Dear You,
It has been observed that fish and visiting relatives have a similar shelf life. In three days, they smell, and I begin to wish they would be called away. Other guests, it seems to me, have an even shorter shelf life.
On the second day of a stopover by even good friends, the demands of hospitality seem to deepen and I find my smile becoming rather fixed. The happiness I experienced on first greeting these people is a memory that grows harder to imagine with the passing hours. Indeed, it is obvious that evening that the joy of parting -- when? how much longer? -- will truly be a delight.
While my life is not without at least a modicum of drama, I find I have only enough conversation to carry me for a few hours. And how many games of cards can I endure without being seized with a desire for solitude? "Well," I say, not stifling my yawn," I guess I'll turn in now." And I pick up my novel en route to the bedroom.
An ancestor is reported to have observed: "Blessed are the comers and goers, and damn the comers and stayers." Interesting to note how much one inherits.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Promises, promises
Dear You,
If I were to make such claims, I would be embarrassed. The wrapper for my sandwich said in part: " . . . roasted turkey and lean Black Forest ham that tastes like a slice of heaven" and "bread, freshly-baked right in the restaurant for a deliciously soft center and incredible, crusty top." (the hyphen was there -- I would not have used it)
The sandwich, of course, was not just ordinary; without that wrapper I would have dismissed it entirely. An unmet expectation is always what lingers, don't you think? Certainly I did not stop at that Wendy's restaurant along the highway because I was looking for a heavenly repast. I was hoping for something to stave off the pangs of hunger at that hour, as well as somewhere to relieve my bladder.
That's another chapter -- a sign in the restroom held spaces for the attendent to note when he cleaned; the expectation, judging from the chart, was hourly. It was otherwise unmarked. And nearby was posted a notice, something to the effect of notifying management if the room was less than clean. I would describe it here, but who am I to suppress your appetite? I made the room, like the sandwich before it, serve its purpose.
Wisdom suggests here that I am not the one to broadcast aspersion. Should I be foolish enough to hold up a mirror at this point, certainly I would see unmet expectations and broken promises crowding the view.
If I were to make such claims, I would be embarrassed. The wrapper for my sandwich said in part: " . . . roasted turkey and lean Black Forest ham that tastes like a slice of heaven" and "bread, freshly-baked right in the restaurant for a deliciously soft center and incredible, crusty top." (the hyphen was there -- I would not have used it)
The sandwich, of course, was not just ordinary; without that wrapper I would have dismissed it entirely. An unmet expectation is always what lingers, don't you think? Certainly I did not stop at that Wendy's restaurant along the highway because I was looking for a heavenly repast. I was hoping for something to stave off the pangs of hunger at that hour, as well as somewhere to relieve my bladder.
That's another chapter -- a sign in the restroom held spaces for the attendent to note when he cleaned; the expectation, judging from the chart, was hourly. It was otherwise unmarked. And nearby was posted a notice, something to the effect of notifying management if the room was less than clean. I would describe it here, but who am I to suppress your appetite? I made the room, like the sandwich before it, serve its purpose.
Wisdom suggests here that I am not the one to broadcast aspersion. Should I be foolish enough to hold up a mirror at this point, certainly I would see unmet expectations and broken promises crowding the view.
Uphill, all the way
Dear You,
The Fitness Center here is indeed a "clean, well-lighted place," full of marvelous machines, neatly stacked weights, carpeted floors and -- lest we forget reality altogether -- a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spend these months in an age-restricted community; that means I don't mingle with very many people who have lived less than a half-century on the planet already, certainly I see none here this morning.
For awhile I walk the treadmill. If I press one button, I walk faster -- another, and I walk "uphill," although the view doesn't change -- I'm still staring at the big flat-screen television that hangs a few feet ahead and above me. That task complete, I do the circuit: a series of eleven cleverly designed machines that strains different parts of the body and in a scientific, orderly way. Each machine is a marvel of red plastic padding and stainless steel, with a variety of adjustments that tasks one's cleverness. When I am done, I see that I am back where I started. On to the rowing machine. Sit in the little bucket seat, hook feet into the straps, grab the "oar" and pull, pull, pull. Lots of motion, but again the scenery hasn't changed.
In my quixotic quest to regain the silhouette I lost long ago, I really am going nowhere. And I don't need to look into the mirrors to know that.
The Fitness Center here is indeed a "clean, well-lighted place," full of marvelous machines, neatly stacked weights, carpeted floors and -- lest we forget reality altogether -- a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spend these months in an age-restricted community; that means I don't mingle with very many people who have lived less than a half-century on the planet already, certainly I see none here this morning.
For awhile I walk the treadmill. If I press one button, I walk faster -- another, and I walk "uphill," although the view doesn't change -- I'm still staring at the big flat-screen television that hangs a few feet ahead and above me. That task complete, I do the circuit: a series of eleven cleverly designed machines that strains different parts of the body and in a scientific, orderly way. Each machine is a marvel of red plastic padding and stainless steel, with a variety of adjustments that tasks one's cleverness. When I am done, I see that I am back where I started. On to the rowing machine. Sit in the little bucket seat, hook feet into the straps, grab the "oar" and pull, pull, pull. Lots of motion, but again the scenery hasn't changed.
In my quixotic quest to regain the silhouette I lost long ago, I really am going nowhere. And I don't need to look into the mirrors to know that.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Migrations
Dear You,
These past two days I was part of the caravan moving south with the changing season. Thousands of us were funneling our way through the mountains and along the rivers from the Great Lakes toward the Gulf of Mexico. Minivans, fifth-wheelers, RVs of many colors filling the lanes of I-79 in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, I-77 and I-26 in Virginia, I-95 through the Carolina and into Georgia before diverging for the coasts of Florida. The faces I scanned at roadside rests, fueling stations and restaurant tables were themselves topographical maps -- crenellations of age, some as craggy as the hills I saw outside my car window.
Ahhh, those hills. In late October, with cooler air and shortened days, the trees were in such splendor it made me wish I were a painter -- or at least a poet -- if only to capture them before the frosts turn them to drab and joyless stalks. Now, dressed like Joseph, they were indeed worth my envy.
The autumn of one's life can -- should! -- be so exuberant. Creation seems to have demanded that the stage before the finish should be a bursting forth of beauty and bounty. The sap of Spring and sun of Summer deserve no less. What had me wondering, then, was why so many of my fellow travelers on these highways looked so deflated . . . tired and unhappy and, well, old.
These past two days I was part of the caravan moving south with the changing season. Thousands of us were funneling our way through the mountains and along the rivers from the Great Lakes toward the Gulf of Mexico. Minivans, fifth-wheelers, RVs of many colors filling the lanes of I-79 in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, I-77 and I-26 in Virginia, I-95 through the Carolina and into Georgia before diverging for the coasts of Florida. The faces I scanned at roadside rests, fueling stations and restaurant tables were themselves topographical maps -- crenellations of age, some as craggy as the hills I saw outside my car window.
Ahhh, those hills. In late October, with cooler air and shortened days, the trees were in such splendor it made me wish I were a painter -- or at least a poet -- if only to capture them before the frosts turn them to drab and joyless stalks. Now, dressed like Joseph, they were indeed worth my envy.
The autumn of one's life can -- should! -- be so exuberant. Creation seems to have demanded that the stage before the finish should be a bursting forth of beauty and bounty. The sap of Spring and sun of Summer deserve no less. What had me wondering, then, was why so many of my fellow travelers on these highways looked so deflated . . . tired and unhappy and, well, old.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Go Phish
Dear You,
The Internet, said a workshop leader, is like the Wild West -- keep your gun handy. I was reminded of this today when I got a phishing email, supposedly from PayPal, the vendor I use to buy and sell with eBay online.
The mail looked legitimate. It warned me that there may have been illegal activity with my account, and would I "click here" to verify information to allow them to "unblock" it. When I clicked, I was taken to a web page that asked for several things -- in essence, my credit card information, security number and pin . . . everything you might like to have in order to go on a shopping spree.
Ordinarily, I'd just laugh, delete the message, and go on with my life. But this one made me mad. So I forwarded the email and the spurious URL to the boys at PayPal to track down the bad buys.
I write this not because I'm new to phishing expeditions -- I've had several in recent months -- but because of the unnecessary half-hour I had to put into the situation. Outside it's a beautiful day. But somewhere, really rotten and annoying people are working to spoil it. And I want them to pay, pal!
The Internet, said a workshop leader, is like the Wild West -- keep your gun handy. I was reminded of this today when I got a phishing email, supposedly from PayPal, the vendor I use to buy and sell with eBay online.
The mail looked legitimate. It warned me that there may have been illegal activity with my account, and would I "click here" to verify information to allow them to "unblock" it. When I clicked, I was taken to a web page that asked for several things -- in essence, my credit card information, security number and pin . . . everything you might like to have in order to go on a shopping spree.
Ordinarily, I'd just laugh, delete the message, and go on with my life. But this one made me mad. So I forwarded the email and the spurious URL to the boys at PayPal to track down the bad buys.
I write this not because I'm new to phishing expeditions -- I've had several in recent months -- but because of the unnecessary half-hour I had to put into the situation. Outside it's a beautiful day. But somewhere, really rotten and annoying people are working to spoil it. And I want them to pay, pal!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Ouch!
Dear You,
I read once that there is no such thing as a peripherally located ego -- each person, then, is egocentric. This is especially true in our beginnings. Indeed, I consider it a mark of adulthood when one starts to understand that he (or she) is not in fact the center of the universe.
It distresses me to encounter someone over the age of 30, say, who has not yet made such a transformation. A young woman of my acquaintance wears me out with her narcissism. This woman surely has difficulties -- don't we all? Her conversation rarely turns to the listener, who must patiently bear with the litany of her illness until he escapes. How refreshing, then, to talk with one who is sensitive to the world at large.
And it seems to me now that when one is so firmly fixated on the self, every pain -- every inconvenience -- every bump in the road becomes magnified. When someone is attuned to the sufferings of others it is easier to put his own into perspective.
I read once that there is no such thing as a peripherally located ego -- each person, then, is egocentric. This is especially true in our beginnings. Indeed, I consider it a mark of adulthood when one starts to understand that he (or she) is not in fact the center of the universe.
It distresses me to encounter someone over the age of 30, say, who has not yet made such a transformation. A young woman of my acquaintance wears me out with her narcissism. This woman surely has difficulties -- don't we all? Her conversation rarely turns to the listener, who must patiently bear with the litany of her illness until he escapes. How refreshing, then, to talk with one who is sensitive to the world at large.
And it seems to me now that when one is so firmly fixated on the self, every pain -- every inconvenience -- every bump in the road becomes magnified. When someone is attuned to the sufferings of others it is easier to put his own into perspective.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Caught red-handed
Dear You,
By all accounts, the lobster is possessed of a small and simple brain. But according to a book I've recently read -- The Secret Life of Lobsters by Trevor Corson -- lobsters have a remarkably complicated existence. Catching one is likewise a simple yet complex act: bait the cage, drop it into the water, wait, then haul it up. The cage is complicated, as are the decisions about when and where to place it, when and how to haul it back to the surface, which lobsters to keep and which to throw back into the water . . .
I thought of all that this morning, in conversation over a cup of coffee. Where was I at that moment, and how had I arrived at that time and place? I was struck by the image of a cone -- like that of the entrance to a lobster trap. Years ago I must have had quite a wide range of choices; one by one I narrowed my opportunities. And there I was holding that cup of coffee.
When the lobster enters the cone, it is in the kitchen, and that leads to the parlor. Isn't that an engaging image to explain the reality of the lobster's situation -- in effect, a trap? The point is that the lobster, and I, cannot go back and choose differently. We are where we are.
Well, all analogy leaks, my philosophy professor intoned one afternoon in 1962. So does this one. I'm not being prepared for a pot of boiling water . . .
. . . am I?
By all accounts, the lobster is possessed of a small and simple brain. But according to a book I've recently read -- The Secret Life of Lobsters by Trevor Corson -- lobsters have a remarkably complicated existence. Catching one is likewise a simple yet complex act: bait the cage, drop it into the water, wait, then haul it up. The cage is complicated, as are the decisions about when and where to place it, when and how to haul it back to the surface, which lobsters to keep and which to throw back into the water . . .
I thought of all that this morning, in conversation over a cup of coffee. Where was I at that moment, and how had I arrived at that time and place? I was struck by the image of a cone -- like that of the entrance to a lobster trap. Years ago I must have had quite a wide range of choices; one by one I narrowed my opportunities. And there I was holding that cup of coffee.
When the lobster enters the cone, it is in the kitchen, and that leads to the parlor. Isn't that an engaging image to explain the reality of the lobster's situation -- in effect, a trap? The point is that the lobster, and I, cannot go back and choose differently. We are where we are.
Well, all analogy leaks, my philosophy professor intoned one afternoon in 1962. So does this one. I'm not being prepared for a pot of boiling water . . .
. . . am I?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)