Signed, A humbled Marine. Semper Fi…

Memorial Day: I am a teacher. I teach social studies in a beautiful corner of the foothills of the Green Mountains and in the shade of the Taconics in Appalachia. I am mindful today of both the wonderful benefit of a three-day weekend for my students' and my own sanity as we move into the final hours of the school year (exams are coming!), as well as the reason we have a three-day weekend in the first place: Memorial day...

“Every flower is a soul blossoming in nature.” ― Gérard de Nerval: Main street is lined with American flags, spring flowers are in their full glory here at 1000 feet (we have a late bloom), the cemeteries have been appropriately planted with geraniums, and marker flags have been swapped out with new and clean annual replacements. Monday is a day for remembrance and gratitude. It is not a day for sirens nor candy thrown from the firetrucks as we drive and march down the parade route. It is a quiet day. A cook-out later may be appropriate, no doubt, but only after some quiet reflection... 

I have some friends who have served in a way that I did not: So I though I would offer an old friend's words for my blog this week. He is a man of character, although I only knew him well when we were all young boys aspiring to be men, and had no clue of our adult-self's paths. Since then I have gleaned parts of his path through social media; most impressively to me was his choice to serve as a Marine. This past week my friend Alex posted some thoughts to his "feed" that echoed thoughts I have had in the past. With his permission I offer them here...

A Veteran’s Request for Memorial Day

My friends, I have a favor to ask of you… It’s something that’s been on my mind for a few years but I’ve never quite figured out how to say it, until now.

The favor I ask is this: Please, don’t thank me this weekend. Don’t thank me for my service. Don’t thank me for my sacrifice. Don’t thank my veteran friends for their service or their sacrifice. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment. I do. We do. But we’re still here, and Memorial Day isn’t about us.

Memorial Day also isn’t really about the start of summer or barbecues or beaches. But I enjoy a cold beer and a good burger too, and it’s part of what we all fought to preserve after all, so no harm there. As long as you can take a moment to remember why we have the day.

If you want to do something to acknowledge the men and women who have worn the uniform, then take a moment to bow your heads and be grateful of those who laid down their lives for our nation. The way we will be doing. Think of them before you thank us.

And when you hear a Veteran say things like “Don’t thank me”, I hope you won’t be offended. Please don’t be hurt if someone reminds you that Memorial Day is not Veteran’s Day. Don’t think us obnoxious or ungrateful. We’re not.

What we Veterans are, is humbled. Humbled by those who went before us. Humbled by those who made the ultimate sacrifice. That’s why it’s sometimes hard to hear “thank you” over Memorial Day. Because the truth is, we don’t feel worthy of your thanks. Not on this weekend.

To many people Veterans are heroes, but to us, our heroes are the men and women buried in Arlington, laid to rest in hometowns across our country, and the ones who never came home. These are the real heroes. They are our friends and brothers and sisters in arms who gave their last full measure of devotion for our nation. Whether we knew them or not, we feel the weight of their loss. They are missed.

So if you want to thank me, do me a favor and get back to me in November. I’ll be really appreciative you thought of me then. But for now, I just want the focus to be on my heroes, the real heroes. The ones no longer with us.

Signed,
A humbled Marine. Semper Fi…

Forecast: 78 degrees with rain ending early:

So take a moment, remember those who served, and died...

and enjoy the peace of gathering together in crowds to remember those who sacrificed for the rest of us...

notice the flags and flowers and your friends around you...

and then go enjoy the glorious and blessed life that is all around all of us...

"I'll stop the world and melt with you..."

"Moving forward using all my breath": So I was thinking about the 1980s this week. Middle school. You know, that time when somewhere around 7th and 8th grade when the boys shoot up a foot over the summer, big goofy heads, lanky limbs, and out-of-sorts in so many ways. We had dances back then called "mixers." Oh, what fun they were... and terrifying! The girls were bright and delightful, the boys, dense and confused...

"Making love to you was never second best": Back-in-that-day (the days of big shoes and skinny legs, poofy hair and braced-teeth smiles) we were full of passionate intensity. Each dance, each date (often in groups to the movies or meeting up at the skating rink) was epic! Going out meant talking on the phone late at night, cord stretched as far down the hall as possible to get out of ear shot of a brother or parent passing by the stairwell a floor below. Long relationships might last even for a few months. Each time we held hands or actually worked up the nerve to steal a kiss, it was the best moment we'd ever had. Each time...

"I saw the world thrashing all around your face": My perceptions of those dances back then are warped no doubt, but my approach across the parquet floor, stumbling through the refracted mirror ball light toward a pretty smiling-eyes girl on the other side of the room was fraught with the anxiety that my ineptness was showing. I've learned since those middle school days that most of the time the girls were so nervous about being asked to dance, that they didn't notice our desperate awkwardnesses. Those girls who did notice were perhaps too worldly or fast for us more dorky boys. But we didn't know that then, and so had to summon our courage learned from watching various protagonists in John Hughes films...

"Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace:" We danced to the most horrid stuff back then; a horror only further compounded by this generation's glorification of 80s synth pop. But when we were in the midst of growing out of our grade-school naiveté and groping through the new world of adolescent socialization, the music's poppy sound and subtly dark lyrics were spot on.  One of the classics worth holding on to though was Modern English; remembered for it's one new-wave dance song Melt with You. Most people don't know the rest of their material which was most definitely not middle school dance music: post-punk, gothic, new wave lable-mates with This Mortal Coil and Bauhaus; this stuff was deep and compelling. Robbie Grey described their experimentally artistic album Mesh and Lace as a “barren landscape, [with] heavy drumming, distorted guitar, and wailing vocals….” (What a great description of the reality of middle school romance)...

I'll stop the world and melt with you": But each time we found our way across the dance floor, our hearts in our throats, our mouths dry with fear, trying to keep our eyes on the goal, but not daring to stare too much, we approached with a lurking fear; until that smile melted us. That smile! It reassured us. It made the moment real and immediate and manageable. And then we dared to look into those eyes and heaven was brought down to earth. As long as the DJ played music and the lights stayed low, time stood still...

"You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you..."

and it was good...

A Buddhist Still Life... balance

"I'm not sure of what it all means yet... I'm not sure of much of anything these days. Maybe that's why I talk so much." -- Narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (early in his Chautauqua)

Meditation: Greening Bodhi with dried cactus blossoms

Classical vs(?) Romantic: I am about 20 percent into Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It is one of several reads I am currently indulging in, choosing to crack the cover of my Kindle only while eating my cereal in the morning. [I am also savoring the newest volumes of two graphic novels that came in the mail recently and have just started a biography of John Peel.] In Zen, I have arrived at a philosophical section where the Narrator has begun expressing his ideas contrasting "classical" and "romantic" types of personalities. The "romantic" is exemplified by  the narrator's friend John, whom he describes as a conflicted (and perhaps lost) motorcycle rider who relies heavily on technology—while seemingly wanting to reject any need to understand the machines he hopes to operate properly. The narrator presents himself as more "classical," relying on his rational/logical problem-solving skills to keep his old bike in good repair. I am, in part, drawn to the narrator who loves to tinker and rely on his wits. He seems quiet and introspective, while at the same time claims he talks too much. I identify with that. I often describe myself as a "Pooh" trapped in a "Tigger." I have bought into the narrator's critique of John, yet worry that the narrator is missing how important it is to find a balance between both of the two personalities, a little classical to temper the romantic, a little romance to temper the classic. Balance is the key to a clean mind; logical and emotional; planning/preparing and remaining in the moment; analysis and experience...

Finding my balance: So this weekend I have been seeking my own sort of balance to address not knowing "what it all means yet." I do know that remaining in the moment is just so much nicer than trying to remain in a past moment or anticipate next moments. Balance came this weekend by getting my hands dirty...

First lilac buds over freshly tilled garden.

Getting my hands dirty, Part 1: Placing ones hands deep into rich soil after removing the top layer of rotting fall leaves feels almost as good as the warm shower one takes to get the sweat and dirt of a hard day's work off. What is it about prepping the ground for plants that is so satisfying? Prep work usually makes me cringe. (I love to just jump in and get things done.) For instance, painting prep is what keeps me from painting whenever I can avoid it. I'd rather just hit a canvas and go, adjusting as I will, hoping for something that looks like I feel inside. But prepping a room for paining, doing trim, after masking the electrical covers, etc. pushes my ability to remain patient. I can sit on a bench and watch the sun glisten on the lake for an afternoon, but I have no patience for preping a room to paint. And yet... getting the ground ready to receive plants feels much different. The crazy-garden-ladies [mentors of my first attempts to grow my own food] from Cambridge back in 1997 told me, "take care of the soil and the plants will take care of themselves." It has been one of the most important pieces of wisdom I have ever received. Prepping the soil doesn't even feel like prep work per say. It feels like the only real work of planting. Once I do my part, the plants will do theirs. I'll stick around and offer help when needed; the soil is my responsibility; the growing is theirs...

So phase one of soil prep is done. The lilacs are just starting to bloom by the way. The scent will be drifting across the lawn soon. The soil in their partial shade has been tilled and the rotting leaves await replacement as a top cover once my daughter and I pick our spring planting at the end of the month. I dug in the new dirt a little after the tilling was finished; my hands got dirty; my mind cleared...

'74 Honda CB 360: Opening the engine on frame. 

Getting my hands dirty, Part 2: The Honda has been sitting for months. When I last posted about Joe (my '74 Honda CB360 for those who have not been following my posts regularly) I described restoring the tank and surrounding parts. I have not finished writing my adventures-of-the-dual-carbs yet, but I have to spoil the next few posts on the bike blog by saying that I have gotten the bike to run, and have done a lap around the block. Oh my goodness! Never has 20 miles an hour felt so glorious as making Joe go. But the compression dropped off as things loosened up in that engine that hasn't run for over a decade. So my mentor and I have decided to take a look at the pistons and rings. I am not willing to describe the start of this adventure yet either, but I bring it up because "balance" this weekend came in part through successfully removing my tank without spilling a drop of gas, opening up the breather cover, and understandingly pulling apart the spark advancer and contact breaker assembly. This is not a big deal at all for anyone who knows how to turn wrench on a motorcycle. It's almost as rudimentary as changing a light switch for an electrician, or unclogging a sink drain for a plumber. But for me it was a first, and I knew what I was doing as I did it; And my hands got dirty; And my mind cleared...

Score... Egg-Pus!

Yellow-car-games: I am not sure who first brought the yellow car game to my household, but we have played for a long time now. It's simple. You see a yellow car and say "score". You get a point. Simple, right?

No. NO. NO!...

Laughter: There are so may disputes in playing this game that there is yelling and laughter almost every time we play.  Sometimes there are even disputes of who has the right to end the game; disputes within disputes within raucous laughter (and sometimes hurt feelings), and further laughter's disputes...

Disputes: The variations of the color yellow are a point of constant dispute. When do you cross the line from yellow to orange? Are service vehicles (orange-yellow) acceptable? What about "yellow" school busses (NO!)? Do yellow panels on a truck count if the cab is clearly not yellow?

The location of a car matters too. Can you score a car on a return trip on the same day, or is it already scored? Who makes the rules; does the driver have claim over the rules or should insurrections of "I'm scoring it anyway!" be allowed? Well the inter-webs has a site for all these conflicts which I plan on using to my advantage in the near future with my family.

http://www.yellowcargame.co.uk/index.htm 

The inter-webs is a wondrous quagmire of dys-information that must make "it" true: The site has everything I needed for my blog entry today! History, official (?) and alternate rules, even extras that test your tolerance for colour [sic.] variations...

Professor J Bulmanovich of the University of South-West Sussex has researched the game and has given the following as a probable history.

The history of the yellow car game can be traced back to the early 1600's and to the carters who used to transport the harvested rape seed from the Cotwolds across country to the barges that would carry the rape across to Dublin. 

Professor Bulmanovich (is he even a real person?) suggests that a "good luck" hit was offered from one dock worker to another after each successful barge arrived. Over time this translated to yellow carts, vehicles, trains, etc. and on and on and on... I have not validated any of the story, now do I wish to at this point. Urban myth or not, it makes a great story...

Yellow-car pain: It turns out the British version of our family game involves hitting (much like the punch-buggy [color] game of my youth). This could create problems given the extreme reach my son has developed as he has climbed to 6" over my sadly shrinking 5'7" self. It also turns out the punch-buggy variation is one of the "official" alternate rules resulting in two hits, not just one. Who knew?...

Double-dipping is bad manners except in close company: I particularly like rule section 4 as it backs up my own feelings of multiple scoring a car on the same trip:

4. Once a car has been used it can not be used again in the same game

4.a. When playing on a journey the game is reset when that journey ends. Otherwise the game resets when the players part company.

4.b. Sleep also resets the game.

Eggs?: This all leads up to a moment yesterday when my daughter and I were driving to Saratoga through small picturesque upstate NY towns on a gorgeous spring day. There is a VW Bug color that is so pale with elements of green in the yellow that it is debatable if it qualifies:

Only cars which are yellow are allowed. The definition of yellow can be down to interpretation, but here are some guidelines. Gold, bronze and shades or green are not yellow. Metallic yellow is acceptable but pearlescent is not unless the colours in it are only shades of yellow. Some manufacturers call a colour yellow, just because you name something yellow that doesn't make it so.

I was looking to find a gracious place to include said car while at the same time not opening to door for every putrid off-yellow out there. While I was thinking of my ruling my daughter exclaimed "Egg Pus car!" I am not sure why this shocking proclamation amused me so much but I guffawed for at least a block before agreeing that it was a new special category in the game.

Of course there was the obligatory discussion of what egg pus would look like if eggs had pus, and although I was smiling and acting amused, inside I was totally grossed out. I couldn't get my brain off the question of the yoke vs. this fictional egg-pus; ick!

I made sure the eggs were scrambled this morning...

"This is the hardest stuff in the world to photograph..."

Finding some wisdom 30 years after the fact: Years ago while at summer camp I tried reading Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I do not know if I was able to finish it or not, but it did not leave much of an impression on my conscious mind. I remember thinking it was not what I had expected it to be, but beyond that my memory fails me. I have picked it up again, nearly 30 years later and am having a different experience with it...

It started with a childhood desire to ride a bike: In December I bought an old motorcycle that is just about as old as me, and which has been sitting still for quite some time. I thought it would make a good metaphorical and practical project for me in my middle years to learn a new skill and bring a beat up—but potentially functional—machine back to a level of coolness that demands to be appreciated for it's ability to keep going with a little attention. And so I thought a book about motorcycle maintenance and the "metaphysics of quality"—as Pirsig calls his philosophy—might be a fun intellectual balance for my piston ring, carburetor valve, drum shoe repairs on my old Honda CB360...

Chapter 4 Excerpt, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: At one point early in the novel, the narrator, his son Chris, and two friends Sylvia and John arrive at the prairie. At a midday stop, Sylvia exclaims "It's so beautiful. It's so empty," while the narrator and his son stretch out on the ground to soak up some sunlight after a cool morning of riding. John gets his camera out:

After a while [John] says, “This is the hardest stuff in the world to photograph. You need a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree lens, or something. You see it, and then you look down in the ground glass and it's just nothing. As soon as you put a border on it, it's gone.”

I say, "That's what you don't see in a car, I suppose."

Sylvia says, "Once when I was about ten we stopped like this by the road and I used half a roll of film taking pictures. And when the pictures came back I cried. There wasn't anything there."

I've been where John and Sylvia were that moment. I spent years (and still do at times) trying to force the fullness of nature into the frame of a camera. I am working on trying to embrace the narrator's mindset: letting the moment be vs. capturing the moment for some unknown future use or share...

The Extra 12 proceeded my Canon AE1: When I was young I had a Kodak 110 camera and began trying to capture the world on film. Little cartridges of 110 film that has to be developed before any real feedback of the image could be assessed. [Such a different pre-digital world I grew up in.] My Uncle was a professional photographer and my father is an incredibly good shot himself. They offered advice on framing and "getting people in the shot." They let me experiment as I would though to learn the lessons myself. I wanted to be as good as they were with my photos, and I kept trying to capture the vastness of nature (and doing a terrible job at it); but I was determined to reject their advice so as to not spoil shots of nature with people. [So naive.] You see, my reluctance of taking pictures of people was in part formed by the frequent times when grown-ups forced us to endure hellaciously long-seeming moments of posing for a photo (before allowing us to get back to whatever was going on before the photo session was initiated); moments where we were assembled, maneuvered, and asked to pose in awkwardly frozen moments. This process was the worst when in the hands of my mother's mother, Alma. [Alma was an amazingly wonderful woman; she was generous and patient, kind and beautiful, loving and interested; but she was one of the worst photographers in the world.] She would pull out her camera, affix her blinding flash cubes to her ancient device, square off both hands on each side (elbows out at 90 degree angles), and spend the next bajillion moments telling us how to get ready for the picture, while accidentally getting her finger in front of the lens, and just plainly punishing us with her need to capture moment after moment after moment, the same as the year before, and the year before that, and on, and on, and on... It was god-awful. And yet what she was seeking was far more important that creating an artistic rendition of a beautiful scene. I have grown to understand her desire to have keepsakes of the people she loved. I wish I had been more tolerant of her process. She was trying to capture images of her loves in order to show others back home who the cast of characters were while she told her stories. She was assembling a collection of memories, not art...

Fail: This shot would be much better with my brothers in it.

The young know so little and are so impatient; the old should try to remember how the young think: But this reflection isn't about capturing moments of the ones we love, it is about that attempt to capture the expansive beauty of nature in it's emptiness. [The realization of the former is a pleasant byproduct of my attempt to understand the latter.] How does one capture an empty prairie? How does one communicate the immensity of a mountain peak or the depth of a chasm on a 4x6 inch piece of photo paper? A professional might be able to do it, and we amateurs might luck into one of these moments, but for the most part we need to experience these moments. The narrator of Pirsig's story knows that even when observed from a car, these views aren't felt the same way. It takes removing the front glass, and the A and B posts of the car; it means stripping away the roof, putting on some goggles, and allowing the panoramic aspect of the world wrap around the viewer. John states just as much (yet still goes for his camera), and Sylvia shares her early failed efforts. (Chris, by the way, is impatient to keep moving as often the young ones are.) It seems that only the narrator understands fully how the moment must be absorbed...

Some times a thousand words is better than a picture: The best way to share these moments is with words, I think. And yet the reader MUST have had a similar experience in order to appreciate the description. Even the best description in a novel of the open prairie shifting to the rising peaks of the Rockies, the hours of fast driving through the monotonous acres of wheat and an occasional crossroads yielding to the purple and white of the two mile high range of mountains that stretches the full length of a continent, cannot do the image justice unless you've been there at least once to see it for yourself...