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!

Life with Ike.... continued

As some of you may know, we recently acquired a new puppy.

Come to think of it, acquiring an “old puppy” is somewhat impossible. By virtue of being a puppy, the critter is “new”

Ike, as he is known, has been a character. He possesses  the rugged good looks of Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid, the charm of David Niven, the canine intellect equivalent of a Henry Kissinger, and the zaniness of Adam Sandler; all wrapped in a furry perpetual motion machine.

To say he keeps us on our toes would be an understatement.

I would like to address the usual questions at this time.

How big is he getting?

Somewhere between a baby koala bear and a baby hippo. At the last weigh-in, he was 42 pounds. He is as tall as Mimi at the shoulders (about 13”). We expect he will grow yet.

Does he eat a lot?

This is a relative question. Compared to a growing elephant, he eats hardly anything at all. Compared to a growing dog, he eats like an elephant.

Does he visit people?

Yes, he does. Just last week, Ike came by to entertain the troops at my office. He did his best to boost everyone's morale; even people from other companies in our building. For his part, the attention is very satisfying.

Does he know any tricks?

Yes, my Lovely Bride has been teaching him quite a few things. She has been able to call upon 40 plus years of training me in her work with Ike. Unlike training me, she is quite delighted to see Ike actually pays attention and does what she wants him to do. She is hoping this will rub off on me. I don't want to burst her bubble, but I don't see that happening.

He has learned to “come”, “sit”, “wait”, “come front”, “come around”, “spin right”, “spin left”, “down”, “speak”, “wave Hi”.

Mimi and I are disgusted by his complete lack of pride and shame....sigh....

How is housebreaking coming along?

Yes, we have a house, and it is breaking. Seriously, he is doing better. If we catch him heading toward the bathroom, we intercept him, and divert his attention outdoors. If we don't catch him; we have the satisfaction of knowing he realizes the primary purpose of the bathroom. He likes reading Field and Stream as well.

Does he sleep through the night?

Yes, much better than I, in fact. I don't hear him getting up every 75 minutes.

Does Ike have any dog friends?

Yes, a few. Nikki and Suzy are his favorites. He loves to visit at their homes and act like a 17 year old boy on a date. You know, run around in circles after le femme. And, like a 17 year old boy, when he catches her, he isn't quite sure what to do next. After ward both parties usually flop down and relax together. He also has some friends at the training center. He is always looking for more buddies, though.

Is he in any classes?

He is. We recently enrolled him in Conformation Class. This training is for humans in how to handle dogs in a breed show ring. The dog is just going along for the ride, enjoying training treats. If one listens closely, one can hear the various dogs laughing at how stressed their owners are getting. Following this class he will have more challenging ones such as Obedience, Agility, and Advanced Calculus. Who will be laughing then, Ike?? Hmmm?

Has he done anything funny lately?

This depends in large part on whether your definition of “funny” is being a participant, or an observer.

I will relate a humorous episode after the Q&A Period.

Do you have any regrets about getting him?

None what so ever. He has been a real blessing to us.

Would you sell him?

As is the case with most dogs, we wouldn't take a million dollars for him, and at times, wouldn't give 2 cents  for another one just like him.

Now, for the amusing anecdote...

Have you ever had the impression things happen for a reason? Even though the event(s) seem so randomly out of control?

Take this past Sunday, for example.

It was one of those mornings where numerous things went askew.

We woke up late.

Mimi and Ike needed more attention than normal after we came downstairs.

Breakfast took longer than usual.

Then, Lovely Bride let Ike out the back door.

We live atop a bluff, overlooking a river and marinas. The bluff is about 50 or so feet high. While it is a negotiable 40 degree or so slope immediately behind our planted area, the incline quickly approaches about a 60 degree or more pitch. This part of the cliff is inhabited with grape vines, wild blackberries, daylilies, and so on.

It was this exact area Ike decided to explore.

The inducement was the remnants of a moldy squash which had been tossed down the hillside to feed the raccoons. Apparently finding it too disgusting for their liking, the raccoons left it.

LB called for him to come, and he did respond. Only, his hind legs were tangled in the various vines and runners from all the vegetation. While attempting to advance, these would draw tighter about his legs. As LB and I were the only ones present, the options of who was going to descend the Hill of Doom and rescue the dog were somewhat slim.

Carefully, I worked my way down the slope; hoping my stupid loafers didn't slip. I found myself at the point of the bluff where the angle of descent becomes quite steep. Undeterred, I continued on, supporting my self with a stout goldenrod stalk. I quickly assessed the situation; realizing he was hopelessly entangled. Removing the knife from my pocket;  with a quick flip of the thumb-stud, the blade locked open. Reaching toward Ike, I freed him with just a couple of swipes; severing the vines and brambles holding him. And people laugh at red-necks always having a knife on them.

Happily he bounded up the cliff to see Cindy.

Replacing the knife in my pants pocket; I, however, was faced with the prospect of ascending the obstacle. No wonder the Erie Indians built their village on this bluff! It makes it very tough for an enemy to attack from the river. After pulling my self back up by grapevines and such, I was able to step upon level ground. Happily, I went in the house to get a cup of coffee.

I observed Ike sniffling around the hostas. Then, his little white behind was seen going over the side of the cliff! The little goof went right back to the same place!!

Setting my cup on the patio table with a sigh, I again descended the face of the bluff. I again cut him free from some new vines he found. With a sense of deja-vu, I watched as his little butt bounded back up the slope. And.. .again... feeling like Sir Edmund Hillary conquering Mt. Everest, I pulled my self up.

All this in my Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes!

The clock showed we were going to be about a half-hour late for church. I was not about to walk into the service that late, no Sirree Bob!

So, we opted to go visiting a different church. Which was very good. Their service started at 11, so we were only about 2 minutes late. We reconnected with some friends we had not seen in some time, enjoyed a very good, impactful message, and Lovely Bride got a speaking engagement with the Ladies Group.

Yep, even with a puppy, and all the seemingly disconnected events that occur; things happen for a reason.

We just have to be open to what God is trying to tell us.

Shut Down!

Government Shuts Down!!

Shouting from the front page of the paper, screaming from the speakers of the radio, bleating from the talking heads on television. If one lived in a cave, they may be immune to the relentless babble.

We have been bombarded with information regarding “non-essential” Federal employees being “furloughed”, a polite way of saying “laid off.”

See, here in the Industrial Heartland of the Midwest, we can handle the harsh reality of the term “lay-off”. We are a tough, non-nonsense breed up here. Just tell it like it is. We don't need the sugar coating of “furloughed”, “reduction in force” or other more gentle terms.

. Get to the point: “Dude, we have no authority to spend money. You are laid off until we can. Sorry.”

What struck me as an oxymoron is the designation: “ non-essential”.

For example; a keeper at the National Zoo, who feeds and cares for living creatures; is that person “non essential”? If one were to ask the pandas or the giraffes if having food, water, veterinary treatment, clean living quarters is non-essential, you may get a difference of opinion.

What about the Physical Therapist in a VA hospital providing treatment to the returning veteran missing a leg? To that service person, therapy may be quite essential.

The USDA will curtail food inspections, as this is non-essential. Somehow, I cannot equate ensuring a safe food supply with being unnecessary.

While Social Security checks will go out, new applications will not be processed. This can be problematic to seniors or disabled folks who truly have a need.

Our son is a nuclear engineer, charged with monitoring environmental radiation. To the personnel assigned to the base he works at, to the residents of the surrounding community, to the wildlife near by; they may consider his efforts as “essential”.

On and on the list goes... National Parks, the Smithsonian, FDA, and others.

From my perspective, given the never-ending finger-pointing, blame-laying, and fault- finding (hmm sounds like Eastlake politics), the only true “non-essential” Federal workers are located within the Capitol building and 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Still... being the historian that I am, the idea of Federal Shutdowns triggered a thought in my folliclely challenged head: Just how many times has the Government shut down?

Do you realize... since 1976... The Federal Government has shut down EIGHTEEN times?

Yes, it is true.

Once in 1976, three times in '77, once in '78, once in '79, once in '81, twice in '82, once in '83, twice in '84, once in '86 and '87. Again, one time in '90, two times in '95, and now, once in '13.

Neither political party has a monopoly on Government Shutdowns; Three Democrat Presidents and three Republican Presidents have all had shutdowns on their watch. However, the Rs lead in the number of shutdowns: 10 vs. 8. This number is skewed by the fact Reagan had two shutdowns in '82 and again in '84.

The all time leader for number of shutdowns in one Fiscal Year is Jimmy Carter; 3 in 1977.

We had an unbroken streak of Presidents with at least one shutdown from Gerald Ford (1976) until Bill Clinton had two in one year(1995).

The ONLY President to NOT have a shutdown during their time in office was George W. Bush.

As I looked back over the preceding 37 years, I came to an interesting conclusion.

Eighteen times, our government did not have authorization to pay it's bills.

Eighteen times, our world was on the brink of crumbling, to be relegated to the refuse pile of history.

Eighteen times, the pundits, talking heads, and associated experts claimed the most dire of outcomes.

Eighteen times, America was in peril.

However, the sun still rose the next day. The Stars and Stripes still waved over our land. The wolf at the door was much further away than first believed to be. The Constitution and the Declaration of Independence did not cease to exist. The United States survived.

The central premise of our Nation: a government by the People, for the People, and of the People, proved sound.

I pray to God it continues to do so.

Pool Time

It has been an interesting few days.

My Lovely Bride, having won a six-month family membership at our local Y, determined I would benefit tremendously from a couple of classes.

I, for my part, noticing Archery, Game Tracking, and Advanced Television Viewing were not listed in the program guide; was less than ambivalent toward partaking of any classes.

Early one morning, while in the midst of my leaving for work routine (consisting of stepping around a whirling dervish named Ike, balancing my travel mug of coffee, grabbing my lunch, and hopefully not forgetting anything), LB announced something to the effect about the sign up for classes closed THAT VERY DAY and did I know what I wanted to take.

As I deftly side-stepped the puppy, tucked my folder under my arm, and tried to not drop my coffee, I believe my response was along the lines of : “Huh??”

She affirmed the question at hand was classes for the Y. Did I care about what I took?

As I was now focused upon getting to the office on time, I tossed off a very casual reply:  “Oh, I don't know. Whatever.”

Rookie Mistake.

Have you ever watched a major league baseball game and seen the shortstop bobble a grounder? A first year Little Leaguer could have made the play.

That is how I felt.

A note to the unmarried or recently married guys out there:   See, what LB did was the classic “Divide and Conquer” gambit. She patiently waited, only reminding me about 6 or 7 times to make a choice. Really. What male would even remotely remember to do this? Come on... give me a break!

Secondly, she had only brought up the topic 3 times the previous evening. How was I supposed to concentrate on Y classes when Duck Dynasty is on?

Thirdly, she waited quietly, sipping her coffee, observing the birds at the feeders until the exact moment I was fully focused upon departing for work to fire the final volley. I had to make a decision, right now.

Well played, Lovely Bride. Well Played.

My decision was:  I decided to not make a decision.

And, boy did that turn out to be a doozie...

That evening, upon my return from the blood-stained, smoke-clogged upheaval of the work-a-day battlefield, she gleefully announced she had signed me up for.....drum-roll please....

SWIMMING WITH FINS   and ADULT INSTRUCTION (aka: “swimming for old people who never bothered to learn as kids, and boy do you feel like a dork now. Your parents were right” lessons)

To say I was less than overwhelmed would be an understatement.

Regular readers may recall my deep seated aversion to water activities.

To come up to speed on this particular topic, the reader may wish to take a look at my May 15, 2013 entry “Water”, and my June 9, 2013 post  “Swimming Pools”.

Okay... all set? Now you can understand my lack of joyous enthusiasm at this news.

But, being the dutiful husband that I am, (and not wanting to waste 20 bucks) I set off to the site of the torture to endure Adult Instruction.

I wandered to poolside; only to see the kid's swim team practicing. Thinking I was early, I sat upon a bench. When the noisy band of children departed; I waited with bated breath for the “big people who can't swim” class to start.

I watched as a bevy of women got in the pool. I waited as the instructor got the class warming up.

They were doing some pretty impressive things for a bunch of swim-like-bricks adults. Finally, I wandered over to ascertain if I was indeed in the proper place.

The right place, yes. Just 2 days late, or 5 days early, depending upon your perspective.

Then, she cheerily said “Fins is after this. Are you signed up for that?” When I told her I was, she gave me a quizzical look.

I waited for Fins to begin. My Lovely Bride showed up, all decked out for her Swim With Fins session. When I had a full grasp of what was entailed, coupled with the NOT FOR BEGINNERS admonition in the flyer, I could only wonder: “What were you thinking?!”

I watched as people effortlessly paddled the length of the pool, happy smiles upon their faces. The instructor, Karen, came by and asked if I thought I could do that. I doubled over with laughter at the sheer absurdity of the question.  I then explained the “hows” and “whys” of my inability to swim.

The upshot was:  Saturday morning found me in the pool, the only guy in a class full of women for “Water Strength and Conditioning”.  The operative phrase in the synopsis was “non swimmers welcome”.  The response to having a man in the group ran the gamut of amusement, to mild interest, to being regarded as something which floated up from the drain.  Yes, there were some who were not bashful in expressing their utter disgust with this male intrusion upon their time.

Next thing I know, I am bouncing up and down, doing jumping jacks, jogging in place, and all manner of ostensibly silly exercises. I was attempting to keep rhythm to the music, and not collide with any other class members.

Did you know when a person jumps up and down in a pool; their swimsuit tends to follow the downward drag of the water? I was surprised by this phenomenon as well. Although not nearly as surprised as the others in the group.  Deftly, I hiked my trunks up, tying the strings with a double bow for extra measure.

Another point of amusement for several of the ladies came during the “leg press with a noodle”. Yeah… it is about as lame as it sounds. The premise is this: one takes a swimming pool noodle, and places their foot at the mid-point of said noodle. One then pushes the foot/noodle combination under water. While the noodle has a natural desire to float to the surface, one presses downward with their foot; thereby replicating the muscle movement of a leg press. There is just one little glitch. When one raises their foot, both ends of the noodle pop up through the surface of the water. It is apparent this exercise was devised by either a masochist or a female.  Hence, the good deal of amusement on behalf of the other members as they watched while I tried to inconspicuously dodge the surfacing noodle.

You know what? Exercising in the water is work! I was sweating like a … well a really sweaty guy when I was finished!  I made a hasty retreat to the locker room. I had endured this test; the real test awaited.

Monday was the Adult Instruction time. Karen, (a different Karen) the instructor is a no-nonsense, I-am- here-to-teach-you-to swim kind of lady. She was not overly impressed by my backstroke, nor with my breast stroke;  both performed  with my head high and dry. Her assessment was direct; we are going to work on putting your face in the water.

What the heck?!? Does she not know that Man is not made to breathe underwater?  Breathing is a long-term, dearly held pastime of mine. In fact, I can’t recall a time when I was not breathing. Now this person wants me to stick my head under the water?

There I was, standing at the edge of the pool, taking a breath, sticking my face in the water, blowing bubbles, raising my head, taking a breath. Repeat. I felt like a total dork.  Not content to let me revel in my accomplishment, Karen insisted upon having me lay on my face, arms extended, while she dragged me through the water. While this little routine was going on, I was supposed to take a breath, blow bubbles, take a breath, etc, etc. Only one time did I inhale about a third of the pool. Have you ever tried to look cool while coughing and hacking up gallons of pool water? It ain’t easy to pull off, let me tell you. I failed miserably.

I was feeling pretty good about myself, and ready to call it a night when Karen announced we were going to work on our arm strokes.  Well, arm strokes; I can do that.  And indeed I did, quite spectacularly in fact. Until it was announced we were now going to incorporate breathing with the arm strokes.  Sure we are.

Yet, I pressed on. After a couple of faux pas, I was able to actually move my arms, breath, and not inhale the pool! I was amazed!

Finally, toward the end of the session, Karen announced she wanted us to incorporate stroking, breathing, and kicking. My gosh the woman is a born comedian! I hung back a bit, watching others venture down the lanes.  I mustered up my courage, and shoved off. I was doing okay, until I started to think about what I should be doing. The wheels came off the cart at that point. I tried again, and made some progress. Again, I shoved off, and realized I had swum half the length of the pool!

In amazement, I gathered up my towel and headed toward the locker room.

While washing the chlorine laced water from myself, I came to an epiphany:  It really doesn’t matter how much water is beneath me. All I have to take care of is the top 12 or so inches.

Maybe LB had a good idea after all.

Knives

The other evening, I was poking around on the ol’ computer, Ike the dog napping at my feet. It was a very Norman Rockwell-esque setting.  If Norman Rockwell painted laptops in his scenes, that is.

I was taken with the notion to check out the approximate value of some older pocket knives I have. Before the reader thinks I am a bit odd, let me explain.

I have always been fascinated by knives. Not in a weird, malicious, or creepy sort of way. I don’t like the huge or strangely designed knives which have become somewhat popular.  Those are just Hollywood show, flashy impractical gee-gaws. I prefer a practical knife, whether a folding pocket knife, or a fixed-blade sheath knife. Yes, size DOES matter. Too small is worthless, and too large is unwieldy, practically useless in application.

What is most intriguing about knives is their history. When Man knocked two stones together, producing a sharp edge and semblance of a point he took the first step toward balancing the scale of power in his environment. This puny, weak, slow, fang-less, claw-less creature now could both defend himself as well as become a predator in his own right.

The knife was the first tool to elevate mankind above the role of easy pickin’s on the food-chain.  Overtime, crude stone implements became today’s high-tech steels, alloys, and mind-boggling array of shapes, sizes, designs, and specialized uses.

A youngster obtaining their first knife is a rite of passage. The object, whether brand new in the box, or pocket worn from years in Dad’s or Grand-dad’s pocket, was accorded near mythic status. Truly, Excalibur was not as fine a blade as this example of the blade smith’s art!  An inviolate part of the ritual required the one bestowing the knife upon the youngster to utter those Time honored words, first grunted in Mankind’s deep history: “Don’t cut anything!”

Unknown to the adult, these three little words awaken an insatiable spirit heretofore slumbering within the blade, be it steel, or ceramic, obsidian or titanium; the effect is the same.  The thing takes on a life of its own, with the recipient merely going along for the ride.

A no-nonsense, level-headed, dependable youngster finds they are inexplicably carving notches in the piano legs, whittling Dad’s split bamboo fly fishing rod into so many toothpicks, making lateral incisions in chair cushions, and “putting a keen edge” on the blade with a newly broken piece of crockery.

When interrogated about the motives of these actions, the accused pleads the age-old defense which has been offered through-out the eons:  “I dunno.”

These words fall upon the ears of the prosecutor/judge with a tremendous weight. Suddenly, they are transported through the mists to a place and time they would rather forget. With shaking knees, they stood before the bar of justice. The implement of destruction held before them by the formerly benevolent giver of said gift. Wide eyed, and searching for a compelling reason as to why they had cut, carved, sliced, and in general created mayhem with the now mocking blade, the only defense they could offer was a shrug of the shoulders and “I dunno.”

The sentence is as fixed as the Sun rising in the East: The Judge thinks for a moment, and then says “Well…I am just going to hang onto this until you are a little bit older and more responsible.”

Depending upon the kid, this is a time period ranging anywhere from 2 weeks to 20 years. I know of adults who have never had their first knife returned to them. They have had to suffer the shame and indignity of needing to purchase their first real keeper knife.

It was with this in mind I set out to get an idea of my vintage knives’ values.

Surprise, surprise, surprise….

Do you realize…

IF… I had kept the Buck 500 drop point, lock-back hunter in the original box with the sheath pristine, never used, or sharpened…. It would be worth approximately $185.00?

Had I wrapped the red-bone handled, 1973 Barlow knife made by Case in gossamer and squirreled it away with a good coating of oil… I would be looking at two Franklins?

The most eye-opening discovery was to learn the early 1970s vintage Case Cheetah which was cozily resting in my pocket…. The same red-bone handles, the same slender blade, the same swing-out blade guard…had I kept this one in the box, with the packing papers, never used it (even for cutting threads off a shirt), never touched the blade to a sharpening steel…I would have $350.00 sitting there.

Dejectedly, I closed the web-site. I pulled the knife from my pocket, and swung the blade open. The lock made a satisfying “snap”. The blade shows some discoloration here and there; the tell-tale remainders of being used for cutting. The once sharply defined edges of the handle (as shown in the photos of the mint condition one) have taken on a softening and patina where years of handling have taken their toll.

I went upstairs and removed the Barlow from the storage case and the Buck from the dresser shelf. Each showed signs of use; the little chip in the handle received when dropped in a rocky stream, the odd little spot on the blade received when experimenting with a new sharpening implement.

Each told a story as well. I remembered buying the Cheetah in the small family owned hardware store in Bluffton, Ohio. The store owner telling me he has had that knife on the shelf for more than a year, and he was wondering if he would ever sell it.

The small town Georgia hardware store, located on a quintessential Southern home town square came to mind. I was on a business trip, and had some time to kill. Wandering into the store (there is a magic old time hardware stores possessed. The big-box stores will never have the charm and character of a Mom & Pop store) I made small talk with the proprietor while glancing at the Buck knife display. We talked the relative merits of Buck vs. Case, the changes the Buck family had gone through following Charles’ passing away. He saw me looking at the 500. Finally, after taking a draw on his bottle of orange pop, he drawled; “Walll… fer a Yankee, you seem like a good enough fella. How about I knock 7 bucks off that knife for ya?”   How could I say “no” to that?

The Barlow brought back the time my Lovely Bride and I visited a flea market in Lima, Ohio. Amidst the tables of children’s clothing, cookware, Tupperware, and so on sat a man I knew. A patrolman on the Lima Police Department (at the time, I worked at the Lima Municipal Court), he did flea markets on the weekends. Just to put things in perspective, flea markets were something new and pretty big doings in the mid 70s.  Not like today, when every other parking lot hosts one. This gentleman had spread before him a “Guys Table”… tools, knives, flashlights, fishing and hunting stuff.  It was a veritable oasis of Testosterone in a desert of Estrogen fueled stuff!

There, nestled between the old Imperial and Keen Kutter knives was as shiny new Case. A red-boned Barlow, just like the one our local Game Warden carried! I would look with longing eyes at the knife as he would cut open envelopes, trim his finger nails, and in general let anyone who was interested know he  had a bone handled Case.  Oddly, except for the internet, his and mine are the only two I have ever seen.

While my knives, well-used and cared for, may not be valued as highly as those on an internet auction, each told a unique story. Memories of good times, places and good friends poured forth as I handled them.  Closing the blades carefully, I smiled inwardly.  No, my knives are not valued the same as on an auction site. 

Mine are priceless.