Again home, Helen
rubs her hands before the hearth,
Attic winds chill the air.
Menelaus, peace
in hand, rubs his belly’s scar,
still king, gray-whiskered.
The dead now, across
the sea, a roll call, told
and sung, old men’s tales.
Whither Patroclus,
Whither Hector and Paris,
Whither, too, Ajax?
Helen, braiding her
daughter Hermione’s hair—
whither Achilles?
Lyman
2022
"I hope I have encouraged [everyone] to be dauntless and courageous when considering a new barrier-breaking path in life." Walter E. Massey
Heralded as a leading American physicist, eighty-four-year-old Walter E. Massey currently chairs the board guiding the construction of the Giant Magellan Telescope which is being built to have 4x the resolution power of the James Webb Space Telescope.
Membership on boards has long been part of Massey's service, including stints with McDonald's (he is director), Bank of America (Chairman in 2009), BP, Tribune Company, Motorola, First National Bank of Chicago, Continental Materials, Amoco, Research-Cottrell, Delta Airlines, and Analytic Services.
Also, the Mellon Foundation, the Commonwealth Fund, the MacArthur Foundation, the Rand Corporation, the National Center for Civil and Human Rights, the Smithsonian Institution, the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, the Woods Hole Institute, and many more.
Massey, born in deeply segregated Hattiesburg, Mississippi in 1938, was at 16 identified for his gift in mathematics and given a scholarship via the Ford Foundation to attend Morehouse College in Atlanta. There he met Sabinus Christensen, a white physics teacher at the historically black, all-male school, who guided Massey to a degree in mathematics and physics and suggested he pursue his doctorate at Washington University in St. Louis.
Why Washington University? Because Christensen believed a black student like Massey had a better chance of being accepted by faculty and peers there.
His academic work led him to a research position at Argonne National Laboratory operated for the Department of Energy by the University of Chicago. Teaching positions would follow at the University of Illinois, Brown University, and then the University of Chicago.
His professorship at the University of Chicago coincided with becoming the director of the Argonne National Laboratory. In 1987 Massey presided over the American Association for the Advancement of Science, and in 1990 he was appointed director of the National Science Foundation by President George Bush.
After the stint at the NSF, Massey was selected provost and vice president of academic affairs for the University of California system, moved on to become president of Morehouse College, then president of the School of Art Institute in Chicago.
Now, as noted, Massey seeks funding for the Giant Magellan Telescope.
To date, Walter E. Massey is the only person to chair both the American Association for the Advancement of Science and the Association of Independent Colleges of Art and Design.
The younger man leaned his rake against the sycamore in
his front yard, dropped his gloves on the trunk of his car, and crossed over to
his neighbor’s driveway.
“Hey, Will.”
Will looked up from his mower and shielded his eyes. “Blades
don’t engage.” He stood up. “Your mower got a bagger?”
“Not on the riding mower. My little push mower does, but
it would take an hour or so to cover your yard.”
“Well, repair guy’s not calling back.”
“Listen, Will, I’m sorry about Hazie. I know a lot of
folks have come by. I guess maybe you can get talked out, so I waited to come
over.”
Will offered his hand. “Thanks. Sudden, you know. In the
kitchen. They had me keep doing cpr. Didn’t matter though.”
“Damn, Will. That’s rough.”
“Couldn’t do anything about it. All that wind blowing
last week, all those leaves all piled up in the back by the fence.”
“How is your daughter doing?”
“Tough on her. And with the grandbaby, you know. It’s the
neighbor trees really, most of it.”
“I could run mine and mulch them.”
“No, I need to bag them and get them out of here.”
“Okay. Not sure I can offer much advice or anything.”
Will looked toward his front door. “Oh, folks already telling
me what to do. Not to pay off the house. Not to live alone. But this is my
home, man.”
“I guess three weeks is not enough to know what you are
going to do.”
“My sister-in-law has already showed her ass once or
twice. Most are being mostly nice. Maybe the neighbor would let me run his
since their leaves piled up on my side.”
“Yep, maybe.”
“Got a lot of stuff of hers—“ He glanced down.
“It’s all right, Will.”
“Yep, rough, you know. A lot of stuff. Got to bag it up—nobody
wants any of her stuff.”
“You end up with—well been a lot of living, I suppose.”
“Already bagged a bunch of it, got it over to the Goodwill.”
“Well you know if you need help with furniture or
anything, Will, let me know. Anything.”
“Thanks, man. Hate the yard being a mess, you know. Just
got to, got to deal with it. Nothing else to do.”
Lyman
2022
aegis
avuncular
billious
bloviate
boondoggle
cretinous
diaphanous
exculpatory
fetid
fulsome
gobbledygook
hegemony (bonus point for pronouncing correctly)
incontrovertible
jocund
kleptocrat
lapidary
Gun talk is serious business around here.
I carry a 4-1/4” S&W 629 loaded with 240 grain Keiths
holstered on my draw-side thigh when out and about, maybe to the barn or down
to the gate or messing about in one of the equipment sheds.
That’s what a retired park ranger who lives in Bridger always
carried—carries—and I figure he knows what the hell is what.
Duane Evans, my nearest neighbor, will tell anyone and
everyone about how he stopped a charging sow with two shots from a 9-mil. Hang
out at the Triangle Bar on weekends and odds are good Duane will be roaring on
and on about his kill.
Duane’s a bit of an ass, but when the snowfall is deep he
comes on out and plows my road in and clears the parking area without making a
fuss about it.
The family home sits on a slight rise 500 yards from the
state road and on the other side runs the park boundary. The hill north of the
house is still heavily wooded and there is where I see bears drifting out along
the tree line, nosing berry bushes and scratching their big furry behinds
against aspens.
My father lives in a condo half a mile from the
university in Logan. He most days walks over to the campus where he teaches Applied
Mathematics. Somehow he always manages to mention he’s less than a mile from
the Walmart Supercenter and how the student body keeps him feeling a part of
the world.
“That’s good, Dad,” I say.
“Got a good high school here, you know.”
“Yep, I know. Like it where I am.”
“Okay, son. I’m just saying. Take care of yourself out
there.”
“Always do.”
The Walmart in Billings is around 90 minutes north give
or take. Bridger High School is less than an hour, light traffic, easy drive—except
when it’s not.
Sometimes a wolf pack of a dozen or so animals will come
up from the park and lope down the road. Usually in the evenings. Of course I
hear them howling all the time.
Our parcel to the south and east is over twenty-four
hundred acres of prime grassland. Elders—two or three—come to see me in April
and we handshake on a few hundred bison grazing it until being moved in late
September to the lower reaches of the valley. I split the money with my kid
sister, my father, and my mother who lives in Boulder.
The money’s not fair market value as my neighbors
complain, but seems to me there is a sort of fairness as far as that goes.
My sister and mother both agree my life is wholly
incomplete. Casey is married with 3 kids in Sacramento. My mother works as an interior designer in
Boulder and is the most vocal about selling the ranch.
“You’re not meeting anyone. You need a companion. You need
a life,” she complains.
“I’m doing just fine, Mom.”
“You’re going to be 30 next year.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be curt. Casey and I think you ought to either
live near me or her. There are more opportunities.”
“Mom, I sure as hell am not moving to Sacramento.”
“Tone!”
“What else do you want me to say? Dad said the ranch is mine to live at until I
don’t want to. I know you liked Nicole, but she just couldn’t handle it out
here.”
“Is she still teaching with you?”
“No, she’s up in Bozeman now.”
“Well, that’s a shame—“
“A big bull elk strolled into the yard last Saturday.”
“How is that relevant to your future?”
“Might be relevant to what’s in my freezer in a couple of
months.”
“Well, son, I suppose you think that clever. Call your
sister soon, and you might call me sometime soon.”
She will call back in 3 or 4 days.
Meanwhile, I’ve got firewood to haul and I need to change
the oil on the Mule.
Lyman 2022
Not sure what is going on. Not in the world at large, but rather the sudden huge uptick in page views out of Canada in the last month. Huge to me, at least. Certainly not due in my mind to any specific post yapping about anything regarding our neighbor to the north.
Maybe a former student living up that way decided to read more than half my posts one night--how unlikely. Especially if she decided to do the same a few weeks later. Again, even more unlikely as to be unfathomable.
Might be two students there now that I think of it. Still....
Autobiographically speaking, I do have a few bits of a history with Canada.
When my family moved in 1964 from Sarasota, as in Florida, to Duluth, as in Minnesota, we did make a day trip northward to cross the Pigeon River into, yes, a foreign country. Obviously not all that exotic an adventure, but for kid who spent the previous decade-plus in Florida, well an international boundary is an international boundary is an international boundary.
Pretty sure we visited at some point Fort William and Port Arthur, very sure I skied up that way in the early 70s after the entities combined into Thunder Bay, Ontario.
The other crossing point was International Falls--the weather folks' go-to for bitterly cold readings in the Lower 48. Across the Rainy River bridge was Fort Frances, Ontario. I vaguely remember the falls. Vaguely.
As for more enticing visits, Winnipeg, Manitoba and Vancouver, British Columbia were the real deal.
Winnipeg--during a mid-60s summer visit--was electric. The zoo, the rodeo, the outdoor music venues, the parks, all great. The easy guess is with the kind of winter that comes that way, they really need to suck the marrow out of those long days.
The visit to Vancouver in my late 40s came about as part of a trip to Seattle--an obvious leg to head north. I'm not about being a travel guide, but suffice to say I found Vancouver to be my favorite North American city hands down.
It's a vibe thing--and the geography and the culture and the history. I actually looked into the real estate market and the Canadian requirements for a teaching license.
Looked into....
And a particular fishing trip. About an hour and a half across the border from International Falls, Kakagi (Crow) Lake squats, a glacial lake averaging 68' deep--I had to look that up--and covering about 42 square miles. Looked that up, too.
My father's business partner owned a cabin on the lake reachable only by boat, with an outhouse and manual pump to draw water. Think northern forest and exposed rock and cold water and endless sky.
On one visit our party spent an early gray afternoon trolling for lake trout with no luck. The autumn sky darkened with light flurries, the wind chilled, and so we turned back. The others reeled in their lures, but I kept mine out as we motored between a small island and the main shoreline.
The strike was not so much a hit as an embrace that tugged hard on my rod. I set the hook and reeled--dragged--against what ever it was at the end of the line.
It was not a fight to the end, it was a capitulation. A slow surrendering to the steady grind of my reel. An unrelenting heaviness, as if a season-ending collapse.
So, my most significant Canadian memory: Not Winnipeg, not Vancouver. Nope, that 23-pound lake trout. The heaviest fish I ever boated.
Oh, Canada.
I went back to my home village for the first time since the war began. I say home because it was my place of birth and of my parents, of my grandparents and their parents.
Now the village was mostly rubble.
I left my village when I was 18 after securing a university
scholarship. The day I left my mother wept and my father took me by the
shoulders and offered a few words. “Be something.” He shook me gently. “Be
something.” My grandfather beamed proudly. My grandmother shook her head and
spat. “This is no good. It is a fool’s errand.”
My family’s home burned to the ground in the attack. I
would be sleeping in one of many volunteer tents. I would shower at the
hospital and I would eat in the mess tent.
On the little stand next to my cot I set my mug and a
dog-eared copy of The Gulag Archipelago.
Two of my tent mates took no notice, but the third eyed it with contempt.
“You should not have such a thing as that. It is an
affront to the dead.”
“You misunderstand—appreciate the irony.”
“It should be burned.”
The first morning, after a breakfast of boiled eggs and
bread and coffee, we mustered in two lines about ten yards from the gravesite.
We were handed a trowel, a short folding shovel—like one would take camping in the
mountains to dig a latrine, a small sieve, and something like a small serving
spoon.
We were stationed every three feet around the perimeter
of the freshly turned earth. An army corporal marked our place with orange
spray paint. Then a man with a bullhorn introduced himself as the UN liaison.
“Start with your shovel, dig slowly until you meet any
kind of resistance. Place the dirt in the sieve and shake it through. You are
looking for jewelry, keys, coins, paper money, small bones, and the like.”
Several of the men—two of the youngest in
particular—shifted back and forth, staring at the ground, muttering to
themselves.
“Use the pointed end of the trowel to probe around larger
objects, slowly, slowly, finding the edges. Perhaps an arm or leg, maybe the
torso, maybe the head, perhaps a foot. Use the spoon to scoop away smaller
amounts. Photographers will be moving around you to document the scene.”
The man to my left began to drop to his knees.
“Wait! One last word. I am sorry if this happens, but
some of you may uncover someone you know. Signal me and we will move you to
another section if you wish. Any questions?”
We knelt down.
I decided to start on the left side of my small parcel. A
shallow angle and the dirt gave way easily. I turned and dropped the load
through the sieve. Nothing.
I aimed to the right a bit. Again, a scoop of dirt.
Nothing.
Once more. Something this time. I took my trowel and
gently pushed forward. A smallish stone dislodged. I flipped it over my
shoulder.
I glanced at some of the other men. No one seemed to have
reached a body yet.
With my shovel I worked back and forth, moving the dirt,
striking a few stones, a coin, a bit of broken glass. I inched forward on my
knees. My shovel easily penetrated the dirt.
Sometimes I would stand and stretch my legs and back.
Others would do the same. Clearly we were getting closer to the mound itself.
“One here!” We all stopped and stared. The UN supervisor
jogged over to the spot. He stooped and immediately signaled for a photographer
to come over.
I returned to the task. The shovel cut easily down half a
foot or so. Nothing. Another deeper cut. Nothing.
I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it back behind me.
Again, a deep gash. Resistance. I pushed again.
Something. I picked up the trowel and scraped at the object.
Slowly I moved away the dirt. An outline emerged. A small
shoe. I worked around the toe and along the top. Some white laces.
“One here.”
A photographer close by came over and stood behind me. My
companions on either side stopped and leaned in my direction.
I took the spoon and removed a bit of dirt. A tennis
shoe. Pink. Gently I worked around the shoe. And then a bare ankle. What I
already knew was now clear. A child.
The photographer tapped me on the shoulder and had me
step back. He took several shots and then kneeled and took several more.
My fellow diggers averted their eyes and returned to the
task at hand.
I took a deep breath and kneeled.
Greenville
2022
State, Suicide rate per 100,000 (2020)
Wyoming, 30.5
Alaska, 27.5
Montana, 26.1
New Mexico, 24.2
Idaho, 23.2
Oklahoma, 21.9
Colorado, 21.5
South Dakota, 21
Utah, 20.8
West Virginia, 19.4
Pennsylvania, 12.6
Delaware, 12.3
Illinois, 10.5
California, 10
Connecticut, 9.3
Maryland, 9.2
Rhode Island, 8.5
Massachusetts, 8.4
New York, 8
New Jersey, 7.1
The dogwoods fully flowered as if snow-covered
while we walk the block back and forth
where Soo-an lives.
We shuffle together side by side
in and out of the shadows of the trees
lining the street.
“Soo-an!” Mr. Hanson’s voice calls, loud enough to be
heard,
voiced to be obeyed.
I drop her hand. Soo-an giggles.
“My father will not kill you.”
“No, but he might mess me up a bit.” A rueful laugh.
I kiss her softly on the mouth.
An owl sounds in the cold air.
We pick up our pace so we are at the foot
of the drive quickly.
We press our hands together. Soo-an rises
up on her toes and kisses my lips.
“Good night.”
“Good night, Soo-an.”
I watch her walking to her front door.
The porch light out, I turn for home.
Hands in my coat pockets.
A cold walk, the two miles.
Lyman 2022
(Circumstances may have changed.)
$805,000 2/2 2005 Mitzi Lane, Sanibel, FL: 52 days on market
$849,000 3/2 1747 Serenity Lane: 32 days
$899,000 3/2 1835 Farm Trail: 120 days
$899,000 3/2 6065 Dinkins Lake Road: 22 days
$925,000 2/2 1046 Sand Castle Road: 109 days
$925,000 3/2 1031 Bird Watch Way: 115 days
$975,000 3/2 1986 Wild Lime Drive: 22 days
$995,000 3/2 1382 Tahiti Drive: 166 days
$999,000 3/2.5 921 Strangler Fig Lane: 39 days
$1,049,000 2/2 683 Emeril Court: 51 days
$849,000 3/3 12030 Bohman Lane, Pine Island, FL: 37 days
$800,000 3/2 12370 Eagles Nest Drive: 30 days
$725,000 4/3 11831 Tawas Court: 120 days
$649,999 3/2 5389 Serenity Cove: 136 days
$599,000 2/2 5440 Pine Creek Lane North: 165 days
$129,000 2/1 316 Bellair Road, Ft. Myers, FL: 144 days
$142,999 2/1 4847 Nottingham Drive: 53 days
$149,900 2/1 1103 Luray Avenue: 59 days
$149,999 3/1 3056 2nd Street: 52 days
$150,000 1/1 2426 Stella Street: 11 days
Not commenting on the state of the world does not mean I am unaware.
Turkey's President Erdogan pledges all-out defense against Greek military moves.
Putin thinks he is, in fact, Peter the Great.
Just as Arlie checked the pot of water on the stove, the
alarm connected to the front gate buzzer sounded. She set the small bag of
shrimp in the sink and dried her hands on a dish towel.
At the roll top desk in the dining room, Arlie toggled
through the security screens to the entrance camera. UPS. The blonde woman
looked up at the camera and held out a smallish package.
Arlie flipped on the intercom. “Thanks, Teri. Just leave
it in the hopper. Have a good one.”
“Okie dokie, Arlie. You too.”
Before Arlie could take a step toward the kitchen, the
upstream view filled the screen. She leaned in. Just above the sea grass she
saw a head with a cap pulled low moving along the creek.
Harlan Deeds headed home. His place—his family’s home—was
the next one up Temperance Creek. Arlie shook her head. Harlan was locally
famous for penning up all his hogs just before the eight-foot surge came
rushing in in ’89. Every last one drown.
His mama when she spoke of him would always refer to him
as that boy. “That boy is gone out fishing.” “That boy will be back from town
later.” “I’m sending that boy over for some flour.”
That boy is nearly 40 now snickered Arlie. But he does
have a knack for fishing.
Back in the kitchen, Arlie pulled her hair into a
ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She dropped the shrimp in the
boiling water and took the pot off the stove.
After 2 minutes she scooped the shrimp into a small
serving bowl with cucumber slices and diced cherry tomatoes. She stirred in a
tablespoon of red wine vinegar.
As Arlie was wiping down the counter after her meal, the
rear house camera alerted. She walked into the dining room and peered at the
screen. Pelicans. Five of them on the dock. She laughed. No reason to get her
hackles up, they couldn’t read the warning signs.
Might as well do a camera check since she was there.
Front gate, turn left, turn right—highway traffic light.
Back to front view.
Barn camera, zoom to water trough, turn right to house,
turn left to drive.
House front, left to barn, center to drive, right to tool
shed.
House rear, left to pine stand, center to dock, right to
garden.
Dock camera, left upstream, center across creek to Barker’s
Hummock, right downstream.
Last Labor Day at Arlie’s annual picnic, Lydia Cole and
Kiki Banks spent a good portion of the afternoon sipping rum and cokes and
spying on the neighbors.
Every time Arlie came into the house, she could hear the
women laughing or fussing about the action outdoors.
“Y’all are going to bust that thing.”
“Arlie, this is better than a week of Real Housewives.”
“Y’all are just being trashy.”
They clinked their glasses at her and turned back to the
screen.
One year, Wilson Gore after several rounds of an informal
bourbon tasting contest lit into Arlie over the security system.
“Dammit, Arlie, why you’d spend all this fool money on
nonsense? You got a gun, I seen you shoot. Pretty damn stupid.”
“Shut up, Wilson.”
“Arlie, you got no sense. Hell, get some damn dogs,
woman.”
Arlie grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. “I’m not going to be a victim! I’m not!" She let go of his shirt. "I’m not going to be a prisoner in my own home.”
Lyman 2022
As children develop a sense of humor along and along, many will get around to playing the following gambit. A few years ago, a young neighbor called me over and I responded, "Give me a second". Before I could turn my head, I heard the count begin. "One Mississippi...."
Ah, the clever little comic literalist.
I guess most of us still toss off a "give me a second" or "give me a minute" even in this age of milliseconds, or rather nanoseconds. Not sure anyone is calling out "give me a few nanoseconds". Maybe the phrase works for physicists, maybe even as a punchline.
How I got a second on the brain came the other day in the kitchen. Nope, I wasn't watching a countdown on the microwave. By the way, apropos of nothing, I usually wait for the bell to sound. Yes, very nearly always.
No, I was looking at a row of 16-ounce glasses lined up like soldiers across the top of my cabinets. These dust-collectors are trophies for weekly summer evening sailboat races in Charleston. And I fixed on the second one from the left for a second place finish our first race on my Pearson 26OD Lun'R'Sea.
Of course, I didn't choose that name, but I was--am--superstious enough to keep a boat's name unless she is christened something lewd or complete nonsense.
I might have preferred LunaSea. But only a little.
Now about that second place finish--it was by one second on corrected time.
I'll spare the vast percentage of the disinterested the vagaries of a sailboat handicapping system relative to on the water realities. Suffice to say, our finish computed to a second place by one second.
One second. After around 6 miles of sailing, at least as the gull flies. And here's the juicy little morsel to still set my teeth on edge. The winning boat was a boat I raced on for 8 years. Same skipper, same core crew. More than 150 races together.
Yep, we came within--well the list is long for the finish. I lost that race to my former mates with a conservative start. I lost that race every time I lost my focus on driving the boat. I lost that race every time I stood up to look around the headsail just to make sure of the input I was getting.
We lost that race each time a crew member stepped across the boat or went forward of the mast. We lost that race on every wind shift, no matter how great or minimal. We lost that race on how the bow sliced through a wave. We lost that race on every mark rounding. We lost that race on every tack. We lost that race on our tactics.
We lost that second over and over and over and over and over again.
One second. One Mississippi--
I was turning back to the house after checking on a small fig--squat bush, not a tree--out front. Gliding in on our east wind this morning was a red-shouldered hawk. Surprise, it chose to land on my back fence.
In stealth mode, I--well, somewhat stealthily since I am still hobbled by a tear to my left Achilles. Moving up along the side of the house, hidden behind an 8-foot Heart's-a-Bustin' (Euonymus americanus), I peeked out. The bird was still there.
But let me go back half an hour or so. While I was turning over this season's tomato beds, I spied the hawk perched at the highest remaining point on the grandfather tree down by the lake. I also happen to see it dive to the ground, but when it flew up to what I think of as the corner oak, it was empty-taloned.
Immediately, much smaller birds--sparrows I think--and then a crow joined together to persuade the hawk to fly off across the lake.
Now, there was the hawk sitting quietly. The wind ruffled its breast feathers, the bird looked about, the wings tucked in. I stepped out into the open. For a few moments, the bird and I at peace. The sky above with a few clouds, the air cool and much less humid than it often is. All good.
I couldn't help but think of a favorite line of mine from Robinson Jeffers: "I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk...". Of course, I am not really a misanthrope to that degree, but I appreciate the sentiment.
The hawk scanned the terrain, seemingly disinterested, but I was wrong. Off it flew, following the slope of the hill down to where it often hunts from above.
Whether a kill was made, I could not say.
What I was certain of in the first seconds of the encounter was simple.
No photo. No video. No TikTok. No YouTube. No Snapchat. No Facebook.
Perhaps you think, then, to snipe at me about sharing the moment via a blog post. Fair enough. But I thought with a few hundred words, you might get the picture.
Sure, sure, it's a complex world. Easily I can ask questions, but they seem only to further complicate whatever the topic or situation.
And I'm not smart enough, not smart enough to make the case against having the cleanest air possible.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against everyone having access to safe drinking water.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against our food being the safest, most nutritious available in the world.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against having the finest transportation and utility infrastructure in the world.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against universal literacy.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against feeding all children cost-free in our public schools.
I'm not smart enough to make the case against improving the economic well being of the working poor.
I'm not smart enough to make a case against building smarter, more ecologically sound residential homes and buildings.
Maybe, I am naive.
Perhaps, I am uninformed.
Or just not smart enough.
Top imported food sources in the U.S.
Fruits, fresh or frozen:
Mexico
Chile
Peru
Fruits, prepared or preserved:
Mexico
China
Thailand
Vegetables, fresh or frozen:
Mexico
Canada
European Union
Vegetables, prepared or preserved:
European Union
Mexico
Canada
Beef:
Canada
Mexico
New Zealand
Fish & Shellfish:
China
European Union
Canada
Dairy products:
New Zealand
Italy
France
George Armstrong Gass pushed his chair back from his desk. One more awkward Zoom conversation with a client ended. His shoulders slumped. His morale deflated. He needed to get back to his game, to energize his enthusiasm, to exert his power.
In a word, George needed guidance. No, no, inspiration. A
touchstone, a lodestone, a gem of inspiration. A nugget.
Wait—no, a tattoo!
And so two days later, there on his left forearm for his
constant review, inked for the world to see, his first. In Mongolian Baiti.
To thine own self be true
Oh, yes. What did
Tony Robbins preach, that “Action is the key to any success”. George was an
action kind of guy.
A mid-morning sip
of Choffy brewed chocolate, a glance at his tattoo, and on to his first client.
“Hank! It’s a
great day, Hank. It’s all about wheat these days. Wheat! What have you got
available, 5k? Or would 10k be better for you?”
“Tony, Tony, Tony
G! Man, I’m glad I reached you. Got a great lead on what’s going on in copper.
Yes, copper! I’m telling you. Let me have 2k.”
“William! How are
you and the kids? I decided to call you first. No, really—calling you first.
Why? A bunch of coal mines are shutting down and demand is going up. It’s
brilliant. Take 2k or 3k out of the money market fund?”
“Elizabeth Turner!
It’s George. George Gass! I know, I know, long time, no talk. Well I waited for
something really special. Really special. I got a 48-hour lead on the monthly
corn update. Going to be a huge move. Huge! Let’s go all in. At least 10k—no,
20k.”
When George put
down his headset at the end of the day, he sighed. He needed something,
something more.
And so, the very
next day, there on his right forearm, another tattoo. What Deepak said. In
Franklin Gothic.
You must find the place inside
yourself where nothing is impossible
And now the
mid-afternoon cup of honey lavender tea. All would be right with the world. A
quick look at the markets, scratch Rockster behind the ears—good boy!—and pull
up the call list.
“Walsh, hey, it’s
George. You thinking what I’m thinking about the 30-year? Yep. Yep, yep. Me, too.
Yep. You in for, oh say 5k?”
“Hey, honey. Oh,
yes, really busy. No, no, I’m still on. At 6. No, I’ll be there. Yes, Carmine’s
is fine. No, really. Okay. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Ted, it’s George.
Can I move you on copper or not? It’s time, I know it, you know it, and the
whole world is figuring it out. You’ve got that 10k sitting there waiting for a
moment like this.”
“Gordie, George
Gass here. Hey, listen, I think we need to get out of wheat and into corn. Yep,
I’ve seen the ag numbers. Looks like a good time to strike. Up to you. Of
course, the run has been good, but I think corn will bust out. Yep, yep, the
whole 32k.”
George gently
massaged his temples. Tired, tired of schmoozing, tired of cajoling, tired of
being tired. Something. Something to get him over the hump.
Something short,
small, out of the way, just below the left ribs. Something from Eckhart.
Georgia would look good.
The past has no power
over the present moment
Yes, there was a
truth as true as any truth. And why not match it with something more on his right side? The ultimate ideal.
It’s all good!
Wednesday afternoon I spent two and a half hours in the emergency room of a local hospital. I was there because my left achilles and calf muscles gave way while I was chasing down a lob playing pickleball.
The ER was overwhelmed. All the chairs in the waiting area were full. IVs were being given in an anteroom that once housed vending machines. Vitals were being taken in the area as well. We were all friends by date of birth, height, and weight called out loud.
I had no book, no magazines were available, and no phone scrolling either. And so, I along with the others, we waited. And waited.
So many wheelchairs were in use that two would have to be moved for one to move by.
Two elderly women, coincidentally, came in by themselves--each had fallen the day before and hit their heads. Dizzy this morning, they drove themselves to the hospital.
Severity of need trumped time stamps. Of course.
The young man with chest pains, the second time in a week, more acute than my injury, severe or not.
The elderly woman who has been coughing for three weeks.
The staff moved at a measured pace. They all seemed in their 20s and 30s. Efficient, pleasant, on task. The nurse practitioner who did my initial assessment about 30 minutes in would sometimes make eye contact with me. Maybe--or so it seemed to me--she allowed a slight shrug.
The two younger women, both pregnant, clutching at their bellies. Both had a child at their side.
Perhaps I should set myself age-wise in this mix: I will be 69 on the 11th.
A teenage girl, very pale, very thin, eyes alert, making her mother laugh. This is her third trip to the ER in the past two weeks. She leaned into her mother's side, head on her shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.
A young man--early 20s--with cast on his right wrist, left arm in a sling--gingerly retrieved a pair of sunglasses on the floor with his fingers and carried them over to a woman who just checked in.
Around the 90-minute mark, an x-ray tech came for me. She wheeled me through the doors into the central ER treatment where every exam room was occupied and down a hall and down another hall to a mobile machine just outside what looked like a lab. She propped my leg up on a rolling chair. Three views taken, and back to the waiting room.
Three of their four radiologists were in emergency surgery. It may be an hour before a review, she warned.
Four more elderly patients in wheelchairs were lined up at the reception desk.
Two hours in, a nurse brought me two Naproxens. I've had it before--good stuff.
A young man came in--heat exhaustion, football practice.
About 15 minutes later, another young man--heat exhaustion, construction worker.
A young man wheeled in his mimaw, her head rolled to the side, eyes open. Feverish, he told reception.
Another pregnant woman, both hands under her belly. Husband had his arm around her. They both seemed worried. The nurse patted her knee.
The nurse practitioner came to me. There is no tear, severe strain to the achilles and calf muscle. I can be released without seeing doctor if I wish. Should check in with my regular physician and go from there.
Perhaps I have buried the lede somehow, but somewhere along the way in my life I came to understand waiting as a matter of perspective.
My seat in the waiting room allowed me a view through the swinging doors into the treatment area. Within the first ten minutes after my check-in, the doors opened and I could see a staff member wheeling out a gurney with a corpse, fully covered, white sheets neatly tucked in around the body.
One might, without much thought, recall a particular sensibility: Oh, the humanity.
Yes, I may be signing a contract to teach 2 sections of English 4 Honors (Brit Lit) for a local school district that includes a lucrative Name/Image/Likeness addendum. Five figures, folks!
Gonna be uuuuuuuge!
I already have my crackerjack messaging team churning.
Only the best people, the best people working for me, the best team ever, the best!
Already packaged Scott Kaple, Scott R. Kaple, SRKaple, SKaple, SRK, and SK. Oh, and sk.
Man of the people, not all people, but most people, at least some people, and so sk.
The obvious, local car detailing shop, outdoor gear store, plumbing and electrical, and insurance connections. All Scott's.... See, see how that works, same name.
It's beautiful, it's gonna be uuuuuge, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!
OMG, Scott brand, I just thought of that before my team did. Paper towels, wow! My image on the package. And toilet paper, everyone loves toilet paper. My students will love that.
We're going national--na-tion-al!
And shop towels. Can you say tie-in? Plumbing and electrical and shop towels--Boom!
But wait, there's more!
Rags in a box and car detailing shop. See what I did there? Tie-in!
Even more! Booooom!
Scotts lawn care products--we're taking the campaign outdoors. You've got lawn food, grass seed, weed control, pest control, spreaders, yard tools, mulch and soil. Just imagine, my face on a bag of mulch. That's rich.
Uge and Uger! We're going international--in-ter-na-tion-al!
Now about Scotts International Trade Consultant in Krakow....
Boom!
Looks like my NIL income will be more than the teaching gig. Imagine that.
The post on June 23rd, An Index (12), was spurred by this map.
An easily processed visual, green would be counties increasing in population and red those decreasing between 2010 and 2019. I know enough of my geography to spot the growth where heat and/or water are issues. Hot spots, so to speak.
Then my eyes landed on central Texas, northward to Kansas and Nebraska, over to Iowa, and down through Illinois, and southward along the Mississippi River. Wow. Turn out the lights.
Of course, South Carolina caught my attention. Cities are booming, rural areas are collapsing. Half the counties in the state lost population the past decade. My first thought: How do they maintain a decent public school system? If they have one to begin with.
Take a look at your state. With few exceptions, the great shift continues.
As for Arizona, go figure.
Pretty simple really. If you believe as I do elective offices are not career (lifelong) destinations. To that point, I would limit senators to 2 consecutive terms and representatives to 3 consecutive terms in the US Congress.
What about institutional knowledge, some may ask. Well, aren't we sending bright enough folks to represent us who can get up to speed? We are, aren't we?
Honestly, the term limits issue is secondary to my main gripe. I want to send elected officials out of office when they turn 68. All of them, at every level--municipal, county, state, and federal. Elected school officials, too.
Middle of the term? I don't care. What about all that life experience? I don't care. The expertise? I don't care. Folks my age and older, we had a good run. Full disclosure, I'll be 69 next month.
Just go home. Senators, for example...
Diane Feinstein 6/22/33
Chuck Grassly 9/17/33
Richard Shelby 5/6/34
Jim Inhofe 11/17/34
Patrick Leahy 3/31/40
Bernie Sanders 9/8/41
Mitch McConnell 2/20/42
Jim Risch 5/3/43
Ben Cardin 10/5/43
Angus King 3/31/44
Dick Durbin 11/21/44
Richard Blumenthal 2/13/46
Ed Markey 7/11/46
Tom Carper 1/23/47
But what about seniority? I don't care.
Jeanne Shaheen 1/28/47
Mitt Romney 3/12/47
Joe Manchin 8/24/47
Mazie Hirono 11/3/47
Ron Wyden 5/3/49
Elizabeth Warren 6/22/49
Jack Reed 11/12/49
Roy Blunt 1/10/50
Debbie Stabenow 4/29/50
Patty Murray 10/11/50
Chuck Shumer 11/23/50
John Boozman 12/10/50
Deb Fischer 3/1/51
Mike Crapo 5/20/51
This is age discrimination. I. Don't. Care.
Roger Wicker 7/5/51
John Kennedy 11/21/51
John Cornyn 2/2/52
John Hickenlooper 2/7/52
Marsha Blackburn 6/6/52
John Barrasso 7/1/52
Sherrod Brown 11/9/52
Rick Scott 12/1/52
Susan Collins 12/7/52
Shelley Moore Capito 11/26/53
Bob Menendez 1/1/54
Mike Braun 3/24/54
Jerry Moran 5/29/54
Time to pass the torch to folks in their 30s and 40s and 50s. The middle of the 21st century is rocketing toward us.
So go home. Stay home. Oh, and shut up.
