Lessons

 

This American flag came together in the weeks following 9/11. Cutting up a few magazines proved a fruitful if elementary way to process the dark jumbled thoughts swimming through my then young-adult brain. This response hangs in my classroom and has done so for years, and I hardly even notice it anymore.

I have now lived half of my life in a post 9/11 world, and some folks who were born after that day, or who were simply too young to process the tragedy, sometimes question our collective remembrance this time of year. That’s understandable. Such historically heavy events, whether they are terrible, like Pearl Harbor, or wonderful, like the moon landing, are truly “I-guess-you-had-to-be-there” moments, and reflecting back on that particularly terrible moment reminds me of two tandem lessons:

For starters, life ends.

Life will end. It may end months after the diagnosis or weeks after the accident - it might end without warning on a bright autumn day. But it will end, and before that day comes, we will also lose many among us we don’t want to live without. That is the first lesson 9/11 reiterated to  us - brutally- and it is a hard, hard lesson.

 Life does end, but heroes are real.

Heroes are real and they are all around us, and that is the second lesson. Despite the cynicism of our age, and the graft and the chaos, heroes absolutely exist. 9/11 also proved that. While thousands of people were rushing away from the carnage, firefighters and other first-responders were marching towards the scene. Many of them - over four hundred of them - were sprinting towards their own last day on earth. Heroes also overtook the terrorists on United Airlines Flight 93 and brought that plane down, sacrificing themselves, undoubtedly saving thousands of more lives. Heroes do exist, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Some of them look like you and some don’t, but the capacity for that courage is also part of the human experience.

            Many Americans came together in the weeks after 9/11 in a way that seems almost unfathomable now. What happened to us?

Good Timing

 

Arches fall.

We learned this lesson from our digital tour guide last summer as we crawled along the roads of Arches National Park.  Over time, even the most durable arch will succumb to the elements: wind and rain and the creaking of deep seismic shuffling. We were fortunate to have witnessed such geological marvels, we were told. A millennium or two down the road - the flutter of butterfly wings in the geological scope - and the arches would be gone.

So we did enjoy them, along with many other remarkable features Utah has to offer, west past St. Louis and Kansas City, and also Kansas, and even west past Morrison, Colorado (which is just west of Denver) where we stopped for a couple of days to visit old friends and their new pet dog, Bumblebee. Here we laughed at old jokes and balanced on ropes. We soaked tired feet in a cold stream next to that most iconic of Colorado tourist spots - the Coney Island Hot Dog stand from Comedy Central’s South Park. After two days' rest we continued over the continental divide and then mercifully down onto less-finicky terrain.

Eventually we made it across the border of Utah itself, where we found the kind of desert portrayed on Saturday morning cartoons - where coyotes pack dynamite and bloated expectations. We eventually found Moab and then found our hotel. Our timing was off, though, and the pool was broken, so instead we drove to Arches down the road. But our daughter Annaka’s timing was perfect, because, as a 4th grader, she was given a free “America the Beautiful” pass, which allowed us access to all the national parks in the United States!

The next morning we scooted out early enough to make it to Canyonlands National Park by sunrise. We hiked two trails, both in the “Island in the Sky” area: the iconic Mesa Arch trail, (pictures of which you’ve undoubtedly seen if you’ve ever read an inspiring quote next to an inspiring picture) and the White Rim Overlook, which was less inspiring because we had to make sure no one got too close to the rim! After some more picture-taking we returned to our hotel to find our pool still broken. Fortunately, a neighboring hotel agreed to let us use their facilities, so we did, then finished the evening (and our brief stay in Moab) with a relaxed meal at the Broken Oar Restaurant downtown.

The next morning we continued west and then south, toward our next free National Park - Capital Reef. Located in the southeastern part of the state and closer to the Grand Canyon than the Great Salt Lake, Capital Reef required even more desert travel. We outlanders used to highway exits every ten-to-twenty miles had to recalibrate our sense of comfort and redefine what we meant by “restroom.” No matter. We made it without a mess.

Unfortunately our timing was off again as we detoured around a wildfire, and even when we arrived at the visitor center we found it darkened by the fire-induced power outage. Instead of a museum, though, we examined petroglyphs in broad August daylight, created by the Fremont Culture hundreds of years ago, before finding the highway again and moving toward La Verkin, Utah, where we were to stay for nearly a week with friends from back home.

La Verkin was a natural gateway to our next destination - Zion National Park. For the next few days we explored as much of Zion as we could. We bustled up a bumpy overlook one evening to watch a sunset over the city, and then waded through a cold canyon the next morning to say we could. One day we rented Ebikes and zipped up and down the park’s only highway, stopping every once in a while to hike, or rest, or to take pictures of us hiking or resting.

The next day we left La Verkin before dawn and crossed into Arizona. After another jostle through the desert, we hiked through the eerily picturesque Antelope Canyon with a Navajo tour guide before visiting the sources of yet another iconic photograph - the Horseshoe Bend of the Colorado River. Like many pictures taken out West, the scenes were much warmer in person. Against our instincts (or at least our wishes) we loaded up and left the next morning, rumbling north and then east across the desert and then back up into the Rocky Mountains. We stayed outside Denver that evening and made it home the next day to finish up our summer, with only a few short days left to get ready for school.

The next week Annaka told her teacher and some classmates about the trip, and about the National Park pass she had earned for being a 4th grader. Just a year or so older - or younger - and the pass wouldn’t have earned as much use. Despite the occasional dose of bad timing, I feel fortunate to have enjoyed such an adventure with family and friends. I’m thankful to have seen such beautiful places, because arches do fall - and the kids grow up - while the miles fade into the mirror.

Time To...

 

“Stay behind the hog.”

Of all the advice given to me from my father, this phrase - offered to me one summer at the Fayette County Fair - turned out to be unexpectedly useful.

But first, some context.

Back in the day my brother and I showed 4H hogs at the Fayette County Fair. We bought piglets from the Durbins and raised them until they were ready to show. Jack Durbin also had a set of sons about our age, and the four of us were later joined by the Schaub brothers and other Sefton Township youth to make up the Sefton Clovers. We were a very 1980s crew, accustomed to vague expectations and unsupervised afternoons, and the stories that percolate from those summers, (many of them mostly true) could fill a book.

But today we have just one column, so let's focus.

As I remember it, showing hogs was relatively simple. We kept them in their pen until it was about time to show, then we moved them to the cleaning stall outside the barn. Once showered off and preened for display, we shuttled them to the show ring. Mostly the hog did what it was supposed to do, which was to walk around so the judge could get a good look at it while we followed and watched where we stepped.

The one thing a young 4Her wanted to avoid, however, was getting in between the judge and the pig. There should always be a clean line of sight between the judge and the animal, because it wasn’t about us. It’s about what we were showing - the hog.

It wasn’t until years later I realized this concept was useful even outside a show ring, because too often in life, I have absolutely gotten in the way of myself. My pride and bad habits - sometimes just my hesitation to turn the pages on chapters already read - have often kept me from living life as designed.

In my younger years, for example, I had a tendency to take things much too personally.

I’ve learned over time - mostly - to let other people just be people; to let them be rude, or distracted, or whatever. I’ve learned to “let the hog be,” so to speak, and just focus on where I was walking so I don’t have to clean off MY shoes at the end of the day.

More recently, I’ve also allowed nostalgia to get in the way of good parenting.

Parents and children seem to live in parallel universes, existing next to each other but operating at different “speeds.” Because of the nature of relativity, one year for us is quite small, but for kids it’s a huge - and sometimes cataclysmic- passage of time. A half decade goes by and kids are different humans altogether, living in the same house with the same name but in different bodies with different minds. Thus, an activity that might seem quaint and delightful for us - the elders taking the long view - will seem remarkably stupid to them, although we were sure it was them (surely just a week ago, right?) who had begged to go see the Christmas lights, for example, or walk on the TREC trail, or just sit in the same room with us at the same time and watch the same movie for the dozenth time.

What happened?

Nothing happened, but also everything, and as the “adults in the room,” we will do ourselves a favor by letting them be them. As we learn from the book of Ecclesiastes, there is a time and place for everything under the sun, and trying to reap when it’s actually time to sow is one of the clumsiest ways of getting in our own way.

Reminiscing on my own childhood, I’ve come to appreciate how good dad was at knowing what time it was. Reflecting on his passing five years ago this spring, (and all the parenting I’ve attempted in the half-decade since) I’ve come to realize how patient he was, allowing us to become who we were - dumb mistakes and all - instead of constantly corralling us towards his own prerogatives. I’m sure he often parented with Ecclesiastes in mind, whether it was time for dinner or time for bed; whether it was planting season or harvest, or baseball season, or time to get the hogs loaded up and shuttled off to fair.

Copper

Ten years ago I earned my Uncertified Life Coaching credentials. As such, I was given the opportunity (and privilege) of helping folks from countless places live their lives to the mediumest. For an entire decade I have helped pretend people - just like you! - navigate modern dilemmas, from online squabbles to pet mishaps to unsatisfactory election results. Through it all, though, one message has stayed the same: I am not a real life coach.

It says that in the name.

And just last month I turned fifty, which means my non-credentials have been rounded up to “Copper.” This upgrade gives me even more gravitas. This upgrade gives me access to an entire new decade of life experience, and so, with that in mind, let’s begin an exciting new season of answering pretend questions!

Question One: “Help! I think my country is lurching toward civil war and also the regular kind of war. At the same time! Is this normal?”

            Answer: While it’s certainly not recommended to simultaneously flex your territorial ambitions while fermenting domestic unrest, you’d be surprised at just how often that does happen. Just as a rude neighbor might want to“borrow” your mineral rights while also forgetting to put the toilet seat up in his own bathroom, those same thuggish impulses can manifest themselves on the world stage. In other words, it’s not at all surprising that your country is courting both a literal civil war and potential international conflicts.  Good luck!

Question: “Wait...WHAT?!  Uh, hold on. So, like, what am I supposed to do, though? I’m not a lawmaker, I’m not a big-time donor, I’m not even an internet celebrity. I’m just a person. I’ve never lived in a country slouching toward self-destructive authoritarianism. I thought this stuff just happened in different countries. How should I respond?”

Answer: Puh-lease. Lots of people live through authoritarian regimes and do just fine, especially if they “vote” the right way. Even if your country doesn’t pretend to have real elections, anymore, though, you can still do all right for yourself if you just parrot whatever the party wants you to say. And if that doesn't jive with your moral compass, there are ways to casually resist and avoid prison.

For a while.

Here is a list of things you can do to “fight-the-fight,” so to speak, and also help you sleep at night:

(The following list has been redacted)

Question Three: “I think the ice-maker in my fridge is on the fritz, but I would rather ignore it. Any advice?”

Answer: You should probably get that fixed. Physics reminds us that everything - eventually - falls apart. Whatever appliance you have in your home, left to its own devices it will eventually break and flood your kitchen. I know this from experience, and so the sooner you take care of this the better.

Speaking of “broken appliances,” this actually reminds me of something I should have mentioned earlier. For the gentleman whining about the corrosion of the entire world order from earlier in this column, I now have some questions for you:

Did the country you’re referencing allow special interests to hijack its lawmaking body?

 Did the same country allow states to gerrymander districts so grotesquely that only the loudest (and often dumbest) and most extreme candidates get elected?

And did this country (considering the previously two mentioned realities), give its lawmakers almost guaranteed job security by not requiring term-limits?

If you can say “yes” to those three “broken appliances,” then you shouldn’t be surprised your kitchen is flooded. You basically left the water running yourself.

Mixing metaphors now, we should consider that dictators usually don’t kick open our front door and start rearranging the furniture. Dictators are usually invited in by someone in the house who is so disgusted with the way the house is functioning that they believe it when he says he’s just an interior designer. Sycophants will continue to believe it when he says he’s only burning the furniture to keep warm, and many of them will even hand him the matches.

In closing, I’m going to break a rule of column writing and segue abruptly from flippant analogy and move closer to something less vague.

            In his quest to “get” Greenland, our leader is about to undo an alliance that has kept the world relatively stable for over 75 years. It could be argued that everyone alive today is alive because NATO functioned as a deterrent to Soviet aggression and potential nuclear conflict.

Yes, we do need to bolster our military presence in the region to act as a new deterrent against Russia and China, but we don’t need to act like gangsters to do it.

These are our allies. After the Soviet threat collapsed, these are nations who joined us in our wars against terrorism, and these are nations who continue to stand against the return of Russian aggression. Threatening these nations with even more tariffs, whining about "getting snubbed" for the Nobel Peace Prize, should not be permissible. If we break this alliance now, it will take decades to heal, and by then it will likely be too late.

This is not a partisan issue, and no amount of protesting is going to help. Only those who bought this appliance - twice - can fix it. Only they can tell their leaders, “Look, we didn’t vote for this part. Not this. Stop this.”
            For the sake of America first and every other nation on earth, tell your leaders to stop this before it’s too late.

"... number our days."

 

When I turned 49 last year, I knew it was time to get serious. Fortunately, the Bible devotes a lot of ink reminding us we’re going to die, which is very serious. Although full of passages commenting on the almost comical brevity of human existence, one particular chapter - Psalm 90 - also asks God to "teach us to number our days...that we may gain a heart of wisdom." 

            Perhaps this verse is open to some interruption, but one takeaway seems to be that we need to take ownership for how we spend our time. Life is too much of a gift (and also too short) to waste it. Therefore - as moral agents with free will - we need to be fruitful, and, towards that end, it’s helpful to find a way to “number our days.”

Don’t worry. This concept has been validated by brain science and even pop psychology, so we know it’s legitimate. It turns out one of the oldest tricks in the self-help book is collecting data. If we want to change something about ourselves - whether it’s a weight loss goal or finding time to crochet - the first thing we need to do is measure it. Fortunately for no one except me, I’m pretty introspective by nature, and, over the years I’ve pinpointed three “bad habits” that have been stumbling blocks on my overall quest to be the best uncertified life coach I can be: beer, cake, and Facebook.

So, at the start of this year, to help me “number my days,” so to speak, I simply started writing down these numbers: the amount of beers I drank; the pieces of cake (or any related sweet nonsense) I scarfed down; and the amount of minutes I scrolled like a zombie on social media. And, after six months, I decided I don’t drink that much beer, my sugar intake is not as bad as yours, but my mindless scrolling averaged out to about ten minutes a day. Again, this might not sound terrible, but after half a year, that adds up to close to 1900 minutes, or over 31 total hours!

 Yikes!

  And those, of course, are waking hours, many of them when my kids were in the room, when my wife was in the room, when I certainly had better things I could have been doing. Take that memoir, for example, about Annaka’s liver transplant I’ve been supposedly “writing” for seven years? What would thirty-one hours, or even ten hours, have done to that big task? More importantly, though, what conversations or fun memories did I miss or only partially experience because I was too distracted by what was going on down the road or across the ocean?

Before continuing, I know there’s some irony in the amount of grief I devote to social media, considering you’re plausibly reading this on your phone. Social media, just like nearly any human invention, is not inherently bad, I just don’t think our brains are wired to process the amount we try to process. We’re simply not designed to “know” what we try to know on any given day without the dosage of supposedly “crucial” information becoming emotionally toxic.

It’s just too much. We’re poisoning our minds, and everyone in our circle pays the price.

Another book I often read is Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. For close to ten years I’ve taught this novel to multiple sections of sophomores each spring. Towards the end of the story, Aunt Alexandra hosts a “Missionary Tea” in the Finch home. Like many organized gatherings of bored adults, however, the official purpose of the tea takes a distance second to the true function, which is to gossip.

Scout as narrator is fascinated by this, her first true foray into the mysterious world of  Maycomb women. She is also confused by their remarkable hypocrisy. Mere moments after bemoaning the plight of strangers thousands of miles away that can only be saved by their divinely sanctioned do-gooding, these supposedly Christian ladies spew condescending judgement on more of God’s children just down the road - Maycomb’s Black community.

            I always pause here in my classroom, to make certain students understand Harper Lee’s point. While there’s obviously nothing wrong with helping folks a half a world away, (and many of us are called to do just that) we are also expected to love our actual neighbor. Although these ladies thought they were “loving” Africans they would never meet by trying to get them to heaven, they were hating their real neighbors down the road by making their lives hell.

 Perhaps wasting our time scrolling at the expense of our loved ones is not as drastic a vice as what Scout experiences, but it is a foolish use of the one resource that will, eventually, disappear. As the psalm reminds us, most of us only get about seventy or so years in the first place, and much of that is spent groaning about our own lives. We would be doing everyone around us a favor if we put down our phones on occasion and enjoyed the lives right in front of us.

Father's Day, 25

 

Like many folks during the chaos of 2020, we bought a swimming pool. As discussed in a previous column, (May, 2020) this pool was big enough to be a burden but not big enough to actually swim in. It was also big enough to need a level spot in our yard but ugly enough I wanted to hide it. Therefore we (and by “we” I mean “I”) tried to put it up in an area of our backyard where only the very next-door-of-neighbors would ever have to see it. Unfortunately, this spot was not level enough, and so, after hours of effort, we (and by “we” I mean “my wife”) insisted we stop the madness and ask my dad for help.

He came over the next day with some surveying equipment and before long we had found the flattest area in the yard. We staked it out and went back inside. The next day, the pool was moved to its new home and filled with level water, and the summer was saved.

The next summer arrived, and it came time to fill up the pool again. Dad was gone by then, though, but the place he had measured for us was still very obvious. We set up the pool in the right spot, filled it up, and, once again, “enjoyed” the fun that only a giant inflatable pool can bring.

Although the summers have passed and that inflatable pool has been replaced by a simpler one, each season we know where the pool is supposed to go thanks to dad’s good measure.

Happy Father’s Day, dad, and thank you for showing us the right place.

Spoiled

 

My kids hurt my feelings all the time, but no more so when they accuse me of trying to poison them with rotten food. I don’t. However, in an effort to be thrifty, I do sometimes serve them delicious meals with mature ingredients. Apparently I’ve done this enough times to where they now have the audacity to question my cooking.

“Is this food rotten?” one of them will ask.

“It’s not rotten.” I will respond, my heart broken. “I would never serve you rotten food. That’s disgusting.”

Unconvinced, they will then rummage in the trash like a night beast. “Bro! The package on these little weenies says the due date was, like, five days ago!”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re rotten! I’ve told you this before, eating food after the ‘sell-by’ date is not the same thing as eating spoiled food.”

“I’m not eating this. This is poison.”

“It’s not that poisonous - the preservatives, yes, those might be toxic at high temperatures - but I would never feed you actually rotten food!”

And I wouldn’t, and, as any retired grocer will tell you, the “sell-by” dates are not some magic day when food suddenly becomes toxic. As Jerry Seinfeld famously taught us in one of his early jokes, it’s not as if the cows all get together and decide when the milk is going to spoil. In fact, despite living in a country with all kinds of rules governing all kinds of human behavior, outside of baby formula, there are no federal regulations concerning food freshness. Thus, milk that is taken off the shelves in one state and deemed unsuitable to drink might stay on shelves for days later in a less bougie state where people have more respect for hard working cows.

The reality is, if you’re wondering if the milk is spoiled or if the meat is rotten or if you should eat questionable food, use your senses and make a logical decision based on human reasoning. Smell it. Does it make you want to throw up? If it does, don’t eat it. Under most circumstances, your body is not going to allow you to poison itself.

Thus, we arrive finally (and mercifully) to the actual point of this questionable column: we must rely once again on our God-given reason to make sense of this world, and that’s because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell what’s real and what’s not.

As just one fiery example out of thousands, during the Los Angeles disaster earlier this year, fake pictures were shared on social media of the Hollywood sign on fire. Except that it wasn’t. And while this may seem like a harmless hoax, when such a picture is shared and then re-shared exponentially in real time, it’s potentially dangerous because some real humans were trying to move away from the real fires while other real humans were trying to find the real fires and stop them.

The last thing any of them needed was cruel nonsense guised as wit.

And even while the fires were still spreading, we were inundated with insane origin stories, from space lasers to diabolical social engineering. Los Angeles, though, is technically a desert. Considering the dry conditions, high winds, and densely populated residential areas - many of them with very little in the way of fire mitigation - such a disaster, (whether it was arson, accident, or combination of both) is entirely within the realm of reason.

What is not reasonable, unfortunately, is relying entirely on what we see and hear in the mass media to make sense of the world. Now, because of the advent of A.I. enhanced “deep fake” technology - video and audio recording - once considered the gold standard to determine the objective reality of something, must also be consumed with skepticism.

Granted, we’ve always been given an edited version of reality. (Even a neighbor offering a firsthand account of a traffic accident will choose which details to highlight, omit, and embellish.) Up until a few years ago, however, we could at least say, “Well, unless I see it with my own eyes or hear it with my own ears, I won’t believe it.” Now, though, you can do both and still need to question what happened.

It is unsettling, but it’s not hopeless.  However, it will require us to pause and use the human reason we’ve been given. It will require us to “smell the news,” so to speak - regardless of where it comes from - before chugging from the jug.

First and foremost, we need to be honest with ourselves as it pertains to our own biases, and how those biases influence our perception of reality. Everyone is biased; it’s hardwired into the system. When it comes to processing information, however, our biases often get in the way of reasoned evaluation.

Secondly, when processing information, whether it’s from a major television network or a podcast uploaded from down the street, ask yourself, “Does this even make sense? Does this information jive with what I know about human history, human nature, and the basic laws of physics?” This is why - despite some belief to the contrary - having a well-educated public is crucial to the health of a democracy.

Finally - and this is the same thing I tell my students - we must check our sources, and yes, we should have multiple sources. I realize everyone has their favorite little niche where they get most of their news, but not all media outlets are created equal, and getting news from social media is like finding a prom date based on the vulgarities scrawled on a restroom stall. It’s a bad idea.

In closing, I would never feed my kids rotten food…on purpose. However, those serving up the media we’re ingesting don’t always have the same scruples. Choose wisely.

The Lantern

When we first moved into our home in the spring of 2010, the lamppost in our front yard  glowed at night. Soon it stopped, though, regardless of how often we changed the light bulb, and since I’m no electrician, that was that. It remained in our front yard, often crooked, seemingly useless…

Or so I thought.

Earlier this month - on the twelfth day of Christmas - it snowed. 

Then, in the morning hours of Epiphany - January 6th - it snowed again.

And in the snow, particularly with lumpy flakes bumping into each other on their way to earth, I couldn’t help but be reminded of another snowy lamppost that stands prominent in a “children’s book” written by a certain British author.

The lamppost in C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia series - first introduced to us in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, - is something of an anachronism. It seems out of place, glowing softly in a snowy medieval forest full of fauns, dwarves, and other talking beasts. We later learn the lamppost was propagated to Narnia from London, an accidental magic trick born out of a struggle between a wicked witch and a magician’s nephew.

For many years I thought about having the lamppost removed. I found it an eyesore, useless, an annoyance to mow around each summer. This winter, though, at the end of the Christmas season, surrounded by snow, I saw it as something different. The lamppost became a totem, a reminder of the beginning of our life here in this home.

In fact, the lamppost became a quiet symbol of childhood itself, because when we first moved into this house, our first born was just a toddler. A year later she was joined by her baby brother, and together the two of them grew up in a childhood full of pirate adventures, ferris wheel rides, and breezy holidays at the beach. Years later, during the Christmas season of 2015, they were joined by their sister, and although she struggled mightily during her first years of life, thanks to the bravery and kindness of a dear family friend, she, too, was given the gift of a childhood.

But now, even more years later, it’s 2025, and it often seems that childhood itself has been buried beneath the busyness of our calendar and the cacophony of our gadgets. When it snowed, though, all three of them laughed together and played again like children, in a silly little Narnia of their own, if only for a little while.

And so I think the lamppost will stay. It does look best in the snow, but it’s a reminder - in all seasons - to take time to play and to imagine, to be brave and look toward the Lion.

 

Due Date

 

One of my favorite super powers - and I’ll admit it is low grade - is my ability to eat almost expired food. As the dad in the house, one of my jobs is to eat potentially dangerous calories. If some turkey has hidden too long in the back of the fridge, for example, or if some fruit has headed south, I will sometimes eat it. I hate to throw away food, and for some reason I don’t get sick. I guess my stomach is just coated with some amazing healing juice or something.

It’s my gift.

Over the years I’ve also been able to hone an almost uncanny ability to tell time. Like some mutant freak, I can look at a clock and predict how long it will take to go somewhere. No one else in my family has inherited this skill, unfortunately, so left to their own devices we are often late. This is why I’m glad we’re not the Von Trapps, as there’s no way we would have made it across the Alps before the Nazis caught us and made us sing more.

 Perhaps my most impressive gift, however, is my willingness to offer unsolicited advice. As many of you are painfully aware, I have been an uncertified life coach for much longer than necessary, and, since this is an election year, my mailbag is brimming with questions.

So, without further silliness, let’s dig in and dig out! (Trademark)

Question One: I’ve been driving the same car for years now without any trouble, but some folks suggest I replace the tires with four new ones. Tires aren’t cheap, though, and I hardly drive more than seven miles a day. Any suggestions?

Answer One: Well, I’m no mechanic, but I do know that tires are an important part of your vehicle and should be inflated at all times. I would recommend replacing them sooner than later. After all, your car is a major purchase and safety should be at the forefront of your decision making.

Question Two: Some of the exterior door frames around my house are starting to weather, but they’re for doors I rarely use. Besides that, I can’t fix them myself, and I’m afraid if I call a professional they’ll laugh at me. Any advice?

Answer Two: Again, I’m no carpenter, but without frames the doors will probably fall down. Frames will cost money to fix, of course, but your home is a major investment and it’s best to fix problems as soon as you can.

Question Three: To improve outdated school buildings and promote student safety, my county has once again put the “1 Percent Sales Tax” issue on the ballot, but I’m really struggling to decide how to vote. From an ideological standpoint, I feel any tax increase is a bad idea, and I don’t currently have kids who attend a public school. However, I’ve also spent some time in the older schools as a volunteer, and they really do need some updates. What’s your take on this?

Answer: Great question! Your vote will absolutely make a difference, and, as both a parent and school teacher, I do have some advice to offer, which is this - You should absolutely vote “yes” for this proposal.

Before discussing the details, however, we need to take a step back and realize this is not an ideological issue. We don’t bicker back and forth about the political ramifications of automotive repair, so why would we do so when it comes to an investment as important as our children?

Our public schools need updates. Our students need resources that we, the public, have a responsibility to provide, whether we have family members enrolled or not. Our schools represent us as a community. Our schools attract (or repel) both long-term business investors and the weekend guest, and this proposal offers a simple, straightforward way to help local districts achieve that mission without an additional burden on homeowners.

Besides that, most surrounding communities have already taken advantage of this balanced source of revenue because it’s a rational way to finance their school buildings. Anytime we shop in Mattoon or Champaign, for example, we are already supporting those students with an identical tax. I’ve had the privilege of teaching Effingham County students for close to twenty-seven years, and I assure you that our young people are just as worthy of our investment.

In closing, this solution offers the adults in the community a simple way to answer one of their most important questions: “What is the best way to finance our school buildings?” Voting “Yes” for this proposal is not only a gift to our students who attend public schools, it’s a long-term investment in the community they call home.

Our Adventure Out West Last Summer, Part Three

 

“POP!”

The truck, already oversized for the highway, crossed the center line and smashed into our rearview mirror. Only inches had separated us from a head on collision, so once the shock wore off we were relieved the sudden impact wasn’t much worse. We crawled a few more miles up to Logan Pass, found a spot to park in the crowded lot, and then examined the damage.

            Again.

            The mirror was shattered but still usable. Since we were driving a borrowed vehicle, however, I thought about relaying the information back home but then decided against it. After all, we still had thousands of miles to travel; might as well just report it all at once. Fortunately, the day quickly turned better.

 A long walk up through a mountain meadow is good for the nerves. Mountain goats and rams watched us without interest for much of our journey up the boardwalk. After a mile the boardwalk ended and became a moderate trail, and we followed other hikers all the way to a lookout framing Hidden Lake shining in the distance. Although this was the end of our hike, we could see other tired folks slowly crawling along the edge of the water miles away like happy little beetles.

The journey back down was slow but more pleasant once we made it back to the boardwalk. By this time some of the wildlife - a bored, stern-looking ram - had ambled onto the path, munching on flowers and blocking our way. Although some tourists took the opportunity to take close-ups, we took a much wider berth.

When we made it back down to the parking lot, however, we saw even more rams trip-tropping around, scavenging on the remains of human picnics. Unsurprisingly, the beasts were also marching toward our truck. After a few quiet moments we watched in horror as they disappeared, squeezing between our truck and another vehicle, their horns broad and heavy.

“There’s no way they’re getting through that without scratching the paint.” JaLana muttered.

“I know.”

Eventually the mob left the parking lot and we scampered down to check out the damage. Somehow, though, they’d done it! The rams had squeezed between our vehicles without scratching the paint. (Or, at least, without scratching our paint. I didn’t take pains to examine the other vehicle, taking my wins where I could find them.)

The sun was beginning to set, though, so we began the crawl back down from Logan’s Pass. Although the path winds back and forth, the general direction of the road travels west, so we added a blinding sunset to our list of potential dangers. Once we made it to the bottom, we all sighed. The kids in two vehicles - sisters and brothers separated - put on a science-fiction radio drama with the CBs.

Because of the slow-going over the graveled roadway, it was nearly 10 P.M. by the time we made it back to the cabin. No matter. Dirk grilled cheeseburgers out on the deck, fully aware that while on vacation, kitchen hours are relative.

 

            The next morning, Wednesday, August 2nd, we left the cabin and drove along the southern edge of the park, east and then north up toward the St. Mary entrance. We enjoyed a pit stop at the Glacier Park Lodge, a rustic hotel built by the Great Northern Railway in the first decades of the 20th century, then once again entered the park itself. Soon we arrived at St.Mary Village, a bustling hive of hotels, campgrounds, restaurants and shops. We strolled through the chalet-style lodge before finding a suitably moderate hike for the afternoon.

            This trek offered us easy access to a lake for swimming. Water also meant the possibility of running into a moose, however, which I didn’t consider a selling point. After fifteen or so minutes of strolling through the woods, we took a detour to the water to let the kids cool off. Another thirty minutes down the trail led us to a series of small cataracts safe for careful wading.

A couple dozen hikers rested near the water - standing or sitting, stepping and trying not to slip. We let the kids climb as far as they could where they found a cold pool a few feet deep. A woman screamed when a snake swam past her feet. We kept an eye out for the creature but it had wisely escaped downstream. After nearly an hour of pause, we returned to the trail, heading back.

Things went fine for a while, but then Annaka, tired from the heat and walking, slipped and bloodied her ankle. Like an actress on cue, however, a woman met us on the trail with an assortment of first aid options. We cleaned Annaka’s wound while the forest nurse talked to her in soothing tones. The older kids wanted to swim again in the lake, but we needed to get Annaka back to civilization. The adolescents stayed with Dirk and Laurie while JaLana and I began the long walk back to the car, Annaka on my shoulders, whimpering and singing a warning to any potential bears.

Most of the week had been unseasonably warm, and so adding her fifty-some pounds to my shoulders while trudging through the bumpy woods wasn’t easy. We took water breaks every ten or so minutes until we finally found our way back to the parking lot.

Victory!

I opened the trunk of the van and started prepping her food while Jalana took her to the restroom. Once she was fed, JaLana and I found some cold drinks in the nearby gift shop. Soon the rest of our entourage happily walked out of the woods, eager for ice cream and a place to sit.

Once we were all hydrated and toweled off, we found our way out of the park and began the long journey back home. Because of the construction (and my skittishness about climbing up Logan’s Pass again and potentially smashing into yet another vehicle) we decided the best way to get back to the cabin was to backtrack through the Black Feet Indian Reservation. Here we found out why Montana is often called “Big Sky Country;” the horizon crept along with us, miles in the distance.

Once we made it back to the cabin, Dirk again fired up the grill (this time fajitas) while the kids played bags on the porch followed by another intense match of Texas Hold’em.

On our final full day at the cabin, Thursday, August 3rd, most of the crew got up early to again visit the little village of Apgar tucked into the southern edge of Lake McDonald. After breakfast we all loaded up once more and headed back into the park, this time to relax near the same river wading spot we’d enjoyed earlier in the week. We picnicked at Lake MacDonald, giving the kids some more time to swim in the frigid water before returning to the cabin for the afternoon.

Because we were leaving the next day, I stayed behind to clean out the back of the truck while the rest of the group went souvenir shopping down the road.

Hours later, our last morning in Montana began in the dark. Although we weren’t on a schedule we still hoped to make it well into North Dakota before nightfall. The Bohnoffs had the cabin for one more evening and then would be heading down the road for a couple nights in nearby Kalispell, so while they prepared for one more day in Glacier, we bustled around trying to get packed and moving.

The sun was barely up when we said our goodbyes and crept down the gravel road to the highway. A few moments later found us zipping down Route 2, moving east. We were hardly a few miles, however, before JaLana asked, “Did you get Annaka’s bread?”

I had not.

A quick call to the Bohnoffs indicated they were still at the cabin, so we hustled back to retrieve our precious bread. After a few more sheepish “good byes,” we again made our way to the highway. As we climbed the short hill leading us back to the highway we noticed the sun had swept away the morning fog and in its place stood a man.

“Oh my goodness, I think he’s hurt!”

A few yards off the road, an elderly man in full motorcycle gear - helmet, boots, leather pants and jacket - barely stood upright with his arms raised in distress, his terrified dog shivering nearby.

 

To Be Concluded…

"...of all possible worlds"

 

As an uncertified life coach and certified school teacher, the summer months give me a little more time to read through my never-ending mailbag of uncertified life-coaching questions. We focus this season, however, on one simple query sent to us from a long-time reader from Inland County, Illinois.

The reader writes, “Good morning! Recently a person I don’t know and will likely never meet said something I found very offensive. What should I do about this?”

That’s a good question, not necessarily because it’s actually a good question, but because it’s so common. Nowadays it seems every time we turn around someone who has no vested interest in our lives is saying or doing something so outlandish we cannot help but get on Facebook and tell everyone about it. In fact, because of the consistency of this issue, I’ve developed a three-question strategy for dealing with the constant barrage of irritating nonsense.

The first and perhaps most important question you should ask yourself is, “Was the message intended for me?” Because the truth is, if the message was not directed at you, it might be better if you just mind your own business. Getting angry every time someone says something you don’t agree with doesn’t make the message go away, it just makes you harder to live with.

            However, if you do insist on making it your business, ask yourself this next question:  “Did I actually process and understand the message in its entirety, taking into consideration all of the context surrounding the speaker, message and, once again, intended audience?”

Oftentimes what makes us angry is not the message itself but the so-called analysis of the message by one of our ideological thugs I mean commentators. In case you haven’t noticed, we live in a culture dedicated to selling us stuff we don’t need. This is done most effectively if we are sad or angry and especially if we are sad and angry at each other, and so everything that happens or is even said gets immediately filtered through an ideological prism. If you are at peace with yourself and your neighbor, you’re less likely to spend money.

Therefore, if you are going to invest time and emotional energy into being upset, at the very least you need to process the whole message, not just the most dramatic bits and pieces that would make anyone angry. After all, even a Dr. Seuss' book can be unsettling if taken out of context.

 Speaking of books, the final question we need to ask before committing ourselves to being offended is, “How’s my own garden growing?”

This question is inspired by Voltaire’s Candide, the Enlightenment-era satire that tells the story of a young man and his tutor Pangloss, who travel the “best of all possible worlds,” bumping into one travesty after another, most notably the horrific Lisbon earthquake of 1755.  At the end of all his travels, Candide comes to the understanding that perhaps the best course of action in a world where trouble seems imminent is for him to simply cultivate his own farm.

Thus, the story ends with the title character working the earth as an antidote to “boredom, vice and poverty,” and goodness knows growing our own food is a great way to tend to our own health and make the world a little better if we have enough to share. (Which you will if you grow zucchini.) Your “garden” doesn’t have to be an actual garden, though. Your garden might simply be your calling. What have you been put on this earth to do by your creator?

Voltaire was a deist, though, but the message is basically the same even if your theology (or lack thereof) requires you to replace an involved creator with nature itself. For example, nature has made eagles to fly, snakes to crawl, and cheetahs to run. We, as humans, are part of nature, and we each have gifts and experiences, abilities and passions, that make us suitable for certain tasks.

 But we are not all suited for the same tasks, however, and we certainly aren’t suited for all of them. Just as a fish would look absurd trying to climb a tree, we make ourselves look foolish when we  become upset by words spoken by people who wouldn’t skim the words in our obituary. 

This doesn’t mean we become cold and indifferent to all of the injustices in the world, of course, but it does mean we should ask ourselves the very serious question “What can I do, today, where I am, to make the world a better place? How is my own garden growing, and how can I cultivate it even more?”

After all, as another clever person explained centuries before Voltaire, it’s silly of us to get offended by the speck of wood in our neighbor’s eyes while ignoring the plank stuck in our own.