Wednesday, December 26, 2012
The way Christmas S'psed to Be
I still work part-time at a local hotel and when one of my fellow workers asked, "Are you working here at Christmas?" they were sympathetic that I had been scheduled to work the 11-7 shift, starting at 11p.m. Christmas Eve.
"Yeah, I gotta work Christmas Eve but then another person who would have been scheduled is able to have Christmas Eve with family."
"That's really cool that you see it that way," fellow employee observed.
"I have my moments." (I reflected how my serenity blooms when I have such an attitude.)
My shift was uneventful. I tweaked the chemical balance in the hotel's pool and spa. I did the night audit on the computer and prepared the registration slips for the day's arrivals. Downy flakes had settled on the sidewalk so I cleaned all 300 ft. of it. I hauled out the garbage.
I exchanged warm Christmas greetings with Val, who came in for the day shift and then I would go home and sleep. On the way home I reflected that I work with some wonderful people, including the boss.
My wife, Lois was just getting up when I entered our bedroom.She would take the"kids," as we call our two dogs, out for their morning chores. I would drift off blissfully and not be awakened until noon so that I could attend the community church dinner put on by Woodland Church, where both Lois and have been active for many years.
The dinner was a collaborative effort, as several members of our (Baptist) congregation cooked turkeys at home, as well as deserts. I was proud of all the work Lois put into preparing the turkey since she is busy from dawn to dusk on any given day. Several others brought cooked turkeys as well as a ham. There were the traditional mashed potatoes and stuffing and a bowl of turkey gravy and a grand array of desserts. My weakness was for the fudge.
It was heartening that so many people volunteered to make this event a success.
A reporter from the Ironwood Globe interviewed pastor Mike and took pictures.
Most of our guests were not Baptists and I suspect that many didn't share in our doctrinal beliefs but there was no proselytizing. Our only mission was to provide food and fellowship for many people who would not have such a dinner. That is what Jesus would have done and He could have miraculously made the food appear but I suspect that He would defer to allow volunteers
give a gift to the community.
After all, that's the way Christmas is s'posed to be.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Snow-Romantic and Real
It's Not Easy Living in the U.P.
I just re-read Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He lived in New England so he was used to rugged winters. This poem is on a dog-eared page of his collected works.
It's 8 a.m. and it's still almost dark. I try to associate this with the Christmas season, as I did as a kid. Going to school when it was almost dark was a novelty. The snow was a novelty, as Frost wrote, "the gentle sweep of easy wind and downy flake." This imagery revives that wonder, even when It's 5:30 in the morning and I've got to get Lois off to work after a major snowfall. Mother Nature has done a work of art and transformed the landscape into grandness.
In the U.P. we measure snow not by inches, but by feet. We shovel off our roof-tops in January to prevent collapse. I clear the pristine downy flakes from our woodpile and hit the woodpile with a sledge hammer to loosen the chunks of wood that have frozen together. Then I move the wood into our basement through a little basement window.
My back aches from removing the snow by muscle and machine and tiredness envelopes me. I sit down in my recliner and sleep washes warmly over me. The snow-removal is done, all three hours of it and the wood is in the basement. Lois watches TV while I slumber.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
A Pile of Maple Logs
What insanity! Our yard was full of maple logs, thirty cord's worth,short cords, that is. All of this wood had to be processed, that is, sawn into about 16" chunks and these chunks would be split by me using an 8-pound splitting maul to produce usable firewood. Then I piled the wood in precise stacks which dominated our tiny yard.This project took a great deal of my time for about about three months but it gave me a sense of accomplishment, pride if you will.
It was a hot and sticky August day and I was finishing the sawing of the last few logs with my roaring chainsaw and I stopped because my glasses were full of sweat, effectively blinding me. I wiped my glasses with my shirt-sleeve and went in to refill my coffee mug even though a tall, cool glass of water would have made more sense.
I sat down on a huge maple block, the one that I used for a splitting block and sipped my hot coffee. I reflected how the once mountainous pile of logs that I had purchased from a logger for $280 was transformed into stove-sized wood, quite an accomplishment for someone with a slight build. All of my work would keep our house warm next winter, not this coming winter, as the wood was still green. I had a prodigious amount of dry wood in the basement for the coming winter.
The saw had cooled sufficiently so that I could refill it and finish all of the sawing and then Mr. Held stopped by. He was my high school chemistry teacher, a stern taskmaster with high grading standards. I recalled the many times I had seen him walk by our house in those days. He was energetic, his gait focused. He distantly bade me 'good morning' or 'good afternoon.'
Teachers were larger than life in the days of my adolescence. They commanded respect and sometimes were cruel, as in the time that Mr. Martell drafted me into 'group two' math because "you're one of the slower students." This was in seventh grade and in high school I would dispel this branding as an intellectual sloth.
Mr. Held was also larger than life. He kept strict command of his classroom and sometimes he was brutal as in the time he stood in front of Julie Pavlovich when she didn't remember the electrovalence of oxygen. Her face face reddened as he demanded the answer and when she appeared on the cusp of a good cry he relented and asked this question of someone else. Sometimes it was Larry Ruschmeyer, whose complexion also became ruddy during his ordeal.
"How can you people hope to solve chemistry problems if you don't know your valences?"
The kid in front of me sat with his hand supporting his head from behind with his arm on my desk, striking a casual pose. He was surreptitiously giving Mr. Held the finger. He did this each time he was in attendance. I don't think he meant this because Steve was not malicious but he was frustrated with Mr. held as a teacher and he dreaded the class.
I didn't recall any of this when Mr. Held stopped by to visit.
His gait was slower and he was affable, conversational.
"Boy, that was a huge pile of logs and now they are firewood. Do you have a wood stove or is it a fur nace?"
"It's a furnace that works along with our gas furnace."
"Does it cut your heating costs?"
"It sure does. Saves us a bundle of money."
"Do you think you'll teach math again?" He surprised me.
"No, I don't think so."
"It's too bad your Dad had to die just when you were launching your career. You would have made a fine teacher."
"I still love math, still go into my college textbooks."
"What are you doing for a living now, George?"
"I work part-time as the night auditor for the Townhouse. I also do the books for the Baptist Church."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"Most of the time."
"I don't think anyone enjoys their work all the time. At least you've got a job and jobs are at a premium in this neck of the woods."
Mr. Held,s face was lined and his eyes belied a career of hard work at Ironwood High School. He seemed to have gotten frail. He was so friendly now, but in school I saw him as knowledgeable and tyrannical. Now he was a friendly neighbor and a friend. How life had changed for both of us. Mr. Held would eventually die from Parkinson's disease, his son Charlie would die from lung cancer and his wife ended up in a nursing home and I never saw his daughter Ruth since high school. Their house is occupied by retired folks from the city, yet I think of the Held family every time I pass by. I see it as a memorial.
I wonder if there is a scholarship in his honor. There should be.
It was a hot and sticky August day and I was finishing the sawing of the last few logs with my roaring chainsaw and I stopped because my glasses were full of sweat, effectively blinding me. I wiped my glasses with my shirt-sleeve and went in to refill my coffee mug even though a tall, cool glass of water would have made more sense.
I sat down on a huge maple block, the one that I used for a splitting block and sipped my hot coffee. I reflected how the once mountainous pile of logs that I had purchased from a logger for $280 was transformed into stove-sized wood, quite an accomplishment for someone with a slight build. All of my work would keep our house warm next winter, not this coming winter, as the wood was still green. I had a prodigious amount of dry wood in the basement for the coming winter.
The saw had cooled sufficiently so that I could refill it and finish all of the sawing and then Mr. Held stopped by. He was my high school chemistry teacher, a stern taskmaster with high grading standards. I recalled the many times I had seen him walk by our house in those days. He was energetic, his gait focused. He distantly bade me 'good morning' or 'good afternoon.'
Teachers were larger than life in the days of my adolescence. They commanded respect and sometimes were cruel, as in the time that Mr. Martell drafted me into 'group two' math because "you're one of the slower students." This was in seventh grade and in high school I would dispel this branding as an intellectual sloth.
Mr. Held was also larger than life. He kept strict command of his classroom and sometimes he was brutal as in the time he stood in front of Julie Pavlovich when she didn't remember the electrovalence of oxygen. Her face face reddened as he demanded the answer and when she appeared on the cusp of a good cry he relented and asked this question of someone else. Sometimes it was Larry Ruschmeyer, whose complexion also became ruddy during his ordeal.
"How can you people hope to solve chemistry problems if you don't know your valences?"
The kid in front of me sat with his hand supporting his head from behind with his arm on my desk, striking a casual pose. He was surreptitiously giving Mr. Held the finger. He did this each time he was in attendance. I don't think he meant this because Steve was not malicious but he was frustrated with Mr. held as a teacher and he dreaded the class.
I didn't recall any of this when Mr. Held stopped by to visit.
His gait was slower and he was affable, conversational.
"Boy, that was a huge pile of logs and now they are firewood. Do you have a wood stove or is it a fur nace?"
"It's a furnace that works along with our gas furnace."
"Does it cut your heating costs?"
"It sure does. Saves us a bundle of money."
"Do you think you'll teach math again?" He surprised me.
"No, I don't think so."
"It's too bad your Dad had to die just when you were launching your career. You would have made a fine teacher."
"I still love math, still go into my college textbooks."
"What are you doing for a living now, George?"
"I work part-time as the night auditor for the Townhouse. I also do the books for the Baptist Church."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"Most of the time."
"I don't think anyone enjoys their work all the time. At least you've got a job and jobs are at a premium in this neck of the woods."
Mr. Held,s face was lined and his eyes belied a career of hard work at Ironwood High School. He seemed to have gotten frail. He was so friendly now, but in school I saw him as knowledgeable and tyrannical. Now he was a friendly neighbor and a friend. How life had changed for both of us. Mr. Held would eventually die from Parkinson's disease, his son Charlie would die from lung cancer and his wife ended up in a nursing home and I never saw his daughter Ruth since high school. Their house is occupied by retired folks from the city, yet I think of the Held family every time I pass by. I see it as a memorial.
I wonder if there is a scholarship in his honor. There should be.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Pre-Christmas Slump
Usually my pre-Christmas slump starts with the first commercial surge. Bombastic TV commercials proclaim great savings, selection, deals, etc. and suggest that holiday joy comes from a new Lincoln MKX or a wife's joy will originate from opulent jewelry. The imagery is vivid and the thread of many commercials is often a drumbeat at 120 beats per minute. (I timed the rhythm and 120 is the standard rate.)
Each day the materialistic drumbeat continues, with increasing intensity as Christmas Day approaches. Each day my psyche is beaten down by the sales hype for goods I cannot afford. Each day the volume increases and the mute button affords solace as long as I do not linger on the man (who seems about my age) driving the MKX with a tiny suggestion of a smirk. I always thought I would enjoy my senior age in comfort but such is not the case. I guess that depends on one's definition of comfort.
Other ads portray ideal people, comely and joyful, wearing diamond earrings or sitting on a luxurious leather recliner. This leads to another common thread. The people are joyous. This is my pratfall because I see people in real life, effusive, laughing and I'm not in that space so I think there is something wrong with me and my gloom magnifies with the real or imagined cheer around me.
I know enough not to let this happen but the ads hit me from my blind side, when I am hungry or tired or stressed. Then I compare myself to the guy in the MKX and I come up short.
I have not reached the ideal of luxury or money in the bank but that's okay. I have learned that it is okay when I don't feel okay. The thing is for me to filter my feelings through the attitude of gratitude, in other words I need to count my blessings.
I can look at the dark, negative side of life, then hinder myself with unrealistic expectations and take my eyes off the reason for the season. Jesus did not enter the world to a rich family nor did he become a member of the aristocracy. He rode a donkey, not a chariot. He lived as a working man, not an administrator. His was the life of caring for others.
A sure-fire help for my mood is to give generously to the Salvation Army kettle, or to attend my A.A. meetings, to pitch in and help with household chores, in other words take the advice of local A.A. gurus and get out of myself.
Each day the materialistic drumbeat continues, with increasing intensity as Christmas Day approaches. Each day my psyche is beaten down by the sales hype for goods I cannot afford. Each day the volume increases and the mute button affords solace as long as I do not linger on the man (who seems about my age) driving the MKX with a tiny suggestion of a smirk. I always thought I would enjoy my senior age in comfort but such is not the case. I guess that depends on one's definition of comfort.
Other ads portray ideal people, comely and joyful, wearing diamond earrings or sitting on a luxurious leather recliner. This leads to another common thread. The people are joyous. This is my pratfall because I see people in real life, effusive, laughing and I'm not in that space so I think there is something wrong with me and my gloom magnifies with the real or imagined cheer around me.
I know enough not to let this happen but the ads hit me from my blind side, when I am hungry or tired or stressed. Then I compare myself to the guy in the MKX and I come up short.
I have not reached the ideal of luxury or money in the bank but that's okay. I have learned that it is okay when I don't feel okay. The thing is for me to filter my feelings through the attitude of gratitude, in other words I need to count my blessings.
I can look at the dark, negative side of life, then hinder myself with unrealistic expectations and take my eyes off the reason for the season. Jesus did not enter the world to a rich family nor did he become a member of the aristocracy. He rode a donkey, not a chariot. He lived as a working man, not an administrator. His was the life of caring for others.
A sure-fire help for my mood is to give generously to the Salvation Army kettle, or to attend my A.A. meetings, to pitch in and help with household chores, in other words take the advice of local A.A. gurus and get out of myself.
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