"You've got to have a sense of humor..."

"sitting on the dock of the bay 

wasting time..."

    Frank was a honcho at Cal Tech, and JPL (Jet Propulsion Laboratory) back in the heyday of the space race. Some of his underlings have won Nobel prizes for science. He is modest, so I will say it, he's brilliant and one of the sharpest minds to inhabit this planet.

    Frank will often remind us at our monthly dinners, "You've got to have a sense of humor!" This is a man who in his mid 80's was still climbing a ladder to his roof. He's also devoted years to reading history. 

   Hearing "you've got to have a sense of humor" from a man who has calculated how to stare more deeply into space so as to look further back in time" carries credibility.

    

    My mother was a believer in the principle of laughing at least three times a day. She was a fan of Norman Cousins and his advocacy of laughter as a healer. Medical science has caught up with mom and Cousins and there is data that explains how laughter is indeed very healthy and healing. 

      I was considered a "serious" little boy and so mom would tell me to go outside and watch the clouds. I still love to watch clouds. And now I stare at the tide. My dad would sit, zen monk like, watching the tide, whenever family vacations took us to the shore. I get it dad. 

     So, if you happen along on the California central coast and find an old boomer staring at the tide rolling away, maybe humming Otis Redding's ditty or laughing at seemingly nothing, know that you have encountered a guy who is taking advice, from those far more wise than he.

      And in this day and age, if you can't laugh at what's going on, you'd cry!

explosive news

    I, like a couple of thousand other folks, was a bit mystified by the local fireworks.

        They opened strong. I think I even muttered, this is more like a finale.

     Turns out, something went wrong. It began with the end and it could have been worse. My source is the diligent local reporter Kathe Tanner who has revealed the story.

   After starting like gangbusters, things slowed, and then it was as if things went crazy.  They did....

    Kathe reports in our local weekly The Cambrian that a new pyrotechnic specialist, utilizing a new electronic system, goofed. The intended end of the show opened the display and then things went down hill. The intended 20 minutes display was over in 7-9 minutes. A lot of stuff went off at once. 

     It was an exciting 7 minutes though. Those of us down then beach thought it looked a little wild at the park, where the aerials were launched.

     Back story here---the fire Marshall and the fire chief was about to shut it down because the launch area was too close to the folks in the park. A rapid negotiation followed by moving people further away, allowed the show to go on. However the new pyro, unfamiliar with Cambria, was sending stuff up in a wrong sequence and still too close to people and homes.  He could have used Frank's satellite and telescope calculus expertise.

      It's become a matter of local "fireworks" over the fireworks. Ash and debris landed where it should not. It took two or three days to clean the beach and nearby neighborhood. And then when you consider the complaints of pet owners with terrified dogs and cats, and the complaints of naturalists worried about birds and wild life, we've got a local hubbub underway.

        Don't you feel a chuckle coming on? 

        The belly laugh is for our Labor Secretary and his boss! Not even Carl Hiaasen could make up stuff like that. 

         I think mom would be getting in maybe 300 laughs a day.

       See you down the trail

OFF THE ROAD

NO MORE A ROAD WARRIOR

Between Indianapolis and Phoenix

    7:40 AM and I'm sitting at the bar, the only seat available in  the crowded airport restaurant. My wake up call had come at Midnight on my body clock, 3:00 AM in Indianapolis.

     "What'll you have to drink?" the bartender asks after putting out another gin to the guy sitting at my left and another beer to the guy two spaces down on the right.

      "Coffee" I say watching the constant milling of people in and out of the tight space between tables and the shifting of spots at the bar.

       The guy to my immediate right asks to be topped off on coffee as he holds a paperback in his left hand, his right hand working on an omelet.

      I'm looking around and amazed at how young these travelers are, most of them are on business. After the years I've logged you can spot the road warriors from the tourists. 

      In that moment a switch that had begun to turn a few nights ago, completed its click.

      The flight got in at 1:15 AM. For years I've used a particular car rental agency that offers something called a rapid rez so you bypass lines, go immediately to the garage get your car and on your way. A breakfast meeting awaited after what would be the usual first night of battle with hotel pillows and bed, heating system and the likely impossibility of opening a window for real air. Sleep would be a challenge, but the rapid rez would get me moving that way. Wrong! There was not a waiting car. A lot attendant broke the news the computers crashed and I'd have to go back to the terminal and wait in line. Guess she see could the color drain. 

      She said "I'll be over in a couple of minutes to help you."

      No one is happy at the counter, especially the folks waiting in line. The clerks are doing the best they can, filling forms by long hand and swiping credit cards, but as the clock ticks and sleep disappears, the best laid plans are washing away as though being soaked by the cold rain outside.

     The young lady arrives, takes my credit card and disappears to the office behind the counter. Several minutes later she reappears with temporary paperwork explaining the form that would need to be explained in turn to the gate keeper.

     Loaded, seats adjusted, trying to figure out the heating and defrost controls, I roll up on the gate man who seems more perplexed than anything, but lifts the bar and I'm out into a driving rain at a temperature hovering above freezing.

     It's funny but after you've been away from a place for a while you begin to doubt your directions. I thread the on and off ramps and follow the signs to the downtown trying to remember my old short cuts, but loosing confidence as I drive. That and the place continues to be built and changed for SuperBowls, and NCAA Final Fours and myriad conventions.  My destination is a grand hotel I've been in more times than I could recall, but I couldn't recall where in the hell the entrance was. 

     The clock is running on me and chance of sleep is flying away as I circumnavigate the block a couple of times, cursing about what have they done with the entrance. Then I remember, though new buildings conspired against a clear vista.

      The car has been sent to the valet garage and I've been given keys that must be swiped before the elevator will assign my floor. This is new and requires a juggling act of shoulder bag, plastic bag with water, suitcase and keys.

      Ah, into the room, suits and shirts hung up, dob kit out and it looks like there may be a decent pillow on the bed. Still sleep time is being chewed up and that breakfast meeting is getting closer. Teeth are brushed and I reach for my mouth wash wondering the moment it hits my tongue why it had become like a gel.  I didn't have time to riddle that before the taste slammed me in the head with a realization-I had just taken a big swig of shampoo. Have you tried to rinse out a mouthful of shampoo?  I hope you never must.  That is when the switch began to click down.

     Now sitting here marveling at the youth of the road warriors, my nostrils assaulted by a few nights of dry hotel air, and damp chill of Indianapolis winter, my throat equally scratchy I knew definitively the road has passed me by. Even for vacation travel, I get a big sense of dread whenever I think about the packing, airports, the transfers, the hotels and what have you. I love to jump into the car and go explore, but it is the airports and the planes and not being in control that is the problem. 

    On this morning I'm listening to several weaves of conversation-missed connections, mechanical delays, scrambling to reschedule meetings, security clearance nightmares and etc. Been there and done that. I logged many thousands of miles at 36 thousand feet, all around this blue marble. There was a time I thought I could do it forever. On this morning, that seemed like a lifetime ago.  

      All I wanted now was to hug Lana, pet the cats, see the big Pacific and rolling Santa Lucia Mountains, smell fresh air, real air and be with others who also appreciate an eclectic little village, miles from roaring semis, hotel air and shampoo for mouth wash. Guess I should surrender my road warrior credentials.  

      There's a post script though, since life is not a fairy tale.

The light rain falling as we deplaned down the steps and walked across the runway felt good in this drought inflicted state. The snafu in this land of contentment was a baggage conveyor that broke down as several of us seemed eager to end our individual odysseys. Oh well, the video loop that kept playing over the bag less conveyor featured the scenic best of the coast, vineyards, hiking trails and at least, we were home.

      And the soaking my bag got, waiting to take its turn in the tunnel seemed to have dissolved those road warrior credentials. Amen!

     SOMETHING GOOD

    For many of us who were Ball State University students, the above was probably a staple of our diet.  Pizza King was a local enterprise that etched itself into our history. This particular 8 inch personal creation is one of our favorites, eccentric though it may be. Hamburger with barbecue sauce.

It must be tasted to be appreciated.

   Anyone who has visited Indianapolis will recognize this as the century old and venerable Shapiro's Deli. The number of lunches I enjoyed here, and even a few dinner breaks with my Mom is incalculable. After spending a day shooting video on this last trip, being outside in a chill, though locals said it was a "nice" day, I stopped in for a bowl of their warming Matza Ball soup.

    There were a couple of other memory moments-below a plaque at the Indiana State Museum.

MOM'S MOMENT

   We would never visit the cemetery that mom did not want to pause at this sculpture. It was one of her favorite places.  The title is Innocence. Over the years it has become one of those special places for me.

    Now it is a place where I remember and in a very real

way, feel my mother's presence. Moment's like this can make the travel worthwhile.

    See you down the trail.

CHEATING, LYING AND MOMS

VARIATIONS

 Spirit Room-Jerome Arizona. 158 curves in 12 miles of Highway 89A.

SPIRITUAL ARCHITECTURE

 Inside Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona Arizona, in red rock country. 

 Courtesy of Chapel of the Holy Cross Sedona Az

 Courtesy of Chapel of the Holy Cross Sedona Az
DEDICATED TO TOM BRADY

   An overnight construction in Cambria. 
OH WHAT A WEB WE WEAVE
WHEN AT FIRST WE DECEIVE

LIAR AND CHEAT

     Dashing and handsome Tom Brady is a public superstar and a great quarterback, but he is also a liar and a cheater.

     Several writers and commentators have taken on Mr. Brady since the investigation revealed his participation and knowledge in the scandal of deflated footballs. They are right to do so.

      The NFL is considering sanctions, if any. I suggest Brady play the next season in a jersey with LIAR on the back in place of his name.

       His coach Bill Belichick is a winning coach, but he too is a cheater. Patriots fans don't like to hear any of this, but it's true. Sneaking video of opponents, as engineered by Belichick, or deflating footballs is not the reason the Patriots are one of the great modern football dynasties. They are good and that makes cheating and lying all the more tragic. They don't need a sneaking, cheating advantage.
       Brady has lost my respect. He may be an exceptional jock, but he is a failure as a man. To be in his vaunted, high profile position and to lie repeatedly is the sign of a coward and weasel, as well as a cheater and liar. 
      You have to wonder when games went from being about play to being about only winning.  I've been an amateur jock my entire life and admit winning is a lot more fun than loosing. But they are games and principles, honor, sportsmanship and a conduct code still matter. There are rules of the game and they should matter despite the big money influence that dominates so much of our sports culture.
       Winning at all costs matters only when good people or societies are engaged in war against evil, like Hitler, Isis, disease, starvation, atrocities and even dishonesty. How you play the game, at all levels, speaks to who you really are.  
       The Patriots are a sad use of a good name. They are liars and cheaters. They are nothing to look up to.

SWEET, BUT TOUGH

    This is about the age Mary Helen Decker Cochrun became a mother by giving birth to this blogger.

     A bride during WWII, she endured the long absence of my father as he fought in the South Pacific. By then she was already a child of the great depression and had lost her father to blood poisoning when she was merely 16.

     She was one of the "greatest generation" who helped turn post war 1950's America into a place where families grew and the middle class flourished as parents participated in their children's lives and educations. She brought four children into the world and she buried three of them.

     "Nothing prepares you for the loss of a child" she said, still her faith remained strong and abiding. She was always about giving, sharing, being a shoulder to lean on. People sought her out for her strength and grace. She was tough, a survivor with firm views. She always supported the underdog, the working person, those who told the truth. She demanded that of her children and of public officials.

       She was active in politics until full time mothering limited her involvement. When I went to college she returned to work as an administrator, seeing three boys who needed rearing and educating. Dad's salary would go only go so far as they were supporting their own aging mothers and they insisted on traveling with their three sons to widen our view of life. Her daughter she lost early. Her two younger sons she lost with in the same year, as they both had reached young manhood. She had done a good job of being a mother to my irrepressible and accomplished brothers.

     I'm sorry for those who did not have a good relationship with their mother. My mother and her influence is one of the treasures of my life. As my daughters celebrate their mother this weekend, I will celebrate Mary Helen Decker Cochrun and that special selfless love of mothers.

     And kind and gentle as she was and as sentimental as is this remembrance, I can hear her saying that Tom Brady's behavior is disgusting and would be embarrassing to his mother! Yea mom, at least! 

    See you down the trail.

DUBIOUS CONFUSION

TRUTH IN THE SHADOWS

 AND HARD TRUTHS

     We are at a couple of challenging junctures in American history. 
     The growing clamor and controversy over vaccination of children is evidence of a profound division.

     As social commentators have noted, the far left and the far right have found common ground in their skittishness toward vaccines. The nexus of the issue is the right of individuals to think and act as they wish vis a vis the well being and greater good of the general society.

     The other issue came to mind as we made our annual visit to the Monarch winter migration grove in Pismo Beach.

    Again this year fewer of the winged beauties were evident. There are a couple leading explanations and they are related to what civilization has done and is doing to the natural world.

    Decimation of wild spaces, pesticides, herbicides and other effects of changed agriculture and modern building have thrown nature out of balance for these winged beauties.

     That is the point of Naomi Klein's latest book,This Changes Everything:Capitalism vs. the Climate. 

     Even liberals and environmentalists are gun shy in raising her premise, for fear of being considered "too radical."

       With a lot of research and scientific scholarship Klein says the world's economic system and our planetary system are at war. 

       She covers food production, consumption, energy use and production, pollution of air, water and land, resource management practices and can measure how the bottom line of economics and especially profit motive trumps rivers, lakes, landfills, oceans, crop management, and etc. Protection of resources, even to worry about something like monarch butterfly populations, costs money and corporate boards are there to maximize earning and stock value. Regulations that might mitigate natural damage add costs and/or decrease earnings. 

       People are frightened by what Klein says. Her research should be read.  Truth is sometimes a 2x4 over the bridge of a nose or more gently an annoying prophet disturbing the peace of a dinner party or social tea.

      People are entitled to their views but when we live in a wired global village there are instances when the commonweal takes precedence.  Health is one such instance. 

       It is preposterous that suppressed or eradicated diseases are making a comeback in an age when science has never been more advanced.  There may be genuine concerns about efficacy and delivery of vaccinations, but this strange stew of resistance based on conspiracy theory, fear, superstition, half baked notions and now politics is frankly evidence of how silly we have become. Silly, maybe even stupid and with extraordinarily dangerous consequence.

THROWBACK SWEETHEARTS

   Not sure of the occasion in the early 90's, but it pictures,

 front to back, my youngest, Katherine, now finishing nursing school after a BS and a year of advanced permaculture study, my god-daughter Celia, now a PhD and working in Childhood Trauma psychology, my sainted late mother Mary Helen and a younger less gray version of your blogger. 

     I'm still concerned about the future that awaits those two bright, and still bright, faces.

    See you down the trail.

ABOUT A WOMAN AND WOMEN

HE SPOKE WISDOM

     Pay attention to the women in your life. Treat them with kindness, tenderness and affection. That in essence was an early lesson from my father.  He is the man who always made a point of kissing my mom when he returned home from a day at work, and always before leaving.  Not just a peck, a real kiss. There were times in my life when I was embarrassed by it.  I grew out of that.

     He was always quick to compliment my mother on her appearance, the meal she had prepared or something she may have said or done in a group or professional setting. He always had a good word for his mother or her sisters, all of whom were English, properly presented and sticklers on good manners.

     So now I brag for a moment about Lana, who's art and gardening have been the subject of previous posts.  This is a more seasonal praise.  She has been baking bread for some 40 years and in that time has become a true master.  But this holiday time of the year, she hears an even different call.

A BUSY KITCHEN

     Here is a representative sample of her efforts a couple of days ago.  There was more of everything, but these were captured before they too were boxed or gift wrapped. Biscotti, cranberry bread and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Nice to look at, but even better to taste. An incredible output you may think?  Well, on this day she also baked her regular bread and made pasta! 
     There are also chocolate covered orange peels, spicy almonds and sugared pecans, come to life on a different day.
     It is amazing that in all the effort, and there is a lot involved, she is humming or singing and operates with the efficiency a finely tuned factory. I get tired simply watching her, but she moves like an athlete.  I do my part my sampling.  And there is a later shoulder massage, well earned.

REEL THOUGHTS

     American Hustle is a brilliant film adventure and it is no wonder it's gotten a lot of buzz.  The acting is the brilliance! 

     It is a "somewhat truthful" retelling of an odd moment in American history, ABSCAM, thus a good story. It is well directed by David Russell and made entertaining by its capture of time by wardrobe and bad haircuts and amusing. But the acting sells the deal.

      Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Jeremy Renner are all-have I used the word-BRILLIANT. Louis CK is perfect in his supporting role and Robert DeNiro turns in a short but stunningly haunting role.

      This is a fun and captivating entertainment and I suspect you'll leave the theater talking about how good the cast was. 
       If you are interested in such facts, Amy Adams and Jennifer Lawrence are dazzling beauties. I notice these things. Again it goes back to my dad, who while always an English gentleman-he was raised that way-truly enjoyed the company of women and they were comfortable with him.
      He was chivalrous and sensitive. My memory is somewhat hazy, but it was fortified by mom's recounting. When I was a wee one, dad taught me how to wink, using the women of his office as my training partners.  Never a full wink, like a blink.  No, as he was in teaching me basketball skills, he was specific.  A real wink needs to be subtle, a gentle motion to be seen only by the recipient. 
       As I recall a wink toward a blond coed led to something that more than 40 years later leaves me with a partner I gladly kiss on arriving and departing. And who does things in the kitchen for which there are not enough compliments.
      Maybe you are shopping for a new year's resolution-pay attention-work on your wink and as Otis Redding sang "Try a little tenderness...."
      See you down the trail 
      
     

A COUPLE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS

DECEMBER DREAMING
and ghosts-see below

WHERE THE PAST LIVES

     Snow had turned to freezing rain and the old wiper blades spread a smear of icy trails across the windshield. It was dark but the snow covered road shone in the headlights courtesy of the glaze of ice. It was late Christmas Eve and I seemed to be the only car on the highway and now on this county road.

      I saw the old beater off the road to the right with the hood up when a dark figure stepped around from the front of the car and stood there. It did not beckon or wave but  simply watched me approach as though resigned to see me drive by. The headlights caught the visage of an older black man in a threadbare overcoat. Ice crystals matted into his hair. He appeared surprised I was pulling the old Studebaker over to park behind his even older car, I think it was an Oldsmobile.  As I started to alight he walked toward me wearing a smile that shone.

     I had worked late at the commercial radio station in a city some 60 miles away. While my college was on holiday recess, I needed to be back at the station the next morning to sign it on at 6:00 AM. The winter storm had slowed my progress to get home to my parents house to spend a bit of Christmas. I knew my parents and brothers were probably concerned about my travel in the snow and ice. This was long before cell phones or adequate snow clearing equipment on county roads or state highways.

     Something "froze up" he said.  He was on his way to his daughter's house with part of their Christmas Eve meal.  He'd been there "a while" he said and the few cars that had passed slowed down, but sped by "when they got a look at me."  A black man on a county road.  

     He was headed for a neighborhood near the downtown of Indianapolis, a neighborhood I would not normally frequent nor drive through.  We chatted about how our Christmas fates had put us together as we navigated the ice covered road that led to suburban streets which in turn fed us into the car lined streets of old houses, commercial buildings and vacant lots.  Lights gleamed from windows, rimmed with Christmas decorations.  We chuckled at how a few of the homes had painted snow scenes on windows or doors.  No need for that now as the ice had turned back to snow and the drive crunched on.

     His daughter and son in law looked curiously out the door and then came down the steps when they saw the old man get out of the car. They were visibly surprised to see a young white man get out of the other door.  

     Two or three little faces peered out of the large window on the porch, their eyes were wide.  "Those little angels are my grand children," the man said, his smile even wider now.

     Both the old man and his son in law went to their billfolds as though to offer me money.  No way I said. It's Christmas Eve.  I'm just being a Santa's helper I added, looking at how other doors were opening and seeing people appear in windows.  The daughter wanted me to come in and warm up, have something to eat. I explained my family was waiting and I needed to get on.  We shook hands and his big grin had a special quality of that caused a tingle in my chest.

       As I picked my way back to the suburbs the aroma of the dish that had rested on the back seat continued to fill the car. It had a sweet scent that activated my hunger sensors and I began to think about my parents and brothers and how I hoped they had dined.

      When I made it to the driveway Dad was first out of the door, as Mom stood behind him, in her apron.

       "We were very worried about you," Dad opened the Christmas Eve conversations.

       Later when I had relayed the story and we had begun to eat the feast Mom prepared, I noticed she was sitting there, looking a bit distant, but smiling.

       "You did the right thing," Dad said, "but you took a chance in doing it."

        I never confessed my nervousness, in making the stop or driving into that neighborhood. It was the mid '60s and times were different.

        A ghost that visits me this time of year is that picture of Mom, sitting there and smiling. Later, and she would often remind me of the story, "you were a Christmas angel for that man."

        At least I was a young white lad who saw another traveler and realized color makes no difference. 

       The other ghost I recall is that heart warming smile. It spoke more than words.

        See you down the trail. 

DOWNTON ABBEY TALK BACK & A FINAL STOP ON THE GRATITUDE TRAIL-THE GREATEST GENERATION

ENTERTAINING HISTORY

     Their off and on romance engaged us and once they managed to get past all the obstructions we took delight in their marriage.  The birth of their child brought us no end of joy and then suddenly and shockingly Matthew was killed in a freak auto accident leaving Lady Mary a widow with a baby.

     Apparently many of us told Godfather Julian Fellowes we were unhappy with the plot-line he had crafted for his inhabitants of Downton Abbey, but in serialized drama, even elegant British Drama, soap operas need a few twists to keep us tuned in.

      The promotional season is underway and we countdown to the beginning of 2014 to see how our characters from the early 20th century transfer into the 1920's.  It is after all a century ago that we are so engrossed by.  Downton Abbey is a hit in 200 nations and is translated widely. 

      Though it is all fiction, Downton Abbey teaches history in a marvelous and rich way.  The British Empire is fading as the English aristocracy bumps into changing mores and social values and even technology.  Ideas of liberation, freedom, class discrimination, wealth transfer and management all perk along in the intricate script and plot turns. I was one of those guys who loved history back in high school, but oh how I wish teacher Donald Foreman could have played a few videos, as engrossing as Downton Abbey.

      Yes, it's only TV, but such good TV!  A masterful opiate for we masses. But still, did they really have to kill off Matthew?! And yes, we'll be there to see how poor Lady Mary copes.

OOPS

    Well, I goofed and apparently a few hundred of you also missed it.  Last week in a Thanksgiving post, I paid tribute to these "Turkeys."  Trouble is, I am told, they are Peacocks.  Sorry about that. Now, how is it that so many of you didn't catch me on it?  I guess we all need an editor, eh?

OF THE REASONS WE COUNT

MY MOTHER AND FATHER AND THEIR PEERS
A Last Stop on the Gratitude Trail

     Americans have rightly embraced Tom Brokaw's acclamation of the WW II generation as "the Greatest Generation."
     My father Karl and my mother Mary Helen played their part. Dad was in the infantry in the South Pacific.  Mom was like thousands of other women, waiting and praying for their men to come home from war.  When I made my first visit to the World War II memorial, I was there to pay respects to my parents and their peers, most of whom are gone.
     More than 16 Million Americans were involved, in some way in World War II.

   At first I felt a shudder of loss, seeing the 4,048 gold stars. Each star represented 100 deaths. More than 400 thousand American service personnel died.  After the shudder I felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude.

   This is a place you'll want to visit, next time you are in DC.

   And so we transition from the season of gratitude to the merriment of the "Holiday Season."

   I hope you have a wonderful and meaningful season of Advent, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice or even bah humbugging. Remember,'... you better not pout or you better not shout..."

    See you down the trail.