Archive for the ‘Chronicle’ Category
Not Enough
Yesterday, I was thinking I had too much on my plate. Today, my perspective is that there is just not enough time. How am I going to watch all the Olympic action that is happening simultaneously? And get the vacuuming done, and the dusting, and the laundry, and my breakfast prepared? One way, is to bail on writing today’s blog post. Here, look at this pretty wildflower.
Too Much
Some days, there is nothing happening. Not today. As a fan of Olympic competition, I am like a kid in a candy store. At the moment I am writing this, I have cycling road race, or women’s football both available for viewing. While trying to write, I find myself captivated, unable to tear myself away to the kitchen to get breakfast.
I have employees working today, and feel some responsibility to make an appearance at the day job, but I also need to tend to some yard work that demands attention this morning, before an afternoon showing of our house. For that matter, there is some vacuuming that deserves to be done. First, I will need to install the new hose I just bought to replace the original one that has a rip in it.
All the while, my bicycle is calling to me. I stopped by the shop last night, and they said it would be ready to pick up, first thing today. It will be really hard to get my bike back, all fixed up and ready to go, and not be able to take it out for a test spin.
There’s probably more, but I don’t want to think of it. I’ve already got too much on my plate, clamoring for attention. I gotta go!
Right Bike
I am not buying a new bike. I’ve come close a few times over the last few years, but haven’t taken that last step.
Last June, as the date of my annual bike trip approached, I knew that I had not prepared my 18-year-old Trek 520 touring cycle to the degree I prefer. It wasn’t in optimum condition, but I figured I could make do. I was right. I made do.
In the middle of that week of the trip, I visited the mechanic and asked for his opinion of my chain. I knew it was worn, and due for replacement, I just didn’t know how worn. There is a gauge that very quickly demonstrates the level of wear. If you wait too long, the stretching of the chain will wear the cogs of the gears enough that you need to replace the cassette of gears along with the chain. I waited too long.
At that point, since the mechanic didn’t have the replacement cassette I would need, he suggested just riding the rest of the trip and having the work done later. It took me until last weekend, a month after getting home, to finally commit to taking care of it. I considered ordering the parts and doing the work myself, but I was interested in consulting with someone about the task.
I was wondering if it deserved an upgrade in quality of parts. I was also wondering if other parts should be getting simultaneous attention. That brought me to the question of whether the bike itself was worth the additional investment I was considering spending, or if I should get back to thinking about a new bike as replacement.
I took it to my local shop and was lucky to receive the attention of the owner, the very person with whom I was hoping to talk. Taking into account how many miles I estimated to have put on the bike in the years I have owned it, as well as the type, and frequency, of riding I do, he offered the opinion that the bike was well-worth the investment to get it back into top condition.
It already has a replacement set of wheels from original, with upgraded quality hubs. They will overhaul the wheel bearings, true the wheels, replace chain and cassette, change some cables and housings, and calibrate everything. I won’t even get my hands dirty. It will cost a small fraction of the price of a new bike, and it will feel like brand new to me.
I am very happy to get this done. He even gave me a tour of the new purchase options that were the next step up from mine for road riding, which was very generous, since he knew I had no intention of buying. (To my good friend, Murph: Yours was right in the ballpark, if I had gone that route! [Thanks, again, for the offer]) I am satisfied that my old touring machine is still a good match for me. His opinion was that a switch in bikes might buy me about 2 or 3 mph on my average speed, which I would gladly welcome, but for my riding, it’s really not a factor. I’m fine, right where I’m at.
My friends will just have to keep working hard on their new bikes, or they might find that I am actually able to pass them.
I Forgot
And what about thinking before acting? Again, on a similar theme to yesterday’s post, yet with a bit of a twist… This one comes from the, “I knew better, but absolutely failed to heed that knowledge,” file.
I was rushing to finish a task. I know better than to do that carelessly.
I recklessly held up two expensive machined parts to be joined by bolts. I got all six bolts started, but the two pieces did not fit flush. In haste, I chose to use the bolts to pull the two parts together. I know better than to rely on this method.
I tightened the bolts snug enough to realize that there was something prohibiting the two parts from sliding together. It was late, already long past time to go home. I gave up and called it a day, choosing to take care of it the following day.
The next morning, what I had done still hadn’t occurred to me, when I prepared to take the bolts out and check the fit of the two parts. I put the wrench to the first bolt and knew immediately the problem I had created. My first thought was, “I know better than to have done this!”
By putting the extra pressure on the bolts by trying to force-fit the two parts, I had galled the threads and cold-welded steel to steel. Six times. All six bolts, to varying depths.
This is well-past the, “If I knew then, what I know now” issue. I already knew everything I needed to know about how to avoid this possibility. This one was the result of another insidious problem: “I forgot.”
Cue Steve Martin:
…Two simple words. Two simple words in the English language: “I forgot!” How many times do we let ourselves get into terrible situations because we don’t say “I forgot”? Let’s say you’re on trial for armed robbery. You say to the judge, “I forgot armed robbery was illegal.”…
You think?
Something keeps pushing me into naval-gazing mode lately. Multiple things. The insights I am gaining are probably good, in the long run, but aren’t immediately bolstering my self-confidence or generating rewarding feelings of well-being.
I’m wondering if I would have developed different behaviors, were I to have recognized in my youth, what I am discovering now. Of course, that is a universal thought: “If I knew then, what I know now”…
I have been given the opportunity to be confined in a place where I daily hear someone speak their mind, demonstrating their thought patterns and social interactions. Some of what I hear offends me, but the rest is just irritating and tiresome. It dawned on me recently… that person often reflects some of my own behaviors. Maybe that is why I find the person so annoying. And it explains why some people find my social patterns annoying!
I’ve failed to maintain the majority of relationships in my life. I wonder if, had I developed different control over expressing my opinions, it would have made any difference in that outcome.
The person that I hear talking, says things that seem to come out of nowhere, and reflect a neglect of the impact on the entire audience in ear-shot. It is something that I have grown sensitive to. But I also recognize the behavior as one I have been guilty of myself. Part of it is simply the result of speaking before thinking. Sometimes, this is followed by attempts to justify what has been said, but this rarely helps, and usually hurts. Hints of my own behavior in there, again.
I’m inclined to want to tell the person about what it sounds like to listen to the things being said, however, I am not feeling very skilled on how to do that. I am hoping this experience will allow me to better hear how the words coming out of my head sound to others, and better yet, learn to practice the art of actually thinking before speaking.
You think?
Intangible Obstacles
We make our plans, yes we do, and then real life does its best to prove how fallible we are. I might be expected to write about the best of everything that I experience in my explorations of blog-worthy tales, but the reality is, things do not always appear rosy to me. Good things in life are perceived in contrast to the not-so-good moments that also play out. In the end, what makes the difference is, how one reacts to both the good and the bad that comes their way.
One of the things that I have been reporting on over the previous 10 months is, my experience of living alone after my wife, Cyndie, moved to Boston for a job. It has had its ups and downs, but now she has reported a plan to return at the end of the summer, so my attention to the details of my solo life has waned. In the latter part of our little separation experiment, I was getting used to my solitary routine, and actually noticed some level of disruption whenever she came home to visit.
Now I will need to re-learn the art of living with someone, in fact, my spouse. I think the first difficulty I will need to manage is the prospect of talking with her again. I found it increasingly difficult to communicate across the distance and the difference of our schedules, and eventually settled myself with simply not talking with her. Unfortunately, it is an art that I am more than comfortable practicing. We are well-suited to push each other’s buttons, and Cyndie’s methods dish up dangerous communication dry spells for me. I keep joking that there are plenty of husbands in the world that would love to have days of silence from their spouse. For me, I’m afraid, it is a recipe for trouble.
Out of these lapses in communication comes a gap for me in the vision toward a horse farm. Horses are ultimately Cyndie’s domain, in which I am just the supporting cast. Left on my own, that vision fades, and I discover dreams of trekking mountains, exploring winter woods, camping, and even long distance cycling expeditions. Lately, I’m of a mind to quit the day-job, and set out on a journey with no destination, ala Then Came Bronson.
In order to renew his soul, Bronson becomes a vagabond searching for the meaning of life and seeking the experiences life has to offer (as revealed in the series pilot). During his travels, he shares his values with the people he meets along the way and lends a helping hand when he can.
For the many interests we have always shared, like music, philosophy, and raising children, most of our activities have been independent of one another. I think we have generally looked at our ability to enjoy unconnected activities as a strength, but I do feel challenged by it often enough.
In the chronicle of our adventures to sell our home and shop for a dream property to have horses, which was compounded by the sudden opportunity for Cyndie to work in Boston, it is fair that I present a dose of the wobbles and disruptions that we experience. When we get to the end of the story, these moments will provide valuable depth to the happy-ever-after that we will ultimately accomplish.
Still Hot
Hot and dry, it is, around these parts, still! I read in the local paper yesterday that some lakes are getting too warm for the fish! Makes me wonder how fish handle lake temperatures south of here.
The forecast is for possible thunderstorms, but watching the radar, the possibilities appear slim. I almost wish they didn’t get my hopes up. The continued dry conditions seem to evaporate any rain clouds that try to meander our way. The good news: I don’t have to mow the lawn as often. Bad news: my trees and perennials are in desperate need of a drink.
I have been distracting myself with the nightly rebroadcast of each day’s stage of the Tour de France bike race.
…Where was I? Oh, yeah, being distracted by Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen.
Man, those cyclists look like skeletons. It is unreal how they are able to ride like they do with such lean bodies. Luckily, their heroic efforts climbing mountains, and navigating the descents, distracts me from how hot and dry it is here.
Old Pictures
The reason I found the old pictures for the dunk tank story is because Julian gave Cyndie a gift of having old photos scanned. The disk arrived over the weekend. It’s been fun browsing through them this week. I probably wouldn’t have missed ever seeing those images again, but now that they are accessible, I am valuing the perspective they renew.
There are quite a few images from the 25 years we have lived in this house. I had forgotten almost all of them. It adds a certain poignancy to our current situation of having our home for sale.
Did I mention that Julian batted left?
Story Reprised
I found a couple of pictures from the day of the dunk tank story! How timely, since I have been writing lately of our annual Independence Day games, and they are the backdrop for this very popular story. I first posted it on June 30, 2009, and since, it has become one of the most searched items in the history of my blog, because of the words “dunk tank.” Who knew there is big interest in the topic of dunk tanks?
Re-live it, again.
.A Summertime Story
This is a true story about a boy and a dunk tank. You can trust me on this one, I was there. It all played out under the friendly sunshine of a Midwestern 4th of July celebration, back before the turn of the millennium, at an annual gathering held by the collective families that make up the Wildwood Lodge Club, a private association of seven clans that have joined forces to create a vacation-home getaway in Northwestern Wisconsin.
Our tradition for celebrating Independence Day includes plenty of the classics: a parade (kids ride on hay bails in red-white-blue decorated trailer behind the old Ford tractor), competitions of three-legged races, water balloon toss, scavenger hunt (among many others), followed by a pot-luck dinner, and a dramatic finish of fireworks over the lake.
What began decades earlier as primarily an event focused on one generation of children had, over time, evolved to incorporate the development of quite a number of second-generation kids and cousins. As a result, organizers were always looking to include new and innovative improvements to the traditional entertainment. The dunk tank was a natural addition. Butch, the caretaker, was a local resident and member of the Lion’s Club, and had access to a tank, which amazingly, was available for the occasion.
This being a new game to our regular itinerary, a lot of questions began to surface regarding the actual process of whom, how, and when. My son, Julian, was six or seven years old, one of the younger members of that second generation of kids at that time. He surprised me with what appeared to be an unnatural level of apprehension about how the rules of this game might develop. In my mind, it didn’t really matter, because I figured he would be more likely to participate in the fish pond event than this new dunk-tank.
One popular suggestion was to have the ‘thrower’ who successfully drops a heckling ‘sitter’ into the tank, be awarded the dubious honor of claiming the seat themselves, for the next round. In the end, majority rule decided the watered-down ‘sitter’ who got dunked would earn the right to pick the next victim from the crowd. This rankled my son quite a bit. He was sincerely fearful of facing the fate of this tank that was easily over his head in depth, not to mention quite a drop from a perch that was about three times as high as he was tall. I worked to assure him that no one would put him in such peril. Worst case, I told him, if they tried to pick him, I would volunteer to take his turn for him. He seemed less than convinced of his safety.
Julian in line, looking toward the camera
It wasn’t difficult to find a volunteer for first ‘sitter’ out of the crowd of 20-year-olds that made up the trailing number of first generation kids in the group. The challenge was maintaining order in the crowd of willing ‘throwers’ that jostled for position to get their hands on the tennis balls waiting to be launched. With the variety of ages participating, two lines to throw from were drawn, allowing the youngest arms better odds of success. Julian took a position toward the end of the little kids’ line to give him a chance to observe the proceedings a bit before getting himself too involved.
We took turns between the younger throwers and the bigger ‘kids’ (of all ages). The perpetual battle of accuracy versus velocity played out over and over. The still-dry heckler began to hone his craft with the protracted practice he was enjoying. Then, without the slightest warning of what was about to unfold, my son reached the front of his line. I’m sure many allowed themselves to be distracted for the moment, reaching for their pop can, laughing with a friend, getting the sucker out of their daughter’s hair.
Julian reached back, lifted his leg, turned, and fired a frozen-rope line-drive throw that nailed that battered metal disc of a target. Without hesitation, that big guy who had moments earlier been heckling boldly, dropped like a limp doll into the waiting chill of the waters of our great new attraction at the Wildwood 4th of July celebration. Oh, the revelry that ensued! Oh, the look on Julian’s face; half pride, half fear. What had he done? What was everybody freaking out about? What was going to happen to him now? Suddenly, I felt the rush of everything he had been hinting toward earlier. I grew apprehensive. Was I going to have to protect him from somebody’s well-intentioned revenge? I also wondered, “Did he have an intuition that this might actually happen?!”
Fortunately for me, it was all too funny to get caught up on seeking reparations, and some other guy was rallied to the seat. Much of the residual trash talking was targeted at the group of throwers for their letting little Julian be the one to dunk the first person. The line of well-capable throwers was about twice as long as the number of little ones half-again closer. It served to amplify the appearance of disparity that it was Julian whom first achieved success.
You know the phenomenon that happens as a stand-up comedian gets on a roll? That initial laughter loosens things up to allow for greater laughs to follow, and then each subsequent punch line brings greater and greater laughter? Imagine our reaction if, as people cycle through the line taking turns throwing, Julian ended up being the one to dunk the next guy. Well, he did. Our laughter was all encompassing. This was just the half of it.
After this scene played out a third time, and the laughter began to mix with increasing wonder and amazement, I negotiated with my son to get him to move back from the little kids line.
“Why?” he asked, with genuine innocence and a measure of disappointment.
“Because you can!” I implored.
I had people coming to me to marvel over my little pitching prodigy. I think one of them wanted to negotiate rights to his contract. Sure I’d played catch with him in the driveway, but I didn’t know he could do this!
Finally, it became apparent that the crowd was interested in some compensation for the success he had been enjoying at their expense. I dutifully took my position on the perch. This was not a comfortable place for me. It seemed much higher from this vantage point and proved to be dramatically more stressful than I imagined, waiting for the clank of the mechanism to send me to my doom. “This must be the apprehension Julian was experiencing,” I thought to myself. “I see where he gets it.” I never got around to plying the craft of the heckle. I must admit, even I enjoyed the poignancy of the moment Julian stepped to the front of the line.
He dropped me into the water with aplomb. I immediately picked his mother to replace me.
“You’re half responsible for this!” I sprayed from the ladder.
I think someone may have helped Julian sneak back to the front of the line before his rightful turn. He dunked her with identical ease.
In all, Julian sent seven people into the bath that afternoon, more than all other successful throwers combined. No other individual throwers accomplished more than a single dunking. The dunk-tank event won a spot in the 4th of July games for several more years, eventually fading from popularity. The memories of that first time have earned a spot alongside some of the greatest in the annals of WWLC lore.
Julian did go on to play some baseball. Batted left and threw right. He rose through the ranks from tee-ball to machine pitch and then kid pitch. His last team even made it to a championship game, facing a team outside his regular league. He had a problem with that. Another one of those premonitions. His anxiety over getting hit by this pitcher seemed illogically out of proportion to me, and to my wife, as well.
As we examined the redness on his skin at the site of impact, marveling at the detail of the stitches of the ball becoming more apparent with time, he informed us that he would never be participating in this sport of baseball again.
Priceless Moment
There is one highlight from Saturday’s games, that especially stands out for me. It was during the first round of the watermelon eating contest, which involved the youngest competitors.
First, you have to consider what it is like to gather 80 people together in such an informal, fun-filled environment. There are usually at least 30 people (plus or minus) talking over each other at the same time. It is hard for the “official” game hosts to control both the crowd and the willing participants.
Now, imagine a situation where you are setting watermelon in front of anxious young kids, who are being energized by the surrounding crowd. While the game hosts are diligently distributing melon to each additional eager competitor that finds a spot at the table, the odds of a false start rise to, oh… 100%.
It was my nephew, Beck, who went the farthest, before he was “busted” by the crowd. He stopped abruptly, pulled his head up, with lips pursed and mouth filled with bites. His priceless expression, that I can only describe as a morphed combination of genuine innocence and guilt, was hilarious! I was laughing so hard, I didn’t get a shot of the actual moment, but here he is, just as his face was about to cross over to a smile that was no less precious to witness:
He recomposed himself and put in a valiant performance, keeping his hands behind his back, as the slice of watermelon slid farther and farther out of reach toward the center of the table.
After the games transitioned down to the water, Beck found a way to get out and relax a little with a turn on the paddle board. Few challenges appear beyond his willingness to take on, at this stage of his young life.
His parents will have the pleasure of being both proud, and distressed, by his confidence in adventures up at the lake this summer.
