Grown but not Forgotten

Three boys in one house can be daunting. Squabbles can break out easily, and there is always the chance that someone will need first aid from a bad brush with the pavement.
Overall though, boys are wonderful and full of delightful surprises.
In our neighborhood, our boys became friends with other children that lived near us. Our cul-de-sac was always full of young people playing whatever sport the current season rendered. Basketball, football and even a variant of wiffleball were always in progress. For many happy years, the children would play together in all kinds of weather and develop good social bonding skills, as well as other developmentally appropriate attribute for well adjusted young people.
When we moved to a house with no cul-de-sac, I lamented the lack of a convenient play area that we had had before. My lamentations were in vain. Our side yard, affectionately known in our family as The North Yard, provides even more lovely green space for any particular sport our boys can think of.
An added bonus is that their friends, the other young people from our previous neighborhood, still hang out and join in the yard sports. In fact, as long as I can remember, those children were as much a part of our community as our own. And, wonderfully, it stuck.
Recently, our middle son’s friend from school and the old neighborhood joined us for a quick bit of dinner before heading out to a holiday event.
The two of them, plus our oldest and ourselves listened as they told stories of school, sisters and brothers, favorite teachers, stupid ideas, good ideas and anything else that they were in the mood to share. It was a blast to listen and laugh.
Interestingly enough, the time for our guest to head out to his other engagement came and went, but the stories and laughs continued.
Worried that he’d be more than a little late we made sure that he was aware of the time. He informed us that he had been excused by his parents from attending, and that he was free to chat some more.
Of the many wonderful aspects of having teenage boys in the house, the best part is knowing that their friends feel just as much at home with us, as our own boys do. I hope that as they grow into young men, marry and raise children of their own, that they will still come by and visit and share their adventures. And I hope that their own boys and girls will develop long term friendships as well.
Hopefully, even after our boys are grown and parents themselves, our North Yard will have another generation of young people to play and grow.

All I Want for Christmas is Decent Winter Weather.

Snow Cat (Photo credit: clickclique)

I lived in Pennsylvania most of my life. So, during the winter, I was always sure that there would be at least one snow. And even if we didn’t get snow, it was still cold and, well, wintry. Since I’ve lived in North Carolina, I’ve become a bit acclimatized to our more temperate weather. Long, exceedingly hot summers, and warmer winters have all ingratiated themselves to me.
Somewhat.
At this time of year, though, I always feel a pang of sadness, realizing that in just a few weeks we will be on the rise back into summer again. That means that our days for good cold weather and snow are numbered.
Lately, here, we have had a warmer spell. Not really warm, per se, but it’s not really cold either. The days warm up to the mid sixties, and you don’t need your sweater. As the day progresses, it does get cooler, especially since it gets dark so early, but it’s not downright bitter and gnawingly cold.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have some bizarre desire to spend my winter fending off frostbite or shoveling snow. Rather, I would just love a few days where we could look out on the silent world of freshly fallen snow, hear the wind in the pines and set up the crock pot with Hot Cocoa and eat homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese.
I don’t want ice, and I don’t want three feet of snow. Just under a foot would do nicely, and as we typically have a decent warm up after a snow anyway, it would be fairly easy to handle.
Certainly, it would be necessary to go and buy the heck out of some milk and bread. One of the few things that makes a real snow scary is the blatant possibility that the stores may run out of those winter food staples. I heard once, that a snow storm came on so rapidly that local stores didn’t have the chance to stock up and folks had to make due with only minimal bread and milk supplies.
The horror.
I always feel bad for cows and bakers. Imagine knowing that you have one of the two most coveted survival goods and that a major winter event is headed your way. It’s got to be terrifying.
Nevertheless, I don’t think our luck will hold, at this late date, for a White Christmas, which is distressing. I’m only going to be on this earth a short time, and it would be nice to have several White Christmases before I shove off permanently.
Not that it is logistically desirable to mess up a nice Christmas with snow and prevent the visits of family and friends and thereby ruin the one day a year when everyone gets along and plays nice.
It doesn’t really matter much at this point, because it will be sunny and mid sixties again for Christmas, and if there is snow at all this year, it will probably be wet and short lived.
Maybe next year.
In the meantime, I’ll have to be content to remember one specific cold day, when I nearly froze my keester off, for those long hot and intolerably steamy summer days that are, unfortunately, right around the corner.

The Adventures of Doggy Dinnertime!

Our puppies are as varied in size, shape and personality as is possible for one household, but with  regards to dinner, they are united in passion.
It’s always a bit challenging to get everyone in and settled into their meals, especially given their exuberance in the matter. A few months ago, in order to solve the problem of them crowding the back door and trampling me to smithereens in order to get to their food, I began going outside with them and calming them a bit, with a brief search and rescue exercise.
Our oldest pup is blind, deaf, skittery and just plain pitiful. Of course, she’s very sweet and this one endearing factor outweighs just about all the others. She camps out on an old lawn chair in the back yard and dozes most of the day. Since it takes an extraordinary amount of time and effort to get her attention every night, I decided to teach my other two pooches to go get her for me. I figured that if every night was going to be a canine ‘silver alert’, I should have some help.
Our Trixie, who we have had the longest of our current three, is the smartest dog I have ever known. She is, if any dog is, capable of going out and getting our little old lady and herding her in. After all, she is a cattle herder, so it’s not a big stretch.
Kobe, our pug, is the smallest and quite possibly the only dog I’ve ever met with severe ADHD. He’s game for an adventure, but has very little ability to contribute beyond being cute and scampering about giving shrill and yippy encouragement to his big sister.
Together, they would, ideally, go into the back yard and get our Annie, or so I hoped.
Devoutly to be wished.
Instead, after three weeks trying out my new scheme, I gave up. I have to go out back myself, accompanied by my happy pooches, get our little old lady’s attention and get all three dogs headed in the same direction. Considering their species, it’s remarkably like herding cats.
Anyway, I get myself to the head of the line, and before I let them into the kitchen, I make them all sit. What this can be described as is me yelling ‘SIT!’ to one bouncy, yippy dog who is not listening at all; to one large and waggley dog trying hard to be patient; and to one dog facing the other direction and barking at the wall.
When I finally got them (all but one, of course; she just can’t help it) sitting and making eye contact, I opened the kitchen door. My wagglies all stayed put, for a second anyway. They then proceeded to knock me down, and zoom about.
I tried to make a grab for the over-zealous pug, slipped and over turned my ankle, and was stepped on in every single vulnerable spot by my big, heavy girl, too hungry now, to stop.
Annie kept barking at the wall.
I caught the pug by his hind quarters, trying hard to act quickly, before the pain from my ankle set in. He yelped, made a worthy attempt to bend completely in half to bite me, but gave in when I added a little rubbing into my steel grasp, to confuse him into thinking that I was giving him a little love. It worked.
Trixie, realizing belatedly, I guess, that I was hurt and that she was probably responsible (and seeing that I hadn’t put food into her bowl yet,) swooped back and delivered nurturing and gloppy licks, just to help of course.
Annie was now up on her hind legs, scrabbling at the opposite wall, trying to get in, where there is no door.
Finally, I was able to hobble up on one foot, scooping the pug up with me. I got him into his crate with a nice bowl of food and fresh clean water. I gave Trixie her food, for which she showed her great thanks, by diving into it.
Finally, free of the other two, I gently nudged Annie 180 degrees, so she could at least, I hope, see the blurry light of our kitchen and get her bearings.
With all three dogs fed and bedded, I nursed my poor ankle.
Sometimes having dogs is exhausting!

A Spot of Tea, Anywhere

Years ago, on a whim, I purchased a folding pocket stove. The small rectangular box is light and compact enough to fit snugly into my pack, and the fire tablets are dual use. They can be used to light stubborn fuel, as they will burn unaided for ten to fifteen minutes.

I took it out to my carport, just to give it a try, and brought some tea bags with me. Popping some water in one of my Coleman stainless folding camp pots, I lit the tablet and set the water to boil.
In no time, the water was boiling, and the tablet still had some time left to burn. I tossed the tea bags in, and pulled the pot of the flame. In just a few moments I had a cheery cup of tea and all with very little work
.
Since then, the stove, the tablets and several tea bags have always been a part of my gear.
Why tea? When I was a bit younger, my uncle used to make a tea from various herbs and roots found in nature. Especially on a chilly day, that tea would always warm me and fill me with good feelings. It is amazing how chilly or damp weather can soak up your good mood and leave you miserable. Even with the appropriate winter/wet gear and a lovely trail, I have found myself muttering grumpily, thinking about a warm house and a nice fire and some hot soup.
This bad attitude can be really dangerous in an emergency situation. If you get lost, while you’re waiting for search and rescue, you need to have a good, positive attitude about getting out, or you will become depressed and limit your chances of survival very severely.
One snowy day, when the schools were called on the chance for snow, but other than frosty temperatures and a few flecks of sleet, there was no snow, I broke out the little stove, a fire tablet and set about clearing a safe little spot and a few of our boys and I made some nice hot tea. Even just a few yards from our house, on that cold day, the tea was a warm and friendly pick-me-up and made the cold stand back a few feet.
I’m tempted on a good cold day to break out the stove and some metal cups and an assortment of teas for my hiking partners. We can stop walking, huddle together and wait for a nice, steaming cuppa to take the chill off and cheer our spirits, before we complete the hike. Just thinking about it, puts me in the mood for a hike and a spot of tea.
Cheers!

Getting There.

 [Congratulations to Joel and Andy and the Four Saints Brewing Company! They’ve got a building in our downtown and are on the next leg of their hike to bring Asheboro a really great community focused business! This DRO Blog Post is dedicated to you guys, and all those who dream big!]

In my home state there is a mountainous rock formation called ‘The Pinnacle’. When I was very young, we would sometimes go there, just to look out over the countryside and marvel at the beauty of our state.
Some years later I went back with some friends, just to enjoy the view once more.
At that point in my life, I was wildly out of shape; I smoked a lot and I’m fairly sure that I partied a little too heartily most of the time. The path leading to the overlook wasn’t necessarily a difficult one to navigate, but it was quite steep. My fellow hikers zoomed on ahead without me, and slowly I trudged along, wheezing and sweating profusely and cursing my stupid lungs.
Finally, as I approached the last few yards of path that led to the ancient rock outcroppings that make such an amazing overlook, I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. I had made it to the top, and would soon be rewarded with an amazing scene.
The view was marvelous and as I caught my breath and mopped at my sweaty brow I looked out over the world and was moved by the sheer, wild beauty of it.
The Pinnacle is not the most difficult hike I’ve ever done, nor is it the longest. However, in a little over five miles, the elevation leaps up over one thousand feet, so most of the hike up to the top is steep and requires a certain level of durability. While five miles is a pretty nominal distance, even for an inexperienced hiker, the seemingly endless upward slant can make for an extremely difficult walk.
As a friend of mine from back then used to say, “If you wanna see the view, you’ll have some hiking to do.” He was right, but oh, was it worth it to slog up that hill and spend a hazy afternoon gazing out over that amazing country scene.
Our current favorite hike is a lot less intense than the Pinnacle in many ways. There are a few steep inclines and one or two longer hills that require a good bit of determination to get through. And while there isn’t a breathtaking view like the Pinnacle has, so to speak, during the winter, when all the leaves are down, you can peer through the trees and look out over the surrounding ancient mountains and see the tiny farms nestled in among the shoulders and knees of the old hills.
However, the part of any hike that really always impacts me is how easily we forget that our goals and dreams are just a series of steps; simply putting one foot in front of the other, as the old song says, and you can get there.
Our good friends are getting ready to open a brewery here in our little city. And while it is exciting to think about all the future has in store for these two intrepid young men and their great beer, it is amazing to think that this whole promising business venture started as an idea shared among a group of close friends.
I imagine the scenario as follows, though I doubt that it is completely accurate. A few gentlemen, each who love beer, are sitting around a table discussing, as men sometimes do, how awesome it would be to have a brewery in Asheboro. And the idea could’ve fizzled right then and there, and been nothing more than a wistful vaporous fantasy that was never accomplished, if it weren’t for a little determination.
Now, a few short years later, the dream is rapidly spreading its roots into brick and cement, glass, clay, leather and beer. All because two folks inspired an entire community by not giving up, when the elevation overtook the distance.
Today, as they trudge doggedly across the last few yards before the overlook, the work that it has taken, the determination, the sweaty, wheezing, hazy hours of slogging uphill seem like a walk in the park. The first major leg of their hike is over, but there are plenty more overlooks to get to, and lots more hills to climb. The funny thing about hiking and following your dreams is that once you’ve arrived at your first destination, you can’t wait to move on to the next.
So, whether you’re an entrepreneur, an artist, a musician, a government official, a teacher, a preacher, a student, a writer or a couple of folks with a dream, please don’t give up when the hills get steep. Don’t give up when the heat of the day and the length of your journey begin to weigh you down. Just keep trudging along. Put one foot in front of the other, because dreams can and do come true. It just takes a little determination.

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When Leaves Fall, Your Clothes Count.

It may not be obvious to those who don’t spend a lot of time on the trails during this time of year, but as Autumn progresses, the trails become a clutter of dry leaves. The near silent clump of boots on hardened dirt and rocks and roots is traded for the rasping ‘shh shh shh’ of walking through drifts leaves.
If you pay extra attention to the ground as you noisily tramp along (which you should, since on warmer days, you may well wander across the occasional snake, well camouflaged by the leaves) you may notice at about which time of the season, which leaves fall.
You may not notice them, but sycamore trees start early. So do willow oaks and locusts. These trees will begin in late August, or, if it’s a particularly cool onset to Fall, even earlier. By mid-October, the maples are all changing color and beginning to drop moderately. By Thanksgiving, especially if there’s a nice north wind bringing a cold-front, the oaks will let go.
If you have the desire to walk among the bare trees, in this cooler weather, or if you need to go rake your yard, here are a few things to keep in mind about how to dress for it.
As winter approaches, daylight is more scarce, especially in the mountains. Between the wooded valleys that may only get a few brief moments of sunlight, and the dwindling temperatures at night, some days may not even reach the highs that the weatherman calls for.
Keeping this brisk truth in mind, it may be necessary to inventory your hiking apparel to make sure that it is safe and warm for colder temps.
To begin, anything made of cotton should be folded and put away until spring. Jeans, cotton socks, skivvies, t-shirts, hoodies and so on, are a bad choice. Veteran hikers will tell you ‘Cotton Kills’. It’s true.
This is because cotton retains moisture. The same principles that make cotton ideal for keeping you cool in Summer are the same principles that make it dangerous for you  in Fall and Winter. As you move, you sweat. As you sweat, the cotton clothing keeps the moisture against your skin. When you settle into a more calm activity, you’ll find that the chill of your clothes helps to enhance your chill. That’s just if it isn’t raining or if the wind isn’t blowing. You may find in that situation, with nothing more than a hoody, that you’re in a very bad situation.
So, avoid cotton. Polyester, or many other lightweight synthetic materials widely available for athletes are very good for winter hiking. Synthetics are designed to ‘wick’ the moisture from your skin, keeping you and your clothes dry.
Columbia makes a whole line of very affordable and effective clothes, from undies to hats that will help keep you warm and dry.
Another good idea is to wear ‘peelable layers’.
As you move along the trail, even in winter, you warm up. Before you begin to sweat, remove a few outer layers until you are comfortable, and keep going. If you feel chilly, bundle up again.
If you watched a high speed playback of any group of experienced hikers on the trail, you noticed how often they pull on and off their coats and hats.
Hikers must be constantly aware of their state of comfort, and adapt to it, to keep themselves at the optimal temperature.
Regardless if you are on the trail, or outside just a few feet from your door, wearing the proper gear in cold weather will keep you warm, happy and safe during the late fall and winter.

I Miss Halloween.

I love this thing!

Before you friends and neighbors take up your pens and fill out a petition to get me to take down my glowing orange scary spider web from Halloween, I need to explain something.
All my life, as far back as I can remember, Halloween has been the only ‘holiday’ that really makes complete sense to me. We get to dress up, if we want, and no one looks at us funny. We get to give over our usual fears and we can embrace those things that typically scare us stiff. More than these, however, we get to give up pretending that we don't’ believe in monsters for one night, and accept their permanent place in our society.
Werewolves, vampires, mummies, devils, zombies and scary clowns, just to name a few, ramble to streets for one evening and no one panics. It is one of those things that I wish was acceptable all year long.
The first Halloween costume that I ever remember was something constructed almost entirely by my mother. The long red arrow-pointed tail was stuffed with pillow fluff. The horns too, and other than the mask and three pronged pitchfork, I was a handmade Devil. The following year, my step dad took and old box and some brown paper bags and made a ‘big bad wolf’ helmet mask for me. I truly believe that this was when I became a Monster Fan.
Tramping down the streets our tiny little country town each Autumn, I began to understand, of only faintly, humanity’s obsession with ‘the things that go bump in the night.’ Since then, every year, whether I actually dress up, or if I only don black from head to toe, I’m experiencing a kind of Monster Exhilaration, for which there is no pill.
Sadly, less than a month after the Great Halloween Celebrations have ceased, it’s time to talk Turkey, and Santa has already begun to stick his long white beard into the season. And while I love Thanksgiving and Christmas, love the dying of the year, and love any excuse to get together with family to eat yummy food, I still feel a pang of remorse at the sad ending of Halloween.
Personally, Halloween never ends, and I celebrate Monsters in all their gory glory all year long on my Facebook Page Monster Serial.
So, for those of you who are annoyed at my apparent inability to remove my lovely glowing scary spider web, please be patient. The weekend approaches, and I’ll be taking it down then. But give me the benefit of the doubt. I hate to let go of Monster Season and Halloween. It is, after all, my favorite time of the year.

Steady As She Goes

SAILING ON CHESAPEAKE BAY - NARA - 548494 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Our family loved to sail. My step-dad, mom, brother and step-brothers and myself spent many a weekend in the Chesapeake Bay sailing our family boat.
It wasn’t a yacht, by any stretch of the imagination. Just a small craft, designed for family outings scooting around the Del-Mar-Va Peninsula or down to Annapolis for the weekend. There was a cozy cabin, a nice cockpit from which to steer and of course the bow, which was my favorite spot to be.
Learning to sail is like apprenticing with a craftsman. You can be taught how to steer and manipulate the sails, navigate, and tack. But you cannot be taught how to interpret the wind and water. Those things require time and patience. You have to open up a special sensitivity to those things in your mind. It takes practice to be sure.
Lately, I have found myself missing the wind and water. It’s been uncounted years since I’ve even set foot on a sailboat, let alone any other type of water vessel. I miss it profoundly. While I live within a few short miles of my favorite trail, and while I can always find succor there for the stresses and strains of everyday life, even in the woods a good stiff breeze will remind me of how wonderful it would be to set my boots on the step, slide on my deck shoes and grab the lines and hoist the jib and mainsail and fly across the water.
In everyday life, it is common to feel a need to ‘get on with’ or ‘get through’ the day. We have many stresses on us daily. Money, careers, children, parents and social lives all of which seem to hold sway at the same time. Some days, from the time my head leaves the pillow in the morning, until it returns that evening, I haven’t had a chance to even stop to catch my breath. I feel sometimes that I am caught between duties. Duties to my family, to my friends, to my work and to my responsibilities as an adult. At other times, things are so mundane, slow and uninteresting that boredom grows across my mind and I adopt the ‘thousand mile stare’.
Yet, either way, regardless if I’m praying for Tuesday to hurry up and end already, or wondering where the weekend flew off to, sailing provides a good illustration of how we handle the hectivity and the doldrums of life.
The key is to remember a simple truth my step dad taught me about being on a boat. You’re never in control. You’re only borrowing the water, sharing the wind. You never get to choose what kind of weather you have, only how you deal with the weather that comes.
As an example, we once had beautiful, calm, chilly fall sailing, and a squall came up and hit so hard that we were all covered in fine gritty sleet and the whole deck was a sheet of ice, not to mention heavy chop. We got the sails down, motored to a nearby port, and battened down the hatches and waited for the squall to pass. I realized as I sat shivering in the cabin and my mom prepared hot soup, that I would never have been able to deal with that squall by myself.
Much of what I learned on that boat was technical. Which line to pull, how to steer, how to tie knots, how to tack and turn. But the deeper lessons in all of those physical and mental tasks was knowing why we tie the knots, when to pull the lines, where to steer and when to tack and turn.
So my step dad’s advice was good and true, and it rings true on solid ground with the weather of our lives, too. No matter what a day brings, if things go our way, or if they don’t; if tragedy and loss hold sway or if joy and hope for new life is the celebration, we must always keep calm, one eye on the compass, one eye on the sky and take the wind that comes.

The Walk of Life.

Few things are as natural as perambulation. We almost instinctively celebrate an infant’s first unassisted steps, and even if the child is not related to you, there is a small burst of celebratory cheer in your heart at the news that the baby is now walking.
From a pudgy-legged, unsteady gait to a flying run down neighborhood sidewalks, our body’s ability learn how to walk and then begin to run is a fascinating bit of growth. The only aspect of development more interesting is that of language.
For most adults, the idea of moving from one place to another is unconscious. We don’t think about going into the kitchen to warm up our coffee or  stepping outside to the workshop to get a tool. We become so indoctrinated with the simplicity of walking that we don’t even think about doing it.
Perhaps the greatest example of this ease of motion comes on the trail. Initially, as you get used to the weight of the pack, and settle into the rugged terrain, you may feel very cognizant of your steps. After a bit of time, though, the walking goes on a sort of autopilot, and you raise your eyes and observe the world. As you go, your body descends into a meditation of sorts. The mind thrives in this movement. The parts of the brain that work behind the scenes are occupied and there is mental clarity.
However we wish to define this reality of physical movement; whether it is simply a natural state for humans to move long distances on our legs, or if it is just an accident of our current world environment that we need to get into the wilderness and move to get away from all the distractions and extra stimuli, walking is a natural calming activity.
As I walk in the woods, I always picture a group of ancient humans, clad in rough-spun clothes with spears or short knives and sacks on their backs moving through the wildernesses of that world, eyes peeled and heads swiveling. It would be necessary for ancient humans to move long distances from time to time to keep up with game, to avoid unpleasant weather or even to stay near a steady supply of fuel to keep warm.
This group, as large as one hundred individuals, made up of young and old, male and female, would travel great distances as long as the sun was up. They wouldn’t stop to rest or eat. They would move until nightfall, when it became necessary to stop and build a fire. Hunting parties would join the group at that time, and bring game, if they could find it.
Some anthropologists now believe that ancient man could cover huge distances in one day, moving a very fast walking pace. Their entire physiology was based on their ability to walk or trot. The scarcity of food and the prevalence of large carnivores made it necessary for ancient humans to go days without sufficient nutrients, but still accomplish great feats of physicality.
I tend to imagine this while we walk in the woods. I pretend that Harmon and I are ancient hunters, walking into the deep wilderness to bring back game for our group. We are still living off the stores of fat and calories from the last kill, but we need more. So we set off into the deep wilderness. Heads down, looking for ‘game sign’, we imagine the aroma of meat roasting around a campfire, fat dripping and cracking in the fire. Unbeknownst to either of us, a large cougar or mountain lion has been stalking us for several miles.
It’s an odd fantasy to be sure, but it’s one that pervades my mind as we walk recreationally. It’s hard not to think about a time when mankind walked out of necessity. When the ability to walk meant the difference between life and death, food, fuel and fire, starving and freezing.
We take our ability to walk for granted everyday. It helps to think about walking from time to time, to remember how much each of us depends on it for survival, even now in these modern times, we still need to do the Walk of Life.

"Let's Talk About Food, Baby!"

A few weeks ago, two very good friends and I went off to the woods to pursue our usual trail. Harmon is a regular, but our Special Guest Hiker hadn’t been along with us for this particular hike yet, and we were excited to have him along. Ken is an Ornithologist, and works in a major capacity at the NC Zoo and being the nerds we are, Harmon and I were very excited to hear some of Ken’s expertise.
As we trudged along, the subject matter of our discussion turned from politics to zoology but only stayed briefly at each topic. The subject that seemed to hold us nearly the entire hike was that of food. As one of us would describe a delectable treat, the other two of us would moan or groan or shout out and slaveringly wipe away drool from our respective mouth.
If we droned on long enough about another subject, even something as interesting to the three of us as the pileated woodpecker, someone would eventually shout “Someone talk about food again!” And we would settle into the discussion.
Three quarters of the way through the hike, I couldn’t take it any longer and suggested that as soon as we had finished and returned to town, we should stop by our favorite diner for their special burger plate. And it was unanimously agreed upon.
As we sat munching at our delicious meals, I became very aware of a change in preference of subject matter in my own mind for conversation topics. In high school, sitting around our table, munching our cardboard cafeteria pizza over our cardboard cafeteria trays, our eyes would dart around, catching glimpses of the attractive young women in the jungles of the high school food chain. One could almost say that among our small, male dominated group, that we were connoisseurs of the beautiful woman.
Of course, at 18, what young man isn’t a thrall of his feverishly hormonal imagination? Even outside the school, as our group toured local shopping malls and eating venues, a weather eye was always peeled for the beautiful women who might walk by. We would whoop and holler and share looks of incredulity and shake our heads at our bad luck and not being able to get a girl like that to go out with anyone of us.
If we happened to have a ‘Hot Waitress’ however, we were all mute, somehow only able to mutter and stammer our orders, painfully aware of the scorching proximity of beauty even as it burned us like the sun in the desert.
In those days, and for many years after, even into marriage, I was hard pressed not to notice a shapely woman that came within the perimeters of everyday life. Yes, I have even been the painful recipient of an elbow gouge from my wife for staring too obviously at someone. And while I maintain that I will always be an appreciator of the female form, I have noticed a change.
The old adage that the only way to a man’s heart being through his stomach is perhaps the honest-to-goodness truth. My wife’s indelible beauty is inarguable, but her meatloaf? It is the nectar of the gods.
Even winking and fluttery-eyed, with kisses and caresses, she couldn’t get me to remember to put the seat down, or to put my hiking boots away. But, if she promised me Homemade Anything, I’d be putty in her hands.
So, here it is then. I’ve moved from being a stupid boy who cannot help but stare at a gorgeous woman, to being a stupid man who cannot help but think longingly about yesterday’s supper, while dreaming about tonight’s dinner treat.
A colleague at work, who has traveled the gamut of male fascinations, said that the next topic of preference for most men is what hurts, and why. Of course, he said the dinner bell still elicits the kind of reaction that a beautiful woman used to, but in the long run he said, dinner, the recliner and a nap are the things he looks forward to the most.
Here’s to food!

"Fall Back" Fallout.

All my life, I have always looked forward to Autumn and all of it’s accompanying glory. Throughout that time though, when DST was over and it was time to get an extra hour of sleep, it was like icing on the cake. What could be better for a young man with a slightly eldritch mind than twilight coming even sooner?
So, as the years progressed I looked forward to setting the clocks back and settling in for a long night of sleep.
That was then.
Perhaps there is still some joy in the prospect of extra sleep. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the idea of having one more hour to surrender myself to my still eldritch dreams. But there are other aspects of the impending lack of light at the end of the day that now mess with me more than they provide enjoyment.
It could be that, as an adult, I now have a day job that lasts until six in the evening. Progressively in the spring and fully in the summer, there is always time to get dinner finished and work outside after work. But in the late fall and winter, twilight swoops in with its raven wings and settles darkness on the land long before I ever clock out for the day. As a result, I feel muzzy-headed and tired long before I cross the threshold to our home. I’m ready to sit in the recliner, click on the idiot box; or better, slip into my pjs and nestle into bed.
Some would call this ‘Seasonal Affective Disorder’. The change in time and light affects basic circadian rhythms, certainly, and the zeitgebers, or sensory stimuli that signal certain physiological patterns may cause a small ‘bump’ in the road of my daily internal schedule. This change in the daylight, which is one of the biggest zeitgebers can affect some humans for days or weeks with no known cure.
I’ve never minded darkness, however, as I’ve mentioned. And I love the chill air, the golden leaves falling and even the approach of snowy weather. So, why is it that I am feeling downtrodden? Why do I feel squished under the heel of darkness rather than rejoicing at it as I have in the past?
The answers, it appears, are both philosophical and biological.
The philosophical part is really me having to be philosophical in realizing the truth about myself. While, I’ll never acknowledge that I’m old or even getting there, I’m heading toward the roadmark of ‘middle age’, which means that certain biological truths are inevitable.  It’s also possible that a big-boy job and family duties have so programmed my internal clock that I’m really set in the daily schedule of things and they are hard to train out.
At any rate, whether it is old age creeping in, however glacially, or if it is my biological rhythm changing due to the more routine aspects of family life, I don’t yet know. What is perfectly clear is that this muzzy-headedness from the early onset of dark and cold is keeping me on the very edge of grouchville and also making it increasingly difficult to wake up in the morning.
So, if I snap at you, when in the past I was to be found under the deepening night of a Fall evening with an idiot grin on my face, blame DST.
Some fool’s genius idea is making a sleepy grump out of me.

Headlamps for Darkness, Headlamps for Life.

(SUTs are situations where gear that you carry with you on a hike or a camping trip, but that you may not always use, is tested under the actual circumstances for which they were designed.)

It is time once again to settle into the darkness. It’s always a funny couple of weeks as we struggle to reconcile our association of daylight with what time it is.
In the middle of summer, even at nine o’clock in the evening, we may find that we can finish one last game of bocce ball in the gathering twilight. By the end of August, eight p.m. seems to be the point at which we find the shadows lengthening. A month after that, as we prepare for October’s onset, seven thirty is when the darkness comes.
As the officials in charge of Daylight Saving Time continue to fiddle with exactly when they want us to plummet into ‘Fall Back’ mode, I have noticed that I am using my headlamp more and more.
I used to have a regular headlamp that I would wear to take out the garbage or recycling after dark. Then, for my birthday the other year, my brother sent me a super high-powered LED headlamp. It is five times as bright as my previous one, and it is perfect for the dwindling light at the ending of the year.
I use my headlamp all the time, but mostly for chores around the house that are being swallowed up in the darkness.
So, while scheming about when we would hike, friend Michael suggested that we ‘clock in’ on the trail at about five in the evening. We could give our respective headlamps a real test. I agreed to this adventure, feeling that we were both familiar enough with the well blazoned path to manage this hike.Our wives protested the outing, but we persisted against their claims of ‘having bad feelings about this.’
We arrived at our agreed time and set off down the trail. As we circled the eight mile loop, we enjoyed the twilight gathering under the trees and talked about walking out while using our headlamps.
About three quarters of the way through the circuit it became extremely necessary to unpack our lamps and slip them over our sweat speckled brows.  Several times throughout, we would stop, switch off the bright little LEDs and let our eyes adjust to the complete and total pitch blackness of wilderness night.
And there is nothing blacker.
Most people are perhaps familiar with the fact that under the canopy of a forest, darkness creeps in faster. While it still may be light enough for you to see without needing any illumination accessories at your house, at the exact same time out in the woods it will be deep blue darkening to black. If you have the courage and the support to try this, spend some time in the woods during the night time. Wave your hand in front of your face. You won’t be able to see it.
Awed by the enveloping night, we marched on in silence, only stopping to swing our beams off the path to follow sounds. One sound was almost certainly a huge old owl that we disturbed by being on the trail ‘after hours’.
I felt a strange combination relief, disappointment and satisfaction upon arriving back at the parking lot. I was relieved that we had not suffered any mishaps brought on by the low and no light environment. Disappointed that we had been so close to the end when we put on the lamps, because it would’ve been neat to see certain parts of the trail under those circumstances. I felt satisfied that my personal headlamp had passed a ‘serious use test’ or SUT. We clicked off our lamps, jumped in the Jeep and headed home.
A little while after packing up my gear, I settled down to a nice sandwich and cold drink. As I munched, I reached up to scratch my forehead. My headlamp was still on my head. I had forgotten to remove it after I got home.
So, I scratched my itch and then put the headlamp on the table by my plate. Looking at it fondly, I knew it was my best asset for the coming dark part of the year. I also knew it would always be in my pack from now on, for all future hikes.

Dave Crows On

I like crows. They’re my favorite feathered friends.
For several years, I’ve tried to encourage a large murder of crows from the surrounding neighborhood to come and roost near our home. Since many people consider crows to be nuisances, this statement may be a bit hard to understand. Why would someone knowingly encourage a ‘pest’ to come and stay by their home?
It’s a simple answer.
Crows are actually not nuisances. They are the most intelligent bird species that we know of, with the exception of other corvidae (crow family), like jays and ravens. They have an incredibly sophisticated social structure. Crows mate for life, mourn the loss of a family member and continue to live with their parents for several years after they become independent.
Crows have an incredibly sophisticated language as well. Not only can they caw and scold and laugh, but they can also mock human and animal noises and some scientists think that they can understand certain aspects of human speech and recognize discernible facial features between a series of different people.
(For more on the intelligent crow, check out this amazing video from Nature at PBS.org: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/a-murder-of-crows/full-episode/5977/)
So, I’ve been encouraging crows to be comfortable with our home and our family, so that I can enjoy their antics, and maybe learn more about their lifestyle and possibly encourage one or two to become quite docile.
It’s been done.
It’s a strange hobby to have, I admit, but it’s cheap and it’s fascinating for me.
The other day, when Micki came home from dropping the youngest at school, she told me about a “huge raven” in the driveway.

“First,” I said, knowingly, “there aren’t any ravens around here. They like high elevations, like at Pilot Mountain.” ( I know this, because one of our friends is an ornithologist, and I’ve asked him many questions about it.)
“Whatever it is, there is a huge black bird out there.”
Finally,  I thought, they’re finally getting used to us, and are brave enough to be around us, without being fearful!
So I continued to putter around and try to slowly build up some momentum to accomplish my list of things to do on my day off. I didn’t want to interrupt the crow, especially if it found something tasty.
As I was getting some tools from my shed, a large black blot of movement caught the corner of my eye. Glancing over, I saw a very big crow hunkered down under one of my mother-in-law’s garden chairs. 
 
The bird was obviously not doing well. It simply hunkered down when I walked near it, looking at me nervously and quivering. I knew this bird was not doing well at all.
Of course my first thought was West Nile Virus, since it is known to affect crows and because we’ve had a pretty bad year for mosquitoes.
(For more on West Nile Virus follow this lik: http://www.cdc.gov/ncidod/dvbid/westnile/index.htm)
The first thing I did was call the Health Department. I figured that they would be able to come, test the bird and let me know what else to do about the situation. I remember recently hearing that this was in fact the correct course of action for suspected West Nile virus outbreaks.
The Health Department transferred me to Animal Control. Animal Control transferred me to the Valerie H. Schindler Wildlife Rehabilitation Center.
We have one of the largest ‘natural habitat, walkthrough’ zoos in the world within six miles of our house. They have a vast number of vets who will work to save any animal you can safely transport to their facility. They gave me instructions and I set about following them.
I got a heavy throw blanket from my shed, and a large plastic bin lent to us by friends who’d recently delivered twelve giant iris plants to us and my work gloves.
I approached and delicately lifted the bird. He was so weak that he couldn’t even manage a good peck at me in his own defence. He fluttered, though, and I lost my grip on his sleek black feathers. He landed and flumped over on his side, gasping.
Cursing myself for my nervousness, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the next try. I actually believe he knew I was trying to help. His family, who were swooping and scolding me, did not seem to think so, however.
Turning toward them, as I approached their sick family member for the second attempt, I said in a gentle voice, “I’m trying to help. I’m not going to hurt him.” They didn’t believe me. The scolding and swooping continued. I can’t blame them.
I finally got the poor creature into the bin with the throw and the bin into my van.
I had gotten the address of the rehab center earlier, so I turned on my GPS and we headed out.
I delivered the crow to the assistant staff at the center and they gave me a card with a case number on it, the unceremoniously sent me on my way. Turning as I left, I asked how soon they would know anything. The woman in charge gave me a standard and well practiced answer: “It may be several days.”
I felt very much the same as I have when I’ve had to leave my dogs or cats at the vet overnight: sick in the stomach.
Several hours later unable to tolerate the lack of information, I called the number on the card and recited the case number to the voice on the other end. A few seconds later another voice came on the line.
“First, let me say thank you for not killing the bird. A lot of people consider crows to be a nuisance, and it is nothing for them to kill them rather than get them the help they need.”
Shocked, I tried to stammer something out, but she continued.
“The crow is probably a juvenile. It is emaciated and dehydrated. Right now we are trying to get it stabilized, but he’s far gone. A vet will probably come this afternoon, but they won’t be able to do a thorough diagnostic until we’ve gotten him properly nourished and stable. Any stress can seriously harm them when they’re not well.”
I sighed. I knew that I had been responsible for some stressors to the crow. The woman seemed to read my mind.
“You did good by the crow, sir,” she said, “you might have saved his life.”
She told me that she’s been working with crows and ravens in North Carolina for twenty years. Figuring she’d know what to do about a concerning secondary issue, I pressed her for a bit more information.
“The rest of the murder is quite upset with me. They think I’ve hurt their family member. I’ve worked consistently to try to get crows around my house because I really like these birds and I don’t want to undo that.”
There was a long pause on the other end, which I imagined was either incredulity or just plain shock. “You should give them bird seed. Let them see you do it. They will understand the gesture.”
It was my turn to be incredulous.
“They can understand gestures?”
The woman chuckled. “You’d be extremely surprised what they understand. We’re only just beginning to understand how smart these birds are.”
I’ll call again in the next few days, with a significant amount of trepidation about the poor bird’s condition, but I’m very glad that I was able to help him.
Now I just need to get some bird seed.

Fruit Bearing Bushes Cause a Change of Heart.

We got up Saturday morning and trudged to the Farmer’s Market. This is something that we love to do. Regardless of the heat, it is always fun to stroll downtown and buy locally grown produce and other goods.
The last time we had time to go to the Farmer’s Market, I carried a twenty-five pound box of tomatoes home to be used to make sauce. One the way home, we stopped in at our local coffee shop for two small, black house-blend coffees and two everything bagels with veggie cream cheese. We chatted with friends and chilled for close to an hour before toting the heavy box the rest of the way home.
This time we came away with white cinnamon cured bacon, a full pound of local honey and two very special plants, among other things. This time, we actually took our two very special plants home first, and then went back for our Saturday cafe time. We met with friends and chatted with a lovely couple seeking more information about our fair city, because they are looking to move into this area.
As the day drew on, and we discussed plant placement, a perplexing issue arose. You see, after the we bought them, we got specific instructions on how to plant them, where to plant them, and why to plant them that way. In a few short years, with healthy pollination we will be able to cull loads of a special fruit from these bushes.
We had the ideal where generally, but the more specific aspects of positioning were a very thoughtful process. Micki’s ideas and mine were close, though I was unmovable about not having them right at the front walk. I didn’t want passersby to just help themselves to the soon-to-be bountiful take these plants would offer.
Nevertheless, a similar positioning of two saplings from the Arbour Day Foundation a few years ago rendered two very large and very healthy trees.
http://www.arborday.org/shopping/memberships/memberships.cfm
They’ve done quite well close to the sidewalk and they’ve added some much needed green to our side yard, (which we lovingly call the North Yard).
All these thoughts ran through my head, however, before Micki and I actually physically took the plants around the front yard and placed them here and there, discussing their final positioning.
We came up with a reasonable area for them, but I still was unsettled on the issue.
Unbeknownst to her, I felt a rather strong guilt at my previous refusal to place the plants within reach of pedestrians on our walk. Taking a moment to do some internal searching about the roots of this feeling, I stumbled on a simple but powerful truth.
You see, we love to feed people. It’s a fundamental aspect of our relationship. On snow days, we don't just make soup and hot cocoa for our boys, we make it for all of their friends too. We love to have everyone over and cook for them. The more people, often times, the better. Our desire to share the goods that we produce here at home has colleagues at another facility requesting some sage to burn in the purification of their homes.
Something about all of this needing to feed people ran aground on my previous stubborn refusal to place these two wonderfully productive plants within arm’s reach of anyone who wanted to munch a handful of deliciousness.
So, now you're wondering what delicious fruit these lovely plants will yield, and hoping I’ll tell you the final placement. The good news is, I haven’t planted them yet. The amount of time required to prep the earth where they go, will prohibit this from being rushed in any way. In the meantime, I’ll think hard about the exact where of their final placement. But you can rest assured that it may indeed be closer to public access than you expect!
Think you know what these plants will yield? Feel free to leave a message!

Just a Few Inches.

An incident on Monday left two Sheriff's deputies shot, when a person sought in several counties for several crimes decided to shoot his way out of his vehicle at a traffic stop.
Both deputies are doing well.
In an article today about the shootings Monday, one of the detectives working on the case was interviewed by a newspaper reporter. During his comments, he held up his thumb and index finger and implied that sometimes life comes down to just a few inches.
To their colleagues who face this danger daily, a few inches can make all the difference between life and death.
It's difficult to think about being in a situation where it would be necessary to either give oneself up to the law or shoot your way out. The idea of turning a weapon on another human being, let alone an officer of the law is repellent to me. But there are those out there who have no qualms with this kind of behavior. Those who make these sorts of choices daily.
Everyday we face thousands of decisions that affect ourselves and our families but rarely do we consider the reality of some of the consequences of those decisions. It is hard, perhaps because of human nature, to think about how each and every one of our choices will pan out. To think too deeply on them would seem like unhealthy deterministic obsession. Yet, if we consider briefly that any one of our choices could go terribly wrong at any time as a simple result of poor planning or distraction (and there are so many today), we tend to look a little harder at the consequences of those choices a little harder.
I'm not suggesting that each of us is master of our own destiny. Somethings that happen to us are completely arbitrary. A friend's friend who lives near Aurora, Colorado and who decided at the last minute not to go see the particular screening of The Dark Knight Rises on the night when the tragic shootings took place, found that his decision saved his life. A woman driving home recently found herself pinned under a huge tree that simply fell at the moment her car went by. None of her decisions had any affect on that tree falling. She survived, and after an extremely exciting few hours was safe at home with her family and friends.
No one knows when we will face death. Some of us won't even know that it happened. Such is nature.
I believe, though, that it is good to keep our minds at a level of thought that reminds us frequently that our actions and the actions of others can and do have a direct result in the lives around us.
The deputies did their jobs very well. They encountered a fool who had grown accustomed to making poor decisions and his consequences will not be pleasant. Those two men knew when they left for their shifts, that they might not come home. It is a daily aspect of their jobs. One that I know I couldn't face. I'm extremely conscious of the fact that these two men are not just deputies. They are sons, fathers, brothers, cousins, grandsons, uncles and friends. They are as human as the rest of us. And everyday they face countless situations that could end badly.
I'm extremely grateful to them and all of our law enforcement officers the world over who perform their duties honorably and selflessly to protect us every single day. Some of those days, like Monday of this week, life comes down to just a few inches.
The best that we can do for these men and women who risk so much for our protection and safety is to be conscious of our own decisions. We must remember to think. We must remember to be aware that some of our decisions will not only affect ourselves but those around us.
There will always be fools who cannot make good choices, but they will invariably be victims of their own poor choices. As our youngest frequently says, "You've got to think!"