Our Doggie Kids at "Cute School" (Snickers in Kindergarten)

It was almost the end of the school year and the sublime spring weather got our Scottish Terrier/Corgy boy (Snickers) in a restless state.  Miss Beagle coaxed the students into their nap time, keeping an eye on Snickers because of his propensity to sneak out for a smoke.

At the first instance of his tobacco use Miss Beagle was shocked since this has never happened in the annals of the school, even in the middle school age dogs. Miss Beagle grilled Snickers for his tobacco source, but he's a stubborn lad, loathe to squeal so Miss Beagle made him sit in the 'shame' corner pending his cooperation. She was unaware of a bond between Snickers and the principal, Mr. Pit Bull whom the students had clandestinely  dubbed "The Bull."

Miss Beagle did, by chance, uncover the alliance after sending Snickers to the principal's office for brawling during a game of "London Bridge is Falling Down." School had been recessed for the day so she went for 'the Bull's office to investigate the matter of Snickers' admonishment. No one happened to be in the office but the window was open and she detected cigarette smoke. She heard the two talking just outside so she sauntered toward the window.

"I was in a few scrapes myself when I was a young pup."

"How old were you?" Inquired Snickers.

"I was in the second grade, as I recall."

"By the way, how many times have you been sent to my office?"

"About a hundred, give 'er take."

"Anyway," continued  The bull, "I knocked out a mutt who ate one of my colored crayons, the red one. I knocked the poor kid out cold! They carried him to the nurse's office and give 'm smellin' salts to bring him to."

"Anyway, nobody messed with me after that but I was required to stay after school in the principal's office every day for a month."

Miss Beagle knocked on the door and cleared her throat. The smokers quickly made their way back inside.

"Out for a little spring air?"

The Bull coughed before he spoke.

"I was just giving Snickers a lecture about fighting."

"Indeed."

She looked sidelong at The Bull, spectacles perched on the end of her snout.

The Bull shifted uneasily and excused himself, "I've got a lot of paperwork to do. Snickers won't make any more trouble, right, Snickers?"

"Yes, sir!"

Dress Rehearsal

My running has taken a more serious nature as I signed up tor the Paavo Nurmi  marathon. I did some searching in the Paavo website and found that there was also a half marathon. I found the map of the course then Lois and I took a ride to investigate the course. (Afterward I said to Lois, "I can do this!")

The course starts in Gile, Wisconsin and initiates one's legs with an approximately medium climb on otherwise busy Highway 77 past well-kept homes nestled in spruces and pines. There is a blacktop lane for runners and cyclists and the road surface integrity is excellent, as it is for the 13.1 miles.

I ran the course June 6, and made rookie mistakes, the first of which was to charge  too fast up the hill until the turn at Highway C. My legs were warm but not burning. I stopped and consulted my Fitbit activity tracker. I thought I had run farther than the two miles indicated. My time wasn't too bad, at 20 minutes but I would regret this later.

Onward! My shoes slapped the pavement over hill and dale in a pastoral setting. I stopped regularly to consult Fitbit and I was on the pace that I desired.  I ignored the article in Runner's World stating that first-timers should not have a time goal. Just finish the race. I've been running for five years. What do they know? My goal was 2:20.

Fatigue started in my calves after about an hour and I remembered that I hadn't slept well the last two nights. I slowed my pace to the beat of the song, Richard Cory, the ballad by Simon and Garfunkel about a much-envied rich man who had the world by the tail but went home one night and killed himself. I began to sing this out loud as well as I could, pausing as I ran past fishermen at the Gile Flowage.

At three-quarters of the County C stretch my legs began to ache seriously. I couldn't understand this since I had run 12.86 miles the previous Saturday. (I would research more on running marathons later and find out that I shouldn't run  half-marathons in consecutive weeks.) I had also read that first-timers especially should intersperse intervals of walking. I was too bull-headed to heed any of this Runner's World crap.

At the somewhat residential stretch I knew Highway 51 wasn't far ahead but I was running out of gas. I started walking intervals at seven miles and I was mad at myself. What the hell is wrong? I can run this, I know I can!

Highway 51 afforded a downhill stretch so I ran (much slower than Richard Cory tempo) but when the road flattened out so did I and I was back to running-and-walking intervals but when traffic passed by I made sure I was running.

The intervals changed with more walking, less running and my legs were burning, my hip joints were killing me but I was determined to make this course. I have sisu  as did Paavo Nurmi the great Finnish marathon runner who won nine marathons, (I think.) Fatigue and pain trumped my pride.

By the Gile Flowage I consulted Fitbit and my time was lousy. I was ashamed but I pressed onward. By now my pace was three-quarters walking. I had only two miles to the finish line.

I ran and walked several intervals and my upper back ached. I realized that I was out of gas a mile from my goal and I couldn't run any more so I walked on aching legs and hips. Cars sped past me and I wished I was sitting in one, headed for home.

Runner's World has great insight into running and I recalled a bit of training advice I had ignored: do easy runs, don't run hard at all two days before the race. On Thursday I intended to take an easy run, but the hills of Jessieville beckoned and I scaled and descended then ran up a long, hard grade, First National Street, thinking this would condition me for the hills in the half-marathon. I ignored expert advice.

I did finish the course but I won't disclose my time, but it was considerably longer than the two hours it to me to run a week ago. I started to realize that running wasn't all legwork. Strategy must be deployed, such as taking it easy at the start, the two- mile hill. I've got to listen to what my body is telling me, not the vanity.

I had read expert advice and ignored it. The book of Proverbs says, "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes." It also says "Pride comes before a fall."

This week I stuck by my training plan, running easy for three or four miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and not running Friday. I researched the benefits of slow runs. I also found that muscular micro-tears from the 13.1-mile venture needed to heal.

Today will be a six-miler and the pace will not be Richard Cory but Tuxedo Junction,  composed by  Glenn Miller (1930s) and there will be slower intervals in hilly terrain, Stuck in the Middle With You (The Steeler's Wheel)  will be playing in my mind.

My goal for the race has changed; just finish it.

Mr. Buffet's Employee

It's easy to get bogged down by the negative experiences in life, especially those that originate from sour people. I would like to see a federal law that all persons of sour disposition be required to work one year at a service job at marginal pay, with no benefits, but that's not going to happen. But if it did all of us would still have to take a happy pill since nobody's perfect with respect to disposition. Just ask my wife about my sometimes sour disposition.

There is a toxin that hits you when it's launched by an irascible person. You're behind the counter and you must adhere to proper conduct and not raise your voice or use any conduct that would escalate the situation and give that person cause to launch his vitriol in the direction of corporate headquarters. It takes skill to divert this anger that implies incompetence on your part. Sometimes 'people' skills aren't enough.

Sometimes the toxin has a particularly keen sting as in the instance of a man who threw his key card at me.

"There's no need for that! I'll try to help you with your problem but don't treat me with disrespect." I smelled his boozy breath.

He was silent for a minute, looking down, elbows on the counter and then with a sarcastic smirk lauched into a tireade,
"I spend thousands here and they can't assure me of a key that works?"

" Sorry, I'll make a new..."

"You know who I work for? Come on, ask me who I work for." I took the bait.

"Warren(expletive) Buffet."

By then I realized how drunk he was. He hadn't spent thousands. His company paid for his lodging.

I started making a new key card but I forgot my password, a password I've used for a long time and panic came knocking at the door as Mr. Buffet's employee noticed my hesitation.

"You're new here. You forgot how to make keys."

Rather than respond I concentrated on the task and offered a quick prayer 'help'.

"When did they hire you? Last week?" His voice escalating, "You forgot how to work that machine, didn't you? Yeah, you're new."

My password flashed into my mind and in seconds I had a new key made. I apologized for the inconvenience and handed the key to him.

He snorted at my apology as he demanded to talk to a manager and it was after 1:00 a.m. To shorten this story I called the police after talking to the manager and the officers took him aside for a while and talked to him and asked him questions. They escorted him to his room.

In retrospect the man was reprimanded by his boss who also stayed at the hotel. During the incident I didn't let Mr. Buffett's employee define me, and I didn't retort by telling him how many years I had worked at this hotel. I wouldn't let him destroy my dignity. When he glared angrily I stuck to the problem at hand. I felt rage and fear that he would complain to corporate headquarters but I kept a poker face.

The abuse stung for some time. In church I've been told to forgive those who sin against me. The sting was dissipated by relating this event to my wife.  Lois understands since she has had many similar encounters. In time I forgave him and he quit living inside my  mind, rent free.

I will endure this situation again assuming I don't completely retire soon. I will dignify complaints and do my utmost for a guest but I will not tolerate disrespect or extreme drunkenness. I won't let anyone destroy my dignity and self-respect.

Self-Acceptance

Acceptance is a virtue for recovering alcoholics I'm told and I've learned to accept certain things, but not everything.

I've accepted, to a degree that I have a small bone structure, giving me small wrists, narrow shoulders. It's ectomorphism, with an inability to gain weight, not having much muscle mass, and a skinny physique. I have trouble finding watch bands that fit. Usually I need a jeweler to adjust the expansion band to fit my tiny wrist. It's hard finding jeans in my size in the slim style. Regular or relaxed fit will make me look like a kid trying on his daddy's jeans.

Acceptance for my slightness of physique didn't come easy or overnight and it hasn't come entirely. Well-meaning friends  remark that I am too skinny. I should eat more. One gal did this at a church barbecue. She yelled, "You better eat. You're WAY too skinny!" Heads turned and my ears got red. Afterward I smoldered, I didn't call attention to her obesity. I didn't say she shouldn't load her plate with two helpings but later in the night I kept thinking about retorts that I thought I should have launched.

During a visit to my dermatologist I was to receive a cortisone shot for my severe eczema and the doctor noticed my weight on my patient chart. Before he said anything I told him, "I'm an ectomorph, what can I do? That's the way it is."

"Well, George although ectomorphs lack muscularity and mass they do have one outstanding characteristic." I met his eyes for the answer. "Ectomorphs have outstanding stamina. That's why marathon runners are characteristically skinny. You're a runner. You have  endurance that makes you able to run five miles or more. You're not a marathon runner but you don't do too badly for a man of sixty-seven years. Enjoy your ectomorphism."

When I see myself in the mirror I see what's there versus what I'd like to see or more accurately, what I think others want to see. At times I accept the physique God gave me and other times I don't. After a run I feel good about myself.

Then there are times  when I condemn myself and I think I should put on a lot of weight. A real man has heft, huskiness.My mom used to say I was so skinny I wouldn't cast a shadow. Other times she said I was so light that a good puff of wind would blow me away. I tried weight-lifting and increased calorie intake to no avail. All I'd got was a flabby stomach but the rest of me was still skinny.

 Last year at work some snowmobile riders returning from the gin mills in an altered state said "You ain't as pretty as the gal on the afternoon shift." Construction workers have referred to me as "ma'm" when they come to check out of the hotel.  They smirk at my small, thin hands as they navigate the computer keyboard. I don't flinch, blush or bat an eyelash. I'm all business but after my shift is done and I'm alone, self-condemnation comes like a flood.

People tend to have these neat little definitions or boxes in which they can put people. They scorn the people who fail to fit into them, mostly silently, sometimes in gossip or they launch  blunt cruel words as when someone is deemed too fat, too thin, too masculine for a female or too feminine for a male. Not white enough, not having a pot-gut and facial hair, not big enough, not petite enough, not dressed right, not driving a bad-ass truck. They don't think (or care) for a moment, how Got sees them They also do not realize that they fall short of aesthetic  perfection. They are the ones who need self-examination, to figure why they have the need to demean others.

Self-acceptance will increase, but it's non-linear with respect to time.

The Pickup Trucks are White Today

The alarm bade me "face another day, George, God isn't through with you yet."
The coffee was reviving me as I looked out of my study window.
The landscape was completely white, save for six brave pickup trucks parked at the Uptown Cafe, wearing a thin, defiant coat of snow artfully done as by a paint artisan in an auto body shop. Thin, cold snow clung to the windows of the cafe.

Snow that clings and squeaks as vehicles roll over it suggests sub-zero cold. My computer display said minus 5 degrees, wind from the North at 10 miles per hour with gusts up to thirty. The chill factor is minus twenty-five to minus thirty-five below zero.

I went to the basement to light a fire in the wood furnace, being thankful for my wood supply. Last year the cold was so severe and unrelenting that I had run out of wood by mid-January, keeping only an emergency supply for power outages.

Back upstairs to my study I climbed, sat down at the computer and observed foolhardy folks running from their car to the cafe, clad only in thin jackets, wearing no hats, gloves or boots. Their jackets weren't even zipped up! I did that when I was young, but age and arthritis makes me bundle up in an Air Force survival parka with white fur bordering my hood. The rest of my body is covered with thick, warm boots over heavy socks, elk skin choppers on my hands with double woolen liners and a pair of snowmobile bibs. I am thankful that I live in a (personal) era in which I don't give a hoot what others wear or of their furtive glances at my survival gear.

I wonder at the thinly clad natives which are not young people but many of them in middle-age. Why this display of bravado? Is it an expression of indomitable defiance, toughness, resourcefulness or Sisu, in Finnish?

I recall an instance in my youth. I worked for Haven North Lodging in the capacity of maintenance. I went from unit to unit answering calls where there was no (electrical) heat, ( circuit breaker or thermostat setting.) Some couldn't get their fireplaces to draft. It helps if you open the damper. One unit had drained a keg of beer- on the floor and it leaked through the floor and soaked the basement carpeting and furniture. The unit was unoccupied, since the people were asked to leave. Hours with a shop-vac would ensue, but not this day.

Emergency calls precluded the picayune. One unit couldn't get their sliding patio doors to close. they had been left open all night in the arctic cold and were blocked with snow that had turned to ice. The occupants were in a hung-over state, explaining the situation. They had tried to force the door closed, taking it off the tracks. I had the urge to kill.

I went from unit to unit wearing an unlined wool jacket, hoodie underneath and Sorel boots. I was crowned with a genuine, Milwauke- made Kromer Cap, the kind that grandpa Axel wore as he walked to the Geneva Mine  I defied the northwest wind and the monstrous wind chills. I was the hero as I jump-started someone's car with my Chevy Monte Carlo.

I had the illusion of toughness and I defied winter for several years until age crept in and I began to feel the cold with a keenness  experienced as never before. Arthritis reminded me of how frail the human body is, and made me wonder if I could have avoided the arthritis by bundling up in my younger years.

No one could have forced me to bundle up. I was clad as the Uptown patrons of this morning. Bundling up was for sissies. For some reason people, both genders, will continue to defy the potentially lethal wind chills. For some reason setting up an image of a 'yooper' James Dean trumps common sense.

I was as guilty as anyone else of putting image before practicality.