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.  

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.

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.

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.

All Wool and a Yard Wide

I remember back when I was a pup, my dad used the phrase “all wool and a yard wide” to describe a couple of his friends.  At the time, I was totally stumped as to what that would, or could, mean.  After all, I was a literalist (still am) and could not see any connection between the person he was talking about and yard goods.  I didn’t know where the description came from – seemed totally foreign to me – and it was only years later when I began to speculate that its origins may have been in my Scottish grandmother’s lexicon.  It sounded like something she might have said.

Well, as is the case with much of what we hear as youngsters, the description grew sturdy cobwebs for years in the back corners of my subconscious mind, partly because my dad didn’t utter it often, but mostly because I probably wasn’t terribly interested in it at the time.  It was just a curiosity, low on my mental list of vital things to remember.  But the phrase stuck, and I was well into adulthood when it sprang into use for the first time in my own vernacular, like a fully-germinated seed sprouts from fertile soil.  It felt comfortable, as natural and warm as the thing it literally describes, — like my grandmother’s personality.  I like wool, even the “scratchy” kind that was the norm before I ever heard of fine, Merino wool.  And although I now have high-tech, lightweight synthetic clothing for my hikes and cold weather bike rides, I still hang on to the woolens in my closet and wear them often.  They take me back to earlier, treasured times in my life.  I like to wear wool, feel it, and even smell it – even when it’s wet. Its earthy aroma reminds me of campfires and hikes or fishing on cold mornings as the steam rises from a river or lake.  It signals me that I’m connecting with something almost as old as civilization.  And Dad’s phrase has come to take on clear meaning for me.

I also remember when I first met “Shorty” in the early 1970s.  We were at church, and I liked him instantly, even across the room.  He is, in fact, short — significantly shorter than his lovely wife Dee. But within seconds of shaking his firm, beefy hand I realized that his small but supercharged eyes were on a level with mine.  Not literally, you understand, because I’m much taller than he.  But his presence projected, in a very comfortable and friendly way, his confidence — that he was completely happy with who he is.  There isn’t a drop of Napoleon complex in him.  And when he introduced himself as “James H. – ‘for Handsome’ – Shorty Ludwig,” his ready smile made his weathered face crack with lines at the ends of those supercharged eyes.  He was warmth and friendliness at their best.  He was and is, in a phrase, “all wool and a yard wide,” as I would come to learn through the ensuing years of our friendship.

Intuitively I noted there was an earnestness, an earthiness about him that always made me relax.  He was able to zero into the relaxation to find teachable moments, and he could pour his homespun wisdom into my young heart.  He did so with alacrity.  Although Shorty was a banker, he was first and foremost a man – a man’s man.  I don’t mean the high-testosterone variety of swashbuckling masculinity that latter phrase may conjure for you.  I mean in the best sense of the term.  In my years of association with him, Shorty consistently radiated the sense that he was more comfortable in jeans and wool shirts overlaying cotton long-johns than in his business suit; that he preferred to be outdoors squirrel hunting or splitting firewood rather than at his desk; that he preferred to talk about his family, his home improvement projects, or growing up in the country more than his professional work.  Nonetheless, it was clear that he loved his work because he loved people.  He reminded me in that way of my own dad.

My memory also recalls the first time Shorty came to visit when my wife and I moved our family of small daughters to a farmhouse in the country, circa 1977.  Shorty and I had been friends by then for five years, but when Linda and I announced we were moving to the “hinterlands” of our Midwest state, Shorty was all support and enthusiasm and offered at once to come on a weekend with his teenaged son Warren to help me lay up enough firewood for winter, since the house we’d chosen had only a fireplace for heating.  I saw the visit as another great opportunity to spend time with both, to listen to Shorty’s stories and his remarkable humor and to watch the father-son relationship to which I aspired.  As I recall, the visit surpassed all my high expectations.  The weather offered those crisp, pristine days of October-blue skies that slowly grew out of the black country nights and dark shadows of the mountains, pregnant with heavy morning hoarfrost to be gradually burned off by a warming sun that simultaneously glorified the hardwoods in the surrounding forest.  Perfect weather for splitting wood.

As we pulled on our boots and set out the door after a hearty breakfast of eggs, potatoes, Linda’s biscuits and coffee, Shorty was already cracking jokes and getting us stoked up for the task at hand with his lighthearted banter.  Another way he was like my dad, this; very adept at finding the humor in almost any circumstance or creating it on his own if nothing offered to aid or no foil was at the ready.  Mind you, I planned to enjoy the day’s work, but an early, cold morning is not my best time of the day.  I need time to warm up, time to contemplate the day, time to wrap my head around what lies ahead and rise to meet it.  But Shorty’s humor had a way of easing me into the day with a half-grin on my face and in my heart.

In anticipation of this particular weekend, I had cut several pickup loads of fallen trees and a couple of green ones into firewood and had them in a pile near the house.  There was a lot of down timber on the farm, dropped and left by the construction crew who’d built the house, so firewood was abundant.  My new splitting maul, axe and wedge were nearby, and Shorty had brought his own well-used tools.  Well, the three of us weren’t fifteen minutes into the brisk day’s labor before I broke the hickory handle out of my brand new maul.  My frustration bolted to the surface.  But Shorty was “on the spot” with his humor, gently chiding me with a chuckle and that ever-present sparkle in his eyes as he softly quipped, almost as if in afterthought, “Mike, ya gotta keep your butt behind you!”  Unlike my dad (and admittedly, perhaps because he isn’t my dad), Shorty’s quick-witted admonition snipped my short fuse and triggered a “What do you mean?” – another teachable moment.  So he showed me how to split wood with the “wrong” foot forward so that the length of my maul handle didn’t “grow” on each stroke.  He even anticipated my natural discomfort with the new position by acknowledging that, since I was probably a ball player, the new stance wouldn’t feel right at first, ballplayers always being taught to lead with the leg opposite to their throwing or shooting – or in this case, chopping – hand. Right handed, lead with left foot and vice versa. Well, his instruction worked.  As a matter of fact, his humorous remark has found application in my life in other areas unrelated to splitting firewood.  Life always works better that way.  Lead with your butt, and you’re gonna have trouble.  Simple, straightforward, “Shorty style.”

Yesterday I learned that Shorty is struggling with life as his physical body seems to be wearing out.  My eyes filled with tears as I saw his face before me, the balding head, the small but vigorous eyes, and that weathered skin with the pronounced smile lines.  But my face also smiled and my heart smiled within as I recalled the bigger, better part of Shorty that lives in my memories.  I’m certain that, as he contemplates leaving this world for his eternal home with his Master, he’ll be keeping his butt behind him and putting his best foot forward with all the honesty and humor that make him what he is.  Shorty is one of those guys who made peace with life and with God early on, and who has lived in that honesty and peace throughout.  He always lived his Christianity more than he talked it.  I’d lay you two-to-one odds that when the unnecessary introduction is made in heaven, Shorty will use that same line he used on me, with as big a grin as back then:  “Hi, I’m James H. ‘for Handsome’ Shorty Ludwig.”  I don’t recall that my dad ever met Shorty, but I’m certain that Dad would have described him as “all wool and a yard wide.” And although he really is short, he’s as big a man as I’ve ever known.  He’s “all wool and a yard wide.”  The “genuine article.”  The “real deal.”  Guileless.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© May, 2010, Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Note: I penned this in November, 2006.  My good friend “Shorty” moved on in early 2009, leaving as marvelous a legacy for family and friends as any man ever left.

Musin’ On a Sunday Afternoon

Tunes are always involved, … and sometimes poetry

After a week of rain in the Pac Northwest, Sunday (emphasis is appropriately on SUN-day) offered sunshine and brought time for reflection — a sometimes-dangerous proposition.  And in keeping with my long habit of digging up old tunes from the back of my brain that fit (well, … sort of!) with a theme, this title is a variation of the theme of the Young Rascals’ 1967 hit, “Groovin’.”  It put a tune and playfulness to my thoughts as they chased along lines penned by one of America’s “magical” writers, humorist and cartoonist James Thurber, who said,

“All men should strive to learn

Before they die,

What they are running from,

And to,

And why.”

A spicy little slice of life hides in that quote.  A seemingly harmless rhyme, but rife with challenge.  For me, it jumped to the fore as my old cell phone petered out last week and I acquired a new one, — an “upgrade,” of course, called a “smartphone.”  Call me a throw-back to an older generation if you wish, but time has not yet allowed me to scan its three manuals nor have I watched and installed on my computer the CD that came with it to explain the many features.  I probably never will.  The more logical choice for me is to blindly grope my way through some of its primary features until I find what I need to support the bare essentials of my cell phone use — scant by today’s cultural standard.  There’s little time and less motivation for a guy like me to devote to such stuff.  I admire those who have the patience for it, but ADHD kicks in when I approach such tertiary tasks.

Note that I said “bare essentials.” I’ve already learned more than I need about the new phone.  I set it to interface automatically with my email, so now I get two vibrations and a screen notice every time an email arrives on either of my two email addresses — one for business and one for personal use.  Isn’t this great?!  I can make and receive phone calls and access email and the web on the fly, without a computer in hand (not exactly “new” technology); I can check out restaurants, find shopping areas, maps and GPS navigation, highway conditions throughout the area, and take photos on the fly (albeit relatively inferior in quality), etc.   There are many other applications that I can learn – probably right after I learn to speak Russian or Urdu.  Have nothing against them, mind you.  Simply don’t need them, so why clutter my life?

Nothing you can buy

Speaking of ADHD:  Have I gained anything with this new “smartphone” … really?  Yes, convenience.  That deceptive word that often tells us we need something more, something to improve or enrich our lives with new possibilities. But the word that’s missing in the Madison Avenue ad is that there’s a price to pay for this convenience, one that far outstrips the gain — at least, in my economy.  The “convenience” is a two-edged sword.  Anne Lamott, among my favorite contemporary authors, describes the scenario well in a recent Sunset magazine article (http://www.sunset.com/travel/anne-lamott-how-to-find-time-00418000067331/.  She spoke about teaching the art of writing:

I begin with my core belief—and the foundation of almost all wisdom traditions—that there is nothing you can buy, achieve, own, or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder. But the good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty.

Then I bring up the bad news: You have to make time to do this.

This means you have to grasp that your manic forms of connectivity—cell phone, email, text, Twitter—steal most chances of lasting connection or amazement. That multitasking can argue a wasted life. That a close friendship is worth more than material success.

Anne Lamott, “Time Lost and Found,” Sunset Magazine, April, 2010 (emphasis mine).

“Manic forms of connectivity?” Lamott nailed it.  Like the junior-high bubble-gummers of the ’50s with their transistor radios or the hippies of the ’60s with their beads, love and drugs, we have a burgeoning population that seems totally tuned out to anything else.  As noted by some observers, the present trend has gobbled up much of the 20-somethings through the 50-somethings and is like those earlier versions, — only on mega-doses of super-steroids.  But not much seems to come of their observations and concerns.  Our culture and this torrid love affair with electronic gadgetry — whassup?!  We opt for more and more convenience in our pockets, purses and briefcases.  And we ignore the greater losses that accompany the perceived gains — gains measured in nanoseconds and instant accessibility anywhere on the planet.

Come to think of it, this trend is actually more like open prostitution – or a hit-and-run accident – than a torrid love affair.  “Love affair” over-dignifies the phenomenon.  Our culture’s preoccupation with this connectivity is arguably as much a cultural regression as a development.  Despite the available technology’s touted array of opportunities and upsides, there are downsides that are mostly being overlooked.

Ever found yourself talking with someone when you realize, either through visual contact or the deafening silence on the other end, that s/he is totally unaware of what you just said – or that you just said anything?!  And that it’s likely (or clearly) because of the other’s absolute attention to the cell phone, laptop, or other electronic device that is contributing to their catatonic state of torpor?  Worse, — that the condition’s not likely to change in the next ten minutes?  Or ever?  And even worse, that there’s apparently little or no remorse for the rudeness?

“You know, I was just thinking the other day that maybe we should drive to the beach this weekend.  Whaddya think?  Stanley?  Hello, … hello, … HELL-OOOO!”

“Oh, just a sec, dear.  I’m trying to finish this email from …”

“Can we talk for just a minute?”

“Mmm.”

“Okay, … so when will that be?”

“Mmm.”

♫ ♪ Make the world go away ♫ ♪

I’ve sat in business meetings with leaders and execs who had shorter attention spans than a one-year-old because of preoccupation – no! total absorption, – with the latest vibration or ringing of their cell phone, or even desktop monitor.  Such interruptions included late-breaking scores in ballgames, text messages from their school kid at home, or casual phone calls from an old friend.  And I’m sure most of us have sat in living rooms trying to have meaningful conversation with folks who could not even make eye contact because of their focus on an iPhone or laptop.  How about the robots (zombies?) who walk down the streets under the spell of their hand-held devices?  Are they not mostly oblivious to real or potential friends and what’s happening around them?

Odds are, you’ve been behind those drivers who are everywhere “multitasking” on the phone — entirely clueless to the fact that they are delaying traffic, experiencing (causing?) a much higher rate of vehicle accidents, being no more effective for all their supposed multitasking, and setting a horrible example for the children in the car with them.  It seems that the default switch of these technology uber-users is set to respond, first and foremost, to the electronic signal  — not to the friend, family member or conversant who’s trying to personally interface. And “The Biggest Loser”?  Society in general and the friendships and true connections that might otherwise grow into close relationships, were it not for the constant, irritating interruptions from cyberspace. Ever been tempted to just walk away in mid-sentence?  I have.  I’m not trying to be rude as a response to rudeness, I’m just trying to find a responsive, reciprocal relationship.

Life in an iPhone

Perhaps the penultimate picture of the depth of our cultural addiction to these convenient contraptions (my emphasis, if you please) is a statement I witnessed in a three-way conversation with an employee and another manager where I worked.  The discussion, created by overt interruption of our business meeting by the other manager when he saw the employee walk by, centered on a wonderful new “app” featured on the iPhone and the manager’s desire to show it to the young employee.  This had no business purpose, absolutely nothing to do with our effort to resolve an accounting dilemma for the external auditors who were waiting in another room.  My point:  The young employee, upon watching the demo of the iPhone application, said, “Man, those things are so cooool!  You can almost live in an iPhone, man!”  [No comment on the quality of such a "life" is presently offered. ]  In this casual process, we lost an overt ten minutes of critical time (the other manager’s definition of the meeting at the time of scheduling) plus another three for him to recover his thought process and get back down to brass tacks.  Time is similarly wasted in the workplace every day and in a myriad of ways, not all having to do with electronic gadgets by any means.  But my point is still valid.

Consider the probable number of hours per day, all over the world, that employees in every level of industry and government spend on personal emails, Facebook, Twitter or some other instant-gratification- junkie hookup.  This is all time lost, hampering productivity with distraction, diversion, errors and repetitions of errors, and procrastination.  And then we attempt to make it up by pursuing what we describe as multitasking (which some research shows to be futile self-deception, an impossibility.  See, e.g., http://news.stanford.edu/news/2009/august24/multitask-research-study-082409.html.  See also “Multitasking works? Not really, Stanford study shows” on same webpage).  For what gain?

For sure, the computer age and electronic gadgetry that currently soak up all available minutes, hours and energy also add productivity and are not solely responsible for the breakdown in relationships, lack of productivity and other social problems and heartache.  I don’t want to overstate my case by implying otherwise and “throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”  But they are a sizeable component.  Perhaps adjustments are needed in the interest of sanity and flourishing relationships.

The cost of misspent energy is best illustrated in an ancient story recounted by Anne Lamott in the article cited above:

I often remember the story from India of a beggar who sat outside a temple, begging for just enough every day to keep body and soul alive, until the temple elders convinced him to move across the street and sit under a tree. Years of begging and bare subsistence followed until he died. The temple elders decided to bury him beneath his cherished tree, where, after shoveling away a couple of feet of earth, they found a stash of gold coins that he had unknowingly sat on, all those hand-to-mouth years.

Ibid.

12 Steps?

This story, and Thurber’s quote, resonate within me.  A thorough cost-benefit analysis and questioning about the deepest, truest sense of what’s happening with all these gadgets is overdue.  We have largely forgotten how to talk, eyeball-to-eyeball; to spend the time to invest in another’s life – our spouse’s or child’s or friend’s or needy stranger’s; to sense and participate in the amazing and beautiful things around us, everywhere; to pick up on another’s joy or sorrow, need or expertise, or just chit-chat that brightens the day and lightens the load — or even calls us to thoughtful action.

There’s always lots of things that we can see
We can be anyone we’d like to be
And all those happy people we could meet just . . .
Groovin’ . . . on a Sunday afternoon
Really couldn’t get away too soon

We’ll keep on spending sunny days this way
We’re gonna talk and laugh our time away
I feel it comin’ closer day by day
Life would be ecstasy, you and me endlessly . . .
Groovin’ . . . on a Sunday afternoon

Do you think it’s time to set our gadgets with a personal message that reminds us to turn them off so that we can look up, smile at a friend, make a new one, or just take a deep breath and sit and think — instead of responding, Pavlov’s-dog-style, to every electronic signal that vibrates in our pocket or purse?  Can we find a balance? Hmmm.  ['Scuse me, my cell phone's ringing.]

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

Michael

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

All But Gone

“If I could go down now, whole town is sleepin’,

See the sun creepin’ up on the hill, yeah,

You know the river and the railroad would run through the valley still.

Well, it never was much to look at, just a one-horse town,

Kinda place young people wanta leave today;

Storefronts pretty much boarded up,

Main street pretty much closed down.

***

“I might go down, come the weekend, go on my own,

Drop off Annie and the baby, maybe drive alone.

Pay my last respects to a time that has all but gone.

Little by little, light after light, that’s how it died.

Say you’ll never go home again, now that’s no lie.

It’s like a letter in the mail to my brother in jail,

‘It’s just a matter of time, and you can do a little bit better time.’”

- from “Letter in the Mail” on James Taylor’s Never Die Young CD

Headed downtown early this morning.  Had coffee and breakfast on my mind, needed to do some ‘thankin’ (as one of my longtime Arkansas buddies says).  Also wanted to beat the tourist crowds that, every summer, routinely conquer and occupy this little Carpinteria, a quaint but mostly-sleepy beach town of approximately 14,000 nestled on the Pacific strand where the Golden State turns southeastward about two-thirds down the coastline from its northern boundary with Oregon.  According to Wikipedia, “The Spanish named the area Carpinteria because the Chumash tribe, which lived in the area, had a large seagoing canoe-building enterprise, or ‘carpentry shop’ there; this was due to the availability of naturally-occurring surface tar which was used to seal the boats. You can still see the tar oozing out of the bluffs at Tar Pits Park, on the beach just south of the campground.”  I’ve been to the beach many times and can affirm the veracity of the statement about tar oozing out of the bluffs.  But back to the throng of every summer’s tourists.

While these crowds are generally pretty laid back and serene, they come here from all over the world to enjoy “The World’s Safest Beach,” as the town has officially styled it. So there’s an expected level of pandemonium from the large number of young children with their families, the confusion of diverse languages, cultures and expectations that converge in a small space. The other day in the same coffee shop I’m headed for this morning, I conversed with a German couple who’ve been coming here every summer for 18 years, they like it so much; and in front of us, there was a large Italian family who could not efficiently communicate to the baristas what they wanted. But fortunately, they came with their Italian hands and arms, prepared (and well trained!) to gesticulate with sufficient exuberance to, along with their many and rapid words, eventually get the point across. I like these folk — I like the spontaneous encounters and light conversations with people from around the world. But sometimes there are just too many of them at once, particularly on Saturday mornings that should, by rights, quietly ramp up to energetic levels only after 11 a.m., when I tend to recover and “come back to ground” from a hard week at the office. I work in Carpinteria; hence, I live here for the convenience of avoiding daily Highway 101 gridlock as thousands of commuters cram the one highway that snakes along the coast between Oxnard-Ventura and north through Santa Barbara to Atascadero before splitting into several routes that open the congestion.

As usual, I was afoot on this morning’s quest.  I walk the same route every early morning (as contrasted with late mornings), stopping at the coffee shop for my usual double cappuccino-slightly-on-the-dry-side.  Today, though, I would add a warm cranberry oat breakfast bar and ask Aubrey for my cappuccino in a ceramic mug instead of the usual to-go cup with sleeve.  I always liked the name “Aubrey.”  It was my paternal grandma’s name (may she rest in peace), and she was as fun a person as I’ve ever known — a short, sturdy little Scottish woman full of vigor who, though deeply religious, was never hesitant to tease and laugh in her inimitable style. And she could render “Amazing Grace” in an alto, Celtic style, that made my arms stand up with goose bumps.  By contrast, Aubrey the barista is a quiet young person. Very kind, but shy and unassuming.  And my grandma didn’t have a tattoo on her left arm.  But that’s beside the point.  The first time I saw Aubrey working behind the counter, I noticed her name tag and complimented her on her name, adding that it was my grandma’s name as well.  She looked at me with a poker face and uttered not a word. But I could hear her internal question: “What’s his point?”  She’s softened up since then and makes a mean double cappuccino for me with a shy grin as she hands it off.

With frothy mug and warm plate in hand, I ambled to a seat facing outward toward the coastal range to the east so that I could watch the marine layer gradually lift to expose the mountains. Sliding my camera bag off my shoulder – it was along just in case I happened across any great low-light photo ops – I settled into the comfortable armchair. From my position I would also catch sight of those intrepid early morning cyclists who beat the crowds on the road, especially those cyclists who, along with my great friend Buzz, were riding the Cool Breeze Century today. I’d normally be out there with them, but lots of factors have prevented my participation this go-round. This is a bustling time of year on this paradise of a coast with its shirt-sleeves-shorts-and-flip-flops weather. Cyclists, surfers, and motorists clog the coastal highway headed for weekend R & R, and skateboarders and hundreds of pedestrians add to the crowds in the local streets throughout the day. So early is better for the cyclists as well as seekers of robust coffee and “slow-mo” morning solitude.

The “regulars” were mostly there as I arrived – the guy who sits by the front door reading a Grisham novel, whom I’ve never seen smile or speak to anyone, even when spoken to. He was into the novel of the day, and I respected his purpose – similar to mine. Funny; he doesn’t look like the Grisham sort – whatever that is. Just something about him. But he seems intent on Grisham; this is the third JG novel I’ve seen him with in as many weeks. Maybe he’s on a mission to read all of Grisham’s production. Anyway, he sports a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke under dark eyes set behind frameless glasses and an even darker, shiny, thick-and-slick crop of hair combed at a forty-five across his head. Across from me on the window side sat a guy with a gray-haired spike, the “newspaper man” I call him, with Blue-Tooth in his ear and newspaper in his hands. Today, though, he was frequently picking up his cell phone and looking at it as if to say, “Why the hell isn’t this thing ringing?!” I took it that someone wasn’t meeting his schedule and expectations, since he looked a little grumpy, evidenced even in his perfunctory nod that acknowledged my “good morning.” I didn’t bother him with further conversation today. Mutual respect. There were a couple others outside on the patio area despite the chill of the marine layer. Shorts and flip-flops with fleece pullovers and ball caps.

I like this place. When I walk in every morning, the staff sees me coming and usually knows what I want, regardless of which team members are there. We exchange pleasantries at the counter and I always get a smile or two, though it took me a few weeks to cultivate that when I came to town. Sometimes Southern Californians can be pretty stand-offish if you don’t nudge ‘em out of their aloof comfort zone. But as I entered the door to a minor crowd one recent morning, I heard one of the baristas yell over her shoulder, “Mike’s here!” followed by an immediate, minor scramble as two began making my cappuccino even before I paid – one frothing the milk and the other pulling the shots – while the observant sentry rang up the sale and tendered my change. Into the tip box it went as a warm smile of familiarity rose to the surface. When I complimented them on their prompt attention, their white teeth flashed in brilliant smiles contrasted against dark beach tans and their pleasant banter bubbled forth.

This morning, as usual, my cappuccino was robust but smooth, and the warm breakfast bar went down well with its mildly sweet-tart grainy taste. Didn’t bring a book and there was no conversation stirring beyond the working patter behind the counter between Aubrey and Gabe, the very crisp, short, spunky Latino who had just joined her for his shift. Another regular, “Spike Two” I call him, walked in as I finished. With his sunbleached blonde hair and dark tan, he was in his usual style of bright red sweatshirt and dark pants with Ugh boots, rolled newspaper under his arm and his half-lens readers already astride his nose. But our eyes met as he headed to an outdoor table with his java and news and we exchanged enthusiastic morning “hey, how ya doin?” My dishes now emptied, I delivered them to the bussing area and walked out the front door to the pleasant farewells: “Have a great day, Mike.”
“You, too, Aubrey and Gabe. See ya tomorrow.” As I said, I like this place.

The marine layer still hung fairly thick over the town. It’s been an unusual ten days just passed – weather-wise, more like the familiar “June Gloom” of our coastal region’s early summer micro-climates. By this time of year, the sky is usually bright and clear and a comfortable warmth is rising to meet the day. But not today. Nonetheless, something bright caught the corner of my eye as I reached the street. There was no movement – quite the contrary. There she sat across the street in total stillness, appearing against the backdrop of storefronts to belong there quite naturally. My eye was immediately riveted. To get a closer look, I immediately cut a diagonal across the sleepy street. What a beaut! Curves in all the right places, smooth lines and obviously quite well cared for. With a quick turn of my head, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me, almost embarrassed by my own unchecked admiration for this thing of beauty. She was a ’51 Ford V-8 “Woody” wearing several deep layers of a familiar, vintage Ford turquoise paint plus the dark-and-light woods used for the side panels, and she looked – at least to my non-expert eye – to be in totally-stock condition except for the special wheels that were not yet conceived when she rolled off the Detroit assembly line 58 years ago. For this babe, atypical tires of lower profile and smaller sidewalls mounted the more modern wheels as compared with the standard big wheels, wide white-sidewall tires, and small, plain hubcaps that I remember from that era. In 1951 I was a big-eared, bony kid of six, but even then was quite excited about cool cars. They were much less ubiquitous then.

Out came my camera for a lengthy series of admiring shots from every angle – the auto paparazzi! – and when I looked up I had been joined by a slightly younger guy who was as into the moment as I, him with cell-phone camera clicking shots. “Is she yours?” he asked. “I just shot the hell out of her with my camera.” Grin. 
“No, but I’d sure like to claim ‘er.”
“Wouldncha?!” he chuckled. “Whaddya think,” he said, “$180 grand into her?”
My eyes got big. “Are you kiddin’?” I had no idea how someone could spend that much on an old Ford. A Rolls maybe, but not a Ford.
“No,” he said. “I watched these for quite a while, wanted to buy one, but decided I couldn’t afford it.”
“I reckon not!” my mind silently affirmed. We stood staring in adoring silence for a few moments, made a couple comments about particular features of the car, then parted company, both surely personally enriched by the experience.

Still feeling a flush of excitement, I bagged my camera and headed down the street toward the beach to do my walking and “thankin,” but caught myself turning back a couple of times to get one more look at the Woody. Warm nostalgia had rushed in and filled all the blank spaces of my quiet Saturday reverie. Whatever I had needed to think about had been totally supplanted by remembrances of slower days, quieter days, days of long, white-hot summers in the lower Midwest of my Arkansas childhood. Days with dark sweat-beads around our youthful necks. Days when neighbor Peggy would team with my mom to load her three kids and mom’s three younger kids along with a picnic lunch into Peggy’s burgundy ‘51 Ford two-door coupe and we’d all head to Rudy Creek or Twin Bridges or Silver Bridge to hit the swimming hole and forestall the sun’s ravages. Riding home afterward in that heavy Ford as the lowering sun shot its more benign rays into our faces, we’d wearily take turns hanging our heads or towels out the windows to dry. Exhausted but happy little kids. Seatbelts were unheard of then.

As I reflected this morning, my mind, in keeping with my lifelong propensity, called up the lyrics of a song from the past.  This time it was James Taylor’s “Letter in the Mail.”  I began to sing the words quietly as I walked.  I like this about Carpinteria – this little “one-horse” town “peaceful and serene” in its morning yawns and stretches, “the sun creepin’ up on the hill,” – I like this exposure to relics of the past.  They are welcome relics, at least in my world, and the car I’ve just ogled and admired has triggered a small but packed volume of memories for me.  Likely, it would hardly have been noticed in a bigger city where life moves way too fast.  At most, it would have gotten a fleeting glance as the hustle of the street demanded greater attention.  Almost certainly, the conversation between two rank strangers would not have occurred on a big city’s sidewalk.  And without doubt, I couldn’t have stood in the middle of a larger city’s main thoroughfare to shoot a series of photos of a beautiful antique car.  But this serene little town, the “carpentry shop” of California’s lower coast, is a throwback “to a time that is all but gone.”  A pleasant throwback, where the simple pleasures are still to be found in abundance if one takes the time to look.   Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Hello world!

“Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard to sleep after.” – ANNE MORROW LINDBERGH

Welcome to my blog! I’m delighted to launch this site as an opportunity to speak what’s on my mind and for you to comment, discuss, disagree, persuade, or whatever may be, in your mind, an appropriate observation or response about my posts. All I ask is that you do so in good taste, with respect for the other persons’ positions and values. We’ll have a lot of fun in the process.

This will be a blog akin to Gene Shalit’s “Man About Everything” in that it will likely touch on topics far and wide. There will be pictures and photos and more, all to keep it interesting, informative, entertaining, and …(?) From where I sit, some of the choice morsels of life involve having fun and enjoying good humor as well as serious discussion. Like you, I get excited about lots of things, including art, cycling, family, music, books, human interest stories, politics, common sense ramblings, photography, gardening, sports, food and wine, movies, health and whatever may come to mind. I like to talk with people beyond mere surface matters; I like to learn, I like to hear people out and discuss differing viewpoints … sometimes for days on end. I plan to create a number of different categories that will accommodate a variety of topics. So please be patient with me (I have a lot to learn about blogging), as I will attempt to be with you, and feel free to suggest topics of conversation or controversy … as long as it’s not too wild!

Also feel free to submit things for consideration as publishable material on my blog, including your photos. I’ll be happy to give it my best shot in publishing them as you produce them and you keep the rights to the material you submit, as far as I’m concerned. But be prepared for me to come back to you with “How do I do …?” I may even ask you, “Are you sure about that?”

Also, I reserve the unequivocal right to control the content of any commentary by removing and/or modifying it to comport with reasonable standards of decency and good taste (as determined, of course, solely by me! ) And I reserve full copyrights over my own work.

I hope you’ve had a great first half of this week. We are unusually chilly here in SoCal for this time of year … another sure sign that Al Gore’s right! We’re having “global warming” for sure! I’m just waiting for him to invent the contemporary equivalent to the internet and basketball. It’s gotta be great fun! C’mon Al! I know it’s hard to follow your own act, but you can do it! You da man!

Carpe diem! Vita brevis!
Michael