The Price of a Pair of Shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

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

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.

One Child’s Wisdom

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

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

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

Here’s how Pi puts it:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis.

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

Fifties Space

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© March 2011, Michael Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

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.

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

Coffee Talk: Changing Others … or self?

“I bought a decaffeinated coffee table — you can’t even see a difference.” ~ Anonymous

“A cup of coffee shared with a friend is happiness tasted and time well spent.” ~ Anonymous

Hey, let’s have a cuppa joe together … and then add some food for thought.  Okay?  It’s an absolutely gorgeous Fall mornin’ here in SoCal … if you can say we have “Fall” as a season.    “Fall” is defined in these parts as when the daytime temperature drops from 74 degrees to 70 degrees.  “Hot” is 80, “cold” is 60 — a far stretch from northern Arkansas where I spent much of my life, and where a typical year-long weather calendar will record temperatures all along the spectrum between -5 and +105.

The annual Avocado Festival is this weekend in Carpinteria, so there’ll be about 100,000 or so humans, give or take several thousand, to eat all kinds of guacamole, avocado ice cream, avocado salsa, and just about every way one can think of for eating those luscious natural fats, fiber and carbs densely packed inside that pear-shaped, pebbly skin.  In addition, there’ll be several bands of varying genres (and talent … or not) hitting their licks as the crowds stroll by or sit to watch, and tons of tent merchants hawking their crafts and other treasures.  A festive atmosphere and definitely good for the local economy.

So how’s your coffee?  Mine’s just what I need right along with your conversation.  (Sorry, but I’ve already had my blueberry walnut oat bar. I waited … 30 seconds … but when you didn’t show right away, I went ahead).  So here’s the second course in our food for thought :

When one spends most of his time trying to change someone else, the more probable result is that he will change himself by overlooking the greater gift of his own unique, God-given mission in life.  Can it be that changing another is never one’s God-given mission?

Ever notice how effective the political, religious, or philosophical argument is?  How many times have you ever heard one opponent in such a debate turn and say to the antagonist, “You know, you’ve got a point there.  I think you’re right.  By golly, you’ve absolutely convinced me!  Thank you so much!  I say let’s do it [or have it] your way”?  Or how many times have you known such opponents to come back to each other, even later, and one ‘fess up to the other that he was wrong all along?

Have you ever even heard one witness of such a debate turn to another listener and make a similar confession?  I’ll lay odds you’ve NEVER witnessed such an event of either stripe.  Why?  Because of the innate attributes of humans, the most congenital seems to be our common, knee-jerk resistance to acknowledging, admitting or being told we could be in error.  And if that’s the case, why do we waste so much time, worldwide, trying to change others by arguing the error of their ways?  Wouldn’t we be much better off if we just let them have/be their way, spending the majority of our own effort being or becoming who we’re destined to be?  Would that be the better test of our beliefs and convictions?  Do you believe in such a destiny?

What I’m clumsily trying to ask is whether we wouldn’t have a lot more peace and success in life if we really focused on who we are within ourselves, rather than trying to change what someone else is or seems to be?  After all, the only things we really KNOW about someone — anyone, — are those bits of knowledge that come to us directly through our own filters or, alternatively, that come to us through the filters of third parties.

Right away, we can discuss some of the permutations of this thesis; e.g., whether we should apply this across governmental and political organizations, business entities, churches, schools, — or just at home.

What do you think?  What’s your pleasure on this topic?  Care to kick it around a bit just for the sake of mutual discovery?

While you think about it, here’s another — are you ready for this? — another one of those songs that pops in my mind.  Maybe its words will be as stimulating as the coffee.

“The Preachin’ Is Easy”

From Brian Duncan’s The Last Time I Was Here CD

We met on the high road,

At a glance both lookin’ bright and shiny-clean,

In that seamless perfection from the neighbors or the ad in a magazine.

But then one slip is all it takes,

The earth is not too far away.

My friend is calling out from the peaks above,

While I’m laid out on the fertile plain.

Talkin’ to me now, saying,

“Can’t get around, you can’t get around the slippery things in life.”

Now that’s technically correct.

The preachin’ is easy, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ is cheap in my book, help me up if you’ve read it.

I’m under pressure, under pressure, crazy pressure now makes you wanta quit.

Back on the high side, a little worse for the wear, but I’m truly tryin’.

And I’m now more forgivin’,

‘Cause I know how it feels, know what it’s like.

“Can’t get around, and you can’t get around the slippery things in life.”

Preachin’ is easy, baby, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ to me like it’s nothin’, well talkin’ is cheap in my book,

Look me up when you’ve read it.

Under pressure, I’m under pressure.

Try walkin’ a straight line, even while you’re looking up the whole time.

There’re so many steps in the right direction,

Say you’re gonna miss one sometimes.

“You shoulda planned ahead, you shoulda turned around,

“You shoulda seen the light.”

The preachin’ is easy, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ to me now, I say “Talking is cheap in my book,

Wake me up when you’ve read it.”

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.
I hope to hear from you on this.  I hope the coffee kicks in.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© Oct. 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved