Audience

Sometime back, Cheryl (our mentor, sounding-board, technical advisor, and over all go-to person) showed me something really interesting.

Get your minds out of the gutter.

We were discussing the internal mechanisms of the blog site. She asked me to log-in as I usually do. Then, she directed me to this little button called "stats". As this was during baseball season, I was expecting an automatic update of both the National and American League standings. With trembling hand, I left-clicked on the mouse, not knowing what to expect.

There before me  was displayed the number of views each column has had. The Internet Service Providers were listed. Most fascinating, the country of origin was also displayed!

Well, well, well....I had no idea the international impact this site has! And, I ain't just talking Canada, either. (Canada is ranked #2, right behind the USA. Go figure.)

 I was astounded to see regular followers in Western Europe (France, the UK, the Netherlands), Central Europe (Poland, Germany, Austria), and Eastern Europe (Russia, the Ukraine, Georgia, and Belarus). Asia was represented by readers in China and Taiwan. India has followers. South America was represented by Brazil, Costa Rica, Peru, and Venezuela). Israel is the sole Middle Eastern nation represented.

Instantly, I formed an image of a harried Parisian arriving home,  fresh baguette and bottle of wine in hand. With a sigh, he flops down before the computer. A few keystrokes and couple of clicks later, the cares of 21st Century French life are forgotten as the accounts of a somewhat out-of-touch American unfold. "Mon Dieu, Brigette!" he exclaims. "This American, he is funny, no?"

Somewhere in Moscow, an up and coming comedian furtively scans his i-phone before stepping onto the stage. A smile, reflecting his relief, spreads across his face. With renewed confidence, he approaches the microphone, as the packed house awaits another episode from "his American friend". It warms my heart to know I am providing gainful employment to someone unknown to me.

I see a hip young couple in their apartment overlooking the city of Rio, Brazilian jazz in the background, awaiting my column. Somewhere in Beijing, a college student relaxes while reading of America. I see people around the globe anxiously logging onto the site; awaiting their dose of humor, insight, and observation.

The ISPs are fascinating. Of course, Internet Explorer is the big cheese, followed by Chrome and Firefox. Yet, there are some I have never heard of; Silk, Phantom JS, Safari, Safari Mobile, and others. Most people access the site via a tablet or smartphone (60% Apple, 40% Android). The traditional PC falls in line behind these two devices.

Articles about dogs are a big hit. The columns about growing up in the 1950s and 60s are a close second. The more introspective columns have a high readership. Oddly, the all time most read column has been "There were two fires in Willoughby"

Most readers will be happy to see "Leaves"; it involves Ike and is also introspective.

What is to be gleaned from all this? I am uncertain. Perhaps, it is simply this: there are a lot of people around the World who just want to get away from day-to-day life, have a chuckle, shed a tear, and take in the view from the hill today. Or not.

(NOTE:  Cheryl, if this traffic is nothing more than  unsavory, underworld types nefariously phishing for electronic information, keep it to yourself. Let me enjoy my rose-colored  perspective. JEH)

Leaves

Something unusual happened the other day. No, a meteor didn’t land in the front yard. Ed McMahan has yet to show up with that huge check made out to me.  In fact, nothing real note worthy occurred at all; yet something unusual happened.

While walking Ike, I actually started to laugh out loud. I know, I know. Dog walking rarely borders on hilarity. Enjoyable at most times, sometimes approaching amusing; very rarely does one burst out in laughter.

See, it was a beautiful Indian Summer day. For the nit-pickers, yes, it was an Indian Summer day, as it arrived after the first frost, as well as first snow fall. It was one of those perfect Autumn days only found in the Midwest. The sky was a nearly too-perfect blue, the temperature hovered near 75 degrees, the trees were an artist pallet of color.

We were atop a hill overlooking the river which flows past our home. Every once in a while, a hearty on-shore breeze would sweep up the river, climb the hill, and be lost. As these gusts of wind transported a significant number of leaves, Ike was captivated.

Being a 7 month old puppy, he has never experienced leaves blowing in the wind before. Standing with his ears erect, he would dart, and jump, and pounce on these animated objects as they swirled past. Occasionally, he would manage to catch one. While holding it down with his forefeet, he would sample it with his teeth. 

He was totally content with his treasure….until another blast of wind came off Lake Erie, bearing more objects to be desired. He would jump to his feet, snapping at leaves while running to the limit of his lead.  Empty pawed, he would return to his former treasure, only to find it, too, was gone. He would sniff around, ears upright, searching for the prize. Alas, the leaf had been borne away with the wind.

Seeing his antics created no loss of amusement for me. I must have looked the fool; standing on the hill, attached to a dog, laughing like a… well, I don’t know what. He just looked so funny!  I could see people driving past on the boulevard smiling as they watched us. Certainly, they saw the humor in the moment. 

Eventually, I became bored with laughing at a puppy chasing leaves. The concerns of the day crept around the tree line; sneaked up the hillside; dropped from the overarching tree branches to fill my head with “things I gotta do”.  We returned home, me encouraging Ike to cease and desist with leaf chasing and get in the door.

Two days later, it was chilly. Wind whipped rain swept across the yard. We didn’t go to the hill, as years of walking dogs during inclement weather as taught me to avoid that open area. The wind whistles upstream, then slams into the hill, mounting skyward with gale forces. Ike is not really thrilled with rain, and he really can’t understand this whole concept of snow. However, while outdoors, a gust of wind carried a small handful of leaves across our path. Suddenly, the wind and rain were inconsequential. He was chasing leaves on a sunny, warm November afternoon again. 

For some reason, I didn’t find this display of boundless energy and enthusiasm quite as amusing as previously. Ice-water trickling down the back of my neck does that to me.  In fact, I think my initial response was “Are you kidding me? You are going to stand out here, getting soaked, to chase leaves?”

Finally, I was able to get Ike to the door, but not without his gamely attempting to snatch a leaf from the walkway just before entering our home.

Today, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning, thinking about Ike and leaves. I stifled a giggle so as not to awaken my Lovely Bride. It is pretty funny, whether in the sun or chill rain; a little dog trying to catch swirling leaves.

How many leaves do we chase, I wondered. How many people have dropped everything in order to chase after something unattainable? How many have turned back, to find their original treasure gone?

Deep in thought, I drifted off to sleep comforted by the sound of wind-borne leaves rattling on the window pane, to dream of a little white dog, happily grabbing leaves carried by a soft, warm breeze.

First Dogs

Today, a friend of mine was sharing  heartbreak of the apparent imminent demise of a beloved dog.

When people know you are a “dog-person”, they frequently share their concerns, joys, and frustrations with you. Which is fine.  You are somewhat of a canine oriented  Obi Wan Kenobi.

Our conversation got me to thinking about all the dogs who have padded their way through Lovely Bride’s and my lives. This in turn got me thinking about that unique creature; “the first dog.”

During the course of a lifetime, you will probably own a dog.  It is safe to assume if you had more than one dog, you have therefore possessed your “first dog”.

Within the realm of logic, higher math, and marriage statistics, this would be correct. Within the realm of dog ownership, such an assumption is utterly and patently false. In the mysterious dog universe, the laws of logic and reason cease to exist.

As we shall see, there are many “firsts”….

Recall your childhood and that lumbering, slobbering four-legged terror that cohabitated your parent’s home with you?  You may be tempted to refer to the beast as “your first dog”.  HA!  Nothing can be further from the truth! This creature, (selected by your parents with the intention of being “your dog”) was no more “yours” than are Prince Charles’s polo ponies. Unless you happen to be Prince Charles in which case the polo ponies are yours.

But I digress.

The dog viewed you with a rather aloof, “don’t-bother-me-kid” attitude. From the

canine’s point of view, Mom and Dad were the true pack-leaders. The dog was next on the

organization chart. You, dear reader, were a lower ranking, smelly, obnoxious, noisy pack mate. As a result of this philosophy, the arrogant, stuck-up animal pretty much completely ignored you.

As time passes, you find yourself gazing out the window, beholding the beauty of Creation.

You muse:  “Gee, I’d like to get a hunting dog.”, or “a sled dog”, or “a conformation dog”

or “ a semi-intelligent dog”. You carefully consider all the options. Do you rescue a dog?

Do you contact breeders?  Make a visit to the local shelter? 

Finally you make your choice. You take the plunge. You get a dog. Sometimes, in a weak moment, you may decide to get a hunting, sled-pulling, breed ring, agility dog… all in the same dog!  The difficult part is finding a really good bird dog that can also run in the Iditarod Sled Dog Race.

Since you picked her out, brought her home, convinced your spouse you would care for her, this is your “first dog”. Congratulations!  You now get to feed, groom, walk, drive to the vet, pay the vet, and clean up after her.

Why do you do this? Is it to fulfill the deep-seated need to nurture? Is it the innate human desire to bond with another creature? The answer is quite simple:   Mom and Dad are not around to do this all for you!

This dog must certainly be “Dog Number 2”, correct?  Wrong! 

This is your first, pure-bred-with-a lineage-going-back-to-Moses- kennel-club-registered-sire-and-dam with-an-alphabet-before-and-behind-their-names-CH-CD-UDX-LlD-PhD-dog.  The cost of this dog is roughly the equivalent of a year’s tuition at a really good Ivy League university. And you co-own the critter!

This is the puppy you cradle in your arms, feeling that indescribably soft fur against your chin and cheeks. You deeply inhale that sweet, primal puppy aroma. This is the dog who nuzzles under your earlobe communicating with that little puppy “murf-murf” sound which captivates your heart.

This is a little life, totally dependent upon you to care for. You are only beginning to realize the treasures you are about to reap in return.

This is the dog that truly tests the fabric of your marriage. The dog who blissfully shreds your wife’s carefully, lovingly, expensively preserved wedding gown. The gown she envisioned seeing a grand-daughter walking  down the aisle in one day.

 This is the dog who gleefully transforms the geranium bed into its private latrine. This is the dog whom you  permit to sleep in bed with you. Under the covers, in fact.

Regardless of the day you have had, the mess you may have made of your life, this is the dog who enthusiastically welcomes you home, tail thumping and eyes agleam with delight at your return. This is the same dog who is content to lie by your side for hours as you simply sit, asking only a gentle caress of the head or ear.

This dog will introduce you to the exciting, rewarding, and eminently just world of dog shows and trials. As this topic is far too broad (and painful) the writer will address it later. Much much later;  probably never.

This first dog will drive you to second-mortgage the farm. Everything you use is specialized, made to exacting standards for your dog’s particular needs. Is it bath time? Forget the family shampoo. This dog’s coat only responds to shampoo that costs more per ounce than crude oil.

Dinner time?  Leave the tried and true kibble at the pet supply store. This dog’s delicate system must have free-range chicken, sautéed with organically grown parsley, lightly savored with basil. Remember all this when the canine drags home some four day old road-kill, rolls in it and finally devouring it under the  back deck.  This takes place just before depositing the partially digested mess on the living room floor.

This is the same dog that dashed into traffic to protect your wayward toddler, risking his own life to protect your little one. On a cold, wintry morning, this dog will awaken you to a frigid house, the furnace having malfunctioned, while potentially deadly gas seeped into the home.

When you are not feeling well, this dog will gingerly lie down beside you, resting her chin gently upon your arm. Deep in those eyes you see all the trust, the love, and the limitless bond that exists between humans and our four-legged sidekicks.

Over time, there will be other, all noteworthy first dogs.

There will be that first dog you go a-field with. There will be that first obviously abandoned dog; frightened emaciated, and dehydrated, you take in.

At some time may come the first dog you responsibly breed.  You stay by her side throughout the night, slurping coffee, as her little bundles of fur and love enter the world. The wonder of those little lives is forever captivating, forever engraved upon your memory.

You experience the heart-leaping joy of earning “Champion” on your first dog. Although the scent of dried liver treats never leaves your clothing, it is all worth it when the judge indicates that final “First” to your dog. This thrill is only surpassed by the memory of that very first blue ribbon earned in a long ago Puppy class.

There will be that first, and hopefully last, dog someone else chooses for you. The human/canine bond is such a complex relationship; the adjustment period to a “surprise” dog is not unlike a blind date. Eventually, it all works out.

Inevitably, there comes  that first dog you must mercifully put down. The heaviness of your heart; the searing tears upon your cheeks; the warmth of the soft coat you have nuzzled so many times as you linger over a final caress;  the soul-wrenching  sense of ultimate betrayal as you look into those beautiful, loving eyes for the last time…thankfully, this never becomes easy. If it ever does, we are to be most pitied.

Eventually comes that “first last dog”, the puppy you obtain in your dotage. This is a vain attempt of re-claiming long gone youth, being in the presence of new life. This dog will watch by your side as you grow slow of step, dim of sight, and dull of hearing. This dog will be the one your children or grandchildren take into their home when you enter Golden Acres Care Center.

As you can see, we never have a second, third, or subsequent dog. Only a long, wonderful line of “firsts”

her

Veterans

“Thank you, Veterans.”

Three small words which, on the surface, seem so insignificant.

Yet...the full measure of their meaning is incalculable.

There is a little inactive cemetery not far from my office. In fact, it is a good 3-wood shot from our church. Very, very few people know of the these final resting places as they drive past on the U.S. Highway. Still, there it is.

Tucked away, beneath the spreading branches of a tree and other brush, is an old, weathered marker.

This in and of itself is not unusual in old abandoned cemeteries. However, this simple stone is significant, for it marks the final resting place of an original American Veteran.

Beneath the sod of Ohio, far from his native New England, lie the remains of an American Revolutionary War vet. A man, not unlike so many others, who set his livelihood and personal aspirations aside to respond to the fledgling nation's call. We will never know what compelled this young man to take up arms against the English Crown. Was it a burning desire for self-governance?

Did he have a deep-seated disregard for monarchies? Was it purely economics, or did he yield to peer pressure?

What we do know is he joined his fortune, his abilities, and his future with so many others in ensure Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness not only for himself, but generations yet to come.

I watched as the Autumn leaves skittered about his headstone, now leaning rather precariously due to ravages of wind, rain, frost and time. Such an ignoble end for one who gave so much for so many he would never know.

Interestingly, the grave of his Grandson, a Civil War Veteran, lies approximately 50 feet to the south.

One man laid the foundation for our nation, the other sought to mend the rift within that foundation.

These two sites are representative of all the members of the American Armed Forces. They answered when called, performed their task admirably, and the fortunate ones returned to Life when it was all over. Sadly, others have returned, and continue to return, to a world in which they no longer fit. Unseen horrors, unheard voices, incomprehensible anxieties create deep-seated, unimaginable wounds. While unseen, these wounds are as real and painful as any caused by shot and shell.

It is today, a date proclaimed as an end to “the war to end all wars” we remember those who served, those who fell, and those still wounded. We pay puny homage to those who have protected us, preserved our liberties, and those who yet do so.

Interestingly enough, I do not know any Veterans who are boastful or full of swagger for having served. When thanked for their sacrifice; invariably they are humble, almost embarrassed and at a loss for words.

I know this may seem hollow. However, it is meant with the deepest of feelings:

Thank you all.

May God continue to bless you.

And, may God bless America.

Apples and Pumpkins

The other day my Lovely Bride and I went apple picking. We are fortunate to have a small apple orchard near our home. The operators are a very nice couple who grow various varieties of trees simply because they enjoy it. We are not talking simply Red and Golden Delicious, or Jonathan or MacIntosh here. No siree. Here there are such unusual varieties as Arkansas Black, Virginia Gold, Lady Apple, and Wolf River. Also, there are the wonderful classics; Northern Spy, Empire, and Winesap.  And, (in our opinion)  the gem of the orchard; the Esopus Spitzenburg; believed to be Thomas Jefferson’s favorite apple.  The Apple Patch offers a size, shape, taste, texture and color for everyone.

While my Lovely Bride and the orchard owner braved the mud to pick apples, I remained by the apple shed sharing with the owner’s wife tales of Lake County history, grandchildren and, of course; apples. 

Standing in the clear, cool November sunshine, I found myself transported back in time to a similar Fall day. I am a youngster, enthralled with the mission of finding the biggest pumpkin in a neighboring farmer’s display.

Mr. Rivers was an elderly gentleman, (he must have been in his mid-fifties) when I was a child.  Not only was he the local source for pumpkins, squash, apples, and such; he was also my school bus driver, as well as the custodian at my elementary school.

I have no memories of getting pumpkins and the associated Autumn accruements prior to Mr. Rivers’ place. He had a nice parcel of property along S.O.M. Center Road in Mayfield Village. Situated directly across from the Metropolitan Park (this was before the days of “Metroparks”), he was assured there would never be a housing development or service station to contend with. 

He was of average height, average build, pleasant round face, glasses, and the ever-present pipe clamped in his teeth.  He always exuded the fragrance of tobacco. Perched atop his head would be an old, battered, weather beaten fedora. He was  a favorite of the children at our school, Mr. Rivers was always quick with a smile or a kind word. He was everyone’s favorite uncle and grand-dad rolled into one.

Beginning with Spring thaw, he could be seen putt-putting about his fields on his old Fordson tractor, turning the rich Northern Ohio soil in preparation for this year’s plantings.  On humid Summer evenings there he would be, cultivating rows of young plants well into dusk, the dim yellow beams of the machine’s headlights casting a feeble glow amidst the newly raised dust.

As Summer progressed, we would travel the mile or so down the road to his roadside stand for sweet corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, green-beans…and to cast an appraising gaze upon the Mother Lode; the pumpkin patch.

Hard, shiny green orbs nestled under the wide protecting leaves. We wanted to wander amongst the vines, but we knew such transgressions were strictly forbidden. Little feet could irreparably damage the tender plants, or squash an immature pumpkin. No one wanted to be accused of pumpkin-cide. We would stand at the edge of the patch; willing the tiny things to grow, and be quick about it.

Finally, the long awaited time would come. Our parents would ask “Who wants to pick out pumpkins?” a most rhetorical question if ever there were one.  Everyone, even my brother who is 9 years my senior, would pile into the car and down the two lane road we would go.

Somehow, Mr. Rivers’ modest little farm took on a carnival air during pumpkin season. Although we had visited him scores of times, Autumn was always magical. Perhaps it was the long shadows cast by the low angle sun in the shortened days. Maybe it was the bundles of corn shocks standing like sentries from Sleepy Hollow. It could have been the “skree-honk, skree-honk” of Canada geese settling into the pond within the park across from his home. Whatever it was, Pumpkin-time was special!

There would be not only friends from school, church, and the neighboring homes. There would be the Police Chief and his family. The Fire Chief would show up. Sometimes the policeman on patrol would pull the old Plymouth Interceptor over and thump some pumpkins in search of the right ones for his family. 

And the other people! Families from the next county over would be there! Kids we hadn’t seen since last Fall would exchange shy smiles with us. New parents would stop by, showing off their babies to Mr. and Mrs. Rivers.

The men would discuss local politics, high-school football teams, and the prospect of “the inner-state” coming through town. The ladies would exchange pie recipes, gossip about who was doing what to whom, and wondering if that “new highway” was coming through town.

There, under the multi-colored canopy of leaves, the problems of the world (well, maybe the Village) would be solved, the proper advice would be given, and most importantly; the Ultimate Pumpkin would be selected.

My journey through my memory took me to the time when my family moved from Mayfield Village shortly after my Mother passed away. Dad couldn’t be in the house she had left us in. We moved to Lyndhurst.

Even still, every fall, we would drive out to Mr. Rivers’ for our pumpkin. Oddly, my Step-Mom and her children had also gotten their pumpkins from Mr. Rivers! I was astounded to learn his reputation spread two towns to the west of Mayfield!

While he would always exclaim at my growth, to me he was ageless. The years had no effect upon him. Oh sure, he was a little thicker than a few years ago, and his round face had a couple more wrinkles from being in the sun and weather all the time. Other than that, he was the same.

Eventually, I went off to college. Still, every fall would find me stopping at Mr. Rivers’ to get our pumpkins. By this time, the task had been relegated to me, the youngest; and hence the sole child at home still.

In the Spring of 1973, I took Cindy to be my Lovely Bride; a position she has held ever since. Still, when we would return back to Eastern Ohio to visit, we would stop by Mr. Rivers to get at least a baby pumpkin for our daughters Char and Shannon.

Time passed, we moved back to within ten miles of where we each had grown up. And… each fall, Mr. Rivers marveled at how big our children had become.

He was moving a bit more slowly, his eyeglasses were a bit thicker now, and he sported a hearing aid in one ear; yet he was pretty much the same as I always remembered him.

Our children blessed us with grandchildren; and yes, they also got pumpkins at Mr. Rivers. Three generations, four if counting my parents, had all delighted in wandering through the leaves, feeling the sharp edge of an Autumn breeze as it carried the “skree-honk, skree-honk” of Canada geese from the pond across the way, while selecting the Perfect Pumpkin.

Then, one year it happened.

The fields had not been tilled. The timeless roadside tables were not set up along the now four-lane roadway. No baskets of apples lined the driveway.

An era had closed.

Mr. Rivers’ house is no longer there. The fields are now a community park and state-of-the art swimming pool, splash zone, play-ground, and picnic pavilion. The far edge of his former property, where it abutted Howard Schultz’ land, hosts the baseball diamonds.

On warm summer days, the laughter of children as they swim, splash, run and consume hotdogs and popsicles can be heard spreading over the land. To the west, one can make out the arrow-straight Inter-state highway, 10 lanes of humanity zipping north, south, and then east or west behind the tree line.

The “skree-honk” of geese can be heard as flocks wing overhead on their way to the now enlarged pond beside the Nature Education Center in the Metropark.

And…. If one looks in just the right direction, at just the right time, they just may see a man of average height and average build, wearing a beat up fedora, and a warm smile around the stem of a pipe clamped in his teeth.

TIME....

It dawned on me this morning, no pun intended.

Tonight we “fall back”.  Oh sure, the HR department at work put up the little reminders a week ago. Yeah, the church bulletin has been going on about it for the past 2 or so weeks. I think I heard the guy on the radio mention it once or twice.

But, hey, I’m a guy.  Sometimes, it takes us a bit longer than average to get the message. While my Lovely Bride and I were having breakfast, she mentioned helping a friend of ours distribute his campaign literature tonight. Without thinking, I blurted out “Wow… you get an extra hour to lit drop tonight.”

We stared at one another in stunned silence. She, because I actually remembered the time change, and I because I was suddenly seized with the technological enormity of it all.

See, years ago, before the microchip, GPS and (not-so) smart phones, the semi-annual ritual of changing the clocks on Time Change Sunday (actually Saturday night) was fairly easy and straight forward. The pendulum driven clocks were a breeze in the Spring. One would open the glass cover, or unlock the glass fronted door on the grandfather clocks, and gently advance the minute hand. As the big hand would circumnavigate the face of the clock, the little hand would follow as if by magic! When one reached the desired Daylight Savings Time, one stopped moving the minute hand, closed the door, and it was done.

Returning to Standard Time in the Fall was even more simple. One opened the door as before, or reached around behind if an old mantle clock, and stopped the pendulum in mid swing.  The clock was now stopped. After an hour, one returned to the clock, gave the pendulum a gentle shove, and the clock now read the desired time. The only major glitch would be if one forgot to return at the end of an hour. This was easily remedied by advancing the hands as above until the correct time was showing.

Likewise, wall clocks were very simple to change. The most difficult part was lining up the little hook thing on the back of the clock properly with the picture hanger or nail upon which it hung. Changing time was a snap! Each of the clocks would have a little knob protruding from the center of the plastic covering the face of the clock. One would grasp the little knob, and turn the minute hand either forward or backward until the desired time was reached. This same principle applied to the clock built into every stove/oven that did not require wood to use.  Simple, easy, no hassle; life then went on.

Over time, wall clocks cut the cord, and became battery powered. This advancement was a boon to those who were either disturbed by the appearance of ugly, clashing power cords running down and across their walls, or the unreasonable constraints imposed by limiting to just where on the wall one could place a clock.

Setting the time was fairly simple. One would have to remove the clock, turn it over, blow the dust off the back, and look upon a little electric motor. This would be humming along powered by a battery of various size and voltage. This was done by the clock manufacturers to ensure the American consumer would have a stock of batteries of all shapes, sizes and colors. For a bit of added whimsy, it would be discovered none of the batteries on hand would fit any of the clocks. 

This would typically result in the adult male (quaintly referred to as “Dad”) questioning the parental background of the so-and-so who designed the blanketey-blank clock as he hopped in the family conveyance to drive to the local hardware store, only to discover some other canine offspring bought the last of the batteries.

While Dad was expressing his displeasure to the store owner, the adult female (referred to as “Mom”) would be explaining as best as possible what Dad was talking about, and that children don’t ever use such words.  Her guidance is proven to be of little effect the next day upon leaving church, when her youngest greets  the Minister with “ Hi, old blanketey-blank”  Upon returning home, the youngster would make the discovery that as well as floating, Ivory soap tastes really, really awful.

Assuming all went well and the proper batteries were on hand setting the clock was still fairly easy. On the side of the little motor driving the hands would be a little round disc. One would hold the clock in one hand, take the little disc in their finger tips, and while gazing at the clock face, move the hands according to whether springing ahead or falling back. Back on the wall the clock would go.

Wrist watches were so easy…each watch had a little round thing protruding from the side of the case. This is called the crown. To set the time, one would grasp the crown with the fingernails of the index finger and opposing thumb, pull gently until the crown clicked into the unlocked position. By turning the crown, which turned the stem, the hands could be set with ease. This technology was embraced by travelers who would frequently have to cross time zones during the course of a work-week.

Now, along comes our present day world.  I have been wracking my brain, trying to remember where I put the instructions for my wrist watch. I used them in the spring to set the device to Daylight Savings Time; but the Lord knows where I put the booklet. Someplace where “I will be sure to find it”, I am certain. I hope I find it, because I don’t want to spend the next several months mentally subtracting an hour each time I look at the time. I suppose the up-side is I would not be late for anything….just obnoxiously, annoyingly early all the time.

Our wall clocks are a marvel unto themselves. Not only do they display the time, we have three which make a variety of sounds at the top of each hour. Two clocks in the kitchen emit bird calls, and the one upstairs is “Sounds of Nature” These range from the crashing of ocean surf, the gentle music of a rainfall, to nighttime insects. All this is very entertaining. EXCEPT, when it is time change time!

Recalling the electric clock mentioned above, the procedure is basically the same with the exception one must remove the batteries, move the hands to a pre-set obscure time, do 3 back-flips, recite the Gettysburg Address, insert the batteries, and VOILA! The clock is set.  One either undergoes this ritual, or the time shown and the bird sounds will never match! Do you have any idea how disturbing it is when the Tufted Titmouse sings at the time the Belted Kingfisher should be singing? Most unsettling, to be sure.

Setting the clocks in the vehicles is somewhat challenging also. Well, at least in Lovely Bride’s car. In my low-tech Jeep, there is are two little indents on the face of the radio, marked H and M. To change the setting of the Hour or Minutes, all one needs to do is stick something pointed in the little indent and press. There are a myriad of tools which can be used; ballpoint pens, straightened paper clips, toothpicks, tips of knife blades. On LB’s SUV though, I have to drag the 15 pound manual out of the glove-box, flip through a zillion pages of extraneous stuff (how to drive in the snow… fascinating), until I stumble on the 3 lines devoted to changing the clock on the radio, or “time display” to be proper. After translating the instructions from Pre-Columbian Mayan into English, I am able to set the time. I hope.

The good news is, once I have completed my tasks, stretched my cerebral capacity to its limit and then some; I will not have to undertake this task until, once again… I spring ahead. 

Whose bright idea was this, anyhow???

Watery Milestone

This past Monday evening was a milestone. Well, not maybe a “milestone”… nor a “half-milestone” even.
I stood at poolside; drying off with a dog-show freebie Eukanuba Dog Food towel from about 10 years ago, I enjoyed a minor sense of achievement.

I had completed Adult Swim Instruction without drowning or making a total fool of myself. Oh sure, my skills in the pool will not astound anyone. But, I have come further than I had even expected upon my first foray into the water. The biggest achievement is being able to stick my head in the water while swimming. I have to fine-tune the breathing thing (face in water-blow out, face out of water-breathe in) for some reason, I tend to reverse the procedure. This can cause a fair amount of anxiety and excitement as one attempts to gracefully expel a gallon or so of water without attracting too much attention.

Actually, I know what happens. I have always been apprehensive (no, scared doodoo-less) about sticking my face in the water. It may have to do with a couple of near-drowning experiences while young. Not being able to breathe with ease can do that to a person.

Now, I have overcome that fear. With the aid of some really cool goggles, I can actually swim with my eyes open and see! My vision is a bit rough; Mr. Magoo would be considered to have 20/20 vision in comparison to my eyesight. As a result, since the age of 7 I have worn either eyeglasses or contact lenses. Now, with the aid of the wonder-goggles, I have been able to stick my face in the water while wearing my contacts. I move my arms while kicking my legs, and actually propel myself forward! I know, many of you may be thinking “Big deal.” Well, let me tell you, Joe Biden summed it up when Obamacare was passed and he thought his microphone was turned off: “This is a (bleep) big deal!”

As a result, I can see the tiles of the pool sliding past. I can marvel at the tiny bubbles in the arc my arms make as they pull me forward. I can look to the side and see my classmates standing around. I can forget to breathe! Which I do, usually resulting in raising my head, exhaling like a whale, then sticking my face back down just in time to take a deep gulp of…water. Soon thereafter the wheels come off the cart. I deftly place my feet upon the pool bottom, and suavely move to the side of the pool; all the while emitting polite little “ahems” as I clear the water from my lungs. Apparently my Lovely Bride must be observing someone else, as she refers to my brief time of recovery as similar to a bear thrashing about at high tide while making strange hacking sounds which would embarrass a bull moose.

The image of a bear swimming began the gears in my head to turning. I thought of deer, dogs, cats, moose, caribou, horses, cattle, and sheep. I had visions of otters, beavers, muskrats, and minks. Then, it struck me; all these mammals can swim. And all of them swim without sticking their heads in the water! Now, I must clarify; I am not referring to marine mammals such as whales, dolphins, seals, sea lions, and such. I am referring to bona fide, land dwelling mammals. The only time you will see a beaver swimming with its head underwater is when he purposely wants to swim below the surface of the water. Same with any of the above referenced critters; they all swim with their heads out of the water! Of course, there has to be a “class clown”. The duck-billed platypus holds it’s breath, and swims underwater, with its eyes closed! After about 2 minutes of bumping into stuff, it comes up for air, and repeats the performance. But, consider the source… a mammal which lays eggs?? Can you imagine God when He created the platypus?? He probably called to the angels “Hey! Check it out!! This is gonna keep them guessing for eons! HAA HAA HAA!”

But, I digress.

I then thought “Why would Man, a mammal, upon observing beavers, deer, elk, lions, tigers, and so on swimming, determine the thing to do is stick his face in the water?”

While there do exist ancient cave art, Egyptian ceramics, Native American petroglyphs and such depicting humans swimming, it is unknown who had the bright idea to hold one’s breath and stick your head in the water.

Still, the history of swimming is quite varied. The first recorded swim meet was in 36BC in Japan. Did you know the Japanese Emperor Go-Yozei declared all school children should learn to swim? None other than Benjamin Franklin invented the swim fin in 1716, at the age of ten. Also, the common front crawl, or “freestyle” stroke was unknown to Europeans of the 19^th Century. During a swim competition held in 1844 in London, several Native Americans took part. While the British used the breast stroke solely, the Americans used the traditional front crawl, while placing their head in the water, and coming up for air.
The British were somewhat put out, as all the splashing which resulted from the Native’s swimming technique was most ungentlemanly. However, the Americans won handily with the much faster, efficient stroke. Oddly, the front crawl as we know it, was known not only to Native Americans, but to peoples of West Africa, and many Pacific Islands.

Of course, it is much more effective, faster and less dorky looking. I mean, a guy just doesn’t look all that cool doing a butterfly stroke. The backstroke? Who came up with that one? I mean, the idea of floating on one's back watching the world drift by is okay. But who decided to whip your arms around like a synchronized wind-mill while doing that weird, frog-like thing with your legs? Add the excitement of not seeing where you are heading (literally)... the recipe for calamity is complete. It is just a matter of time!

Still, if there were a way to swim effectively using the front crawl stroke, all the while keeping one's head high and dry...well, I am all for that!

Maybe the International Olympic Committee can begin working on a new category for swimming. They can call it the “splash around a lot with your head sticking up like a turtle” stroke.

Regardless, I have committed to another course of humiliation... I mean... instruction.

I am determined to accomplish this!