TENNIS. ANYONE?

Adapted from Brazil Times blog of October 14, 2008

(because I still think of myself as not gotten any older!)

It is probably because I don’t know much about my father’s youth that I have trouble seeing him as a tennis player. He told me once about a certain day when he was seventeen -- before the Depression, before The War, when he was still a promising athlete. He spoke of a perfect spring day, of playing tennis, of having won the match. He told me:

“Somehow I have never thought of myself as being any older than I was on that day.”

I had such a day when I was nineteen. It could have been yesterday, maybe it was. I was picking up a suit at the cleaners for a date with a beautiful girl. It was one of those purely perfect days – perfect temperature, perfect humidity, just enough clouds floating overhead. I had a brand-new, straight-off-the-showroom-floor Buick convertible with a mystic blue-green color I never saw again or could describe. [It could do 90 on the highway; but, that is a different story.]

Somehow I have never thought of myself as being any older than I was on that day.

As of the day I post this blog, October 14 2008, I have somehow lived through exactly sixty-five years. There has been now-forgotten pain and unforgettable blessings, incalculable failures, marriage to a woman I would not have lived it without, and five things I seem to have done right. However, like the fiddler on the roof, I don’t remember growing older. All I remember for sure is the “sun rise, sun set” part. Whatever happened to that 18 year old with his perfect day? How and when did he get to be 65 [OK, now 78]?

Tennis, anyone?

TRAFFIC IN BRAZIL?

 TEN DAYS OF TRAFFIC

(edited from 2009 Brazil Times blog to acknowledge passage of time)

Fifteen years ago our children determined we move into “town” to be close to church, stores, and Computer Central. Our home is on North Forest Avenue (that’s Hwy 59 to you interlopers). If ever it could be said the Lord gave the desires of one’s heart, it would be this house.

It does appear that the Almighty either was not aware of, or humorously decided to include in His divine provision, the ten days of traffic which I like to call the Bizarre Bridge Bazaar.

In this our fifteenth go-around here we’ve adjusted to the schedule: Noisy in the AM with cars moving so slow you could sell Lemonade in the middle of Highway 59 North. In the late afternoon don’t put a toe in the street when everyone is speeding home. The extent of my interest in the Bridge Bazaar is watching the cars and trailers, trucks, and motor homes go by. Fortunately we have a back way in and out, so are not trapped by the onslaught of vehicles.

Except for a couple of summertime tours of the various bridges of Parke county and envious, I have never paid much attention to the bridges. No particular opposition I don’t suppose, just that as a matter of principle never do any thing involving a lot of walking. My active participation was again this year limited to being extra diligent in locking all doors and windows.

What has always struck me about it all is what little value the whole shebang seems to be for Brazil or Clay County.

The place up the street where we normally get gas does well, and we’re told the local restaurants benefit some. That seems to be about it. When still new to the area I tried to organize a promotion of local business during October and was told by every merchant contacted it was a waste of time. Brazil, they said, simply cannot profit from the traffic rushing past on the way there and back home. Since then I have seen it for myself; even learned of two area small businesses that closed down for the ten days.

A lot of folks along Forest Avenue set up yard sales and such. [In 2009] our daughter Susan came from St Louis with two car loads of stuff. Daughter, daughter-in-law and wife set out a bunch of junk no one in the family wanted. Daughters and grandchildren “made” about $5 each.

I doubt very much if the City of Brazil collected anything from all of this other than maybe part of the sales tax from the gas station. Even if the city charged for permits and got sales tax from the yard vendors (which I doubt very much they could), it wouldn’t cover costs of police patrols and extra trash pickups (what, you thought all that unsold junk would be put back in my closet?).

Hope you had fun at that bridge bazaar thing. For me it is just ten days of traffic. If our town actually benefited from it all, let me know how.

WINNER!

 

I MAY BE A WINNER!

Our children will remember how daddy would always enter the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes even though I knew odds were quite long. According to Wikipedia “as of June 2020, the odds of winning "$5,000 a Week for Life" were 1 in 6.2 billion. To put that in perspective, the world's population is 7.7 billion”. But, it only cost one stamp to enter, so risk-reward factor was good. Actually won something about 40 years back – a scissors set, of which we still have one pair.

Over the years in my many entries only bought a few CDs. Entering at all, of course, was my first mistake; buying something my fatal error. Know a bit about mail order promo, and even with mass production it has to cost from fifty-cents to a dollar to get that entry into my hand. And, they have to send out a million or so to get that cost break. Because of cost factors, if you don’t send them back often enough they’ll drop you from the mailing list. Not sending them back is why I hadn’t gotten my fair share of chances to win last couple of years.

Ever wonder why it’s called Publishers Clearing House when (a) they sell a lot of stuff and (b) all anybody knows about them is they are the Win-A-100-Million-Bucks guys?

Remember magazines – printed on paper, came in mail once a month? There was once a real market for them. One of mine and Matthew’s first jobs was selling subscriptions door-to-door. He, at least, was good at it. PCH began in 1953 as a way to sell magazines using direct mail (junk mail to you and I) to reach more homes cost effectively (Rule #1 – Follow the Money!).

Direct mail works. If it didn’t junk mail would have ceased to show up in mailboxes fifty years ago. Success meant expansion, with TV promotions and sweepstakes coming in 1967. As interest in magazines faded additional items were added. It worked! More people would buy more stuff if you just presented it right (i.e. the con). Because of this success prize money got bigger and bigger. That’s how, as of last year it got to $5,000 a week for life.

At risk of getting into the marketing ‘weeds’ of this, most entrants are older and winnings are necessarily what they appear (us old people’s ‘for life’ ain’t what it used to be). But, these sweepstakes are controlled by federal and state law, and somebody can win. If I happen to get the one and only mailer which includes the winning number, and if I send it in, I may well be a winner. In the marketing genre we call folks who don’t get the golden ticket the ‘mark’.

In my own defense my mother got me hooked on the sweepstakes opium. She entered every one that came in her mail. And, as it was with older folk (not me), she really thought she’d have to buy something to win. Sometimes wished she’d left me all those cassette tapes. Ultimately I entered for the same reason as my mother, hoped to be able to provide for my kids.

Somewhere while making other plans life happened. The kids grew up, made their own lives, and not sure a lot of money would make them better people. If I won now might do what #2 son Nathan once told me he’d do: Set up a grant program to provide money for any graduate of local high schools to help them ‘escape’ Brazil Indiana.

A few years back I quit returning the “you may be a winner” mailings. In time they quit coming. Until now.

In this weeks mail came an “ALERT: Time Sensitive” notice that my “name has been authorized for processing on the Winner Selection list”! I could now go on-line and enter without a stamp! Even has an Activation Code so they will know which mailer is getting best response. The most interesting element about this mailer to me is the cost factor. It’s almost a ‘cold’ solicitation for new customers, and it can’t have cost more than fifteen-cents to print and mail 1-million pieces.

If I enter this time, PCH will want an e-mail address. Because of much reduced cost factors this means I’ll get a LOT more junk mail than ever got in snail-mail. But, hey, what else have I got to do but delete spam? Maybe I should enter? I mean, you know, after all, the cost factor is in my favor; my mother would be so proud; would enjoy kids rolling their eyes and saying ‘daddy’s at it again’. And, who knows, I may be a winner!

If you don’t hear from me for a while, I may be in the Cayman Islands.

RESPONSIBIITY

 

RESPONSIBILITY

On the night of June 5 1944 Allied Commander General Eisenhower gave the command, “Okay, we go”. Those simple words launched what would ever after be known as D-Day. Over 150,000 men, some 5,000 ships, and about 10,000 airplanes were unleashed onto the beaches of Normandy. If they failed, if they were thrown back into the sea, the results of World War II would be in peril, the outcome unknowable.

From the moment he uttered those simple words the Commanding General lost all control. Whatever happened, whoever failed in their duty, whichever part of the plan was flawed, there was nothing he could do about it. Failure would not be the personal fault of guy who gave the order, but it would have forever been his responsibility.

Eisenhower recorded two statements for public distribution. The first announced the beginning of the invasion. In the second never needed statement he took total and personal responsibility for all failure. The commander cannot say “No, I’m not responsible at all”, that is a recourse of failures. Taking responsibility is what the person in charge does, the credit for success is given to those “who are actually in the arena”.

As a society we accept the person at top is of whom we demand responsibility. Holding the person at the top responsible for failures not their fault is the reason baseball managers or business CEO must resign when the team or business fails.

Thus, as a nation the President of the United States bears ultimate responsibility for failure, even where he is not personally at fault.

Take the case of the Vietnam war. Eisenhower started it. Kennedy is said to have wanted out, it’s not his fault he was assasinated. Johnson, scholars contend, did want a war. Nixon was convinced by the military it could be won. When all was lost, failure was the responsibility of President Gerald R. Ford, who had come late to the game at best.

As this is being written hearings on going on in the U.S. Senate examining the ‘story’ of American withdrawal from Afghanistan. One political side seems almost desperate to assign fault, the other to determine responsibility. As it was in Korea, Cuba, Vietnam, Iraq, the military just wants somebody to fight. [SIDEBAR: If in November 1962 President Kennedy had followed the advice of military advisors regarding the Cuba Missile Crisis, nuclear war would have followed. It would have been Kennedy’s responsibility, and he knew it.]

Seventy-five years later it remains true that no one will ever tell all the story of World War II. I await to see whether the whole story of Afghanistan may ever be told.

Given that part of the story I know, of only this am I sure: A vast chasm exist between responsibility and fault. At fault is failure, not at fault is not. Not accepting ultimate responsibility when ultimate responsibility is yours, that is failure in every arena, whoever be at fault.

FOOTSTEPS

 

FOOTPRINTS

Last Wednesday Dick Burchell passed from this ephemeral world into the tangible arms of Jesus. He will be missed for now by those left to follow in the journey some other day.

He was, at best, an acquaintance. Would not have known of his passing except for his wife, Ann, being a Facebook friend. What I do know is that his wife and children, and a great many this present world friends loved him and held him in highest regard. They who knew him said of him he lived a full and good life. That says most of what I’d want to know about any man.

As I understand it he died following heart surgery complications. The morning he passed I was having a blood test, a follow-up to my bi-pass surgery in July at same hospital. When I made this connection, among those sobering truths heard somewhere, sometime, this came to mind:

     The fear of death is not in its certainty, but in its randomness.

I’ve seen just enough of life to not fear death all that much: Have had all the more popular heart issues, coded twice, almost been killed a few times by other drivers, and made many mistakes I’d not want to re-live.

I look back at life, however, and wonder about the randomness of it all. Why this one, or that one, and not me?

     How many times could it have been me?

     How many times should it have been me?

     Surely could not have come so far on my own?

Memory, sometimes referred to as inspiration, brought back this poem by Mary Stevenson:

FOOTPRINTS

One night I dreamed a dream.
As I was walking along the beach with my Lord.
Across the dark sky flashed scenes from my life.
For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to me and one to my Lord.

After the last scene of my life flashed before me,

I looked back at the footprints in the sand.
I noticed that at many times along the path of my life,
especially at the very lowest and saddest times,
there was only one set of footprints.

This really troubled me, so I asked the Lord about it.
"Lord, you said once I decided to follow you,
You'd walk with me all the way.
But I noticed that during the saddest and most troublesome times of my life,
there was only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me."

He whispered, "My precious child, I love you and will never leave you
Never, ever, during your trials and testings.
When you saw only one set of footprints,
It was then that I carried you."

Juror of Last Resort

 

Brazil Times blog of February 23, 2015

Juror of Last Resort

Being on a real live jury would have to be on my “bucket list”. It something I’ve always wanted to do; and have no personal, political, or philosophical reasons to not serve.

I’ve always seen myself as Henry Fonda in the 1957 movie “12 Angry Men” fighting my closed-minded fellow jurors. The truth would come out because I stood alone in its defense. Or, something like that.

I did get called once for jury duty when we lived in St. Louis.

The court building in St. Louis is a very large structure with parking downtown minimal and nowhere near said building. Had someone drop me off at door, so only had to walk up 30 steps and take elevator to find the juror’s room on 10^th floor. By the time I got that far the clerk looked at me and said I was excused for health concerns (her concerns for me, I suspect). You’d have to see me walk more than 100 feet to understand why, and I was 20 years younger then.

Recently, though, I finally got a second chance to serve on a jury; this time in my beloved Clay County where I certainly want to do what I can to re-pay the benefits of living in Indiana.

In the mail came a very nice letter from the Clerk/Jury Administrator telling me what a “most rewarding” experience was in store for me if chosen for jury duty.

In due course I dutifully completed the enclosed questionnaire; answering “yes” where it showed what a solid citizen I am, and “no” to those items for which I might label myself a laggard.

There were, to my dismay, two questions which would certainly derail my hopes of a Henry Fonda triumph.

Question: Do you have a physical disability or condition which renders you incapable of serving as a juror?

Answer: Sorry about that, but, Yes (just ask that clerk in St. Louis)

Question: If so, is there a reasonable accommodation which the Court could provide which would allow you to serve as a juror?

Answer: Sadly, No (many have tried).

The Clerk/Jury Administrator requested a response within 7 days. I did include a note asking for consideration in this regard. I explained that between receiving their nice letter and being able to respond it had become unexpectedly incumbent on me to implement one of my surprise inspections of the Union Hospital emergency room and cardiac care facilities. But, I had gotten to their questionnaire upon ceasing to be otherwise engaged.

Last week came another letter, this time pointing out I was “required by law to attend”. As requested I called the Friday beforehand; and, yes, I would have to appear in Circuit Court.

Not willing twice to rely on the kindness of strangers, I had my family doctor, Dr. Frank Zwerner, prepare a nice, short letter explaining that jury duty was just not going to be my thing. I need not have bothered the good doctor.

As required Judge Joe Trout asked a series of questions as to citizenship, age, etc. I think it was the fifth question, something about physical inability, that Kay nudged me and said, “Raise your hand.” Neither the prosecutor nor defense attorney, both of whom know me, had any objection to my leaving.

Thus dashed was my dream of being one of twelve angry men (and women).

But, if Clay County gets absolutely desperate for jurors, as their last resort I’d give it a try. The Courthouse isn’t that big, I can rent “12 Angry Men” for a refresher course, and have memorized the number for 9-1-1.

Why I Write 2

 

WHY I WRITE

EVEN IF NO ONE READS IT

(Part 2 of 2)

“Writing is an obsessive, compulsive disorder.”

(Stephen King)

Always like to say “I write to find out what I think”. Turns out that can be a lot of work, and turns on a lot of that work is wasted effort. Going to leave my laptop for some future generation to read all the stuff I thought about but never published, or even finished writing.

Have done some small preparations in writing process: Some book learning, a couple of writing seminars, and a nifty-keen YouTube channel for not-that-good writers where the producer actually answers your comments. And, yeah, I learned a lot from my parents and teachers. Mostly, though, like most writers I learned by mistake. Learning by mistake being my primary talent.

Much loved wife says writing is my art, and artists can do anything with art they want, even learn by mistake. Following is my thus the state of how I do ‘art’.

MY PRIME DIRECTIVES

Writing is not about me
Writing is talking to people you don’t know, or like.
Writing is being curious about everything new to you.
Writing is finding out if what’s important to me is important.
Writing is knowing if it is important to anyone, it’s important.

Writing is listening
Writing is listening to things not heard before.
Writing is listening to things that can not be true.
Writing is listening to things heard many times before.
Writing is listening to things that have something to teach.

Writing is thinking
Writing is noting the thoughts before they’re gone.
Writing is filling in those notes with real, live words.
Writing is making sense of those beautiful thoughts.
Hard part is the thinking.

Writing is writing
Write like nobody’s watching, because there is nobody watching.
Write like nobody’s reading, because you want to have no interference.
Write like it’s important to you, because it must be important to you to write it.
Write like everybody’s reading, because otherwise it’s not worth anybody reading.

MY BOUNDARIES

Neither make the rules nor play, just report on the game. Limit to observations based solely on own admittedly limited experience and knowledge. Facts if I got them, opinion only if clearly so labeled.

Neither defend nor attack another. No one has given me any authority to do so, nor to I have ability to judge which is truth. I can only observe and seek the rest of the story.

Stick to writing ‘prose’ and not essay or thesis. I haven’t the mind for great research nor in-depth thinking. If it weren’t for Google and Wikipedia wouldn’t even know what ‘prose’ meant [Language that usually exhibits natural flow of speech and grammatical structure].

MY CONCLUSIONS

Remain open to everything, even if it’s ‘wrong’. Gotten too old and seen too much to know anything. I’m just an ill-informed observer of too many lost and wasted years.

Writing, as the man says, is an “obsessive, compulsive disorder”. Most of what I write is written because I can do no other. If it is, as it often is, important to no one, at least it gets out of my head.

Danger is that once it’s put in writing, there it is. If the writer learns and grows, as writing tends to make happen, said writer cannot change the maxim ‘what I have written I have written’. Write like some future generation will inherit my laptop, actually read all th junk on it, and wonder ‘what was he thinking’?