The Price of a Pair of Shoes

 An American working man’s story as told to the author

These shoes. Whence all the scratches, tears, wrinkles, grime and rundown appearance?  I came up in a time when good shoes were hard to come by and were to be treated with care and respect in hopes that one could maximize the mileage from them. “Keep ‘em polished, son — maybe impress somebody enough to get a good job.” Shoes definitely spoke in former days about the wearer’s quality — “good upbringin’, personal pride” and all that.  But things happen along the way.

Take that old supporting chair, for instance.  It sits as a bedraggled, faded and sweat-stained pedestal, mute testimony to the years shared with those shoes.  There’s a back story, and I know it well … all too well. The knowin’ quiets many of my questions as I think about the shoes, the chair, and the implications softly spoken, and sometimes wept, by that scarred, stained leather and the hours of labor put in – and risks taken – by one man’s feet on an assembly line.

These shoes, and the chair that supports them, bear a common-but-remarkable and oft-unnoticed story of the so-called “blue collar worker” in America.  Cut by cut, step by step, drop by sweaty drop.

I can just hear him, the man who wore these shoes for twenty-five years, arrivin’ home still sweaty and grimy at the end of a late-night swelter of a summer shift – or the bitter cold of winter – after drivin’ the fifteen or so sleepy miles down that dark, all-but-deserted two-lane Highway 45. “Clump, clump” the shoes numbly protest as he takes the wooden steps, unlocks the door to the trailer, and sits down in the dim light in his chair – this chair – emits a deep but almost-silent sigh, then wearily stoops to pull off these shoes. “My feet are so tired they could cry.”  He blinks back a tear and quickly glances over his shoulder, half-embarrassed and feelin’ like he weakened though he knows nobody’s awake and watchin’.  Leanin’ gingerly back in the old chair, he stretches legs and wiggles toes, still sweaty in heavy cotton socks, and takes stock. “Man, shore glad I have these steel-toed shoes! That part that fell off the line would’ve cut off some toes – and durned-near did anyhow!”  Fresh cuts in the shoe-leather and bruised toes silently confirm.

Mind and body return to the present: “Do I eat somethin’ first? Take a shower first, then eat? Or just pull off my dirty work clothes and climb into bed?  I’m wore out, so tired I cain’t see straight.”  The pull of bed and rest are irresistible.

Six hours of rest pass quickly, then yesterday’s re-run begins again with feedin’ the few animals kept in a small patch of pasture behind the trailer and openin’ yesterday’s mail to add to the stack of bills to be paid. There’s a bowl of cereal with fresh milk and a cinnamon roll waitin’ for his silent daughter when she shambles from her bedroom with school books in arm.  As he pours a mug of steamin’ black coffee from the old percolator, he asks how her special-ed classes are goin’ and gets no answers, only shrugs. The school bus pulls up, and out the door she dashes with sudden energy. He’s left alone to ponder.

Cold sandwich, a glass of milk and a couple of cookies for lunch precede a dozin’ nap as he tries to watch the noon news with its daily stories of continuin’ high unemployment and climbin’ national debt. Then he’s back in the old truck and off up the highway for his shift at the plant. A note is left for his daughter, “See you tonight, hon.  Call your mom and say hello.”

I know for a fact that these shoes are owned by a man – a smart but simple, unsophisticated man with simple needs. A member of the backbone of the American workforce.  Finishin’ high school with a talent for mechanics and a set of trade skills, he got married and spent twenty-five years doin’ his job well, pride of quality and dedication intact, on an American assembly line. Tryin’ to make a way for his family.  Any number of circumstances foreclosed college or advancement beyond crew lead.  And there were some losses along the way.  But that’s natural, isn’t it?

Then one day as he sat in the plant break room eatin’ another cold sandwich from his black lunchbox, he and a thousand-or-so fellow employees were called from their places and told their plant would be closed and their jobs shipped to a place near Saltillo in northeastern Mexico.  “Lower wages, less overhead for the company.”  As he listened to the speech, a set of burnin’, practical questions assaulted his mind like incomin’ fire from an all-out air attack. “Bills to pay. Did my union help me by constantly pushin’ for higher wages? [While they constantly pushed for higher dues from me?]  With my high-school education, I assumed the leaders were smarter than me, knew what they were doin’, cared about me.  Did they?  How’d they let all these jobs go south across the border, while at the same time, hundreds of thousands are crossin’ the river into our country and takin’ even more of our  jobs for lesser wages?”

Turmoil rose up in the pit of his stomach like a churnin’ tide. He looked down at his feet. “I wonder who’ll fill these beat-up, wore-out old shoes of mine?”

When he got home from work that night and sat down in the old chair, he unlaced those shoes for the last time and sat there lookin’ at ‘em between his tired feet, knucklin’ under toes with feet arched, then fannin’ ‘em out as if to let ‘em breathe. Lookin’ at those old shoes as though they were twenty-five years away, old friends and ghosts rolled into one package. Pickin’ ‘em up with one hand, he slowly rubbed the leather with his rough, shopworn hands, rememberin’ by touch every cut, nibble and tear in the rugged leather. No patina here.  Just scars and a tale wrought in leather, rubber and steel, blood, sweat and tears.  Settin’ ‘em on the old chair, he snapped a photo for remembrance.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© 2012 by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo © 2012 by Dwayne Eacret, published by permission.

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).

Sammin’ Cookin’

When I was a kid (second half of ‘40s – early ‘60s) growing up in the LM (Lower Midwest, northern Arkansas to be specific), “salmon” connoted canned fish of a decidedly-pink flesh with a few small, round, crunchy backbones sometimes mixed in, and the usual mode of prep by my mother was to make salmon patties grilled on the stove top.  No such thing, as far as I knew, as fresh salmon.  So much for living where I did, when I did, as a kid.  “Seafood” was primarily catfish, bass, or shrimp, although one could occasionally acquire a whitefish, such as cod, at the meat market.

As a young adult in the ‘80s, I rarely encountered fresh salmon prepared as a main course. More often, I’d come across smoked salmon – as with bagels, cream cheese and lox.  Since then, I’ve learned to love smoked salmon, whether with breakfast, as a snack, or as trail food on backpacking ventures.  Great stuff, high protein, high energy, and easy to pack in a foil pouch for lightweight, fast travel on foot or bicycle.

But when I moved to the Pacific Northwest at the turn of the 21^st century, I encountered a regional, culturally-common culinary fare – wonderful, fresh salmon of several varieties including Chinook (aka “King”), Coho (aka “Silver”), Chum (aka “Dogs”), Pink (aka “Humpies” and the variety most used for canning), Sockeye (aka “Red”) and Steelhead.  Chefs and mothers prepare it in many ways.

Last Monday night, inspired by a late-Spring snowfall and unusually cold weather that got me out for a soul-cleansing trek to flush out the cabin fever of winter, I bought a pound of fresh Coho salmon fillet (with skin on) and a bottle of nice sauvignon blanc (dry) white wine, then headed home to prepare dinner for my Lovely and self.  I had only a vague, general intent to prepare a savory dinner – no recipe in mind. But as I stirred in the fridge looking for inspirational taste kick, I came up with what I presume is an original, not having seen it in a cookbook. Here’s the recipe, which I’ll artfully dub “Cranberry-Mango Coho.”   For the whole dinner, I got lots of “mmmms” and kudos from my Lovely (she prepared the delectable salad of fresh Spring greens, radishes, fennel and grape tomatoes).

Cranberry-Mango Coho

Servings: 3

Time to prep. – 15 minutes

Total cooking time – 15 minutes  

Ingredients:

1 lb. fresh salmon filet (any variety works), preferably with skin on to preserve the tasty fat just underneath.

1 package fresh, whole cranberries

½ cup sugar (I used xylitol, a natural, low-glycemic sugar substitute that substitutes 1:1)

1 whole, fresh mango (I used a champagne mango, but any will work as well), chopped to small pieces (dime-sized).

¼ cup finely chopped yellow onion

2 large cloves of fresh minced garlic

¼ cup dry white wine (I used sauvignon blanc, but other dry whites will work)

¼ cup of fresh chopped cilantro

1 tbsp of honey

Cranberry sauce:

Bring 1 cup water and ½ cup of sugar (or xylitol) to boil in small sauce pan. Pour in 12-ounce package of fresh cranberries and bring back to a boil, then reduce heat to a low boil and let it cook for 10 minutes. When finished, pour entire contents into a bowl and let it cool at room temperature.

Next, rinse the fish filet and dab dry with paper towel, then let it stand on a plate ready to cook.

Mango onion glaze:

To a hot frypan add 2 tbsp. of high-heat cooking oil (I prefer grape-seed oil or safflower), sauté the chopped onion, quickly reducing the heat to obtain a golden brown, then toss in the chopped mango and minced garlic, continuing to sauté for another minute or so. You may want to add a small splash of the wine near the end, along with the honey and freshly-chopped cilantro, allowing it to simmer for 30 seconds or so to release the flavor.  Then spoon that glaze or sauce into a small ramekin or bowl and set aside.

Return the same frying pan to a moderately high heat, add a little more oil, and then sear the salmon filet (generously salted on each side to seal in the moisture), on each side, reducing the heat to moderate to avoid scorching.  [Here’s the rule of thumb for cooking seafood I learned from some popular local chefs: “We don’t so much cook it as threaten it with heat.”  Allow 10 minutes of cooking for each 1” of thickness.]  My filet was 1” thick, so I allowed 10 minutes – about 6 minutes on the first side, then turning to the opposite side for an additional 3½ – 4 minutes. In the last minute of cooking, add the remaining measure of white wine to simmer the fish. Then turn off the heat.  At this point, I smeared a pat of fresh cream butter over the beautifully-seared fish just to add some flavor, then promptly served as described below.

Cut the salmon into portions, add to the dinner plates and top generously with a warm mixture of the mango glaze and fresh-cooked cranberries. [Note: the cranberry sauce is slightly tart because I halved the amount of sugar customarily used].   Add the salad (and steamed rice or potato if desired) to the plate and serve.  Glasses of the sauvignon blanc may be imbibed with the meal as desired.  You’re on your own.

Buon appetito!

 

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

 

© March 4, 2012, Michael Stubblefield.  You may share the recipe with chosen and trustworthy friends and family.  

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.

Real Books

Ah’m not stupid, though Ah may talk funny to you.  But Ah’m not stupid.  Mattuh of fact, Ah been readin’—or read to – since ol Heck was a pup, as we say back home. Can’t remembuh anything special mah momma read to me when Ah was little, just remembuh the sound of her many voices (Ah know now she was playin’ all the charactuhs) sayin long stories to me, and Ah later remembuh her hands holdin those red-bound books while Ah was a-straddle her lap, listenin.  Mah pa read to me some, too, but he was usually too tired from work to read much without fallin sound to sleep. So mah momma read, mostly.  And she read to all of us, my brother and sisters, too.

Those red-bound books had some good stories, lots of ‘em about Bible people and how they lived in the olden times.  There was fightin and runnin and hidin and comin out of the bushes and attackin folks sometimes, like Ah guess you had to do if you were gonna survive.  Sometimes those people got saved by water rollin over their enemies and sometimes one guy got saved from his enemies by just disappearin inta thin air, so nobody could hurt him, until he got caught in the end and they nailed him up on a wooden cross.  Ah reckon times were tough back then and Ah know that musta been some God-awful kind of pain!

Anyways, Ah’ve been thinkin a lot about the books and stories Ah’ve read in mah life and Ah just find them plain interestin because they often say things that sound real, like good things and bad things that happen to people in real life whether you want them to or not.  Things like this short little snatch from a book of short stories Ah’m about to finish.  Ah like stories like this because they seem real:

Watching little Lundy go back to sleep, I wish I hadn’t told her about the Mound Builders to stop her crying, but I didn’t know she would see their eyes watching her in the dark. She was crying about a cat run down by a car – her cat, run down a year ago, only today poor Lundy figured it out.  Lundy is turned too much like her momma. Ellen never worries because it takes her too long to catch the point of a thing, and Ellen doesn’t have any problem sleeping. I think my folks were a little too keen, but Lundy is her momma’s girl, not jumpy like my folks.

My grandfather always laid keenness on his Shawnee blood, his half-breed mother, but then he was hep on blood. He even had an oath to stop bleeding, but I don’t remember the words. He was a fair to sharp woodsman, and we all tried to slip up on him at one time or another. It was Ray at the sugar mill finally caught him, but he was an old man by then, and his mind wasn’t exactly right. Ray just came creeping up behind and laid a hand on his shoulder, and the old bird didn’t even turn around; he just wagged his head and said, “That’s Ray’s hand. He’s the first fellow ever slipped up on me.” Ray could’ve done without that, because the old man never played with a full deck again, and we couldn’t keep clothes on him before he died.

B. Pancake, “The Honored Dead,” The Stories of Breece D’J Pancake, Back Bay Books, 1977.

Anyways, Ah like the beginnin of that story.  Ah ‘spose because Ah know or have known folks pretty much like he pictured little Lundy or his old grandpa who had this amazin power to always know when people were sneakin up on him.  Sometimes Ah think a few people have uncanny ability to know what’s happenin, or what somebody else is gonna do, even before they pull it off.  It might be nice to be that way, too.  Or it might not.  Ah ‘spose it could be scary, don’t you?  But Ah can remembuh kids Ah grew up with, a few of them, who were so slow you could tell them something or a joke an’ they wouldn’t even understand ’til the next time you saw them and then they’d start laughin like you jus told them a funny story.  Weird!

Anyways, when Ah got in high school Ah remembuh mah ma tellin me Ah ought not to read John Steinbeck’s books because Mr. Steinbeck was pretty naughty and used naughty words.  So Ah didn’t, even if mah daddy sometimes did talk naughty, not because Ah was good, but because Ah didn’t wanna disappoint mah mom, like he sometimes did.  It worked.  She was always pretty proud of me right up til the day she died.  And she loved to hear me read back to her when Ah became a man.  Ah’d read old poems and funny stuff to her and she loved it.  Right up til she died. Ah miss mah momma.

But anyways, Ah‘ve lately found Mr. Steinbeck’s books to be pretty funny – at least, mostly so, but East of Eden not so much.  One of mah favorites of his is Cannery Row and mah favorite charactuhs in that story are Mack and the boys from the Palace Flophouse – guys with names like Eddie and Gay and Jones and Hazel – some of ‘em kinda weird names when you think about it.  But they were all reg’lar guys even if some had weird names.  They all lived together and didn’t work much but were always tryin to find some way to help their friends if it didn’t cost too much or require too much work. Except when they went all-out to throw a party for their good friend Doc who ran the marine biology laboratory called Western Biological.

So anyways, here’s a l’il bit of Mr. Steinbeck’s story about Mack and the boys from Cannery Row, and Ah think it’s tellin, too, because it sounds just like some people Ah know, more or less, and these guys are tryin to make Lee Chong’s Model T Ford truck run so they can raise some money without havin to work too hard, just like those other people Ah know:

Probably any one of the boys from the Palace Flophouse could have made the truck run, for they were all competent practical mechanics, but Gay was an inspired mechanic. There is no term comparable to green thumbs to apply to such a mechanic, but there should be. For there are men who can look, listen, tap, make an adjustment, and a machine works. Indeed there are men near whom a car runs better. And such a one was Gay. His fingers on a timer or a carburetor adjustment screw were gentle and wise and sure.

* * *

One twist – one little twist and the engine caught and labored and faltered and caught again. Gay advanced the spark and reduced the gas. He switched over to the magneto and the Ford of Lee Chong chuckled and jiggled and clattered happily as though it knew it was working for a man who loved and understood it.

J. Steinbeck, Cannery Row, 57-59; The Viking Press, 1945.

But anyways, Mr. Steinbeck seems like he understood people very well and especially the ever-day people that make up the most of this world, the way Ah see it.  Ah mean, how often do you really see someone you’d described as an “inspired mechanic”?  And yet they’re out there, more’n we know about prob’ly.  Else how could some of the old clunkers we see on the road even today stay runnin if they weren’t attended to by an inspired mechanic the likes of Gay. Know what Ah mean?  Ah mean, they aren’t stupid!

Just like Ah’m not stupid, even though Ah talk like Ah talk — with words that may be funny-soundin’ to you but aren’t at all funny-soundin’ down where Ah come from.  Ah know folks, ‘specially northern and western folks, that think that guys like me are stupid because we talk “funny.”  But we don’t talk funny, least not where Ah come from, but it won’t do to tell ‘em, those other folks.  They’re the ones who talk funny, those western and northern folks, as far as Ah see it.  Ah mean, Ah’m not stupid, even if you think Ah sound like it.  Ah’ve been readin—or read to – since ol’ Heck was a pup.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© Sep. 10, 2011, 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.

Bucket List of Places to Live and Love

“City” is a relative term in my lexicon. If you’re referring to a metropolis or megalopolis, then “you’ve got the right string, baby, but the wrong yo-yo.” Fuhgeddaboutit! Big-city guy I’m not. Don’t need the grind of city traffic, anonymity, mute avoidance from faces of passersby, etc. Give me freedom, smiles, familiar greetings, happy faces and a decent choice of things to do, see and buy, and it’s good. Throw in art, music, culture and personality and it becomes great.

San Domenico church in Siena, Italy

Siena, Italy: What’s not to like about Italy?! Though I enjoy the antiquities of Roma, Firenze and other more notables on the map, it’s the smaller towns in the Tuscan hillsides that attract me, and the ancient tight-twisting streets of Siena are special. I’d love to watch the famous Palio di Siena horse race that occurs in the piazza there — very different from American horse racing. The famous Campanile in the city’s center. Italian cuisine, hospitality. Exquisite ceramic art. Italian extroversion and exuberance. Buon giorno!  Bene! Bene!

Prescott, AZ: Sunny sky, most days! Moderate, four-season weather! Friendly people who aren’t afraid to engage in brisk conversation. Howdy!  Yes, sir!  Western independence with a ready smile, confidence. Crisp, clean look of town. Nicely restored historic buildings. Despite small population, there’s a significant artistic community and obvious appreciation of art. Some good eats, lots of natural space to enjoy.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© May 3, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.  Photo courtesy Plinky.com.

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.

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.

No Dogs Allowed

Exclusions abound in this world.  Consider the dog, a creature often excluded from the affairs of man.  They wait, tied outside, while their owners buy coffee, sit and read books, shop, etc.  Dogs are often associated in speech with disrespect (whether accurately or not) , as in “I’ve been working like a dog,” “He treats me like a dog,” or “The world is going to the dogs.”  Even though they enjoy a great deal more affection and attention from owners these days, they are still creatures of comparatively low station – perhaps moreso because they often cower before humans – that are only occasionally honored for utilitarian value. This is so even though some of the dogs I’ve seen do credit to their masters.  As Mark Twain said, “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.” Judging by the sign at right, dogs may be smarter, too!

Speaking of dogs — have you ever had someone say, “We can talk about that if you’ll agree not to get emotional” (or more precisely, “all” emotional)?  Talk about an exclusionary structure!  Emotions are the dogs of human discourse.  “You can come in, but don’t bring that dog (your emotions)!”  Think about how many times that restriction is applied to the affairs of everyday life.  About the only place “getting all emotional” receives any respect is in the shrink’s office.  Oh, and in the sports arena.

Consider whether perhaps there’s some reparation and repatriation due the outcast of human conversation known as emotions.

* * *

I reconnected with an old friend the other day, one I hadn’t heard from in several years.  As is often the case, distance and life’s circumstances had broken the bond of commonality.  In earlier times, our friendship involved frequent and serious discussions held in good faith about a lot of life’s issues – politics, economics, education, children, church and religion in general, science, etc., — and often they went on for hours in generally healthy directions, incorporated a great deal of agreement or concurrence, involved sporadic rabbit trails, and sometimes got really earnest.  To my recollection, there was never anger, even in the midst of disagreement.  But now I wonder.

Our recent resumption of dialog began with random possibilities for conversation when the following add-on suddenly lurched to the top: “… that is, if we promise to discuss it without emotion ….”  His comment hung like the poised blade of a guillotine, ready to terminate our exchange. I restrained the immediate impulse to ask, “Why did you say that? Is there something more you wish to say, or is this merely an arbitrary prohibition?”  More to the point: “What is wrong with emotions?”

But his statement seemed determined – his underlying implication being that “emotions” have no valid place in human discourse.  That’s often the case with conversation, isn’t it?  People want to banish or exclude emotion and will often describe third parties as “too emotional,” especially when they disagree.  Emotional expression, other than saying something acceptably funny, is often the conversational equivalent of disclosing a deadly disease, as hilariously lampooned in Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoon entitled “Canine Faux Pas.”  Larson’s cartoon shows a bunch of upright dogs at a party, all with drinks in their hands and — all but one — shocked looks on their faces, when the one shouts to another over the noise of the party, something like, “My vet told me today I have worms!”  A sure turn-off, the canine equivalent of HIV.

In human conversations, the “emotional” tag  is inextricably tied to “reaction,” and that perception strengthens with every repetition like a snowball gaining mass as it rolls downhill.  We want to kick emotions out the door as quickly as possible.  Reactions are seldom welcome, unless in response to a physical emergency, at which point they are not only welcomed but encouraged.  Otherwise, though, you can check ‘em at the door because they are second-class citizens, the stuff of unsophisticated harshness, raw, unpolished society, the “lower classes.”  Even when someone asks you for your reaction, as in “What’s your reaction to today’s news that …?”  If you give them something they weren’t expecting, you may get blamed with “overreacting” or “getting all emotional” even if your response was measured and calm.  Why?  Is it, perhaps, because we fear that we’ll be touched by the emotion, don’t know how to cope with it appropriately, or will be unable to defend against it?

What responses fall within the definition of “emotional”? And what emotions, if any, are acceptable in culture?  Easy ones come to mind.  While it’s perfectly acceptable to cry at a wedding or funeral, an award ceremony, or upon receipt of sad news, it’s far less acceptable to cry when someone makes a snide remark to you, when your boss or spouse is unnecessarily blunt.  Likewise, it’s perfectly acceptable to yell things, even stupid things, at a sporting event, but not so where a disagreement arises, even though both are expressions of emotions and may convey no more than the speaker’s passion on a certain issue. One just “should not yell” when in conversation; the unspoken assumption is that one must be contained at all times.

But passions [here, not to be confused with a romantic or sexual context] and emotions are sometimes not so easily identified or separated, and neither should be dismissed out of hand as being inherently disqualified.  After all, we want our employees, board members, players and coaches, students, et al., to be passionate about our team, our products and services, our organization, our accomplishments, etc., but when it comes to passionate expressions in the discussion, it’s usually “Katy, bar the door!”  Why are we so eternally ill-at-ease with another’s emotions and passions? Are the two related?  Can one be distinguished from the other in the midst of conversation, and if so, how?  Are we reasonable in expecting others to abide by the arbitrary fiat that an emotional or passionate tone is not allowed into civilized conversation?  Can one have her/his say without being preempted or prohibited for bringing an important human element to the conversation, that of emotion or passion?  Don’t we all come packaged or hard-wired with emotions that, to varying degrees and according to our personalities, convey something important about who we are, how we feel, and what we stand for?

Some of the most articulate and memorable quotes down through history have been passionate, emotional statements. Look at Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death!”; Nathan Hale’s “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country!”; Abraham Lincoln’s immortal Gettysburg Address, about two minutes in length.  All are laced with raw emotion formed in the crucible of war or the contemplation of it, all three statements issued by sane men and calculated to instill courage in the listener, or at least express the urgency of the moment.  When Admiral Farragut yelled “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” as his fleet momentarily flinched in the face of mortal danger upon sailing into Mobile Bay in 1864, he issued a stirring call to action.  Would you remember it – more important, would his men have appropriately acted – had he calmly said, “You know, I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should not worry so much about the torpedoes and just keep forging ahead”?  Of course not!  Totally inane, and insane, bereft of any power.

Our ability to communicate – whether expressed in words, gestures, art or music – often embodies the need to express powerful, eloquent and important messages that can penetrate the very essence of the moment.  Emotions and passion are able to cut through the fog and get down to reality, reducing much fumbling verbiage to a few concise words or phrases that pierce the veil.  We need not fear, and ought not forbid, expressions of emotion and passion when used within reasonable constraints and amenable circumstances.  Once we overcome the knee-jerk wish to suppress them, we often are able to learn, to hear, to feel, to respond and even to sympathize or empathize with the feelings of urgency, hurt, anger, despair, jubilation, inspiration, admonition, or encouragement we hear.  Instead of denying the privilege, we should embrace and extend openness to the expression of raw emotion — one of the great gifts of human creativity.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

©  September, 2010, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.