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).

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.

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.

Lineage (or Line Dancing)

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

There is no line,

There’s a fine line,

Or a design line,

And a telephone line.

The color line,

The gender line,

A product line,

Two party lines.

The union line.

A picket line,

A boundary line,

The welfare line.

The free-throw line,

The half-court line,

The three-point line,

A goal line.

A yard line,

The baseline,

A morning line and

The scrimmage line.

(Oh, and the line drive.)

One bowling line,

And a hard line,

A half-cup line,

And your waistline.

Battle lines,

Cemetery lines,

Soup lines, and

Skylines.

A pipeline,

Customer service line,

An electrical line,

And a hemline.

The railroad line,

A bus line, airline,

A clothesline,

And assembly line.

Song line,

Long line,

Invisible line,

And wrong line.

Ancestral line,

Defensive line,

A tree line,

And the water line.

Get in line!

You cut in line!

You stole my line!

We’ll hold the line!

A white line,

A bright line,

A thin red line,

And a long blue line.

We must get in line,

Send word down the line,

To follow the line

To the end of the line.

You stand in line,

Johnny walks the line,

The demarcation line –

Where I draw the line.

Zipline! 

Any more lines?

∞

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

German Engineering Superiority: Really?

A Humorous Look at Self-Awarded ‘Saxon Superiority’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

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

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.

Trufe

TRUFE

Folks of’en say dey wants de trufe,
“Profits be hanged,” dey add.
“If he cain’t stand de trufe at last,
Well, that’s jes too damn bad!”

“Ah, de trufe,” you say, “de trufe
Will near-always win out.”
But way I sees it, it’s a tighter race.
I jes cain’t hep but doubt.

Ain’ no one got a-holta trufe
Near like dey thank dey do.
Fo’ ef a man gits holdin’ on trufe,
“Now, he jes ain’ gon’ do!”

“Know whut I mean?” I’s askin’ now,
An’ I sho’ly thank ya do.
‘Cause I know it done happen to me one time,
An’ I bet it done happen to you!

“Trufe,” dey say, “it’s time fo’ de trufe
Or we jes gon’ be bust!”
But what start out as de trufe, it seem,
Somehow wind up lookin’ like lust.

“De trufe gon’ come out at last, now,
An’ you jes gotta trust.”
But what start out as de trufe, it seem,
Somehow look awful like lust!
I sweah!

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

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Honesty is the rarest wealth anyone can possess, and yet all the honesty in the world ain’t lawful tender for a loaf of bread. ~Josh Billings

Truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it. ~Mark Twain

Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing had happened. ~Winston Churchill

Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it. ~Emily Dickinson

Society can exist only on the basis that there is some amount of polished lying and that no one says exactly what he thinks. ~Lin Yutang

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.

Saturday Coffee

“Coffee (café): Induces wit … Taken without sugar, very chic, gives the impression that you’ve lived in the Orient!” — GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, French novelist, playwright

I wasn’t headed up town early this a.m. for coffee, even though it’s Saturday. Coffee, the numero uno in my daily routine, would have to come later. My current mission, significantly less auspicious than the morning coffee quest, was a brisk bike ride with a group of new friends, mostly doctors and all specialists, who assured me that I’d be “better off riding with one GP than all four of” them. I had raised a rhetorical question to them in rather (but not entirely) lighthearted banter because of my cycling accident last October that landed me in three months’ recovery from a broken acetabulum (having little to do with my posterior, though it sounds otherwise), a separated shoulder, and a concussion – all this unknown to them. This morning I allowed as how it felt reassuring to ride in a pack of four medical doctors, when one of them ruthlessly (but in good humor, I might add) burst my enthusiastic bubble with the candid quip about the hypothetical GP. And I say “hypothetical GP” because that may be an extinct breed.

Anyway, these guys I was riding with are, respectively, urologist, radiologist, anesthesiologist, and oncologist – all pretty useless on a bike ride, at least from a medical viewpoint, though all are good riders. I mean, look — probabilities are low that I’ll be treated for cancer or a urological disaster on a bike outing, although I suppose if one were riding when a gallstone started it’s descent through the plumbing, it might feel reassuring to have a urologist standing by. But maybe no moreso than the comfort I get when I need help in the office.

Everyone seems to be a “specialist” these days. Even in my accounting office we no longer have the generic “accounting clerks” of the old days when I was a pup in the business. We now have “accounts payable specialists” and “payroll specialists” and “billing specialists” and … well, you get the picture. I can’t get help from the billing specialist when there’s a rush on getting an invoice paid; she only takes care of situations “when we’re asking for money to be sent to us, not the other way round” (for gosh sakes … with the eyeball roll!).

So back to the docs and the bike ride. I’m presently over my worries about the lack of a GP. We’re just having fun, exercise and a little camaraderie today. Have I mentioned that I have a lot of mental problems? With songs? Songs, for me, often get in the way of serious production of something worthwhile. Not songs I’m writing; I’m not a songwriter. The songs I’m talking about are songs that I’ve acquired through the aural canals and unintentionally stored in my brain’s wrinkles (of which there must be more than on even my face, judging by the numbers of songs that roll out with annoying regularity) over the years of my life. They are not evidence of creative brainpower surging through my synapses, at least not in the traditional sense, but random recollections of something I’ve heard, now being involuntarily spilled for no particular purpose. But it can be entertaining in otherwise inane activities like riding a bike with a bunch of medical specialists.

The song running through my brain this overcast morning was the catchy, bluesy-but-pleasant little country tune with the typical cryin’-in-the-beer lyrics of that genre, Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues. Penned by Danny O’Keefe, it was popular in the early 70s (peaking at #9 in 1972). I have a very cool instrumental rendition of it on a CD project by the great guitarist Earl Klugh. It’s very whistle-able, so even if you’re not a vocalist – and I’m not, at least not when I’m pedaling up a steep hill on my roadie – you can hit your licks on this tune with your whistle. The lyrics go like this:

Everybody’s goin’ away.
Said they’re movin’ to L.A.
There’s not a soul I know around.
Everybody’s leavin’ town!

Some caught a freight. Some caught a plane.
Find the sunshine, leave the rain.
They said this town’s a waste of time.
I guess they’re right, it’s wasting mine!

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

You know, my heart keeps tellin’ me,
“You’re not a kid at thirty-three.
“You play around you’ll lose your wife.
“You play too long you’ll lose your life!”

I’ve got my pills to ease the pain,
Can’t find a friend to ease the rain.
I know I should try and settle down.
But everybody’s leaving town.

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

(whistling to end)

Pretty grim, huh? But lighthearted blues, thanks to the catchy tune. How did my thoughts get here this morning? I mean, I’m having fun with these guys and none of us seems particularly down on his luck! Did yesterday’s date (9/11) have something to do with my thoughts? After all, eight years ago yesterday was a disaster in international history and the lives of lots of folks. But I don’t know whether the memory of that day of infamy triggered Good Time Charlie …. I think it had more to do with stories I hear. Here’s an excerpt of one, ironically including “Charlie,” who may indeed start singing the blues. [Hope you can ignore the syntax errors typical of news journalism.]

The End of the Road for Charles Rangel?

Written by Catherine Mullins

Thursday, 10 September 2009

“After a 40-year career of liberalism and scandal, Rep. Charlie Rangel, one of the biggest fish in Washington, might finally be getting fried. [My Note: As New York’s congressman from the 15th District, he’s been in Congress since January, 1971. Think that’s long enough?! Maybe the following quoted excerpt from Wikipedia explains something about his longevity: “Rangel's district, the smallest in the country in geographic size, encompasses Upper Manhattan and includes such neighborhoods as Harlem, Spanish Harlem, Washington Heights, Inwood, Morningside Heights, and part of the Upper West Side, as well as a small portion of Queens in the neighborhood of Astoria. … Rangel earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his service in the Korean War.” That last sentence almost surely explains a common occurrence in human history – taking “heroes” who’ve served one purpose honorably, with the often-erroneous thinking that they’ll make good leaders in another, especially in politics. More about that topic another time.]

“As chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, the committee that writes the federal tax codes, Rangel failed to report $75,000 he earned in 2007 on a rental property to the IRS. Ironically, he claimed to be ignorant of tax laws. The ethics committee which has ignored Rangel’s tax law peccadilloes in the past is now engaged to look into the matter.

“Since that committee was appointed, it has been alleged that Rangel failed to report over $1 million in outside income and $3 million in business transactions,” CBS reported. The Washington Examiner broke it down further for us: “It turns out Rangel had a credit union account worth at least $250,000 and maybe as much as $500,000 — and didn’t report it. He had investment accounts worth about the same, which he also didn’t report. Ditto for three pieces of property in New Jersey.

“Beyond even that, we’ve learned that Rangel has failed to report assets totaling more than $1 million on legally required financial disclosure forms going back to at least 2001.

“On top of those allegations are ones that ‘he falsely listed a Washington D.C. residence as his primary address when he was living in rent-stabilized apartment in New York City; used Congressional letterhead for fundraising purposes; and helped a wealthy donor to a school bearing Rangel’s name establish a lucrative tax shelter in Bermuda,’ according to Fox News.

“With an ever increasing list of accusations, Charles Rangel is looking more and more like an arrogant and belligerent tax cheat. According to him, though, he has far beyond the average intelligence. With regards to his financial situation he told reporters: ‘I recognize that all of you have an obligation to ask questions knowing that there’s none of you smart enough to frame it in such a way that I’m going to respond.’“

Well, poor ol’ Charlie. I hope he’ll be singing the blues in Sing Sing for a long time.  But given our track record for actually prosecuting and incarcerating such cheats of high stature, I’m a bit skeptical. On to other “Charlies” of humbler origins and means.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Michael

© September 2009, Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.