Christmas Traditions

For many years now after the Thanksgiving feast is over and football games are but a distant memory attention turns to setting up for Christmas.  An integral part of the set up is the Dickens Village figures.  Over the years the collection has grown significantly as has the time required to set it up and to take it down (more required for the latter step).  Lest the efforts be lost to history, these photos will hopefully keep the memory fresh.

Single at 50 - Reflections at 60

Talking with a friend recently we broached the subject about how long I had been single - 10 years. The conversation focused on what surprises I'd encountered and, quite honestly, the list was fairly long.  As I thought back on our conversation, I came up with my top list of life lessons from that decade.

1) Can’t split an egg

Cooking takes on new dimensions when trying to cook for one.  Halving a recipe can be an option, but at some point scaling it down hits a roadblock – the egg.  I can halve a banana, a cup of flour, even a tablespoon of milk, but one-half of an egg still results in one whole egg.   So, the dilemma in cooking is not one of creativity and culinary skill, but one of managing leftovers and testing the boundaries of endurance eating the same meal for dinner 5 nights in a row.

 

2) A naked friend is a necessity

Not to be confused with having a friend who is naked, this is the person who can come to your house and pull you from the tub when the back spasms kick in and you’re trapped.   In some cases, this might push the boundaries of friendship, but having someone to take that call beats the heck out of spending the night on the floor where strangers can find you naked.  

 

3) It is always where you left it

Gremlins (also known as children) did not sneak into the house last night and move the car keys.   As is always the case when you live alone, the keys are where you put them.  In the refrigerator by the leftovers created by the egg that couldn’t be halved – that’s where you put them and that’s where they will be. 

 

4) Just use the good stuff

Eating from the pot on the stove or surrendering to the temptation to simply grab paper plates might seem efficient, but nothing says you have be a slob when you’re single.  Washing dishes is not criminal and takes only a few minutes.  Use the crystal and the china, then let it be a reminder to you of how special you are as a person and at the end of the day, you are worth it!

 

5) Morality is a lost art

This surprised me more than I would have expected.  Far too many people I know (especially older ones) find more excuses to jump into bed with the “new” one.  My favorite ‘excuse’ is the social security game. It goes like this, if we get married, we’ll lose some of our social security, so, we’re just going to live together instead.  I can only shake my head on this one.

 

6) Trouble with the two-brain theory

Although researchers have debunked the idea of discreet two-brain system (left vs right), I have discovered it might still have a little merit.  Without a lot of detail, soon after I became single again areas in which I lack talent became glaring shortcomings and all of them came from the right side.

 

7) Traveling is weird

Going it alone is okay and there is a lot of freedom in scheduling, but the alone part can take over.  Traveling in groups can offset some of this, but it’s not difficult to be alone in a big crowd of casual friends either.   Choices are limited – stay home or brave the weird stuff and go anyway….I go!

 

8) Divorce was not death

Although in the beginning it seemed as if life was over, it wasn’t.  As human beings, we are highly adaptable and with the passage of time new events overcame the old.  It took a while, but slowly the haze that seemed to surround me and siphon the life out of me began to lift.  As it did, it revealed a brand new world waiting to be discovered.

 

9) Being sick sucks

No way to get around this one.  The stomach bug that attacks in the middle of the night is a party of one.  What I have learned is to be a little better prepared; keep water on the nightstand and the cell phone handy – just in case.

 

10) So much to be thankful for

My family and church family, my friends, a great job, reasonably good health, kids who are all happy and settled, healthy grandkids, a nice house and reliable car, respect from the people I value most, money in the bank, and even an optimistic look toward retirement.  Life really is good!

 

Chester Gould's vision

A reminder was delivered to me this morning about how far technology has come during my lifetime. It is easy to remember black and white television, knowing which rings belonged to grandma's telephone on the party line, and marveling at Dick Tracy's two-way wrist radio. Still, to imagine that futuristic vision of technology would come to pass in my lifetime is humbling.

In many ways, I've had a front row seat to observe the changes. Watching the space program of the 1960s was the beginning as the transitor and miniturization became the trend of technology. My father purchase a Texas Instruments calculator around 1970 (a TI-SR10 I think). It was remarkable how those small red diodes could do all of the stuff that slide rule could and do it without those pesky human errors. Advancing on through my time in the Navy, I was able to watch our ship transition from morse code and HF frequency teletype signals to satellite relay networks that moved communications traffic with virtually no errors. An undergraduate degree in data processing introduced me to mainframe hardware and subsequently to microprosessor technologies. With the advent of the Internet, I watched as we expanded the interconnectivity of the world and continued the path of technology to smaller and faster.

It is against that backdrop of immense change my reminder came this morning. Sitting at my desk, unable to join several friends on a ski trip to Crested Butte, CO , I accessed a web camera sitting atop a restaurant at the base of the ski slopes. That I was able to look at the same mountain they was skiing was in small way comforting. As I watched though, it became clear three of the people standing at the base of the lift were my friends. A couple of text messages followed by a call from a cell phone one of them was holding and we confirmed with a wave that technology has linked us in a way Chester Gould could only imagine.

Grandma's ring was 2-shorts.

The Bunny Slope

It is an imposing and almost frightening sight for a beginning skier. Even the beginner slopes, as I learned on my first attempt on skis, seem more akin to vertical cliffs than what the trail map would have you to believe. There is a sanctum where pride and ego are set aside, skill is rare, and the birds of that feather are flocked together -- it is the bunny slope.

Peachtree, as it is known on the mountain, is the place where beginners go to protect themselves from themselves while gaining some mastery over the skis. As bunny slopes go, it is not the easiest of beginner slopes and actually has some incline along with a short run that requires a little work to navigate. Because it is a short slope, it's not altogther uncommon to find people, either too frustrated or too tired, carrying their skis to the bottom. It also the place where a beginner (like I was) can observe other beginners and start making sense of the mechanics of the skiing process.

After a morning of trial and error, I went back to the ski lift where my first misadventure in skiing took place to try again. Armed with the new knowledge of how to read a trial map, a knee brace, and a resolve to get to the bottom by myself, I lifted myself from the ski lift chair and began my descent. It was slow, but with each fall, the next attempt seemed to be a bit smoother and a bit easier.

I made a new friend briefly after one of the many falls. Lying in the snow trying to catch my breath, I looked up hill to see a young lady heading directly at me. Judging from the speed at which she was approaching and her comment "I don't know how to turn" confirmed she was also a beginner. The look on her face was probably just as surprised as on mine as I replied back "I can't get out of the way". The ensuring crash was cause for more than a little laughter. After exchanging our 'beginner' stories, we parted company never to meet again.

As the day wore on, I continued my onslaught against the mountain. Just a little more than one hour after embarking on this journey and after numerous falls, I finally reached the edge of the final hill. To be able to look down on the ski lodge was the mark of success I'd hoped for the entire day. Not long thereafter, I made it to the bottom and walked off to find the shuttle bus. Sitting there on the bench covered in snow with icicles dangling from the edge of my knitted cap, the slow realization overtook me that I'd actually done it -- I could ski.

In the years since, I've made trips to other locations as well as a return trip to Crested Butte, but nothing will ever beat that first trip where the Butte and I battled. Like so many things are in life, there's nothing like the first time.

Crested Butte - first touch

In just over a week, we'll be making a trip with our church group to Crested Butte, CO to go skiing and frolicking in the snow. For me, this trip marks the 2nd time I've returned since learning to snow here in 1981. While the bus rides to and from are tiring, the fun to be had there makes it all worthwhile. The "Butte" holds many fond memories and is a rich source of fanciful tales.

On my very first trip, I had the misfortune to be taken up on the mountain by an experienced skier who was going to save me from "ski school" and teach me the "right way". Unfortunately for both of us, on our first ascent up the mountain he forgot to raise the tips of his skis and fell on his face attemping to disembark from the ski lift chair. Although he tried to move out of the way, with no experience on the slopes, it was not in my power to avoid skiing up his face leaving him a 2 inch laceration on his cheek as a souvenir of our first ski lesson. My ski lesson continued by waiting for him to complete the accident forms then watching as the ski patrol put him back on the ski lift to ride back to the bottom of the slope -- without me. And there it was, the bleak reality that my first ski lesson would be a solo flight down the mountain side. To be blunt, the trip down the mountain was not a pleasant one. It ended about halfway down the mountain with me staring skyward with a twisted knee, broken pole, wounded spirits, and serious questions about my sanity. It wasn't very long before some kindly folks stopped to inform me the way to attract the ski patrol was to cross my skis over my body. This signal would let them know I was hurt. That was a handy bit of information I'd have enjoyed knowing a bit sooner. It wasn't long before the ski patrol stopped by, strapped my into the evacuation sled, and carried me to the bottom.

With nothing to show as a success, it was an inglorious end to a day rife with frustration and pain. Although day 2 was spent nursing the sore knee and contemplating the warmth of the fire, there was something magnetic about the slopes -- it could be done, people could ski -- I'd seen them and I would not be denied.

What was that they were saying about a "bunny slope"?

Grandma's Hands

As I watch my grandson growing up, it is fun to watch his unique personality emerge. Observing his mannerisms and how they frequently seem to mimic those of someone else in his life serves as a reminder of the myriad influences that shape what we are. Often the source of such influence is invisible to the casual observer – even the individual. This point was driven home some months back.

When experimenting with recipes it is not uncommon for me to estimate the measure of ingredients using my hand rather than seeking the precision of a measure cup or spoon. Over the years I've developed some accuracy using just my palm and crossing my fingers over each other to form a small bowl. Although I don't remember who first asked the question about how I held my fingers when measuring, it seemed at first to be an odd question. However, after thinking about it for bit, I wasn't really sure why I held my hand that way either. Observing the gaps between my skinny fingers led me to conclude I'd probably developed the habit to safely hold ingredients in my hand rather than allowing them to slide through the gaps to the floor. If anyone asked why (and some did), that was my answer.

Not so very long ago, while visiting with my mother, we were preparing something (biscuits, I think) in the kitchen. Looking down at her hands, I saw the same cup formed in her palm that was oft formed in mine - palm up, tip of the ring finger slightly over the edge of the index finger with the middle finger resting behind them, and the pinky dangling alongside. Given that I was not the one who taught her to cook, it seemed I now had an answer as to the source of my measuring technique. There it was, the invisible influence – her. More correctly stated it was me as a child observing her in the kitchen. Although that answered one question, it created another: why did she hold her hand that way? As one would expect, it was her mother who passed the technique to my mother.

Realizing the technique must have been passed from generation to generation in the same manner, I became quite curious as to why we did that. Were we too poor for generations to afford measuring utensils? Were we so uneducated that we didn’t understand basic math concepts – like fractions? Were we culinary wizards that evolved beyond the need for man-made kitchen gadgets? Had our family been cooking for so long that we pre-dated measuring devices? Any of these reasons would have made a great story, but none would be true. Due to an unfortunate farming accident as a child, my grandmother lost the two distal joints of her middle finger retaining only a nub. The only way she could keep things in her palm was to cross the index and ring fingers over the nub – thus – a tradition was born.

So, now I look at my grandson and wonder how he will hold his hand someday when it is time to measure ¼ cup of sugar. I wonder if he will be curious as to why?

The Alamo

Davy Crockett was quoted as saying, "You can go to hell, I am going to Texas." Having lived there and visited several times, it would at times be a difficult distinction to make. With that little disclaimer out of the way, I'll tell my tale.

As I mentioned, I've visited Texas several times and lived here for a few years, but this week I made my first trip to San Antonio compliments of the ASBDC convention. My first trip into this area surprised me in that the city seemed devoid of people. On my daily walk between hotels, I don't recall seeing more than a dozen people and not many more cars. After several days of trying to assess where the people of this city spent their days, I finally found them hanging around the Alamo, which appears to be the cultural and tourist attractant for the city.

The Alamo, as you may know, is a shrine preserved in remembrance of the valiant few that fought and died between the period of Feb. 23, 1836 and March 3, 1836 in a failed attempt to defend the borders of a fledgling republic. Led by Colonel William Travis and others including the American cultural icon Davey Crockett, the siege which set upon the the small Catholic cathedral overcame the resistance of the group who, save women and children, were killed as the battle wained under the onslaught and of the Mexican nationals.

What struck me about the Alamo was the size. For the perceived enormity of its importance in the annals of Texas' history, the church building is a small place. The church, which served as the entry point into the complex of housing and military barracks, was not more than 100 feet from front to back. Its layout was similar to that of the Vatican with a central corridor which would have housed the altar and other vestments and smaller rooms to each side accommodating the diverse needs of the worship experience. Although the entire complex of buildings stretches across several acres, the central historical focus is on the cathedral.

What may be the best representation of the battle is a diorama in the center of the gift shop for visitors. Constructed from the historical records of the buildings, the commodious complex springs to life as hundreds of miniature figures reenact the battle of 1836. Looking at the battle from an omniscient view can only lead one to consider how futile the defenders of the Alamo must have felt their efforts to be as members of the militia, international in their origin, died one by one.


There was listed among the fallen patriots one Christopher Parker of Mississippi. Given the personal roots that stretch into that state, this will be a person I must research further. Since we've already established some lineage links to the infamous Bonnie Parker (of Bonnie & Clyde fame), it would be nice to find someone with a more reputable background.

Glad I made the walk to see the place and grab another little slice of American (Texas) history to which I can say -- been there, done that.

Back in the good old days

Ran across this article from a 1947 edition of the Monroe Morning World. Based on this, it would seem the more things change, the more they remain the same. The text is difficult to read from the scanned version, so, I've typed the content to make it legible. Enjoy!

Postwar Crime

During the war a good many law enforcement officers, sociologists, and just plain people were predicting that there would be a postwar crime wave. Statistics for 1946, released by the FBI, indicate that they were right. Crime, up 7.6 per cent over 1945, now stands at a 10-year high.

It seems likely that the situation is even worse than expected. For the predictions must surely have considered the factor of widespread, if temporary, postwar unemployment. But it's safe to say that few offenders are robbing and stealing today because work isn't to be had. So the major causes of present crime must be social and emotional, rather than economic.

Some of the causes are not hard to identify. Home training suffered in many families during the war when mothers joined the ranks of the workers to help ease the manpower shortage or help support a family whose father was in the service. Thousands of school teachers left the classroom for etter-paying jobs. Their replacements were often inferior in training as well as number.

Military requirements thinned the ranks of law enforcement agencies, which in many cases are still under-staffed. And then, as FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover put it, effects of the "spirit of wartime abandon" have not yet run their course. Teenagers who grew up in the emotionally charged atmosphere of the war may be finding it hard to make adjustments and settle down. Many young veterans are at loose ends.

All this is reflect in the accent on youth which the 1946 crime figures give. More 21-year-olds were arrested than any other age group. They were followed by those of 22, 23, 24 and 20 years. Youths under 21 accounted for 16.9 per cent of the total arrested.

There are two remedies, of course, which the situation demands -- prevention and reclamation. Though the causes of most juvenil delinquency can be found at home, all parents do not have the mental, emotional, or economic equipment to cope with the problem. Communities must concern themselves with it. Decent housing, adequate schools with adequately-paid teachers, and free recreational facilities are some of the thrice-familiar but often neglected weapons.

More serious and more neglected is the problem of making good citizens out of youths who already have police records. Countless criminal histories point up the great need for intelligent, sympatheric, well-trained probation and parole officers. Treatment during the social "convalescence" of a young first offender is clearly a neglected science.

The 1946 crime figures give warning that a job must be done. Though it is difficult, our preent economic climate of full employment and reasonable prosperity makes this seem a propitious time to begin it in earnest.

It's a just a convertible

It looked like this in the beginning when the yearning to drive a small convertible first became a part of my psyche. I don't really remember the first time the Triumph TR-6 caught my attention, but it was sometime around 1973 after returning from my first cruise onboard the USS Mount Baker. As we disembarked. a shipmate took delivery of his new car. Although his was green, it looked just like the one in this picutre. For a number of reasons, both real and imagined though, I continued to talk myself out of buying one for my entire tour of duty. It always seemed to me a bit silly to live on a ship and have need of a car. That was a decision I've reflected on with some regret for the past 37 years as school, family, career, etc. gave ample cause to continue to opt out of buying a small convertible in favor or more important things. For many years, my primary mode of transport was marked by one word - functional. Even within that rather limiting descriptor, I've enjoyed a variety of vehicles although they all shared that one common trait.

Not too long ago, my most recent minivan rolled past 175,000 miles. Over the course of 10 years, aside from tires and routine maintenance, the vehicle was only in the repair shop twice. By any reasonable measure it was a reliable vehicle and well worth its $25,000 purchase price in April 2000. However, the years of wear and tear marked by soccer and softball tournaments, family vacations, and commuting to/from school took a toll on the vehicle. While nothing was 'broken', things were signalling that trouble was ahead - broken exhaust manifold bolt and an odd humming noise from the transmission topped the list. Repairs (and money to effect them) loomed in the not to distant future. Even knowing there was some expense coming in the future, it was hard to make the decision to get rid of it. The bigger question was what to buy next.

I spent a lot of time looking at crossover vehicles, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even some traditional vehicles. Yet, each time I drove by the Mazda dealership, this little silver MX-5 would catch my eye and turn my thoughts back to early 1970s. At some point, the issues of rational and functional gave way to desirable and entertaining - and, as new cars go, it really wasn't that expensive. Those seemed like good reasons to buy one. And while I'm not yet old, I'm certainly closer to the finish line than the starting gate. So, it also seemed like a good idea to buy the little convertible while I could still get in and out of it without help. Amid the laughter and comments about mid-life crisis, I took this item off my 'bucket list'.

My only regret -- should have done this years ago!

Thanksgiving 2009

Sitting alone, sipping coffee, and looking over the Internet headlines in the pre-dawn hours this Thanksgiving morning I am reminded of how quickly the year has passed to join the other unrecorded pages of history.

Marked by both high and low points, the year has given so many things for which to be thankful. In what is without question the high point of the year my first grandson arrived in January. Finding words to express the joyous feelings of that day elude me. I've likened the emotion to that of attempting to describe the color green - it simply must be experienced to be understood. I've been reminded of how quickly life changes as he learned to sit up, then crawl, and began to take his first exploratory steps. In the days that passed after his arrival my life has found a renewed since of meaning and purpose. It is something of an irony that an event which creates such joy occurs at a point in life where the finish line is closer than the starting gate. Still for the blessing of having him in my life, for his health, and for the happiness he has given me, I'm truly thankful.

2009 marked the third year of teaching in my church Life Group. The affirming support of this group of the friendships I've discovered over the past years is so very special. The challenges of trying to teach the weekly Bible study to a group that has studied the book longer than I have done are daunting. However, this has only inspired me to research more, pray more often, and work harder to bring something of value to them each week. Amid the kind remarks and many complimentary thoughts they have given to me, one truth stands out - for all they may think I've given them, they have given me so much more to be thankful for.

Even in the low points, there is still much to be thankful for. Although each of them faced personal trials during the year, my children are all now safe, working, and growing. The overwhelming life events that forced me to leave the doctoral program (for a while) opened the door to a new job has provided much needed income and security. The surgeries and health problems faced by my parents helped all of us to remember how precious and short the time we have together really is. Although an unfortunate meeting with a car tire forced me to end the life of my cat, for 20+ years he was an ongoing source of memories and mayhem. A 55th birthday reminded me of all the new and wonderful friends I've made in that past few years from all parts of the world and that there is still so much time left in which to enjoy life.

Even the simple things like shelter from the elements, a way to get from one place to another, food, clothing, and even the quiet peace that comes when watching a small bird begin its day sitting on the porch rail as the sun breaks over the horizon give pause to be thankful.

We are so blessed.

About the title line: A Time for Everything

It's from Ecclesiastes 3. The Byrds captured the spirit of much of the thought making it into a song back in the 1960's -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKHstR6ndus&feature=related.

Quoting from the NIV translation, the Bible passage goes like this:
1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: 2 a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, 3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, 4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, 5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, 6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, 7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, 8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. 9 What does the worker gain from his toil? 10 I have seen the burden God has laid on men. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 12 I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. 13 That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. 14 I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him. 15 Whatever is has already been, and what will be has been before; and God will call the past to account.

Legacies

My grandfather died on June 23, 1943 about 12 years before my birth. By profession, he was a dentist; by hobby he enjoyed his 'white lightning' on a regular basis. Other than a few bent photographs and an abandoned dental office, there was very little I knew of the man.

However, I was reminded today through chance meeting that the things we do on any given day shape the opinions of those we impact in a way that may extend well beyond our lifetime. While eating lunch today, I caught a glimpse of a person who had visited my life group class at church a few weeks ago. Leaving the restaurant I stopped by her table to say hello and was introduced to her parents. Her parents, as it turned out, lived in a small town just south of where my grandfather lived and worked in his dental practice. As it often done in the south, our initial conversation explored who our relatives were looking to establish 'kinfolk' relationships or at least a shared basis of relations. After tossing out the name of my grandmother and a couple of aunts without any recognition, I paused for a moment, then told the older gentleman that my grandfather had been a dentist. He immediately asked for my last name again and was surprised to know that Alfred was both my grandfather and his mother's dentist. As I stood there thinking how interesting it was to always find common acquaintances in the south, he began relay the story of the last time his mother saw the dentist (my grandfather). Alfred pulled the wrong tooth. So, for 65 years his legacy, at least in the mind of this one person, is captured in that single event - pulling the wrong tooth.

Moral of the story is simply this, be kind, be fair, and be gentle to everyone you meet. You never know who may be telling your life's story after you're gone.

USS Mount Baker

It was an odd feeling some weeks ago when I came across an article that the USS Mount Baker (AE-34) had been transferred from the active military fleet into the commercial support fleet. Perhaps seeing the aging ship was in some way a reminder of the simple fact that time marches on and that in our own way, each of us will follow a path similar to that of the ship.

It was an unseasonably warm late January day in 1974 when I caught up with the Mount Baker for the first time in the port of Sigonella, Sicily. The ship would, for the next couple of years, be home for what would become some of the most memorable times of my life. Because the ship was classified as an ammunition carrier, it was considered a part of the service forces that delivered supplies (bean, bullets, and black oil) to the rest of the fleet. It was not the most glamorous work, but it was diverse, educational, and sometime downright thrilling to be a part of what it did.

Although we were home ported in Charleston, SC, we were rarely in that location. Along with several transits and work in the Atlantic Ocean, we made a couple of cruises in the Mediterranean Sea as part of the Sixth Fleet and Task Force 63. There were frightening times when I learned the meaning of 'fear' most notably the day when the cables supporting the cargo load of missiles snapped and 12 nuclear warheads plummeted to the landing deck. Then there was the time the alarm sounding general quarters sounded without the familiar lead-in words 'this is a drill' and we all scrambled to battle stations hoping it was a mistake. It was also a time of horror when I watched men die in the crashing helicopter as it sank slowly beneath the surface of Mediterranean with its crew of 8 never to be seen again. I remember thinking how close to Christmas it was and thought of the sadness that awaited their families. But, those years meant much, much more for it was also a time of joy and discovery. During this time I was able to visit and enjoy the culture of the coastal regions in Spain, Italy, France, Greece, and Turkey. In those places I overlooked Athens from atop the Acropolis, walked the streets of Ephesus, and sampled cuisine that will always remain a mystery. It was a time when I saw my first whale, saw submarines and aircraft carriers, learned to repair teletypewriters, discovered computers and satellites, and began to discover who I really was.

All in all, it was a time to grow, a time to change, and a time to see the world in a new perspective - and in hindsight, perhaps some of the best years of my life.