Christmas Potpourri 2013: Bikes and Turkey Soda and "Twains" (Err Trains)

"Christmas isn't a season.  It's a feeling."  ~Edna Ferber

Many of us in America start the countdown to Christmas as soon as the Thanksgiving leftovers have been stuffed into the fridge.  And so Christmas seemed to arrive early this year because just when we were waking up from the turkey and stuffing stupor and erupting cranberry flavored belches November was already rolling into December.

Tall Tales of Trimming Trees

Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.”

~ Larry Wilde

“I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects.”   ~ Charles Dickens

“You know,” I said to Cora, “I've been thinking more and more about getting an artificial tree.” 

“Yeah, we aren't getting any younger and a real tree is a lot of work.”

“Wanna stop by Home Depot and just look?” 

This was our conversation as we pulled out of our street headed for the local Christmas tree lot. 

When I was a kid my parents held artificial trees in contempt.  Easy enough to do back then, when artificial trees were strange looking aluminum structures in ghastly, garish colors; pink, silver and blue.  Christmas tree shopping is one of the few things that's not seen much change since I was a kid.  We took the half hour or so drive to one of the lots on El Camino Real near downtown San Mateo.  A fellow with a 10 foot ruler followed a few steps behind us as we tiptoed through the mud created by the rain that we always got then and never seem to get now.  We followed the ritual that every family has followed since the 1840s when the tannebaum became a saleable commodity.  Dad would grab a likely candidate by the trunk and tilt it and turn it as we inspected it for any flaws that might disqualify it from adorning our living room.  The tree had to be full and without any conspicuous gaps in the branches and it had to stand straight.  Size didn't really matter.  Six foot was just fine because in the 60s cathedral ceilings were something that only the folks in nearby, ritzy Hillsborough had.  Our plebian ceiling topped out at 8 feet.  Once we found a likely candidate the fellow with the ruler stepped up and measured the tree, my mom watching carefully to make sure he didn't add phantom inches.  He wrote the tree's height and price on a slip of paper for my parents to take to the cashier.  Once the tree was ours dad stuffed it in the back of our big, clunky Mercury station wagon. 

Thanksgiving; A Breaking of Tradition

Ah! On Thanksgiving day....

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before.

What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

~John Greenleaf Whittier

With a few days to go until the big feast I stepped into the dining room and noticed that Cora had set the big table with the Thanksgiving tablecloth.  Pausing for a moment I realized sadly, that it wouldn’t be used this year.  This year the table would sit empty and idle on Thanksgiving. 

TV; Episode One. Buying a Set.

 “If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there'd be peace.”  ~ John Lennon.

“People are sheep. TV is the shepherd.”  ~ Jess C. Scott

With Black Friday looming and all the pre and post-holiday sales yet to come, the wife and I have resurrected the, “should we get a new TV” discussion.  It happens about this time every year.  We don’t really exchange gifts so the idea is to get the big gift for the household (which is just the two of us now).  This year the idea got a little more impetus by a short stay at the Atlantis in Reno.  The room’s 55” flat panel made us realize that our circa 2000 tube television could be improved on. 

A Football Fan's Dilemma

Leigh Steinberg’s recollection of a conversation with a concussed Troy Aikman.

 “Leigh, where am I?” And I said, “Well, you’re in the hospital.” And he said, “Well, why am I here?” And I said, “Because you suffered a concussion today.” And he said, “Well, who did we play?” And I said, “The 49ers.” And he said, “Did we win?” “Yes, you won.” “Did I play well?” “Yes, you played well.” “Did— what does that— and so what’s that mean?” “It means you’re going to the Super Bowl.”

Five minutes later Aikman asked the same questions again. 

The VHS tape, NFL Crunch Course still occupies a space on a shelf near our TV.  We haven’t watched it in years.  It used to be an unofficial tradition to bust it out and watch it on Super Bowl Weekend to get us ready for the spectacle. 

Produced by NFL films, it’s a compilation of vicious hits, frightening in their violence and intensity.  Football fans know what I’m talking about.  It’s when the wide receiver, almost foolhardy in his bravery, goes across the middle and doesn't see the safety about to unload on him; or when the 285 pound linebacker blindsides a quarterback at full speed, jolting the unsuspecting player, sending the ball skyward, causing the player’s head to whiplash as if attached to his body with a spring.  My son, my nephew and I would lean forward in anticipation of each de-cleating.  They would watch, mouths agape, while I told them, in old geezer fashion, that this was real football; the way I remember it when I was their age.  Not this namby pamby, wussy stuff they call football these days.  

When Movies Matter

“Epps asked me if I could write and read, and on being informed that I had received some instruction in those branches of education, he assured me, with emphasis, if he ever caught me with a book, or with pen and ink, he would give me a hundred lashes.”

~ Excerpted from the book 12 Years a Slave by Solomon Northup, who could not only read, but wrote eloquently and passionately. 

Every so often a movie is released that is important more for its message than its entertainment value (and oftentimes they are still from an artistic point of view, excellent viewing).  Nearly always these films are historical dramas. 

Trick or Treat; And Make It a Double

I've been a bad blogger.  I don’t mean in the sense that this blog as a whole is trash; although that in itself might be a problem.  I've been lax and lazy.  When I published my last post the Halloween candy hadn't yet hit the store shelves.  Now the big wide seasonal aisle in the local super is well stocked with bags of mini candy bars and little boxes of candies.  I've noticed over the years that the bags of candy keep getting smaller and smaller as do the bars inside the bags.  It used to be that two or three bags of Snickers might handle the Halloween crowd.  Now you need at least six or seven.  Well you actually need less than that to feed the little monsters but that wouldn't allow for the proper snacking between the time you buy the candy and Halloween night. 

Warning: It's Almost Fall

Summer's almost gone       

Summer's almost gone

We had some good times

But they're gone

The winter's comin' on

Summer's almost gone

~ The Doors

“If cross country were easy it would be called football.” ~ Slogan on the backs of many cross country team shirts.

Am I ready for some football?  Well - no.   America is all a twitter, sports talk show hosts are ecstatic and television network and National Football League execs are just beginning a 5 month long fiscal orgasm (For those readers outside of the USA, I’m speaking of American football as opposed to futbol/soccer). 

American football is an absolute dollarific orgy.  On average the 32 NFL teams are worth $1.17 billion dollars each.  The average revenue per team last year was $286 million dollars.  Broadcast revenue from the networks for the current contract, now in its final year, averages $1.9 billion per year.  The new contract starting in 2014 will average $3.1 billion per year.  These are just a few of the bank account boggling figures.  And this doesn't even count the gambling money exchanged – both legal and not. 

A Dog Day at the Park

“[Baseball] breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall all alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.”  ~ A. Bartlett Giamatti, Commissioner of Major League Baseball, April 1^st 1989 – September 1^st 1989. 

It’s been a season nobody saw coming. Like that line shot foul ball into the stands that finds your skull when you turn away for just an instant, we glanced away for a moment in June and looked up just in time to be struck by 2013.  After a 2012 World Series Championship the Giants have found themselves in last place in their division, playing baseball that is often sloppy, passionless and sometimes downright unwatchable.

11 strikeouts in the better days of 2012

The First Night is the Worst (And other camp stories)

I found that as wonderful as bacon is, it is even better, if bacon can actually be improved, when cooked and eaten at a campsite.

That first night sleeping on a camping trip is always the worst.  Sealed in a mummy bag, you can’t sprawl, rolling over is a chore and at some point the zipper invariably jams when you're too hot or too cold forcing you to turn on the flashlight fix the zipper and entertain the other campers with your cursing.  When you're finally settled you lay awake dreading the notion that you’ll have to get up at 2 in the morning to pee.  A pee in the wee hours is always made more daunting by the possibility of a midnight rendezvous with a marauding bear. And then there’s the better than even odds that your made in China air mattress will be deflated by the time you get up to take that pee which begs the question, why oh why God do we do business with a nation that pumps out worthless junk?  (Never mind, I know the answer to that question and that's for another post.).  When this happens the only alternatives left are gut it out on the hard ground or collect as many coats and articles of clothing as possible and fashion a sleeping pad of sorts.

Roughing It (With apologies to Mark Twain)

The Family Camping Chronicles: Part III

"On the seventeenth day we passed the highest mountain peak that we had yet seen, and although the day was very warm the night that followed upon its heels was wintry cold and blankets were next to useless."  From Roughing It  by Mark Twain

“It would be distressing to a feeling person to See our Situation at this time all wet and cold and with our bedding &c also wet, in a cove scarcely large enough to contain us…canoes at the mercy of the waves and driftwood…robes and leather clothes are rotten.”   William Clark describing being stranded at Point Ellice, Washington (1808).  (For those who slept through the day they taught about the Lewis and Clark expedition in history class, Clark was Meriwether Lewis’ expedition partner)

“We’re really roughing it,” Dad would say as he loaded our camping gear into the station wagon.  The words were served with sides of arched eyebrow, a wry smile and a large helping of sarcasm.  Dad was alluding to Roughing It, Mark Twain’s chronicle of his adventures in the Wild West of the 1860’s.  Looking back it seems like a magic trick that dad was able to get a big canvas tent, two bulky cots, lantern, fishing gear, stove, clothes, some pre-cooked meals that mom packed for us and an assorted pile of “possibles” into that wagon.

Bags and Baggage

The Family Camping Chronicles: Part II

I relegated myself to sleeping in a sleeping bag the other night.  No, it’s not like that.  I wasn’t in the wife’s doghouse.  There’s a perfectly good queen sized bed in one of the extra rooms that comes in very handy for when the kids visit or when the domestic seas get choppy.  My purpose this night was to test the bedding for the upcoming family camping trip. 

On Dirt, Beans and Wild West Whimsy

“Camping is nature’s way of promoting the motel business.”  ~ Dave Barry.

There’s a family camping trip looming on the horizon and I’ve spent the last few weekends gearing up.  I’ve made lists, rummaged through the big plastic bin in the backyard and a couple of garage cabinets; pulled plastic tubs from an attic storage area and crawled around some closets in the house.

To B & B or not to B & B?

It seemed the appropriate question as we surveyed our room at Anne Hathaway’s Bed and Breakfast in Ashland, Oregon.  Maybe survey isn't the right word.  Surveying conjures visions of a large expanse.  This room was tiny.  I suppose I should mention that this B & B, located in the home of The Oregon Shakespeare Festival is named after The Bard's better half and not the American actress.  Did I mention that it was small?The room was small enough that sitting on any edge of the bed I could reach out and touch a wall.  It wasn't big enough to swing the proverbial cat in.  I’m certain that at some point as I put our suitcase in the only place it would fit, under the bathroom sink and pondered the nightly rate that Lady Macbeth’s words came to mind; “What’s done cannot be undone.”

The American Adventure - The Open Road

It's July, 2013 and my wife Cora and I are taking a driving trip through Northern California and into Oregon. 

The wife and I have embarked on that great American summer adventure; that annual migration of the dog days; that paean to the interstate, the motorcar and fuel consumption; the modern day version of the pioneers’ tale – the road trip.  We've headed north from the San Francisco Bay to a distant, uncharted and exotic land – Oregon.  Okay, it’s not distant; it’s only 300 miles or so.  And it’s hardly uncharted.  After all I went out recently and bought a GPS so Oregon, the rest of this land and all of hell’s half acre are all pretty well charted.

High On Weed

It's July, 2013 and my wife Cora and I are taking a driving trip through Northern California and into Oregon.  Weed, California was our stopover on the way to Oregon. 

We pulled into Weed, California a little after 10 at night.  It was a five hour drive from the Bay Area in scorching heat and we’d decided that getting to our destination held more appeal than food.  Motel 6 never looked so good.  I was perfectly happy to shower and call it a night but Cora wanted dinner.  The desk clerk told us that the choices were the fast food joints a couple exits down the interstate or a place a few blocks down the road called the Hi Lo Café.

A Recollection of Fishing

I got up that Sunday morning a little after 5 o'clock.  During these long summer days it’s more or less my usual time.  Has to be early.  It’s the only time I can take my dog Rainey for a run.  Rainey is day blind; can’t see the paw in front of her nose once the sun starts to peek out so we have to hit it while it’s still dark.  And so when I staggered out of bed Rainey jumped out of her's, did her happy laps around the bedroom while I shushed her lest she wake the little woman and then she rumbled down the stairs. 

“Sorry Rainey, I’ll let you out to do your business but then it’s back to bed."  She wasn't getting it yet.  While she was outside I crawled into my clothes and threw the camp chairs into the truck.  Rainey came back inside, wagging her hind quarters expecting me to grab the leash until I sent her up the stairs.  “Back to bed girl,” as she sulked up the stairs

The 300 Pound Cavalryman and Other Oddities; Secrets of a Reenactor

Our Civil War reenactment group had a cavalry trooper who weighed at least 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce.  (When he signed on he signed on as a “non-combatant).  In reality there were no plus sized troopers (Save overfed officers I suppose).   It shouldn't come as a shock that the main ingredient in the cavalry was not the man; it was the horse (The origin of cavalry is from the Italian word cavallo meaning horse).  Haven’t I often said in this blog that it’s always about money and not people?  Wasn't any different in 1863 when the horse was the valuable piece of equipment that the War Department wouldn't have wanted burdened by a rider with an out sized boiler. At 6'1" and 185 pounds I myself would have been a mid-19th century oddity.  People were just smaller then. 

Joining Mr. Lincoln's Army

What was it, the early 90’s when I saw my first Civil War reenactment?  Must have been the very early 90’s; maybe the late 80’s.  That's it; 1989.  When I heard that such things existed I thought, my God, where have they been all my life.  I’d gone through nearly 40 years and missed these things?

The National Civil War Association held the event on Memorial Day weekend near Felton in the Santa Cruz Mountains.  Revisiting 1863 in the hills that look down on the Silicon Valley.  There was some irony.  As we approached the site we were met by a sentry in the woolen blue of a Union infantryman.  Oh my, I thought, what a wonderful place!  I'd found a history buff's nirvana.

A Day in Virginia; Circa 1863

The American Civil War is arguably the most important event in the nation's history.  It's been written that "everything in American history leading up to 1860 was a cause of the Civil War and everything that has happened since was caused by the Civil War."  An overstatement? Perhaps, but not by much.  And so on these days surrounding Memorial Day, which began in response to The Civil War and as the nation commemorates the sesquicentennial of that conflict I'm devoting a series of blogs to some observations of The American Civil War; then and now.  

There’s a chinkle of spurs and the crunch of boot heels on the dry, rocky sun bleached path.  The creaking of leather is slightly audible beneath the jangling of sabers that hang from their belts and the Sharps carbines slung over their backs.  Some stray civilians wander into the area and stop to point at the three as they stride with purpose along the uneven lane.  The trio is clad in blue wool jackets trimmed in yellow and fastened with a row of dull brass buttons.  Their trousers, also of wool are light blue, tucked into knee high black boots that wear a layer of gray dust.  Each man wears on his left hip a large .44 caliber revolver, the brown handle peeking out from a black flapped holster.  Two of the men have full beards, the third wears the rough stubble of a few days growth.  Their faces are splotched with dirt and their eyes, heavy and weary from lack of sleep are barely shaded from the morning sun by the leather brims of their caps. Woolen, worn, and grimy, each cap bears the crossed saber insignia that designate them as cavalrymen.  One of the three sips coffee from a beaten old tin cup while another takes an occasional pull from a blue, fabric covered canteen.  The three talk among themselves and occasionally one acknowledges a greeting from a curious onlooker. 

The Civil War Turns 150

As we prepare to commemorate another Memorial Day it occurs to me that we are in the process of marking the 150^th anniversary of the events that led to the creation of Memorial Day; The American Civil War. Many Americans are likely not aware that it was 150 years ago that their nation was sundered; torn apart by the politics of slavery and the clashing of two cultures which could no long coexist in this young, growing and developing nation.

Defining Mom

Under her pillow she keeps rosary beads and a life guard’s tank top.  In the darkness before drifting off  I can sometimes hear the clicking of the beads.  Her prayers include petitions for her children and grandchildren.  Not because they're wayward lambs.  She simply asks for God to guide and protect them.  For her, channeling God's love to her children and grandchildren is the best way that she can care for them.  The tank top is her daughter’s.  It found its way under the pillow when our daughter left home for college in San Diego.  Jessica long ago graduated and is now living a short 15 minute drive away with two children of her own, but the shirt remains.  I suppose it’s her way of staying close to her daughter and a reminder of the days when Jessica lived here and filled the home with the ever alternating joys and maddening drama of a teenaged girl.

A Terrorism of Indifference

"I would invite anyone in Washington to come look my patients in the eye and tell them that waiting for a flight is a bigger problem than traveling farther and waiting longer for chemotherapy."  ~  Dr. William Nibley, of United Cancer Specialists in Utah.

It came home to roost this past week.  The IT is sequestration.  You remember sequestration don’t you?  It’s only been about 8 weeks since President Obama and Congress foisted the sequester on the folks they’re paid to serve, and for the most part it’s been almost forgotten; by the public, by the media and most of all by the men and women who are responsible for it.  Perfectly content and comfortable with sequestration conveniently out of the news, they were no doubt equally disappointed when it came back to the headlines with something of a vengeance.

Dog Tired

I’m not angry this time.  If anything I’m just exhausted.  That kind of tired that you feel after you've had an argument with a loved one and all the vitriol has just been wrung out of you and all you really want is for all of the bad feelings to go away and for everything to be at peace again.  It’s an empty dullness that makes you just want to lie down on the couch in the quiet house, exhale and look up at the ceiling.  Maybe I’m just getting numb to it all.

Glove Story

Donning a glove for a backyard toss, or watching a ball game, we are players again, forever young.~ John Thorn; baseball historian.

Its baseball season again.  Time to dig into the closet and pull out the glove.  I did that last year about this time and went through some moments of panic when I couldn’t find it, tearing the closet apart, shouting at my wife, "Cora, Where in hell is my glove?" 

"I don't know. I don't play baseball." she yelled back. 

Then I remembered that I’d loaned it to my son.  I asked him to give it back which gave me an idea for a present for his upcoming birthday. 

A Convenient Epiphany

In the capitals of our nation a person’s worth is defined by the size of his bank account, his clout or his political expediency.

There has been a mass epiphany within the ranks of the Republican Party's politicians.  For many in The Grand Old Party, the notion of gay marriage no longer poses the threat to western civilization that it did about 5 months ago.  Let me think, just what was it that happened 5 months ago?  Oh yeah, I remember, that was along about the time of the last election when the self-described Party of Lincoln got shellacked when it came to garnering votes from just about everyone who isn’t an old white guy.  And just for the record I'm an OWG myself. I just happen to be an OWG who doesn't relate at all to the GOP. 

What's Happened Here?

When did it all change?  Why did it all change?  How did it all change so much?  I grew up in the suburbs of San Mateo.  It was a middle class neighborhood in the hills above the town, on the San Francisco Bay Peninsula, about 30 minutes south of San Francisco itself.  It was the fifties and sixties; a time when we boomers lived the American Dream defined by well-manicured lawns, ranch style homes and the notion that we, the children, would live in a better America. 

A Sunday Stew

For many here in the States, the best part of Sunday is football.  Not so for me.  I’m partial to Sunday supper.  Sunday supper has its origins in Britain and Ireland where a hearty meal of roasted meat was served with a bounty of sides after the Sunday church service.  It’s remained popular to some degree in the former colonies, including The United States. 

Sequestering Morality

Emergency responders like the ones who are here today — their ability to help communities respond to and recover from disasters will be degraded.  Border Patrol agents will see their hours reduced.  FBI agents will be furloughed.  Federal prosecutors will have to close cases and let criminals go. 

~  Remarks by President Obama on Sequestration, February, 19th 2013

"A culture that victimizes it's weakest members is a culture in decline."  ~  John Barry of The Southern Tier AIDS Program.

We’ve been sequestered!  Or is it sequestrated?  I don’t know; either way it comes out to the same thing.  We’ve been screwed.  By our government.  Again.  Actually I couldn’t say whether or not I’m actually part of the “we” that’s being screwed.  I’m in the comfortable middle class and I imagine I’ll come through this without really noticing much.  If I decide I want to take a flight somewhere I might have to show up at the airport a little earlier; so I lose a little sleep.

Reading America

But he is not always alone.  When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow the meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.  (From Jack London’s, The Call of the Wild.)

The Oak Desk

I recently made the decision that it’s past time to get rid of the roll top desk that sits under the window in our bedroom.  A roll top was something I’d always wanted.  I suppose I pictured myself sitting at that desk like some latter day Mark Twain; sipping expensive bourbon from a heavy crystal rocks glass, dipping pen in inkwell and writing the next great American novel.

When Things Fall Apart

I’ve achieved a new personal record as we runners like to say.  I now have a small collection of little amber pill jars; 3 actually.  That’s the most I’ve ever had at one time.  My previous personal best in pill jar collecting was two and it usually came after oral surgery; antibiotics and the ever popular Vicodin. 

Lance and Fair Play

“I’m deeply sorry for what I did.” ~ Lance Armstrong.

“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone..”  ~ Book of John; Chapter 8.

Let’s make one thing clear from the start; I loathe drug cheats in sports.  And that’s both ironic and understandable because three of my favorite sports, baseball, cycling and track and field, have made as many headlines about doping as they have about competition. 

Dis-HEART-ened

It’s Tuesday the 8^th and I’m in bed by 7:30.  On a normal evening I would be relaxing after dinner and feeling good about the day’s run.  It’s not a normal evening.  My heart is doing its version of the Macarena or the Rhumba.  It’s pretty much a middle-aged white guy version of one of those dances; or any dance for that matter.  You see, middle aged white guys are supposed to be notorious for not having rhythm; I’m a prime example.  And so that about describes what my heart is doing; it’s beating to no particular beat; out of rhythm.  It’s a condition known as atrial fibrillation.  Those of us with a more intimate knowledge of the disease refer to it contemptuously as a-fib.

Stepping Away from the Clif

“I don’t want to go to work on my last day,” she said wistfully.  “I just want to disappear.  I don’t want the sad goodbyes.”  It was the first emotion that I had really heard from her on the subject. 

It’s been a month since that conversation, though it seems like nearly half a year has passed.  We were driving to her office Christmas party; her last.  My wife’s last day at Clif Bar was just two weeks away.  She was retiring from the company that had just 32 employees when she first started 15 years ago; when it was still in the shadow of Power Bar.  Now Clif is a major player and the company boasts over 300 employees and still growing.