My Hands

Tonight, I put myself in the figurative "timeout chair" and took a long walk to re-think about something that had transpired earlier in the day.

After a while - I got hot and sweaty - I saw some deer - and really didn't look at them much - being lost in thought - I was nearly run over by some people on bikes - but I really didn't look at them much either.


I ended up looking at my hands. They have been with me for a while now and they have been to many places and through a lot.

They have been mistreated - forced to hold a credit card and scrape ice from a windshield until they bled - been burned by spilled battery acid - have oozed from poison ivy rash - been seared by a soldering iron - stapled to a roof by a power shingle gun - and hacked by a wood shop power saw.

They, somehow through all that - remember textures - the soft pillow case at night - the rough permanence of a rocky wall - the smooth gloss of a polished piece of wood - the pleasant soak of warm water while washing dishes - the cooling touches of falling rain drops - and the silky softness of a dog's ear being rubbed.

They often wave - sometimes hello - sometimes goodbye - and sometimes with only one finger - be it the "we are number one" finger or the other finger that says something else entirely.

They sometimes shake - be it from nervous excitement - the cold - or clasped in a handshake.


They are often swollen and vacillate between numbness and sharp stabbing pain - they have no great skill or exceptional ability - the piano mocks them - painting even with a roller challenges them - sign language leaves them "tongue tied" - tying knots at the dock frequently baffles them - and sometimes just holding up a box or a drinking glass takes a bit of effort.

Each Monday morning, after a weekend away from a keyboard, they always need to be retaught where each of the letters are - and they insist on spelling the word "the" as "teh" no matter what day of the week.


They haven't done a lot of things - they haven't rocked a baby to sleep in a crib - or changed a diaper - or wiped a driblet of drool away from a face just learning where its mouth is - or lifted a car seat in or out of a car - or pushed a stroller through the mall.

They haven't held someone else's hands - or caressed a cheek - or rubbed someones shoulders - in a decade or more - they might as well be retired or put away in the back of a closet.

They do, after a fashion, hammer out words at the computer - sometimes slower than my mind wants to go - sometimes faster than my mind thinks things through - and sometimes they hammer them out without my mind...paying much mind to the words that they are forming.

Words that...can have unbelievable power - the power to lift someone from a dark place - the power to bring about a smile or a laugh or warm and happy tear - words of encouragement - words of sympathy and empathy - words of cheer - and congratulations - words of prayer - and shared hopefulness - and sometimes shared sadness.


They can also cause hurt. They have thrown rocks and sticks and held baseball bats, golf clubs, and hammers that collided with unprotected places causing pain and disfigurement.

Most recently they formed words that were thoughtless and hurtful. My hands could point - they have a finger that does that - to someone else or something else - but...

...they are my hands.

And the thoughtless words were mine. So now I force my hands to hammer out a few more words - words that they are familiar with - since they frequently make mistakes - words like "I am sorry" and "Please forgive me".

My hands are often clumsy - and don't go or do what I want them to do - but they can't run off without me - and I won't let them shirk being responsible for having caused someone to be hurt.

I can't promise they won't slip up again - but I'll try to do my best with them - they are the only hands I've got.

I am sorry.

When Friends Struggle

As we turn yet another calendar page over and greet July, it seems like many of the people I call my friends have been struggling with a variety of things.

Some of them struggle with chronic physical conditions, some with injuries to their backs or their legs. Some struggle to recover from major and minor surgeries.


Some feel left behind or left out. Some feel that they have been forgotten. Or that the world is so big that they are insignificant and lost.

Some of them struggle with lost jobs and some with lost homes.

And some with both.

Some struggle with sick or hurt family members which include loved pets. Some even struggle with their friends.

Some struggle with coping with expectations that remain unmet. Some struggle with love lives that are dead on arrival, missing, or worse are in relationships that are actually abusive.

And a goodly number struggle with many of these things all at once.


Someone dear to me often says, "Life! Aye, it's what we signed up for!"

Some days, I just wish I could remember signing anything.

I can understand how many of my friends feel the way they do. Many of their struggles are mine too, perhaps only in a different shape or form or degree.

Sometimes I wish I could give them an umbrella when it rains or pull them under the roof when the contrary wind blows. Life weathers us all. It beats against us and batters us, and leaves us fractured, blistered, peeling, and perhaps even rust-stained.

Today I find myself struggling with all the struggling. The Golden Rule is my guide, but it fails sometimes. Sometimes I can't do what I would like to do. I can't transform myself into a Harry Potter-like wizard, wave my wand, and forcefully say incantations like "Cancer Exspellarium!" or "Hurtyknee Allbetterum!"

And of course, I know no one expects this of me.

And more practically, I know sometimes the best thing to do is to do nothing.


Sometimes no matter what bruise the world has given a friend, the best thing to do seems to be "just sit next to them and listen".

Sometimes just soothing talk about something else entirely is a help.

Sometimes a shared laugh over a particularly good joke clears away some of the hurt.

Sometimes something physical, something tangible to hold, like a card with a scrawled line or two of ink can mean something really big. Sometimes flowers (or even a picture of a flower) can bring some sunshine into some one's world - I've never really understood how they do that.

Sometimes watching a butterfly emerge or seeing an extra special sunset or rainbow works like when mom kissed your boo-boo and things were once again set aright back in the good old days.

Sometimes the hand that mows their lawn or brings them hot soup helps. And sometimes just a couple quarters and some loose dimes is really all it takes.

The helping hand could be like the magic of having a fresh coat of paint - Perhaps not so much the fresh color but the personal touch of a caring application. But does that just conceal the damage? Does it put it simply put it out of sight and out of mind?

And how do you know what to do when?

I sleep less easily on the days when friends struggle.


My friends have their pride and dignity. Many of them are a very independent lot - and would never ask for help - come hell or high water. In fact, that trait may be the endearing quality I see in them and the very thing that caught my eye in the about them in the first place.

How do I respect that - their pride and their dignity? I know I surely would be causing them even more hurt if I damage that - however unintentionally and inadvertently.

The balance of being there, showing that someone cares, and letting them know they aren't really alone, forgotten or even lost in this chaotic world of ours - weighed against their independence and diginity and sense of self-worth - seems to me to be a difficult one.

Maybe I'm just thinking too hard.


Your friends reflect on your identity. A part of their substance becomes at least one of the numbers or letters that name you. Somewhere inside you - there is a place that holds the part of them they have choosen to give you.

A place that needs an open window and some open space to give them light, fresh air and a place to grow. Sometimes, there needs to be a door - so that they can go their own way.

But I want that door to have a welcome mat and remain unlocked - so should they want, they can return at a time of their own choosing. I hope that, should they go - they will want to drop a line or two - just now and then.


And in the end, we are all "flying solo". Life is ours to live it the way we chose to, within the constraints we find or even place ourselves in.

And life is a journey to somewhere - I'm not sure exactly where - Our friends are our traveling companions.

I feel blessed to have the traveling companions I have. I don't mind helping with them overcome seasickness or contrary winds when I can. When any one of them gets laid up on the shore, broken or simply in need of a rest, I want them all to know that I'm not going to willingly leave them behind.

He's My Dad

With Father's Day rapidly approaching I have spent some time wracking my brains for an idea for what to do for my dad. He's quite a guy.

He was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, just before WWII broke out. My grandmother tells me he was just a little tyke when somehow he got his hands on a Japanese "Rising Sun" flag and waved it out the second floor of their brand new home in what was then the pretty classy Rhawnhurst suburbs. Since the flag waving happened only weeks after Pearl Harbor, you can imagine the fireworks that took place.


My dad grew up playing along the Pennypack Creek - swimming, biking and skipping stones everyday - We must assume he didn't serve time for the flag waving - but no one is telling. He bought a bright red Ford convertible with white leather interior and went off to MIT to learn how to be a Mechanical Engineer. He met my mother there - she being a Boston native and married her soon after he graduated.

He then served as a fresh Second Lieutenant in the Army at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland to work off his ROTC obligation between the Korean and Vietnam Wars. He repaired Main Battle Tanks and butted heads with the "Army" way of (not) doing things. Despite being at loggerheads, he was soon promoted to Captain.

Obligation discharged, and after deciding the Army wasn't the career for him (this decision took about two seconds maximum), he went to work for Howe Scale in Rutland, Vermont and his most vivid memory seems to be the endless depths of snow.


He and my mom later moved to Lansdale to work at Turbo Machine Co. where he designed machinery that made the then newfangled spun artificial fabrics like nylon and rayon. It was at Turbo that he met the guy that had the place "down the shore". My dad, always had to have a few things in his life - something to tinker with, a dog and a boat!

My dad often went fishing with his coworker buddy and eventually bought the man's house down the shore, but not after he had gone through four boats, getting a bigger one each time.


My Grandfather needing help at the family-owned business, the Atlas Bronze Corporation, a non-ferrous metal foundry, talked my dad into working for him. Rather than move downtown to be close to work, my dad commuted nearly an hour one way every day including Saturdays for years so that his sons (my two brothers and I) could go to a High School renown for its academics. Dad - I can't thank you enough for this huge sacrifice you made for me - there are simply no words - your unselfishness has meant so much for me and my brothers.


My dad, being an engineer, expected my brothers and I to "figure things out" and to learn everything we could about everything. He was demanding - stern - and fair. He imbued a lifelong desire within me to question things, to figure things out, to think critically, to realize not knowing something was but the first step in a process... to know where to efficiently look for the proper answers - to know what sources to trust - and to recognize a "right answer" when I found one.

He also insisted I learn how to swim, to bike, rebuild a car engine, to canoe, sail, and powerboat, to never question my own ability to learn how to do something. Once again, Dad, I can never thank you enough for that - the world can be a scary place - but it can be full of adventure and good times when one has faith in oneself. You have given me a wonderful and priceless gift.


About eight years ago, my dad called me up out of the blue and said, "Get your sea bag packed. We are going for a boat ride." I found myself in Jacksonville, Florida preparing a houseboat for a 1,200 mile journey up the inland waterway to the upper reaches of the Chesapeake Bay. My dad, my mom, younger brother and I sailed from Green Cove Springs and never looked back.

After a couple weeks passed, we arrived in Oxford, Maryland. One engine breakdown, one near capsizing in the shoals in the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, and one bone-chilling thunderstorm at Hilton Head, South Carolina where we later learned a tornado had been spotted just a couple miles away - and the memories of a lifetime - the glorious sunsets, the shore birds overhead and in the swamps, alligators and dolphins, the shrimp boats heading to sea... Dad, you made it possible and I'd sail anywhere with you, anytime.

It wasn't until a few years ago that my Dad actually got his US Coast Guard Master 100 Gross Ton Captain's license. He must have thousands of hours at the helm of a boat. To celebrate, I had someone very special make him some Captain Bob caps. I bet you've noticed that he always, always, is wearing one.

I had to dig around before I found a picture of him without one on!


Dad, I bet when this picture was taken - sometime during your collage years, you had no idea where your journey in life was going to lead you - I'm so very glad and so very lucky that journey led you to having me as your son.

Happy Father's Day Dad. I love you.

Dear Diary...

I interrupt today's entry to bring you a public service announcement.

If any of you would like to send MarmiteToasty a get-well card but haven't because you don't know the address - please leave a comment or shoot me an e-mail. I'd be glad to send you my address and forward your card to her. I'm sure she'd like to get 'em.

...and now back to our regularly scheduled entry...


Dear Diary,

Today was a really nice day. I woke up feeling pretty good after weeks of first thing in the morning headaches. I got up without my knees creaking, and I even sung softly in the shower. My car started right up and the drive to work was nice. The traffic was thin, the morning air cool and refreshing, so I had the windows open. I even waved someone through a four-way stop sign before me, even though I got there first.

I had some interesting things to do at work, I saved one company $15,000 and found some data they "lost" in their database. The mailman was on time and brought my federal tax refund and no overdue bills. Lunch tasted really good - that new salad dressing I got was really tasty even though it was good for me.

I got to chat with some really cool and interesting people for a while. Several people made me smile and some left me laughing out loud in shameless glee. I wrote an email to someone to thank them for helping me remember a wonderful time I had twenty years ago in the land of the shamrocks - those memories made me smile for hours.


I got to leave work early and went for a walk along the river. The river was beautiful today. I saw a bunch of people on the trail and smiled and waved at them all - a lot of them looked startled but most of them smiled, waved back and some even said "Hello".

Some of them probably wondered what I was up to.

I think I made some people I know smile today. I know I made at least one person laugh. That always makes my day special.

Pleasantly tired from my walk, I took a shower and enjoyed the feeling of honest sweat washing away. I read some of my friend's blogs and lived with them vicariously. Some had way too cute pictures of little kids with the goofiest grins. Some of them had pictures of their dogs that were just as cute as the kids in my mind. Some even had orange cones - that made me all warm and tingly! And one amazed and awed me - she knitted this incredible blanket - she continues to inspire me.

The sunset was spectacular - the sky lit up as if to applaud the ending of a superlative performance by Mother Nature. I had to stand and clap too.


Sorry little deer. I didn't mean to spook you, I just lost my footing briefly in the loose gravel.

Trees are like people

Now before you think I’ve totally lost it (or is it too late for that?) let me explain...

Some trees are new born.

Some are born again.

Some speak to me. 

And some don’t.

Some are weepy.

Some simply shine.

And some positively glow.

Some are sage and wise…

Some are prickly.

Some even have cones. Lucky them.

Some have severe foot fungus.

Some are gnarled and warty.

Some have bad skin.

Some are bald…

Some lean to the right.

Others lean to the left.

Some die young.

Some are tied up and miss things.

My favorite trees are those that seem to have open arms

and are always inviting.

Some will give you a hand

with your wash and are really useful.

Some tower over the rest of us.

Others seem to be barely hanging on.

Some are rough and gruff.

Some look great in stripes.

Some seem to have split personalities.

And some are worse…

Some even seem twisted.

But a nice tree is well-grounded.

Some trees stand tall and have great posture.

And some have pot bellies. 

And some like being on the waterfront on a Spring day.

 

And some are magnificent.

What’s your favorite kind of tree?

2:17 AM - a fictional account

*This blog is made from completely recycled words. It was originally published 12/2/2006*

Up from the depths of a complete exhausted sleep, my consciousness surfaces when, for the first time in months - there is an absence of pain throbbing in my left leg.

The absence brought a pleased smile to my face, as my consciousness crested the sleep world and brought me to a drugged-like state of being awake. The neon red digital clock reads 2:17 AM in the otherwise blank darkness. My smile turns swiftly into panic when I realize the absence of pain... is caused by the complete lack of any feeling whatsoever in my legs. I struggle to sit upright in bed, the thoughts of drifting off and returning to sleep vanishing with unbelievable swiftness. I curse living alone at such a time as this.

The lateness, or rather the earliness of the hour, 2:17 AM, burning, searing into my head, as I stand stiffly, uncertainly on legs pretending to be wood. I carefully take the two steps to the dresser that holds the telephone and frantically search the darkness with my hands for it. My hand finds the phone just as I stumble and fall, like a novice on tall circus clown stilts... heavily to the floor. I quickly turn to a seating position when OUCH! I see those stars they talk about as the phone falls onto my head after teetering on the edge of the dresser after I had blindly pushed it there.

I fleetingly think, "Well, at least I won't have to try to stand to get to the phone, its down here on the floor with me," as I find it after a couple sweeps in the dark with my right hand. I find the handset and listen to ... the lack of dial tone. The fall from the dresser had pulled the cord from the wall. I look at the clock while I ponder what to do, 2:18 AM.

My efforts to stand, pulling myself upright along the dresser fail as my legs refuse to cooperate. I resolve to crawl the length of the house to the living room where another phone sits on a low table, the only one low enough for me to reach. I turn to the clock and the taunting red neon burns in the dark, 2:19 AM. There is no moonlight tonight, the heavy curtains pulled closed in any event to ward off the years first frosty windy night. I grope along the floor crawling slowly toward the clock and the door next to it when I hear a poof like thud. The clock disappears and blackness falls. The power has failed.

I crawl slowly toward where I remember the doorway to be, reaching out to ward off an unexpected collision with the wall, doorframe, or table leg under the clock. I get to hallway were a slight draft chills my skin, in my haste, I had left my night robe draped on the end of the bed. I ponder returning for it only a moment and press on for the telephone as the chill seems to be causing the total numbness in my legs to drift upwards to my waist.

I know the hall runs the length of my house, it could not be more than 50-60 feet long but it takes what seems like hours to work my way down to the far end. Panting from exertion, and from fear, my left hand finds the doorframe denoting the entryway to the kitchen; the phone is toward my right a bit. I crawl forward, knowing the phone is ten, nine, eight feet away when I hear another thudding noise as the power comes back on. A dull light shines in the living room, this one a pale green, as the VCR clock blinks 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM repeatedly ever so mindlessly.

My eyes can see faint shapes in the gloom, but without my glasses on, nothing takes on solidness, and the vague forms do not help me with finding the phone. I know it is about 12 feet.... over in that direction from the eternally blinking 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM... I finally get to the phone and ...realize the only phone number I remember is Nine-Eleven. I sit in nearly complete darkness in despair as the cold and the numbness overtake my arms and fingers, the eternally blinking 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM, 12:00 AM stabs at me, I cannot phone for help... as my phone does not have an "11" on the dial.

Show and Tell

No, I'm not planning on showing everyone my new boots and talking about them.

------
This is about the bane of every school kid...late nights spent building the truly detested Diorama for Show and Tell.

With all the excitement over the recent sighting of the Big Muddy Ocha bouncing around in my head, I had a great idea that will be a boon to all school kids, young and old while showering this morning!

A really neat, sure-fire "A-plus", Diorama would show the Big Muddy Ocha in a raging flood of brown water!

Here kids! - This is what you need to get started!

Read these complete instructions on how to craft your own Ocha!

Once you have constructed your own little Ocha, you will need:

- A shoe box, piece of plywood, or stiff piece of cardboard
- A wooden clothes pin
- One Jar of imported Marmite - except NO substitutions
- One Jar of Peanut Butter (get an 'easy to spread' brand)
- A spreading knife, wall paper scraper, or putty knife
- One 3x 5 index card
- One pen or pencil
- Roll of scotch tape
- Small twigs

Options

- One, 2-4 inch high, glow in the dark Halloween skeleton
- Some chicken bones
- Some Popsicle sticks and some white Elmer's glue

Place the shoebox, plywood, or cardboard on a flat surface, like your Mom's fancy dining room table. Don't worry about making a mess, that cross-stitch table cloth your great-great Aunt Josephine made about hundred fifty years ago will protect the shiny wooden table and make cleaning up a breeze.

First you take the clothes pin and squeeze it over your nose so you can't smell anything.

Creatively position your little Ocha on the floor of your Diorama affixing it with some scotch tape.

Open the jar of peanut butter and liberally splosh it over the bottom of your Diorama. Then mix in all the Marmite, using its stiffness to make dark brown little swirls and waves. Be sure to slop some over the base of the ocha as this will hold him/her down once the gunk dries out a bit.

Place some small twigs in the water to make it appear like huge branches are washing downstream.

Label the 3x5 index card, using your pen or pencil. I suggest "The Big Muddy Ocha, Ocha's Bend, as discovered by Photojournalist Punkn, April 2009" and your name. Keep the 3x5 card safe, it will be placed in front of the Diorama when you display it with considerable (and very understandable) pride!


------
Now if you want to embellish it a little because little Becky Goodyshoes always has these jaw-dropping Dioramas, heres an idea or two.

Take the Popsicles and glue up a raft.

Glue the skeleton to the raft and smoosh the raft and skeleton into the Marmite-Peanut Butter bondo mix. If you don't have, or can find, a skeleton, a couple small chicken bones from last night's, week's or month's chicken dinner (depending on how often folks clean up at your place) will be fine.

Be creative! Try some different placements and see if you can't give your Diorama viewer a shudder when they wonder if The Big Muddy Ocha ate someone.

Me and My Chicken

After laughing over all the hijinks's Marmite Toastie has had with her Chickens, I got a little jealous and lot envious and decided to see about getting some chickens on my own.

I found an interesting website chock full of information on "how-to's" and "what you do's" and read it over with all the intense concentration one would devote to a corporate stock prospectus. I also sounded out a couple really good friends about the idea.

One friend sent me this really neat link to a how-to build your own Chicken Coop video. Of course, I would add lavender or lemon scented sawdust and then fill it up with warm snugly herby scented hay. If I'm going to have a Chicken Ranch, I'm going to do it right.

The other friend had some pretty good words of advice.

She recommended checking out the zoning laws to see if I could legally have chickens in my backyard. After a number of fruitless calls to the county, I was redirected to my township code office and their on-line code website.

After learning I could have a private Helipad, if I limited myself to less than ten takeoffs and landings a day, I found this gem:

Keeping Of Pets

Domestic animals that are normally considered to be kept in conjunction with a dwelling for the pleasures of the resident family. This shall include dogs, cats, small birds, racing pigeons, gerbils, rabbits and other nonpoisonous animals commonly sold in retail pet shops. - [Added 4-7-2005 by Ord. No. 524]

I'm going to interpret that as a definite "It's Ok!".

...but then my friend, who is a genius by the way, said, "Maybe you could start with a virtual chicken? Maybe a poster board cutout of a chicken? You could move it around a few times a day, pretend like it moves on its own."

I thought to myself, "Yes!! YES!! That's a great idea!" So I got some cardboard, taped a small wooden stake to it, and went looking for chicken picture on the Internet to print out to paste on the cardboard.

May I introduce to you, my new virtual pet? Please say "Hi!" to Shake N. Bake!



Here's a close up of Ol' Shake. Ain't he handsome?



Gosh, I'm as pleased as punch! and you know something? I've already discovered an upside to keeping a Chicken.

You don't even have to blank out their "privates" for modesty sake!

Umm... Happy April Fools Day!