There Is A Friend That …

What does a friend “look like” to me?  The answer is straightforward and uncomplicated.  I don’t want to have to scratch around in the background looking for my friends.  Life is complex enough without taking on complicated personalities who are like hothouse plants … or disappearing lizards.

In time, a true friend is not hard to identify.  A good friend has qualities that “go” anywhere and survive the circumstances — but not because s/he looks like what’s around her/him.  S/he will stand out from the surroundings, whatever they are.  You might say a true friend is like family, in the best sense of that word.

And while there is no perfect friend, here are a few qualities that are high on my list and which, over time, will show as the dominant traits of my friend — a friend toward whom I want to reflect these same qualities:

• Honesty — and truthfulness right along with it. There’s a difference.
• Loyalty.
• Courage.
• A Winning Attitude — not to perfection, because no one is truly always “up.”  But I don’t need a friend who’s a negative energy drain.  I’m not a garbage dump and won’t treat my friends like one.
• Friendliness — with a SMILE.
• AND the ability to LAUGH … to enjoy a funny story, especially on oneself.  If I have a friend who can laugh at herself/himself, I know I’m in good company!

“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”  Prov. 17:17

“A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.”  Prov. 18:24

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

©  May, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo by Colin Houston (col.hou on Flickr).

Cheater!

“Cheater!” she yelled, but I just kept going.

“Ignore the flak,” I thought to myself, “this is no shortcut or violation of rules.”  So I continued my steady pace down the steps of the ‘down’ escalator, even though it was moving ahead at its own plodding pace.  Careful not to bump other riders on my escalator that ran in the same direction parallel to its fuller partner in JFK International Airport in New York City, I was cruising faster than other riders precisely because I was walking.  I was running late, needed to reach my flight at an outlying gate — the last flight to Seattle for the evening.  Guess my hurry offended a female rider on the adjoining escalator.

As I turned briefly to look at her glaring at me, I noted that she was young (probably late twenties) and carrying only a handbag slung over her shoulder.  Best I could tell, she was not disabled in any way and could have walked, too. But for some unknown reason, she chose to stand her ground and yell at me.  Oh, well.

As I reached the bottom of the escalator and stepped off, I hurriedly covered the distance to a second down escalator that dumped me off just before a turn, after which one of three moving walkways, each in succession, came into view and would take me nearer my gate faster than I could walk on “solid ground.”  Marked with signs that said to move to the right to stand, to the left to walk, the walkways were there for all.  I moved to the left and continued my brisk pace forward, passing several riders in the process without bumping or being rude to anyone.  On the second of the three motorized walkways, another woman chose to yell “cheater!” at me after I passed.

Now my curiosity was triggered. “What the heck is that about?” I asked myself as the analytical corner of my brain started searching for answers at this second accusation.  One heckling remark could go unanswered, but two in a short time required an  answer.  After all, if I was offending someone — two someones, in this instance — I needed to know why in order to avoid further offense.  So the analysis began:

• I’m in New York City, so perhaps it’s nothing more than high-spirited and confrontational New Yorkers.
• On the other hand,  maybe there’s an unwritten code here that I’m unaware of.  What could it be?  Nothing obvious; no signs that said one must stand still on escalators and motorized walkways.  Matter of fact, signs on walkways clearly anticipated the opposite, as already mentioned.
• These were comparatively young women yelling at me, neither of whom I’d touched, hit on, or compromised in any other known way, nor had I impeded their progress or threatened their spot in some unknown line.  Am I missing something?
• If I had been running up a static set of stairs, would they have yelled at me because they were only walking?  Wasn’t what I had just done analogous to using the left-hand passing lane on a highway, passing in a legal manner?
• Was the heckling a result of some weird distortion of egalitarianism?  That we must all be equal, so no one can go faster than anyone else on any moving conveyance? If so, this is the airport equivalent of “dumbing down” the classroom by holding back the quicker students to the pace of the dullest.
• In a corollary vein, was the heckling a result of some ostensibly-liberal (but quite the opposite) outlook that dictates that one must never “take advantage” of others in any way?  And was I taking advantage of others by simply walking, using my legs to cover ground at a faster clip than they could cover by standing still and letting the equipment do the work?  Such a conclusion would mean that no one could walk faster than the slowest walker on a public sidewalk.
• Was I somehow not being “green”?  That would be a far-fetched conclusion, since I was not enlarging my carbon footprint and was the only one exponentially expanding efficiency by using my own muscles.

I reached no firm conclusion in my mental queries.  My faster progress had not hurt anyone, delayed anyone, or consumed “more than my fair share” of the world’s space or energy or resources, nor had it profited at the expense of others. Yet it had offended at least two for reasons unstated and unknown.

I mark it up to insanity, some distorted view born in the Political Correctness maze, some weird moon cycle, or … mere heckling for the helluvit.

Can you, my readers, enlighten me?

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© January 21, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Talking Trees

An answer to a Plinky Prompt: “How do you spend the majority of your online time?”

This (below) is the right image for my answer. I like trees. Not a tree hugger in the political sense, but I’m always inspired by trees. I respect them, admire them, appreciate their complex beauty that’s all wrapped up in apparent “simplicity.” Particularly the older ones in their endless variations (and I think it’s always been that way for me; even when I was still wet behind the ears, I listened intently to my great-grandmother, my grandmothers, my great-uncles, my parents). What’s that about?

Controlling IT Costs; Enterprise Architecture (EA) strategy, a shared lexicon, and enforced change

Writing. Whether researching, responding to email, posting or commenting on social media, 90% of my online time is consumed with writing. I am crafting sentences, phrases, snippets, or other combinations of letters, words, paragraphs and punctuation to communicate with my fellow human beings. Some of them, the humans, are like the aged trees. Maybe I am, too. It’s in weathering, and storms. The stories thus born are often more current, more relevant, than the media “news” that’s cranked out ad nauseum day after day.

Trees inspire me — often, to write. I photograph them, too — frequently – the ones that I find special in one way or another, and have accumulated a considerable ”tree” collection. With time, I’ve come to note that it’s never, or rarely, the young saplings that attract me. Hope for them, wish them well and trust that they’ll be properly watered and fed, protected and pruned. But they’re not the ones that “grab” me. The older ones always commandeer my undistracted observation, the ones that have been twisted and shaped by assailing winds, captured and then released by storms, wounded or nurtured by passing humans, stunted and spurred by alternating deprivation and abundance.

It’s in their stories. Stories that I get to imagine, if not to hear — to weave a thread at a time, to discern through focused study, observation, palpitation, or listening. Trees are unique in that respect. They “hold still” for you. And if you listen and observe long enough, they’ll tell their stories. They’re compulsive. Subtle but clear — IF you’re listening. It’s in their nature to talk — to “write”  – the chronicle of their existence. Their gentleness or toughness, their true nature, may be disguised in the camouflaged exterior of all they’ve seen, endured, dealt out, accepted, and synthesized into their grain, knots, limbs, healed-over pruning cuts, storm-broken limbs, and other scar tissue that gives them their unique character. Character that the worker of fine woods — the craftsman — values most.

Maybe trees are more adept than homo sapiens at communication.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© May 10, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo courtesy of Plinky.com.

Eat, Sweat, Engage … and Relax, Baby!

An Answer to the Plinky Prompt, “What do you do to stay healthy?”

“A bicycle does get you there and more…. And there is always the thin edge of danger to keep you alert and comfortably apprehensive.  Dogs become dogs again and snap at your raincoat; potholes become personal.  And getting there is all the fun.”  ~Bill Emerson, “On Bicycling,” Saturday Evening Post, 29 July 1967

“Healthy” is at least a three-ring circus (maybe more) for me. Circuses are fun, entertaining, and beneficial if taken in moderation. Moderation, I readily admit, is defined relative to the activity undertaken and the actor who’s undertaking it (the “undertakee”).  “Undertakee’s” age may be one of several relevant factors.  So here’s how I look at staying healthy.

Road cycling race in Hilversum

Physical health, mental health, and emotional health are indispensable members of a team, a team that lubes the running gears of a synchronous, synergistic and vibrant organism — my body — for maximum enjoyment and productivity. In my opinion, there is no team star; to neglect any one of the team members is a sure recipe for disaster, sooner or later.  And the team manager is courage, without which the team will never take the field.

The only “special diet” that interests me is the one that includes a well-proportioned intake of plenty of fresh vegetables & fruits (complex carbohydrates), whole grains, proteins and healthy fats, with a significant percentage of the fruits and veggies ingested in raw form. Raw juices with no pulp removed and no sugar added may be part of that mix. The sugars I eat (okay, I confess to the rare Snicker bar, Almond Joy, pastry and holiday pie) are raw honey, maple syrup (on Saturday pancakes or waffle) and all-fruit, no-sugar-added jellies with breakfast. Oh, and did I mention pure drinking water — lots of it? These days, I’m trying to drink 96 ounces per day.  The rule of thumb is that your intake should roughly equal, in ounces, half your body weight, so I overdo it a bit for my 170 lbs. For kicks, I drink a double shot of espresso every morning with breakfast — just to keep things moving. And a little red wine with the evening meal is not required, … nor frowned upon.

For me, the main ingredient of a workable physical exercise plan is and always has been sweat — and lots of it! I like to sweat when I’m working out; I know it’s one indicator that I’m accomplishing my goal through a consistent and sustained expenditure of energy under a stress load. If I work out right, hard enough and long enough, I’ll be sweating, and when I do, all my body’s systems — organs, muscles, endocrine system, skin, etc. – flush themselves of toxins. So I’m cleaning inside and improving/maintaining my cardio-vascular health. My favorite physical workout is a strenuous bicycle ride, riding rolling hills, doing hill climbs, or going all out on the flats. I love the singing of my tires, the wind and sun in my face, and the awareness that I’m working lots of muscles to the max! When other friendly cyclists are along, it’s even better.

This is also one of the surest ways to support optimum mental and emotional health, because as I rev up my physical motors, I increase blood circulation throughout my body, and especially my brain. This makes for better all-round vitality, and I know of no other way to achieve that. But good mental and emotional health also require other inputs and conditioning of a far less physical nature. I read much, I try to learn something every day, I engage in robust conversation with people of all ages and “stripes,” listening and sharing. I attempt to stay grounded or centered on who I am and what I want to be — both to myself and to others. And although I struggle in the process, I do my best to get adequate rest and downtime. Sometimes I listen to music or read; I often do creative writing, sketching or some other “release” activity to stay balanced and in touch with the rhythms of my life.

Remember when, in 1985 at the Washington Press Club’s “Salute to Congress” black-tie dinner, Washington Redskins player John Riggins told U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, ”Loosen up, Sandy baby. You’re too tight,” and then took a 45-minute nap on the floor during VP George Bush’s speech?  He was on to something, notwithstanding his public drunkenness and inappropriate familiarity/disrespect toward Sandra Day O’Connor.  Atrocious public conduct [Note: Riggins was arrested for his misconduct], but still apt for making my point that too much seriousness and uptight attitude toward life are not healthy.  We all need rest and relaxation – downtime – even a justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.  No one is immune to the need for good health habits.

I’m happier when my health is good, when I live like this.  And everyone around me is happier because I’m not as likely to be a grump. Go for it!

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  May 9, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield. All rights to my original work are reserved.  Photo courtesy of Plinky.com.

The Eye of the Beholder

An answer to the Plinky Prompt, “What are your favorite things to photograph?”

My favorite things to photograph? How can I limit it?  Why should I limit it?  Some photographers specialize in one subject or another and become renowned experts in the bargain.

Take Ansel Adams’ work, for instance, or Graham Watson’s. Adams’ landscape images, most of them black and white, are the stuff of legend; he was and still is among the great masters of landscape photography. By contrast, Watson specializes in capturing enduring images of bicycle racing, and mostly in color. I greatly admire the work of each, and for entirely different reasons. Adams worked with what most would now, by comparison, call “Neanderthal” photographic equipment and he likely labored harder than today’s average photographer to get to where he needed to go with his bulky, heavy equipment. On the other hand, Watson is our contemporary and has the advantage of lighter digital equipment and easier transportation, but he’s still a master of what he does — several steps above most photographers.

But I’m not a specialist by instinct or practice — not in photography or almost anything I do. Meticulous planning and execution are great attributes with big rewards. But serendipity has its place, too, and seems to fit quite well on the “uncut” side of the camera lens.  Where photography is concerned, I love a good surprise or unexpected sighting.

I don’t search for it, else it wouldn’t be serendipitous, would it? But when it happens along, ”chance” can be so rewarding in its uniqueness, its character, it’s ability to warm the emotions and the spirit to create a lasting memory.

Human Embryo (7th week of pregnancy)

Almost anything, as long as it has vibrant color and/or strong contrasts (e.g., b&w), exciting action, or some inherent beauty, is a subject ripe for the photographer’s eye. Those qualifiers encompass a wide range of easy-to-find photo subjects — human faces, landscapes, kids at play, animals at work or play, birds, flowers and insects, seascapes, sports, human surprise and happiness. Capturing the image — and capturing it well — requires a combination of timing, just the right light, and a bit of luck thrown in. After all, if what you are shooting appears or occurs when you’re NOT there or not ready, then you don’t capture the moment.

Consider the image in this piece, photographic evidence of human life in one of its early stages of development. Notice the stark contrasts, the uniqueness of the life-sustaining environment, the vivid colors and unusual shapes. See the tail? Doesn’t it almost look like a stinger?!

Is this image the result of the photographer’s planning and execution? Perhaps. Serendipity? Perhaps, too. The photographer could have planned diligently to capture an image of this particular baby, but the baby could have turned its back at just the “wrong” moment.

In either event, what a dramatic, endearing, inspiring and enduring image – forever on “film”! Maybe this embryo, with what appears to be an eye trained on its own tail, is another photographer — a great photographer of the future — waiting to be born, to find its own favorite and unique things to photograph.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  May 5, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.  Photo courtesy of Plinky.com

One Child’s Wisdom

Don’t look at me all bug-eyed, as though you disbelieve!  The Boogeyman has been around a long time, and everybody knows it, even adults.  Kids, especially little kids, can tell you all about him — what he looks like, where he lurks and lies in wait, what he does when he gets you.  Adults can’t, though — or won’t.  We’re too sophisticated to believe in childish stories.  A boogeyman?  Nah!  But you can research the topic on the Internet if you want; there’s been a movie or two about him, and surely hundreds of stories over the generations by the likes of Stephen King and a host of others.  The Grimm Brothers’ Children’s and Household Tales were often about this grim character of folklore, in one form and name or another.  Not only has he survived, but he has thrived at the unwitting hand of humankind’s nurture.  Like you (I’ll bet) and millions of others, I remember being afraid to enter a dark room, get out of bed at night, or go outside in the dark because “the Boogeyman” might get me.  That was common knowledge.  All my school friends could, wide-eyed and gulping, confirm his existence based on independent experience, even if not an eyewitness report.

As I was growing up and battling the fear of such a specter, I was sure that he had many forms, that he was an omnipresent, evanescent creature with chameleon powers so that he avoided detection by his victims until it was too late and he had you.  He clearly had “the upper hand” — ALL the hands!  Enough to snare you, stifle your cries for help, smother you near to death, and use you for his nefarious purposes, purposes never apprehended by his young prey.  To be sure, we didn’t think then in fifty-cent words like “omnipresent” or “evanescent” or even “chameleon.”  But the unmitigated truth of the Boogeyman’s existence was without doubt.

Then Yann Martel came along and spoke in the profoundly simple-yet-vivid voice of a young, bewildered, shipwrecked Indian boy, Piscine Molitor Patel (“Pi”), to address — no, to call out! — the Boogeyman.  It’s an ancient story reborn.  But the Boogeyman doesn’t really exist!  Or does he?

Here’s how Pi puts it:

I must say a word about fear.  It is life’s only true opponent.  Only fear can defeat life.  It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know.  It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy.  It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease.  It begins in your mind, always.  One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy.  Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy.  Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out.  But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier.  Doubt does away with it with little trouble.  You become anxious.  Reason comes to do battle for you.  You are reassured.  Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology.  But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low.  You feel yourself weakening, wavering.  Your anxiety becomes dread.

Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on.  Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake.  Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot.  Your ears go deaf.  Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing.  Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much.  And so with the rest of your body.  Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart.  Only your eyes work well.  They always pay proper attention to fear.

Quickly you make rash decisions.  You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust.  There, you’ve defeated yourself.  Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.

The matter is difficult to put into words.  For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene; it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it.  So you must fight hard to express it.  You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it.  Because if you don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.

~ Y. Martel, Life of Pi, Harcourt, Inc., 2001, p. 161-62 (underlining and bold emphasis added).

I believe Pi  — or Martel — nailed it, spot-on.  Does his description sound familiar to you?  And have not many sages, masters, prophets, teachers and divines down through the ages left a wealth of recorded wisdom on this very topic, spoken in other words and many languages?  Where else might we find that wisdom, those thoughts and principles verified so eloquently by the poor, shipwrecked Pi as he faced his Bengal tiger?

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis.

© April 30, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Fifties Space

The fallen rain gathers itself like large shards of broken mirror on the flat street, reflecting silver-blue rays from the sun that hides behind a thin, high cloud of rising steam as it races down its late afternoon arc.  The street is mostly deserted except for a couple of young boys down the block who are standing, mouths open and gaping up, under the electrical lines near a pole’s crossbar, listening to the singing and sizzling of the wet wires, hoping to see a spark.  Further away, a tired, old, unseen hound bugles his presence, probably for no more reason than his irritation at the sound of water dripping on dry things that follows the sudden storm’s torrential downpour, a dripping sound that has not been heard in the drought months now ended but which triggers his internal instinct to sound an alarm – even if only a half-hearted one.

Windows in our neighborhood are thrown open with the rain’s end, and from those windows all up and down the block one can hear the comforting sounds of meal preparations being made – metal pots being set on stoves, stirred with hefty spoons whose shallow bowls are emptied with a rapid staccato of taps on the pots’ edges at the end of the stirrings.  Corning Ware serving dishes being set out; tables being set with china or ceramic plates, silverware, glasses; chairs being scooted into place; refrigerator doors being opened and closed; and the occasional whistling or humming that signals a happiness with the basics of life.  It’s suppertime in my neighborhood, and the buttery smell of baking cornbread wafts from somewhere down the street. Spirits elevated by the coming of the rain, a grinding chokehold on life has been broken.  There’s hope.  One rain often spawns another, and the promise of renewed life that springs from the thirst just ended does its subconscious work with happy results.

After family meals are over, my neighborhood transforms itself, as if in the most natural progression, back into the softer, gentler, easy-going personality that characterizes its approach to life in all but the hardest of times, times like the long, debilitating drought just ended.  The grime and dust have been washed away; the trees and shrubs have already seemed to lift their arms and chins in celebration.  While mothers attend to cleaning up the supper dishes, well-fed and exuberant children rush out of doors and down front steps to play in the street.  Kick the Can, Blind Man’s Bluff, Hide-and-Seek and other yard games break out spontaneously.  Dads mosey out onto their front porches with newspapers in hand, settle onto the porch swings, wave at each other across the way, then set about their relaxed quietness as a few light pipes or cigars for evening pleasure.  Wives soon join them and soft family conversations begin as a contrast to the rising din of the playing children.  A few lightning bugs begin to flash their evening signals.

One old-timer abandons front-porch solitude and the news — “Nuthin’ new there!” he mumbles to himself — as he drops the newspaper, ambles down the steps, crosses his yard and the street and with a familiar greeting mounts his neighbor’s steps to offer a warm, sturdy, work-hardened hand.

“Mighty good rain we got, huh?” says the old-timer.

“Yep!” says the friend. “I can’t recall for certain when we last had such a drought, but I know I was just a young sprout.  Pop was worried sick that we weren’t gonna make any crops that year and he’d have to go back to work in the mines. But just in the nick of time, along came a good soaking rain and we made enough harvest to eke by.”

“Ain’t that just the way of it?” chuckles the oldtimer.  “And I hear there’s more comin’.”

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© March 2011, Michael Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Lineage (or Line Dancing)

“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right, Here I am, Stuck in the middle with you.” ~ Stealers Wheel, 1972

There is no line,

There’s a fine line,

Or a design line,

And a telephone line.

The color line,

The gender line,

A product line,

Two party lines.

The union line.

A picket line,

A boundary line,

The welfare line.

The free-throw line,

The half-court line,

The three-point line,

A goal line.

A yard line,

The baseline,

A morning line and

The scrimmage line.

(Oh, and the line drive.)

One bowling line,

And a hard line,

A half-cup line,

And your waistline.

Battle lines,

Cemetery lines,

Soup lines, and

Skylines.

A pipeline,

Customer service line,

An electrical line,

And a hemline.

The railroad line,

A bus line, airline,

A clothesline,

And assembly line.

Song line,

Long line,

Invisible line,

And wrong line.

Ancestral line,

Defensive line,

A tree line,

And the water line.

Get in line!

You cut in line!

You stole my line!

We’ll hold the line!

A white line,

A bright line,

A thin red line,

And a long blue line.

We must get in line,

Send word down the line,

To follow the line

To the end of the line.

You stand in line,

Johnny walks the line,

The demarcation line –

Where I draw the line.

Zipline! 

Any more lines?

∞

© March, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

German Engineering Superiority: Really?

A Humorous Look at Self-Awarded ‘Saxon Superiority’

In the world of pop culture there’s an apparent, if unspoken, belief that German automotive products are superior to those of any other nation. If you don’ t believe it, just look at the numbers of Volkswagens, BMWs, and Mercedes-Benz cars on the road.  Long touted for their superior engineering skills (überlegenen deutschen Maschinenbau), the Saxons have, with great audacity and consistency, maximized and marketed that image to the gullible masses for over six decades.  And judging by the “entry fees” on German cars, the profit margins surely have been equally heartening to the perps, who have, no doubt, laughed up their corporate sleeves all the way to das Deutsch Bank.

Who knows the seminal point of this marketing myth? Perhaps it inadvertently arose from Hitler’s almost-successful (but grossly evil) “precision” at engineering a massive takeover of the western world and “purifying” it to his sick expectations.  His tanks, armies and generals claimed, as did the German nation in general, to be without peer — at least until they met the Russians on the cold plains outside Moscow and the Allies on the beaches of Normandy and the hedgerows of France, Belgium and Holland.

But it’s time to turn from that sick chapter in human history and debunk the myth of “superior German engineering.”  Bare minimum, the term should at least be converted to the more precise description of “superior marketing hype.” Start with the moniker “Volkswagen” – “the peoples’ auto.”  That’s a folksy, encouraging name with a trustworthy ring to it, arguably much moreso than “Touareg” or “Tiguan,” a couple of VW’s current models.  VW has also been described in fairly recent ads as simply “Driven.”  I owned a Volkswagen in the ‘60s and found that it was driven, … far too often, to the shop for required mechanical repairs.  Here are a couple of vintage ads from that time:

Notice the manufacturer’s clever descriptions, … with both of which I wholeheartedly agree:  “Lemon” and “Volkswagen doesn’t do it again.” But I inserted no personal opinion in either of those ads – just removed a bit of text beneath the word “Lemon” in the first one so that we could focus on the operative, one-word descriptive assigned by the manufacturer.  Apt, in my opinion.  That VW was a “lemon” because it required (as in, specified in the owner’s manual) that the engine’s four valves be adjusted every 3,000 miles – a job not to be lightly tackled by the average car owner under his shade tree, especially in winter. Off to the shop we go, where mechanics trained by German engineers often could NOT, in my practical experience, make accurate valve adjustments, even with proper German tools. Hello burned valves!  Hello pricey little valve job!  Hello, parts profits for VW!  I’ve never looked back at the Volkswagen line since then.

Next, let’s visit the vaunted BMW – the “Ultimate Driving Machine,” I believe it has affectionately been called. It was also ballyhooed in older ads as “sedan of the year for five years in a row.”  A comparison with my experience is, however, instructive.  I own a 1997 Ford Expedition with about 180,000 miles on it. Bought it as the second owner when it had 24,000 on the odometer and was two years out of the chute.  Since, I’ve had the spark plugs replaced once, bought tires every 50,000 miles just to keep good rubber on the road, and have had the PCV valve, brakes, and a set of front shocks replaced once. Replaced the battery and, of course, have had regular service to nurture the drivetrain with clean oil, filters, and other fluids. Oh, and the 6-disc CD changer (thoughtfully installed at the factory in the console between the driver’s and front passenger’s seat – novel idea!) finally quit working last fall after having been played mercilessly for 178,000 miles of pleasureful, musical driving. This big “gas hawg,” which often hauls a mountain of cycling or camping gear, gets about 18 mpg on the road at 75 mph, 15 or so around town, depending upon the stop-and-go. No VW economy on this one, but I don’t feel particularly ozone-layer-destructive, since I now put about 4,000 miles a year on it. And this truck offers great road visibility so that I can see and avoid traffic snarls and oncoming text messengers before they broadside me at an intersection.  Pretty handy, especially since auto accidents annually claim the lives of about 60 times more people than U.S. military troops killed in the entire war in Iraq. (Why is no one staging a protest?!)  Not to mention physical comfort.  Not luxury, but comfort.

Roll in the Beamer 528i, please Vana, and let’s take a look!  My wife’s car is NEWER than my Ford and has a third FEWER miles.  But it’s engineered to last and provide driving euphoria, right?  (I won’t digress here about the seats being so low that I struggle to haul my skinny butt out of one, to exit the car, what with my knees higher off the ground than said butt!)  Starting in the passenger compartment, the CD changer had expired before we bought the car used, so the previous owner (widely known as a fastidious engineer type who’s religious about maintenance protocols) had installed a Pioneer after-market CD player – in the trunk!  Where the original was – how handy!  I can just see a dad driving his teen daughter to a sleepover in his fine BMW and she objects strenuously to his boring music. “OK, sweetie, just hop out – in the rain – and change the CDs. I’ll pop open the trunk.”  Eyeroll.  “Dad!!!”  Big sigh.

Well, the after-market CD changer not only died soon after we purchased the beast, but it wrought sporadic (aka unpredictable) and sudden, rapid exhaustion of the car’s battery at the most inconvenient times and inaccessible places — a peculiar idiosyncracy that no mechanic seemed able to ferret out with the most sophisticated computer diagnostics.  But I can tell you that accessing a “down” car and hooking up jumper cables in a tight, multi-floor, pay-in and pay-out parking garage is not my idea of fun.  Not even if it’s to rescue Mama.  After several iterations of this exercise – not the kind that improves cardio-vascular functioning – I was told I should “probably remove the after-market CD changer because we’ve heard that BMWs and Audis have sometimes manifested this issue.”  Don’t you just love techie talk?!  Not to mention that the Beamer’s fuel mileage is no better than my Ford’s although it’s half the size and half as comfortable.

“We” have owned the BMW for just over a year.  We’ve replaced the alternator twice, almost all the exterior light bulbs and a handsome little sensor (as in, $680 US) of some sort that resides in a wheel well (only slightly less convenient than the trunk-installed CD changer) to enable and regulate, among other things, some of the instrument panel functions AND the anti-lock brake system – hence, not an optional fix. And our BMW is back in the shop today after being towed because, as my wife and I motored home at 35 mph on a busy city street, this German “ultimate driving machine” suddenly started wailing like a banshee.  Nearby pedestrians and other motorists must have incurred whiplash injuries from straining to see what in hell was happening and how soon they were gonna die!  I wonder when a plaintiff’s lawyer in going to call me seeking recompense for his clients’ damages, pain and suffering.

A phone call just told me the repairs to the brake system will run just over $1,600.  I love this BMW, this engineering marvel!

Well, the good news is, there is more German precision engineering to be had out there — at a considerably higher entry fee, of course (MSRP: $366,000 + Destination Fee: $2,750 for the 2010 Mercedes Maybach).  Mercedes-Benz’s recent ads say it so eloquently, so simply: “Something more.”  What?  The price?  Afraid to find out – and suspecting I already know the answer (since today’s tow truck operator said he hauls “far more Mercedes than BMWs”) –  I look sideways at the highbrow Mercedes.  Think I’ll be staying with my old Ford.  If I trade up, it’s to Japanese technology.  German superior engineering?  Nein danke!  Nicht!

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© Michael Stubblefield, Jan. 13, 2011.  All rights reserved.

Forty-two and Counting

The book ends thusly:

When he thought of her, it rather amazed him that he had let that girl with her violin go.  Now, of course, he saw that her self-effacing proposal was quite irrelevant.  All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them.  Love and patience – if only he had had them both at once – would surely have seen them both through.  And then …. This is how the entire course of a life can be changed – by doing nothing. On Chesil Beach he could have called out to Florence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a deliverance, and she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer’s dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was a blurred, receding point against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light.

Excerpt from On Chesil Beach, pgs. 201-203, by Ian McEwan (“Atonement,” “Saturday,” et al.) Nan A. Talese, New York, 2007.

McEwan’s thesis in the novel, which is by turns titillating, slow-paced, and surprising, is common enough – the ending of a marriage – yet his insight as to its preventive is another matter, perhaps too uncommon to gain much thoughtful attention in our move-on world.  He boiled it down to its essence as I reflected on my own marriage, a marriage which has, for all its twists and turns and sometimes-tortured dances, moved ahead and endured those difficult roads.  Along the way, we’ve learned to talk honestly with each other through the fight-or-flight times, wading through a slough of typical challenges and distractions to get here. It’s not easy, and the path ahead is likely not a golden road without hazards.  But it is paved with mutual love, trust, and gratitude in our relationship’s security.

No one wants for theories as to why marriages fail or succeed; such theories abound in the psychological, sociological, theological, and philosophical worlds. In my opinion, McEwan’s analysis above, presented from the advantaged viewpoint of one of his two primary characters, forty years removed from the subject marriage, is on target as it identifies a thoughtful communication that was let go without exercise at the needful time.  Or put another way, a thoughtful communication that was overpowered and overshadowed by a thoughtless communication.  Edward and Florence, newlyweds on their wedding day, struggled to express their love for each other, yet ended up in an argument over an unfortunate but relatively petty occurrence that was anything but petty in its consequences.  True to form among the young and prideful (are not we all prideful at some point or other?), the newlyweds could not see through the fog of emotions and identify, much less vocalize, their true feelings of love and care for each other.  They raged (in understated British style) and stormed at each other, then stormed away without reaching resolution.  A marriage destroyed by default; destroyed for lack of courage to say what really mattered – that they loved each other and despite what seemed a drastic momentary outcome, they were committed to go on with each other.

“All she had needed …” could have been stated “all he had needed …” with equal effect and truth.  Both Florence and Edward needed certainty of each other’s love and “reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them.” Could either of them find the courage to offer those simple statements?  In the heat of marital battle, can you find that courage?

Pride carried the day, but lost the life together.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© October 13, 2010, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.