Oh,Thou Sluggard-ing

A Day to Vegetate

Life presents many challenges throughout any given week. One may find themselves facing theft of a license plate, or dealing with a frustrating local furniture company, all while being depended on by the family and coworkers for one's sturdy frame and loyal nature. As Friday rolls around again each week, I am apt to feel like a beetle that has been tramped on by a careless hiker. Saturday and Sunday present a little free time, at least to get clear of the public for a while, but we often have a lot to attend to on those days, as well. Recently we went haring around the Southeast region to visit family in the Mississippi Delta. We got home on Sunday night and fell almost immediately into a coma-like, dreamless sleep, but it took most of the week to fully recover. By Saturday of the long Memorial Day weekend, both Micki and I understood the beetle's plight.

We Bares are doughty and strong. It is unusual for me to get so wiped out that I cannot move, but the previous weekend's journeys, combined with the workweek's unusually exhausting lists of tasks, and we were starting to feel like congealed mush. We went to bed early on Friday and didn't rise too terribly early on Saturday. I won't say that we were shiftless layabouts the whole day—there was certainly a little shifting toward dinner time—but it was close enough as makes no difference.

Under other circumstances, which is to say, when I was a bit younger, the urge to be up and doing with vim and vigor would have been hard to quash on the weekend. A good night's sleep on Friday would have energized me to no little extent. Saturday, after making breakfast, I would have been outside mowing or fixing something in the house in the case of rain. Later, perhaps, we might have gone out for supper or met friends downtown, but generally, it would have been a day where we did not let the grass grow beneath our feet.

This past weekend was an exception. It would be paltering with the truth to say that I wasn't grateful that we didn't have errands to run or people to visit. It was nice to have an entire day free of anything strenuous on the social or chore calendars. We rose late, ate breakfast in bed, puttered about a little, but generally, we just sat and relaxed; perhaps recuperate is the better word.

Guilty Resting

My own impulse to keep busy is probably partially genetic—we Bares are doers—but also partly because it was modeled to me when I was a lad. Pop Bare worked until he was 80. At points during his life, he worked more than one job, and when I was a cub, he often worked three jobs. Rich and I did the same. I cannot think of a time when I haven't had a job. When not working, of course, there were other things to do. Rich was married and a homeowner quite early on and spent a lot of time fixing things or renovating rooms around his flat, and later, his house. I had school, a band, work, and chores. I won't say we didn't rest, but we didn't rest much.

During leisure time, we liked to be up and doing, as well. Cooking, swimming, or playing yard games. If we did ever sit down, it was after the table had been cleared and the kitchen tidied up. By then, we were shattered and ready to head to bed. Even then, we didn't rest right away. We watched TV, folded laundry, or read until our eyelids whacked. This was modeled to us, and it is how we lived.

To sit and read at any other time than bedtime, (I have always loved day reading), felt too still for anyone in the family to endure for very long. I won't say the Bares aren't readers; newspapers could always be found on the kitchen table, but sitting in one place for long is not something many of us are accustomed to. Being that I was always the black sheep of the clan, especially as it involved my affection for stealing away with a good book, this behavior of mine was often the point at issue when my parents hauled up their slacks to lay into me about being lazy.

So, rather than finding a nice shady spot under a tree or curling up by a window on a rainy afternoon to let my eyes wander over the printed page, I developed a kind of aversion to being seen not moving. I'm not saying that I never laid about, but if I did it was when my family weren't likely to cause me grief about it. There is nothing worse then getting sloshed about the ears for participating in one’s favorite pastime. Thus, I got in the habit of reading when everyone else was getting their eight hours.

And so, I have an inbuilt antipathy to appearing to not do anything. Thus, just sitting about has always been a bit of a sore spot, even in adulthood, wherein I am master of my own destiny, so to speak. It always seemed as though my pater or mater would come along the passage, heave me up by the earlobe and frog march me outside with a crisp order to rake up sticks or trim the camellias.

How the Other Half Rests 

When I was accepted into Micki’s family, I found that they were no less busy and active as my own. The only difference was, they seemed to know how to rest, as well. After a long day of helping her father in the yard, we would cook food and then watch a movie together in the family room. On Saturdays, getting up early to start on a project was expected, so that we could stop at lunch and rest in the TV room and put golf or college sports on the big TV.

Micki’s family also like to play games or cards around the table (not something the Bares are in any way accustomed to). Sometimes, they like to just sit and talk things over, sharing this or that anecdote, catching up on the family news. When Micki’s elderly (but extremely active and fit) aunt and uncle visited a few weeks ago, we primarily spent the entire visit actually visiting. We sat in the den or around the dining room table just talking, which was lovely. We hadn't seen them for years, and so we spent the time catching up, as it were.

The Bares always visited family, particularly my paternal grandmother's house, but I always got the sense everyone was ready to be done with the jabbering and get on to hosing down the porches or packing lunches for the week. I think my inability to sit still, which is to say, keep still like a normal human being while sitting, is probably a symptom of the larger genetic urge to be out behind a plow or forking hay into the barn. We thrive on being out and doing. Sitting still, being calm, chatting with pals or family, just hanging out are all behaviors that are essentially alien to us.

The Restful Path

We are no less busy now than ever before. Of course, I'm weighing into this equation the fact that the boys are older and direct their own affairs now. There was a time when we rushed around to bring them to baseball, football, and basketball games. One summer weekend, we had six baseball games in one day, with each lad playing at least one at a local ball field. We used to slide into bed at night like a baserunner diving for home plate. The next morning, we would get up and do it all over again.

So, it's not quite as frenetic as all that these days. We're busy, but now and then, we have a chance to rest. Like ice cream, the chance to rest never feels like quite enough, but, also like ice cream, they tell me, too much could be detrimental, so we try to make the best of it while it lasts. We are quick to jump to the next visit, book event, adventure, or tour of errands and chores. 

I will say it is nice not to have anyone chivvying me out of my cozy spot to “look busy”. Laziness is perhaps in the eye of the beholder. There are some lazy folks out there, but their plight isn't even close to mine. I value a moment to stop and recall all that we have to be grateful for, to build relationships with our friends, family, and ourselves. I like to think that each week needs a little leisure time built in so we stay on the right side of sanity. No one will say of us that we frittered away our time lying in bed and eating bonbons, letting the house and grounds wither.

It is with that in mind that I put aside my book, stretch out on the settee, and close my eyes for a few minutes' rest. Not stolen, but earned. To me, all leisure is earned and therefore justified. If I feel the need for a break, a rest, or a desire to put up my tools and recover, I do it. And since, as they say, a home is a castle within which the head couple rule, then the only one to stop me is me. 

Where Have All The Smokies Gone?

We just returned from a whirlwind weekend tour of the deep South's highway corridors, between home and Louisiana, and I have to say, something has changed drastically in traffic patterns throughout those intervening states. This most recent trip isn't even close to the first time we've driven through to visit family on the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain. This time, the ‘other driver’ aspect of the trip felt a little more precarious because of two precipitating absences in the world of interstate travel. First, apparently, no one cares about the posted speed limits any longer, and second, this is probably due in large part to a serious decline in the presence of state troopers anywhere.

Modern travel has improved a lot in recent years. Most vehicles have cruise control and fancy radar limiters that keep you a steady distance from the car in front, backup cameras, sideview sensors, and beeps when you cross a solid line without engaging the turn indicators. My first interstate journey as an adult was a trip from Reading to Fort Wayne, Indiana, back in 1997 or ‘98. I was driving my ‘87 Chrysler LeBaron, which was an extremely analog vehicle. No fuel injection or power steering, no backup cameras or Bluetooth. Just a boy, his car, and the long highways that overlay our nation like a spiderweb. I had a Rand-McNally map under the front bench seat, my portable CD player hooked up to computer speakers powered by the cigarette lighter. I had a box of Mountain Dew, a pack of Snickers Bars, a carton of smokes, and the Johnny Cash Live at Folsom Prison album, and the long, long road. It was a formative experience. One that I have long wandered back to in thought when the urge to travel long distances and visit faraway families arises again.

That was one of the most important journeys of my life as a driver; one that instilled in me many of the rules of long-distance driving. These rules are essentially unspoken, generally understood, and find their roots in the personality of American travel, dating back to the first dogged pioneers steering oxen-pulled Conestoga wagons across the prairies and over the Rockies. 

There are far too many rules to enumerate here, but the few most pertinent to my observations are: obey the speed limit within reason, be a defensive but courteous driver, and obey the laws of whatever state you happen to be in. I might add ‘remember to use your signals’ just as a gentle reminder to my dear Old North State drivers who seem to be congenitally unable to flip that switch up or down when turning.

Since that first lone trip, I have put a lot of hours behind the steering wheel. Along with the trips to Louisiana, we've driven back and forth to PA and New York many times, we've been to New England and Minnesota by car, and I drove with Evan from home to Portland, Oregon, expanding my experience of the country's byways west through the really big, wide-open states. One thing had always been ubiquitous through it all. Tall, fearless, redoubtable, and unflappable in their campaign hats, like drill instructors on the freeways, the dour, tough-minded state troopers. We Bares always referred to them using the citizen's band (CB) radio jargon, calling them Smokies, because their hats make them look like Smokey Bear.

Their sleek cars could be seen all over the nation's roads, but especially on interstates. We even got a sense of which state's troopers were the most relentless and tough. My home state's Smokies (we sometimes also call them Staties) are absolutely unforgiving. If you drove faster than the posted speed limit, or sped up to pass a truck to not miss an exit, you would get nailed. No warnings, no chit-chat. Just a very expensive ticket and the lasting chill in the spine for having had a run-in with the terrifying state police. The legendary South Carolina Smokies would detain you for speeding, and the price of your ticket was your bail. This was especially true for folks with out-of-state plates.

When I first drove to NC, I counted no less than 45 state troopers between Milford, PA, and Asheboro. They were everywhere. The Smokies from Maryland and West Virginia were unfamiliar to me, but they seemed to be the same creature in differently colored cars and uniforms. The dark blue of PA was replaced by the steely grey of North Carolina, but they were equally lean and intense lawmen. Once, I saw a trooper pull over six cars at the same time. He sped past me (my heart racing, body coated in sweat). As he went, he pointed at several drivers in both lanes. He then proceeded to get ahead of the group and lead them, like baby ducks to the shoulder. I got into the passing lane, heart racing (but not my speedometer), and went around the group and drove on. Had he pointed at me? I didn't really think so, but then what if he had?

It took me several hundred miles before I allowed myself the deep breathing relief of not seeing him in the mirrors, bearing down on me, lights and sirens, cold eyes glinting in my rearview. Uneventful as the situation wound up being for me, it nevertheless cemented in my mind the legend of the imperious state trooper. Forever after, whenever our travels brought us onto their highways, I kept a weather eye out for them. I like to think that I have never had a speeding ticket while driving because of my healthy regard for the Smokies and their work to keep the interstates safe and free from idiots.

They were everywhere back then. Uncle Dan had his own CB radio mounted in his truck, and when on a long trip, he used it to keep ahead of the situation nearby. One of the funniest idioms of CB jargon I ever heard was “Bears with flares”, which meant Smokies at an accident, lit by road flares. You don't see road flares much any longer, but now, sadly, you rarely see the Smokies, either.

In the last few years, we haven't really traveled far. We drive to see the kids in Western NC or make our way to Winston, Greensboro, or Raleigh occasionally, but we generally haven't been out of the state. Each time we venture onto the big roads, I have noticed the apparent lack of Smokies. On a stretch of 74 between home and Winston, there is nothing at all by way of state law enforcement ever. The same goes for much of the stretching lanes between here and the beach or the mountains. Where once I might have counted three or four Smokies tucked into shady laybys or sniping speeders with LIDAR from an overpass, now they are all gone. 

I know that they aren't gone from the earth, of course. I see them in town and around the occasional accident, but there seem to be far fewer on the roads. I'm not the only one who's noticed. The passing lane has suddenly filled with Truck Bros driving ten or fifteen mph faster than the posted speed limit. At first, I was shocked, but I decided that the swift flashing vengeance of such infractions would come racing up from behind, and demonstrate once and for all that the Smokies still reign supreme. It never happened; it never happens.

I used to wonder if maybe it was just an anomaly. Perhaps they were busy elsewhere, helping drug interdiction teams that required extra backup near the state border or chasing down snakehead smugglers. They would be back in force soon, I used to say, as the trucks flew by us on the left well past the posted speed limit. 

They never showed. Day, night, early morning, twilight, schmucks in the midst of a hefty midlife crisis in souped-up, and jacked up pickup trucks (with weirdly tiny or super knobbly tires) fly past at 90, while I dutifully keep the cruise set at 68 in a sixty-five, seventy-two in a seventy. On the few occasions that I have to swing left to pass someone who is even more conservative with the throttle, I always scan the horizon in the mirrors, expecting with obvious paranoia, to see the blue lights behind me for exceeding the speed limit. It never happens.

They're not there. Through six states, between here and Louisiana, including NC, I counted one trooper going down and two coming back. Three in three days of traveling across six states. They're badly needed back and in force. Things are perilous on the road.

During our trip, we noticed that each state has its own interstate personality. NC is pretty straight-laced. People don't know how to use their turn indicating signals or keep off their phones, but they are still pretty courteous. They are the most familiar to me, so the idiosyncrasies are known and largely expected. 

South Carolina, by contrast, is a nest of vipers. Most of Interstate 85 through the upstate is three lanes north and south. Regardless of the speed limit, the traffic, the weather, the time of day, all SC drivers sling between all three lanes, zooming around, cutting people off, passing on the right, crossing several lanes at once. It is chaos at 70. Fortunately, the speed limit is either 60 or 65 most of the way, though no one acknowledges it. South Carolina is the highway equivalent of a spoiled three-year-old hopped up on birthday cake and ice cream. 

Georgia's highways are complicated by the muddy water of Atlanta, so imagine South Carolina multiplied by twelve lanes. I won't mention Alabama, except to say rather than feral kids, it's more like the kids at the alternative school; the ones with switchblades and hand-done Bic pen prison tattoos and Confederate flag shirts and specific red hats and no empathy. Alabama is a highway dystopia, and I kept looking for Mad Max rather than any law enforcement. Mississippi, unlike everywhere else, seems to be the best place to drive. The people are beyond courteous, don't get on your butt, use their signals, don't have their phones out, wave, let you in front of them in traffic, and even obey the speed limit (generally). They may be second-last in terms of education, but they're number one in my book for driver courtesy. Going into Louisiana was a big disappointment because of the immediate decline in road etiquette. 

No matter where we were, though, people disregarded the speed limit, drove like they were on the Autobahn, and, despite their own random errands (even in MS), acted as if there were no law on the books for speed and no one to enforce it if there was. 

The national attitude toward speeding has changed; I’ve been unaware of anything official, but it is now an 80 mph pandemic. Everyone in the passing lane is going faster, but now it is by whole orders of magnitude. The western states have higher speed limits, and I’m familiar with driving 80, 85, or 90 mph, safely and within the law. Out there, you can, because with few exceptions, the roads don’t deviate too much from their direct path. Also, it’s worth pointing out, you’d never get anywhere just crawling around at 65. If you go any faster than the posted limit, though, you're going to get nabbed, plain and simple. The western Smokies don't play. But the point, to me, is that if the speeds are getting higher in the South, then there needs to be even more enforcement of the rules, to keep us all safe, just like in Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, and Oregon.

A state trooper doesn’t have to pull someone for speeding if they're being relatively safe, if that’s become passe. Things change, priorities shift, funding gets pulled. They could still pull someone for weaving across lanes, being reckless, or just being offensively pushy about moving people out of their lanes, especially if they’re traveling closer to the posted speed. Ominous as they are in the social psyche, troopers provide a needed and potent reminder that there are still rules of the road that must be followed. Just by nailing a Truck Bro, the Smokey reminds all of us that the awful majesty of the law exists to keep us safe. If they can thin the herd of douchebags going 90 in a 65, all the better. If they could keep an eye out for the yokels in their squatted trucks and Confederate flags flapping in the bed, super. It's not my job to tell them how to do their jobs, but it would be nice to know that the eyes of the Smokies are upon all of us, again, for two good reasons. 

Here’s why: those knothead Truck Bros need someone to keep them in check. They seem to have zero accountability, and so someone has to hold them to account. Furthermore, those of us rule followers and speed limit obeyers really need to see the speeders and reckless lane changers held to the higher standard that only Smokies can embody. It does us some good to see dolts and rubes get their comeuppance. It restores in the rest of us a sense that they don’t have free rein to comport themselves on the highways as they do in their lives, and it means that order and the law still have some meaning, despite much evidence to the contrary.

Groundskeeper No Longer

Relenting Grass Control

All the men who raised me were, among much else, good lawn men. They took mowing seriously and did their bits of lawn with pride. It was an art that was handed down to me. I have always liked to mow, even when I haven't been very consistent or bothered by the need to do it. I guess I assumed that, like all of them, I would give over my mowing and yard duties when old age settled on me. Then, last year—far sooner than I anticipated—I finally decided to stop tending our lawn myself. 

It was not an easy decision. When Micki first suggested it, I rebelled at it with more than my usual intensity. In fact, one might say I bucked. She pointed out that I have legitimate health concerns. Serious enough to warrant real caution, especially because of how much hotter it seems to get each summer. Eventually, I relented, feeling like a failure. It was a compromise, because what I agreed to do was hire someone to take care of the grounds only during the hot parts of the year. From late September to April, I would retain full control of our grounds.

The Ticker and the Heat

What kind of health issue do I have that makes cutting the grass dangerous? I have a genetic condition called a bicuspid aortic valve. Where most people have three little flaps on all their valves, on the aortic valve, I have just two. I'm fine. I get checked regularly, and I take good care of myself. I run five kilometers (3.10 miles) three times a week, eat healthy (ish), and stay hydrated. If aware of it and cautious, a bicuspid valve is a mild concern. The key is that one has to take care of it and oneself. Eventually, they will insert a pig or cadaver valve and unfurl it over the old one, and I’ll be good as new, assuming I don’t get endocarditis sometime between now and later. In the meantime, though, one of the biggest areas for caution is becoming overheated. When hot, the heart works harder, which puts greater strain on it. Since I’ve got a wonky valve, this can cause arrhythmia, a rupture of the aorta by the heart, or heart failure. The threat is higher the older one gets, but why take chances?

Obviously, excessive heat is dangerous for everyone. It can cause heat stroke, which can cause damage to the thermoregulation system that we all have. The damage can be long-lasting or permanent. People who have had the early symptoms are far more sensitive to heat and more susceptible to heat stroke after that. Several times over the years, after stupidly mowing the grass on excessively hot and humid days, I came away from my chores feeling completely wretched. I was dry, not sweaty, my heart hammering in my chest, feeling faint, wobbly, and with ringing in my ears. I eventually cooled down and never lost consciousness, but when I told my doctor, she effectively put the kibosh on heat exposure for me. She said that I had obviously suffered heatstroke and that I would probably be far more susceptible from then on.

When I asked my cardiologist (seeking confirmation, not a second opinion) about yardwork in the summertime, I got the same answer: hire someone. It's safer. That was in 2024. I stubbornly battled through the rest of that summer, and as usual, tried to keep mowing to the cooler parts of the day, or on the rare cooler days. But, because colder days in the deeps of summer are rare, I was also going longer between mowing, breaking up my front and side yard into two separate days when I mowed, and finding that after I was through, I had no energy left at all to do the other necessary things for a day or two. As usual, I rejoiced at the plummeting temps that fall, which made lawn care that much more tolerable. 

It was that fall (of ‘24) that my backpack leaf blower died, and I started using my mower to vac up the leaves. It gave me a sense of stamina to “mow the leaves” in the cooler temps, and gave me the time outside that I love. As late summer burned through to winter, I started to think that maybe I had just been a wuss that summer, that I was really fine. Then, as it always does, winter gives way to summer. As the temps rose, I started feeling awful again by the time I completed my groundskeeping chores.

Surrendering to Win

Last summer was really bad. It was the hottest year on record thus far, and tropically sticky as well. The heat and humidity was such that air quality levels were often plain appalling, which aggravated my asthma, even with controlling meds. The grass in our yard got downright jungly. I swear I saw a jaguar lurking under our ancient magnolia. I kept pushing off going out to do the grass until it was nearly impossible to see the road from our front door. I’m sure my neighbors were preparing to call the City on me. I knew it was bad. I had some trouble swallowing my pride.

Finally, Micki prevailed upon me with her steady, logical, and loving persistence. I acknowledged that I couldn’t take the heat, but that the grass still needed to be mowed. The compromise was to find someone I could trust to do the work during the hottest parts of the year. Sometimes you have to surrender to win, no matter how antithetical it may seem. Luckily, I knew just the right man for the job. So, I went up the street and talked to my neighbor.

The Yard Man Cometh

For years, as I have written before, I walked to work in all seasons and in all weather. I got to know the section of Worth Street between our house and the library exceedingly well, and many of the houses, and people, too. About halfway up lives a lovely couple who regularly sit on their porch in the morning. I used to chat with them often. They are seriously nice folks. Mark has a small yard care business and takes care of several people we know around the neighborhood. Last autumn, I broached the subject with him, and he agreed to take up the idea again, come spring.

Even just talking to him about it, I admit, helped me feel somewhat better. I was suddenly off the hook. The yard would continue to be taken care of now by someone who had the skill and tools to do it right during the summertime. Underneath that wash of relief, however, flowed a deeply carved river of guilt and shame.

The Boy Who Mowed

When I was twelve, I was deemed old enough to be charged with mowing the grass at the Schaefferstown house. There were nearly three acres of rolling lawn, and it was my chore to get it and keep it mowed. Summertime in PA, though hot, is never (or rarely) as humid as here at home. I didn’t mind the heat back then, anyway. I drove our Kubota riding mower all over the property, listening to my Walkman and singing along. I enjoyed the process. No one bothered me: just a boy, his mower, and some good tunes.

I was a bit older when I moved in with Pop Bare, but I mowed his grass, too, for a while. It was a push mower rather than a riding one, but it was no less enjoyable. I also did work for my grandmothers, occasionally, for friends and neighbors, and eventually, got a job mowing at an old folks home near my childhood church.

Today, we have a big front lawn; bigger than the whole yard at the previous house. The side yard, which we immediately took to calling The North Yard (or, Nawth Yahhd, no offense to real New Englandahs), is itself just shy of an acre, and there was more grass to mow in our back and side yards, too.

I took it seriously. I worked hard cutting the grass and getting the yard how I wanted it. The example of those men I mentioned before was that the grass always needs to be mowed, and a neat yard is an important symbol of my responsibility to my family and to the other people in our community. 

I got to know our yard intimately, the way I know the contours of my own mind. I planted flowers and trees, trimmed and pruned, mowed the grass, did the edging, pulled up invasive volunteers, made wood piles for our fire table, planted cactus, and raked out the flower beds dozens of times. I took real pride in crossing the grass on the way to work. I listened to huge numbers of audiobooks while mowing. I loved being outside. It was glorious, if sweaty and dusty work. For my forty-fifth birthday, Micki and the kids even bought me a brand new mower, one of my prized possessions.

I express my ownership and accountability to my family through the tangible works of maintenance on our property. It is hard, dirty, hot work to get the place looking decent, and as I've written before, it's a losing battle because the green and growing things never stop their slow, plodding war of attrition. To stand against that verdant tide is part of what has given me a sense of purpose as a homeowner.

No Mow

It’s hard to hand all that over to someone. How to convey sixteen years of careful, dedicated lawncare to someone in just a few minutes? How can they possibly know that, as I made each pass, refilled the tank, sharpened the blades, changed trimmer line, hand cut and pruned, every part of our property is as much a part of me as the hair on my head? I’ve walked over every single centimeter of the ground countless times. I’ve dripped my precious perspiration into that soil. I’ve watched the landscape shift and change. I’ve seen trees grow and fall, and others sprout and rise from skinny saplings. It’s not perfect. Not even close to it, but it is mine, and I have to give over the control, now, far too young and far too soon.

It makes me sad. Despite the relief and the intense realization that I have legitimate reasons to hand things over, I still feel like I’m a failure. It’s a silly and very outmoded way of thinking, but groundskeeping is what the men in my family have done since before gas mowers were invented. Unlike those hale and hearty fellows, in their grass-stained dungarees and grimy shirts, sweating in the late-afternoon rays of the sun each weekend, I’m handing the reins of the job to someone else.

A+ Mark

Mark, my neighbor with the lawn business, is a tough guy. He's brown as a nut and tough as old roots, and the heat doesn't bug him at all. When I tried to explain to him how bad I felt handing over the responsibility, he said, “It’s all good, man.” After a brief walk through of the yard, to explain where roots were and holes and other idiosyncrasies of our property, I passed the gas can to him. To my enduring gratitude, his first pass was neat, fast, and careful. The yard, when he is finished, looks far better than when the corporate guys finish my other neighbor's yard. They rush to get done, trying to make up time, heedless of what plants they kill or noise they create, or the mess of grass and dust they make.

Mark actually cares, and he understands that I do too. Just because I have given over the harder, hotter work, I will still oversee the grounds and do a lot of the more intricate stuff in the background, either early, before it gets too hot, or late, when the sun is down. More than anything, he's so reasonable that I almost feel as though I'm getting the deal of a lifetime. If he ever retires, I'll have been so spoiled that whoever we get to take over will have big, grass-stained shoes to fill.

An Administration Position

In the meantime, we have big plans for the backyard, and for more raised beds and a new location for a permanent fire pit and other exciting things we want to accomplish over the next year. I can do small projects, here and there, and stay out of the hot sun and work slowly. I will oversee the summer work and take care of the leaves in the fall and winter, when I’m not in any thermal danger. Anyway, I still have creative control over the entire property.

Come to think of it, maybe I've not retired as groundskeeper, but rather promoted myself to an administrative position. I like the sound of that, almost as much as I like the sound of someone else mowing our yard on really hot days.

May Potpourri

More Essays?

Every April and October for the last few years, I’ve been taking advantage of a self-built break to write several short fiction stories. When it is time to switch to fiction, I struggle to get the brain thinking in those terms, but by the end of the month, I'm generating story drafts for the next break. Then, I have a difficult time switching back to essays.

You’re not off the hook. I do intend to write more essays. However, this summer I want to try a few “multiple-part” pieces. Slightly longer form essays broken up over a few weeks. It will give me a chance to be more granular and detailed, and help me think in broader terms. I’ve been reading a lot of longer-form essays, and I’ve yet to get to a point where I feel like I need it to be done. I’m hoping to do the same, but over a few weeks, to keep things from getting too intense.

Speaking of which:

Moral Formation

I recently listened to a podcast featuring David Brooks, late of the New York Times, now writing for The Atlantic and still doing political analysis for PBS News Hour every Friday. Brooks takes the Christian conservative position in much of what he writes and says, but on this particular pod, he said some things that I think are worthy of discussing.

He asked whether a decline in religious participation in our nation has led to a lack of moral formation, such that citizens have lost any sense of character, moral values, or a shared code with future generations. This may be a longer-form essay in several parts, because there is much to say and many points worth considering. I would suggest (if you haven’t) taking a stroll through some of Brooks’ work, just to get acquainted. I seldom agreed with him until he became a voice of reason in an otherwise mad, mad, mad, mad world.

Memoir Therapy

Hacking into the deep memories of my youth, pulling them out, untangling, and then trying to give them context and linearity has been very therapeutic for me. 

In the previous batch of essays, the one entitled “The House, Crooked to the Eye,” turned out to be one of the most important things I have ever written, if not for your edification or entertainment as readers, then for facing a part of my life and having a gunslinger duel (of sorts) with the thoughts, anxieties, memories, emotions, both excavated and not, that I retain from those days. I’d like very much to do some more. The problem is, I’m not thrilled about displaying all the dirty laundry, so I’m hoping to do something like a character study for some family members who have already passed. It might help me to more fully remember them, and I hope that it is entertaining or at least engaging to read about people who are deeply important to me.

That story, by the way, caught the roots of some deeper wounds that came up from the excavation that needed to be remembered and dealt with. Oddly, but perhaps not surprisingly, I feel way better about that part of my life now. Hopefully, I’ll have a similar experience with further such work.

What We Are Watching/Reading/Listening to

When I was a kid, my brother, Rich, influenced my own music tastes, and what he listened to, I did too. There was a song by a contemporary Christian band (called Petra) that we liked called “Garbage In/Garbage Out.” This was one of those very popular (at the time) warnings about what you put into your head being what you become. A warning on par with “you are what you eat”. 

I’ve always been a big media consumer. I love shows, movies, music, (certain) podcasts, and books, and I enjoy the feeling of benefitting from expanding my mind from most of it. Lately, I’ve had the benefit of being able to access some really good content (and some not so great) that I really want to write about. Briefly, I would like to explore my feelings about the HBO Max show, The Pitt; A Great Courses audio experience about the New Testament by Bart Ehrman; Raymond Chandler’s novel, “The Long Goodbye”; and a series of podcasts that I have found to be edifying and thoughtful for learning about the world in a very carefully curated way.

I never bought into the Garbage In/Garbage Out ideology, always being somewhat of an omnivore in media consumption, but I can certainly see how it might be true about social media, which may make me a hypocrite.

As Usual

So, I will be writing about other aspects of my/our lives, with odd book reviews, longer form stuff, stories about people and experiences and much else in the coming months, until October, but as always, I’m grateful for all of you in my small (but awesome) list of readers, who continue to give me and my work the eye and hopefully the mind. I appreciate every bit of time you spend reading and sharing your thoughts. 

See you, as my friend Rich Powell says, in the Funny Papers.

Five April Fiction Selections

It's that time again. I have been composing

and working for several months to bring you five new short fiction selections, which I will post on the blog Shadows Lengthen each Thursday in April. Then like always, I'll share the link with you.

The stories range through variations of experiences. Some are familiar, some start familiar, maybe you even know what I'm describing firsthand. Then there's a story about a reclusive author and his final chance to end a curse. Perhaps my own favorite from this series, the End Times, is not going as promised for the people who looked forward to it the most.

Most of my ideas for stories happen spontaneously. The germ pops into my head and I get to writing it down, which is how I tell the story to myself. The ideas themselves can come from dreams or the weird realm between sleeping and waking. Other stories are generated by “what if ...?” scenarios, where I take something that feels reasonable and familiar, if unsettling, and take it to the farthest possible level of terror. As always, these are things that would, if they were real, scare the hell out of me. I find some comfort in composing them, as if the act is an apotropaic that will prevent them. If you name the scary thing, you will avoid it or take its power.

I have noticed that spooky stories, especially for kids and teens, are flying off the shelves, recently. With the world in upheaval and many actually terrifying things happening regularly, a little scary in moderation can provide a sense of control and even hope to those who need it. 

When things get hairy in real life, I turn to the masters of horror, like Poe, King, Lovecraft, Machen, Hawthorne, Jackson, Matheson, and, most recently, Stephen Graham Jones, mainly because I think they give scope and perspective to the events happening in real life. Things could, I suppose, always get worse.

Horror stories are sometimes about the inevitable. Many, people face terrible events and have to make profound decisions under duress. The supernatural or mystical or spiritual horrors they face are much more palatable because they can only happen in literature. My own stories, I hope, show that the most regular things—the ones we take for granted, or expect, or that we see as part of our stories—are the ones that provide the weakest point in our psychic armor. Our pets, gardens or plants, coworkers, the pests that dwell around us, and the people we think we can trust all speak of a deep and preternatural tendency to fear what we know best, rather than what we cannot see or understand.

Of course, if these tales are not your preference, by all means hang on until May and my regular nonfiction fare will return. In the meantime, as always, comb back through previous essays and find one you haven't read, and give it a perusal. 

In no particular order, the stories are:

Banana Tree Boulevard 

Newly-married Ellie wanders into a grove of banana trees on her new property and discovers a reality that puts her into a world that feels familiar, but is the farthest place from home.

Flies

Samuel finds himself surrounded by the oldest of all natural horrors. Like Pharaoh at the beginning of the fourth plague, he will face the filthy, fearful lepidoptera in all its earthy, disgusting majesty.

End Times Tango

The Beacons seem like a typically exuberant Evangelical family in a typical American neighborhood. But when the world ends, the Beacons find themselves on the wrong side of the tribulation with only their long-suffering and ambivalent neighbors for help.

Blood and Pages

A college student is sent to a very popular but reclusive local author for help with a Beowulf presentation paper. What he finds is a literal ancient curse and a literary fight for his life.

Alone

There is a troubling thing happening at Terry Boland's job. He very much feels as though everyone—friends, trusted colleagues, people he's known for over a decade—is changing fundamentally. Caught between suspicion and the fear of certainty, Terry only has one tough choice, but does he have the power to turn his back on his work family?

Invasive Species

In June of last year, a large branch broke off one of the Bradford pear trees in the library parking lot. It damaged a fence, but it didn’t harm anyone or any vehicles. This was the second large branch that broke off the same tree, the first time a few years ago. I spoke to the leadership and asked them to persuade the city maintenance crews to trim the trees way back, especially the heavy, easily cracking branches, before they snap and smoosh a human or someone’s car. They’ve yet to do anything. The only good that has come of those trees is that a neighbor down the street from the library snuck by, just after the branches were cut and made beautiful wooden bowls from the remaining detritus. We have them on display.

I used to have mixed feelings about the Bradford pear tree. They’re pretty ubiquitous and never more obvious than around this time of year when their snow-white blossoms explode, almost always the first flowering tree to do so. They aren’t bad to look at and provide a nice beginning to the season. A few days later, the world is full of white parade confetti as the petals are pulled off the trees by March winds or spring storms, making it look like a snowstorm. Eventually, the blossoms discolor and fill the gutters with dark brown dots that eventually wash away or disintegrate. During this part of the tree’s seasonal flowering, the air is filled with the sharp ammoniac smell of a dirty catbox.

 We have only one Bradford on our property. The other pear tree is a Cleveland. I got both from an Arbor Day mailing pouch and put them in the ground in our North Yard before I really knew what they were. They have grown fast, but I’ve worked to keep them pruned close, which they seem to love, but which makes them less likely to get huge and then drop heavy limbs all over my metal fence. 

Now, you may be fond of these pear trees. They have pretty green leaves that pop out fast in spring and add to the sense that summer is coming. They also shed their leaves late in the year, after turning a burning purple. Despite these observable traits, there are underlying evils that most people aren’t aware of. Bradfords and Clevelands are highly invasive species. But what does that mean?

An invasive species, once brought into an ecosystem, takes over and displaces other native species by outperforming and outcompeting them. They do this by operating faster than the established order. For instance, my two pear trees produce fruit beloved by local birds. The birds eat the fruit and spread the seeds, which land in fertile soil and grow into more trees. Because the trees aren’t fussy about the kind of soil they grow in, they can rapidly take over anywhere there is space. Cross-pollination between trees creates more trees that grow faster than native trees can, so even ground that might be suitable for a maple or oak will soon enough be taken over by a pear tree. Despite this rapid growth and spread, though, pear trees have incredibly dense yet soft wood. They split easily, and they lose branches, just like the ones at the library. This is one reason why, most years, I heavily prune them.

Pears are so nefarious that some states, including my former home state, PA, have banned them. At one time, they were used as a pretty landscaping feature. Now, people understand just how dangerous they can be and how much they disrupt the other plants nearby. Had I known when I planted ours, I wouldn’t have taken up a spade to let them live and grow. It won’t be too long, and I may have to consider taking ours down. Both because of the weather and frenetic weekend schedules, I didn’t get ours pruned this year, so I will have to be extra careful to make sure that I don’t miss again to keep them growing in the trunk and not in the branches.

Most of the time, I operate under the comfortable illusion that trees are trees. The more the merrier. Trees, generally, add oxygen to the atmosphere, act as carbon sinks, and provide needed places for birds and other fauna to live. They’re also quite pretty throughout the year. The problems arise when some trees upset the order of things and hurt the trees that are more beneficial to us.

Such things are deeply complex, but it is worth considering some of the ways that an invasive tree can turn the natural order on its head. Generally speaking, there are about 1,500 species of non-native trees or plants in the US. Many of them love the warm, moist air of the South. Some came here by accident or were planted without understanding the dangers (one might cite kudzu here), while others were carried here by fauna and dropped into the soil where they quickly replicated.

By my best guess, we have fifty in our yard. There is the Chinese yam vine, which grows edible tubers, but loves to grow on other native trees. Chinese clematis, which has gorgeous upside-down cones of purple flowers that bees and other pollinators love, but that coat native trees with vines that root into the bark and also kill the canopy. The vines will also trundle through the grass and eventually get caught in your mower blades. I speak from experience. There are at least two kinds of privet. One has large, glossy evergreen leaves, and the other is called olive privet. Olive privet branches are strong and hard to break, and make really good walking sticks, but also like to grow in and around the roots of native trees. 

English ivy, which sounds about as friendly as you can get, is highly invasive. Spread by birds that eat the berries, it can kill trees by covering the bark and destroying the cambium, outcompeting them for carbon and sunlight. It also digs into the crevices in your house’s brick facade, turning the pointing to powder and, if left untouched, lethal to the soundness of your home. I work all year, every year, just trying to keep this to the natural areas. It is so hard to eradicate that most years I weep with exhaustion, just to have kept it from choking the trees we want to keep. 

Then there is the grass. Grass is not native anywhere except in the plains states, but some natural wild grasses can and do grow. They have almost all been outcompeted by other forms of invasive grass that, although pretty to look at, are devastating for the local ecosystems. Johnsongrass, one of the most common, is devastatingly hard to get rid of. Our former neighbor planted grass just next door, and it has slowly been taking over for the whole time we’ve lived here. It’s funny to think that I spend so much time just working to keep invasive species from destroying our property, but all around our neighborhood, county, and state are examples of battles that have been lost, especially in non-residential sectors, where invasive plants can grow without intervention.

In PA, my brother and his neighbors are being encouraged to stomp and kill the spotted lanternfly, an invasive species that is lethal to trees and other agricultural pursuits. Penn State University suggested that the spotted lanternfly, which was accidentally introduced from China, is responsible for $99 million in agricultural damages since 2019. And because the eggs can last for years, and be just about anywhere, my home county has had to put out some very strict rules to prevent more introduction and damage to PA’s beautiful forests and fields. The “stomp them when you see them” ad campaigns are a little jarring, too.

For me, the one really annoying invasive species around home is the stink bug. Also originally from PA (where it was introduced from China) it has made its way down the eastern seaboard and is now to be found in your home and mine, always somehow looking to get out and if you try to help it, it will fill the area with a sour sulfur blast that will make your eyes water and the dog look at you accusingly. There’s nothing to do about either bug in terms of eradication using insecticides or other mass destruction means, mainly because those options would also nuke native species. 

I don’t suppose we could figure out a way to engineer the lanternfly or the stink bug to attack only dangerous pear trees. I could easily cut down ours, once they are ransacked, and plant pretty pink dogwoods in their place. Of the five dogwoods we had when we moved here fifteen years ago, there are only two left. The attackers aren’t invasive, but no less dangerous. Anthracnose, a fungus that infiltrates wounded or badly pruned trees, takes only a couple of years to fully destroy a tree. The dogwood borer, a moth that also attacks the tree and bores into and under the bark, can easily kill a dogwood in just a few years. Assuming that all dogwoods are extremely susceptible, it looks like our trees and all dogwoods will be going the way of the American chestnut, black and white ash tree, and the Eastern Hemlock. That’s not good for anybody.

So, yes, I happen to be a hypocrite, having a distaste for invasive pears, while having planted two variants on my property. Live and learn. I just hope that whatever damage I may have inadvertently done to my property as a result can be fixed by planting other trees in other places and encouraging native species to have as much room to grow as possible. The battle may be essentially unseen, but it is one that does matter.

So the next time you’re walking around your neighborhood and are tempted to gasp at the pretty white blossoms in yours or your neighbor’s yard, remember that what you’re actually seeing is something that is slowly shifting the local ecosystem away from health and stability and rapidly toward a dangerous precedent that may be helping to kill other native trees. And if you happen to be passing my trees, will you turn a blind eye, for now, please?

The Night of the City Workers

Author's Note: Since 2017, I have recalled the following story almost weekly, as one of the people involved in it has figured prominently in events thereafter. It also forms the basis for one of my guiding principles: everybody out there, regardless of their beliefs or ours, is someone who can make a huge difference in your life, and we ought to remember that and act accordingly.

It was a week before Christmas. We were rushing about, anticipating visits to and from family, trying to get the house ready, trying to get all the presents. Micki once coined the term “hectivity” in her weekly syndicated column and it works perfectly to describe things in that moment. As usual for that time of year, we didn't need any more anxiety or stress. It was then that all of our toilets and showers started backing up at the same time. 

This was the early 2000s. The boys were quite young. I was still pretty new as a homeowner. There were some things I could do, but we had been quite lucky up to that moment. Unfortunately, we didn't have a regular trusted plumber, yet. I called one of my lifelines, either my brother or Pop Bare or Pop Schramm (Micki’s father) for help. I tried everything they suggested. Nothing worked.

Our former house was built in the late 1980s and we had a convenient cleanout, so I went to Lowe's and bought a rubber pressure set. The cucumber-shaped black rubber nozzle fits on the end of a regular garden hose. When water flowed into it, it expanded against the inside of the pipe, and a jet of high-pressure water sprayed out of the tip. This, ideally, would clear any blockages, but it just filled the drain line with more water. When I cut off the spigot, Micki ran out to tell me that all the inside drains were making unholy noises and strongly encouraged me to call a plumber.

In a panic, now and heart sinking, I called a random plumber from the phone book. I will not put his name into the record for posterity here, save to reflect on the words of our current beloved and deeply trusted plumber, when I told him this story: “He's something else.” This is Southern understatement that can be roughly translated as “You ought to have called literally anyone else.” How could I have known? 

That guy determined that he couldn't manage the blockage himself. He offered to have a friend with a backhoe come out and start digging up the lawn. Otherwise, he said to either call Rotorooter or the city. This was before smartphones, so I again called my lifeline for help deciding. Pop Schramm said Rotorooter would be exorbitant and they might not be able to fully fix the problem, which he gently hinted might need to be dug up to be fixed properly. 

In the space between our house and our neighbors on the right (looking from the porch to the cul-de-sac) was a sewer cleanout. This manhole- lidded cement throat caught water from every house in our section of the development and drained deep to an easement behind our neighborhood. Now desperate and fueled with Incredible Hulk-like strength, I went to my toolbox and got a crowbar and with some time and determination, pried the lid off and peered in.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Grey water, human waste, the strange, salty smell of rusty metal and damp cement. Even though it was December and cool, large reddish cockroaches, sometimes called palmetto bugs, or smokey browns, skittered in the shadows. I think somewhere in my psyche a connection was made with a particular book I first read in high school. I half expected to see a red balloon float up and hear maniacal clown laughter.

There were rebar ladder rungs leading into the depths. I was briefly tempted to crawl down there to see what was blocking our lines, but had a pang of claustrophobic panic at the thought that some curious neighbor might see the lid askew and helpfully put it back. I would be trapped down there forever, flashlight battery fading, screaming unheard, and coated with too many six-legged friends. The panic rose. My chest hurt, and the world spun. I felt helpless.

Things were spiraling out of control and growing well beyond my meager ability to handle the stress of the situation. Pop Bare, my brother, and Pop Schramm all had the skill, mechanical inclination, and well-worn experience to face such nightmares calmly. Like seasoned gunslingers, they had all faced similar situations and managed them. 

I was drowning.

At the worst moments of our lives, there is a calm voice that cuts through the frenetic chaos in our heads. Sometimes it is a strong memory. In my case it was Micki. She calmly reminded me that her dad said to call the city. “It’s after-hours,” I replied, still panicking. “Call 911. This constitutes an emergency,” she said. So I called.

I told the dispatcher what was happening and they put me through to the foreman of an on-call crew. They said they would be out within the hour. As promised, their trucks rolled up into the cul-de-sac before an hour had passed Out stepped a posse of sturdy guys, hard hats, and bright vests, calm as the United States Marines.

Like all such workers, they were unperturbed. Nothing I said could rattle them. Guys like this have seen every kind of possible plumbing horror and they have faced it with unshakable calm. These men were like chilled steel as I explained to them what the problem was. They nodded, knowingly, and set to work. One of them, a bear-like fellow, with a growling, rumbling voice and a kind face gently reassured me.

I'm sure I was in a state. The memory is strong. This was one of those moments where I came face-to-face with my own inability to do anything to solve the problem. I was probably vibrating with anxiety. He told me to go sit on the porch and I nodded and stood on the driveway, unable to calm down, let alone sit.

I watched and listened. After a long time standing in the chill air, I went into the house to get a jacket. When I came back a couple of the guys, including the man with the deep voice, had come up to the porch with a 5-gallon bucket. In it was a massive clump of something that looked like wet and curling hair. I thought maybe someone flushed a big Cher-style Halloween wig or something. “Roots” the burly guy rumbled. He then explained what had been happening in our drain line.

When the contractors built that house back in the late 1980s, they ran a drain line from it to the sewer, where I had removed the manhole cover. In the intervening twenty-odd years, the ground had settled and the drain line was disconnected about halfway up. It was only a half inch off, but it was enough for nearby trees to send hair-thin root tendrils into the gap. Come to think of it, I thought, the trees had always been healthy in our yard.

The other plumber had been right. It would require a dig to fix. The city workers took out their camera and ran it up to the roots and then turned on a heavy-duty auger-thing that severed the mass of roots and cleared the blockage, even though the disconnection was well up on our property and definitely “our problem”. 

The burly guy said that it was close enough that they had no problem helping out and wished the family and me a Merry Christmas. Soon enough, the cul-de-sac was empty.

Here's where the story gets good.

In 2017, lost and looking for help, I joined an AA meeting downtown. The guy who welcomed me was the same burly man with a deep, booming voice who helped a stressed-out young man all those years before. Now, he helped me again, by welcoming me, guiding me, reassuring me without judgment, and with seemingly endless patience through the Program. 

It’s funny how things turn out.

The moral, once I was able to grasp it, seemed simple: there are a lot of good people out there who do help and genuinely care. Those city workers took pity on a young homeowner and went above and beyond to help because they could. Yes, it was Christmas, but I have a sense that they would have done it at any time of the year. 

The part of all this that hits me, though, is that you never know when you're looking at the face of someone who will one day be a friend who helps in a far more significant way. Be nice. You might be talking to someone who will one day become a beloved friend with the wisdom and experience you need access to. 

That experience has resonated with me ever since. I was basically a kid with zero hope of getting away without spending thousands of bucks. We didn't have to repair a nasty, tangled problem that would rapidly ruin our house. An act of kindness and pushing the rules a bit was all it took to prevent (or postpone) a nightmare situation. And it introduced me to a friend who would do way more to help than I could ever repay.

Recliner Times

Recliners have been a modern American luxury for almost one hundred years. Edward Knabush and Edwin Shoemaker changed the face of domestic comfort and napping in 1928, which influenced the La-Z-Boy Company’s development of the modern concept. Based on reclining dentist chairs from the 1830s and the Morris chair from the Civil War era, Knabush and Shoemaker, now almost forgotten, created the prototype for the beloved definition of comfort. Little did they know that their innovative redesign of the chair would become the centerpiece of almost all living rooms in the modern world. You might be hard-pressed to go into any home on your street and not find at least one recliner. They have become ubiquitous.

When visiting other people's houses, I look to see if and what kind of recliner they have. Does it rock? Swivel? Recline to a point where one's legs are just slightly higher than one's head? Does it have hidden bins and receptacles for phone charging or a built-in mini-fridge? Does it offer vibration and massage options?

Most importantly, as a connoisseur of afternoon naps, will the chair cradle the sitter in such a way that a brief 30-minute nap won't cause a crick in the neck or back? These are important questions. Sometimes, if they are generous hosts, I will ask to take their recliner for a spin. I’ve always been amazed at the nearly infinite combinations available and the incredible luxurious comfort afforded by what is basically just a place to sit that rapidly converts into a place to lie.

We have two recliners, and they have seen better days. We inherited them from my in-laws, and they served both families remarkably well, considering how heavily they have been used. With three active young men, their friends, our friends, family, a menagerie of pets, many family holidays rammed into their floral print fabric, plus many more sick days, snow days, movie nights, and power-outage days, our recliners have given their best to our backs, legs, and posteriors. They have endured, but have taken on much wear and tear over the many years we’ve had them in the family. They have also accumulated visible signs of their age and use.

Dog fur, cat nails, drink spills, stains, and the eventual use-induced strain of the internal mechanisms are all evident now. They’ve gotten easier to sit in, but harder to get out of. This past Thanksgiving, our very pregnant niece said that although Micki’s chair was comfy, she had to have three menfolk help her to resume her upright position and exit the chair. Her unpregnant husband, a big fellow like myself, said he found that my chair slew him to one side when he popped out the footrest and stretched out. He said it was like sitting on the side of a hill. Our late geriatric pug had to stop sitting with Micki because her chair kept trying to eat the poor little chap. A few years ago, we took a page from Pop Bare’s handbook and bought covers for the chairs to protect what remains of their floral print fabric, but the chairs cause the covers to wrinkle, gather, twist, and get irremovably tucked into chair crevices, so that we are forever straightening and adjusting them.

We’ve talked about getting new ones over the years, but life is busy and full of other necessities. It can feel a little extravagant to think about purchasing new recliners when other parts of the house need urgent attention. Also, we both work at least forty-hour weeks; Micki way more than that, sometimes, and we often have equally filled-up weekends, which makes it hard to find time to do more than fantasize about all the things we’d like to do to get the house where we’d like it to be. 

⃤

I remember very well the first time I ever sat in and enjoyed the recliners. We were newly married, visiting the in-laws in South Carolina. Micki’s dad always had chores for us to work on. He liked to get up early to beat the heat. By lunchtime, we would be back indoors, in the cool. He would put professional golf on his massive TV, and we would sit in their matching recliners and promptly doze. More than once, Evan, when he was still quite small, would scootch up there with me and we’d both nap. Those are some of my best and favorite memories.

Life is full of changes, big and small. When we moved to our house, almost sixteen years ago, the recliners came from the SC home of my in-laws to stay with us. Micki’s mom came to stay with us, too. The chairs served the family again in this new capacity in a much bigger and fuller house. When Ma moved to assisted living, she got her own special recliner for her room, and Micki and I started using the den as our main entertainment and relaxing space, and we have been using them to rest, relax, watch movies, entertain, and celebrate holidays ever since. Ma always gets to sit in one when she visits, of course. We always try to be as generous with them as she and my father-in-law were when the recliners lived in their houses. 

As long as they didn’t fall apart, like the ill-fated Blues Brothers police car when we pulled the little knobby thing to flip the feet out, we kept using them. And we’ve tolerated a lot of deterioration over the years. Micki’s chair’s back frequently slides out of the metal support channels, and the locks designed to keep them in place no longer work. The gap between the back and the seat of my chair is so wide that I have had to stuff a towel in there to keep it from devouring me like the alien plant in Little Shop of Horrors.

We’ve spent enough time in these wonky old chairs that our bodies have become accustomed to the twisty, crooked positions we have to adopt to sit in them. A few weeks ago, while suffering the small agonies of a bad cold, I got so uncomfortable in my chair (in which I’d been sitting for hours uncounted), I actually moved to the couch, just to let my back straighten out. When Micki caught my cold, she opted to recover on our much more comfortable bed than spend hours being forced into positions even the Elephant Man couldn’t have managed for days on end. Right before that, when we were being threatened by whole inches of ice by the Sky Gods, she slept in her chair, and I slept on the couch, just to be in a different part of the house in case our big Leaning Oak toppled under the weight. The next day, she was stiff and sore as a result.

⃤

In the last year, we have slowly begun to get the house back up to a standard. It’s not that we live in a dilapidated nightmare house, but that we’re busy people and these things take time. As Pop Bare always says, “you can’t fix everything on day one.” The repairs we’ve made have helped us to feel more comfortable with the house and have also highlighted the areas we still need to manage. As I wrote the other week, we recently had the kids to our house for the weekend, and the freshly painted rooms made it that much more welcoming.

On one of those common adventures that Micki and I find ourselves on, we swung by an ice cream shop for a much-needed midday treat and spotted a sign for a furniture place. She mentioned how nice it would be to replace the old beds that we have in our spare bedrooms with new beds. We store-hopped and eventually found a place that had a frame, a mattress, and box springs that we liked. We discussed it and based on their prices, planned to buy two matching sets, so that when the kids come at Easter, their rooms will be that much more comfy. That’s when fate stepped up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Have a seat in that recliner, over there.”

It's a funny old world. I sat and began fiddling with the sliding compartments for cups, then gave the recline function a whirl. It was like sitting/lying on a cloud. The fabric was smooth, almost like suede. The cushioned seat didn't hurt my tailbone. The fluffy back felt like a dream. Given the time of day, I might have napped right there. I got up, and Micki gave it a sit while I checked out the ‘love seat’ version, which was just two recliners connected by a wide, comfy middle section, like it had been caught in mitosis. She got up, tried the love seat, and played with the bins. I sat back down in the recliner.

As I did, a tiny little girl went by with her mommy and meemaw and gestured a little paw in my direction and asked, “Tanta Bloss”? Admittedly, it had been a few weeks since I'd trimmed the chin fungus, but, sitting there, white (ish) beard and all, the little one inquiring if I was Jolly Old St. Nick I had a premonition.

Two little granddaughters standing by my comfy recliner, a Christmas tree in the background, and me pretending to be Santa. At the center of it all, this recliner in which my keester was plopped. I had no intention of suggesting we enter into a haggle with the salesperson, feeling that was a little too audacious for me.

So, we put our heads together and came out of the store with two new beds, a brace of recliners and a new love seat. Then we went to shop for sheets.

It was later, as we rested from our adventures in spending that I mentioned how our backs might ache in the new chairs, at least until we get used to sitting in non-jacked up chairs. Micki agreed and said how nice it would be to have that problem. Sometimes you just need new furniture. As loath as I usually am to spend money, I'm relieved. These new chairs will have so many memories on them and in them. As always, it is tough to say goodbye to the old stuff. That's just my nature. Still, we were ready for new recliners. And I'm looking forward to getting used to them. We both are.

Saturday Pier Fishing

Our plans were finalized near the end of January, just before the weather turned wintry. Ethan, Elliott, and I would drive to Wrightsville Beach, to the Johnnie Mercer concrete pier, and spend the day fishing in late February. I was honored and thrilled to be going. A whole day with any of our adult children is rare these days, and more than anything, I was excited to spend the time with 2/3 of them. We picked a date far enough out that I had plenty of time to experience the entire gamut of emotions ahead of the day.

It might not surprise my readers, but I’m an exemplary overthinker. With the month ahead of our planned outing also came plenty of time for me to ruminate on scenarios that stressed me out even though they hadn’t happened yet. I worried that I might do something stupid to draw the lads’ ire, like drop a rod into the drink or lose a prized lure, or injure myself with a filet knife and need to go to the hospital, thus ruining the day. Ethan’s wife and kids were staying for the weekend, which was bittersweet. Our grandbabies would be at our house, but I would be all the way (as they say in PA) “down the shore”, and so I would miss almost an entire day of MiMi and Pop-Pop time. Next, there was the problem of weather. I only own clothes suitable for the beach during clement weather, so I might be woefully unprepared for a wet, cold, and miserable several hours.

Finally, after weeks of snow, illness in the home, and wobbly work schedules, our last few weekends had been eaten up with guests, running errands, and just trying to catch up after the holidays. I felt a tiny twinge at yet another Saturday not getting outside chores done. As the day neared, though, all my fears passed, drowned out by how much I was looking forward to spending time with our guys.

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When I lived in Reading, I procured a Pennsylvania State fishing license, a rod, a reel, and tackle, and went fishing with a handful of friends at the reservoir. If I wasn't working or out with the same guys going to see bands, we were fishing. I never caught anything back then, but I loved the Zen-like quality to the pastime.

Somewhere in the transition from PA to NC, I lost track of my rod, my tackle, and fishing. We were raising kids, working full and part-time jobs, just trying to make ends meet. Any free time we had (and there wasn’t much) was spent trying to keep the house from coming down around our ears. I had no time to fish, let alone get the leaves raked or the grass mowed. To me, if we couldn’t all go fishing together, then I didn’t see the point.

Time goes so fast. Back then, I could barely get my head around being a husband and father, let alone the prospect of eking out time to fish. Ethan is now a husband and father in his own right. He still loves to fish when he can, but he always prioritizes his family, as he should. 

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Ethan brought some rods to a family beach trip a few years ago. The lads all took bait and dropped a line over the edge of the closest pier. They also did some surf fishing and seemed to like it, though they only caught a stingray. It was fun sitting near the surf, while Elliott, Ethan, and Evan fished into the night. There must be something enjoyable about standing out there early and late, because Ethan caught the bug, and little by little, he began to invest in the needful tools of the hobby.

Last summer, with the whole family, all three boys spent some more time surf fishing. Ethan, most of all, seemed to double down on his enjoyment. When Eth likes something, he doesn't do it by halves. His baby daughter also loved the beach, and Pop-Pop and Mimi spent a lot of time chasing the little one up and down the sand. I’ve rarely had that much fun on a vacation. As that week drew to a close, talk of maybe driving back down on a Saturday to do some fishing began.

As always happens after vacation week, reality sets in. Soon enough, summer is waning. In the meantime, another granddaughter snuck into the family, the holidays zoomed by, and then, we were in the depths of cold, dark winter. Almost six months after vacation ended, Ethan rang me up to finally plan our outing. 

Life is busy for all of us.

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Ethan asked Elliott to join him a few weeks before we were set to go as an experiment. Though he does do some fishing at the beach, Elliott is most assuredly not a fishing hobbyist. His pursuits (other than skateboarding when he was a teen and twenty-something) have been almost entirely of the indoor species. He has a retiring nature, which I thought I had, but he makes it look like an art. He’s always working on something: a programming project, recording music, reading prolifically, all while going to school and working full-time. If a day at the pier was a little daunting to me, Elliott likely had to move some things around and take some deep breaths to make time to go.

Nevertheless, they drove to the pier. The day was cold, rainy, and no one was catching anything. Elliott candidly expressed frustration with his brother for stubbornly refusing to give up and staying for hours and hours, when “we could have come home.” They were both cold and miserable, but Ethan stood firm, never doubting that he would eventually catch a fish. 

His philosophy is that the chances of catching a fish increase dramatically with a baited hook in the water. That doesn't necessarily influence whether or not a fish will bite that bait and get hooked, but as I told Elliott, you have to admire Ethan's determination. Pragmatic as ever, Elliott shrugged and said that he thought a few hours were more than enough to determine the outcome. He hung in there with Ethan, and I admired him for that.

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A few weeks later, it was time for the three of us to go. The week leading up to it turned out to be very rough for both Micki and me. We were exhausted as Friday drew closer. The prospect of waking at 4 on Saturday morning to drive three hours just to stand on a concrete pier, with lines in the water for hours, felt a little daunting. The trends of the week culminated in a frustrating and exhausting Friday well before the kids arrived. The house had to be cleaned up and rooms prepared, the pizzas I ordered for dinner were not ready on time, the upstairs sink was leaking all over, and somewhere in all the mayhem, I learned that Elliott had opted not to join us after all.

At 2 a.m., I woke and, brain swirling, had trouble falling back to sleep. Micki startled me awake at 4:10, wondering if I had forgotten to set an alarm. I hadn’t, but I got up, took a shower, thanking myself for getting my snacks and sandwiches ready the night before, and then we headed out.

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As we went slinging down the highway, Ethan and I talked of this and that, while our caffeine drinks slowly charged us. In the quiet moments, I resolved to enjoy the day come what may, without complaining about anything. I was along for the day. I chose to enjoy it and learn something, and do so with the express purpose of appreciating time with Ethan.

The weather, which had gradually warmed in Asheboro over the week, now slid back to more seasonal temperatures. Every weather app prophesied something different for Wrightsville, but when we arrived at the bait shop, the morning air seemed comfy, and I thought we might have a lovely day.

Ethan, always a charmer, was quick to make friends with the proprietor of the bait shop, who shared that his store would soon be a DOT excavation for an on-ramp or something. I never chat more than necessary; my battery for small talk is always at low ebb because of my job working with the public. Because of Ethan, we spent some time interacting with a neat guy with an interesting, if sad, story while we purchased our bait.

Then, mullets in hand (well, in the cooler), it was back to the car and off to the pier. At water's edge, the air felt cooler, damp. It was foggy—something I don’t remember ever seeing at a North Carolina beach. I wished that I'd brought a fleece for under my waterproof jacket. We lugged the bait and snack-stuffed cooler, net, and broken-down rods into the pier shop. I paid for a full day for two, while our stuff got rifled for glass bottles or contraband beer and liquor (which we didn’t have, of course). We got orange tags stapled to our jackets and then brought everything to a spot Ethan liked and set about putting baitfish on hooks and casting our lines. Ethan was patient, generous, and happy as he helped me with my rod. It was nice to see him so engaged.

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We Bares are resilient. My public may assume that I am similarly imbued as my hardy ancestors, but I have always tended more toward the Elliott side of the spectrum. I like to be outdoors, but when I'm done with chores or a hike, I like to slump into my chair and relax with a cup of tea and read or zone out in front of the idiot box. Not for me the endless, dogged hours of constant action. 

Standing on a concrete pier for hours in stiff wind and sprinkling rain, not catching anything, I began to understand (though not to voice) Elliott's objections. It's not that I wasn’t enjoying our time together. The fish just weren’t interested or were elsewhere. Part of my mind felt that, if we weren't regularly hauling in the freshly caught piscine delights for supper, what was the point of hanging around? I kept quiet and hung on, because I experienced something that day more valuable than catching fish.

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If you have kids, you know that at a certain point, you begin to understand that your babies have their own perspectives, thoughts, opinions, personalities, and values. Parents think that it is our responsibility to teach them and model correct behavior, but they can teach us a lot, too, only if we relax enough to pick up what they’re putting down. I long ago realized that all three of our sons are much better men than I was at their respective ages, and I can learn a lot from them. If I pay attention and give them a chance, I will definitely come away a better man, if I can actually shut up long enough. I did, and I learned from Ethan that the joy of fishing is really about being there, in the moment, observing, listening, learning, and enjoying the time.

I learned that while on the pier, everyone is a friend. People were generally friendly, good-naturedly speaking and sharing amiable quips as they passed by on their way to a spot they hoped would provide a sheepshead or red drum for supper. One fellow, smoking an aromatic cigar and wearing a hat that was a stuffed shark biting the top of his head, spoke to us for several minutes about his own adventures and the fish he’d seen others catch. As usual, I was less chatty than Ethan, who spoke to the man as if he were an old family friend. 

We periodically checked our bait, casting our lines anew, stared at the miraculously clear blue-green water, listened to the patter of rain on our hoods and the ‘scree’ of beach birds. The whole time, I never once looked at my watch. I just existed and fished and learned from and spent time with a man who, not that long ago, was just a little fellow playing baseball in the cul-de-sac. It was a privilege to see and spend time with the man he has grown to be.

On the way home, Ethan controlled the music, and we listened to classic tunes from the early 2000s. After a long day, we were happy to be quiet in one another's company. It was an altogether lovely day.

We probably won't go again until November, when his family will go for two weeks. It’s way too hot on that pier in late spring and summer. I think, with the experience of Saturday pier fishing under my belt, I will go to it with less trepidation and more comfort and confidence, both about fishing, but mainly about how Ethan sees the world. 

He later asked if I wanted a salt rod of my own for future adventures. Maybe. I think what I really want, not to be greedy, would be if all three boys could go next time. To me, that would be the ideal day, whether we caught anything or not. I would surely benefit.

World War II Flying Ace

When I was a kid, my elder stepbrother, Karl, was big into planes and jets. He liked to draw them and also build models. I followed in his footsteps, at least in terms of enjoying looking at books with planes in them and trying to draw them, though I could never get the hang of it. More than any other planes, though, Karl liked the World War II-era fighters. He even carved a Corsair and a Messerschmitt 262 (one of the first jet planes) out of a piece of wood, which was well beyond any talent I had. During this time, I got to be very familiar with all kinds of planes, and could even recite styles and designations. I eventually got interested in other things, but I still have fond memories from that time in my life.

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Recently, when friends came in for the weekend, we spent a rainy afternoon at the North Carolina Aviation Museum, which is always an eye-opening experience. While there, admiring the displays and the many planes, I stumbled across a local hero who still holds the record for the number of enemy planes shot down in a single campaign during the Second World War. A whole section of the museum is devoted to this pilot and his brother. If you have time and you’re interested in local history, planes, World War II, or amazing feats of heroism, I highly recommend taking the afternoon to visit the museum and learn about Major George Earl Preddy, Jr. It will be an engaging and memorable experience.

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George Preddy was born to George Earl Preddy Sr. and Clara Estelle Noah Preddy on February 5th, 1919, in Greensboro, NC. Preddy had an unassuming life as the eldest of his parents’ four children, went to Aycock School and Greensboro High School. Things might have gone on this way for Preddy until he decided to take a ride in a plane with a family friend, Hal Foster. Foster took Preddy on a flight to Danville in a 1933 Aeronca plane, and the experience changed Preddy’s life. After the trip, Preddy wrote that he “had to become an aviator”. He attended Greensboro College for two years, but dropped out to become a barnstormer, with the help and tutelage of Bill Teague, where Preddy learned how to accomplish barrel rolls, loops, and other hair-raising aerobatics.

Rumors of war spread across the globe, and Preddy, already an accomplished pilot yearned to join the US Army Air Corps. In the meantime, he enlisted in the National Guard and wound up with the 252nd Coast Artillery Regiment. He tried three times to become a Naval Pilot, but never made the grade. Dejected, Preddy was told about the Aviation Cadet Program with the US Army and signed up. Preddy had a natural talent for flying and impressed all of his trainers. By December of 1941, just five days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Preddy was commissioned as a first lieutenant and earned his wings. “Ratsy,” as he became known during his short but prolific career, immediately showed prowess behind the stick. Flying to Australia, where he defended Oz from Japanese fighter pilots with the 9th Pursuit Squadron of the 49th Pursuit Group, Preddy was assigned a P-40 Warhawk. The Curtiss P-40 was a fighter-bomber, ideal for defending the Australians from Japanese bombers. Fast, light, and maneuverable, the Warhawk was deadly as piloted by Preddy and his Squadron. According to Joseph Noah, author of George Preddy, Top Mustang Ace, Preddy shot and damaged two Japanese planes before a midair collision with another P-40 would pause his career and send him back to the US. The other pilot was killed in the crash.

Undaunted, Preddy, once healed, actively sought another assignment. By 1942, Preddy was flying a P-47 Thunderbolt, and eventually wound up in the European theater, where his real heroism would occur. 

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I’ve only ever been behind the stick of a plane once. Well, plane is a strong word. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, my stepfather and mother paid for my brother and me to get a ride in a glider. This plane with no motor is dragged skyward by a single prop plane, usually a Cessna, and, at a certain altitude, the glider is released and circles to earth. My brother went first, and I went second. The glider has two seats. The front seat is lower, where I sat, and the second seat is immediately behind and a little higher. That’s where the pilot sits, and he manages the entire trip until, as we were released, he talked me through how to work a secondary set of controls. The pilot who flew with us was a former World War II pilot and was a cool customer. Being dragged up behind a noisy plane, dealing with the jumping and jiggling that the tow plane's wings caused, and putting up with a very talkative teen, he never once grew impatient with me.

At one point during the descent, he let me take over, and I steered the plane for about five minutes. I’ll never forget the sensation of moving the stick to the left and the plane turning that direction. It was addictive and awoke within me the fascination for flying and planes again. The pilot, having landed us safely, told my mom and stepdad that I did a good job. My brother told me that the man said the same thing to him. Maybe he had, but I took that as proof that we Bare brothers both have some latent skill as pilots. That pilot could have just as easily been George Preddy Jr., but as we shall see, Preddy, a valiant and gifted pilot, wouldn’t live to see the end of the war. 

Sadly, despite a record that remains untarnished, Preddy would be shot down by friendly fire on Christmas Day, 1944. A year previously, after a harrowing flight in which he had to turn back to base for lack of fuel, Preddy shot down his first confirmed “kill”, a Messerschmitt Bf-109. A few weeks later, Preddy would intervene against more German warplanes as they attacked a lumbering B-24 Liberator. His skill saved the lives of the pilots and crew on the Liberator as he drew the other fighters away. For his bravery, he was awarded the Silver Star.

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A year later, Preddy’s 352nd Fighter Group escorted nearly 800 bombers as they returned from a run on Frankfurt. Preddy shot down another fighter, but was hit by flak and jumped out of his plane as they crossed over the English Channel. After a daunting rescue, Preddy returned to England, where in the next few months, he would be issued the plane(s) for which he would become famous: the P-51 Mustang, which he called Cripes A Mighty and Cripes A Mighty 3rd. Between June and August, Preddy had nine aerial victories and had already scored the title of “Ace”.

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On August 6th, 1944, George “Ratsy” Preddy Jr. would lead an attack against formidable German Bf-109s, as his squadron escorted bombers home. Harrying the bombers, the Bf-109s, zoomed around, firing at the unprotected larger planes. Preddy led his men from behind, strafing the German planes. He shot down two in rapid succession and then, swinging around again for a second pass, shot down two more. The German pilots finally caught on that they were being attacked from the rear and broke off their pursuit of the bomber formation and Preddy diverted his group after them, where he shot down two more planes. As the display that the NC Aviation Museum puts it, “six planes in five minutes”. Preddy was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his daring and skill.

Over the next several months, Preddy, who was made commander of his squadron, took on several more missions, where he and his men shot down almost thirty enemy aircraft. He even flew in the Battle of the Bulge, where they engaged in ground attacks and patrols. From his first flights over Australia until his death on Christmas Day, 1944, Preddy shot down 26.83 enemy planes (the decimal accounting for damage). His heroism, his bravery and his skill as a pilot deserve to be remembered, despite his tragic end.

Pursuing enemy fighters low over Belgium, Preddy was hit by American anti-aircraft fire intended for the planes he was tailing. The heavy machine gun fire incapacitated his plane, but also likely killed Major Preddy. As low as he was, he might have survived the crash, otherwise. 

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In April of 1945, William Preddy, George’s younger brother and an accomplished pilot in his own right, was shot down over what is now the Czech Republic and was wheeled to Allied help, where he succumbed to his wounds. Both Preddy brothers are buried next to one another in the Lorraine American Cemetery in France. Although it is a tragic tale, it is nevertheless an incredible story of prowess and bravery that originated in Greensboro, when a young man took a flight with a family friend to Danville.

World War II generated many heroes from all walks of life, in all theaters and in all branches of service. Men and women gave their lives, saved lives, fought against a seemingly endless horde of hateful and vicious enemies charged by the worst ideologies imaginable. They faced incredible odds, fought through unimaginable extremity and, eventually, with great loss of life, managed to bring an end to fascism in Europe and Asia. Major George Earl Preddy Jr. was just one of many heroes, all of whom deserve to be remembered and honored for their sacrifice. Few come from so close to home as the Preddys.

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If you haven’t ever been to the NC Aviation Museum, please make time to go and spend some time learning about these planes and the pilots who flew them. You won’t regret it.

Sitting Through an Hour

I checked in with the nurse on duty and went to sit in the aptly named waiting room for my appointment. I promptly lost track of everything as my brain slipped into a kind of semiconscious liminal state. Apparently, it never occurred to me to check the time. I was involved in a game on my phone, scanning email and Instagram.

When the nurse finally called my name, apologizing for the long wait, I looked up, shocked. She said they were running behind and had had some challenges with my paperwork, then offered to write me a note for keeping me so long. Glancing at my watch, I was startled to notice that an entire hour had passed without realizing it. I remarked as much to the nurse, who frowned a bit, perhaps surprised at my ability to be so disconnected from reality.

Later, as I reflected on the situation, I felt some chagrin. It felt like I had been robbed of an hour—not by the doctor (these things happen), but by my own lack of awareness of time. I spent the entire hour in that waiting room unaware that I was even a thinking, breathing human. I sought distraction and was distracted out of sixty minutes I can never get back. I spent that time flippantly, willfully deluded into thinking that I am lousy with hours to spend carelessly and without intention.

The lack of intention was what upset me most. I didn't even have the good grace to be angry that the wait was so long, which would have at least been mildly self-aware. Instead, I lost myself in a tiny glass brick with nothing to show for an hour of my life, except that I could zone out and lose all sense of myself and my surroundings.

I couldn’t even blame my smartphone. That was the thing I used to distract me, but I chose it. The phone could have stayed in my pocket—or better, in the car. The loss of that hour was my fault. I actively refused to take account of whatever time is allotted to me in my waking, conscious life. I sold it for bright lights and memes and an endless, mind-numbing deluge of emails. The whole situation didn’t sit right with me.

At some point, probably in middle school, I learned a mental trick to make the sometimes endless class periods fly by. I would zone out. I’ve always been a “walking daydream,” but I became a black belt in drifting on a sea of disconnected thoughts, and it served me well—especially in math class. It also became a bad habit. I could tune out with the best of them and regularly did, dare I say, particularly in the seemingly endless sermonizing that occurred each week in church, but I also did it when I ought to have been paying attention.

Whenever I needed to distract myself from an unpleasant duration of time, I disappeared into a kind of limbic reality, fuzzy with unfettered, wandering thoughts. As a result, my imagination grew quite robust, but, as with all things, I never mastered when not to disappear into imaginary worlds or untethered thinking. It was a bad habit, and I rightly got the reputation for being a space cadet. It frustrated teachers and parents and irritated friends when I got bored and zipped off to la-la land.

With the advent of mobile phones, many of which had built-in games, I lost myself further in a hand-held universe of endless gameplay or, later, ‘Net surfing. Smartphones, as I’ve written before, are nothing but brain-sucking computers that get us to actively switch off our minds as we mindlessly scroll, search, or stare into a void. Modern smartphones are excellent at getting us to switch off the prefrontal cortex, where concentration and active thinking occur. We just sit and stare, our brains not only untethered but effectively gone. There isn’t even anything remotely instinctual about it. Our eyes are open, but our consciousness vanishes—a kind of voluntary waking coma or catatonia occurs.

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Ancient philosophers understood that humans have agency, which is a fancy way of saying that we can decide to act or not. I have always been fascinated by the implication that a decision we make can have immense consequences for ourselves and others—especially in circumstances where we might not be focused or paying attention at all.

We might call this passive agency: shutting down our awareness to the point where we are less responsive to stimuli than a jellyfish. By contrast, active agency means taking things in hand—being thoughtful and responsible in our choices. In one case, we employ our brain, our intellect, our reason. In the other, we simply switch off. The more I considered it, the more this active/passive idea seemed applicable to my own ability—one might say skill—for tuning out.

All of this made me wonder about why the idea of just sitting in a waiting room caused me such agony that my first instinct was to seek the depths of my mind-numbing smartphone. Why did I so readily switch off agency and seek the mental focus of a pile of sheep dung?

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I grew up before smartphones and personal computers were in everyone’s home. I’m accustomed to the kind of access to technology that prevents boredom, but it wasn’t always thus. As a kid, my job was to entertain myself or, failing that, help clean or cook or jump into some other chores. So I learned to keep myself to myself and, crucially, learned to keep myself from boredom through activity and imagination, at least when I wasn’t in church or school.

These days, no one is ever bored (though there seems to be an endless supply of boring people—but that's a somewhat different problem) long enough to get into any kind of extremity. I see people out to dinner with their families, gazing into the smartphone abyss rather than interacting with one another. That's time they'll wish they had back when their hours—or those of their loved ones—reach zero balance. This was the part of the waiting room episode that truly irked me: my own willingness to switch off my consciousness in exchange for a glowing screen and, of course, the wasted hour of my life.

All of this made me wonder if I even had the ability to just sit without distraction—or without zooming off into la-la land. Could I sit for just one hour alone with my thoughts, unentangled by my bad attention habits, without the lotus-like attention-eater of my phone?

The idea fascinated me, especially because I was a little nervous that the answer might be “no.” So, I decided to spend one hour of my day in intentional silence. I would just sit. No technology, no distractions. One hour, just sitting. I was ambivalent, of course. This was going to take effort, but I thought it was a worthy exercise—especially for someone like me, who has a dangerous inability to stay in the moment when waiting is required.

I chose a day when I knew that I would have at least an hour to myself, without interruptions. When that day arrived, I prepared myself for the experiment. Micki had gone to work, and the pups were quietly snoozing in their crate. I was the only human at home, and so I went into my Green Behemoth Room and sat on the floor in front of the old green couch and took a few deep breaths.

At first, I noticed that I was keenly aware of how much time lay ahead of me. There I was, just sitting, and I was already champing to be up and doing, or to look at my phone, or to do anything, just so long as it wasn’t sitting there. The sensation was like an agonizing itch. I reached for my phone several times, only to remember it wasn't there. The last time, I sighed and said, “Seriously?”

I tried to settle down. Accepting that I wouldn’t have my phone to ease the hour by, I moved on to trying to guess how much time had passed. The alarm (set in another room) was out of sight, and I had taken my watch off to curb the temptation to check it incessantly. Then, as these first jitters passed, I struck out into this new realm of just sitting with something like an open mind.

I hadn’t made many rules for myself, but I didn’t want to doze, nor did I want to get caught up in too thick a reverie. I decided to take the tack of some mindfulness exercises and, when my thoughts drifted too far, call myself back. At first, it was a challenge. The mind is never really silent, and what Buddhists call “monkey brain” took over. For me, it’s more like a five-year-old version of myself, tirelessly asking questions. Soon enough, though, and with some patience, one can ease the savage child simply by mentally looking at whatever it is the kid is pointing at. I found that a kind of pleasant emptiness filled my head as I acknowledged the seemingly endless mental jumping about. 

Eventually, I became conscious that, paying attention to the light of the room, the sounds, the birds outside, the traffic on the street, even the dull hum of the HVAC unit in the attic, that I was just sitting and the world hadn’t ended. It didn’t bother me at all once I’d gotten there. In fact, it was peaceful and pleasant, even pleasurable to just sit and be awake and aware.

I was beginning to really enjoy the quietude, the soothing mental state of sitting in contemplation, when the alarm went off. An hour had passed quickly, and I felt a little sad. I sat for a while longer, slowly coming back to the world. The rest of that day, I was unusually tuned to time passing. I was quieter, more thoughtfully aware of the world and my place in it. I think I even slept more calmly that night, less daunted by the long, sometimes wakeful hours when I lay there wishing for sleep to return.

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I’ve struggled all my life with periods of waiting, paying attention, living with intention in the moment. If there’s nothing going on, I’d rather be up and doing, entertaining myself—or looking for something to entertain me, like TV or my phone. And yet, those moments of distraction are as much a part of my life as the times when I’m gliding along happily. They have the same value, the same worth, and just like every moment of our lives, we cannot get them back once they are spent.

Intentionally sitting and doing nothing seems to have a very efficacious way of making a third road for me between actively seeking to be entertained at every waking moment and drifting off into la-la land. Just sitting for an hour isn't avoidance or distraction. It forces me to use the time and spend it thoughtfully, actively listening to my headspace, growing a sense of connection with myself and with the passage of time as each moment slips by.

Although I wouldn't qualify my experiment as meditation, it did seem to help me find a type of mindfulness that soothed my otherwise sometimes troublingly distracted brain. I have found a tool, and it is fairly inexpensive. It just requires one hour of my day, unplugged, away from TVs and smartphones. The reward is a mind soothed of distraction and interruption—and a smoothed-out emotional state. This is a gift, especially in a world where distraction has become the norm and where, as often as possible, we all seek to disconnect from reality. We could all benefit from giving ourselves the present of sitting through an hour.