went to bed too late, blithely assuming they’d have time to make lunch in the morning, only to sleep in just a little too long. This is the person you picture sprinting out the door, tie in one hand, electric razor in the other while doing the hop-along-tie-the-shoe-on-the-run thing, and turns a routine commute into something more suitable for Daytona or Indianapolis.

The segment of proteins and amino acids responsible for considerate behavior in our DNA are missing in them. Consequently, when they’re hungry and have no lunch, the whole refrigerator becomes their oyster. And after four hours of anticipation, when we discover our meal to have been filched, we feel violated.

Of course, there are countermeasures if you are a regular victim of the lunch thief. Bringing a lunch that doesn’t require refrigeration is one way. Peanut butter, for one, is almost indestructible. You can bring an insulated bag with a re-useable icepack inside and hide it in your desk.

For the more vengeful (a dish best eaten cold, after all), there is the practice of planting a sandwich in the ‘fridge laced with something creative like prescription-strength laxative or Habañero pepper juice. I never felt the need to go all Jack Bauer on someone, although at my last job, I along with the entire staff was treated to the happy sight of our lunch thief bounding towards the restroom, two hands desperately gripping his backside.

Admittedly, some of us make it too easy. Some folks like to bring in a large bag on Monday containing a whole week’s worth of food. Others bring in a stack of frozen dinners, filling an entire side of the small freezer, then forget about then for the next six months. And then there are the truly absent-minded among us who might bring in a lunch and leave it there.

Forever.

You know what the nastiest job in the workplace is? Cleaning out the breakroom refrigerator. You could turn out a bumper crop of penicillin from the molds that grow there.

Peaceful co-existence in the workplace requires effort from everyone, even in the breakroom. Eat what you bring. Promptly. And if you find yourself on a nasty weather day gazing longingly at someone’s leftover prime rib sandwich, be an adult. Put on your coat and go out. Consider it your penance.

Unless, of course, you like Habañero pepper juice.

The Power of Unity

November 7, 2009: The Dream Becomes Reality

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, and National Park Service website (www.nps.gov/flni) November 12, 2009

It was a beautiful day, in many ways reminiscent of another perfect day, an early September morning in 2001. An impromptu speaker’s platform was set up in front of a line of flags, standing stiffly upright in the brisk wind, a familiar feature of this sacred valley. A singular group of people had gathered on this sunny day. It was a crowd whose members numbered among the famous and the mostly incognito. But every person there, despite their evident diversity, shared a common link.

Saturday, November 7, 2009, was a day when a dream ended, and reality began. Construction of the Flight 93 Memorial has officially begun.

For most of the past 8 years, a highly dedicated coalition of people have worked tirelessly, sweating blood as they surmounted innumerable hurdles. Working together, they survived unending frustration and celebrated each hard-won victory. It is an interesting collection of people. A task force and a commission made up of those with political power and personal influence; who possessed the "juice" to get things done. It also included stalwart members of the National Park Service, a few helpful volunteers, and a corps of dedicated Ambassadors, proudly wearing those sky-blue shirts. And at the heart of it all, a collection of families, all linked by a terrible personal tragedy experienced on the canvas of a larger day of Infamy. Together these remarkable people shared a dream; a dream to build a lasting memorial to 40 ordinary people who, in the face of terror and violence, stood together and fought back. On a dark day, they provided a ray of light; the light of unity, of courage, and of sacrifice.

19 ceremonial shovels, their polished steel catching the bright sunlight, each turned a representative shovel of earth. As Patrick White said, it was not a ground breaking, it was a ground raising; for the ground there has already been broken.

Over the next two years, this now-vacant field will be covered in heavy machinery and scores of workers, the din of construction filling the air and dispelling, for a time anyway, the evocative silence of this place. Barring any unforeseen disasters, on September 11, 2011, the tenth anniversary of that terrible day, this same group of dedicated people, joined by a few more, will gather again to dedicate a new memorial, one that will stand in silent testament for generations.

The story of this memorial is a lot like the story of those who will be honored by it. Groups of people, previously unknown to each other, who were thrown together to accomplish a great task. What is truly remarkable about this story is the incredible level of dedication and commitment they demonstrated.

And their absolute refusal to give up.

Make no mistake, this was a long and rocky journey, paved and papered by difficulties and adversity and miles of letters, forms, permits, and proposals. But all that pain was put aside on Saturday. As Gordon Felt, the President of the Families of Flight 93 rejoiced, “We made it!”

The lesson that we should all take from this is that any group of people united by a meaningful cause and dedicated to a common outcome can achieve great things. This is a valuable piece of wisdom, given the difficulties we all face today. The aims of the terrorists were thwarted because a group of strangers stood united. Their memorial will now become reality because another group of strangers stood united. Unity, the simple act of people working with each other instead of against each other can generate powerful results.

Perhaps it’s a lesson we as a nation should take to heart.

"On My Honor;" Reflections on a Boy Scout's Life

“He’s a Boy Scout!”

We’ve all heard this exclamation, usually spoken in a voice thick with scorn. It’s commonly heard in one of those “tough guy” movies as a motivation for removing someone perceived to be weak from a position of responsibility or power. I’m not sure how it came about, this practiced condemnation. It certainly wasn’t this way in the past. There was a time in this country, and in the world, where those words would be spoken with a special praise. The voices of parents would say those words with pride, their faces glowing. And for those outside that fraternity, those words would be used with, perhaps, a bit of envy.

In 1909, a publisher from Chicago, W. D. Boyce, visited England. On his journey, he encountered a member of Robert Baden-Powell’s troops. This youngster, euphemistically referred to as “The Unknown Scout,” told Boyce about the organization. The American was deeply impressed by the philosophy which had guided the young Britisher’s development. Upon his return to America, he incorporated the Boy Scouts of America. It’s stated purpose, “to teach boys patriotism, courage, self-reliance, and kindred values.” But it was Deputy Chief Scout Executive George J. Fisher in 1937 who articulated the mission of the Boy Scouts:

"Each generation as it comes to maturity has no more important duty than that of teaching high ideals and proper behavior to the generation which follows."

The Boy Scouts were born, a product of the progressive movement that was active in the U.S. at that time, no small irony considering the ideological orientation of the organization’s current enemies

The BSA’s current mission is "to prepare young people to make ethical and moral choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the values of the Scout Oath and Law.” To look at that statement, it’s hard to understand why some people hate the BSA. Always at the heart of their endeavors is the commitment to the teaching of ethics and training youngsters how to make good choices in their lives. Anyone can look around and see that ethics and good choices are rare these days, especially among our young men.

I was a Boy Scout, and a proud one. Somewhere in a box in my closet, I still have that treasured award, a metal scroll with the words “Be Prepared” from which suspends a faded piece of red-white-and-blue ribbon holding an eagle in flight. I remember with great clarity the moment that medal was bestowed. It was the first meaningful thing I ‘d done in my life.

Though that moment lies almost 40 years in my past, the important things Scouting taught live within me still.

“On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country, and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

“On my honor…” Honor is almost a forgotten ideal in our modern world. People make promises they have no intention to keep; they lie without a second thought, and with no evident remorse. The people we have elected to run things regularly, it seems, are embroiled in scandals involving money, power, sex, and public corruption, and yet when caught, they refuse to accept responsibility for their actions. This example of deceit has trickled down to the streets in our neighborhood. Children, marinated in the filth of this ethical sewer, gravitate to criminal activity and self-destructive behavior. In the absence of any good influences, they sink to the level of society’s lowest expectations. However, for millions of Scouts who have worn the uniform, honor is their most prized possession. It is not just an ideal, but an unyielding standard by which they are judged, and by which they judge others. Their word is very much their bond.

“I will do my best…” Somewhere in our past, the expression “Good enough for Government Work” was born. It has become reflective of a work ethic, not just of our taxpayer-funded public servants, but all who’s mission in life has become “just enough to get by.” Yet, a Scout is defined by this promise, that every task he undertakes will receive his full effort, even the details. He finishes what he starts, and every effort is his best effort.

“To do my duty…” Duty is defined as a moral obligation and the compulsion to meet that obligation. A Scout does not make promises lightly, but when he does, he keeps them. The moral obligation is to the higher ideals; those ethical standards of honesty, fidelity, and the ability to earn the trust of others. A Scout rises to meet expectations; he does not sink to the lowest common denominator.

“To God...” America is rapidly becoming a land where freedom of religion is morphing into freedom from religion. People want to be freed from the dictates of behavior and responsibility to flit through life with nary a care in the world. A Scout recognizes and honors such boundaries, knowing instinctively that life without rules is merely chaos and anarchy. To lead one’s life careless of how actions and choices affect others is the ultimate expression of selfishness. To believe in and acknowledge the presence of God is a concession to the fact that life does has order and purpose; that there is something larger outside of ourselves. That irregardless of where we are and what we’ve done, we are still loved unconditionally.

“…and my country.” The United States of America, despite numerous problems, is still the greatest nation in history. Take it from one who has trod the soil of 28 other countries, there’s no place better. The fact that many immigrants have come here with nothing and succeeded is testimony enough that the biggest barriers between us and our dreams, is, in fact, us. A Scout learns that freedom is not free; that the cost has been paid by the blood of patriots great and humble throughout our history. Yes, America has many critics, most of whom show no signs of ever wanting to leave.

“To obey the Scout Law.” A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. These are high ideals, yet attainable ones. Each one of these 12 standards can be achieved by anyone simply by making the decision to live by them. To do wrong, to be bad requires no effort, no discipline. However, to live by these difficult rules requires great effort…and courage.

“To help other people at all times.” Service to others lies at the heart of scouting. The Scout Slogan, “Do a good turn daily,” reflects that commitment. A Scout is focused on the needs of those around him, both his family and friends, but also the larger community. At one time, when manpower was required to search for a missing person, the local Scout Troops were part of that effort. Scouts in the upper ranks are required to undertake volunteer projects which will improve the quality of life of the community. But it’s not just the large high-profile tasks, but the small, simple, and often overlooked things. The iconic image of a Scout helping a little old lady across the street is widely recognized. But it can also be as simple as holding the door; carrying a package for a someone obviously burdened; stopping to help a stranded motorist. It is those acts which happen a thousand times each day and go unnoticed and unheralded that define the ideal of service.

“To keep myself physically strong…” For too many of our youth, the strongest parts of their anatomies are those video-game-playing, texting-madly thumbs. It seems to be the only things that get any exercise. But a Scout knows he needs to be strong. To help other people at all times requires the capacity to expend a great amount of effort over a long period of time. That means being fit enough to fulfill that kind of tasking.

“…mentally awake…” A Scout is always aware of the world around him. He doesn’t waste time brooding over his own misfortunes, but takes notice of the needs of others and moves to assist when necessary. To stare aimlessly off into space is a waste. To always be actively scanning and thinking keeps the mind alert and alive. He knows that knowledge is the key to success, and he pursues education with passion and energy.

“…and morally straight.” There is, I believe, no greater challenge for any human being than to commit to a set of moral and ethical standards, uphold them to others, and live the life by them. Every day, we see in the news stories about people who chose the easy path, the path of illegality and immorality and the consequences of those choices. And yet, in the culture of kids, that behavior is held as the standard. In their speech, in their dress, in their mannerisms they copy what they see without a second thought. These choices lead to other choices, such as drugs and alcohol and other destructive influences. A Scout knows the difference between right and wrong and chooses to do right, not because it is easy or popular, but because it is right.

A Scout will always “Be Prepared.” He will not stand idly by when something needs to be done. He is not a spectator, but a participant in life.

The list is daunting. Nevertheless, a Scout embraces this structure because he knows his life will be better because of that choice. It is a life that promises to be shaped in honor and courage.

A Good Time In Vegas Doesn't Have To Be A Gamble

Vegas!

As the plane banked into it's final turn, the wing dipped and revealed below a glittering carpet of lights. Unlike the airborne views of other cities, these lights didn't merely glow; they danced, making the cityscape come alive. A few minutes later, the wheels galumphed onto the runway and the overhead speakers announced: "Welcome to Las Vegas!"

Variously called "Sin City" or "America's Playground," Las Vegas has always seemed to exist in its own continuum. Regardless of events occurring in other places, boom or bust, war or peace, this oasis of neon in the middle of a very dark desert glittered without pause. I suspect that other-worldly quality is one of the reasons Vegas remains today a favored tourist destination. Yet even Vegas has felt the pinch, although you have to look hard to find the signs. Unemployment has soared to over 13%, due mainly to the suspension of the construction of several large developments. Even the entertainment industry has seen jobs dribble away. And yet, even when facing these difficult times, Vegas still manages to flash it's trademark diamond-studded smile.

There are two tourist areas, the well-known stretch of Las Vegas Boulevard known as "The Strip," and the less elaborate downtown area. Downtown is the original "Strip," and most of the casinos that gave that famed stretch of Fremont the moniker "Glitter Gulch" in the early days are still there. Fremont is closed to traffic and roofed over by a conestoga-shaped multi-media screen that regularly displays fascinating shows of computerized video and choreographed music, all accompanied by the oohs and aahs of the appreciative crowds. There are small stages set up at a few places where live bands are heard in the evenings. Their music, reverberating off that hard roof, is loud and guaranteed to get the blood pumping. Other than the music and the videos though, there's not much else there except the casinos. While the Strip seems to grow glitzy hotel complexes like mushrooms, Downtown hasn't changed much in the last 75 years, except for Fremont Street. Fitzgerald's, Binion's, The California, The Golden Nugget, the Golden Spike, The Fremont, the iconic El Cortez, still wearing the same fascia it did when Vegas was young, they're all there, still glittery after all these years.

Fremont Street

The Strip is a sharp contrast to the historic quaintness of old downtown. The hotels here are huge and elaborate, constructed along themes. New York, New York and Paris, France obviously recall those great cities. Then there's the Venetian, complete with gondola rides, Caesar's Palace, recalling the days when Rome ruled the world. The Bellagio and the Palazzo recall an Italy of different days. The Mirage is the Middle East in the romantic days of Lawrence of Arabia. Excalibur is the Europe of Knights and Castles. Mandalay Bay recalls the days of the British Raj in Singapore. Treasure Island is the Caribbean of Pirate ships and epic battles. And of course, the mystic pyramid of the Luxor, the only hotel in the world clearly visible from space.

Dining in the Village
The Glory of Rome
A Quiet Stroll in Paris
The Eifel Rises into Desert Skies
The Grand Lady At Home in the Desert

This stretch of LV Blvd. is about two and a half miles long, a lot of which is navigable along elevated walkways. It's a real struggle on a summer day, with temps reaching well into triple digits (dry or not, that's just plain hot!), better at night, and a pure delight in the mid-to-late fall.

Say "Vegas" and most people think of gambling. And while there is plenty of that available, you can actually go to Vegas and have a great vacation without dropping a penny in a slot machine.

The other thing Vegas is known for is entertainment. Plays, musicals, live bands, magic acts that will astonish you, comedians that will leave your face aching from laughter, just about anything you'd want to see will be there in abundance. Some hotels, Circus Circus, for example have elaborate shows as well as indoor amusement parks. The themed hotels fascinate as well. Most of the big ones have shopping areas done up in authentic architecture. In Paris, you wander along a cobblestone lane lined by a neighborhood of shops and restaurants so authentically French, you find yourself thinking with the accent. Above, the ceiling is painted in a motif of blue skies and fluffy clouds that sing "April in Paris." In the New York "neighborhoods, you'll find the kind of gritty realism of Soho and The Village, apartment buildings with plants and air conditioners in the windows. You can spend hours in these places, thoroughly amazed.

I don't gamble. It's not a moral stand, I know I just have terrible luck. Yet, I love going to Vegas. There's just so much to do outside the casinos. We always felt we could take our kids there because they could have loads of fun without being exposed to the more adult-themed activities. And if I want a change of pace, I can rent a Harley from any one of several agencies and take off for a cleansing ride through the desert, perhaps taking the 5-hour jaunt to the Grand Canyon.

I accompany my wife to casinos in other places, and usually end up bored out of my mind. But there in the lights and buzz of that jewel in the desert, I can enjoy a great vacation.

The View from the top of the Eifel Tower

The Gift of Life

Big, Big Grampa, Little Bitty Baby

For the last seven months or so, we've been caught up in the anticipation attendant to the birth of a grandchild. Our oldest daughter announced the coming event, not with a phone call, but in true 21st century style, via Facebook.

Through the intervening months, she's kept us up to date with her progress. Her husband was medically discharged from the Army and they left North Carolina for California with their car and a U-Haul truck stuffed with their worldly belongings. The pittance the Army advanced them for the trip ran out in Albuquerque, New Mexico, prompting a frantic phone call and some hurried negotiations with Western Union. Despite the hiccup, they eventually reached the Golden State and into the welcoming arms of his family. She made contact with her new doctor, and things looked good.

She went into labor on a Saturday, 10 days early. About 8 hours later, she gave birth to a girl, 4 lbs 9 ozs tiny. Zoe, as she was named, had eating problems initially and spent her first two weeks in the Neonatal ICU. At one point, the doctors called in a geneticist. She ran tests and a week later, dropped a bomb on this young family.

Zoe is missing part of her 5th chromosone.

For those unaware, this means that her life will be a long succession of difficult challenges. For her family, it means the mountain they were already climbing, raised by her autistic brother, just got steeper.

When we arrived in California, Zoe was still in the NICU. Because of rule inspired by the threat of that dark cloud known as H1N1, only one of us could go in at a time. My wife, in the dual role of RN and Grandma, took first dibs. As I stood outside waiting my turn, I tried to understand her predicament.

Zoe's condition has a name: Cri du Chat. That's French for "Cry of a Cat" which describes one of the hallmarks, a thin, mewling cry that sounds like a newborn kitten. The list of possible outcomes of this condition is long and dark, details available to anyone with Internet access. For me, while I've been uniformly delighted by my phone's web capabilities, in this case it was too much information.

Eventually, my wife came out, her eyes reddened, her expression grim. Reading that face I know so well, I braced myself.

Newborns always seem small and fragile at first glance. But as I took my granddaughter into my arms for the first time, I was shocked by how tiny she was. Snuggled in her blanket, all I could see at first was her wee little face. She was quiet, sleeping peacefully, and even at this early age I could see her mother's eyes and her father's nose. I unwrapped her enough to inspect her long piano-player fingers and tiny toes. At such a moment, one usually dreams of a future where this tiny person has grown up to accomplish great things. But now, all I could do was feel sad at the one in 50,000 roll of the genetic dice had robbed her of her full potential. Presently her left eyelid opened a bit, inspecting this new person holding her. After a minute or so, the eye closed, apparently seeing nothing special. I gently stroked her soft, dark hair and made a promise. No matter the quality of her life, or the length thereof, she would be loved.

Later that day, sitting on a bench in one of Southern California's ubiquitous gallerias, I found myself taking notice of every pregnant woman passing by. I reflected on the cascade of emotions that accompany the birth of a child. Joy, awe, wonder, and above all, hope. It is simply an event unlike any other in the human experience. It reminds us what a precious thing life is; a gift wrapped by a ribbon connecting the past and future.

And whatever the circumstances or conditions, life is undeniably a gift from God.

Hibernation and the Motorcycle

The wind blows stiff and cold. The skies are leaden, casting the world in a sort of gloomy semi-darkness. The warm days of summer, and even the sparkling days of fall seem distant. I, like millions of other motorcyclists, stand mute and sad in the garage, having come face to face with that depressing reality. It’s time to put the bike away.

I’ve lived in many places, the last one in Missouri. Winters there mimic the ones here in Pennsylvania temperature-wise, but get far less snowfall. But around here, that first accumulating snow can come as early as mid-October. And once the road crews lay that thick layer of sand, salt, and cinders on the roadways, riding season is officially done. Even on those rare days when the sun shines and the temperatures flirt with the upper 40’s, all that stuff on the pavement renders riding a hazardous undertaking. One of the worst feelings for a rider is to be leaned into a curve and hear that tell-tale zetz as the back wheel slides out from underneath, sending you and the bike skidding wildly across the oncoming lane and into a culvert.

With those dangers in mind, the prudent ones among us go through this annual ritual of hibernating the bike, and the first taste of separation anxiety.

The first step is to give the bike a good cleaning. This removes any remaining substances that over winter could degrade the paint and chrome. In-season, this is a task done swiftly, so as to maximize the time spent riding. But for this one last time, the pace is slowed dramatically. It’s not just maintenance; it’s an exercise of true love. Carefully, the cleaner is applied and wiped off. Once more, the paint sparkles and the chrome shines flawlessly. Even the rims and spokes get a good polish. I stand up and step back, admiring the work. The bike shines quiessently, but still beckons the restless nature within my heart, utilizing all it’s charms as it tries to seduce me into one last ride.

Manfully, I resist and turn to the next step. Opening up the gas tank, I pour in a can of gas stabilizer. I watch carefully as the fluid rises to the top of the fill cap. If the tank stays full, it won’t rust. And the stabilizer ensures that the gas will fire the engine next spring. The fuel injection system doesn’t require draining, so I move onto the next step, carefully hoisting the bike onto frame blocks. This will keep the tires off the cold cement floor, preventing flat spots from developing. A pair of old socks and a newspaper bag go over the exhaust pipes, preventing any field mice from taking up residence.

Finally, I’m ready for the final step. I pop off the seat, and with a regretful air of finality, I remove the battery. It goes on the floor and I connect the trickle charger, which will keep the battery alive and well for the next several months. I step back, sad. The bike is now an inert mass of steel. Without a battery, even the most powerful engine can only slumber in hibernation. I cover the bike, not so much for protection, but to keep the bike from torturing me all winter long.

My wife does not understand this affair I have with my machine, although she does tolerate it admirably. For her, it’s just transportation; less costly and more efficient during the summer. But for me…well, I’ve spent 17 years riding and my passion can best be summed up in this passage from my blogpost “Why Do We Ride?”

“To those of us who ride, a motorcycle will never be just a machine.

It will always be that ticket to adventure, a way of leaving the mundane and passing through the musty wardrobe into a world of beauty and adventure;

a place where possibilities are as limitless as the universe that surrounds us.

A ride clears the mind and recharges the soul.

More importantly, your soul, however bruised and battered, is made whole again.”

In the crazy swirl that many times defines my life, it is in that seat where I regain my sanity. My mind is cleared, my soul centered. I find my peace.

I don’t expect others to understand this fully. After all, this is a very personal experience. But the next time you see a lone rider gliding down a road, look carefully at their face.

You will see the exhilaration of a human being at the center of the universe.

Tool Time

There are certain expectations that go along with being a man. Most I fulfill with ease. However, where home improvement is concerned, I definitely fall short of the mark.

Most men yearn to build, or at least remodel. There’s something about tools that awakens the primal urges buried deep within our DNA. All of us have experienced the sensuous power of the drill, or the circular saw. For men, standing in front of a fully stocked tool chest is like standing before the gates of Heaven. “I am Man; Watch me Build.”

Traditionally, sons learn from their fathers. This is accomplished by the father hijacking a perfectly good Saturday, and putting the son to work. I was raised by a father who hired repairmen. About the only thing I ever did that even qualified as home improvement was change the furnace filter. So while my contemporaries labored and learned alongside their fathers, I coasted blithely through my life, content to watch my Dad hire contractors and service people.

Eventually, I did learn how to change the oil on a car, although the first time was a bit rough. My girlfriend of the moment was there and I’m sure I was showing off a bit.

Perhaps more than a bit.

Okay, a lot.

As I started draining the fluid, she leaned over, somewhat puzzled and asked, “I thought oil was black. That stuff is red.”

Quick on my feet, I explained that I had also intended to change the transmission fluid as well. “Oh.” Said she. Then looking around, she asked, “Where’s the new fluid?”

This was my first real lesson about girls. They ask entirely too many questions.

After getting married, I discovered to my chagrin that my bride’s father was a mechanical genius. Give him a roll of baling wire, a soldering gun, and a pair of pliers and he could build an engine. Naturally, she expected the same level of expertise out of her husband.

To her credit, her faith in me far exceeded what I deserved. She continually encouraged me to undertake projects. What followed was a succession of disasters and near-immolations.

Once, in the middle of summer, the furnace motor burned out. This also meant the A/C was kaput which, in a Missouri summer is tantamount to cruel and unusual punishment. I knew this was beyond my capabilities, but she can be so very convincing. We bought the motor, brought it home, tore the old one out, and bolted the new one in. So far, so good. Now, however, we noticed that there were a large number of wires coming off this motor. I am a graduate of the red wire-black wire-green wire school of electrical knowledge. But this thing had 8 wires of wildly different shades. Guessing, we hooked it up, held our breath, applied the juice…and voila! The motor started right up. We watched it for several minutes, and then, smug and satisfied, we left for our favorite warehouse store.

We returned about two hours later to a house full of smoke, and a utility room full of soot. The motor had apparently blown up, thankfully tripping the breaker. The next day at work, I asked our staff electrician what I had done wrong. He asked, “Was it a two-phase or three-phase motor?”

Phase?

Seeing my blank look, he closed his eyes and asked:

“Is your house still standing?”

Eventually, the furnace guy told us that we had not just blown up the motor, but the furnace as well. So, in trying to save $150 on a furnace motor, we spent $1,200 on a new furnace.

I could tell other stories about the hot water heater, installing toilets, and plumbing, but perhaps I've supplied you with enough mirth for one day.

In my defense, I do have some skills…somewhere. And maybe in this collection of disasters there lies a kernel of truth about my destiny.

My wife said one day, “You know, I think you were born to be wealthy.”

“You think so?” I responded, pleased that she was about to praise my abilities in high finance.

“Yeah,” she said. “You can’t fix a blamed thing."

The Culture of Fear

Sometimes, you're better off not knowing.

Photo by Thomas P. Peschak.

Over the holiday weekend, our family, along with several million others, went to Washington D.C. to take in the sites. It was a warm and humid day and it was with relief that we sought the cool air inside the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. The Smithsonian, or “America’s Attic,” as it’s referred to, is home to a seemingly infinite number of items, ranging from the historical to the merely curious. In one side gallery dedicated to diamonds, is a heavily fortified glass display case holding the legendary stone known as the “Hope Diamond.” This huge 45.5-carat gem draws thousands daily, sparkling smugly and seductively behind the thick bullet-proof exterior. As people cluster around the case, usually you can hear a woman say wistfully, “Honey, if you really loved me…”

This day was no different. The room was crowded with people, a mass of heat against which the air conditioning system struggled mightily. But despite the close atmosphere, no one seemed to mind too terribly as they waited patiently for their turn. The conversations were muted, the atmosphere was calm.

Then, somewhere in the crowd, someone sneezed.

Every day, it seems, we’re bombarded with news trumpeting some looming disaster. The latest sword of Damocles hanging over humanity is the H1N1 influenza strain, more familiarly known as Swine Flu. The inference delivered by a seemingly hysterical press is that the human race faces imminent extinction from this virus. In the papers, on TV, and online we see pictures of people in far-off places wearing masks and gloves; touching has been outlawed in several places. Schools close, government offices shut down, people are encouraged to stay home. And now, this hostile bug has invaded our own soil.

Apparently, everyone in that room at the Smithsonian had read the press reports. As the sound of that explosive exhalation rose into the air, the entire crowd reacted, shrinking away from the sound. The location of the unfortunate sneezer was momentarily visible as a space magically opened up around a 20-something young lady working her nose with a Kleenex. Engaged as she was, she didn’t notice the instantaneous and short-lived quarantine inflicted upon her. A moment later, the crowd re-positioned itself and life went on as before.

I was nonetheless struck by that reaction. For a brief instant, something dark and ugly rose from that crowd; a cloud of…well…fear. For a brief moment, that entire crowd of people reacted spontaneously to the sound of a simple sneeze.

Welcome to the culture of fear.

Humankind has always been guilty of cultural obsessions based on fear. This fear has been directed at vindictive deities and monarchs, disease and revolution, and even naturally-occurring events such as the appearance of a comet in the skies. Later on, humans acquired the ability to fear strangers, people who were simply different than they.

Today, in this post-9/11 world, our we fear terrorists, those who seem to distort God into a angry omnipotent who directs his followers to engage in acts of death and destruction. Then there’s climate change (warming or cooling) as even Mother Nature seems to have it in for us. We all wait with nervousness the big earthquake, the killer tsunami, the super volcano eruption, and the arrival of that 10-mile-wide asteroid that will destroy us all. These are merely the latest threats to our future, added to those we’ve already accumulated.

When I was young, there were basically two things I feared. My Dad’s discipline, and the wrath of my English teacher. Yes, as the fat, pimply-faced kid with the thick glasses I did spend (perhaps more than) my share of moments upside down in trash cans. But I was still able to live my life as a kid pretty much unfettered by the dangers outside my insular little world. There were places I could be where I felt safe. Even in junior high when climatologists were trumpeting loudly about an approaching Ice Age, there remained a barrier of safety behind which I could grow and develop without fear.

Today all of us, both kids and grownups, are bombarded by those things fated to destroy us. But, I’m beginning to think that much of what we’re trained to fear isn’t as bad as we may have been led to believe. There are those in the media who are paid millions each year to do nothing more, it seems, than scare the pants off the rest of us. Granted, the current news culture has been vastly diluted with cable and the Internet, which means those who want to be heard have to scream ever louder. In order to attract ratings and justify their jobs, they willfully engage in wide-eyed hyperbole, even lies.

The only power such people have is the power we grant them; the degree to which we’re willing to suspend our own intellectual processes and respond blindly to their version of the truth. The biggest weapon against the fear merchants is our ability to quietly, but firmly say…

“Cite your evidence.”

You’d be surprised at how often they don’t have an answer for that one. Skepticism is, after all, not illegal; just underused.

None of us have to live in fear. We don’t have to choose to be afraid. We can live our lives in relative peace by just focusing on those things that we can affect. Such a choice goes a long way towards de-complicating our lives.

And giving us peaceful nights.

To quote St. Francis…

“Deus, dona mihi serenitatem
Accipere res quae non possum mutare,
Fortitudinem mutare res quae possum,
Atque sapientiam differentiam cognoscere.”

"God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference."

Our Journey; Our Story

Sunset
The ending of day, the beginning of night;
A moment in time;
A moment of life.

--R. F. Couey

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, October 11, 2009
Ada, OK Evening News, October 11, 2009

Recently, a legend of television journalism passed from this life. In 1968, Don Hewitt created the first “news magazine” for television, calling it “60 Minutes,” forever identified by the iconic image of a ticking pocket watch. 60 Minutes birthed the usual retinue of copycat programs, but none achieved the hard-hitting quality as the original, a power that remains undiminished today, in its 42nd remarkable season.

The stories were often complex and guaranteed to incite the righteous anger of the viewer. But however intricate the tale, Hewitt’s instruction to the producers and the reporters was deceptively simple:

“Tell me a story.”

The history of humanity is a vast collection of tapestries, upon which is recorded the journey we have all traveled, and shared. Some of these tapestries glitter with the light of notoriety and fame. Others hang muted and silent. But no matter how famous or obscure, each human has a story to tell. All these stories have in common triumph and tragedy, events that scale the heights of elation, and plumb the depths of sorrow.

We often think that the stories of our own lives are not worth the re-telling, convinced that our experience is mundane and boring. But scattered throughout that existence are moments of hard truth, when we are face-to-face with an unavoidable decision. It is those challenges that we face, and the choices we have made that give our stories value.

Wisdom is not learned; it is earned. We have all faced difficult decisions at one time or another, and when we couldn’t figure out the answer we sought out someone we trusted; someone of greater experience. But why wait until then? Around us every day are people who have already made our mistakes, faced our challenges; who already have the answers to questions we haven’t even thought of yet.

• Times are tough; we’re all agreed on that. But if we want solid advice on how to get through a bad economy, why not ask the people who survived the Great Depression? What tricks of conservation, saving, and just getting by did they learn? What choices did they have to make that we can mirror in our own lives?

• If we have a friend or a loved one who has lost someone in Iraq or Afghanistan, or if we’ve suffered that tragic loss ourselves, shouldn’t we talk to the widows of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam? Grief is a journey and we can learn much from their healing walk.

• And if you’re at that low point, when you’ve lost your ability to hope, please know that you are not alone. Among the faces in the crowds we see every day are those who have also lost hope, but managed to find it again, putting their lives back on track. Perhaps your salvation lies in the simple inspiration of a new idea.

We all suffer from our own blind spots. We get caught up in our own lives to the extent that nothing else seems to matter. And yet, we ignore the treasure of the differing perspective that stands a mere arm’s length away.

We need to ask each other about our stories. Each life contains drama, pathos, and joy. By hearing the tales of others, our lives become richer; solutions become clearer. The knowledge and hard-won wisdom gleaned from such stories can widen the perspective and ease the pain of our lives.

And in that sharing, perhaps we can create that most lasting and valuable commodity: A friendship.

Don Hewitt's simple instruction is a challenge, not just to journalists, but to all of us as well.

"Tell me a story."

Life is a collection of such tales, woven together into the tapestry that defines us. And it is in the collection of all those tapestries that will forever relate the journey all humanity shares…

The journey of life.

Laura Ingalls and the Lotos Eaters

Laura Ingalls

Photo from her estate collection

I grew up a devoted fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, she of the famous “Little House” books which chronicled the nomadic life of her family in the 1870s and 1880s. The books, all written in the 30’s and 40’s, are still highly readable and entertaining today and provide readers with a clearly understandable vision of pioneer life. While written to be books for children, there is nonetheless interest here for the adult.

One of the common elements in all these stories is the recounting of how hard life was for this family. Everyone worked, even the children; and not for wages, but for the sake of survival. These strongly independent people who insisted upon living life without the infrastructure we have come to take for granted. They endured long journeys, failed businesses, illness and death, the destruction of crops by grasshoppers, hail, crows, wildfire and drought. They survived the heat of summer, and frigid winters. In her most evocative book, “The Long Winter,” the family struggles through the dangerous winter of 1880-1881. They, along with the entire town of De Smet, South Dakota, nearly starved to death. Through dint of courage and a refusal to give up, the endured a 7-month-long winter of constant blizzards and temperatures reaching 50 degrees below zero. At one point they were reduced to grinding wheat in a coffee grinder in order to make bread, all the food they had left, and twisting hay into knotted clumps that they would burn, generating just enough heat to keep them alive.

The work was exhausting; their pleasures simple and few. And yet the family felt enveloped by a solid bond of love. In the midst of the never-ending chores, the parents still found time to teach solid lessons of right and wrong, which the children took to heart. They loved and deeply respected Pa and Ma, learning from them the hard lessons of life, and the honor-bound promise to stand on their own two feet, and always be productive; never living off the hard work of others.

It was a life that provides a sobering comparison to the standards by which we Americans compare ourselves today. Even the poorest among us live in houses that would have seemed palatial to the Ingalls family. Nearly all of us live within comparatively easy reach of food. A trip to our local grocery store or food pantry in the middle of winter would have left that pioneer family goggle-eyed at the bounty always available to us today. We are kept warm in winter and in most cases, cool in summer. Electricity to power lights, refrigerators, stoves, ovens, and microwaves is delivered to our doorstep, as is water, the freshness and purity unmatched and guaranteed. Answering the call of nature involves, not a trip outside to a smelly closet-sized wooden hut, but a short walk down the hall.

I think the most compelling thing the Ingalls’ would see about our lives today is how hard we don’t have to work. Charles worked 160 acres of farmland with two horses and a plow. With this limited technology, he broke the ground, plowed the soil, planted the seeds, watched over the crops during the long summer, then harvested by hand all that he could before the winter closed in. He also cut and stacked acres of hay, fed and watered the livestock, and also took odd jobs in the nearby towns as they came available. He and his wife made sure their children got an education, not only sending them to school, but insisting on their studying hard each night.

There were no busses, taxis, or trains. Everywhere they had to go, they preferred to walk, choosing to not tire their horses even further. And outside of their participation in the Homestead Act, they took not one dime from the government or their neighbors. To do so was shameful.

Today, we live in houses and apartments, while many not as grand as we would like, are nonetheless head and shoulders above anything the Ingalls’ lived in. With few exceptions we have access to transportation, either our own cars, or mass transit. We don’t have to farm or hunt to survive. We go to grocery stores and food pantries. We don’t have to chop wood. We just turn up the thermostat. There are still a lot of farmers who work very hard, but except for the Amish, everyone owns a tractor and a matching set of implements. The government hands out billions in subsidies every year, supporting prices and helping farmers to survive, and even to profit. Crop insurance helps offset some of the risk of shortfalls and natural disasters. The government also helps farmers by buying some crops for resale overseas. While a farmer’s life today is still no walk in the park, it is a far better life than the one faced by the Ingalls family.

But the one thing about our modern life that would likely shock Charles and Caroline Ingalls right down to their toes is our general laziness.

In the 1800’s, living on the dole was considered shameful. Today we seem to consider such a life almost heroic. Welfare has become, not the temporary leg up it was intended, but a multi-generational way of life. Over the years, the government has increasingly paid people not to work. Consequently, many people have forgotten how to work. Or were never taught in the first place. For many, it seems their idea of a job is a place you go, do as little as you possibly can, and still get paid. The Ingalls and others of their day and time knew that a job was not a welfare program. Jobs existed because there was work to be done, and if the worker did not respond with the effort the employer was looking for, then someone else would have that job the next day. Employment was not guaranteed by the government; it was guaranteed by the employee’s hard work, proving their worth to the boss every day. I think the Americans of the past would be sadly disappointed in the indolence of Americans today.

There was an expectation about the future back then that it would provide better ways for people to live. Where the expectation has failed has been in the assumption that people would always work hard; that as long as the sun was up, there was always work to be done. That no American in their right mind would ever look at life, shrug, and say, “I surrender.”

The Seductive Lotos Blossom

Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote a poem entitled “The Lotos Eaters.” It chronicled a portion of the epic story “The Odyssey.” In this portion, the sailors are drawn to an island where they discover a languid, peaceful existence. The inhabitants introduce the sailors to the lotos, a flowering plant that, when eaten, induces a feeling “…as if they have fallen into a deep sleep; they sit down upon the yellow sand of the island and can hardly perceive their fellow mariners speaking to them, hearing only the music of their heartbeat in their ears. They paint a picture of what it might be like to do nothing all day except sleep, dream, eat lotos, and watch the waves on the beach. Partaking of the lotos involves abandoning external reality and living instead in a world of appearances, where everything “seems” to be but nothing actually is: the Lotos Land emerges as “a land where all things always seemed the same.” Indeed, the word “seems” recurs throughout the poem, suggesting that the Lotos Land is not so much a “land of streams” as a “land of seems.” In addition, in the final stanza, the poem describes the Lotos Land as a “hollow” land with “hollow” caves, indicating that the vision of the sailors is somehow empty and insubstantial.” (From the website "Sparknotes.com") The once-roving mariners, now completely seduced by joys of lassitude, even surrender their dreams of home, preferring to linger on this idyllic island.

In our modern context, the word “lotos” could easily be substituted by any one of a number of illegal substances taken by many who only desire in life is to escape it’s stultifying realities. But the larger lesson is clear.

We have become Lotos Eaters.

By consuming the sweet taste of our modern lives, we have forgotten those things that really matter; that drive us from mediocrity to excellence. That give us reasons to live.

Despite what we’ve been taught to believe, our individual futures and fate is solidly in our own hands. It takes courage to look in the mirror and say to ourselves, “I am my biggest problem. Me I can fix.” But that courage is there, deep inside all of us, if we would just dig down far enough to find it. We must also be prepared to resist the siren song of our contemporaries, those who sing of the glories of an indolent and meaningless life. When we are offered the delicate and seductive Lotos, we must refuse, turn our backs on the isle of eternal afternoon and bravely return to the harsh waves and storms of reality. It is the only way we can grow. It is the only way we can survive.

Life is not about the safe harbor. Life is about the journey.

Set sail; go forth…

And conquer.

Boycott Illegal Drugs!!!

Over the years, people attempting to change conditions they deem to be destructive have resorted to the practice known as the boycott. The term arises from the actions taken against a landowner named Boycott who ruthlessly evicted Irish landowners from their property.

The boycott is a selective act of refusing to use a product or service as a way of altering the public policy of the organization providing that product or service. The most historically successful and well known action was the boycott of the Birmingham, Alabama bus system following an incident in which a black woman, Rosa Parks, refused to give up her seat to a white man. The incident became the focal point for civil rights activists, including Dr. Martin Luther King, in their quest to secure equal rights for minorities. The action was successful. After nearly a year of nearly-empty busses, the bus company capitulated and removed its racially-motivated seating policies.

Other examples of successful boycotts include:
• companies that did business with South Africa during the days of apartheid
• retailers like Wal-Mart and Target for allegedly selling products manufactured in sweat shops
• tuna producers for failing to act to protect dolphins from getting entangled in their seining nets
• agricultural interests to stop the exploitation of immigrant labor in the United States.

All those actions and many, many others as well, were geared towards ending the misery of specific groups of humans and animals. Most were successful in their aims, since negative publicity can be a crippling influence for even the largest corporations.

Yet, there exists today, and for much of the last four decades, an ongoing source of human misery which has been largely ignored by boycotters.

In the last two years alone, some 10,000 people were murdered along the Mexican side of the U.S.-Mexican border. The drug traffickers responsible for these deaths routinely smuggle immigrants across the southwest border into the United States, often using them to carry illicit drugs with them. Weekly, officers of the U.S. Border Patrol find the bodies of these exploited people in the desert after they were assaulted and left for dead, usually the victims of their transporters, called “coyotes.”

In the poor countries of the Caribbean, people in the poverty classes are exploited by traffickers, who contemptuously refer to them as “mules,” forcing them to ingest capsules containing drugs, then putting them on airline flights for the U.S. Once they arrive, they are met and taken to secure locations where the drugs are passed into the hands of the traffickers. Sometimes, the capsules rupture in the bellies of these couriers, resulting in an excruciatingly painful death.

In Colombia, where the bulk of the cocaine used in the United States is produced, peasants, desperate for work of any kind, work in jungle labs. They are, among other activities, forced to march barefoot through vats filled with coca leaves and acid, the first step in the production process for cocaine.

On the retail end, street gangs use violence to enforce their control of territories where they sell cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines, and a host of diverted pharmaceutical drugs to willing customers enslaved by addiction, possibly the only time in history that humans have actually volunteered for slavery. Families are destroyed, communities are ravaged, an entire segment of American culture devastated by the effects of drugs and the trafficking of them. According to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, 570,000 people die each year from the effects of illicit drugs.

Yet, with all this human misery going on, nobody seems to care enough to do anything substantive to stop its source. All the proposed solutions seem to be geared towards the path of least resistance. One segment proposes increased funds for addiction treatment. What I’m told by professionals in that field, however, is that unless the user WANTS to quit, no amount of detox or treatment will cure the addiction. Relapse almost certainly follows.

Another opinion segment proposes legalization or decriminalization, and then taxing the substances, thereby killing the market and raising revenues for the government. There are several problems with this approach.

Alcohol, another addictive substance, was rendered legal with the repeal of the 18th Amendment to the Constitution. This was done largely in response to the explosion of gang violence in cities like Chicago when organized crime took over production and distribution of alcohol products. While legalization halted the gang violence, people have continued to die every year from the influence of alcohol. About half of all traffic deaths in the United States have been attributed to alcohol, some 15,000 to 25,000 each year since 1945. Some researchers estimate that as much as 75 percent of spouse and child abuse cases involve alcohol. Of non drug-related murders, alcohol was either the prime or contributing factor in 50 to 60 percent of cases.

The tax angle would prove to be moot, since there currently exists in this country a billion-dollar per year business smuggling both alcohol and cigarettes in order to evade taxation. The end of Prohibition did not solve violence. It merely replaced one form of violent death with several others. And this time, the victims were not gangsters, but innocents.

There are a host of reasons why people turn to drug abuse. You can boil them all down to three types of people: those who use drugs to avoid dealing with life, those who are seeking acceptance from groups perceived as “cool,” and those whose lives are so empty that they turn to drugs to try to gain some measure of personal fulfillment.

I could go on for several paragraphs on why life doesn’t fix itself, that each person has to develop the courage to face their particular problems with an eye towards fixing them, rather than giving in. I could also preach about the adventure of life and how with a little searching and hard work, anyone can find a path upon which they’ll find all the fulfillment they would want. I could also try to convince young kids that those people they think are so cool, are only exhibiting their own insecurities, weaknesses and lack of discipline, as well as self-inflicting their own personal doom. I could go on about all the above, but it would in the end prove to be a useless exercise. We all think we’re the most brilliant people on earth; so we cease to listen to anyone else.

Drug abuse is one of the ultimate acts of selfishness. When a person is seeking their chemically-induced high, they don’t care about anybody else’s misery. Not the people tortured and beheaded in Mexico, not the peasants in Colombia, not the incredible suffering in West Africa, made worse by the flow of drugs through that region, not the violent streets in this country. Users don’t care about how many died to deliver their drugs to them.

The only realistic way to end this cycle is to call attention to the human misery caused by this industry by boycotting marijuana, cocaine, heroin, and methamphetamine.

Why not?

Boycotting Wal-Mart and Target over sweat shops was cool. Boycotting non-dolphin-safe tuna felt good. Boycotting companies that benefitted from the fur trade and animal testing was so Hollywood. Boycotting South African gold was a high form of social consciousness. Boycotting all the companies doing business in Burma over human rights abuses was so right. You forced giant Mitsubishi to stop buying paper products made from rain forests. And how about all those companies that stopped using CFCs in their packaging materials? And the Burger King that was chased out of the West Bank? If you supported and/or took part in these actions, then you’re a hypocrite if you don’t think boycotting illegal drugs is a good idea as well.

That's right America. I'm calling you out.

Reducing demand would severely cut into the profits of these criminal enterprises, not only those south of the border, but those distributors and retailers working our streets. Turning our population away from these substances would reduce the impacts felt throughout our healthcare and social service systems. Many people, now mired in poverty, would find themselves eligible for good jobs, jobs that now require the applicant to pass a drug screen.

Most of all, turning away from drugs means turning towards hope. Barack Obama was swept into office on the cry of hope for all. But no one can embrace hope by continuing to embrace drugs. If you were serious about Obama, if you are serious about hope, if you really care about the future, then help take the power away from gangs and cartels.

Boycott the poisons they sell.

Motorcycles and the Death Wish

My Vulcan 900 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Around my day job, I’ve become a highly-visible practitioner of the motorcycle arts. Hence, when an issue comes up concerning the sport, I become the recipient of many questions. But nothing generates conversation like an accident.

We humans are seemingly riveted by death and destruction. I think a big part of that is our fascination with the amount of destructive potential that exists in the simple act of driving down the road. Also, there is that sense of compassion for those victims who lives have been turned upside down. A motorcycle accident, however, is particularly horrifying.

In July, a motorcyclist was leaving town on a trip to Tennessee. He didn't get very far. As he approached the entrance to a shopping center, a driver turned left in front of him. The pictures in the paper were horrifying. The bike, a big cruiser, had essentially disintegrated; the rider, killed instantly. Over the next week or so, several concerned colleagues, some who had known the deceased, wanted to talk about that tragedy. Dependably, at some point, those conversations would wind around to the question, "Do you ever worry about accidents?"

I do think about accidents; all responsible riders do. In fact, one of the ways to avoid them is to think through the possibilities and plan for those situations. I don't, however, dwell on death. People burdened with that particular obsession have far more serious issues than traffic.With forethought, planning, and a lot of practice, the average motorcyclist can avoid accidents most of the time. Mostly it's the simple things, like...

· Keeping your machine in good repair, especially tires.
· Riding within your skills and capabilities. Don’t show off.
· Leaving room between you and the car in front at a stoplight, so that if some mullet comes barreling up behind, you have room to escape.
· Constantly scanning, not locking your vision in one quadrant.
· Not riding unless you're completely straight, sober, and awake.
· Keeping space around you when on the road.
· Going slow on unfamiliar roads.
· And staying fully aware of what's around you.

Those eight guidelines can keep a rider out of 80% of the situations that generally result in accidents. But despite the best planning, the most complete training, and the longest experience, there are times when, frankly, nothing will help you. When someone turns left in front of you, there's just not a lot of choices. You're left with three undeniable and unavoidable truths:

You're going to crash.
It's going to hurt.
You may die.

Obviously, Motorcycles are dangerous. But so is life. Three times in the last year, while crossing the Market-Washington Streets intersection, I've come within inches of being flattened by numbskulls who were watching the light instead of the intersection.. During a heart catheterization a few years ago, my heart stopped and I…"went away"… for a while. I've been through earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, a fire, and one moment of absolute clarity facing the business end of a gun barrel.

Clearly, life is full of risks. As Al Pacino said in the movie "Heat," "You can get killed walkin' your doggie!"A person can stay behind locked doors with blankets pulled over their head and feel safe. But, come on; is that really living? By taking reasonable and carefully calculated risks, we grow; we learn; we achieve. That doesn't mean we should be profligate with life. But if we don't push our envelopes from time to time, if we don’t stretch beyond our limits, we'll never achieve our full potential.

I don't ride motorcycles because I have a death wish. I don't ride because I like flaunting danger. I ride because it pushes me out of my box, pulling me away from the pressures of life; forcing me to focus completely on that little moving circle of reality known as "The Ride." There, I find release, exhilaration, and joy. It leaves me mentally cleansed, ready to take another whack at life.I choose to embrace life, even its hazardous parts.

You ask, “Is it worth the risk?”

My answer: “You Betcha.”

The Love of a Dog

I've always been a dog person. While we've owned some cats (usually the result of a process of reverse inheritance), I've never been able to warm up to them in quite the same way. While dogs seem to respond to their owners with an uninhibited joy, cats are much more reserved, taking their affections on their terms. And at 54 years old, I have no patience for hard-to-get.

The first dog that came into my life arrived under a Christmas tree when I was 6 years old. He was a Dachshund, small and wrinkled, with eyes that were barely opened. My sister and I took him into our arms and our hearts, naming him "Brownie."



Over the next year, he became a welcome member of our family. My sister and I played with him constantly, taking him everywhere. But one evening, while he lay in our fenced back yard, some miscreant threw a piece of meat dipped in rat poison over the fence into the back yard. Within minutes of eating it, he convulsed and died.

My sister and I were inconsolable. It took the better part of two years for us to get past that loss. Dad had to hide the pictures and slides of him, lest the very sight of our departed pet brought us to tears.

Finally, on Christmas Day 1963, our parents bowed to the inevitable and on that memorable morning, the presented us with another brown wrinkly tiny bundle of joy. Again, we named this one Brownie. Again, we took him into our hearts and this time, it took. Brownie was a member of our family for 17 years, an unbelievably long time for a dog. Through those years, we played and took walks together. He made the foot of my bed his regular nighttime post. We shared the couch on countless evenings in front of the TV. He loved car rides, but didn’t take too well to my fiancé, unnerving her with his relentless silent glare. Every time we came home, he would be standing at the top of the stairs, leaned out as far as he could in order to see around the staircase and greet us with wagging tail and a joyful bark.

But as the years rolled on, he began to suffer physical ailments, mostly his back, a common problem with Dachshunds. In the last two years, his back legs became stiff, and then paralyzed. Finally, my Mom could stand it no longer and without telling the rest of us, she took him to the vet and gave him his final rest. I remember the day she told me, and that moment of shock and loss; feeling the sudden hole in my heart, knowing that a big part of my life had gone away forever.

I didn’t get another dog until well after we were married. We had moved from California to Missouri and bought a house with a fenced yard. We made two trips to the animal shelter to see what dogs were available. There were many of them there, including a Malamute that, when standing on it’s rear legs, was taller than I was. But amid the jumping and yelping, silent and quivering, there was a dog sitting in her kennel quietly composed and dignified. Cheryl walked by the cage door and suddenly stopped. She knelt down, and the dog responded, licking the fingers she stuck through the mesh. She turned and said definitively, “This is the one.” I know better than to argue with that tone of voice.


She was a breed called Samoyed, one of the few pure breeds left in the world. In their native Russia, they were sled dogs, herders, guards for their masters. They are a hardy breed, their faces softened by a permanent smile. They have a joyous personality, given to legendary acts of pure cuteness. I read about one couple who had gone out for the day. Upon returning, they found that their house had been broken into and been cleaned out of every electronic device they owned. Oddly, there was a pile of the dog’s toys in the middle of the floor. They concluded that this 65-pound mass of fur, flesh, and teeth, had greeted the burglar by bringing toy after toy, trying to get this unexpected visitor to play.

Samantha, as we named her, had an invisible past. She had been picked up wandering through the Mark Twain National Forest near Ft. Leonard Wood. The animal shelter staff thought that the owner might have been transferred suddenly, and unable to find a new owner, simply turned her loose in the woods. But it didn’t take long for her to find her place in our family. She was a joy to play with and to walk, and when any of us felt sad, we could find solace in the incredible softness of her fur.



One of the most remarkable things was how she looked after our kids. My wife and I both had to leave for work early, both of us out of the house by 6:00, after making sure the kids were awake. It was always touch and go as to if they would actually make the school bus. But Samantha understood the routine. The school bus had a stop at each end of our street, which actually gave them two chances to catch it. Samantha, upon hearing the bus pull into the neighborhood, immediately made the rounds of all the bedrooms, barking incessantly, urging the kids out the door. And she was good. I don’t think they missed the bus more than two or three times in the years she was with us.

Of course, twice a year, Samoyeds shed, a process called “blowing the undercoat.” And that was an understatement. Between Samantha and her partner in crime Misty (another rescue) we could depend twice a year that our house would resemble the peak of Everest. We burned out no less than 6 expensive vacuum cleaners, trying to keep the fur picked up. Of course, you could brush them, but you could easily fill two grocery bags full of fur and it would still come flying off her body.

With all the joy they provided, their time with us was relatively short. Samoyeds are short-lived, living only 11 to 12 years on average. And they also have hip problems, which makes old age a trying and painful experience. Like my Mother, Cheryl and I made two tough decisions, a couple of months apart. Misty was first, nearly blind, in constant pain and with no bladder control whatsoever. Then came Sammy’s turn, after a long night of listening to her whimpering, and even howling in pain.

After those years, with all the affection and chaos with which their presence gifted our lives, the house seemed all too empty. Our kids had also begun leaving the nest during that time, which only exacerbated the sense of loss. I was pretty sure we were done with dogs. Then, my oldest daughter, Nikki, who had adopted a microscopic little furball of a terrier who she named “Tweeter,” came to see us. She was our wild child, given to a life more reminiscent of the Woodstock crowd of the ‘60s. At the time, she was living with a pretty rough crowd and asked if she could leave Tweeter with us until her situation changed.

That was 9 years ago. Tweeter is still with us, as sweet and affectionate a dog as anyone could have asked for. To her credit, Nikki had put in the time to train Tweeter, so we inherited a perfectly behaved dog. Despite my best efforts to resist, he has wriggled his way into our hearts as deeply as any of my previous pets.



The thing is, I know how this is going to end. His parentage being still something of a mystery (when people ask what breed his is, we call him “the neighborhood project”), so I don’t know how long he’s likely to live, but I know how devastated we will be when he passes on. I try to prepare myself for that day, as I have gently reminded my wife (Tweeter has really become hers, after all) that that sad day will be upon us all too soon. I know she will suffer deeply, and I know I will feel sad as well.

But when facing that moment, I have to remember all the years of joy all my dogs have given. I firmly believe that a dog is the closest thing to unconditional love a human can receive, next to God, himself. For too many of us, that front door becomes more and more the barrier between the ruthless pain that life visits upon us, and that sanctuary we call “home.” And nothing makes you more welcome than that wildly wagging tail, those bright, happy eyes, that sheer unbounded joy signaling our return.

We all need that. It’s the affirmation that we’re never really alone.

Train Travel

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat August 9, 2009

I was sitting at my desk, contemplating an upcoming business trip to New York City. I was researching flight schedules out of Pittsburgh, adding up the hours I would need to allow, taking into account the drive over, security, and all the folderol I’d have to endure once I got there. My best guess was that this 90-minute flight would take about 8 hours to complete. Yes, I could have flown out of Johnstown to DC, but for two reasons. First off, the seats on those planes are decidedly tiny, whilst I am decidedly not. Plus, I’ve about had my fill of the roller-coaster ride I always seem to get on those flights over the mountains.

As I continued to ponder, my eyes went to the windows where outside, Johnstown lay basking under the bright sunshine of an all-too-rare perfect summer day. My gaze wandered across the rooftops, eventually resting on the train station. It took my brain a moment to make the connection, spawning a novel idea. Why not take the train? Upon researching, I discoverer that the train took about the same time as the convoluted process of flying. And cheaper, after looking at gas and tolls to and from Pittsburgh, a rental car, and parking in Manhattan (up to $50 per day at most hotels). I could catch the train one block from the office, and ride all the way into Penn Station, right near where I needed to be for my meetings. My bosses bought the idea, an easy sell since they tend to err on the side of the parsimonious.

On the appointed day, my wife dropped me off in front of the station, our goodbyes tinged with the sadness of two people grown used to having each other around. We've gone through this several hundred times, and no matter whether I am gone for 6 days or 6 months, those final moments weigh heavily upon us both.

I entered the station and walked straight to the platform. No metal detectors, no luggage search, I didn’t even have to remove my shoes. The train arrived almost exactly on time and upon boarding, I found myself in a surprisingly well-appointed cabin differing only from an airplane in one special way. Windows. Big, wide windows. I hoisted my bag up into the spacious overhead and sat down, discovering to my delight that the seat was wide and very comfortable. I’ve only flown first class once, after catching a gate agent in a weak moment, but this compared very favorably. Glancing down, I saw by my knee two electrical outlets. Gleefully, I plugged in my cell phone and iPod and set them to charging.

I had scads of legroom, and even when the lady in front reclined her seat (which went back quite a ways) I didn’t feel like she was laying her head in my lap, as is the sensation on an airplane. Within moments, the train was rolling. No waiting for permission to taxi, no long line on the runway, just board ‘n’ go. I saw that there wouldn’t be a movie on this trip, but I quickly discovered why. The “movie” was happening outside my window.

You can’t tell the history of trains without also telling the history of small-town America. The landscape of this country is liberally dotted with communities for whom the railroad was their reason for being. We can, and often do, drive through them without a second glance. But somehow, seeing them from the train tracks, they seemed different, as though perspective had gifted a measure of historic understanding.

Highways circle cities; airports, with some exceptions reside on the edges. A train, on the other hand, travels right through the community's heart. You see ballfields and back yards; glimpses of people’s lives flash by like frames in a movie. Two moms sit in lawn chairs, talking while their kids splash in a bright blue wading pool. An elderly woman works slowly, patiently in her garden. A young man wheels his motorcycle out of the garage, ready for an adventure of his own. And meandering down a street in a small town, two boys astride their bicycles do what young boys do best on a summer day: absolutely nothing. Sometimes, a child will turn and wave joyfully at the great silver visitor. Automatically, you return the gesture and for a brief moment, you are drawn into their world, and they into yours.

Rich people, of course never live near the tracks. Their homes, large and ostentatious yet somehow utterly devoid of character or personality lie well removed. The homes you do see have stood their ground for many years, their exteriors, like so many of us, showing the ravages of time. And yet they exude a certain character and wisdom. You sense that if their walls could talk, they would tell powerful stories, raw tales of adversity met by people of valiant courage, abject surrender, and even tragic loss, all writ large on the well-worn parchment of the human experience

Also along the tracks are the signs of a teeming economy long since departed. Warehouses and old factories line the tracks, their red brick exteriors shrouded by a patina of dust, dirt, and soot. The windows, long devoid of glass, allow brief glimpses of their tired interiors. And yet, for a century or longer, they’ve remained upright, stubbornly and patiently waiting for someone of vision to restore, revive, and resurrect them to a new life, their walls once again echoing the vibrant din of human activity.

Or perhaps awaiting only the merciful euthanasia of the wrecking ball.

Between the towns, the countryside rolls by. Liberated from the distractions of driving, navigating, and monitoring traffic, I was freed to gaze out the broad windows. I saw dense forests, dark and mysterious; green meadows speckled by brightly-colored wildflowers; fields full of healthy crops arrayed in their perfect geometry. Herds of cattle, horses, and the occasional deer dot the landscape as the graceful clouds serenely float above. There is a peaceful, languid feel upon the land and as I watched, I felt the serenity enter my soul. Here, isolated from the frenetic stress of everyday life, I found myself surprisingly, delightfully at peace.

Almost without exception, America’s great cities were born along a waterfront, or a rail line, or both. As the train approached Philadelphia and New York, I could see that the center of business had moved away from the rails, lured by the concrete ribbons of freeways. What remained was the crumbling detritus of the past. Bridges, splotchy with rust and corrosion spanned yards containing moldering piles of scrap metal, weeds, and unidentifiable chunks of broken and misshapen concrete. Scattered here and there, you even see the carcasses of old railcars and locomotives, all which have become an urban canvas for opportunistic taggers. And in the distance, rising like the mythical Oz, gleaming towers of glass and steel stand aloof, seemingly dismissive of the rich history that lies at their feet.

Every journey, whether arduous or enjoyable, eventually ends. Whether you step off into the riotous chaos of Penn Station in New York City, or the quiet platform in Johnstown, you arrive rested and relaxed.

Train travel may not be for everyone. There are those who simply can’t function without stress, anxiety, and a full-throttle pace of life. For such, “serene” is simply a synonym for “boring.”

But for the rest of us, a journey of the soul awaits along the byways of the American rail, a journey especially meaningful for those who sometimes lie awake on a summer’s night, hear the distant call of the great rail-bound voyager...

...and smile.

Top Ten Reasons Why a Newspaper is Better Than a Laptop

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 7, 2009

Being a child of the Alvin Toffler generation, I'm the first person to acknowledge a paradigm shift in our culture. Information technology has exploded, and every newspaper now has an online site. Some have asked why a hard copy version is still necessary.

But, I guess I'm a traditionalist. I love the smell of fresh newsprint in the morning.

So in recognition of our shifting perspectives, and out of respect for the time-tested traditions, I respectfully offer...

Top Ten reasons a newspaper is better than a laptop.

10. You can't fold a laptop to make it easier to hold.

9. You can do crosswords online, but you can't live dangerously and do them in ink.

8. Breakfast just doesn't taste good with silicon. Besides, you get crumbs on the keyboard.

7. You can't cut an article out of a laptop without killing another tree.

6. Newspapers don't need powercords or batteries.

5. With a newspaper, you don't have to worry about losing your wireless signal.

4. Nobody can hack into your bank account through a newspaper.

3. A newspaper won't give you carpal tunnel.

2. Just try to line a birdcage or light a fireplace with a laptop.

And finally...

1. If you spill coffee on a laptop, you have a $3,000 piece of junk.

If you spill coffee on a newspaper, you have...

...a wet newspaper.

The Worst Ride

Wall cloud...on steroids. Picture from NOAA


The weather here lately in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania has been a bit of a mixed bag. The geography of the mountains and the proximity of the Great Lakes (Erie in particular) normally generates a fairly wet climate. It's rare, even in the driest part of summer, that we go more than three days without precipitation.

Now, this can make for a frustrating time for motorcyclists. Nobody likes to ride in the rain, but neither do we like to see our machines idle in the garage. Consequently, bikers in this area (at least the more dedicated ones) will bite the bullet from time to time, don the rain gear and hit the road. I've done this on several occasions, sparking some interesting reactions from my colleagues. A few understand the passion, tending to nod knowingly with respect. Most, however, just shake their heads scornfully. This has made for some interesting elevator rides, especially when I step in, still dripping from my ride in.

Once in a while, I get the question, usually from folks motivated to determine exactly how mentally bent and crazy I actually am:

"What's the worst ride you've ever taken?"

I love to reminisce. As I have often related before, motorcycling is more than just a ride. It's the accumulation of wonderful memories, stored in the recesses of the brain like a shelf of china cups. Once in a while, you take one of the memories down off the shelf, hold in your hands, and close your eyes, letting the remembrances flow through your conscious thoughts. And for me, after almost 18 years and close to 300,000 miles, it's a full cupboard.

Scattered amongst the shelves are good memories, autumn days through forests aflame with bright colors, roaring across a desert highway as the sun sank towards the horizon, the long weekend at Deals Gap, balancing the centrifugal against the centripetal on a knife-edge of lunacy.

But there are also the not-so-good memories. The heart-stopping sight of flashing red lights in my rear views, my accidents, and the two occasions when my bike died beneath me, both times literally in the middle of nowhere.

Now, bad-weather rides can be both good and bad. On the one hand, it's usually a time of intense discomfort, your mind on red-alert status and your body tensed for any number of unpleasant outcomes. However, on the other hand, you realize that your riding skill is being tested and you find yourself reveling in the challenge.

When I look back over the years, two incidents spring up.

It was January in Missouri. The forecast was for a nice day ("nice" meaning 40-degree temps and no precip) and with Cheryl and the kids occupied with their own interests, I decided to take the bike out for awhile. I donned my winter gear, fired up the bike, and headed out. Initially, I only wanted to go out for a half-hour or so, just enough time to charge the battery and circulate the fluids. But the day was uncommonly beautiful, the sun (relatively) warm, and suitably entranced, I kept going.

I had wandered along several roads, finding myself some 60 or so miles from home when suddenly the sunlight went out. The wind shifted into the north and acquired a bite. Surprised, I looked to the western sky to see dark, angry clouds looming on the horizon. I had lived long enough in the midwest to know what that meant. I turned and headed for home with dispatch. The problem was, I had ridden east of town, so my return trip was face-first towards the menacing storm. I rode as quickly as road conditions allowed, but I was still about 30 miles out when I rode under the leading edge of the storm and big, fat, heavy flakes of very wet snow began pouring out of the sky.

My first concern was the road surface. Wet snow is bad for four-wheel vehicles. For motorcycles, it's terrifying. I slowed down and carefully scanned the road ahead, a task becoming more difficult in the lowering visibilty. Now, generally in Missouri, it may snow for quite a while before accumulations begin. But today, the road began to quickly turn white. I cautiously navigated the straightaways, and every time a curve in the road came up, my whole being seemed to pucker up. At one point I was down to about 20 mph. I was getting close to home, when a county snow plow pulled out in front of me. Chafing at the added delay, I now had to deal with fresh salt being dumped on the road directly in front of me (think marbles here), and the avalanch of slush and road grime thrown up by the truck's massive tires. It was not only uncomfortable, it was nerve-wracking.

Eventually I got home. As you might expect, the only time I actually came close to dumping the bike was trying to get up the sloped driveway into the garage. Once safely in side, I shut down the engine and slumped over the handlebars, exhausted. I knew I had pushed the limits that day and that I was fortunate to be home alive and in one piece. I got off the bike, removed my gear, and did what I could to clean the salt off the bike. I went inside, crawled into a comfy chair in front of the television and was there an hour later when the rest of the family came home. Knowing the reaction I'd get if I 'fessed up, I remained mostly silent, awaiting the inevitable question from my wife:

"So, what did you do with your day?"

"Nuthin'."

I never told anyone about that day, until now. I guess we'll now find out how often she reads my blog.

One another occasion, I had ridden to Kansas City from Columbia to get some scheduled maintenance done on my ride, a '91 BMW K75RT. There being no BMW shops in Columbia, I had to go to KC to get any work done. I didn't mind. After all, it was a perfect excuse to go out and put 250 great miles on the bike.

The ride over was uneventful. The BMW guys, efficient as always, raced through their tasks and in less than three hours, I was back on the road.

Choosing routes is always a fun part of any ride. Going over, with time being a critical element, I stayed on the Interstate for the whole trip. Going back, however, I chose US 24, what had once been a major thoroughfare, but now was a friendly 2-lane country highway, with light traffic, pretty countryside, and enough curves to be interesting.

I rode through Independence, picking up 24 near the Truman Library. I headed east, eeling through the traffic in town before finally clearing the mess near Buckner. Relaxing a bit, I opened the throttle a little more as the road unwound before me.

It was a warm day, and the humidity seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment. I began to glance over my right shoulder from time to time towards the southwest and sure enough, I saw the tell-tale signs of thunderstorms.

I've been a storm spotter for several years, and a certified weather nut for many more. Living in the midwest, you learn to read the clouds, particularly on those summer days when the air turns both sultry and electric.

I increased my speed somewhat, although with a healthy respect for the Missouri Highway Patrol in mind. As time went on, the clouds grew rapidly and soon I began to hear rumbles of thunder. At Waverly, I abandoned my original route and picked up US 65, heading through the river towns of Grand Pass and Malta Bend. Just outside the latter, the rains started. As is normal, the inital raindrops were huge and stung, even through my armored jacket. With me heading southeast and the storms pushing northwest, we met in the town of Marshall.

My sense of timing has never been the best, but this time it was superb. At the edge of town, I pulled off to a gas station. As I exited the highway, hail began to fall. It was relatively small, perhaps quarter-size, but it REALLY hurt. The noise inside my helmet as the stones pelted the top was deafening. Fortunately, I was only in the hail for a few seconds as I found shelter under the roof by the gas pumps. I sat there for a time, waiting for the hail shaft to pass to the northwest. Eventually it did, and I pulled out and pushed on. I thought I was passed the worst of it, and in fact, the rain had slacked off and the winds had slowed. I should have known better.

I rode carefully out of Marshall on Missouri 41, with Boonville 30 miles ahead. I knew that if I got that far, I could go to the factory where I worked and at least pull the bike inside the building. Passing Arrow Rock, however, the air grew very still. Electricity seemed to building in the air. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright in the seat. The hair-raising sound of sirens began to spool up all around me. I knew I was in deep trouble and real danger. Although I was south of the main line of thunderstorms, I took no real comfort from that. I pushed on, my mouth dry, my heart beating a tattoo inside my chest.

I reached I-70 at Pilot Grove, feeling a little relief, knowing I could now go much faster. But as I made the turn onto the bridge over the Interstate, I glanced back to the north. There, hanging in the sky, was the recognizable shape of a wall cloud. Fascinated, I stopped. Despite it's proximity, I felt reasonably safe. I was south of that particular cell and it was moving away. As I watched, a funnel dipped out of the wall cloud, reaching for the ground. The inflow winds began to make themselves felt, climbing rapidly in speed and power. I turned the bike around, keeping the wind-borne rocks, dust, and debris to my back. The funnel touched the ground, becoming an official tornado. I watched, fascinated, as it tore through a field for a couple hundred yards before roping out and dissipating.

At this point, my common sense frantically pushed aside my fascination and urged my continued travel. I roared down the ramp and sped towards home. The heavy rains returned, but I could hear the all-clear being sounded.

I eventually did make it home, wet, bedraggled, but excited. I had survived a severe storm and seen a tornado close-up. Despite the danger, discomfort, and moments of terror, it had been a fine ride.

It's a weather-nut thing. You wouldn't understand

Over the years, I've ridden in a lot of bad weather, all of it unwillingly. (See? I AM sane, after all!) I guess you could say it's those few bad weather days that make the good ones that much more special.

And truthfully, while I may have had some rough rides, it's never really a bad day when you're on a motorcycle.

What??? You Bought ANOTHER Motorcycle???

My passion for motorcycles has been well-documented on this blog and through the pages of the Johnstown (PA) Tribune-Democrat. Through many posts and columns, I've tried to verbalize the emotions that this activity has stirred in me through the years.

(A partial list, for those who care in indulge...)
"Eternity and the Road"
"Let's Be Careful Out There"
"The Journey"
"Why Do We Ride?"
"Moto-Macho"
"Males, Middle Age, and Motorcycles"
"Thinking About a Motorcycle?"
"Deals Gap"
"The Honda PC800 Pacific Coast"
"Snow Day"
"Saying Goodbye..."
"My Lake Superior Adventure"
"A Wild West Ride on a Wyatt Earp Pilgrimage"
"Bikes and Big Ben"

In May, I had an accident on a bike I had owned about a month. While the injuries were painful, they weren't serious enough to dissuade me from buying another one, a purchase completed June 25th.

The reaction among my family and co-workers was universal dismay. Suddenly, I found that all the sympathy and concern accumulated during my recovery evaporated into an orgy of head-shaking befuddlement. One colleague, who had sent me flowers after the accident, declared, "You only get one bunch of flowers from me, kiddo!"

Intellectually, I can well understand their reaction. After all, why would any reasonable human being go back to an activity or situation that resulted in pain and injury?

(To be honest, I experience the same reaction when I hear or read about women who go back to abusive husbands and boyfriends, but I digress...)

There are actually two things going on here inside my head and heart.

First of all, I've learned how important it is to face fears, instead of fleeing from them. I threw away a lot of my years simply because I didn't want to take risks; playing it safe, always. Life without risk is, in reality, no life at all. It is in taking reasonable chances and calculated risks that we improve ourselves. And while we fail from time to time, failure is not an end in and of itself. It is a learning experience that, when carefully explored and evaluated, leaves us that much smarter for the next attempt.

Secondly, my passion for life on two wheels remains undiminished. In those two years I was bikeless, just the sound of a motorcycle heading down the highway was enough to set me to daydreaming. My poor wife yammered constantly at me to keep my eyes on the road and not look at every bike that went by.

My brief foray in April and May convinced me that I was not yet done with this phase of my life.

So, when I healed up sufficiently, I was back on the market, looking for its replacement. Luckily, I found one very close to the one I wrecked close by and over about a week, I was able to complete the purchase. That first day, I put 90 miles on the machine, reveling once again in the glorious feeling of freedom and adventure. Cheryl rode with me for a little bit, complaining that the seat was too hard (a common complaint with all motorcycle passenger seats, it seems). But at one point, as we rode through the gathering dusk, she sighed and leaning forward, she yelled in my ear, "This is just about perfect."

I knew exactly how she felt. the sun was down, hidden behind a line of summer thunderstorms on the horizon. The air, as it blew past, was soft and comforting, as June in the mountains always is. The busy day was almost over. The quiet of the evening had settled in, bringing with it a welcome sense of peace and tranquility. As a Cheyenne warrior might have described it, I was at the center of my world.

I am manifestly unwilling to let go of those times, of the almost magical catharsis I experience on an evening ride. To walk away from that would be to allow a piece of myself to die.

For those who haven't, or won't experience such a moment, or those who gave it up after an accident or terrifying close call, there's no way I could never articulate the "why" of motorcycling in a way that your heart would be touched the way mine has.

Having briefly experienced death once already, I no longer consider it unknown territory. Simply stated, I don't fear it anymore. But in losing my fear of death, I also lost my fear of life. I embrace all that life has to offer, joy and sadness, triumph and tragedy, accomplishment and adversity. There is, I've discovered, benefit to everything that happens to us, if we but understand that these events, whether good or bad, are merely the mileposts we must pass as we continue on the journey.

I know there will come a day when physically, I'll no longer be able to ride. It is inevitable, as I can do nothing to slow or divert the march of time. Knowing that day is coming only makes each ride that much more meaningful.

Because in the end, the winner is not who has the most toys.

It's who has the fewest regrets.

R.I.P, M. Jackson

Like many others, I was brought up short by the news yesterday that Michael Jackson had died. The suddenness of his passing was surprising, leading me to initially suspect that the bulletin was false, especially since it was passed to the public, not by his family or staff, but by some unnamed internet source. But, within minutes, the news was confirmed.

Tributes began flowing in almost immediately. It seemed that people from all walks of life were touched by his death.

It is almost impossible to overstate Michael Jackson's impact on the music business. Early on, he gained fame as the lead singer for the Jackson Five, the group of singing brothers formed by his hard-driving father. Later on, he went out on his own with his first solo album "Against the Wall." But it was the mega-hit album "Thriller" that elevated him to mythic status. "Thriller" remains today the biggest seller in the history of popular music.

But it wasn't just his music. He was an incredible dancer, astonishing all who watched with his grace and inventiveness. He didn't just use existing moves; he created a whole new genre, patterns which, at times, seemed to make him weightless.

He was also an entreprenuer. I still remember the day it was announced that he had bought the entire Beatles library, before the Fab Four themselves apparently knew it was on the market.

As he grew older, he began to change. His personality turned a corner and wandered off in an unsettling direction. He had repeated plastic surgeries, attempting to re-shape his face into a mirror of his idol, Diana Ross. For a while, he slept in a hyperbaric chamber. And then there were the allegations of child abuse. He was acquitted by a Los Angeles jury of those charges, but as usually happens, even the declaration of innocence failed to remove the shroud of suspicion. It is perhaps a statement of our societal attitude toward that particular crime. For many, the accusation itself was enough to convict him.

In the last 10 years or so, he ceased to become the respected artist and more the caricature of strangeness. Wild accusations about his lifestyle were made in the press, and we seemed to be ready and willing to believe anything put in front of us. The fact remains that, at least in the legal arena, he was never convicted of anything; all we have are the loose accusations, which may have been merely the product of those looking to win the lawsuit lottery.

The story of Michael Jackson is one of great success, fame, and wealth. It is also a tragedy. And a warning to parents.

There are a lot of parents and grandparents out there who, not having achieved anything resembling fame or fortune on their own, pursue those selfish goals vicariously through their children or grandchildren. It starts out as toddler beauty contests, possibly one of the most exploitative exercises ever created. It moves into talent shows, auditions, competitions, perhaps TV or print ads...it goes on and on. I've seen these grown-ups. The pressure they put on those kids can only be described as abusive. And it's not just the entertainment field. Other parents who see a smidgeon of talent in gymnastics, ice skating, or other sports force on the young ones a schedule and pressure that would be considered unhealthy in a 30-year-old, having convinced themselves that "this is what my child wants."

Michael was thrust into the limelight at a very young age. Because of the fame and the incredible schedule and performance pressure, he was never allowed time to be a child. The seeds that sprang into his odd behavior later in life were sown early and deep.

The same conditions that created Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, also destroyed Michael Jackson, the human being.

If you are one of those parents that rousts your child from their warm bed at 4:00 a.m. in order to catch an available practice time at the ice rink; or spend hundreds or thousands of dollars dressing your toddler up in ridiculous and sexualized constumes and then parade them in front of crowds of strangers; or force your kid into acting classes, singing classes, and music lessons and then drag them to every audition, talent show, or screen test within 500 miles...

You need to take a step back; think about Michael Jackson, and ask yourself seriously what destructive seeds you may be planting.

Stop being your child's agent.

Be parents.

Eternity and The Road

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

I’ve been a motorcyclist for almost 18 years. I still remember with great clarity the first ride I took on my ’82 Suzuki GS550T. I was nervous and not very smooth, but the sensation of gliding down the road, the wind blowing past my head, the sky open and glorious above, seized my soul with a powerful embrace, a grip that hasn’t loosened in almost two decades.

Most of the miles that lie in my past were expended on commuting. For some odd reason, we’ve always lived at least 30 miles away from wherever I’ve worked. I’m not sure why that has happened, but it did provide the opportunity to turn a mundane act into a little adventure every day. Looking at my fuel logs, I estimate that I’ve put down in excess of 280,000 miles in that span.

Of course, there were the weekend rides, undertaken after I was freed from my chore list. Also, I took a lot of short trips, less than 500 miles, each time stretching the envelope of my experience. Twice, I embarked on even longer trips, a 6-day jaunt to Lake Superior, and the other a 9-day trek through the U.S. southwest, easily one of the most important times of my entire life.

I still peruse maps from time to time, contemplating other journeys. Time is passing and I know that the physical ability to endure such trips will not be with me much longer. So while I ponder the future, I also allow myself to dream.

An open road under a clear sky, on the horizon the blue peaks of distant mountains. On either side, grasslands bending before prairie zephyrs; seemingly endless deserts, each rock, draw, and tumbleweed starkly defined in the clear air. And as the road climbs into the mountains, it begins to bend, twist, and dodge, seemingly almost alive as it bisects fragrant pine forests. This is where I am truly alive, my spirit responding to the wide-open spaces, so perfectly defining the ideal of freedom. I have nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there.

Where would I go?

One trip would be to “Ride the Divide.” I would start at Glacier National Park and ride south, conforming the route as much as possible to the Continental Divide, passing through Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico.

Another long ride in my mind is to circle all five of the Great Lakes, starting with Erie, following the southern shores of Huron, Michigan, Superior, the north shores of Huron, Erie, Ontario, returning to the starting point of Erie, PA.

I would like to ride the Pacific Coast, sharing the route between the Pacific Coast Highway and US 101 from San Diego all the way to Canada.

And finally, the grand tour, encircling the entire United States.

Will I take all of these trips? Will I take any of them? Perhaps time will catch up to me and I will have to be content to journey through my mind’s eye.

This is my dream, my goal. I do not know why I am happiest on the road. It is one of the mysteries that will remain forever unsolved.

But I am a faithful man. I believe in Heaven; that it is a place where that which brings us the most joy exists in abundance. If that is true, then what awaits me is a road, a motorcycle…and God.

The New Frontier

Image from History.com

My life long, I’ve been a huge devotee of space travel. I grew up during the runs of projects Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo, and at one point, I could have recited the crews of every single manned flight the U.S. had undertaken. While there are times I can’t remember the location of my motorcycle key, the night that Armstrong and Aldrin stepped out onto the lunar surface is as sharp and clear as if it had happened last night.

To my young mind, it seemed natural that now that the moon had been reached, Mars would follow soon. But to my sorrow, I watched our space program shrink, put to the torch by narrow-minded political opportunists who seemed to think that cancelling a program largely responsible for a 3.7% unemployment rate and 8.5% economic growth would somehow help poor people. A space program not only needs rocket scientists, it also needs secretaries, welders, and janitors, most of whom lost their jobs with contractors like North American Rockwell and Boeing. Of course, we know what happened next. When the space program effectively departed the marketplace, the economy tanked, unemployment exploded, and the stage was set for the moribund Carter years.

Sorry about that. Even after all these years, it still upsets me.

Several years ago, President Bush announced that the United States intended to go back to the moon, and eventually Mars. I was elated, and reports from teachers across the country spoke of students energized about the study of space.

Now, finally, NASA has laid down a timetable for an ambitious program of exploration, including a permanent base on the Moon, and an eventual manned mission to Mars.

But since the halcyon days of Apollo, we earthlings have learned a lot about the environment we call space. Back then, we thought going to Mars would be no different from going to the Moon, just a longer journey. We also assumed that the climate of Mars would be far more congenial than the Moon, perhaps requiring far less protection for the explorers. Now, we know how difficult and dangerous this journey will be.

Earth is protected by a powerful magnetic field, possibly the result of the rotation of our molten iron core. This field protects us from the harmful spectra of solar radiation and some cosmic rays as well. Like the mythical shields that protected the Starship Enterprise, these fields deflect these potentially dangerous emissions away from the planet, and from us. Mars has no such magnetic field. Hence, all the solar radiation from the spectra that is harmful to organic matter (us) floods the Martian surface unabated. Therefore, if explorers are going to survive on the surface of the red planet, they will have to be well-shielded.

Even the trip out to Mars poses new hazards. Beyond the protective envelope of the Earth’s magnetic fields, open space will expose astronauts to hard radiation. The sheer length of that journey, six months or longer out and six months back, means the astronauts will be dangerously vulnerable. Also, while gravity has cleared out most of the rocky debris between the planets, there is still enough gravel out there to pose a very real threat to the spacecraft.

These were hazards that, frankly, the man (or in my case, the boy) on the street were ignorant of 40 years ago. Clearly, any further exploration of the solar system will require a substantial amount of preparation and planning.

This renewal of human exploration will be dangerous, perhaps the most hazardous effort in the history of the human race. But that is precisely why we must do it. President Kennedy’s historic words that launched us on the path to the Moon are as relevant now as they were on that hot, steamy September day in Houston, 47 years ago:

We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own.

There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation many never come again. But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal?

We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard. Because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.

Many years ago the great British explorer George Mallory, who was to die on Mount Everest, was asked why did he want to climb it. He said, "Because it is there."
Well, space is there, and we're going to climb it. And the moon and the planets are there, and new hopes for knowledge and peace are there. And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked.

Humanity cannot grow by standing still. We can only grow by moving forward and out, to the planets and beyond. We humans have always been explorers. Let us rise up and together seek our destiny.

Simon Says: Understanding The Abrasive Mr. Cowell

Simon Cowell; Image from People Magazine

I’ve never been a fan of the talent shows that have proliferated across television. American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Britain’s Got Talent, and its Yankee spinoff, America’s Got Talent have all brought home to viewers the process of identifying and testing those with the talent to succeed in the entertainment business. I watched a couple of episodes of Idol before tuning out in disgust. While I understood the aim of the contest, the process, I felt was inordinately cruel to those who presented themselves and failed. It was hard to watch people whose dream had not only crumbled, but then had to endure the harsh words of the judges, in particular a seemingly contemptuous Englishman named Simon Cowell.

(The following information comes largely from the Wikipedia article on Mr. Cowell [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Cowell]. In deference to my previous posting on research papers, bear in mind that this is not a research paper, but merely a blog entry and the biographical information is offered as background only.)

Cowell was born into an entertainment family, his father a real estate developer and music industry executive with the legendary EMI, his mother a professional dancer. After leaving Dover College, he had a few menial jobs – including a runner on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining – but had difficulty getting along with colleagues and bosses. His father got him a job in the EMI mailroom. Eventually, his father’s connections got him a position as an assistant to an A&R man, the person in a record company responsible for finding new talent. A year later, he went to work for an independent label, Fanfare Records. Here he achieved his first real success in the industry, becoming a partner and pushing Fanfare into a very successful indie label. But in 1989, Fanfare’s parent company began to struggle. Fanfare was folded into another music giant BMG. With his Fanfare success behind him, Cowell became an A&R consultant for BMG. In 2002, he was hired as a judge on a new show that would help to re-shape the landscape of American television: American Idol.

In his previous careers, he had stayed behind the scenes, largely unknown to audiences. But his appearance on Idol created an instant reaction. Of all the judges, he was by far the most blunt, harsh, and in the minds of Idol audiences, inordinately cruel. The Times of London journalist Minette Marrin classified him as representing the “heartless, thoughtless, and superficial – the flotsam and jetsam of the polluted seas of celebrity that is likely to sink without trace into toxic foam.” Cowell himself acknowleged his negative impact in an interview with a reporter from The Mirror. “There has to come a point when I will step down from being on camera and remain behind the scenes because you can’t keep doing this forever…I think by [the end of my contract] that the public will be sick to death of me anyway, and it will be time to go.”

Okay, enough background.

Compassion comes easy to me. I’ve always felt that people who had dreams should be encouraged in those dreams. Dreams is where success usually starts, and as long as those dreams were based in some sort of realistic appraisal of one’s talents, they should go forward. When those dreams crashed face-first into reality, I felt that they should be let down easily. Crushing someone’s dream harshly could only result in crushing that person’s spirit as well. Idol, and it’s clones, seemed to me to be a stage for destroying people. I turned away.

As time went on, I was amazed and a bit troubled by the extent that which audiences embraced the show. People developed identities with the contestants, perhaps living out their own secret dreams vicariously through the Idol stars. Central to that whole process was Simon Cowell, his cutting remarks and at times hostile attitude painting the lurid scenery of each episode.

But it wasn’t until the trials of Susan Boyle, the plain-faced Scotswoman with the marvelous voice, that I really began to understand Mr. Cowell.

The story of Ms. Boyle is well-known to anyone with a TV or a internet account, so I won’t belabor readers with the details here. But in considering the events surrounding her rise and collapse, I have to admit to an epiphany.

I’ve read enough about the music industry to understand what a difficult field it is. Those who work the business have the job of identifying those with the talent to succeed (read: sell CDs) with an audience that a Roman Emperor might have charitably described as “fickle.” Behind the glitz and glamour, it is pragmatically a business. Any time a label signs an artist, the company commits tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars (and pounds) to develop that talent and “sell” them to the public. If the artist fails to catch the ear and imagination of the public, a huge amount of money has been wasted. Therefore the criteria for assessing talent are, by requirement, harsh and unyielding. The people who do that judging have to tell the truth, even when the truth hurts.

And yet, it goes beyond just talent. The music business is one which inflicts enormous pressures on its artists. When we, the general public, think about the life of a pop star, we usually only think about the parts of that life we are allowed to see. Few humans are able to resist the allure of standing on a stage, receiving the unbridled love of thousands gathered, literally at one’s feet. We see the big houses, the fancy cars, the beautiful clothes, and the wealth, all the accoutrements of the life of a star. Compared to the comparatively mundane nature of our own lives, it seems like heaven on earth.

But we never seem to want to consider the down side. When performing, you can never have an “off” day. While you’re doing a 6-city tour, doing shows several times a week performing the same repertoire, your audience is only there for one night, and if you sell them short because you’re bored or tired, you will disappoint them.

And disappointed concert goers tend to demand their money back. So do the promoters who got you the gig in the first place.

And then there are the fans. Most fans are okay people. But every “star” has had to deal with the obsessed fans, the stalkers. Not only are they unpleasant, they can prove to be dangerous.

The pressure is unyielding. Your life is no longer your own. Even when you try to hide inside your home, or travel somewhere to get away and recharge your batteries, you are pursued by the papparazi, those whose sole means of living is to capture your image, usually in the most embarrassing moments, and publish them far and wide. The number of artists who have fallen victim to all those pressures are legendary. Marilyn Monroe, Britney Spears, Judy Garland, Lana Turner, Owen Wilson, to name a few. And when they collapse, rather than easing off, the media-generated pressure only gets worse.

Therefore, in order to be a successful pop star, you not only need to have the chops on stage, you have to be tough enough to survive the pressures offstage.

Watching Ms. Boyle’s tragic collapse, I finally understood why Simon Cowell does what he does, and says what he says. He has to defend the integrity of his industry. He has to deliver to the public talent that will sell CDs and concert tickets. The risks of failure are huge. He is tough on the talent, because the talent has to be tough. And knowing that the public will not buy the music of marginal talent, it is his job to weed out those who just don’t have it.

For the marginally talented, I now understand how important it is that they be brought face-to-face with the harsh truth of their limitations. It is better to abandon an unrealistic dream early, rather than waste one’s life in the pursuit of the unattainable. Those pitiable people who leave the Idol stage in tears, crushed by the judge’s decree, need to turn their lives to other pursuits; to discover inside themselves that special talent that everyone has buried deep within. In the short term, it seems cruel. But I think in the long run, such an experience helps to focus one’s goals.

I want to be clear. I’m not a fan of Simon Cowell. I’d never invite him to my home, and the possession of his picture or autograph is nowhere on my list of priorities. But at last, I see the reasons behind his seemingly casual cruelties and his harsh, abrasive nature. It is his unyielding commitment to the highest show business standards that ensures that when I plunk down cash for a CD or a concert, it’ll be money well spent.

I now understand. And understanding is the beginning of wisdom.

Biker Down!!!

In Pace Requiescat

Kawasaki Vulcan VN900LT

Despite the picture that television and the movies paint, rarely does anyone sense any anticipatory moments before serious events occur. That’s certainly been the pattern in my life. One moment you’re sailing along, immersed in the mundane things that seem to carry us through the day. Then instantly, it all goes sideways. Usually it is some kind of accident that happens, whether in or out of a vehicle. The suddenness and violence by which the event is thrust upon us leaves us dazed and confused.

I’ve certainly had my share of these events in my life and even when recalling them in their lurid detail, I still find myself wondering why I couldn’t get that anticipatory tap on the shoulder.

It was a new motorcycle, well, new to me anyway. I had been bike-less for the better part of two years, as we sorted through some tight financial times. And it was a thing of beauty. Long, low, sleek, just the right amount of chrome, it joined the long line of dream chariots which have shared my garage over the past 17 years. I remember the day we closed the sale and I joyfully rode the bike home from the dealership – taking the long way, of course. The throttle responded to my hand and the bike leaped ahead down the highway, flitting among the sun-dappled shadows. Consciously, I held back. I had never owned a cruiser-type before and I had yet to learn is traits and balance points. Nevertheless, my spirit soared as I rode, the bike’s voice, that guttural roar echoed back from the rocks and trees and spread in my wake, like a noisy contrail. After a couple of hours, I returned home, backing the machine into the garage. Almost reluctantly, I shut the engine down. In the resulting silence, I contemplated with quiet joy a new relationship begun.

For about a month, I rode often on open roads at high speeds and inching along city streets in heavy traffic. I was getting comfortable with the bike, although I would still have an occasional awkward moment. As far as I was concerned, it was the start of a beautiful friendship.

It was a Monday. It had rained most of the weekend and, as happens here in the mountains, when the storms cleared out, they left an atmosphere cool and bracing. It would warm up in the afternoon, but as I stood in the garage that morning, I wavered between my summer and winter jackets. Both had armor inserts, but the summer one was made of a very breathable mesh. Shrugging, I decided on the winter coat, figuring that if it turned too warm, I could simply remove the liner. The ride into work was utterly uneventful. I parked the bike in my assigned space, removed my gear, packed it in my duffel bag and headed into work.

The day passed quickly and as the clocked ticked onto quitting time, I grabbed my gear and headed up the street towards the parking lot. Approaching my parking spot, I could see the bike from a distance, the chrome catching the sun’s rays just right. I began to feel that familiar quiet joy, the anticipation of the ride home. As is my custom, I took my time donning the gear. I put on my chaps, zipping up the legs. I had owned them almost since the beginning. They were cut from a very thick piece of leather, a thickness I had not seen in any set since. They were old and faded, but comfortable. I had left my boots at home that day. They were very heavy and carting them between the parking lot and the four blocks to work got to be just too much with everything else I was carrying. The jacket came next, going over a sweatshirt. Then came the helmet and the gloves. Finally, I swung my leg over, turned the key on and punched the starter. The fuel injected V-twin responded instantly with a gratifying rumble. Engaging the clutch, I rolled out of the lot into the street.

Johnstown is laid out in sympathy to the rivers that flow through its valley, so navigation can be confusing. I had the choice of taking the expressway out to US 219, a four-lane divided highway running south to Somerset. While it was a safe ride, it was a bit, well, boring. A better more invigorating option was Pennsylvania 985, a road that followed twisting valleys, among steep tree-covered hills and picturesque streams. While not Deal’s Gap, it was curvy enough to be interesting. I opted for that route home. I headed east out of downtown, turning onto Franklin Street. Now, I had a choice here. I could turn onto Valley Pike and head out through Ferndale, or I could stay on Franklin, passing through Roxbury. The problem with this choice was a stretch of Franklin that passed in front of the hospital.

Memorial Hospital, like so many other structures in Johnstown, is stuck to the side of a hill. Franklin snakes through a narrow gap with the Hospital on one side and a plethora of Medical buildings and banks on the other. As a result, the traffic is always heavy and slow, spiced by the additional challenge of pedestrians sprinting across the street, threading themselves between the cars. But it was late, almost 6:30 p.m. and I figured the traffic would be thinned out by now. So I made the fateful decision, gliding through the Valley Pike intersection and heading up the gentle hill. I was going slow, perhaps 30 miles per hour. To my left, I could see a car exiting a parking garage. It had stopped, but as I got closer, it lurched forward, as if it was going to try to get into the narrow space between me and the vehicle in front.

Now, in all safety courses, they drill into you the necessity of continually scanning, especially in traffic. If you lock your eyes in one direction too long, you can miss a dangerous development in another. In warily eyeing the threat to my left, I waited too long to look to the front. When I finally did, I saw immediately that the vehicle had rolled to a stop. He apparently had used gravity to stop and the engine to hold the vehicle on the grade, because his taillights were not lit. I applied the front brake, while my right foot searched in vain for the rear brake pedal. The front wheel locked up and the bike began to skid. After about a second and a half, I realized that (1) the bike wasn’t slowing down, and (2) I was about to eat some tailgate. I knew that I had to lay it down. As we started to go down, I realized I had misjudged the bike’s center of balance. As a result, instead of a controlled slide, I slammed down hard on my left side. Acting on instinct, I kicked clear of the bike. In the next moment, I was on my hands and knees, my breath thoroughly knocked out of me, and my ribs in serious pain.

One of the few nice things about this incident was the location. Within seconds, I had two doctors by my side. They gently laid me down and I began to take stock of things. I had good sensation in all my extremities, and I didn’t feel pain anywhere else besides my ribs. My ability to breathe was returning and I felt like I was in pretty good shape, all things considered. Eventually, the first responders arrived and despite the proximity to the ER entrance, they insisted on moving me in an ambulance, a 200-foot ride that would cost close to $600. Once inside, treatment was immediate and professional. After the spinal assessment (which seemed to take an unconscionable amount of time), they finally with great care removed my helmet, chaps and jacket. I was relieved (it was VERY warm in there). Eventually, I was able to get word to my wife who made the 30-mile drive up from Somerset to join me in the ER. I could tell she was upset, but she hid it pretty well, favoring me with that classic look wives save for the husbands for those times when we do something extremely stupid.

Eventually, we left the hospital and went home, a very painful journey for me. The diagnosis was two cracked ribs and a severely sprained right hand (I guess I forgot to let go of the handgrip). The good news is that my gear functioned as advertised. Road Rash, the dreaded bane of bikers, had been warded off by the rugged design of jacket and chaps. The leathers were shredded, however, as was the jacket sleeves and gloves. My helmet had a sizeable rash on the left side. I contemplated with relief the damage I would have had if I hadn’t worn the gear.

Progressive, as always, was prompt and fair in their response. I heard from the adjuster the day after the accident. The bike was severely damaged. Among the items, bent forks, broken steering stops, dented gas tank, dented headlight, missing mirrors and turn signals, cracked windshield, bent highway bars, broken clutch lever, rashed-up saddlebags...of course, he had to total the bike. Fortunately, the settlement was enough to pay off the loan.

I stayed home for four days. The doctor had given me hydrocodone for the pain, but having a healthy respect for the dangers of opiates, I used Aleve and ibuprophen to hold the line. It was a hard four days. I couldn’t lay flat, so we piled up every pillow we could find, leaving me in a semi-reclined position. Getting in and out of bed was a 10- to 15-minute ordeal, so trips to the bathroom had to be planned with great care. But gradually, the pain began to ease and after a week and a half, my mobility was returning. I would still endure pain for a month, but that too began to fade and life began slowly returning to normal.

Cheryl endured this with the stoicism learned in 31 years of marriage, and once again I learned the value of a wife’s love. I will always remember that moment when she arrived at the hospital and slid through the curtain of the treatment room. Despite the look on her face, the fear I had been feeling vanished when she appeared. My kids were somewhat less sanguine. This was my third accident in 17 years and they all thought I should re-think this whole riding thing. But I know that I could no more quit riding than I could quit breathing. Plus, as I told them, I’d been in 6 car accidents in that same span of time and I still drove.

After a week or so of reviewing the events of that evening through my mind, I was bothered. In 17 years, I had executed numerous emergency stops, all without incident. Even given my unfamiliarity with that bike, I should have been able to bring the bike to a controlled stop from 30 mph without having to dump it. On my first day back to work, I drove down that stretch of Franklin, looking carefully for my skid marks. I found my answer.

Running down the middle of a traffic lane is a strip I call “the grease pit.” Especially on a stretch of road where traffic is heavy and slow, oils and other fluids drip from engines and transmissions, coating that center part of the lane. Bikers always need to be aware of that. My skid mark started right smack dab in the middle of the lane. This was why the front wheel had locked up and why the bike had skidded as long as it had. Had I been in my normal position, in the left-hand wheel rut, I could have stopped the bike safely.

We can all learn from adversity, and the lessons from this particular incident are clear:

• If there is an alternative to a heavy traffic area, take it.


• Keep the bike out of the grease pit part of the traffic lane.


• And don’t ever let your vision get locked in one quadrant at the expense of all the others.
  

I’m healing up nicely these days, and I’m already combing the ads for my next ride. As I mount up and once again hit the road, it will be as a smarter rider and a much wiser man.

As it should always be.

Research Papers: Taming the Beast

Research paper, term paper, thesis, dissertation, whatever term is used, it still describes the universal nightmare of just about everyone who ever sat in a classroom. The idea of this drawn-out, tortuous, labor intensive monster lurking on the academic doorstep is enough to provide a host of sleepless nights.

It gets worse when the teachers impose an arbitrary minimum length, anywhere from 10 to 20 pages. At this point the fear becomes panic, as the student frantically racks their brain, trying to imagine how to fill such a voluminous document.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. There is a way to approach such an assignment that makes it far less arduous, and perhaps, even fun.

Yes, I said “fun.”

Research papers can be assigned as a general topic, or a very narrow specific issue. In a general topic, you can choose the topics or issues you want to discuss. The narrower the topic, however, the fewer your options for discussion will be.

The first step in approaching a topic is to identify the issues that exist. Let’s say your social studies teacher has assigned you to do a research paper on the nation of Haiti. Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere and struggles with a plethora of seemingly insurmountable problems. A quick tour of Google should give you at least 10 to 15 different topics, such as poverty, corruption, HIV/AIDS, drug trafficking, other diseases, an absolutely moribund economy, political upheavals…I could go on for quite awhile. Depending on your motivations, you could choose one topic, say hunger for instance, or you might tackle two or three connected issues such as governmental corruption, the bad economy, and the growth of drug trafficking.

Once you’ve picked a topic, begin the process of research by asking questions. Let’s say you decide to explore the issue of poverty. Some questions you might pose could be:

• Has Haiti always been poor? (Explore the history of this island nation a bit)
• What are the causes of the poverty?
• How good is the education provided by the government?
• Why aren’t there any jobs? Why do international companies shy away from investing in Haiti?

Once you explored those questions, then think about solutions:

• What conditions need to be corrected to make Haiti attractive for businesses?
• How can the education system be improved to better equip Haitians for economic survival?
• What help can the international community provide?

Then, look ahead:

• What are the prospects for Haiti 5 years, 10 years, 20 years down the road?
• How can it improve? What happens if it continues to fail?

This process provides two things. It gives you a roadmap for your paper, and it also narrows the focus of your research.

At the risk of sounding glib, I can tell you from my own experience that research, properly and comprehensively done, will make the writing part of your paper a lot easier. Obviously, the more you know, the more you can say. Have you ever eavesdropped on a maniacal sports fan? You know they can go on for hours about their favorite sport. Know why? Because they’ve done their research.

Nowadays with the worldwide resources of the Internet at your disposal, the process of researching has become much easier. Back in the dinosaur days of my youth, I had to spend many hours in libraries, digging through card catalogs and wandering through musty stacks of academic journals, looking for the specific articles I needed. Now, most of those resources are cataloged on line, so you can spend an hour or two searching on your computer and already have a list of those publications and articles you need to access. That saves a tremendous amount of time.

But the internet, while rich in resources, also has a lot of deadly traps. Anyone with a computer can go on line and write at great length on any number of subjects. Unfortunately, there are a lot of bloggers out there that deliberately write false and misleading things, hoping to create controversy that will drive visitors to their sites. A careful blogger will list their sources and that can give you some additional sources. But beware the beartrap of context. A writer can very easily, by careful editing, lift a sentence out of a source and make it sound completely opposite of what the originator intended. Therefore, follow up the sources and read the whole thing!

Wikipedia, despite its entertainment value, is not a proper source for a serious research paper. Too many times, "W" has been found to be using imposters posing as experts, writing information that is at best misleading, and at worse, completely fictional.

Journalists used to be reliable sources, but again, on too many occasions reporters have been caught committing any number of sins. Inventing stories, cherry-picking quotes to ensure the support of an agenda, ignoring or minimizing the opposing arguments, and de-contextualizing statements are just a few of the tricks that have been turned.

A couple of years ago, a BBC reporter (who here shall go unnamed) broke a story to the world that the Colombian drug cartels had developed a “Super Coca Plant.” In a breathless manner, he described how these plants grew much taller with greater leaf density, and a higher concentration of cocaine alkaloids. Coca, as you may know, is the plant from which cocaine is produced. The entire process is complicated and requires several chemicals, specialized equipment, and the exploitation of peasants. Now, the news that a more dangerous source of cocaine was being grown was picked up and reported globally, from Harrisburg to Hong Kong. People panicked. Government leaders were hounded by the public demanding stringent measures to combat this new menace. And as it turned out, it was all much ado about nothing.

I called the expert on cocaine at DEA Headquarters in Washington to get the facts. When I finally got him on the phone, he was exasperated beyond belief. His phone had been ringing off the hook that day, thanks to the BBC report. He explained the truth.

• Coca plants will grow very tall if left unattended and unharvested. These particular plants had been abandoned by the drug trafficking group who owned them. Hence, they grew up.
• The strength and purity of cocaine hydrochloride, the powdered form of this drug, is determined, not by the amount of alkaloids in the leaf, but in the manufacturing process itself. It actually has much more to do with the quality of the chemicals used, and how tightly controlled the process is.

The reporter had been “rolled” by a local Colombian police type, who as a joke fed this disinformation to the reporter. Apparently he figured that the reporter either knew better, or would at least check the veracity of the story before publishing. The reporter did neither, and as a result, thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of the entire world.

Now this was an example of carelessness. But there are many other instances where a reporter has deliberately falsified information in a story. At least twice in the last six or seven years, a reporter has been forced to return a Pulitzer when it was discovered that they had…well…lied. So be very careful when quoting news sources. Follow up on any quotes and citations listed. You can email the reporter if you need help. If they refuse to help you verify the story, that should be all the answer you need.

By far the best source you can use are academic journals. While they are enormously dry and difficult to read (I had to have a Thesaurus with me), they are nonetheless of immense value. Articles for these publications are written by experts in that field, and peer-reviewed by other experts in that field, before being published. This ensures that the information contained is accurate. That doesn’t mean there won’t be disagreements.

I did a 30-page paper on the effect of economic sanctions as a tool for forcing governments to comply with international law. In digging through the journals, (Political Science Quarterly, Foreign Affairs, etc.) I found I could “follow the argument.” One academic would publish an article in the Spring edition, espousing a particular point of view. In the Summer edition, another professor took issue with those conclusions, offering her own take on what the data represented. In the Fall edition, another PhD. took yet another stance, and so on. Following these “conversations” is helpful in that it ensures that all sides of the discussion are being covered, elements that can add value to your paper. Again, this saves you a lot of time.

I should discuss the issue of plagiarism. Plagiarism is defined as the act of “stealing (yes, stealing) the ideas or writings of another; to take passages or ideas from and use them as one’s own.” (Webster’s II New College Dictionary, 1995) To be caught doing this has destroyed entire careers, and in many cases, has resulted in civil and criminal actions. This is no joke. The people who will read and grade your paper take this very seriously, and in the college community, can land you in a very bad place.

What constitutes plagiarism? According to the APA guide…

“Plagiarism is the taking of someone else's words, work, or ideas, and passing them off as a product of your own efforts. Plagiarism may occur when a person fails to place quotation marks around someone else's exact words, directly rephrasing or paraphrasing someone else's words while still following the general form of the original, and/or failing to issue the proper citation to one's source material.

In student papers, plagiarism is often due to...

• turning in someone else's paper as one's own
• using another person's data or ideas without acknowledgment
• failing to cite a written source (printed or internet) of information that you used to collect data or ideas
• copying an author's exact words and putting htem in the paper without quotation marks
• rephrasing an author's words and failing to cite the source
• copying, rephrasing, or quoting an author's exact words and citing a source other than where the material was obtained. (For example, using a secondary source which cites the original material, but citing only the primary material. This misrepresents the nature of the scholarship involved in creating the paper. If you have not read an original publication, do not cite it in your references as if you have!)
• using wording that is very similar to that of the original source, but passing it off as one's own.

The last item is probably the most common problem in student writing. It is still plagiarism if the student uses an author's key phrases or sentences in a way that implies they are his/her own, even if s/he cites the source.” (APA Guide CCJ 5606 “Instructions for citations and references” http://www.criminology.fsu.edu/crimtheory/apa.htm).

Read the preceding section very carefully. One of the common tricks used by lazy students is to lift a paragraph out of a published source, changing the words around, and plugging it into their own paper, passing it off as their own. Let’s be clear on this. The whole reason for writing a paper is to publish your own thoughts on a subject. The whole process of researching, and then writing builds knowledge, from which you can draw your own conclusions. And that’s the whole reason for school: To learn facts and draw conclusions.

In class, the people who are most tempted to steal are those who didn’t do their research. And as the Internet has made resources available to the researching student, it has also made it ridiculously easy for teachers to spot plagiarism. Teachers and professors now have software which “reads” papers and then searches the ‘Net for identical or similar text, including sites that sell term papers. If you’ve used someone else’s work without giving due credit, you will be caught. Guaranteed.

Also, teachers are very sensitive to "style." Every individual writes differently, using phrases, sentences, and words in a way that is uniquely theirs. Also, there is the issue of quality. If you've spent the entire semester writing like...well, like a kid, and all of a sudden you come off sounding like a Master's Degree candidate, even the densest educator is going to sit up and opine, "Egad! Something evil is afoot!"

In the academic world, intellectual property is given the same weight as any other kind of property. To them, theft of ideas is just as serious as the theft of a car. Think about it.

The best way to avoid such a situation is simply to do the research, and then take the time to learn what you’ve uncovered. If you know your subject, and the basis of that knowledge, your paper will almost write itself.

In my job, I write reports, which means I also do research. Tons of research. Hours of research. Days of research. Weeks of…well, you get the idea. As a result, I have learned a lot about the particular subjects I’m responsible for. Consequently, when I’m asked a question, most times I have a good answer. And when asked for an opinion, I can render one based on the most current information available. So, when I sit down to write a report, more often than not, I find I have to shorten it to fit the length desired by my bosses.

For example, I once did a report on the methamphetamine market in Hawaii. My research draft (the first draft once the research is done) was 43 pages long. The final version that “went to press” was five pages. That pattern has repeated itself numerous times. Because my research was carefully and thoroughly done, I wrote way more than was actually needed. Now, as a teenager, I hated writing with a purple passion, mainly because my teachers taught only writing, not research. That’s the missing link, because if you really know your subject, you don’t need to steal from others. You’ll have enough ideas of your own.

Language is the means by which humans convey messages and ideas. In every culture, the basic language gets altered (some would say “polluted”) by the use of slang. The e-culture we find ourselves in today has rendered that distortion even further with the introduction of abbreviations arising out of instant messaging, and cell phone texting. When you write a paper, you need to leave slang alone. Slang, while colorful and fun, is inexact and certain words can have regional variations, the use of which can leave your audience completely baffled. I have a friend who is the editorial page editor of a newspaper. He moans often about the state of writing contained in the “letters to the editor” that end up in his inbox. Often, he says, “I have to send the letter or email back and ask for the writer to translate.”

As you do your research, spend some time studying the style of academic writing. Look at how sentences are constructed; how words are used. See how paragraphs are organized into ideas and how the paragraphs are knit together to craft the writer’s point of view. Yes, academic writing can be very boring to read, but that’s done on purpose. The ideas brought forth have to stand on their own merits, and not given false fronts by using emotional or excessively superlative words, which do more to obscure the meaning. If you can’t make those ideas stand on the strength of your research, then you either need more research, or a different set of ideas. If you are able to write seriously, you will be taken seriously. If you don’t, you’ll be laughed at.

Formulate questions. Do your research. Learn what you’ve found. Tell the world what you think. If you follow this simple process, you can tame the beast. And your research project will be as a well-trained dog on a leash, responding to your every command.

Every research project is an opportunity to learn something you didn’t know before.

The more you learn, the more respect you’ll earn.

Now, previously I mentioned the word "fun" in relation to this whole process. Part of that comes from the realization that as you work your way through this process, you realize that you're learning things. As your knowledge expands, your confidence and assuredness grows as well. Then one night, your parents drag you to a meeting of some kind. It may be PTA, or the neighborhood watch, or something at church. At one point, you find yourself with a bunch of adults who are, as adults sometimes do, trying to solve all the world's problems. They talk about poor countries close to the U.S. and how the wealth of the U.S. never seems to rub off on it's island neighbors. One adult remarks, "I heard they're having problems in Haiti again. Do any of you know what's going on?" Now, they've been ignoring you, because, well, they think you're just a dumb kid. Then, on the strength of your new-found knowledge, you say...

"Actually, things are getting a bit better. The political situation seems to have stabilized with the last round of elections. Inflation dropped from over 40% to less than 8%. Haiti is still the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, with over 80% of its people in poverty. Foreign investment is still slow to return, since companies still seem reluctant to trust in long-term stability. Adding to those challenges, the country has become a major trans-shipment point for drugs flowing between South America and the U.S., which only adds to the corruption problem. Just a few years ago, Haiti's future was all bad news. Now, however, the country is hanging in the balance. Over the long term things could go either way."

As you look around, you see in their eyes first surprise, then growing respect. They respond with questions, which you discover you are able to answer with confidence. Suddenly, you're not a dumb kid anymore. You're one of them; an equal.

Take it from personal experience. That, my friends, is fun.

To My Shipmates: Remarks on the Occasion of a Reunion

I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for some time. I think one of the most memorable events for anyone is that occasion when we have the opportunity to meet with people with whom we’ve shared a special and crucial part of our lives. This is especially true of those who have served the people of the United States as members of the armed forces. Service in the military is a life-changing event. Whether you wear the uniform for one hitch or an entire career, the discipline, the camaraderie, and sense of duty forever marks those who served.

The Navy took us across the globe and in the process, opening our eyes and forever altering our perspective. You can read volumes about other lands, and other cultures. But the personal perspective; the eyewitness experience dwarfs whatever knowledge you could glean from a text. It provides an education in reality no university could ever provide. After an experience like that, nothing looks the same; not even home.

The Navy life is a hard one. The days are long and arduous. The separations from loved ones are difficult and all-too frequent. While that kind of life is hard enough on the sailor, it is even more difficult for the wives and children left behind.

It is often said that the hardest job in the Navy is that of a Navy Wife. For them, the challenges of life must be faced alone, often for months at a time, from the mundane logistics of getting the kids where they need to be, to that long, terrifying—and lonely-night in the emergency room, the pressure is unrelenting. There is never a day off. Ladies, we are awed by your strength and dedication. And we also know that whatever we have accomplished in our lives, we could not have done it without your unfaltering faith and support. Being a Navy Wife requires a special kind of courage; and a love that knows no bounds.

Every day in uniform is an exercise in being pushed to the limits, only to discover that we had far more capability than we ever imagined. In meeting those challenges head-on, a person grows in ways that takes years to fully appreciate.

The relationships born in such a crucible are in many ways the most valuable and enduring. Like steel, the most durable friendships are those formed in the hottest fire. That shared sense of adventure and adversity forges links that endure across the decades. Regardless of the divergent paths our lives may have taken since; we remain bonded by that shared experience.

Remarkably, even though decades hae separated our last encounters, we've picked up right where we left off, as effortlessly and comfortably as sliding into an old pair of blue jeans. We've discovered the singular value of real friendship; that it is utterly unaffected by time or distance. We recall with great glee the fun we had. we remember with quiet pride the service we rendered. And we share a sense of loss in the memory of our shipmates who, all too soon it seems, have passed from this life.

A reunion of veterans is, I think, an all-too-brief re-visitation with the past. The memories come flooding back; stories are told and re-told, admittedly with a somewhat carefree application of the truth. We tell tales like The Great Cookie Caper, OI Division’s Tijuana Massacre, The Big Fish, The Wachter Whale Encounter, Bob Zambone’s Midnight Swim, and the Steel Beach Picnic, cooking steaks while the crew of a Soviet AGI watched and drooled from close aboard…downwind. And, of course, the object lesson provided by OS2 Kevin Andre Perkins of why it is so important to hit the head BEFORE General Quarters. DC Central will not break watertight integrity, even when you’re about to break yours.


Serving in uniform also tends to change our view of that which most people take utterly for granted: Our own very remarkable country.

It is a sad reality that freedom and liberty will always be taken for granted by those who have never experienced anything less, nor have ever had to defend it. Yet we who have served have seen firsthand what happens when a nation of people lose control over their government. July 4th will never be just a summer holiday. Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day all mean more to us than to others, for we know personally the price that was paid; the cost that was exacted in order to ensure the survival and success of liberty.

Throughout the history of the world, the blood of soldiers and sailors has been expended for all the wrong reasons. Yet, the history of the United States is unique. Yes, we’ve had to defend our own soil from time to time. But what is surprising is the number of times we have spent our blood defending, not our soil, but someone else’s; not our freedom, but the dream of liberty throughout the world.

According to the American Battle Monuments Commission, there are 24 cemeteries in 10 different countries overseas, containing the graves of almost 125,000 American soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen and guardsman. In addition, there are memorials for some 94,000 service members who remain officially missing.

And we must add to those totals at least 100,000 American sailors who found their final rest in the depths of the sea, some who were formally buried with full honors, others who went to the depths along with the broken remains of their ships, submarines, and planes. No other nation in history has shed so much blood in defense of others, and for the cause of freedom.


Civil War hero Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain in a speech to some mutinous soldiers prior to the Battle of Gettysburg is said to have observed,

“This is a different kind of army. If you look at history,
you'll see men fight for pay, for women, or some other kind of loot.
They fight for land, or because a king makes them,
or just because they like killing.
But we're here for something new.
This hasn't happened much in the history of the world.
We are an army out to set other men free.”

That goal, to set others free, has defined the roles played by America’s military, especially the Navy. It is an ideal, not ordered by the U.S. government, but one willed by the American people. Those who have worn this nation’s uniform have, by choice, embraced that mandate, fulfilling this nation's promise that America does not fight for riches, power, or land. America fights for freedom; everyone’s freedom.

We wore the uniform of our country; we carried the flag to the far reaches of the world. In so doing, we brought the light of possibility and hope to those who had neither. To this day, I cannot imagine a higher calling.


One thing common to all who served was the clear understanding of honor. We learned it; we lived it; we breathed it. We judged each other, and more importantly, ourselves by that unyielding standard. Over the years, we came to understand that of everything we value, honor is the most important. Life may take from us our wealth, our position, and our possessions. But as long as we retain our honor, we are rich beyond measure.

It is therefore fitting that we served aboard a ship named for a sailor whose last act on this earth was one of the highest honor and the greatest courage. Reading the citation that went along with David Ouellet’s Medal of Honor, we find that it was his alertness and dedication to duty that allowed his vessel to close and engage the enemy. And during that fight, when he saw a grenade arcing their way, he left a secure position, warned his shipmates, pushed the Boat Captain out of danger, and saved his crew by absorbing the blast with his own body.

David Ouellet was 22 years old, the story of his life barely written. I’m certain that he had dreams and hopes; plans for the future. But in that moment of penultimate choice, seeing his shipmates in danger, he laid aside his entire future without hesitation in order to save lives.

“Greater love hath no man than this; that he lay down his life for his friends.”

I think most of us, at one time, have remembered ourselves at 22 years old and wondered if we could have been so courageous; been capable of that much love.

David G. Ouellet is, to us, more than just another bluejacket; more than just the name of our ship. He was to us the ideal of honor; valor; sacrifice; service; and commitment; the ideal which we all strove. It was his example that inspired us all.


We gathered here this weekend for a variety of reasons. Whatever we were seeking, perhaps what we found here was the memory of our youth. For a few brief, precious hours, we became young again; tough, strong, full of piss ‘n’ vinegar. And although we honor the perspective of years as a gift of wisdom, together, we look back on our time in uniform and our service Fast Frigage number 1077; USS OUELLET; the finest Gray lady in the Pacific Fleet, knowing that of the countless days of our life’s journey, those were our finest hours.

“But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more would share from me
We few... we happy few…
We band of brothers.”

Commencement Address: "Dare to Dream!"

Dr. Brouder, Dean Smith, Dean Randerson, Dean Burchard, Coach Burchard, Director Sheehan, Faculty, students, graduates, alumni, parents, families, and friends. It is an honor and a pleasure to share with you on one of the most important and life-altering days in the lives of the men and women who sit before you. In December of 2000, I, too, sat here, feeling the powerful emotions that all graduates feel on such a day, linked by the common desire for the commencement speaker to stand up, finish up, and sit down.

It may be helpful for you if I share a bit of my educational background. I got my first degree from Regent’s College in Albany, New York. I got my second degree from here, from Columbia College. The third degree I get from my wife on a frequent basis.

It is good to be back in Columbia and I am honored and humbled by the invitation to share this wonderful day with all of you.

I am an Intelligence Analyst, working in the counter-drug community. It is a difficult job, one that challenges me on a daily basis. I study organizations that consist of the most ruthless, amoral, and violent people in human history. I have reviewed volumes of material containing the tragic accounts of human destruction wrought by drug abuse; young lives cut tragically short, not only by the substances themselves, but also by the associated violence.

A few years ago, after a two-year dance with the devil known as crystal methamphetamine, a nephew of mine took his own life. The memory of T.J. is a constant companion; a daily source of inspiration for me. But it’s not just T.J. It’s also the millions of others who are enslaved by addiction, brutally exploited by drug traffickers and dealers, who are the new slave masters. But today, I can, for a time, set aside the grim nature of my work. Today, I can revel in the promise of the future; the promise of hope.

Earlier, I spent some time walking among these graduates. I saw many people with big smiles, glowing faces, and bright, twinkling eyes. I saw people who have decided to have a future, rather than surrendering to the situational prison of the past or the present. Their success should be a beacon for the rest of us. Each one of us has the ability to pursue success; all that is required is the courage to step up. So many of the problems that confront us as individuals, as a community, a culture, a country, could be solved if we would face the mirror, look ourselves dead in the eye and say, “My biggest problem is me; Me, I can fix.”

In a conversation between a DEA Special Agent and a member of the DAS, Colombia’s version of the FBI, the Colombian remarked, “In our lifetimes we only have a few chances to be a hero, but everyday we have a chance to NOT be a coward.”

It is easy to give up when the circumstances of life turn against you. When traveling uphill, sometimes the hardest decision is simply to keep walking. Adversity is never easy. However, we need that challenge. Challenge forces us to reach a little higher, push a little further, and work a little harder. President Kennedy, when speaking about going to the moon, said that we need challenges, “…not because they are easy, but because they are hard; because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills.”

One can be a coward and run from challenge; or face it squarely, and be a hero. These graduates have done that courageous thing; they have faced this challenge, and they have prevailed. For that, they deserve our deepest respect and highest admiration.

There are many who look at the coming years with an understandable level of skepticism, cynicism, even fear. But looking at you, I don’t feel skeptical; I don’t feel cynical; I don’t feel afraid. I do feel the one great thing that each one of you can give to the rest of us. And that is hope. As long as Columbia College continues to give to the world people as intelligent, accomplished and magnificent as these, Hope will never die.

During the hot, humid summer of 1997, I felt my life had come to a standstill. I had a job that consisted of work that was dull and repetitive, and to be completely honest, I wasn’t very good at it. I needed that job to support my family, but the work was, I felt, very far removed from what I knew to be my personal strengths and interests. I felt trapped by circumstance, and exceedingly unhappy. Worst of all, as I watched the clock tick and the calendar turn, I feared that time was slipping from my grasp.

After one particularly trying day, I arrived home, exhausted and despondent. I remember staring at my face in the mirror and repeating over and over, “You are more than this.” Some refer to that as a “click” moment, an instant when some unknown switch is thrown in your head, or your heart. After that moment, everything changes. The way you look at your job, the way you look at your life, the way you look at yourself is altered forever.

In my case, I began to do a dangerous thing for a middle-aged man; I began to dream. Up to that point, my dreams had been smothered by the mundane drudgery of life. I had ceased to look ahead, resigned to shuffle aimlessly from day to day. However, on that day, for the first time in a long time, my dreams saw the light of day.

I knew of Columbia’s evening college, in fact John Fields, one of my co-workers and my closest friend, was already attending classes. He encouraged me to apply. My wife, who, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, never stopped believing in me, gave me her unqualified and enthusiastic support. We scraped together the money, made room in our schedule, and I started classes.

I knew that school was going to be hard work, but I was surprised to discover how much fun I was having. I actually looked forward to class. It wasn’t just the courses but also the instructors and professors who taught them. Knowing that my ultimate destination was the Intelligence Community, I was thrilled to discover that two of my teachers had spent their first careers there. The knowledge they imparted was leavened by the rich tapestry of their experiences. Some of the most effective teachers we will ever have are those who have “been there, done that.”

There were also teachers like Professor David Roebuck. Dr. Roebuck is the academic version of a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. By that, I don't mean that his class was like: "Wrong answer. Drop and give me 50! What I mean is that he has that innate sense of what each student is capable of, and the dynamic gifts to pull it out of us. In our class, he set high standards and motivated us to achieve them through the uncomplicated act of refusing to accept mediocrity. One of the pieces of wisdom I took from that experience is that whatever level we perceive to be the upper limits of our capability, that level is, in reality, only two-thirds of what we actually can achieve. In the life-long quest to achieve our full potential, we all need a little Dr. Roebuck in our lives.

I was also stimulated by the active intellects of my classmates. The evening college, I discovered was populated by people like me; working men and women who were powerfully motivated by the desire to succeed. Knowing that education was the key to that success, they treated the academic process with the respect and seriousness it deserved. The inputs they provided were exciting, even intoxicating. There were many nights that I would come home and find it difficult to sleep because my mind was so energized by what had transpired in class. I had limited contact with the students from the day college, but I was nonetheless impressed with them as well. I was 40 years old before I decided what I wanted to do when I grew up. So, for them to have identified their goals and harnessed their dreams at such a young age was, to me, remarkable. To successfully navigate four years of higher education requires dedication, maturity, and discipline. To see those qualities in the members of this generation demonstrates to me that the future is manifestly in good hands.

Meanwhile back at the shop, I received a goodly amount of support from many of my coworkers, during this time. However, I was still subjected to the negativity of a few. I heard comments like, “Wasted effort;” “What in the world are you thinking?;” “You’re too old for this.” And even after receiving my federal appointment, the parting shot, “Six months. Six months and you’ll be back, begging for your old job.”

Finally, after three years of late nights, lost weekends and hard work, I found myself on that December day in 2000 sitting in this room in cap and gown waiting with barely repressed impatience for that moment when I would walk across this stage and receive that precious symbol of academic achievement.

From the moment I graduated, my life changed, more than I could ever have thought possible. Over the next three years, I went through the long, slow process of landing a job with the Intelligence Community, the time involved driven by the testing and background investigations involved in earning a Top Secret clearance, waiting out the hiring freeze related to the 9/11 attacks, and taking time for my son’s wedding in Korea. But finally, in April of 2004, I walked through the doors of my new life, a month shy of my 49th birthday. I’m happy to report to you that since that day, I have been happier and more fulfilled than I ever thought possible. I show up early, stay late, volunteer for every extra job that comes along. Every day is a good day. "So," you’re probably saying to yourselves, "this guy’s either found the greatest job in the universe, or he’s seriously in need of professional help." The truth is I have found my niche, a job that is a perfect fit for my skills, abilities, and interests; a job I thoroughly enjoy, a career with a superb future. There’s a popular saying that’s been attributed to several people, most notably the Chinese philosopher Confucius: “Find a task that you love to do, and you will never work a day in your life.” Well, by that measure, I’ve been on vacation for the last five years. Without Columbia College, none of this would have happened.

I could have stayed at my old job until I retired. Perhaps that would have been the safe choice; after all, I was pushing 50 years of age. There was a risk that no one would be interested in hiring such an elderly entry-level analyst. Nevertheless, I chose to take the risk, a risk that paid off.

I have to tell you that, despite my joy and anticipation over this new opportunity, on the day when I walked out of that factory for the last time, with the heartfelt encouragement and congratulations of most of my colleagues, I felt a little fear. I was leaving behind safety, certitude, and job security for something utterly unknown 800 miles away. But deep in my heart, I knew that this was the right choice. So I turned my back on the bitter cynics; I walked away from the whining doubters, my footsteps guided by the words of Robert Kennedy:

“The future does not belong to those who are satisfied with today.”

Star Trek Creator Gene Roddenberry once wrote:

“Our prime obligation to ourselves is to make the unknown known.

We are on a journey to keep an appointment with whatever we will become.”

You are about to embark on this journey. The course is not clearly charted, and there is only the vaguest hint of your ultimate destination. But as you travel, there are a couple of things I’d like you to remember. (You really didn’t think you were going to get out of here without a little grandfatherly wisdom, did you?)

First of all, you are college graduates; but know that your real education has just started. I remember a small sign that sat on one of my professor’s desk:

“The graduate cried, “Look world! I have a BA!”
The world replied, “Sit down, my child,
and I’ll teach you the rest of the alphabet.”

Education is a permanent part of our lives; we are always learning things. That will happen in a very limited way even if we just sit still and watch the world whiz by. Imagine how much more we can accumulate by actively pursuing education. The more you know, the better you will be. Always be a seeker of knowledge. Know also that the most important things you can learn aren’t found in any book. Knowing the right thing to do in a given situation is, more often than not, an exercise, not in knowledge, but in wisdom. There’s not a college or university on the planet that grants degrees in wisdom. That can only come from you.

Secondly, the possession of this degree will ensure that doors of opportunity, previously closed to you, will now be open. Know that success depends so much on not just the presence of opportunity, but what you choose to do with it. Columbia College has provided us the tools to build that grand, beautiful allegorical mansion that represents the manifestation of our dreams. It is now up to you to pick up those tools, and go to work. To be honest, I can’t promise that the first position you land will be your professional nirvana. However, I can promise that if you employ this equation of life, preparation plus opportunity times effort, I’m convinced that you will find your success.

And if you walk from this hall today with your eye firmly fixed on your goal and with the promise on your heart that you will not give up, the future with all of its unwritten promises and possibilities will be yours to command. Your past may have shaped your present. But never let that past determine your future. Whatever went on before, whatever bad days you had are behind you. On this day, at this hour, begins your new life. Grab the wheel; take control, and no longer will you be a victim of circumstance. From now on, you are the master of your destiny.

We represent a wide diversity of humanity, yet I cannot help but feel a strong emotional kinship with all of you. Despite the differences in our heritages, our backgrounds, our generations, our points of view, there is one great unifying vision that binds us all together. It’s the same thread that runs through every class of every year going back to the very beginning:

We came to Columbia College because we dared to dream!

Each one of you dared to dream! And you are here today because you proved that you had the drive, the determination, and the dedication to make this dream real. Vos Carpe Diem! YOU have seized the day!

We will soon be entering the part of the ceremony that I heard one professor wryly describe as “decorum takes a holiday.” In a few moments, you will rise from your seats and line up. Your name will be called, and you will cross the stage, shake a few hands, and receive your degrees. Some of you will walk; some will glide or roll, some will march; some will strut; some may even dance. However, whatever forms of locomotion you choose to employ, do it proudly. For if there was ever a moment when you have truly earned the right to be proud, today is that day.

And tomorrow, when you wake up, and after you’ve treated that pounding headache from celebrating perhaps not wisely but too well, pick up your degree, tuck it under your arm, and go do something with it. Less than seven percent of the world’s population has earned a college degree, and that other 93 percent will now be looking to you for answers to their questions, and solutions to their problems. Earning a degree is a great honor; it is also a grave responsibility. As Edward Everett Hale once wrote,

"I am only one, but I am one.
I cannot do everything, but I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
What I can do, I should do.
And what I should do, by the grace of God, I will do."

We live in a world rife with difficulties, populated by humans, governments, and institutions who have surrendered to circumstance, apathy and jaded cynicism. This world needs your inventive genius, your boundless energy, and your unquenchable optimism. There is not a single one of us who alone can save the whole world. But together, we can each carve out a corner of that same world and make a difference.

Graduates of Columbia College, this is your world; this is your time.

Step up…
…and rock your world!

Speech: "Freedom: America's Greatest Strength"

It is an honor and a privilege to stand before you today. In recent years, we have all seen the negativity and outright hatred directed at our fair republic and perhaps, just perhaps we have felt a little lonely. Today, my spirit is buoyed, as I’m sure yours is, to discover that we are most emphatically NOT alone. Here, we have chosen to stand together; to stand together in our love of this great country; to stand together in our appreciation for the singular gifts of freedom; and to stand together in our unqualified support for those brave souls who have freely chosen to stand guard on the wall between tyranny and liberty.

The fact that we have the right to gather here and speak our minds and hearts is a positive affirmation that here in this land, the heartbeat of democracy beats and beats strongly.

The experiences that have shaped my life have been many and varied. As a child, I traveled extensively throughout this country. Through those journeys, I gained a deep appreciation not only for the awesome physical beauty of this land, but in the tremendous strength of will and character in her people. Later on in life, I spent ten years in uniform with the United States Navy. In that decade of service, my feet touched the soil of some 22 foreign countries. Unlike some others, I didn’t spend that time at the beaches or hotels. I spent the time walking the back roads and barrios of those far-flung places, talking to people and learning first-hand of their lives and their challenges. Through those experiences, I gained a new appreciation for America. For I have seen what happens in places where the people have no voice in government; where the politics of exclusion protected the powerful and victimized the weak.

Everywhere I went, I was always asked the same question: “What is it like to live in America?” I tried very hard to be realistic. It’s not as if I wasn’t proud of my country, but I felt it important that people understand the sometimes harsh realities of life, even in America. I talked about the problems that we had faced in the past and continue to face daily. I spoke of how expensive life in this country is and how hard it was for some of us to make ends meet. I also talked about the inherent opportunities that exist; that anyone with an idea, the desire to dream, and the willingness to work hard could succeed. But regardless of the bleakness of my portrayal, the reaction was universally the same: “I dream of someday living in America.”

On a particularly brutal hot day in Berbera, Somalia, I encountered an older man on the dusty streets. He asked me to take his picture; after which he charged me five bucks. Capitalism is truly a universal language! He then asked me about America. I told him the same story I had related to others, and he told me that he also dreamed about some day going to America. Slightly perplexed, I asked him why, after hearing all my bad news he still wanted to go. He replied:

“Here in my country, I was born ordinary; I have lived ordinary; I will die ordinary.

In America, all things are possible.

In America, an ordinary man can become a great man.

In America, I could never be ordinary.”

Such is the magic of this great nation.

Comedian Yakov Smirnov, an émigré from the former Soviet Union, came here with his parents carrying only a small suitcase of possessions and a very large dream. His experience mirrors the success of many who have come here and achieved. He notes often that in the middle of the word “American” are two other words: “I Can.” It is this determination that marks us as Americans; it is this unbreakable faith in ourselves and our courage to risk that truly sets us apart from the rest of humanity.

We are the leaders in information technology because two guys decided to build computers and create software in their garages, businesses which became Apple and Microsoft. We are the leaders in aviation because two bicycle shop owners looked up into the skies over Dayton, Ohio and asked, “Why not?” We are the unchallenged leaders in food production and bushels per acre yield because our brilliant hard-working farmers don’t know the meaning of the word “quit.” Nobody tops us in the quality and quantity of our manufactured goods because to our stalwart and principled blue-collar workforce, pride in craftsmanship is job number one. We enjoy the broadest freedoms and the greatest access to opportunity of any country that has ever existed on this planet, because in a nation of laws where government is of the people, by the people, and for the people, We the People will accept nothing less.

We are a nation of immigrants. Even those we call Native Americans actually descend from people who crossed the ancient land bridge from Asia over 12,000 years ago. The one characteristic that is common among all who came here, no matter from what other place, no matter at what point in time, is that they all had dreams and they wanted desperately for those dreams to come true. People came to America because they dared to Dream! Despite desperate flights from oppressive governments, failed economies, and fractured, polarized societies; despite long perilous journeys across broad oceans, over steep mountains, down wild rivers, and through trackless deserts, they chose to come here. Why? Because they understood that it was here that those dreams could become real.

Unfortunately, what some of us don’t understand, and what is increasingly ignored in schools and colleges, is that there ARE opportunities in America! What has been lost is the truth that opportunity does NOT come looking for you. If you want to achieve; if you have a dream to fulfill; if you have a goal to reach, you have to GO GET IT!

If we spend our day lounging on the couch with General Hospital and Judge Judy, unwilling to forgo the monthly ration of booze, bongs, and blow, we will accomplish NOTHING! But if we go forth from our homes, seek out those opportunities and make the most of them, we can succeed. Ronald Reagan once said,

“We have every right to dream heroic dreams.

Those who say that we are in a time when there are no heroes just don’t know where to look. You can see heroes every day going in and out of factory gates.

Others, a handful in number, produce enough food to feed all of us, and then the world beyond. Their patriotism is quiet, but deep. Their values sustain our national life.”

We must face life with courage, we must make the necessary sacrifices, and we must accept the occasional failure as a learning experience and not as the end of the world. If we do these things, then we will find life in this country a wonderfully fulfilling and joyful experience. The one thing, the only real thing that holds us back is in that epiphanal moment when we look in the mirror and say to that face we see there, “YOU are my biggest problem. YOU I can fix.”

The American system guarantees the opportunity. Success is up to us. I am not a wealthy person, but I know many who are. And there’s not a one of them that works less than 60 hours per week. There’s not a one of them that doesn’t have at least three major failure in their past. What has made them successful is their willingness to get up off the floor and make one more try. Our history is chock-full of stories of people who started out with nothing and achieved greatness. These are the examples and inspirations we should turn to when we feel our own will begin to sag. These are the examples we should point out to our children. For it is that pioneering spirit; that never-say-die attitude; that absolute fearlessness in the face of challenge and adversity that truly makes us a great people. We are Americans! We do not surrender! We do not surrender to failure! We do not surrender to adversity! And we will NEVER surrender to fear!

These are difficult and perilous times, times that require from the citizens of this country great strength, commitment, and courage. These are times when we need to understand the lessons of history and to remember the prescient words of Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is far better to dare mighty things,

than to take rank with those timid spirits

who know neither victory nor defeat.”

And let us not forget the stirring call to our destiny by President Kennedy:

“Let every nation know whether it wishes us well or ill,

that we shall pay any price,

bear any burden,

meet any hardship,

support any friend,

and oppose any foe

in order to assure the survival and success of liberty.”

This is who and what we are! We do not fight for oil! We do not fight for conquest! We do not fight for power! But we WILL fight for freedom! We will fight for justice! And we will fight for those who cannot fight for themselves!

President Reagan understood what Americans are capable of:

“I believe we, the Americans of today, are ready to act worthy of ourselves,

ready to do what must be done to ensure happiness and liberty

for ourselves, our children, and our children’s children.

And as we renew ourselves here in our own land,

we will be seen as having greater strength throughout the world.

We will again be the exemplar of freedom and a beacon of hope

for those who do not now have freedom.

As for the enemies of freedom, they will be reminded

that peace is the highest aspiration of the American people.

We will negotiate for it, sacrifice for it,

but we will never surrender for it – now or ever.”

America is not only a place. It is a set of ideas. It is a culture steeped in freedom and justice. It is a nation of people who courageously risked all they had in order to come here. It is a place where people of a thousand different heritages and backgrounds can live peacefully with one another. It is a nation slow to anger, but swift and sure in actions. It is a land where dreams still come true for those with the desire and the discipline to pursue them. Once again, I turn to the words of the Great Communicator:

“We’re entering our third century now,

but its wrong to judge our nation by its years.

The calendar can’t measure America

because we were meant to be an endless experiment in freedom

with no limit to our reaches, no boundaries to what we can do,

no end point to our hopes.

The United States Constitution is the impassioned and inspired vehicle

by which we travel through history.

It grew out of the most fundamental inspiration of our existence:

that we are here to serve Him by living free –

that living free releases in us the noblest of impulses and the best of our abilities.

That we would use these gifts for good and generous purposes

and would secure them not just for ourselves, and for our children, but for all mankind.

Why is the Constitution of the United States so exceptional?

Well, the difference is so small that it almost escapes you –

but it’s so great it tells you the whole story in just three words:

We the People.”

Today I stand with you in courage. Today, I pray with you in hope. Today I live with you in freedom. Today, we all say with pride: “WE ARE AMERICANS.”

Dumber Than a Smart Phone

My new...thingy.

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, September 6, 2009

We are fortunate (or cursed) to live in a time where technology is rapidly forging ahead. What was cutting-edge in January is hopelessly antiquated by June. Our kids, steeped in this exploding environment since birth, swing with the changes with what seems painless facility. We adults, particularly the boomers, find ourselves struggling to understand even the simple stuff. Rare is the parent that hasn’t been rescued from computer hell by a 9-year-old.

For a long time, it was easy to discover the technologically challenged among us, the scarlet letter being the steady blinking of "12:00" on the face of their VCR's. But as the future becomes today, we all risk being left in the dust.

Nowhere has this accelerating complexity manifested itself more than in the cell phone universe.

My wife and I were relative newcomers to the cell revolution, not getting our first phones until 2002. We floated along, safe in the knowledge that our phones didn’t exceed our comprehension.

However, since last fall, we'd been talking off and on about our phones. We could upgrade again with our provider. But frankly, we were ready for a change. Still, we procrastinated until a series of events forced the issue. Cheryl inadvertently left her phone out in the rain, and the phone belonging to Tigger, our youngest daughter, had suffered some kind of blunt force trauma (no explanation offered or sought). Since we would be all together over Memorial Day Weekend, it seemed the best time to make the switch, using my birthday as the excuse.

“Tigger,” (fully recovered from her hit-and-run accident, thanks for asking) went with us, ostensibly to “advise” us on the purchase. I had already decided on a model with a full keyboard, since texting with a regular keypad had become decidedly too slow. Cheryl was ambivalent about any particular model, but with Tigger, the consummate techno-booster at her side, she never really stood a chance.

To make a long story short, we all left the store with identical versions of the Blackberry with touch screen menus, a full keyboard, and a host of features.

Like most men, I attacked the user’s manual. I was amazed to discover all the things I could do with this phone. Web access, GPS, video and music capabilities. I could use this phone as a modem. I had instant access to all my email accounts. I even had an application (or “app”) for Microsoft Word. I squealed in delight at this discovery, since as a writer, I’ve learned that most of my good ideas happen away from home. I spent hours exploring and testing.

Late into the evening, I surrendered to fatigue and laid it aside. Suddenly, a loud ringing sound sprang forth from the device. Somebody was calling! My excitement at getting the first call on my new phone was quickly replaced by a growing consternation. In all my explorations, experimentations, and testing, I had neglected to learn one important task.

How to answer a telephone call.

Frantically, I pawed through the user’s manual trying to find the correct page as the phone continued to ring. Cheryl woke up and irritably demanded that I answer it. I mumbled in reply, unwilling to admit that I while wanted to answer in the worst way, I didn’t know how.

She grabbed the phone and punched the correct button, handing it back with a deadly expression.

“Hello?” I spoke hesitantly.

The voice on the other end seemed very distant, which puzzled me until I realized that I was holding the phone upside down.

“Hello?” I said again, this time with more confidence.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” said the disembodied voice from the phone. Frowning, I pulled the phone from my ear and intently studied the display. After several moments, I figured that I had accidently pushed the mute button. Eventually, I found the correct button and made contact.

After all that folderol, it turned out to be a wrong number. Despite that, I was relieved by the knowledge that my technological ineptitude remained safely anonymous from anyone I knew. My masculinity was, I felt, fully intact.

Familiarity breeds contempt and I know over time I will become comfortably familiar with this device, flipping through applications (and successfully answering calls) with the speed of a veteran. But it is still a humbling experience to face one’s technological limitations.

I can only hope I'll do better with my first ray gun.

Love and Marriage

Cheryl and Ralph Couey

June 17, 1978. It was a brutally hot and humid Missouri day as a couple of hundred people gathered for a wedding. Inside the church, which we belatedly discovered lacked air conditioning, the decorations began to wilt in the heat. Of course, there was the usual last-minute folderol typical of most weddings. The best man’s tuxedo coat had to be flown in from Omaha; there was a mighty struggle to locate enough large fans to cool the sluggishly oppressive atmosphere. Oh yes, and the last minute scramble to locate the marriage license (it was in the glove compartment). However, despite the ado, the ceremony went off without a hitch and after my Dad pronounced us husband and wife, Cheryl and I gleefully strode down the aisle and into our new life together. I was on top of the world. I was now a husband. I was convinced I had arrived as a man, and there was nothing else the world could teach me.

Now, 31 years later, I reflect back on that day with great bemusement. How foolishly naïve I was! I thought I knew it all. In fact, I knew nothing.

The decision of two people to wed is a definitive point of arrival after a long, careful, and introspective journey of two hearts and minds (when done correctly, that is). Through the process called courtship, the couple learns about each other, strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, what brings joy, what triggers anger, and the extent of that anger. They make decisions and commitments about things as seemingly mundane as where to live, expectations about the household division of labor, and more importantly, children. I’m amazed at the number of troubled couples who show up in counseling never having decided, or even discussed these issues. These are the things that shape the path of a family. And while life, at times, can make a complete hash of even the most carefully laid plans, the failure of any couple to face these decisions squarely prior to saying “I do” is like taking off in a car with a gas pedal and no steering wheel.

Young people consumed with love are often afraid to ask each other the tough questions, fearing that the resulting truth will risk popping their bubble of romantic fantasy. But the most important qualification of adulthood is having the courage to seek that reality.

Being married changes what was into what will become. And both parties are changed in that process. There is an old adage which states: “Men marry women for what they are. Women marry men for what they can make out of them.” There is enough truth there to sting a little. But in the example of my own marriage, I can see the changes that took place.

In many ways, we’re still the same two people we were. She’s a driven type “A” with a penchant for drama. I’m far more laid-back, possessing a more relaxed view of life. In the early years, these polar-opposite perspectives were the source of a lot of friction. But over time, we grew to value these differences. I’ve been able to teach her patience, convincing her that there are times she needs to step back and take a breath. And that it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. On the other hand, she’s taught me to be more proactive, jumping on opportunities and situations immediately instead of laying back and waiting for Karma to work its magic.

We share a lot of interests, but each has different gifts. We learned that those differing talents could be turned to advantage, especially when it came to the kids’ homework. She is the scientist, the mathematician, a logician of the first order, and the linguist. I’m humanities; history, social and cultural studies, writing, and political science. A classic left-brain/right-brain pairing. Once we learned to harness those different talents, our kids benefitted enormously from that team approach.

We were, and still are, vastly different people. But instead of allowing those oppositions to divide and destroy, we turned them into strengths, and in the process, we were both changed.

“All You Need Is Love,” the Beatles once sang. That works in the realm of fantasy, but not in reality. Marriage can be a source of joy and strength; a structure where love can flourish. It is also, at times, painfully hard, sweaty work. But for any two people who go into matrimony with their minds and eyes wide open, with all the hard questions asked and answered, and with a shared and tested commitment to the marriage and each other, will get through the tough times.

In a larger sense, marriage and family are necessary bedrocks to the survival of any culture. It is our connection to the present and the past, and a path to the future.

On a personal level, it is two people on a shared voyage to the same port of call.

"Let's Be Careful Out There!"

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, April 28, 2009

Riding season is upon us. As the weather warms, motorcycles will once again populate the roadways. The responsibility of survival in traffic rests upon the shoulders of both riders and drivers. For the sake of everyone, please read and heed these prudent reminders:

DRIVERS: Motorcycles are small and easily lost in the background of other traffic. Take that extra moment to look carefully before pulling into traffic, particularly when turning left.

RIDERS: Remember the first rule of inattentional blindness: Even if they look directly at you, they may not actually see you. When approaching a possible situation where a driver could pull out in front of you, plan an escape route, if possible. Watch the driver’s eyes and flash your high-beam if there’s any doubt.

DRIVERS: When merging onto a highway or changing lanes, please make the effort to actually turn and look over your shoulder. Don’t rely on that glance in the rearview mirrors. They are small and leave blind spots around your vehicle.

RIDERS: Like you, drivers are human. They have the same propensity for mistakes as you do. In traffic, leave room for the unexpected and you will lessen the risk.

DRIVERS: Don’t tailgate. A fender-bender between cars is an annoyance. The same impact could maim or kill a rider.

RIDERS: Don’t tailgate. Your headlamp could blind a driver by reflecting that light from their rear-view mirror into their eyes. Also, your proximity could unnerve or distract the driver, making the likelihood of a panic stop more likely.

DRIVERS: When you pass a bike, make sure you’re well clear of its front end before moving back into the lane. And when you do, maintain your speed; don’t slow down.

RIDERS: Cars are not as maneuverable as bikes are. Most drivers’ reflexes aren’t as good as yours. Don’t cut them off. When passing, leave room.

DRIVERS: If you must communicate while driving, at least use a hands-free device. Don’t let the conversation distract you from your primary responsibility, the safe operation of your motor vehicle. And if you absolutely, positively must send a text, PULL OVER!!!

RIDERS: Don’t stunt-ride in traffic. Stay safe and sober. Traffic is dangerous enough without adding the risks of riding stupid.

DRIVERS: Yes, you will on occasion see a rider doing stupid human tricks, showing off, or otherwise riding stupid. Don’t use that rider’s behavior as a reason to broad-brush the rest of us.

RIDERS: These are stressful times. A lot of people are dealing with issues of survival, and some are not handling those pressures all that well. Arrogant riding, such as pulling wheelies, speeding, tailgating, or zigging through traffic could be enough to push someone over the edge, even if only momentarily. And while they may miss you, the poor schmuck behind you may pay the price for your stupidity.

DRIVERS AND RIDERS: Don’t de-humanize. No matter how much someone’s appearance or apparent behavior may offend your sensibilities, please remember that on that bike and in that car is someone else’s father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter. Treat them with the same care and courtesy you would a member of your own family.

After all, we’re sharing the road and just trying to get home.

Parents, Kids, and the Nest

L to R: Niki, Jamie, Robbie, Crystal


Robbie is on the far left, Crystal is the bride, and on the right end, Jamie and Niki

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 8, 2009

Adults fill an abundance of roles throughout our lives, but none more exhausting, exasperating, or more rewarding than being “Dad and Mom.”

My wife and I both wanted children, sharing that naïve dream of how easy it would be. Watching our parents, it seemed so easy. They always knew the right answer, always made the correct decision. There was nothing they hands couldn’t create or fix. They came to our games and concerts, making us feel special. And they were always that emotional safe harbor for scraped knees and bruised feelings.

The illusion that we could do as well didn’t last long. Kids are complicated little beings. They are always changing and growing. Being parents means working hard just to keep up. And it was always hard. I was barely an adult myself, trying to be a good example when I wasn’t completely sure what that was. I remember feeling confused and overwhelmed.

And worried. Always worried.

The hardest thing as a parent, is remembering that you’re always under observation. Everything you do, everything you say is recorded in the minds and hearts of your kids. In their eyes, if you do it or say it, then it must be okay for them as well.

Time is an investment. Every minute you spend with your children, teaching, guiding…and loving them pays long-term dividends. It's common knowledge that girls who don't have good relationships with their father will try to replace that with other males. That desperation often leads to abuse, unplanned pregnancies, endless heartache.

I was in the Navy and absent a lot. My long-suffering wife did most of the heavy lifting of raising them when I was gone. When I was home, I tried to do as much as I could, although I can guiltily admit that I could have done more. Now that they’re adults, I can proudly see their accomplishments and independence, although a lot of that success had more to do with them making their own good decisions.

Their independence was our goal. We felt that if we couldn’t give to the world a fully functional self-sustaining 18-year-old adult, then, as their parents, we had failed them and society as well.

Now, part of us is terribly proud of our four adults, but the other part wishes they still needed us, even just a little bit.

It’s a paradox, perhaps a cruel one. But parenting is like that, a nexus of joy and pain. The hardest pain is letting go. Some parents can’t tolerate that pain, and have 20-something children still in the home with no job, no future, and no inclination to seek either. The parents are fearful of pushing their kids out of the nest with no safety net to fend for themselves. And yet, the example of our own lives amply shows that the best way to learn survival, is by being forced to survive. Our job is producing adults. If we haven’t done that, we’ve crippled them.

I do understand the fear. You’ve invested your life in them. Now, as they establish their own independent lives, you’re afraid they won’t need you anymore. And your sole meaning and purpose in life vanishes.

That fear has a clinical identity: Empty-Nest Syndrome. It’s not only the children who have to learn to live alone. The parents as well have to face the emotional fallout of an empty and all-too-silent house.

My wife and I sought out activities and hobbies that would fill those many hours formerly devoted to our kids. For the most part, we were successful. Still, there were those evenings when the silence got to us, and our hearts ached for that telephone to ring. We do call them, but out of respect for their privacy and the freedom to grow their own families, we try to keep those intrusions to a minimum.

Being a parent is, as the oft-quoted phrase goes, “the hardest job you’ll ever love.” From the moment you first hold that squalling, red-faced newborn through graduation, marriage, careers, and children of their own, that sense of responsibility and worry knows no end. When they're out of sight, you have no influence over the conditions of their lives. And you feel even worse.

There was a man, still single at 40, who contracted a serious illness. His mother, in her late 60’s, at her own expense traveled cross-country to care for him. In his passing moments of lucidity, he expressed embarrassment at putting her in the position of taking care of him, yet again. Her reply:

“It’ll never matter how old you are, or how old I am. You will always be my baby boy.”

I believe that’s what they call “love.”

And the love of a real "Dad and Mom," never lets go.

The Journey

We humans are explorers, driven by our curiosity. The irresistible desire for knowledge and the thirst for experience drives us beyond ourselves, striving to make the unknown known, whether scaling a mountain, or a simple stroll around a new neighborhood.I’ve never been one to stay put. The desire to travel springs from the restlessness I feel. To stay in one place is to put down roots. I have no desire for roots, for I yearn to roam. In the open road and the perfect sky, I hear the siren song of freedom.

There’s a horizon out there.

On the far side are things I’ve never seen, places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met, experiences I’ve never had. To seek the horizon and all that lies beyond is to free the spirit and uncage the soul. To some, a horizon is a boundary, a rampart separating the risky and unknown from the safe and familiar. For me, the horizon is a gateway; the inviting door through which beckons the seductive hand of adventure and discovery.

Indulging my inner explorer, I have sought the horizon and all that lies beyond. I have stood in wonder before the multitudinous works of man; I have knelt in awe before the creative majesty of God, finding peace in a thousand moments from the beauty of a desert sunset, to the quiet joy of a grandchild's embrace.

Being human, however, I am also conscious of the rapid passage of time. The tick of the clock and the turn of the calendar haunt me. They are the urgent reminders that each day is a precious resource, a gift not to be wasted. When I was young, the future stretched out before me, as limitless as the universe itself. But now, the infinite has become finite; out of the limitless, walls have appeared. I have discovered, to my lasting regret, that life has an end. Sadly, in contemplating the path my life has traveled, I realize how I squandered my youth and vitality, allowing all my tomorrows to become yesterdays, wasting countless opportunities.

However, my time has not yet ended. I still have the desire and ability to climb on a motorcycle and voyage towards the sunset, breathing the sweet air of freedom under a limitless blue sky. There, I find that eternal space, the one that exists between yesterday and tomorrow; between the question and the answer; a space where all things are possible. There is no past, no future, only that perfect moment of life.

If I possessed the courage, I would become such a vagabond, freeing myself of the weight of obligations and possessions. To be rich in material goods only leads to a deeper emptiness. To be rich in the stuff of life, experience and knowledge, however, is to fill the heart to overflowing.

In the time I have left, I will seek high mountains and broad plains; trackless deserts and cathedral-like forests. I will explore great cities, ancient and modern. I will ride along country lanes through meadow and moor, and stand on the shores of great oceans and humble ponds. I will take to the roads on days when the sun and leaves dapple the path before me. I will ride on days when the autumn mists shroud the hillsides, and those times when the sky roars and the rain pours, humbled by the raw power of nature. I will feel the sunrise, the silent promise of a new day. And I will seek the evening; the contemplative peace of a long, purple twilight.

Every dawn is filled with opportunity; every sunset satiated with fulfillment. And every morning there will be a new horizon…

…calling to me…

Joyfully, my spirit answers; another journey is begun.

Decide to be Happy

Smilin' Al Lovin' the Sun

“Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” --Abraham Lincoln.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun bright in a clear blue sky, the breeze was soft and almost warm. The hillsides were still brown and bare, but days like this one were a solemn promise that better days were coming.

I took the occasion to leave the office and take a stroll around downtown. I reveled in the novel sounds of birdsong, so welcome after those long, cold silent winter months. People were full of smiles and laughter. Friends were talking animatedly, and even complete strangers exchanged warm greetings. I stopped several times to speak to friends, our conversations staying light and joyful. One friend said, “You know, I feel so much better today than last night. I watched the news for awhile, but everything was so negative, that I finally turned it off.” She paused for a moment, as a brief shadow dimmed her features. “I know the news needs to be reported, but why can’t we hear about the good stuff more often?”

Good Question.

Everyone’s heard the oft-spoken stone cold criteria for news: “If it bleeds, it leads.” The interesting thing is that, despite our protests to the contrary, we are naturally drawn to the bad news. Nobody stops along the road to take in the beauty of Mountain Laurel in the spring, but come across a car accident and everyone wants to stop and stare. Everyone decries negative political ads, but study after study done by Political Scientists proves that those are the only ads that stick with us. Even our own conversations reveal this fascination. Good news, accomplishments, and successes get a brief mention, but conversation about the scandalous, the disreputable, and the morally repugnant lasts for hours, if not days.

These days, there seems to be nothing but bad news. The economy, war, rumors of war, corruption and greed, and the steady parade of accounts of humanity’s inhumanity to each other parade through our minds like the big electronic news ticker in Times Square. But even with all that, there is still good news to be found.

Several times each week, this paper runs a positive, upbeat story, usually spread across the back of the “A” section. Every day, in our own lives, we encounter someone who does a kind act, or someone, even a complete stranger, whose unsolicited kindness lifts our day. Nothing prevents us from writing that up and emailing it to the paper or the television stations. Yes, we can write letters to the editor that aren’t filled with anger, judgment and vindictiveness.

So, try this. When you see a kind act, write it up and email it. In the subject line, call it “Today’s Kindness,” or something similar. Post it on one of the paper’s forums, or send to one of the editors. Maybe, if enough of these are generated, the paper can periodically run a small column describing the good that people do to each other. And maybe, just maybe reading those snippets will help to counter-balance the perception we all seem to share that our civilization is circling the drain.

To decide to be happy is to decide to live life richly. Let’s share the wealth, shall we?

Honor and The Uniform

Cryptologic Technician Network Chief Robert T. Couey;
Third generation Navy
Second Generation Chief Petty Officer

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 25, 2009

Service in the military is a life-changing event. Whether one wears the uniform for one hitch or an entire career, the discipline, and sense of duty forever marks those who served. The veteran’s perspective is broadened, forever altered through the experience of having seen first-hand the unpolished areas of the world. That experience provided an education in reality no university could ever provide.

The military life is a hard one. Every day is an exercise in being pushed to the limits, only to discover far more capability than previously imagined. In meeting those challenges head-on, a person grows in ways that takes years to fully appreciate.

The relationships formed in such a crucible are in many ways the most valuable and enduring. Like steel, the most durable friendships are those formed in the hottest fire. That shared adversity forges links that endure across the decades.

The sign on the door announces a “reunion.” Coming down the hall, an old man, wrinkled and grey, walks with difficulty into a room filled with similarly old, gray, and wrinkled men. Then, their eyes meet. Suddenly, the years fall away. The backs straighten; the faces light up, perhaps there is a tear or two. Instantly, they are all in their 20’s again.

A reunion of veterans is not just a renewal of friendships. It is the all-too-brief visitation of youth. As the memories come flooding back, stories are told and re-told, admittedly with a somewhat carefree application of the truth. Remarkably, even though decades separate their last encounters, they pick up right where they left off, as effortlessly and comfortably as sliding into an old pair of jeans. It is good to see them, their backs straight, their heads held high; glowing with the pride borne out of service and sacrifice.

Over the weekend, there will be those poignant moments, especially for those who shared combat, when recalled are those comrades whose young lives ended on the battlefield. It is here that raw emotions, long suppressed but never truly forgotten, rise to the surface in an act of long-overdue mourning. Men normally resist such public displays. But not here, not now. For they are among friends, the only ones who will ever really understand.

One thing common to all who served was the clear understanding of honor. We learned it; we lived it; we breathed it. It was the unyielding standard by which we judged each other, and, more importantly, ourselves. And over the years, we came to understand that of everything we value, honor is the most important. Life may take from us our wealth, our position, and our possessions. But as long as we retain our honor, we are rich beyond measure.

“But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more would share from me

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
“For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall forever be my brother.

--Portions of the St. Crispin’s Day Speech from “Henry V”
By William Shakespeare

We wore the uniform; we carried the flag. We served the cause of freedom and brought that vision to those immersed in darkness who yearned for that light. Rather than hiding from adversity, rather than running from challenge, together we rose and shoulder-to-shoulder, stood our ground. On this Memorial Day weekend, we will pause and remember those who once occupied the now-empty spaces in the ranks. We will whisper the words of Lincoln…

“That from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the final measure of devotion.”

We will renew that most sacred promise:

“That we, here, highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.”

The perspective of years is a gift of wisdom. Together, veterans look back, realizing that of the countless days of our life’s journey, those were our finest hours.

Circles and Echoes

Mother and daughter

"Even if we never meet or ever see each other again,
we have left our thumbprints in the thick, moist clay of each other's lives."
--Hugh Elliott

We often think about life in terms of a circle. Within that circle are the collection of experiences and those characteristics that define the “we” others see in us. As we move along through time, our circle crosses the boundaries of other circles, which represents the interactions we have with others.

Some of our circles travel together for mere moments before moving on; never touching again. Others stay with us for decades. Those are the relationships most precious to us, for they are our trusted friends and those others with whom we share love. They become not only a part of our lives, but also a part of ourselves. When their circle leaves ours, they take a part of us with them. And we are left empty and sad.

Life is a fluid state; change is, in fact, its only stable component. The number of other circles sharing space with ours changes. When we make physical changes, such as changing schools, jobs, or moving, we often get a whole new collection of circles. We also make emotional changes, the loss of a friendship or the death of a romance. In those cases, the separation of circles is difficult and painful, especially when we have to see them every day, knowing that they are no longer a part of us. Yet, even as people leave our circles, they often leave an echo of themselves behind. That echo takes up residence in the hope chest of our most treasured memories.

I’ve lived in a lot of places, and worked many jobs in my life. The string of acquaintances and friendships experienced along the way is, like yours, quite extensive. Some date back to childhood and adolescence; others have only recently crossed into my circle. At times, I encounter people from my past and I’m often amazed at how seamlessly their circle rejoins my own. Despite the years and the distance, we seem to take up right where we left off. And, beyond the wrinkles and gray hair, we’re amazed at how little has actually changed. People who were loud and rambunctious still carry that amazing energy. The quiet ones still don’t say much. What does reveal itself is that comfort and peace that says to the world, “I’ve found myself.”

I guess the amazing thing is how much of our lives contains definitive bits and pieces of the people we’ve known throughout the years. Like a bread mix, every ingredient regardless of the amount, changes the loaf a little bit. A pinch too much flour, and it’s too dry. A smidgeon too little yeast and it won’t rise. The path of our lives, the way we look at the world, how we view ourselves are all steered, bumped, or nudged in different directions by our encounters with others. Likewise, we will probably never know how our influence may have altered the life of someone else.

When I was young, still learning to drive, I remember pulling up to a stop sign. I stopped, looked both ways, and headed into the intersection. Suddenly, my senses were assaulted by a blaring horn, the sound of squealing rubber, and some extremely colorful well-chosen phrases. Another car, frankly speeding, had almost taken my front end off, its approach shielded by a tree and a line of parked cars. It was a small moment, albeit a scary moment. But even today, when I come to that intersection, I take a few extra cautious looks before pulling out. I didn’t know the speeder who I almost hit and I never saw him again. Nevertheless, he changed my driving habits forever.

For good or bad, well or ill, we change each other in ways both dramatic and subtle. Even a chance encounter can mean a lot. Which begs the question, can we help to create a better corner of the world by simply being more aware when our circles intersect each other?

How about we just treat each other a little nicer?

"The Future...The Undiscovered Country"

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 15, 2009

I’ve been intrigued how the concept of “the future” is perceived. For some in Johnstown, it seems that the best future would be a return to the past; when the mills were roaring, downtown was buzzing, and everyone was flush. But the world has changed. Johnstown must change along with it.

In 1970, sociologist and futurist Alvin Toffler published a book entitled “Future Shock.” Toffler discussed how the effect of “too much change in too short of a time” leaves a populace suffering from “shattering stress and disorientation.” Humans are resilient to a point, but when the world turns upside down overnight, even the most prepared find themselves reeling.

Johnstown is suffering from a type of Future Shock. The city is historically a blue-collar town. If you didn’t work iron, steel or coal, then your business income depended on those who did. The collapse of those industries left a gaping wound that to this day has not fully healed. The loss of Johnstown’s signature industry has forced the city and its people to redefine themselves.

Through the efforts of Congressman John Murtha, several firms have arrived, bringing much-needed jobs. But, prolific he may be, but immortal he is not. Already there are worried whispers about the fate of the area’s economy after he is gone. One local man told me, “Losing Mr. Murtha would be worse than losing the steel mills.”

It is time to think seriously about the future. If Johnstown wants to be a magnet for economic development, then it must be able to target those businesses that fit in the economy of the 21st century.

We have a disciplined and ethical workforce. However, manufacturing still drives the mindset. Labor-intensive smokestack industries are on the wane, as technology replaces human labor. Information, or “data,” has become the new coin of the realm, and the movement of megabytes is the new production line. The world has gone digital, and if you don’t know how to use a computer and standard business software, you need to learn. Nearly every company uses them in some fashion and those who remain unskilled in their use will be left behind.

Micro-municipalities litter the greater Johnstown area, each with their own expensive police, fire, and public works departments, along with entrenched politicians and bureaucracy. Few out-of-town business owners in their right minds would attempt to navigate the dizzying array of municipal laws and regulations in order to come here. For the sake of its citizens, and to attract outside businesses, a city needs to run efficiently. After all, Santa’s sleigh would never get off the ground if the reindeer pulled in eight different directions. In a previous column from May 2007, I pointed out that consolidating all the communities from the West End to Windber would instantly elevate Johnstown from the 34th largest city in Pennsylvania all the way to number 4. That would increase the city’s political influence in Harrisburg immeasurably.

While the effort to raze empty and abandoned buildings has increased, there are still far too many of these structures. Empty and abandoned houses, some of them burned-out shells, are not only structural hazards, but also provide nesting places for disease-carrying vermin. Landlords, some of whom don’t live within 200 miles, have artfully used the bureaucratic process to keep the city away from their crumbling properties, while failing to make repairs. Eminent Domain laws should be aggressively applied for the sake of those who live in those neighborhoods. Private property rights form one of the vital foundations of our Republic. However, those rights include a share of the responsibility for the safety of the community.

The Johnstown area does have a lot to offer:

• This is an area of incredible natural beauty. The hills and mountains, the lush forests and abundant wildlife. Mild summers, winters that would have inspired Norman Rockwell, and a spring and autumn pallet of breathtaking beauty.

• Johnstown is still a safer place to raise a family than many others. Houses are affordable; the cost of living is more than manageable. Traffic is tolerable and commutes are relatively short.

• The best part? The people who live here. Warm, friendly, generous almost to a fault; committed to a family-centered community.

The city stands at a crossroads. One fork leads to decline and decay. It is the easier path, because it requires people to do nothing. The other path leads to a bright, prosperous future. It is a difficult path, strewn with rocks and potholes and lined by naysayers mired in the status quo. But this path, however arduous, leads to a bright future, the glittering success of a resurrected Johnstown.

A Battle Won

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 25, 2009

At long last, the final hurdle remaining for the construction of the permanent memorial to the crew and passengers of United Airlines Flight 93 has been cleared. Agreements have been reached regarding the purchase of the final parcels of land, including the impact site itself, and on Friday, February 20, a public commitment was made to break ground and have the facility completed by the 10th anniversary of the attacks.

Although the announcement was attended by such luminaries as Governor Rendell, and the two United States Senators, the credit for this lies solely and completely with the tireless and dedicated volunteers of the Flight 93 Advisory Commission, the Flight 93 Memorial Task Force, the Families of Flight 93, Joanne Hanley of the National Park Service, and the tough weather-hardened members of the Flight 93 Ambassadors, who have performed magnificently as the faces and voices for the fallen to the hundreds of thousands of visitors to the site.

I have to admit that for awhile, I was worried. The dispute over the land purchase seemed to be hopelessly mired in mutual intransigence. The gap over a fair price per acre remained wide, as neither side budged an inch. Politicians in Washington would toss in a rhetorical bone from time to time, but in their actions seemed to be keeping the issue at an arms length.

Mostly though, I was concerned about the passage of time and the tendency of some Americans toward selective amnesia. Would this thing drag on until public apathy buried the whole idea of a memorial?

As it turned out, my fears were largely groundless. The settlement of the land sale demonstrates that in that case, even seemingly hopeless intransigence can be eventually bridged. Once that gap was bridged, the politicians stepped up and publically stated their commitment. But where I was really wrong was in my assessment of the American memory.

At the quarterly meeting of the Task Force in Somerset last month, a presentation was given by Ranger Adam Shaffer. Probably no one, outside those who were there, are aware that December, as cold as it was, was the second best December for the temporary memorial: 2,595 visitors. In addition, we all remember the arctic weather that descended on the Laurel Highlands during January. The National Weather Service says we received around 30 inches of snow and two ice storms. There wasn’t a day of relief from the icy knife of those incessant winds. Most of us had to deal with those conditions just walking between the house, the car, and the workplace, and the curious visit to pick over the corpse of Circuit City.

But out at the Field of Honor, the Ambassadors were there every day, gutting out the effects of the elements. And in spite of the awful weather, 1,423 visitors still came to the memorial.

On what was indisputably the worst day of this winter, the day of the Big Ice Storm, with every piece of the memorial’s spartan architecture encased and frozen, visitors still showed up.

I’ve been a husband for some thirty years, so I’m familiar with the state of “being wrong.” Usually, it’s not a pleasant state. But in this case, I’m pleased to be there. I will cheerfully admit that I vastly underestimated the depth of the American heart.

As the sky darkened and the sun set on September 11th, 2001, Americans across the country looked to that horizon and made a silent promise; the promise that We Will Never Forget. With the double victory of the land deals and the public commitment made this past week, we can be assured that the memory of the singular courage of our 40 heroes will never fade. Years hence, “…Reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not shall come to this field to ponder and to dream.

“And the power of that vision will pass into their souls.”

Love Is...

Unknown source from Google Images

“Marriage is dead.” Surprised, I looked up from my lunch in response to my acquaintance’s bald statement. “As an institution,” he quickly added.

Swallowing the forkful of salad I had been chewing, I asked, “How so?”

“I think folks realize that for two people who truly love each other, a piece of government paper is worthless. Besides, you know that half of all marriages end in divorce anyway.” He had been going on for some time about the joys of living with his girlfriend and went on to explain how much in love they were and that they were in that somehow magical zone known as a “committed relationship.”

That conversation stayed with me for quite some time. I lost track of them for a few years before meeting again in the aisles of a local Wal-Mart. They were now married, happily so, and I asked them how they were doing. He admitted “it was an adjustment.” Curious, I asked, “How is being married different from living together?”

She replied, “Before we were just roommates. Now, we belong to each other.”

Marriage and divorce statistics are something of a hodge-podge. Some studies state that as much as 67% of marriages end up in divorce. Others peg that number much lower, around 40%. The reasons for these failed unions have been a frequent topic of discussion in venues ranging from the Ivy Tower to the backyard fence. As a minister, I have some limited experience talking with young folks looking to spend their lives together. Through those conversations, I have come to a few conclusions myself.

Love is perhaps the one thing in the shared human experience most impossible to define. We know how it feels; we know what it looks like; but even on the strength of hundreds of years of poems, sonnets, and songs, and billions of humans’ experiences, we still can’t verbalize exactly what it is. Those who are single may commit a sizeable portion of waking hours in pursuit of that nebulous and indefinable ideal.

Part of the philosophy driving the 60’s counter-culture movement involved the rejection of traditional rules and structures, especially those concerning human pair bonding. Crosby, Stills, and Nash sang, “If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with.” In a sense, it went along with the era. We had disposable cans and disposable diapers, why not disposable people? The whole concept of “love” changed, moving from a state of the heart to a hormonal response. Concurrently, divorce became far more common, surging to record highs in the 70’s and 80’s. But things have changed. According to the latest data set available, divorce is now at the lowest rate since those halcyon days of Sergeant Pepper.

One thing I’ve noticed over the years is how relationships have changed. At one time, people started with an acquaintance. Over time, they explored and discovered common interests and shared ideals. As mutual trust became established, a friendship developed, growing in depth and intensity over time. At some point, there was a subtle shift, and friendship became something far deeper. Fate asserted itself, and commitments were made, a wedding took place, and on that night, all the elements that had been building were consummated in a physical act of complete intimacy and trust. What has changed is that physical component is now often introduced in the beginning of a relationship, rather than at the end. The danger in the inversion of those events lies in the temporary intensity of a physical relationship. Lust is a powerful influence. It can obscure truth and distort feelings. It is also short-lived. While love may be impossible to define, it does have component parts: Friendship, respect, shared interests, common goals and desires, patience, trust, and the ability to forgive. Lust has none of those, merely existing long enough for the novelty to wear off. For two people who are truly in love, there is no higher priority than each other. These elements are important, because any old married couple will tell you that there will be those times when sex gets a bit stale. When that happens, couples really need all those other components present while they work together to reinvigorate their intimacy.

Going slow also provides time for both parties to really get to know one another. What one might initially see as touching devotion may actually be revealed to be an obsessive desire to control and manipulate. Spirit and passion might also be revealed over time to be a quick temper and the tendency towards acts of physical violence. That youthful joie de vivre that some women find so attractive and exciting might be revealed as chronic immaturity; a boy who has no interest in being a man.

Over time, I’ve developed the opinion that some people get married simply because they’re having great sex. When they get bored, they divorce because there’s nothing else to the relationship. There are others who are so terrified of living alone, they will give themselves up to the first possibility that comes along, regardless of the consequences. Women who thus refuse to leave abusive boyfriends become victims twice. Once by him, and again by the bondage of their own fears.

The decision to cohabitate manifests itself in the unspoken choice that each partner has to pull up stakes and move on without working to salvage the relationship. What is lost is growth. Commitment forces us to grow up; to deal with and eliminate the childish habits of irresponsibility and narcissism; moving us to think outside our personal box by placing the needs of someone else above our own. By approaching relationships carefully, establishing the important things first before giving in to the frantic demands of lust, something lasting can be built.

There are also legal implications. If your live-in is injured or becomes ill and decisions have to be made about medical treatments, up to and including sugery, you will quickly find out that you have no standing. Treatment may be delayed while the hospital desperately searches for a blood relative to give authorization. And if your roommate should not survive, unless a will exists specifically spelling out your rights, you will be left with nothing. The entire estate, house, money, cars, etc., will pass to the nearest blood relative. And if that person turns out to be someone who "didn't approve" of you...

These complications become even more convoluted if you've had children together. Some of these issues can be alleviated with Powers of Attorney, both medical and general, partnership agreements, wills, etc. But most co-habitants don't bother with those because...well...they're just living together. And if they should break up, it's too much of a hassle to go back and nullify those documents.

How can you know what kind of relationship you have? Try going celibate for two months.

Yes, that’s exactly what I said.

If after two months your relationship is still alive and well, then it is based on solid fundamentals. On the other hand, if you end up spending your evenings in long, brittle silences, or one of you suddenly finds reasons to be away, then maybe it's time to face the cold reality that perhaps sex is all you ever had.

Yes, it’s a harsh test. It’s also a demanding one. But if you’re really interested in knowing for sure that what you have together is good for the long haul, it’s worth the effort to find out now.

It’s the adult thing to do.

Oh, and by the way, Happy Valentine’s Day!

Kansas City, Tony Gonzalez...And Fairness

Making a living the hard way. Photo by Julie Jacobson, Associated Press

Independence, MO Examiner, February 21, 2009

In the last year, Tony Gonzalez has become a figure of some controversy. For him, it has been an unusual role, to say the least. For his entire career, the Kansas City Chief’s number 88 has been the NFL version of the good soldier; the battlefield hero. He took to the field in 190 NFL games, turning his competitive fire into a blowtorch, leaving behind the smoking ruins of many a defensive secondary. In nearly all that time, his behavior on and off the field has been beyond reproach. There are several dominant receivers in the league, but when you compare the unmatched professionalism of Gonzalez to characters like Terrell Owens, Randy Moss and Ocho Cinco you cannot help but respect the man.

It’s not just the stats he’s put up, although they are considerable. Consider this:

• In 12 seasons of stellar blocking and catching passes in that allegorical mine field we all know as “across the middle,” he’s missed two games. Two.

• He fumbled three times in his second year, twice in his third, but only once in the last nine seasons.

• Four times he’s topped the 1,000-yard mark. Four additional times, he was within 100 yards of that benchmark. Across a 16-game season, that’s less than 7 additional yards per game.

• His public comments over the years have always been marked by maturity; supportive of his teammates, his coaches, and the Chiefs Nation, and until lately, remarkably free of the whining and discontent we’ve almost come to expect from star professional athletes.

All this while NFL officials stood by and watched him get mugged mercilessly by defenders who knew of no other way to stop him.

While he has achieved greatness and earned the respect of all, there is one brass ring that has eluded him: a Super Bowl.

To the average fan, that particular desire seems unimportant. After all, he's famous, has millions in the bank and lives a lifestyle most of us can only dream about. What’s not to like? But the average fan will never understand the competitive fire that burns inside professional athletes. If that fire, that desire for greatness burned as intensely inside the rest of us, this country would not have a drug problem, or a welfare problem, or a jobs problem. The average fan--in fact the average person--utterly fails to realize that greatness in any endeavor requires the same quality of effort and dedication…and personal discipline, exhibited by people like Tony Gonzalez. He could have had a nice career being competent and average. But he chose excellence instead.

This month, Tony will turn 33, approaching physical senescence for a professional football player, even one as cut and conditioned as this one. Now, with his team obviously in a rebuilding mode and the days passing rapidly, he wants a shot at that last brass ring. Reading the blogs, some of us look at this as the ultimate betrayal, leaving the city that has grown used to looking to him as a pillar of excellence in a sea of mediocrity; the one diamond on a table full of worthless quartz. After all, we reason, without Tony, who’s left to watch? Who’s left to give us those few moments of excitement out of the 60-minute snooze that Chiefs games have become lately? And is there anybody else whose effort in those 60 minutes can be utterly unquestioned?

Tony Gonzalez has preserved a measure of fame and dignity for a franchise that has fallen on hard times. And because we fans live our lives vicariously through our teams, we fear the loss of such an icon. We fear that without him, those hard times will now be reflected back upon us. The escape that this football team has provided us in these difficult days of economic stress may now simply become a dark reflection of our own hard-scrabble lives.

From a practical standpoint, it’s unlikely that the Chiefs will reach the playoffs in the next two or three years, and the odds of a Super Bowl in that span are cosmically remote. Whether he stays or goes will not change those odds. In fact, with players like Missouri’s Chase Coffman entering the draft, it may make more sense to start over with a younger player. It would give that young guy a chance to develop as the Chiefs work their way back to competitiveness.

I, for one, respect Tony Gonzalez. He was, and still is one of the few real class acts in the public arena. Because of that respect and my appreciation of his accomplishments, I am of the opinion that Tony should be freed to pursue this last dream, while he still possesses the ability to do so. For us to take any other attitude is the height of selfishness. He has earned this. And if we truly respect him; if we truly honor his accomplishments and class, then we, as fans, as a city, must let him go. Will it be difficult? You bet. But it is also eminently fair. As we have followed rocky road of Derrick Thomas into Canton, we know that not having that championship can affect a player’s standing among those voters. Derrick didn’t deserve that treatment. Neither does Tony.

In 12 seasons, Tony Gonzalez has left an indelible imprint on the history of Kansas City sports, and in the hearts of her fans. Regardless of where he goes, what uniform he wears, he will always be a Chief in our hearts.

As long as he doesn’t end up in Denver.

Remembering '69

The General at Work in Super Bowl IV. (Photo Kansas City Star, 1970)

“20 seconds…19…18…the game is going to be over. Mike Livingston doesn’t want to play anymore, neither do the Chiefs. They’ve had enough. They want the football. They’re going to blow the clock out. THAT’S IT! CHIEFS ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS OF PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL!”

As historic moments go, it was a spine-tingler. Bill Grigsby, a monument of professional broadcasting in Mid-America, had the honor of counting down the waning seconds of Kansas City’s only Super Bowl victory. And as the seconds ticked away, Chiefs fans in bars, homes, parties, and those lucky enough to be in Tulane Stadium that day unleashed their joy in a tsunami of celebration.

Reflecting back on 1969, it’s amazing how much the game has changed. The offensive line that opened the holes for Garret, Holmes, McVea, and Hayes, enabling that quartet to amass over 2,000 yards of rushing, was considered one of the biggest in professional football. Yet today, they would only be the size of an average linebacker. Our quarterback, at 6-1 and 180 lbs, was considered average in size. Today, a skinny runt like that would likely get the tar beat out of him. Witness the fate of Brodie Croyle.

But despite the vast differences in size and speed between then and now, one thing has never changed.

Moments before Grigsby began his victory chant, Len Dawson left the field to a standing ovation. For Chiefs fans, and especially the Chiefs family, it was a poignant moment. Dawson was more than The Quarterback. He was a man who in that year had survived devastating personal tragedies and a serious injury. In so doing, he had defined the personal qualities of courage and leadership. Really, his stats for that season weren’t all that spectacular. In fact, his quarterback rating for 1969 was only 69.9. His stand-in, Mike Livingston managed only a rating of 67.4. But in the end, as Dawson left the field that day, it was abundantly clear that championships are not won with statistics. They’re won with courage and leadership.

Leaders were abundant on that team. Along with Dawson were veterans like E. J. Holub, Willie Lanier, Johnny Robinson, Jerry Mays, and Bobby Bell. They wore a banner of pride and professionalism, and a complete commitment to winning. They demonstrated that commitment on and off the field. Nobody got into trouble in clubs and bars, or driving drunk, or getting involved in criminal activities because the risk of bringing shame to the team was too great. To quote Star Trek, for those Chiefs, “The good of the many outweighed the needs of the few…or the one.” They were the very definition of “Team.”

To look at the 2008 version of this team, with the shining exceptions of Tony Gonzalez and Brian Waters, it’s hard to find that kind of character. A team with leadership tends not to lose close games; they minimize mistakes; they protect leads. They don't give up.

Make no mistake; whoever Scott Pioli brings to this team will need to be the kind of guy who is willing to risk being that leader. What the Chiefs will need are people who never lose sight of the brass ring, and who are utterly unafraid of getting in the grill of teammates who may just be going through the motions. Men who are motivated by adversity; Players and coaches who have but one goal: Victory.

This year will mark the 40th anniversary of Super Bowl IV. Fans and players alike have suffered through years of mediocrity and sheer disaster, seasoned with all too few heart-breaking brushes with greatness. The fans that make up the allegorical Chief’s Nation have made it abundantly clear that they will no longer be satisfied with merely being competitive. It’s been four decades since the Chiefs stood in football’s ultimate winners circle. And that’s long enough. In this anniversary year, Chiefs fans now wait with guarded anticipation as the team embarks on a new path. Scott Pioli, the new General Manager, arrives in his office under the shadow of a grim mandate from the Chiefs Nation: Build Us a Winner.

For us fans, perhaps we can help to carry that message by embracing this anniversary. We should go to our closets and musty attics and break out those treasured t-shirts and hats, emblazoned with the triumphant cry “1970 World Champions.” I don’t know who has the master tapes from the LP “Hail to the Chiefs,” the recorded recounting of that championship year, but perhaps it’s time to re-release a CD, or even a DVD version, so we can relive the excitement of those games, and recall the shared personal qualities that made them champions.

And, most importantly, we must publicly embrace those aging warriors who expended their vitality and shed their blood on the battle-torn turf of those fields. Their battered bodies are now aging into their 60s and 70s and may not be with us much longer.

Perhaps by reliving the glory of the past, those championship qualities will rub off on the current team.

And maybe, just maybe we will hear once again the echo of Bill Grigsby’s triumphant cry:

“CHIEFS ARE THE WORLD CHAMPIONS OF PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL!!!”

"A Galaxy Far, Far Away"

M-31 Andromeda from Astronomy Picture of the Day 1/24/2008



Like many others, I have a short list of websites that I visit daily. One of my favorites is a site called Astronomy Picture of the Day,” or APOD for short. This site, a joint venture between NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center and Michigan Technical University (located in the Arctic regions of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula) has, since June 20, 1995, daily offered up awe-inspiring imagery of the universe, with an accompanying explanation written by either Dr. Robert Nemiroff of MTU or Dr. Jerry Bonnell of the University Space Research Association. It is a resource that feeds our very human curiosity.

It’s a rare human who doesn’t experience awe and wonder in looking at the stars. Even a passing contemplation of the sheer size of the known universe is humbling. On January 24, 2008, APOD posted a beautiful composite image of the Andromeda Galaxy, also known as M-31. This giant spiral storm of stars, about twice the size of our Milky Way, lies two-and-a-half million light years distant. That means that the light that hits our eyes today left M-31 2.5 million years ago. We really do see the stars of Andromeda from the perspective of “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”

I’ve been a space buff as long as I can remember. One of the earliest memories I have is listening to Alan Shepherd’s suborbital flight on the radio with my parents. The events of July 20, 1969 are as sharp in my memory today as if they had just happened, as Neil Armstrong stepped off the lunar module’s foot pad and planted humanity’s first footprint on another world. Even after Apollo faded into history, my interest remained strong. I remember my Dad giving me, for Christmas, an extensive set of pictures from the Voyager spacecraft. I would sit for hours poring over those pictures, seeing up close for the first time the magnificence of the planets and moons in our little corner of the universe.

Like millions of others, I often look to the night sky. I will admit to a fascination with what lies out there in terms of stars, galaxies, and nebulae. However, at times I find myself idly wondering if there might be someone else standing on another planet some impossibly long distance away looking back.

A few decades of Star Trek and Star Wars got me to thinking that someday humans would be able to reach out to the other civilizations that were almost certainly out there…somewhere. After all, I reasoned, the latest estimate for the size of the known universe is around 150 billion light years across, a mammoth “space” containing somewhere between 100 billion and 500 billion galaxies, each probably containing between 200 billion to 400 billion stars. Certainly amongst that blizzard of zeroes, there had to be at least one other intelligent technological civilization. But the more I discover about physics, the firmer my belief becomes that we will never meet another species.

In short, do I believe there are other intelligent technological species in the universe? Yes.

Do I think we’re being visited by aliens in flying saucers? No.

The physical laws that run the universe, as we know them, make interstellar journeys impossible, impractical, and perhaps even pointless. The speed of light, warp drive notwithstanding is a barrier impossible to cross, because any physical object, be it human or molecule, converts to pure energy at the speed of light. Not a bad way to travel, all things considered. But understand that there’s no way to reassemble yourself at the end of that journey.

Now, we could travel very close to the speed of light, but the immutable laws of physics make interstellar travel pointless.

Scientists, studying the behavior of subatomic particles in an accelerator, discovered that as they approached the speed of light, their rate of decay slowed tremendously. That remarkable find led to an understanding called “time dilation.” What that means, essentially, is that if you were on a starship that was traveling at, say, 90% of the speed of light, time for you would slow down enormously, while back home, clocks would continue to tick along at their normal rate. Dr. Carl Sagan in his ground-breaking program “Cosmos” put it this way.

If you had a ship that would accelerate at the rate of 1G, the force of earth’s gravity (or 32 feet per second, squared) and you set off on a long journey, time dilation could make the trip doable within a human lifetime. For example, such a ship could make a round trip to the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, a distance of about 50,000 light years, in about 42 years, ship-time. That’s assuming the crew would survive the hard radiation, the million-degree clouds of gas that exist close to the galactic center, and each other. Unfortunately, because of time dilation, for those of us left behind, about 60,000 years would have passed, equal to the span of evolutionary time which separates modern humans from Neanderthals. Thus, the return to earth of such a mission would not be the triumphant welcoming home of intrepid explorers, but an encounter between two alien cultures. And knowing our capacity for xenophobia, it’s highly likely that meeting would turn violent.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that humans would even still be around. There are a host of hazards to our long-term existence. Asteroids, comets, black holes, rogue stars, gamma-ray bursts, super volcanoes, mega-thrust earthquakes, climate change, and what we could do to each other…take your pick. Despite our pride in our accomplishments, Homo Sapiens were not the first dominant species on this planet, and almost certainly won’t be the last.

I don't necessarily think that restricting humanity to the local neighborhood a bad thing. Until we humans learn to get along peacefully with each other, we have no business bothering anybody else.

Our own solar system holds enough unsolved questions to keep us enthralled for centuries. For example, six times, humans have walked on the moon. But the place remains largely an enigmatic mystery. That kind of effort lies within our technological capabilities and doesn't necessarily require the global cessation of human conflict.

However, romantic dreams die the hardest deaths and despite the inescapably hard facts of science, the romantic dream of “first contact” will linger on

We will probably never know for sure if anyone else is out there. But that uncertainty is part of the romance. It is a part of what drives some of us out on a cold but crystal clear winter’s night to contemplate the universe.

And for that, all we really need is our eyes, the night sky, and a willingness to dream.

Surviving Winter's Doldrums

“We are made to persist. That’s how we find out who we are.”
--Tobias Wolff

The holidays have passed. The lights, color, and giddy excitement are behind us, having joined the substantial collection within the memory vault. Life returns to that state of being we so flippantly describe as “normal.”

Now we face the deepest part of winter. January and February, described as one long 60-day month, is a stretch I’ve come to call “the long, dark tunnel.” The days are short, and the weather’s bad. After the light, color, beauty, and emotional highs of Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Years have faded, it is a time of unimaginative routine; of sheer mundane drudgery unbroken by celebration. Snow has lost its brief romance, and what was once magic and beauty now has us grimly reaching for a shovel. The days shuffle past like a bent old man. The restless energy that had kept us charging at a breakneck pace for two solid months has vanished. We feel drained, flat, devoid of interest.

The hardest moment is taking down the Christmas decorations. For weeks, our homes and lives were brightened by lights and elegant beauty. Now, with the tree down, the draping garlands and the Nativity boxed up and stored away, the house feels curiously empty, as if the movers had come, leaving nothing but blank walls and vacant floors.

The New Year is a time that should be marked by anticipation; the promise of a future as yet unwritten; the chance to start over. However, the excitement of that promise dims quickly in these dark days. I think that’s why most people experience failure in their New Year’s Resolutions. It’s just too hard to keep the momentum going in January and February. Actually, the time for resolutions should be spring. The returning sun, the soft warmth of the air, and the re-emergence of things green and growing lift the spirit and infuse the energy. Under those lively influences, we are flooded by the desire to flee the self-imposed winter cave, feeling the urgent compulsion to do things. So rather than see my goals die on the rocks and ice of winter, I save my new year’s resolutions for spring, when I actually feel like doing something about it.

But those warm days are still months away. Now, we need to work to come up with activities that will get us through these cabin fever months with our psyche and relationships intact. Here are some suggestions:

1. Make Something. Get involved in something creative. Making something new adds a sparkle to these dreary days. Crafts, hobbies, all those things you didn’t have time for during the rest of the year. Bake a couple dozen cookies (from scratch, mind you! No cheating!). Put them in little bags with festive ribbons and bows and take them around to your neighbors. You’d be surprised how much the act of lifting their spirits will lift yours as well.

2. Teach Something. Teach your kids something new. Teenagers can be tough, but with some dedicated motivation, they can join the pre-teens and find fun in learning how to bake cookies, or sew. Dads can spend these days teaching how to fix things around the house. Make it look and sound like fun, and they’ll be interested.

3. Learn Something. Take a class. Doesn’t have to be a brain-buster. Could be a few weeks of square dancing, computer stuff, or some lessons on home improvement that will help you plan for that burst of springtime energy. It should be something new, an activity with a measure of novelty to it.

4. Celebrate Something. Did you know that January 10th is “Positively Penguins Day? Or that January 16th is “Appreciate a Dragon Day? This website, http://www.brownielocks.com, gives you a list of “holidays” both serious and humorous to celebrate. On one of the pulldown menus, you’ll find listings for almost every day of the year. Plan a party, or just have some friends over for an evening for a potluck, so that nobody gets stuck with all the work. One family we know has what they call “The Souper Bowl,” an event in early February where people bring their homemade soups to share and to be judged. The winner leaves with a goofy door prize, something that Monty Hall might have hidden behind Door Number Four. Part of the depression of this time of year is due to the tendency we have to “cave”; to isolate ourselves.

5. Go See Something. Get out of the house. Take the kids down to the local firehouse for a tour (call ahead first). Maybe call the Steelers and see if they’ll do a tour of the Heinz Field locker rooms. Museums are always a good choice on a winter’s day. Relatively warm weather can at times be found within a day’s drive. Take advantage of those opportunities.

6. Romance Your Someone. Guys, make the time to plan something really over-the-top for Valentine’s Day. Trust me, there’s no such thing as “too much” on that day. And ladies, please, please, please remember to reciprocate. We like to feel loved, too.

7. Play…Just Play. Plan a few “Winterfest” type Saturdays with the kids. Take them sledding, or skiing. Build a snowman, or have a snowball fight. If you don’t live near snow, then go find some. Believe me, those memories of togetherness and fun will stick with them for a lifetime. Maybe spend an evening with the family around a board game.

The post-holiday blues happen to most of us in some fashion. It’s a part of being human. However, we don’t have to give in to that particular vulture by slouching alone in a dark house. Get up; turn on the lights; get moving!

Take back Life!

From Behind the Beard

For about 17 years, I've been privileged to have been a Santa. What started out as a favor to a friend has become a fun and unforgettable part of the Christmas season.

It is, I believe, safe to say that there is no more recognizable symbol anywhere in America, perhaps the world, than the bearded jolly old elf clad in red and white. From the youngest toddler, to the oldest centenarian, all recognize Santa Clause for who he is and what he represents. For kids, he is unconditional love, and perhaps a bit of a moral and ethical rudder. His universal greeting, that hearty "Ho! Ho! Ho!" never fails to lift the spirit and bring a smile. He always brings gifts. You never know what it'll be, but like the Wells Fargo Wagon from "The Music Man," you know "..it could be somethin' special just for me!"

One of the special memories for me of Being Santa occurred, oddly enough, in the middle of summer.

It was a brutally hot, humid miserable Missouri July afternoon and I had gone to Target to pick up a few things. The air conditioning was struggling mightily, but the constant opening of the doors kept the humidity inside at an almost uncomfortable level. I cruised the aisles, searching for my intended purchases when I heard it. A young girl, perhaps 5 or 6, in desperate need of a nap, was howling and crying while trying to extricate herself from the shopping basket. The mom, who also needed a nap, was obviously trying to finish her errands. Both of them were nearing the end of their ropes. Having helped raised four kids, the Mom's mounting desperation sparked my compassion. I walked past the cart, and catching Mom's eye, I smiled and winked. I then skirted around the end of the aisle and let loose with a booming "Ho! Ho! Ho!" The girl went dead silent and the Mom, right on top of things, responded, "See? He's ALWAYS watching!" I meandered back into the aisle to see the girl, now wide-eyed and her head on a swivel, looking for Santa. The Mom smiled her weary thanks, and in short order, she finished her shopping and headed for the checkout, the girl ever vigilant.

On another occasion, I was enroute to a company Christmas Party. Because of the timing, I was in costume as I drove the Interstate. I don't know if you've noticed, but when we're driving, we seem to be in somthing of a trance, our eyes fixed in what Marines call "the thousand-yard stare." As I would pass other cars, the drivers in that state, they would on impulse look over. Upon recognizing the suit and beard, they would undergo a marvelous transformation. Their faces would light up, underlined by the most joyous of smiles. Somehow, just the sight of Santa made their day. Even the stern Highway Patrolmen would crack a small grin.

There have been many such experiences, mostly with children. One of the most meaningful can be read here. Kids are the best part, because they know instinctively about giving, and about joy. My times as Santa have become necessary for me, because spending time with the young, with their bright eyes full of wonder brings the spirit of the season right back, dissolving the cynical, the jaundiced, and the jaded feelings that accumulate during the normal course of a year. And you don't have to wear the suit to re-discover this; all you need to do is pay attention to them.

I can't deny the joy this portrayal brings to me. Putting on the suit, the beard,and the hat, more and more, I find myself putting on the character of Santa. And that's important. Because once I'm behind the beard, I can't be "Ralph" anymore. I have to be the jolly old elf that everyone expects. I remember reading an interview with an actor. He had been talking about "the integrity of the character" in his roles. The interviewer asked what he felt the toughest role was. He thought for a moment, and said, "Santa Claus, because he holds in his hands the frail human heart." Likewise, I've come to regard this, not so much as a gig, but a sacred trust, simply because people are so invested in the character.

Kids love Santa, not just because they know that love is given back, but because he listens to them, and cares for them, and makes them feel special. Every kid knows they have a personal relationship with St. Nick.

I was manning a Santa Hut in downtown Fulton, Missouri on a cold, icy night. Traffic was slow due to the weather, and the assigned time for my shift was rapidly coming to a close. I saw a car pull in ahead of the hut. As I leaned forward, I could see a small figure in the passenger seat, literally bouncing off the roof. The Mom barely got the vehicle parked, when the door opened and the child, a boy about 8 or so, shot out of the car like a dolphin out of the sea. At a dead sprint, he made for the hut, leapt up the stairs, and skidded to a stop in front of me, he face flushed, and his little chest heaving from the effort. A bit non-plussed by this display, I found myself momentarily at a loss for words. He supplied them:

"Well? Was I good???"

And you know, it doesn't matter how young or how old we are, we're still asking that question. And from behind the beard, the answer is always "YES!"

Merry Christmas!

The Myth of the Perfect Gift

Well, here it is. December 23rd and I still haven't bought my wife's Christmas present. And yes, I'm in deep trouble. Buying for a female, any female, is quite possible the severest challenge that faces the male of the species. Men usually view the world in absolutes, black and white, if you will and that makes us predictable. Women, on the other hand, view the world through eyes that see an infinity of subtle shadings, the recognition of which men are usually dispairingly color-blind. This is one of the things that gets us guys into the doghouse with depressing regularity.

Men, on the average, are heavily into technology, which makes us pretty easy to buy for. Whatever it is, just get the latest version with the most options. That line of reasoning plays for items ranging from iPods to pickup trucks. Although we occasionally need clothes, usually that's not high on the list, unless a demonstratable need exists. Last year, for example, the lining of my suitcoat began to detach itself. So, it must be time to buy a new suit. I didn't remember that I had used, reused, and often abused that particular outfit for the better part of 8 years. My wife did, and found a store with a BOGO (buy one, get one) sale and we got two suits. Both will likely serve me through much of the next decade as long as I don't grow a third arm and disco stays dead and buried.

Now, clueless I may be, but even I know that any woman who continually wears the same outfit for 8 years will be held up to ridicule and insult by those who consider themselves to be the local version of the fashion police. In short, other women. So, when I propose to buy a fashion item, be it clothes, shoes, or jewelry, I must possess the instincts to nail not only what she considers fashionable, but what her fellow females (is that an oxymoron?) find acceptable, or even worthy of envy.

A few years ago, I suffered a case of temporary insanity and actually shopped in a jewelry store by myself. For a man, this is tantamount to heading into the jungle unarmed and naked. After agonizing over the choices for a long period of time, and I suspect severely testing the patience of the sales person, I settled on what was called a "Mother's Pendant." This was a stylized design of a woman embracing four gemstones, each the birthstone of our four children.

On Christmas morning, she opened the box and, even though she tried hard to appear appreciative, it was plain to me that for some reason, she didn't like it. It sat in her jewelbox for a few weeks, occasionally making an appearance on Sunday morning. Then, one day for reasons that still mystify me, she wore it to work. According to her later account, the pendant was the hit of the day. Not only did the other women ooh and aah, the pendant actually reached the acme of jewelry valuation, sincere expressed envy. Predictably, after that day, it became her favorite piece.

Go figure.

Lest the reader misunderstand me, let me hasten to say that she was, is, and always will be the woman of my dreams. Everything I've ever accomplished can be traced directly back to her support and belief in me. So while I may engage in a bit of whininess here, it is done out of the deepest love.

What I wanted to convey here is the incredible difficulty that men face in picking the right gift. There are a few of us who do get it right, who do possess the preternatural abilities to divine that secret wish and the wherewithall to afford it. I know they exist, because they are always (1) Someone else's husband, and (2) the guy I should have been. Oh yeah, and always the fictional muscle-packed, wealthy, yet sensitive loveable rogue in the romance novels. Whoever you are out there, and you know who you are, please write a book, or start a website and help out us fellow guys, we clumsy lugs.

But these are the shortcomings I must deal with, for they are what God gifted me with when I came into the world. While I have failed at the gift game many times, I am relieved to report that she hasn't left me, so maybe I'm not a complete disaster as a husband. Because in the end, what I can give her, what is always received with appreciation and gratitude, are those perfect gifts; the things that have the highest value:

My respect, my devotion, and my love.

How Did You Name Your Blog?

A friend of mine asked me today how I came up with the name "Race the Sunset" for my blog. I think for most of us blog folk there was that moment when we were registering our foray into the electronic universe when we had to assign a name to the undertaking. It's a telling moment. A blog is a reflection of ourselves, our electronic coming-out party and we want to make the right impression. Not too braggy, not too subtle, something people can understand quickly, and more importantly, enjoy. We want our blog to be liked in the same way that we want to be liked.

I had toured some blogs, looking for ideas. The names I read ran the gamut from the silly to the sublime and every shade in between. Some, I suspected, had to be pretty easy. These were the subject specific blogs, focusing on things like cooking, crafts, photography and other hobbies. Some were extensions of a person's professional life, offering insights on the ins-and-outs of their particular vocation, or avocation. For some, the blog title reflected a particular view on any one of a million different issues from all parts and angles of the political spectrum.

My problem was that I wasn't sure exactly what my blog was going to be. I have a few passions, motorcycling being a major one, along with freelance writing. In the end, I decided to start with motorcycles and just see where my heart would take me.

In the summer of 2002, I climbed aboard my trusty bike for an epic journey (for me, anyway) of what ended up as about 5,000 miles through the American southwest. The journal of that trip can be read here.

It was on the first day, the leg from Columbia, Missouri to Liberal, Kansas, a distance of roughly 600 miles. The sun was sinking towards dusk, casting ever longer shadows. The amber-colored wheat fields I'd been riding through most of the afternoon caught the dying light, reflecting a marvelous palette of subtle shades, shifting constantly as the stalks bent in unison to the whim of the prairie zephyrs. As I closed on Liberal, I watched as the sun slid towards the horizon. I was headed in the same direction, and I suddenly realized that as the sun was going to its allegorical rest, so was I. It was a singular moment of beauty and peace, magnified by the presence of an enormous sky, a dome of azure marked here and there by clouds now becoming tinged with gold. On a motorcycle, there are no doors or roof in the way; there is only you, the bike...and God.

There on that lonely road through the Kansas prairie, I raced the sunset towards evening. It was an unmatched feeling of beauty, peace, and freedom; a moment I have since stored in the vault of my most treasured memories, to be taken out from time to time and gently, carefully held in my hands.

As I sat there in front of the computer, that memory came flooding back. And in that moment, I knew my blog could have no other name.

While I still write motorcycle pieces, my blog has become so much more. I have written about books I have enjoyed, my fascination with tornadoes (sparked by my duties as a storm spotter), baseball, football, family, 9/11, geneaology...the list goes on and on. It has become my outlet, my release...and my place of refuge. I've learned that the secret to this blogging thing is to pay attention to the world around me, and take note what thoughts occur as a result of my interaction with this all-too-often confusing and tumultuous thing we call "life."

When my heart is touched and that often stubborn door that holds the secret store of eloquence swings open, those thoughts and feelings pour forth. And it is here that I bring them, not only to free them, but to share them with others who know how important, precious, and deceptively fragile they truly are.

For it is here that I open my heart and soul.

And it is here where I find my peace.

Christmas From Within

Linus -- Frame grab from "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, December 8, 2009

Christmas time is here
Happiness and cheer
Fun for all that children call
Their favorite time of the year

--Vince Guaraldi, from "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

In 1965, an animated program debuted on CBS. It was a Christmas-themed show starring the characters of Charles Shulz’s wildly popular and generationally-defining comic strip “Peanuts.” The story was, on the surface, a familiar allegory about how the true spirit of Christmas had been hijacked by greed and materialism. The animation, while colorful, was relatively primitive and to the younger generation of today probably resembles the hit show “South Park.” And yet, 43 years later, the show continues to touch hearts and enlighten spirits. The obvious reason for its effect is that nearly all of us will readily acknowledge the incipient air of greed that has inculcated itself in the season, an observation usually voiced while standing in line at Circuit City at Oh-Dark-Thirty on Black Friday.

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” is a call to the conscience; a reminder that we must at some point in the head-long rush between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve stop, take a breath, and seriously consider the true motivation for the celebration: the birth of Jesus Christ. Really, the season is not about material gain. It’s about hope. Salvation, redemption, forgiveness, generosity, and love are the ideas that reflect not only Christmas, but also the deepest needs inside us all, especially the search for meaning. The philosophy taught by Jesus gave us that sense of meaning; that regardless of our station or circumstances in life, we are valued – and loved.

Charlie Brown longs for a Christmas with meaning, instead of the glitz and gimme he sees. He takes control of the Christmas play, hoping to produce a meaningful experience for cast and audience. But instead, he sees his dreams hijacked by those of shallow mind and vacant spirit.

At the climactic part of this drama, the everyman Charlie Brown, drowning in the insincerity of those around him, cries out in anguish, “Isn’t there anyone out there who can tell me what Christmas is all about?”

In the breathless silence that follows, Linus responds:

“ Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you. Lights, please.”

With that, the world’s smallest and arguably most famous philosopher and theologian, security blanket in hand, walks to the center of the stage and faces the empty auditorium. And in a voice that still resonates deep inside the hearts of millions, he speaks:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.

"And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

"And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace; good will toward men.’”

As the echoes of his words fade, Linus turns to his friend and in a voice soft with compassion and understanding, says:

“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

We all need that moment. We all need that reminder that we could have a mansion full of material goods and still feel empty inside. It is, after all, love that fulfills us, not video games, or big-screen televisions, jewelry, or cashmere socks. Technology breaks or becomes obsolete. Clothes wear out, jewelry becomes tarnished. The love of God, as expressed through the gift of the life of His son, Jesus never diminishes, never breaks down, never wears thin or goes out of style. It is given freely and without limits or conditions and will always be there waiting for us, no matter how long we’ve been away.

Receive that love, and share it with others. Make the decision to celebrate Christmas the way it was meant to be honored.

With your heart.

The Terrors of Modern Dentistry

Root Canal.

Nowhere in the extensive American lexicon can be found words that strike a deeper or colder terror in the heart and mind. “IRS Audit” is a distant second place by comparison. The expression has become so closely associated with excruciating pain that its use has leaked into common colloquial expression:

“Can you give a speech next week?”
“I’d rather have a root canal.”

(From the girlfriend) “My parents want to meet you.”
(From the boyfriend) “I’d rather have a root canal.”

(From the wife) “My mother’s coming to visit.”
(From the Husband) “Let me schedule a root canal.”

As a class, ortho- or endo-dontic procedures of any kind are far from being the favored activity of any sane person. Let’s face it. A trip to the Dentist can only be a break-even proposition. You either walk out with clean teeth, or a mouth full of hardware and exotic polymers. Truthfully, any visit is fraught with apprehension. But in the realm of pain, a root canal occupies a special place on the tree of terror.

I was having lunch, deep into Tennyson and minding my own business, when my jaws closed on a meatball. An audible crunch was immediately followed by a stab of pain that seemed to lance right through my eyeball. I immediately grabbed my water bottle and flushed my mouth. Big mistake. The now-exposed nerve root shot back with a pain so intense that it actually caused my eyes to cross.

For all intents and purposes, lunch was now over. I picked up the phone, called my dentist’s office, and got an appointment for the next workday. Fortunately, as the day wore on, the pain seemed to ebb to the level of annoyance, rather than outright distraction. I passed the evening in relative comfort, as long as I remembered to chew, drink, and swallow only from the left side of my mouth. I began to hope that what I had wasn’t as big a deal as I had initially feared.

Somewhere in “The Man Code” is the codicil that states “Whatever the injury or level of pain, The Man must act with complete imperturbability, lest he allow a dent to show in his armor of macho.” Wives, when confronted by this somewhat aberrant behavior tend to respond with an exaggerated display of eye-rolling and head-shaking.

The next morning, full of confidence, I strode into the Dentist’s office. Let me say this. I like the way he runs his practice. If your appointment is at 10:30, that’s when you’re ushered into the chair. By comparison, the trips to my cardiologist invariably mean a 3-and-a-half-hour ordeal of waiting, climaxed by the 3 or 4 minutes I actually spend with the Doctor. My Dentist has a waiting room containing the most unused chairs in town. Furniture store stock gets more use. Anyway, once I was ensconced in the chair, he comes in, all business as usual, and probes the source of my complaint. His first reaction, “Oh, you’ve just lost a small hunk off the side. We can fix that easy.” Cue the deep sigh of relief. Then the X-Rays came back. That’s when I heard the absolute last thing anyone wants to have uttered by someone whose name begins with D-R-period:

“This is worse than I thought.”

As he indicated on the film, the tooth in question had a nice neat line running straight through the center. Cracked in half. He said he would refer me to a specialist who would make a decision on how to proceed. “What are the choices?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling (remembering the Code). “Well, he’ll either send you back here for a simple filling…or he’ll do a root canal.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Verbally, the best I could manage was a whispered, “Ouch.” Seeing my reaction, he hastily added, “Not any more. The new techniques make the whole thing completely painless. You won’t feel a thing.” “Yeah!” the Hygienist added, “I just had one and I didn’t have any problems at all.”

Well, to quote Donald Sutherland from the movie “Kelly’s Heroes,” with all these positive waves, how could I lose? I returned to my office and called the specialist, an endodontist. His receptionist was similarly upbeat. “You won’t even feel the Novocain injection.”

Buoyed by optimism, I faced the coming event with a sort of pragmatic peace.

Then, I talked to some of my colleagues. This is the one thing you should never do. First of all, most of the stories they tell are second, third, or fourth-hand accounts and suffer varying departures from the truth. Secondly, there are those who will wax authoritatively upon subjects about which they are neither qualified nor trained. However, because we know them, we tend to give these accounts great weight. I mean, think about it; how could someone with a degree in accounting know so much about brain surgery, anyhow?

As I recounted my hopeful tale to one of my friends, he started to grin and silent laughter began to convulse his body. Defensively, almost defiantly, I declared, “They told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.”

He shook his head. “Or they could have told you the truth. ‘Mr. Couey, you’ll be subjected to two hours of unshirted hell that would test the limits of Jack Bauer, during which you’ll scream for mercy and beg for the blessed release of death. If you survive the procedure, the ensuing weeks will be marked by severe pain, sleepless nights, and malnutrition from your mouth being too sore to chew. The good thing is that at the end of this ordeal, your experience will have prepared you to endure any conceivable method of torture and interrogation. You’ll be a better American for it.’ He shook his head. “You see, once they get you strapped into the chair, it’s too late to say no. And in a Dentist’s office, no one can hear you scream.”

Then, he patted me gently on the shoulder, and in an outrageously lame attempt to be comforting, said, “Seriously though, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

So, having heard two wildly different sides of the story, I find myself hard-pressed to decide which one is the most factual. Nevertheless, in compliance with “The Code,” I am determined to face this upcoming trial with the same stoic courage that sustained Nathan Hale during the ultimate test of his valor and patriotism.

Even though I’ll probably be a weepy little girlie-man inside.

"Time Flies"
A Custom Wood Carving from
www.beauhavenwoodworking.com

A couple of months ago, I penned a sentence in another essay about the passage of time:

“As children, we rush along, impatient to grow up. We them spend our adulthood sadly wondering why we didn’t take our time.”

That sentence has been bouncing around inside my brain since, teasing and tormenting me in the way that elusive ideas sometimes do. We humans have an uncertain relationship with the passage of time. Scientifically speaking, time is always the same. Whether seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, or decades, they all pass at the same rate. The last five minutes of a timed test, or five minutes of a root canal is the same five minutes. What changes is our perception of that time.

It’s a universal part of the human experience that when times are good, the minutes tick by like posts beside a speeding car. In bad times, those same minutes seem to crawl by at a speed that would make a glacier look like Jamaican Gold Medalist Usain Bolt. Also, as we grow older, the passage of days seems to accelerate. But science aside, perception is what governs our view of time.

My wife and I recently spent a week in the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, along with one of our daughters and her husband. It was a busy time. We golfed, shopped, toured, snorkeled, and boated our way through those seven days, spending very little time actually enjoying what I call “perfect indolence.” Among the blizzard of memories of flying golf balls, endless shops and cantinas, and Mayan ruins, the clearest recollection was, for me, the 2 or 3 hours I spent just floating in the pool under the hot Caribbean sun. As a writer, I have a very busy brain. It’s always engaged in dreaming up new ideas, crafting new essays, or editing what I’ve already penned. This activity is both exhilarating and exasperating, but tremendously fulfilling. But every brain needs down time, when a person can lie still for a time, the head completely empty and idle. Some folks don’t seem to understand that concept. Their idea of a vacation is to squeeze as much activity into that period of time as they possibly can. Or, as I overheard one vacationer grump, “We paid good money for this vacation, and we’re not going to waste a minute of it lying around in the pool.”

I can understand that. In 2002, my motorcycle and I took off for nine glorious days in the American southwest. Each day consisted of endless hours on the road, with occasional stops to marvel at nature at its grandest. Those long days recalled the family trips of my youth the goals of which were governed not by a destination, but by the experience of the trip itself. In both cases, the days flew by. And at the end of both trips, I was left with the distinct feeling that those days hadn’t really been 24 hours long; that somehow, I had been cheated by the clock. And yet, I remember the end of my 6th grade year. The final three days, the teachers had pretty much given up trying to impart any more knowledge to their impatient and increasingly unruly students. So, after an obligatory hour of attempted academics, we were turned loose onto the playground for the rest of the day. For a while, it was fun. But, by the afternoon of the second day, I was beginning to feel some boredom. And the clock ground to a halt. That last day in particular, as I recall it lasted at least 18 hours, rather than the six-and-a-half that it actually was. At one point, I even asked the teacher if I could go inside for awhile.

I remember a similar situation in the Navy. We were in the Indian Ocean, off Australia when I received the Red Cross message that my mother, who was suffering from terminal cancer, was near death. My ship sent me over to the aircraft carrier USS Ranger, where I was supposed to catch a flight to shore. But, because of the large number of emergency leave cases, Ranger’s command made the decision to keep us aboard until the ship made port in Perth, two days later. For a sailor on a deployed ship, there’s very little downtime. Most workdays last between 14 and 18 hours, longer for watchstanders. When you’re not on watch, you’re working, so the days pass relatively quickly. However, being temporarily assigned, I had no work to do; nothing to pass the hours. I thought those two days would never end.

A clock, despite how we might perceive it, lives in its own world. It ticks relentlessly, inexorably along, taking no notice of the human events swirling around it. In and of itself, it has no intrinsic value. But for us, time can be either be an asset or a liability depending solely on what we choose to do with it.

And in the end, the only real way to determine the value of time past is not in the number of a clock’s revolutions, but in the accumulation of regrets.

The First Snow

Somerset, PA Daily America, November 30, 2009

The days that populate the time between the last of the fall leaves and that first snow are bland and colorless. Bare-limbed trees stand watch over fields of grass, dead and browned; no flowers bloom. The wind, delightfully cool during October, now blow cold, every breath containing sharp edges. Even on the sunniest of those ever-shortening days, it is a monochrome landscape; a world cast in sepia tones. But, the arrival of that first blanket of snow softens and brightens the world. Dull brown is covered by brilliant white and the earth becomes beautiful.

There’s something marvelously magical and exciting about the first snowfall of the season. You see it first as an occasional white streak on an otherwise dreary day. Then, a few more flutter down, and eventually, the very air becomes alive. The ground turns white and the world is transformed.

Snowfall is curiously hypnotic. Rarely do the flakes fall straight down. They flutter and dance in response to the unseen winds, even moving upwards close to buildings. They seem to reflect the moods of the storms that create them. When the winds are high, the flakes move in urgent angles, seemingly in a hurry to reach some unknown destination. Yet, on calm nights, they drift down softly, even dreamily to land soundlessly on the blanket of white that waits to receive them. Even though they share paths and directions en masse, each individual flake still possesses an independence of movement, unlike their warmer cousins the raindrops which always fall drone-like in straight lines. But, whatever the mood, whatever the pace, I am ever drawn to the window to watch, lost in fascination. It is grace and artistry as only Nature can produce.

The excitement of this event touches us all. For children, the sight of snowfall brings bright anticipation of sledding, snowmen, snowball fights, and the possibility of a precious day of freedom from school. Even adults feel changed. As jaded as we would like to pretend to be, the arrival of snow breaks up the daily routine in the most delightful ways. Our daily commute, having been Xeroxed into dull routine, becomes a challenge, even an adventure. Upon our arrival at work, the very air seems alive with talk of the weather. Everyone has a story to tell. Throughout the day, we sneak glances out the window, gauging the accumulation and wondering silently, perhaps hopefully, if The Boss might cut us loose early. Most times, when the storm ends relatively early, we all feel a bit let down by the return to normality. But once in a while, the snow keeps coming and we are left with a world transformed.

Once the clouds pass and the sun returns, the world becomes a different place. The landscape, once dull and lifeless, now wears a blanket that flawlessly covers the land. As you walk or ride along, the sunlight catches the angles of millions of crystalline flakes, turning the surface into a glittering quilt of diamonds. The winter sky, a dome of startlingly vivid blue arcs overhead and the air, free of haze or fog, gives distant objects a sharp clarity: Nature in HD. Despite the cold, the spirit soars, eyes light up, and smiles come easy. We are moved by a sense of playful urgency, knowing that the day will be short and we have but a few precious hours in which to enjoy it. Almost before we realize it, the shadows grow long as the sun races for the horizon. We feel the touch of that deeper chill; the approach of the night.

We trudge for home, knowing that a warm meal waits. After dinner, we settle in front of a fireplace and watch as the flames curl hungrily, sensuously around the logs, accompanied by the snap of sparks and the comforting smell of woodsmoke. As time passes, our diurnal natures take hold and the eyes become heavy. In July, to retire this early would have been a senseless waste of daylight. But now, the ancient instincts for hibernation take over, and we stumble to our feet and retire.

Just before crawling under the covers, though, we go to the window for one more look. The full moon hangs above, the gentle light reflecting off the snow. The world glows in the soft, silvery luminescence, painting a scene so beautiful and so peaceful that even the most jaded among us feel a stirring of emotion.

The winter is long, and eventually snow will lose is lovely appeal. There is, we discover, no romance in wielding a shovel. We will become grim to its arrival and numb to its presence. And by April, may actually feel some frustration as we yearn for the warmth of spring.

But that is months away. At this moment, there is nothing more magical or beautiful than that first snow of winter.

Roots...and Rootlessness

An Autumn sunset over Lake Somerset in Pennsylvania

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, November 27, 2008
“Where are you from?”

This is a question that usually sparks an immediate response. For most of us, there is that one piece of geography from which we sprung, where family resides and memories lie thickly upon the land, like an autumn fog. It’s the place that when we think of it, brings a sense of joy; of belonging; of identity. This slightly abridged quote from George Eliot which appeared at the beginning of the Civil War epic “Gods and Generals” helps define the idea:

A human life, I think, should be well-rooted in some area of native land where it may get the love of tender kinship, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference. The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one's own homestead.
- George Eliot

For Pennsylvanians, especially those around here, the crenellated terrain of the Laurel Highlands is home. Many who live around here can trace their familial lineage back several generations without leaving Cambria or Somerset Counties. For them, the old Mexican adage rings true: "Mis raíces estan aquí." Which roughly translates as, “My roots are buried here.”

But home is not just a place on a map; its not just where you happen to be. It’s where you’re from, the place that brings a smile and a sense of belonging when you go there. It is a place of love and warmth, a shelter from the storms of life. There, we can drop the mask we are so often forced to wear. There, we can unshoulder the burdens we’ve had to bear. There, we know we are safe. It is truly defined as a place of the heart.

We’re now moving into the time of year when thoughts of “home” drift to the forefront of our consciousness. Thanksgiving and Christmas are traditionally when families gather, whether from just down the road, or from across the globe. In fact, one might make the case that for many devoted families, the literal meaning behind those holidays is not as important as is "The Gathering." For a few precious days, we rekindle the love and connections; we laugh, play and break bread. We share our separate lives with each other. And when we part, we take with us a treasured collection of happy memories.

My family has always had a sense of rootlessness. Even before I was married, I had already lived in Tennessee, California, and Missouri, three distinctly different areas. Since my wife and I were wed, we’ve lived in Missouri twice, Hawaii, California, Virginia, and now Pennsylvania. When people ask me “Where’s home?” I usually reply, “Wherever the motorcycle’s parked,” to which my wife readily responds, “What am I? Chopped liver?”

I’ve spent most of my life in Missouri. But when I go there, I don’t feel any particular sense of belonging or connection. Since both of my parents passed away, that sense of disconnect has deepened.

I’m not trolling for sympathy here, because I’ve always had a fascination for the possibilities of what lies beyond the horizon. I get restless if I’m in one place for too long, which partially explains my fascination (or obsession, if you prefer) with motorcycles. My wife, in sharp contrast, is from Hawaii and has a very deep spiritual connection to the islands. Her very large family still lives there and gathers frequently, an experience she misses more than she’s willing to admit. She goes back at least once every year or two around New Years and spends a couple of weeks basking in the love of her family, much the same way others bask in the warm tropical sun. We don’t let that apparent contradiction divide us. I understand her need for roots, as she understands my lack of concern for them.

For me, "home" is not so much a place as a state of mind. As the holidays approach and our family begins to gather from their own far-flung homes, I know I will feel that sense of belonging, that quiet feeling of peace and joy I get when I look around the room and see the glowing faces of our family reunited.

My roots are not buried here; in fact, they're not buried anywhere. My roots, such as they are, are interwoven with the unassailable bonds of family. Wherever we gather, there lies my home.

9/11: The Legacy of Sacrifice

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, September 7, 2008
Rushville (IN) Republican, September 11, 2008

Seven years ago this week, in the space of two hours, the world was changed. Our nation was changed. We were changed.

We were suddenly and brutally taken from a world of the familiar and plunged into another world. A world of dark uncertainty. A world dominated by shock, pain and horror.

At first, our senses refused to accept the reality of the images transmitted to us. Desperately, we were hoping that the disaster unfolding before our eyes was some Hollywood concoction, or perhaps just a bad dream.

But as time passed, we had to accept the fact that our worst nightmare had become reality.

This week, we remember.

We remember the shock, the sorrow and, yes, the anger we felt that morning.

We remember the horror we felt as we watched the deaths of innocent people.

But we also remember those moments on that terrible day when we reached out to each other and found comfort, discovering that for those linked by the common experience of a terrible tragedy, there is no such word as “stranger.”

For Pennsylvanians, like New Yorkers and the folks at the Pentagon, 9/11 is a personal memory, although it certainly could be said that, for Americans, everything that happened that day was personal. Because the clearest memories are personal memories.

This week, we especially remember the passengers and crew of Flight 93; people, who when confronted with the face of terror and the threat of death, set aside their fears, and acted with extraordinary courage and unity.

Their united act was a bright ray of light on what was one of the darkest days in America’s history.

They embodied the words of President Reagan, when he said, “They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong.”

They have been continually described as “ordinary Americans.” But to their loved ones, they were far from ordinary.

They were husbands and wives, loved and adored by their spouses.

They were sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, cherished by their families.

And they were fathers and mothers, loved and idolized by their children.

Before they were heroes to us, they were already heroes to them.

The heroes of Flight 93 have taught us the importance of standing up when our fear tells us to sit down; to step forward when our fear urges us to stand still; to be strong when our fear compels us to be weak.

We must take that sense of purpose and make it part of what we are so that the memory of those who fell on Sept. 11 will live on through us all.

Their loss will continue to have meaning only as long as we are willing to remember the circumstances and character of their passing.

On Sept. 11, 2001, America suffered a great tragedy. But as the smoke cleared on that terrible day, we learned that although we had been badly wounded, we were not defeated. We were bowed, but never broken.

On this week of remembrance, we walk in the footsteps of those whose memory we honor by choosing action over inaction; choosing courage over fear; and choosing to look past our differences and stand united.

This is their legacy to us.

A Peaceful Interlude

Adieu, la Saison de L'ete; Adieu, Doux Jours de la Jeunesse

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, September 21, 2008
Waterbury, CT Republican-American, September 12, 2009

Farewell, the season of Summer;
Farewell, the Sweet Days of Youth

Youth is like a summer’s day. Seemingly endless in its passage, it is a curious mix of living in the moment and racing to the next. There are times of manic energy, and others of perfect indolence. Time has no meaning, for tomorrow is just another version of today. The only measuring stick is the number of days left until the clanging school bell once again makes the clock and calendar relevant and meaningful.

Youth, like summer, is a time for games. The rules are made up on the spot, and any infraction can be whisked away by the liberating words “do-over!” Interest in one game will wane, only to be quickly replaced with another. Alliances among friends shift constantly as the teams change. And in-between, the restful moments in the shade, sipping lemonade from glasses also sweating in the heat.

There is never a schedule, never a plan. The dawn of each day heralds a new adventure, one to be explored to its fullest. Maybe today it’s swimming, or ball, or fishing. We’ll play with our toys, and live for a few hours in a pretend world of our own making. Or just race aimlessly around the yard, if for no other reason than we’re young and we can.

Our imagination runs wild and free. An empty box becomes a fort on some lonely frontier, an airplane soaring among the clouds, or a starship on a mission to distant planets. A bicycle gives us wings, the wind streaming past our ears with a sense of speed. Maybe today we’ll clothes-pin a couple of cards on the rear wheel and become a lone warrior on a Harley, roaring across the limitless expanse of the Great Plains, racing the sunset towards the horizon.

The long, glorious days are broken only by special interludes. The family vacation, loading up the car, and cresting the distant horizon to marvel at worlds unknown. Trips to the zoo, the amusement park, or the county fair. The ballpark also clings to memory. The warm, humid nights sitting in bleachers while far above, bugs of infinite variety orbit hypnotically around the bright lights.

Popsicles and ice cream; movies and popcorn. Dad firing up the grill on Saturday evening, sending the delicious smell of hamburgers wafting across a yard already aromatic with fresh-cut grass. Those long, purple twilights, when even the sun seems reluctant to go indoors as we relentlessly squeeze every last remaining moment from the day.

Once the sun is gone, perhaps there is still time to lie in the grass, look up, and wonder at the stars while sharing deep secrets with your best friend. Maybe Mom will help set up the tent in the back yard, and for one special night, what was familiar territory becomes as exotic as the wild Serengeti.

Youth, like Summer, is meant to be savored and treasured; lingered over until the last vestiges are gone. As children, we rush along, impatient to grow up. We then spend our adulthood sadly wondering why we didn’t take our time. And as the years inexorably pass, those wonderful, golden memories become dreamily indistinct, like the view through the sides of a frosted glass.

Because when the sun finally sets on this most special of seasons; when carefree youth gives way to careworn age; when the endless hours finally do end, it is a day, and a time, that is gone forever.

Lead, Follow, Or Get Out of the Way

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 27, 2008
Over the past several months, a controversy has developed over the sale of the last piece of land required for the construction of the permanent memorial to the passengers and crew of Flight 93 on 9/11. As the parties involved have squabbled back and forth, public exasperation has grown. This essay was an attempt to give voice to that exasperation.

Many of us have watched, with no small amount of disgust, as the drama over the Flight 93 Memorial has played out on the airwaves and front pages of the region. What should have been a simple land purchase has taken on the drama of a soap opera. Both sides in the dispute have made pious proclamations to the rest of us through the media blaming each other for the apparent impasse. I'll not waste valuable column inches rehashing the issues here, except to voice my impression that nobody's being completely honest.

This is not terribly unique. We all remember the charges and counter-charges sailing through the air as New York City tried to reach a consensus on the design and execution of the memorial planned for Ground Zero. For some reason, these memorials have become focal points for clashing political views. The problem with that, of course, is through that process, the meaning and the point that lies behind the existence of such memorials becomes obscured, even tarnished.

The memories of that day are beginning to fade from the collective consciousness. The shock, outrage, and sorrow that almost all of us felt are being replaced, it seems, by a regrettable amount of cynicism. This cynicism has been brought on by the use of the attacks, by both parties, as political brickbats on an electoral battlefield that is rapidly devolving into a conflict with all the elegance of a classic Five Points brawl.

A lot happened on September 11, 2001. Four airliners were hijacked. Three were deliberately crashed into landmarks symbolic of American economic and military power. The first three happened in comparatively rapid succession and the evidence suggests that the passengers aboard those ill-fated jets were probably only dimly aware of the magnitude of the disaster unfolding that morning. Consequently, there was no time for passengers to mount any resistance, or for the people in the targeted structures to evacuate.

Flight 93 was different. Heavy traffic delayed their departure, which meant that when the aircraft left the runway at 8:42 a.m., Flights 11, 175, and 77 were already airborne. In fact, the terrorists had already assumed control of the first two aircraft and were in that process on Flight 77. For reasons that remain murky, the takeover of Flight 93 didn't occur until 9:28, 46 minutes into the flight. Within 4 minutes, passengers began calling people on the ground, and in that process, hearing for the first time about the terrible events occurring in New York and Virginia. The passengers, according to conversations with family on the ground, decided to fight back. At 9:57, the counter-attack began. Six minutes later, as they finally broke into the cockpit, Flight 93 rocketed into the ground in a reclaimed strip mine near Shanksville. (Timetable from the 9/11 Commission Report)

Many, many words have been written and spoken about the courage of those passengers and crew. The quote that really sums it up for me actually comes from Ronald Reagan: "They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong." Their actions were so quintessentially American in nature; refusing to be victims, disdaining surrender, disregarding the odds and the danger, they stood up and fought back. Their grim determination to resist expressed in the words of Todd Beamer: "Let's Roll."

That's what makes a memorial so important, so vitally necessary. The memory of their valor must not be allowed to fade.

I don't know the issues that stand between the parties and closing this deal, and frankly I don't really care. It's time for both sides to step back and remember why this memorial exists in the first place. As Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain once said of Gettysburg,

"Heroism is latent in every human soul, however humble or unknown. In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays. Spirits linger to consecrate the ground. And generations that know us not, shall come to this field to ponder and dream; and the power of the vision will pass into their souls."

Please. Do whatever it takes to make it happen. Summon up the same kind of selfless courage displayed by those the memorial will honor.

Or if that doesn't work for you, just get out of the way.

The Measure of a Man

The Vitruvian Man, from the Da Vinci Code Research Guide

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, Sunday October 12, 2008

What is the measure of a man?

A man is measured by his integrity. He tells the truth, even when the truth is painful. His word is his bond. When he makes a promise, there is never any doubt his promise is good. To quote Mahatma Ghandi, “I hold that a man, who deliberately and intelligently takes a pledge and breaks it, forfeits his manhood.”

A man is measured by his strength. Yes, he is strong, physically. But he is measured more by that strength that lies within. It is his resolution and courage, as Theodore Roosevelt said, “…of power to do without shrinking the rough work that must always be done.” In times of crisis and danger, when no one else dares to step forward and act, the man does this without hesitation. Especially when this act places his own safety in jeopardy.

A man is measured by his commitment. He takes his friendships seriously. He will support the good things, and not be afraid to call someone out who is doing wrong, even when he knows it may cost him that friendship. He treats women with respect and honor, but not obeisance. His love is not given cheaply, but must be earned. Once earned, that love will always be there, a rock to cling to no matter how terrible the storms of life. A man understands that fatherhood is the ultimate experience of manhood. He knows instinctively that he must lead, and be the unbending moral and ethical rudder for his offspring. And the clearest of all examples of what it means to be an adult. Mario Cuomo once said of his father, “I watched a small man with thick calluses on both hands work fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I saw him once literally bleed from the bottoms of his feet, a man who came here uneducated, alone, unable to speak the language, who taught me all I needed to know about faith and hard work by the simple eloquence of his example.”

A man is measured by the company he keeps, therefore he chooses his real friends with care. If he associates with men of strong character, high morals and ethics, and unbreakable determination, then he will also be known by these attributes. If he associates with those of dishonest, dishonorable, or even criminal character, then he will be tarred with that same brush. His honor is his most treasured possession and he knows that as his children see the behaviors that he honors in the quality of his associations, they will instinctively strive to emulate those qualities in their relationships. As Thomas Carlyle said, “Show me the man you honor, and I will know what kind of man you are, for it shows me what your ideal of manhood is and what kind of man you long to be.”

A man is measured by his discipline. He knows fully the terrible power of his anger and physical strength, and that there is no honor or justification in unleashing such power on the small and the weak. He knows that his anger, like a wild stallion, must be kept corralled and under control at all times. He knows that doing wrong is easy, and that doing right is, at times, terribly difficult, even painful. Yet, he makes these choices without hesitation, for he knows that the choices he makes not only reflect on him, but understands that his children are always watching.

A man is measured by his compassion. When he sees those in need, he steps forward. He understands the limitations of a growing child, and acts with firm patience when they stray. He will not walk away from people in difficulty, but will lend a hand whenever and wherever needed. He will always stand up for the weak, and will not tolerate abuse anytime he witnesses it. When he is asked to give of his time, talents, energies, and skills in the cause of service to others, he accepts with a willing heart and ready hands. What is the measure of a man? That which lies in the heart and soul of a man. That is the measure of a man.

A man is measured by his humility. He knows that no one, least of all him, is right all the time. He knows that being human means being capable of mistakes. When he makes a mistake, he owns up. When he does wrong, he steps up. He knows that an apology is not mere words, but a true commitment to change. When he is praised, he accepts it with modesty and gratitude. He does not blow his own horn because he knows the truth in the old Japanese adage, “A man should not speak of his deeds; his deeds should speak for him.”

As men, we will always be held to a high standard. We must choose to rise to that level and live up to those expectations. None of us live in a vacuum; there are too many others who depend upon us and look up to us and we must earn that trust and that respect.

And perhaps, when we reach the end of our days, we will be measured by the highest honor of all. That those we leave behind, whether family, friend, or foe, will say of us:

“He was a Good Man.”

Today, as History

Four Immortals: Gehrig, Speaker, Cobb, and Ruth.
(Unable to locate original attribution, probably the New York Times.)

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, July 6, 2008

Glasgow, KY Daily Times, July 3, 2008

One of the limitations of perspective is our inability to recognized the passage of history. Over the weekend, my wife and I made a trip up to the Poconos to celebrate our 30th anniversary. This, of course, included the de rigueur trip to a casino for her, in this case the Mt. Airy facility near Mt. Pocono. While she was performing her usual brilliantly instinctive outwittery of the slot machines, I wandered around. I don’t gamble. The last lucky moment I had was the day I met her. As far is I’m concerned, she IS the jackpot. I’ll never be that lucky again.

In my wanderings, I happened across a spritely old man in a Yankees cap. I struck up a conversation with him about (what else?) baseball, although it wasn’t really much of a conversation. He yarned; I listened. Anyway, at one point, he talked about a magical day when his father took him to Yankee Stadium. He thinks it was 1927. He spoke of the thrill of watching his heroes, particularly Ruth and Gehrig, as they thoroughly thrashed their opponents, the Philadelphia A’s. On that magical day, he saw both men crank out enormous home runs and he talked about how he leapt from his seat, cheering lustily. He said, “I don’t have a really good memory for many things anymore (I’m 91, y’know) but I remember that day, and those home runs like it was 15 minutes ago.” He turned towards me, his eyes lighting up. “Y’know, Ty Cobb was in that game as well. He’d come over from Detroit. He was at the end of his career, but he was still a gladiator on the diamond.”

Ruth, Gehrig, Cobb.

Today, those names are mythic legends. For any baseball fan, the thought of being in the stands and seeing three players of that caliber on the same field on the same day enters the realm of daydreams.

After we parted, a snippet of memory forced its way out of the fog of my yesterdays. It was a hot, humid summer night in Kansas City and my Mom had taken me to old Municipal Stadium to watch a game between the beyond-forlorn A’s and the Yankees. Knowing what a big fan that I was, she sprung for box seats (at a ridiculously exorbitant $3.50 a pop). We walked into the venerable old stadium and, leaving her behind, I sprinted down the chipped concrete steps to the railing. To my left, a big fella in Yankee road gray was talking to some folks in the seats. He finished the conversation and turned to go back to his warmups. As he turned, his eye fell upon me. He smiled briefly, and in an Oklahoma drawl asked, “How ya doin’, kid?” I was speechless as he jogged back to the field. On his retreating back was that singular, magical number 7.

I had just been face-to-face with Mickey Mantle.

During that sometimes misspent youth, I watched other players who would become legends, mostly on television. Koufax, Drysdale, Killebrew, Gibson, the Robinsons of Baltimore, Mays, McCovey, and yes, Mazeroski, Clemente, and Stargell. At the time, I never thought about history. I simply watched them play. But my Dad, always the deep thinker, brought me face-to-face with history on the evening of July 20, 1969. As we waited breathlessly for Armstrong’s first steps on the moon, he leaned over and putting his hand on my shoulder, said, “Remember this moment. This is history.”

Since then, I’ve tried to be more aware of the passage of singular moments in time, and the singular people who inhabit them, trying to recognize and remember them. These moments are still happening around us. A few weeks ago, my wife and I watched a crippled Tiger Woods not only make a late charge to tie a major tournament, but win the thing in sudden death. As anyone with even a nodding acquaintance with the game of golf knows, Tiger is writing history almost every time he steps on a course. He is one of those singular athletes that come along perhaps once in a century, whose greatness and dominance of the game simply outshines everyone else. In the 30’s, a runty, malformed horse named Seabiscuit dominated racetracks across the country, mainly out of sheer grit and determination, still winning races at the impossible age of 7 (senescence for a racehorse). In the 80’s, the NBA gave us Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, following with Michael Jordan. These people captured our imagination, giving us performances that were simply astonishing.

In this day and age, I wonder sometimes. Who are the immortals we watch now? Who will be the ones about which our grandchildren will breathlessly ask, “Did you ever see him play?”

I think at times, we spend too much time ruing the past and fretting the future. There are remarkable moments filled with remarkable people who are happening right now. Take the time to watch and form some precious memories.

Embrace your todays.

Why Do We Ride?

Hull Canyon, south of Jerome, Arizona

Motorcycling is difficult to explain to the uninitiated. In fact, it’s difficult to explain to the initiated, a conversation that usually starts and ends with,

“You know.”
“Oh, yeah.”

Somehow the quest to capture the essence of that experience defies articulation. Oh, we can talk endlessly about sunny spring days gliding along country lanes, the air rich with the scents of new flowers and freshly turned earth.

Or ripping through winding mountain roads, balancing the centripetal against the centrifugal on a knife-edge of lunacy.

Or roaring across the limitless expanse of the Great Plains at the end of a long summer’s day, racing the sunset towards the horizon.

But, to someone who has never actually done these things, the full understanding will remain forever elusive, hovering just beyond the bounds of their conscious awareness.

However, once you climb aboard the machine and take to the roads, that knowledge will become clear. Not like a bolt from the blue, but gently and subtly, like the soft breeze of a June afternoon. As with love, it is a sense more easily felt than described. But in that moment when the Zen-like transformation is complete, the experience of the ride becomes elevated to a higher plane of existence. The burdens and distractions of mortal life fade into irrelevancy to be replaced by a symphony of life where all five senses are engaged and working with the precision and beauty of a Brandenburg Concerto.

To those of us who ride, a motorcycle will never be just a machine. It will always be that ticket to adventure, a way of leaving the mundane and passing through the musty wardrobe into a world of beauty and adventure; a place where possibilities are as limitless as the universe that surrounds us. A couple of hours spent in this way clears the mind and recharges the soul. More importantly, your soul, however bruised and battered, is made whole again. Once again, you become the master of your destiny, instead of a victim of circumstance.

Treasure every ride; take from each a small piece of joy and tuck it away in a secret place in your soul. There you will build a small spiritual Eden, the memories of which will forever free you from the prison of life’s routine.

Don’t bother trying to explain all this to anyone; they will never understand.

But your heart will.

Moto-Macho

Moto-Macho

Two years ago, I sold my motorcycle. For those who don’t ride, I’m not sure I can clearly convey the emotional trauma of such an event. The years and miles that unroll ‘neath man and machine really aren’t “ownership” as much as “relationship.” As riders know full well, you may own the machine, but the machine possesses you.

So, you ask, why sell? Well, the bike had 95,000 miles and, truthfully, I was ready for a new machine. The plan was to wait until winter had subsided, then “spring” for a new ride. Unfortunately, some high-priority expenses laid claim to the meager resources allocated for the bike.

The realization that I would be bike-less for the summer hit hard. For me, riding is not an exercise in transportation. It is an experience of the heart and soul; a spirit freed from the mundane to fly free from horizon to horizon. The roar of an engine is the siren song of the open road, the call of freedom…

Yeah, I know. Blah, blah, blah….

So I did what most men in my situation do: I moped. I became a skilled professional moper. If there had been an Olympic Moping team going to Beijing, I would have been its captain. Predictably, this drove my poor wife bananas. Last June, she took pity on me, and in one of her extremely rare moments of rash decision-making, she suggested that we rent a motorcycle and take a trip together.

What followed was a marvelous 6-day adventure on a Honda Goldwing (bells and whistles included) through the mountains and seashores New England. We had a great time, although I learned that it was far better to have the world’s most vociferous driving critic at an arm’s length, rather than draped across my back. (That helmet slap really gets your attention.) I was ecstatic, thinking this was the thing to put the bike purchase over the top.

Last August, however, we realized that her car would have to be replaced. Her ride, a once-elegant 1992 Park Avenue Ultra has run the gauntlet of four teen drivers and now looks like a good candidate for a Demolition Derby. Bowing to the inevitable squeeze between needs and resources, I glumly surrendered to the necessity of putting off the bike purchase for yet another year.

Hoping to forestall another outbreak of the mopes, she brightly suggested, “If you want to ride that badly, just take my bike.” I blanched in horror. Her bike is a 22-year-old Honda Helix scooter. I protested that it needed repairs before I could entrust it to my 60-mile round trip commute. Usually, this works, since she hates to see me spend money. But I had underestimated her resolve. Affixing a steady gaze, she intoned, “Go ahead.” The Clint Eastwood tag line “Make my day” went unsaid, being perfectly superfluous in this case.

I took the bike to my trusted wrench, Jake, the magician of Cernic’s. He accepted the machine with his thin face wearing the grim look of a surgeon who knows that the odds are against this particular patient. He seemed to understand perfectly when I whispered, “Take your time – please.” But although Jake is a fellow “guy” he is a complete professional and all too soon, I received the slightly apologetic call that the bike was ready.

A few days later, I stood in the garage staring morosely at the Helix. Finally, with one last longing glance at my manly, hairy-chested (but gas-guzzling) 4-wheel drive SUV, I climbed aboard. The engine, nursed expertly by Jake’s skilled hands, turned over instantly. Instead of the accustomed throaty rumble of a powerful V-twin, I heard the scooter’s wimpy-by-comparison lawn mower “putt-putt”. I rolled on the throttle and slowly headed north.

Despite the struggle in climbing hills, it really wasn’t too bad. Once again, I enjoyed the wide-open feeling of life on two wheels. And after only a few miles, I discovered that, doggone it, I was actually enjoying myself.

My dilemma now was how to hide this rediscovered joy from my wife, lest she conclude that I’d be permanently happy with the Helix.

Returning to Somerset, I passed a gas station, the parking lot filled with a crowd of iron and chrome, out for an afternoon ride. I caught the eye of one of the do-ragged, black-leathered riders. Raising my chin in the time-honored male challenge, I blipped the throttle of my mighty scooter. He responded, first with a look of incredulity, then a laugh, starting deep within his ample belly and spreading throughout his large frame. We all shared that laugh, and I pulled away to a chorus of waves. Yeah, I decided, this might not be so bad after all. Curiously, I felt I hadn’t surrendered my macho manliness. After all, two wheels are two wheels.

And besides, with the volatility of gas prices these days, 65 miles per gallon is pretty hairy-chested stuff.

Update: A few months after writing this essay, I was riding home after work when I noticed that the engine was laboring. Fortunately, I was less than a mile from home, so I continued to limp in that direction. Once in the garage and out of the bright sunshine, I saw the garish red light marked "OIL" glowing in the instrument cluster. I pulled the dipstick immediately only to discover that it was bone dry. Leaning down, I saw the cause of this disaster. The drain plug for the oil pan had somehow worked loose, allowing the oil to leak out. The engine was completely and totally fried. This turn of events puzzled me, for I had checked the oil that morning before leaving, and the weekend before I had performed my monthly bolt-and-screw-tightening maintenance. After I had considered all the possibilities, the scooter's advanced age, and it's apparent growing disgust at hauling my not-inconsiderable mass up and down the highway, I came to what could only be the final conclusion:

My Honda Helix had committed Scootercide.

Males, Middle Age, and Motorcycles

Livin' Large! The Author at Deal's Gap. Photo by Darryl Cannon, Powerhead Productions

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat April 29, 2008

Spring is a wonderful time of year. The snow has finally gone, the sun is shining warm, and from the budding trees, we can hear the glorious sound of birds, the sounds of their songs reminding us how much they have been missed. If you listen carefully, you’ll also hear another sound of spring. The sound of a husband trying to convince his wife how much he needs a motorcycle.

There are obvious reasons. Economy, price, fun…but make no mistake; for the average middle aged American male, there is another motivation, the roots of which are buried deep within.

Middle-aged men are fighting a losing battle these days. In a society where feminists rage about equality and strength, we’re still called upon to deal with spiders, rodents, and strange noises in the night. We try to treat them with fairness and equality, only to get our heads torn off when we fail to open doors for them. Society denigrates the successful among us, then summarily equates our character with our job descriptions. (Think I’m exaggerating? Eavesdrop on a group of women sometime. When talking about men, one of the first two questions is always: “What does he do?”) Our culture, also obsessed with youth and the appearance of vitality, is ruthless in the effort to push us aside, out of sight. Even our points of view, borne out of decades of facing and defeating adversity, are dismissed as being out of step with the times.

Mainly though, it’s the age thing. We blossomed during the Woodstock era, when it was okay to lead with your glands and a sense of adventure. But then something terrible happened. We grew up. We had children. We acquired mortgages and responsibilities. We lost our hair. Now we find ourselves in our 50’s, squeezed out of the “wanna do’s” of life by the “have to do’s.” Everything hurts, especially in the morning. We find ourselves athletically outdone by the youngsters we used to “school” on the courts or in the fields. We begin to hear ourselves described as “that older guy.”

We feel trapped.

Trapped by the passage of time, and the four walls of circumstance. And the sudden realization that, as Captain Picard once said, “there are fewer days ahead than there are behind.” This has been difficult for us. In the 60’s, we swore we would never get old, or if we did get old, we wouldn’t act our advanced age. So now, we find ourselves reaching for that last bit of freedom; of excitement, before the light irrevocably dims forever.

Out of that set of experiences has arisen the visceral desire to reclaim a piece of that youth, by reaching for that magical time machine known as a motorcycle.

Motorcycle ownership demographics have demonstrated an interesting shift over the past 10 years. The median age for a motorcycle owner is now 44. That’s years. For the Harley-Davidson crowd it’s even worse. The median age for them is over 50. Why is it that at the point in our lives when our reflexes have slowed, our eyes have dimmed, and our prostates have….whatever prostates do…have we turned to motorcycles?

Because in those magical moments when we are alone with the road and an unexplored horizon, the years fall away. The burdens and responsibilities are lifted and for a few fleeting moments, we are once again free….and young. We’re no longer victims of circumstance; we are masters of our destiny. We have nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

The timing has become critical as well. From age 55 on, there are a host of medical problems that we will have to face. Arthritis, diabetes, joint problems…cancer. Because of that, we feel the urgency of now! We have to ride today because tomorrow we may no longer be able to.

Yes, there are risks involved. We could be injured. We could even die. But at this point in our lives, death is no longer a far-off possibility. It has become a very real certainty, one we will face in the relative near-term. And deep within the American Male is that desire to face that moment on our own terms. Riding, even if only for a few years, will give us that last piece of self-determination. And freedom.

And that’s well worth whatever risk we could face.

Thinking About a Motorcycle?

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 3/28/2006

Thinking About a Motorcycle?

Gas prices have fallen, but consumers are still nervous about the volatility of the past, and seem to know instinctively that they could zoom once again, as dramatically as a climbing fighter jet. With that in mind, people are looking at two-wheeled conveyances with a far more speculative eye.

It’s tempting. Even big motorcycles can average better than 30 miles per gallon, while scooters can average better than 60 mpg. Practicality aside, motorcycles are just plain fun to ride.

I’ve ridden the better part of 15 years and well over 250,000 miles, the memories of which still bring a smile. I encourage people to entertain the possibility of riding. However, it’s important that folks go into this purchase with their eyes wide open.

If you are a new rider, and even if you have some past experience, the rider safety courses offered by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation are extremely valuable. Over the space of a few days, you will learn skills that would otherwise take years to acquire on the road.

I will never forget the reaction of one veteran biker. At the end of the course, when he was called up to accept his certificate and card, he said, “I thought this would be a waste of my time. In fact, I learned things here this weekend that the school of experience couldn't teach me in 25 years of riding.”

MSF has two levels, the beginning Rider Safety Course, and the Experienced Rider Course, designed for those who have at least two years of riding experience. All insurance companies convey discounts to MSF card holders. To find the schedule and location of courses, contact the local riding association or any motorcycle shop.

PART 2: WHICH BIKE TO BUY?

Deciding which bike to purchase should be a carefully thought-out process. There are several factors to consider, such as budget, how the bike is going to be used, and the experience and skill of the prospective rider. Motorcycles come in several different liveries and price ranges ranging from $4,000 to $30,000. For reference, here’s some basic information on types of street-legal bikes:

Scooters