A couple of months ago, I had made enough progress in my twice-weekly therapy sessions that my therapist agreed I was ready to cut back to once a week. Since then, the progress has slowed considerably.
Each Wednesday, my therapist opens the session by asking "What are you feeling?" or, sometimes, "How are you feeling?" The answer to the second question is much easier for me. These days, I generally feel pretty good, much better than when I started therapy 13 months ago.
The answer to the first and more often asked question is much more difficult to come by. Truth be told, I don't know if I am feeling all that much. Today, finally, I was able to put it into words to at least describe where I am at.
Because I knew she would ask me that question, I actually thought about it as I climbed the stairs to her second-floor office. What came to mind was a sense of having stagnated or plateaued emotionally. I feel I have gotten to a comfortable place emotionally, much better than I have ever been but still not fully engaged emotionally in my own life.
She talked about the idea of there being a lid on things, one I put in place as a child as a means to protect myself while living in a violent household. We talked about my wanting to become invisible so as to not draw attention and possibly the wrath of an abusive stepfather or stepbrother. I stayed hidden as much as possible in the shadows.
She went to talk about the idea of my childhood ending when I was very young because of the circumstances in the home, and I have an increased sense of that. From at least the age of five until the age of 12, I never had other kids come over to our house to play, and I never went to anyone else's house to play.
As our session unfolded, I recalled an episode from around the time I was five. I had a favorite toy, a sort of scaled version of a car interior: there was a dashboard with windshield, wipers, steering wheel, dashboard, and working radio. I loved playing with it.
One day, an older boy (I think it was my future stepbrother, although I am not sure) took this toy and threw it into the swimming pool of our apartment complex. Without thinking, I went in after it, blindly disregarding the fact that I had not yet learned to swim.
Fortunately, I guess, I also did not yet know how to dive, so I landed fairly close to the edge of the pool when I jumped in and was able to grab the side of the pool, saving myself while the toy sank to the bottom of the pool. Thinking back on it, I think that was the moment when I decided not to let anything (or possibly anyone) matter that much to me again. I disciplined myself not to be ticklish and not to show pain when I was spanked. I got very good at closing myself off.
As we talked, she would ask me from time to time how something made me feel. One time, I surprised myself by saying I felt like I wanted to scream. She said that was a good first step to finally blowing off the lid to my emotional life and suggested I find a place to do just that, somewhere by myself and, hopefully, somewhere that I won't cause an avalanche (the avalanche danger is fairly high at the moment in some of the areas around us).
Sometime in the next few days, I intend to take her advice. It will be a new experience for me, as I don't know that I've ever screamed. Yelled, yes. Screamed, I don't think so.
If this weekend you hear a loud roar or noise off in the distance, don't be too alarmed. It will likely be me screaming as loud as I can muster, in hopes of chipping away the emotional rust and prying loose the lid and maybe letting some light back in.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Counting My Blessings
Every year around Christmas, we sit down to watch the 1954 film "White Christmas" with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera Ellen. With the recent events in Haiti, culminating in the impromptu telethon put together by MTV, one song from that movie pops into my head.
The song is "Count Your Blessings," and the first verse goes like this:
The song is "Count Your Blessings," and the first verse goes like this:
When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings
Sometimes, disasters of such scale as that in Haiti serve to remind us how fortunate we are. I have a loving, patient, and understanding wife; a wonderful son who is sometimes challenging yet amazing. Unlike many in our own country, I have a job with somewhat decent health insurance, and I am able to do many of things I truly enjoy: camping, cooking, enjoying a glass of wine, enjoy a sunset without worrying whether I'll have a roof over my head when it gets dark and turns colder.
If there can be said to be anything positive out of events like the earthquake in Haiti, perhaps it is that such cataclysmic disasters jolt us - even for a moment - out of our complacency and remind us of our own mortality and also of our own good fortune. Such events can bring out the worst in people - remember the looting in New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and even now the attempts by some to scam those unsuspecting people trying to help the victims in Haiti - but it can also bring out the best in people.
One thing I hope this disaster does for me and for you is to remind us of how precious life is and encourage us to live each day to its fullest. By that, I do not mean through conspicuous consumption, as is often seen to be the American Way. No, I mean by taking time to really see the world and the people around you.
Take the time to smell a rose, savor a walk in the woods, really see a sunrise or sunset, say hello to a neighbor or a co-worker, laugh, cry, truly be in the world around you. These are all things I have spent the last year in therapy trying to learn to do as I continue my own recovery efforts from the emotional upheaval of so many years ago and attempt to dig out from under that emotional rubble.
My hope is that the recovery effort in Haiti shows as much promise in a year's time as I feel my own personal recovery has shown over the last year. If you have not already done so, I encourage you to open your hearts and your wallets and make a donation to help relief efforts in Haiti at Hope For Haiti Now. And always remember to count your blessings.
If there can be said to be anything positive out of events like the earthquake in Haiti, perhaps it is that such cataclysmic disasters jolt us - even for a moment - out of our complacency and remind us of our own mortality and also of our own good fortune. Such events can bring out the worst in people - remember the looting in New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and even now the attempts by some to scam those unsuspecting people trying to help the victims in Haiti - but it can also bring out the best in people.
One thing I hope this disaster does for me and for you is to remind us of how precious life is and encourage us to live each day to its fullest. By that, I do not mean through conspicuous consumption, as is often seen to be the American Way. No, I mean by taking time to really see the world and the people around you.
Take the time to smell a rose, savor a walk in the woods, really see a sunrise or sunset, say hello to a neighbor or a co-worker, laugh, cry, truly be in the world around you. These are all things I have spent the last year in therapy trying to learn to do as I continue my own recovery efforts from the emotional upheaval of so many years ago and attempt to dig out from under that emotional rubble.
My hope is that the recovery effort in Haiti shows as much promise in a year's time as I feel my own personal recovery has shown over the last year. If you have not already done so, I encourage you to open your hearts and your wallets and make a donation to help relief efforts in Haiti at Hope For Haiti Now. And always remember to count your blessings.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Art of Patience at 30 Miles an Hour
Around Thanksgiving, Teresa and I decided it was time for us to climb another rung up the recreational vehicle ladder. It was something we had discussed off and on for several months. The discussion usually went back and forth between a motor home and a fifth wheel trailer. We ultimately chose the fifth wheel route, the purchase of which I have outlined in an earlier entry.
Of course, to tow any trailer, we would need to get a truck. So we traded in our beloved 2006 Subaru Outback on a 2006 Ford F-350 Super Duty Crew cab truck with dual real wheels and a diesel engine.
Needless to say, the truck does not get the same fuel mileage as our Subaru. Every day, I try all kinds of tricks to coax another tenth of a mile per gallon in mileage. For instance, I start out slowly from a stop sign or stop light, especially when the engine is still cold. I also take my foot of the gas - as much as a block away - when approaching a stop sign or a red light.
In addition to that extra tenth of a mile per gallon (or even two), I have gained something else: a growing sense of calm. I no longer feel in such a rush to get somewhere, and I realize that one or two minutes really doesn't make much of a difference in the greater scheme of things.
In the past, I used to get more irritated with drivers who would speed up and cut in front of me. I used to go a little faster just so they would have to get in behind me. Now, because this truck is geared more for towing than it is for quick acceleration, I couldn't keep another vehicle from pulling in front of me if I wanted to. More often than not these days, I don't want to.
I watch cars speed by me, then see them idling at the next red light when I catch up to them. They didn't seem to gain very much.
The ancient fable about the tortoise and the hare has the oft-repeated mantra of "slow and steady wins the race," but racing is far from my thoughts. Instead, I think more of slowing down and being more aware of the world around me, slowing down to see and experience my world instead of racing from one day to the next as if I were late for an appointment.
I spent many years trying to escape the world around me, so this is a new experience for me, and I have some work yet to do. So far, though, I like what I see. I am reminded of the opening lines of Simon and Garfunkel's 59th Street Bridge Song: "Slow down, you move too fast. You've got to make the morning last." Now, that's a goal to hurry toward.
Of course, to tow any trailer, we would need to get a truck. So we traded in our beloved 2006 Subaru Outback on a 2006 Ford F-350 Super Duty Crew cab truck with dual real wheels and a diesel engine.
Needless to say, the truck does not get the same fuel mileage as our Subaru. Every day, I try all kinds of tricks to coax another tenth of a mile per gallon in mileage. For instance, I start out slowly from a stop sign or stop light, especially when the engine is still cold. I also take my foot of the gas - as much as a block away - when approaching a stop sign or a red light.
In addition to that extra tenth of a mile per gallon (or even two), I have gained something else: a growing sense of calm. I no longer feel in such a rush to get somewhere, and I realize that one or two minutes really doesn't make much of a difference in the greater scheme of things.
In the past, I used to get more irritated with drivers who would speed up and cut in front of me. I used to go a little faster just so they would have to get in behind me. Now, because this truck is geared more for towing than it is for quick acceleration, I couldn't keep another vehicle from pulling in front of me if I wanted to. More often than not these days, I don't want to.
I watch cars speed by me, then see them idling at the next red light when I catch up to them. They didn't seem to gain very much.
The ancient fable about the tortoise and the hare has the oft-repeated mantra of "slow and steady wins the race," but racing is far from my thoughts. Instead, I think more of slowing down and being more aware of the world around me, slowing down to see and experience my world instead of racing from one day to the next as if I were late for an appointment.
I spent many years trying to escape the world around me, so this is a new experience for me, and I have some work yet to do. So far, though, I like what I see. I am reminded of the opening lines of Simon and Garfunkel's 59th Street Bridge Song: "Slow down, you move too fast. You've got to make the morning last." Now, that's a goal to hurry toward.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Finer Things in Life
I'm sitting here at my computer on a Thursday evening, and instead of watching the National Championship game between Texas and Alabama, I'm reflecting on an episode of Oprah that my wife, Teresa, recorded because she thought I might be interested.
It turns out she was right. In general, the show was about women around the world and how they live. Oprah talked to women in Copenhagen, Dubai, Rio de Janeiro, Istanbul, and Tokyo. It was the segment with the women from Copenhagen that most interested and and intrigued me.
Apparently, a recent study or poll concluded that people in Denmark are the happiest people in the world. This, despite the fact that they pay the highest average income tax rate in the world of around 50-percent.
What makes them so happy? First, everyone has access to health care. People get paid to go to school. Women get six-months to a year of maternity leave. Most jobs pay similar incomes, so people go into fields because they enjoy them and not simply because they pay well.
There is almost no homelessness, almost no crime, and people who lose their jobs are supported for up to four years while they look for new work and get government help to learn new skills. As one of the Danish women put it, she is happy to pay the high income tax rate because she looks at it as people helping one another and taking care of each other. Some in America would look at these things and label Denmark socialist. The Danes interviewed by Oprah look at it as being civilized and being humane.
One other thing the Danish women said that I think speaks to the heart of why the Danes might be so happy is that they have less stuff. They are more interested in living life and spending time with friends and family than they are working to get more stuff, which seems to be the American Dream or at least the American way of life. Could there really be more to life than money?
I think that is one reason the full-time RV life appeals to me so much; it is more about living life and doing things and less about getting stuff. One Danish husband put it this way when describing living in Denmark: "less space, less stuff, more life."
As I sit here typing this and enjoying a glass of wine, I think the idea of "less space, less stuff, more life" has much to recommend it.
It turns out she was right. In general, the show was about women around the world and how they live. Oprah talked to women in Copenhagen, Dubai, Rio de Janeiro, Istanbul, and Tokyo. It was the segment with the women from Copenhagen that most interested and and intrigued me.
Apparently, a recent study or poll concluded that people in Denmark are the happiest people in the world. This, despite the fact that they pay the highest average income tax rate in the world of around 50-percent.
What makes them so happy? First, everyone has access to health care. People get paid to go to school. Women get six-months to a year of maternity leave. Most jobs pay similar incomes, so people go into fields because they enjoy them and not simply because they pay well.
There is almost no homelessness, almost no crime, and people who lose their jobs are supported for up to four years while they look for new work and get government help to learn new skills. As one of the Danish women put it, she is happy to pay the high income tax rate because she looks at it as people helping one another and taking care of each other. Some in America would look at these things and label Denmark socialist. The Danes interviewed by Oprah look at it as being civilized and being humane.
One other thing the Danish women said that I think speaks to the heart of why the Danes might be so happy is that they have less stuff. They are more interested in living life and spending time with friends and family than they are working to get more stuff, which seems to be the American Dream or at least the American way of life. Could there really be more to life than money?
I think that is one reason the full-time RV life appeals to me so much; it is more about living life and doing things and less about getting stuff. One Danish husband put it this way when describing living in Denmark: "less space, less stuff, more life."
As I sit here typing this and enjoying a glass of wine, I think the idea of "less space, less stuff, more life" has much to recommend it.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Resolutions for the New Year
When I was younger, I would every New Year's Eve, without fail, make ten resolutions for the new year, resolutions I would invariably fail to keep. For many years, this was probably the only systemic and organized thing I would do.
After many years (I'm a slow learner), I realized that the only thing as consistent as my making these resolutions was my failure to keep any of them. So I stopped making them.
Last year, I decided to try again. I resolved to try to put my past behind me and finally stop letting it control my life. While I was not 100% successful in keeping this resolution, I made enough progress to encourage me to try again this year. So here goes.
In 2010, I resolve to embrace and enjoy life more fully. I feel I am already along the path toward accomplishing this. I laugh more (thanks in large part to Oliver, our beagle), I probably cry a little more, and I more fully appreciate and enjoy nature, especially sunsets. I intend to do more of these things in 2010.
I also resolve to try harder not to let little things bother or irritate me. This will be easier said than done. I have a real problem with idiot drivers who speed to get past me, get in front of me, and then slow down or turn. I'll at least try harder to clean up my language toward such drivers when these things occur.
I was going to try to come up with a third resolution, but I realized that these two cover most contingencies. As an author once wrote, don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff. If I manage to have any success keeping my second resolution, it all but guarantees I will have success keeping my first resolution.
I hope 2010 brings much happiness and success to each of you. And I resolve to be happy for you when that happens. There, that's three. Happy New Year!
After many years (I'm a slow learner), I realized that the only thing as consistent as my making these resolutions was my failure to keep any of them. So I stopped making them.
Last year, I decided to try again. I resolved to try to put my past behind me and finally stop letting it control my life. While I was not 100% successful in keeping this resolution, I made enough progress to encourage me to try again this year. So here goes.
In 2010, I resolve to embrace and enjoy life more fully. I feel I am already along the path toward accomplishing this. I laugh more (thanks in large part to Oliver, our beagle), I probably cry a little more, and I more fully appreciate and enjoy nature, especially sunsets. I intend to do more of these things in 2010.
I also resolve to try harder not to let little things bother or irritate me. This will be easier said than done. I have a real problem with idiot drivers who speed to get past me, get in front of me, and then slow down or turn. I'll at least try harder to clean up my language toward such drivers when these things occur.
I was going to try to come up with a third resolution, but I realized that these two cover most contingencies. As an author once wrote, don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff. If I manage to have any success keeping my second resolution, it all but guarantees I will have success keeping my first resolution.
I hope 2010 brings much happiness and success to each of you. And I resolve to be happy for you when that happens. There, that's three. Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Perhaps You Can Go Home Again
Thomas Wolfe once wrote, "And at the end of it [self-appraisal] he knew, and with the knowledge came the definite sense of new direction toward which he had long been groping, that the dark ancestral cave, the womb from which mankind emerged into the light, forever pulls one back--but that you can't go home again. . . . You can't go back to your family, back home to your childhood . . . ." For years, I suspect some part of me thought that was true, as I neglected or perhaps avoided returning home to where most of my family still lives.
Now, having returned from a Christmas visit to the Seattle area to see family, I think perhaps I can go home again, at least to visit. My first visit in eight years went in many ways much better than I expected. Aside from a few awkward silences with my sister, I felt comfortable and welcome amongst these people to whom I had once been so close and from whom I had drifted so far away.
There were times when I felt a bit of a stranger in a strange land, especially when I saw all of the children who had grown up in my absence and who now had children of their own. But there were many more times when I felt as if almost no time had passed since my last visit; the conversation and the laughter flowed easily.
I suppose there were a few minor disappointments. Circumstances and logistics did not allow for much in-depth or heartfelt conversation; there were just too many people to see and too little time in which to see them. On the other hand, I found new areas of common ground where I did not know it existed.
In the end, I think perhaps a new foundation was laid and connections hopefully renewed. I once again have family. Not that they ever doubted it. And I did go home again.
Now, having returned from a Christmas visit to the Seattle area to see family, I think perhaps I can go home again, at least to visit. My first visit in eight years went in many ways much better than I expected. Aside from a few awkward silences with my sister, I felt comfortable and welcome amongst these people to whom I had once been so close and from whom I had drifted so far away.
There were times when I felt a bit of a stranger in a strange land, especially when I saw all of the children who had grown up in my absence and who now had children of their own. But there were many more times when I felt as if almost no time had passed since my last visit; the conversation and the laughter flowed easily.
I suppose there were a few minor disappointments. Circumstances and logistics did not allow for much in-depth or heartfelt conversation; there were just too many people to see and too little time in which to see them. On the other hand, I found new areas of common ground where I did not know it existed.
In the end, I think perhaps a new foundation was laid and connections hopefully renewed. I once again have family. Not that they ever doubted it. And I did go home again.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Prodigal Son
In the morning, the family and I will get in the car to begin the long journey to Western Washington for Christmas. It is a journey both of distance and of time. That is true not only in the most obvious sense of the hours spent in the car and the distance traveled. It is true on a number of other levels as well.
This will be our first visit back as a family in more than half a decade. In some ways, it seems as if no time at all has passed. In other ways, it seems as if a lifetime has gone by since I last saw some of my family.
Cousins and nephews and nieces who were children or teenagers when last I saw them are now adults, some of them with children of their own. Where did the years go?
To be honest, I'm a little nervous about the trip, simply because it has been so long. It should be a little easier because I have seen an aunt and an uncle, been reintroduced to them in a sense, in recent months. But because so much time has passed, I admit to feeling a little like a stranger in a strange land, unsure of how to act, how to fit in.
Still, I am looking forward to the trip. My therapist calls it a chance to reconnect, to reclaim my roots, something I may have unknowingly spent years running from, just as I was running from the demons of my past.
For years, I was never sure I belonged anywhere. I never seemed to fit. Now I know I don't have to. I just have to be me and let people take me as they will.
I'm sure some of the conversations will slip into familiar topics, but I hope we learn a little something about each other that maybe we didn't know before. Regardless of how it unfolds, I am looking forward to the journey back to my childhood home. Simply put, it's time.
This will be our first visit back as a family in more than half a decade. In some ways, it seems as if no time at all has passed. In other ways, it seems as if a lifetime has gone by since I last saw some of my family.
Cousins and nephews and nieces who were children or teenagers when last I saw them are now adults, some of them with children of their own. Where did the years go?
To be honest, I'm a little nervous about the trip, simply because it has been so long. It should be a little easier because I have seen an aunt and an uncle, been reintroduced to them in a sense, in recent months. But because so much time has passed, I admit to feeling a little like a stranger in a strange land, unsure of how to act, how to fit in.
Still, I am looking forward to the trip. My therapist calls it a chance to reconnect, to reclaim my roots, something I may have unknowingly spent years running from, just as I was running from the demons of my past.
For years, I was never sure I belonged anywhere. I never seemed to fit. Now I know I don't have to. I just have to be me and let people take me as they will.
I'm sure some of the conversations will slip into familiar topics, but I hope we learn a little something about each other that maybe we didn't know before. Regardless of how it unfolds, I am looking forward to the journey back to my childhood home. Simply put, it's time.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. Even growing up in a single-parent family with a very limited income, I always looked forward to Christmas.
Sure, I liked the thought of receiving presents; I still do. More than that, though, I looked forward to Christmas dinner with the family: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, a human menagerie if you will.
This year, I come full circle in this respect as I bring my own family, wife and son, back to have Christmas dinner with my family for the first time. Teresa and I made the pilgrimage back for Christmas dinner once, in 1995. We took our son back for a visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas the following year, when he was just six months old. It was the only time his grandmother, my mother, would ever see her grandson. Now, we make the journey as a family.
I'm a little nervous because it has been seven and a half years since I have been back. But I'm looking forward to the trip as well. Because Christmas really is about family. The holiday itself evolved out of a very special birth in a very special family, so it makes perfect sense that family would be at the heart of this holiday more than any other.
With that in mind, I wrote a little something to mark the holiday, something I hope captures part of the essence of Christmas. Consider it my way of wishing all of my friends and family, near and far, a very Merry Christmas.
Hold fast to the spirit
And the promise this day holds
See it in the children's faces
As each gift unfolds
I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas
One filled with laughter and good cheer
May your heart reflect the joy
Of every girl and boy
And keep you smiling into the new year
I wish for you that special feeling
That comes from family and good friends
On this very special day
I hope good things come your way
And bring a feeling I hope never ends
Beneath the mistletoe
In the Christmas lights aglow
This season brings a joy
I hope that each of you will know
And may the memory of this season
Last throughout the year
To warm your heart each time
You gather loved ones near
And so, I hope this special season
Is filled with joy and laughter, too
On this very special day
There's just one thing left to say
Merry Christmas -
Merry Christmas -
Merry Christmas to you
Sure, I liked the thought of receiving presents; I still do. More than that, though, I looked forward to Christmas dinner with the family: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, a human menagerie if you will.
This year, I come full circle in this respect as I bring my own family, wife and son, back to have Christmas dinner with my family for the first time. Teresa and I made the pilgrimage back for Christmas dinner once, in 1995. We took our son back for a visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas the following year, when he was just six months old. It was the only time his grandmother, my mother, would ever see her grandson. Now, we make the journey as a family.
I'm a little nervous because it has been seven and a half years since I have been back. But I'm looking forward to the trip as well. Because Christmas really is about family. The holiday itself evolved out of a very special birth in a very special family, so it makes perfect sense that family would be at the heart of this holiday more than any other.
With that in mind, I wrote a little something to mark the holiday, something I hope captures part of the essence of Christmas. Consider it my way of wishing all of my friends and family, near and far, a very Merry Christmas.
I'm Wishing You a Merry Christmas
Though many miles may lie between us
One thing still rings true
My wish that Christmas brings
My wish that Christmas brings
A special joy to each of you
Hold fast to the spirit
And the promise this day holds
See it in the children's faces
As each gift unfolds
I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas
One filled with laughter and good cheer
May your heart reflect the joy
Of every girl and boy
And keep you smiling into the new year
I wish for you that special feeling
That comes from family and good friends
On this very special day
I hope good things come your way
And bring a feeling I hope never ends
Beneath the mistletoe
In the Christmas lights aglow
This season brings a joy
I hope that each of you will know
And may the memory of this season
Last throughout the year
To warm your heart each time
You gather loved ones near
And so, I hope this special season
Is filled with joy and laughter, too
On this very special day
There's just one thing left to say
Merry Christmas -
Merry Christmas -
Merry Christmas to you
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Search . . . . is over
On Monday, a deal for what could possibly have been our first fifth wheel trailer fell through. On Friday, we looked at another candidate, another 1998 model, a 35-foot Excel. The brand was a quality brand when it was around, and this trailer looked great on the inside. The outside, however, had a few too many problems for our liking and for the price being asked. So we decided to pass again.
Saturday, my birthday. A new day and yet another trailer to look at. This one was a little older, a 1995 model Kit Cordova. Because of the age, I didn't hold out a lot of hope, but I figured it was worth a look. After all, the price was right and we didn't have anything else planned.
We arrived at the dealer (a different one from the one we had been talking to before) and the salesman took us out to look at the trailer. Right from the start, we were pleasantly surprised. From the outside, it certainly did not look like a 14-year old trailer. We took a look inside. All of the cabinet doors were solid when they closed and none of them were coming loose. The couch, chair, and carpet looked to be in good shape. The stove looked almost new, and the refrigerator actually looked in great shape.
In the bedroom, the mattress looked new. There was plenty of interior storage. The shower enclosure might need some repair, but it looked usable. For an older unit, there also appeared to be a good deal of exterior storage, and there was a good amount of cargo carrying capacity. The roof also looked better than several other trailers we had looked at.
There was a little rust underneath but less than many newer units we looked at. Teresa and I talked about it and probably filtered our discussion through the many other units we had looked at and passed on. And, when it was all said and done, we decided to buy it.
So we now have a 33-foot fifth wheel, and we can't wait to start using it. We pick it up Friday and will probably have a shakedown cruise, as it were, that weekend. Then we'll be ready to do some four-season camping. I can't wait.
Saturday, my birthday. A new day and yet another trailer to look at. This one was a little older, a 1995 model Kit Cordova. Because of the age, I didn't hold out a lot of hope, but I figured it was worth a look. After all, the price was right and we didn't have anything else planned.
We arrived at the dealer (a different one from the one we had been talking to before) and the salesman took us out to look at the trailer. Right from the start, we were pleasantly surprised. From the outside, it certainly did not look like a 14-year old trailer. We took a look inside. All of the cabinet doors were solid when they closed and none of them were coming loose. The couch, chair, and carpet looked to be in good shape. The stove looked almost new, and the refrigerator actually looked in great shape.
In the bedroom, the mattress looked new. There was plenty of interior storage. The shower enclosure might need some repair, but it looked usable. For an older unit, there also appeared to be a good deal of exterior storage, and there was a good amount of cargo carrying capacity. The roof also looked better than several other trailers we had looked at.
There was a little rust underneath but less than many newer units we looked at. Teresa and I talked about it and probably filtered our discussion through the many other units we had looked at and passed on. And, when it was all said and done, we decided to buy it.
So we now have a 33-foot fifth wheel, and we can't wait to start using it. We pick it up Friday and will probably have a shakedown cruise, as it were, that weekend. Then we'll be ready to do some four-season camping. I can't wait.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Search
No, it's not the search for truth, the search for love, the search for knowledge, the search for fulfillment, or even the search for God. This search is for the perfect RV or at least perfect for us within our price range.
Since buying our tent trailer three-plus years ago, we have talked about one day moving up the RV food chain. At first, we thought that next RV might be a travel trailer and perhaps one day a fifth wheel trailer. Later, we thought we would skip the middle steps and move directly to a motorhome one day.
Our beagle Oliver has made us realize that a tent trailer is a little too small for a family of four (he is, after all, a member of the family). As a result, one day has become a lot sooner than we first envisioned. After our vacation to Utah, we thought perhaps in a couple of years. A few more camping trips later, the time frame became more like a couple of months.
The search for the perfect for us at this stage of our lives and current budget RV started in earnest about six weeks ago. We initially focused on finding a used motorhome, then decided the layouts of the motorhomes we could afford were not what we thought we wanted or needed.
After looking at a few motorhomes, we returned to the idea of a fifth wheel trailer. we had always liked the kitchen layouts of the fifth wheels we had seen, and since I like to cook when we are camping, the kitchen was in some ways the most important consideration of any RV layout.
Now that we had decided what type of RV to pursue, we needed a truck. We didn't want anything too big, but we knew we needed something big enough to pull a loaded fifth wheel. Because we wanted a particular type of truck without four-wheel drive (I wasn't sure they were sold in Idaho), we still were sure it would be several months before we decided on a unit and were ready to make a purchase.
But the search for the truck actually turned out to be the easiest part of this process as we found a 2006 Ford F-350 dual real wheels with Power Stroke diesel and without four-wheel drive. Once we signed the papers on the truck, the search for a fifth wheel seemed to become more serious.
We found one we really liked for a price we really liked only to find cracking in the fiberglass and some dents in one side. Then we found another one we liked at an even better price. We looked at it several times before we noticed the stress crack below the slide out. We looked at one where the bedroom seemed designed for midgets, another that seemed to have been made mostly of plastic, wood veneer, and glue, easy on the glue since trim was pulling apart everywhere.
We looked at several that seemed as if they had been parked in the ocean and others that we might one day aspire to before finding what we thought might be the one. It was a 1998 Alpenlite, 29-feet long. It was a little beat up on the inside and had originally been way overpriced before the dealer knocked several thousand dollars off the price. We had a few reservations but felt if we could get the right price, this would be worth buying.
The salesman kept playing games with us ("I have to talk to my manager" and "Someone is coming to look at it tomorrow and might buy it"). The more they did such things, the more inclined we were to dig in our heels and not budge on what we were willing to pay for the unit.
In the end, it turns out someone else did buy the unit for what the dealer was asking. (At least that's what the salesman says.) I hope they enjoy it, and I hope everything on the unit works. We never were sure.
It could have turned out to be a great trailer at a good price, but we'll never know. And I'm okay with that. Our dealings with the dealer (Camping World of Boise) and the salesman always left us a bit uneasy about the trailer and about what might be wrong with it.
We've always been convinced we would know the right unit for us when we saw it. We still believe that. In addition, we now know where we probably won't be buying it.
Since buying our tent trailer three-plus years ago, we have talked about one day moving up the RV food chain. At first, we thought that next RV might be a travel trailer and perhaps one day a fifth wheel trailer. Later, we thought we would skip the middle steps and move directly to a motorhome one day.
Our beagle Oliver has made us realize that a tent trailer is a little too small for a family of four (he is, after all, a member of the family). As a result, one day has become a lot sooner than we first envisioned. After our vacation to Utah, we thought perhaps in a couple of years. A few more camping trips later, the time frame became more like a couple of months.
The search for the perfect for us at this stage of our lives and current budget RV started in earnest about six weeks ago. We initially focused on finding a used motorhome, then decided the layouts of the motorhomes we could afford were not what we thought we wanted or needed.
After looking at a few motorhomes, we returned to the idea of a fifth wheel trailer. we had always liked the kitchen layouts of the fifth wheels we had seen, and since I like to cook when we are camping, the kitchen was in some ways the most important consideration of any RV layout.
Now that we had decided what type of RV to pursue, we needed a truck. We didn't want anything too big, but we knew we needed something big enough to pull a loaded fifth wheel. Because we wanted a particular type of truck without four-wheel drive (I wasn't sure they were sold in Idaho), we still were sure it would be several months before we decided on a unit and were ready to make a purchase.
But the search for the truck actually turned out to be the easiest part of this process as we found a 2006 Ford F-350 dual real wheels with Power Stroke diesel and without four-wheel drive. Once we signed the papers on the truck, the search for a fifth wheel seemed to become more serious.
We found one we really liked for a price we really liked only to find cracking in the fiberglass and some dents in one side. Then we found another one we liked at an even better price. We looked at it several times before we noticed the stress crack below the slide out. We looked at one where the bedroom seemed designed for midgets, another that seemed to have been made mostly of plastic, wood veneer, and glue, easy on the glue since trim was pulling apart everywhere.
We looked at several that seemed as if they had been parked in the ocean and others that we might one day aspire to before finding what we thought might be the one. It was a 1998 Alpenlite, 29-feet long. It was a little beat up on the inside and had originally been way overpriced before the dealer knocked several thousand dollars off the price. We had a few reservations but felt if we could get the right price, this would be worth buying.
The salesman kept playing games with us ("I have to talk to my manager" and "Someone is coming to look at it tomorrow and might buy it"). The more they did such things, the more inclined we were to dig in our heels and not budge on what we were willing to pay for the unit.
In the end, it turns out someone else did buy the unit for what the dealer was asking. (At least that's what the salesman says.) I hope they enjoy it, and I hope everything on the unit works. We never were sure.
It could have turned out to be a great trailer at a good price, but we'll never know. And I'm okay with that. Our dealings with the dealer (Camping World of Boise) and the salesman always left us a bit uneasy about the trailer and about what might be wrong with it.
We've always been convinced we would know the right unit for us when we saw it. We still believe that. In addition, we now know where we probably won't be buying it.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Learning to Slow Down
"Life if the fast lane sure can make you lose your mind" - The Eagles
Since my last posting more than a month ago, I have been working on learning to slow down a bit, to enjoy the world around me, and to not let the little things in life get to me. I have not always succeeded, but I am getting better at it.
When my aunt told me the story about my father and the real reason behind the breakup of my parents' marriage, a huge weight that I had been carrying for more than 40 years began to lift. As it did, an inner sense of calm and of peace began to develop.
I find myself much more aware of little things: sunsets, cloud formations, the moon, even something as mundane as the fact that dishes need to be put into the dishwasher. With that awareness has also come the realization (always present, I think, but now more developed) that some things are not worth worrying about.
I worry a good deal less about making mistakes at work or about getting everything done on time. Not because I don't care, but because I realize that I can only do what I can do and no more. I have decided that I can only control what I can control and that the rest is not worth getting upset about. As a result, my stress level has diminished considerably.
I realize that my job is never going to be a dream job and also that I will likely never rise above my level, and I am okay with that. My job is what it is: food on the table, gas in the car, and a means toward an end goal of being able to one day retire, buy a motorhome, and travel a little bit.
I have had several people who know me say that I seem happier these days. And I am. Having some answers about my past allowed me to move out from under its shadow. I still have some work to do, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it is getting brighter. I am also no longer mistaking it for an oncoming train.
Don't get me wrong; little things still have the power to irritate me at times. A car pulling out in front of me or going around me only to slow down in order to make a turn or my son talking during a program I'm trying to watch or changing the subject when I ask him a question, these things all still irritate me. But the irritation does not seem to last as long and sometimes does not materialize at all.
I also find that I am no longer in such a hurry to get wherever I'm going. I thought about this the other day at work as I was watching people hurry past me in the halls. I thought to myself: what's the rush? That person will get where they're going 15 or 20 seconds sooner than I will reach the same spot. The work will still be there when I arrive, only I'll get there more relaxed and in a calmer state than the person in such a hurry. And there is a good deal to be said for that.
Since my last posting more than a month ago, I have been working on learning to slow down a bit, to enjoy the world around me, and to not let the little things in life get to me. I have not always succeeded, but I am getting better at it.
When my aunt told me the story about my father and the real reason behind the breakup of my parents' marriage, a huge weight that I had been carrying for more than 40 years began to lift. As it did, an inner sense of calm and of peace began to develop.
I find myself much more aware of little things: sunsets, cloud formations, the moon, even something as mundane as the fact that dishes need to be put into the dishwasher. With that awareness has also come the realization (always present, I think, but now more developed) that some things are not worth worrying about.
I worry a good deal less about making mistakes at work or about getting everything done on time. Not because I don't care, but because I realize that I can only do what I can do and no more. I have decided that I can only control what I can control and that the rest is not worth getting upset about. As a result, my stress level has diminished considerably.
I realize that my job is never going to be a dream job and also that I will likely never rise above my level, and I am okay with that. My job is what it is: food on the table, gas in the car, and a means toward an end goal of being able to one day retire, buy a motorhome, and travel a little bit.
I have had several people who know me say that I seem happier these days. And I am. Having some answers about my past allowed me to move out from under its shadow. I still have some work to do, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it is getting brighter. I am also no longer mistaking it for an oncoming train.
Don't get me wrong; little things still have the power to irritate me at times. A car pulling out in front of me or going around me only to slow down in order to make a turn or my son talking during a program I'm trying to watch or changing the subject when I ask him a question, these things all still irritate me. But the irritation does not seem to last as long and sometimes does not materialize at all.
I also find that I am no longer in such a hurry to get wherever I'm going. I thought about this the other day at work as I was watching people hurry past me in the halls. I thought to myself: what's the rush? That person will get where they're going 15 or 20 seconds sooner than I will reach the same spot. The work will still be there when I arrive, only I'll get there more relaxed and in a calmer state than the person in such a hurry. And there is a good deal to be said for that.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Putting the Pieces Together
It has been a busy two weeks since my last entry. No sooner did I get through the end of the month rush at work before I had to jump back into the rush of another month with a short turnaround time for getting everything done.
In the interval, I had a great weekend of camping with the family and spent some time thinking about and trying to find out more about something an aunt told me about my father when she was here for a visit a month ado. Before I share what she said, a little background.
My mother and father separated when I was five - a long, long time ago (there were cars, but I'm not sure about color television.) - and divorced soon after. The way it has always played out in my mind is that one day he was there, the next he was gone. When I say gone, I mean gone completely - no visits on the weekends, no calls, no letters, nothing. It was as if he had never existed.
During the intervening years, through my mother's bad relationships and an even worse second marriage, I wondered what had happened to my father and what had happened to cause him to simply disappear. No one seemed to know, or at least no one was talking.
The only answer I ever got on the subject from my mother was that my father "couldn't handle the responsibility of a family." While I'm sure she did not mean it this way, inside I took that to mean it was my fault for the end of their marriage. I never included my sister in that blame equation; I suppose at some level I concluded that she was a second attempt to get it right. If I had turned out right or perhaps had never been born they would have stayed together and life would have been different.
I won't bore you with what my therapist has to say about this. Suffice to say that this episode of my childhood and the way I interpreted it caused all kinds of problems for me in terms of interpersonal relationships, emotional commitments, and simply living. Because the separation was so complete and so permanent, all of the pieces seemed to fit together to support the conclusion that I was somehow to blame for my parents' divorce.
That is because my mother's explanation was the only story I had - until a little more than a month ago. That was when an aunt came to town and gave me the initial piece of a new story, one that took me out of the blame equation, one that held the promise of a rational explanation - finally - if I could get some more details.
At that time, she told me that my mother had thrown my father out for some unnamed transgression and that he had possibly ended up in prison. Prison would have explained why he never came to visit and could have explained no letters and no telephone calls - for a time. But what could he have done to cause my mother not to want him around us ever again. I needed more information.
After talking about this revelation with my therapist, she encouraged me to contact my aunt to see if I could get more details about what had happened. So I e-mailed my aunt. E-mail seemed safer than a phone call in case my aunt couldn't or wouldn't say more. It also allowed me to be crystal clear in what I was asking for, and it allowed me to take emotion out of it, especially the potential for an angry outburst if no other information was available or forthcoming.
I sent the e-mail. And I waited. After eight days with no answer, my therapist encouraged me to call my aunt to see whether she had gotten my e-mail. Because of computer problems, she hadn't. So I waited some more. Another eight days passed. Finally, Wednesday morning before work, I checked my e-mail again, and there was the response I had been waiting for. I read it through and thought to myself, it all fits.
It seems my father had been guilty of infidelity, only with a criminal twist. The "other woman" turned out not to have been a woman after all but an underage girl. According to my aunt, it wasn't the first time, either. So my mother kicked him out and, as my aunt says, because she was afraid he might hurt one of us, my mother didn't want my father coming around.
After all these years, I now have a different story with different pieces, and they all seem to add up. They seem to explain the sudden breaking of contact and the subsequent years of silence on the part of my father. But deep inside, I still seem to need a bit more.
Perhaps it's the doubting Thomas in me or perhaps it's the spirit of the reporter I used to be, but there is part of me that now wants to know for sure whether he went to prison and for what. My aunt has taken the new story as far as she can. Now it is time for me to take it and flesh it out and perhaps craft the happy ending I never really thought was possible. Until now.
In the interval, I had a great weekend of camping with the family and spent some time thinking about and trying to find out more about something an aunt told me about my father when she was here for a visit a month ado. Before I share what she said, a little background.
My mother and father separated when I was five - a long, long time ago (there were cars, but I'm not sure about color television.) - and divorced soon after. The way it has always played out in my mind is that one day he was there, the next he was gone. When I say gone, I mean gone completely - no visits on the weekends, no calls, no letters, nothing. It was as if he had never existed.
During the intervening years, through my mother's bad relationships and an even worse second marriage, I wondered what had happened to my father and what had happened to cause him to simply disappear. No one seemed to know, or at least no one was talking.
The only answer I ever got on the subject from my mother was that my father "couldn't handle the responsibility of a family." While I'm sure she did not mean it this way, inside I took that to mean it was my fault for the end of their marriage. I never included my sister in that blame equation; I suppose at some level I concluded that she was a second attempt to get it right. If I had turned out right or perhaps had never been born they would have stayed together and life would have been different.
I won't bore you with what my therapist has to say about this. Suffice to say that this episode of my childhood and the way I interpreted it caused all kinds of problems for me in terms of interpersonal relationships, emotional commitments, and simply living. Because the separation was so complete and so permanent, all of the pieces seemed to fit together to support the conclusion that I was somehow to blame for my parents' divorce.
That is because my mother's explanation was the only story I had - until a little more than a month ago. That was when an aunt came to town and gave me the initial piece of a new story, one that took me out of the blame equation, one that held the promise of a rational explanation - finally - if I could get some more details.
At that time, she told me that my mother had thrown my father out for some unnamed transgression and that he had possibly ended up in prison. Prison would have explained why he never came to visit and could have explained no letters and no telephone calls - for a time. But what could he have done to cause my mother not to want him around us ever again. I needed more information.
After talking about this revelation with my therapist, she encouraged me to contact my aunt to see if I could get more details about what had happened. So I e-mailed my aunt. E-mail seemed safer than a phone call in case my aunt couldn't or wouldn't say more. It also allowed me to be crystal clear in what I was asking for, and it allowed me to take emotion out of it, especially the potential for an angry outburst if no other information was available or forthcoming.
I sent the e-mail. And I waited. After eight days with no answer, my therapist encouraged me to call my aunt to see whether she had gotten my e-mail. Because of computer problems, she hadn't. So I waited some more. Another eight days passed. Finally, Wednesday morning before work, I checked my e-mail again, and there was the response I had been waiting for. I read it through and thought to myself, it all fits.
It seems my father had been guilty of infidelity, only with a criminal twist. The "other woman" turned out not to have been a woman after all but an underage girl. According to my aunt, it wasn't the first time, either. So my mother kicked him out and, as my aunt says, because she was afraid he might hurt one of us, my mother didn't want my father coming around.
After all these years, I now have a different story with different pieces, and they all seem to add up. They seem to explain the sudden breaking of contact and the subsequent years of silence on the part of my father. But deep inside, I still seem to need a bit more.
Perhaps it's the doubting Thomas in me or perhaps it's the spirit of the reporter I used to be, but there is part of me that now wants to know for sure whether he went to prison and for what. My aunt has taken the new story as far as she can. Now it is time for me to take it and flesh it out and perhaps craft the happy ending I never really thought was possible. Until now.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The End of Civility
In following the ongoing debate over universal health care in America, I have been led to conclude that America is a divided country again.
We have been divided before: the Civil War, Vietnam, even the war in Iraq. It seems to me that each new division takes just a little longer to heal, and the time of relative unity in between grows a little bit shorter, if it exists at all.
I blame talk radio for a portion of this. It sounds silly to say that, but talk radio does seem to set the tone for what passes for discourse in this country. That tone has grown increasingly shrill in recent years. Nothing and no one can be trusted anymore, it seems. For a long-time idealist like me, that is a hard world in which to live.
Talk radio is likely not the cause of this loss of civility; rather, it is probably but a symptom. However, like a parasite, it continues to feed off of this social unease and distrust. Like an opportunist, it fuels those negative emotions rather than looking for or promoting solutions. Talk radio feeds on the fears of people concerned about how something might affect them individually without ever looking at how something might affect or even benefit us societally and without ever offering a rational alternative.
It has long been said that politics is dirty business and that people interested in a life in politics had to be willing to get down in the mud. For most of our existence, most of that mud was controlled and contained in back rooms and more often than not a middle ground was eventually found.
These days, the mud is slung freely and indiscriminately, hitting anyone and everyone in its path. As a result, the middle ground is lost to us because we cannot even see it, let alone reach it. Personally, I feel unclean.
Years ago, Rodney King asked the often-spoofed and ridiculed question: "Can we all get along?" The question appears to have been answered once and for all. Sadly, the answer appears to be no.
We have been divided before: the Civil War, Vietnam, even the war in Iraq. It seems to me that each new division takes just a little longer to heal, and the time of relative unity in between grows a little bit shorter, if it exists at all.
I blame talk radio for a portion of this. It sounds silly to say that, but talk radio does seem to set the tone for what passes for discourse in this country. That tone has grown increasingly shrill in recent years. Nothing and no one can be trusted anymore, it seems. For a long-time idealist like me, that is a hard world in which to live.
Talk radio is likely not the cause of this loss of civility; rather, it is probably but a symptom. However, like a parasite, it continues to feed off of this social unease and distrust. Like an opportunist, it fuels those negative emotions rather than looking for or promoting solutions. Talk radio feeds on the fears of people concerned about how something might affect them individually without ever looking at how something might affect or even benefit us societally and without ever offering a rational alternative.
It has long been said that politics is dirty business and that people interested in a life in politics had to be willing to get down in the mud. For most of our existence, most of that mud was controlled and contained in back rooms and more often than not a middle ground was eventually found.
These days, the mud is slung freely and indiscriminately, hitting anyone and everyone in its path. As a result, the middle ground is lost to us because we cannot even see it, let alone reach it. Personally, I feel unclean.
Years ago, Rodney King asked the often-spoofed and ridiculed question: "Can we all get along?" The question appears to have been answered once and for all. Sadly, the answer appears to be no.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Crimes and Misdemeanors and Other Thoughts
I have been following, off and on, the increasingly raucous debate over whether the government should be involved in health care. Interestingly, I think, the loudest opposition comes from people who have no need of a public option for health care and from those who fear that such an option will kill their goose that laid the golden egg. Perhaps it should.
Frankly, I believe insurance company decisions regarding whether to pay benefits or not are based all too often on the impact to their bottom line or to the value of shareholders' stock instead of the impact on a person's life or even survival. My own feeling is that if insurance companies must exist, they should do so to provide supplemental insurance to cover more voluntary things such as plastic surgery.
Opponents on the Right complain that any government involvement in health care takes us another step down the road to socialism. I'm all for private enterprise - in areas that do not hold the potential of a life or death decision: buying a car, dining out, clothing stores, and the like. However, I also believe there are places where the for-profit economic model has no place, and health care is one of them.
Some have suggested that reform, such as a law to prevent denial of benefits for a preexisting condition is a better approach. At one time, I might have agreed. But no more. I no longer believe a piecemeal approach can work. Nor do I think the health insurance industry will sit still for such changes to their cash cow. If they can kill such a massive reform effort as the one currently underway, individual changes stand no chance of success.
I think it is a travesty, even a crime that the richest nation in the world ranks 33rd in the world in infant mortality rate, according to a 2006 United Nations report. (A 2007 report from the CDC puts that death rate even higher.) By the way, that is five spots worse than lowly and impoverished Cuba. (The U.S. ranks 34th in the rate of child deaths within the first five years of life. Cuba ranks 26th in that regard.) The 2009 estimates from the CIA World Factbook rank the United States even lower at 46th in the world. That bastion of wealth, Slovenia, ranks 19th, with two fewer infant deaths per 1,000 live births than the U.S.
Simply put, capitalism has no place in health care. Maybe, though, this debate can serve as a catalyst to review and rethink capitalism, not with the goal of replacing it but with the goal of restoring some balance. For instance, in 1970, a company CEO made, on average 25 times the salary on one of his workers. In 2009, that figure was by some estimates 700 times the average worker's income. Even as jobs are lost or shipped overseas, CEO salaries continue to rise. Perhaps this is what Reagan meant when he talked about trickle-down economics. The top tier skims off the cream and allows whatever is left to trickle down to the rest of us.
I work for a company that a few years back had a CEO who nearly ran the company into the ground. He managed to unload the company, saddling the new buyers with billions of dollars in debt in the process, then drove off into the sunset with his $150 million golden parachute. In the meantime, several hundred of the rank and file workers he left behind had their jobs eliminated or shipped overseas.
I don't think the original proponents of capitalism ever had this in mind. This is no longer your father's capitalism, where small businesses served as the backbone of the economy. That model has been replaced by an oligarchy in which CEOs hold most of the wealth and the power that comes with it.
Is this really what the Founding Fathers had in mind?
Frankly, I believe insurance company decisions regarding whether to pay benefits or not are based all too often on the impact to their bottom line or to the value of shareholders' stock instead of the impact on a person's life or even survival. My own feeling is that if insurance companies must exist, they should do so to provide supplemental insurance to cover more voluntary things such as plastic surgery.
Opponents on the Right complain that any government involvement in health care takes us another step down the road to socialism. I'm all for private enterprise - in areas that do not hold the potential of a life or death decision: buying a car, dining out, clothing stores, and the like. However, I also believe there are places where the for-profit economic model has no place, and health care is one of them.
Some have suggested that reform, such as a law to prevent denial of benefits for a preexisting condition is a better approach. At one time, I might have agreed. But no more. I no longer believe a piecemeal approach can work. Nor do I think the health insurance industry will sit still for such changes to their cash cow. If they can kill such a massive reform effort as the one currently underway, individual changes stand no chance of success.
I think it is a travesty, even a crime that the richest nation in the world ranks 33rd in the world in infant mortality rate, according to a 2006 United Nations report. (A 2007 report from the CDC puts that death rate even higher.) By the way, that is five spots worse than lowly and impoverished Cuba. (The U.S. ranks 34th in the rate of child deaths within the first five years of life. Cuba ranks 26th in that regard.) The 2009 estimates from the CIA World Factbook rank the United States even lower at 46th in the world. That bastion of wealth, Slovenia, ranks 19th, with two fewer infant deaths per 1,000 live births than the U.S.
Simply put, capitalism has no place in health care. Maybe, though, this debate can serve as a catalyst to review and rethink capitalism, not with the goal of replacing it but with the goal of restoring some balance. For instance, in 1970, a company CEO made, on average 25 times the salary on one of his workers. In 2009, that figure was by some estimates 700 times the average worker's income. Even as jobs are lost or shipped overseas, CEO salaries continue to rise. Perhaps this is what Reagan meant when he talked about trickle-down economics. The top tier skims off the cream and allows whatever is left to trickle down to the rest of us.
I work for a company that a few years back had a CEO who nearly ran the company into the ground. He managed to unload the company, saddling the new buyers with billions of dollars in debt in the process, then drove off into the sunset with his $150 million golden parachute. In the meantime, several hundred of the rank and file workers he left behind had their jobs eliminated or shipped overseas.
I don't think the original proponents of capitalism ever had this in mind. This is no longer your father's capitalism, where small businesses served as the backbone of the economy. That model has been replaced by an oligarchy in which CEOs hold most of the wealth and the power that comes with it.
Is this really what the Founding Fathers had in mind?
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Human Detour
Have you ever noticed how you may be headed in one direction but something happens to push you in a different direction, one you never expected or anticipated? It happens to all of us, I would venture to say, some of us more than once. With my son, Christopher, I experience small detours every day. Life is often lived at 90-degree angles with Christopher, who will suddenly and abruptly change the direction of a conversation without warning.
Tonight, a few minutes before 9:00, I informed Christopher that he needed to get ready for bed. After a moment or two, he left, only to return five minutes or so later to inform me that he was going to brush his teeth. What he did during the five or so minutes he was gone, I'm not even sure he knows. I do know that if anyone ever figures out a way to save "rollover" minutes in life the way a certain cellular phone company does, Christopher will be set into the next life.
Christopher left again. To the untrained observer, it would appear he went to brush his teeth, just as he said. As his father, I knew better. Ten minutes passed. Teresa opened the bathroom door to discover him simply standing there. I sat down on our bedroom floor to play with our dog and settled in for the long haul.
Another five or ten minutes passed, during which time Christopher presumably did brush his teeth. He walked into our bedroom and announced to the world, "I found a penny on the bus," to which I replied, "Yes, but can you find your pajamas?" Because, at this point, Christopher, clean teeth and all, was still fully dressed.
Tonight, it took Christopher roughly 20 minutes to get ready for bed and another five to actually get settled into bed. Tonight, he showed unusual speed. The week prior, there was one night it took Christopher almost 90-minutes to finally pronounce himself ready for bed.
I joke that Christopher has two speeds: slow and stop. Because of that, Teresa and I both suspect that he will have trouble in this hurry up and wait, hustle and bustle world in which we live.
Seeing Christopher's inability to do anything quickly has been frustrating to me more times than I can count. Tonight, though, I hit upon a thought that may make dealing with and accepting Christopher's lack of alacrity about anything a bit easier to accept. When we retire, Teresa and I hope to buy a motorhome to live in a travel around the country, and we are sometimes convinced that Christopher will have to accompany us on the road.
In the world of the full-time RVer, a world we one day hope to enter, time is much more relative. There are no schedules unless you choose to have them. You don't need to be somewhere on a certain day, by a certain time unless you choose to. In a sense, time is more of a choice.
In that world, life is lived more slowly. People take time to notice and appreciate their surroundings. Although there are fewer younger people in that world, it is one tailor-made for Christopher, for whom time is often fluid, aside from deadlines and schedules imposed and enforced on him by others.
Amongst full-time RVers, Christopher may well thrive, and it may be me who frustrates him. I can't wait.
Tonight, a few minutes before 9:00, I informed Christopher that he needed to get ready for bed. After a moment or two, he left, only to return five minutes or so later to inform me that he was going to brush his teeth. What he did during the five or so minutes he was gone, I'm not even sure he knows. I do know that if anyone ever figures out a way to save "rollover" minutes in life the way a certain cellular phone company does, Christopher will be set into the next life.
Christopher left again. To the untrained observer, it would appear he went to brush his teeth, just as he said. As his father, I knew better. Ten minutes passed. Teresa opened the bathroom door to discover him simply standing there. I sat down on our bedroom floor to play with our dog and settled in for the long haul.
Another five or ten minutes passed, during which time Christopher presumably did brush his teeth. He walked into our bedroom and announced to the world, "I found a penny on the bus," to which I replied, "Yes, but can you find your pajamas?" Because, at this point, Christopher, clean teeth and all, was still fully dressed.
Tonight, it took Christopher roughly 20 minutes to get ready for bed and another five to actually get settled into bed. Tonight, he showed unusual speed. The week prior, there was one night it took Christopher almost 90-minutes to finally pronounce himself ready for bed.
I joke that Christopher has two speeds: slow and stop. Because of that, Teresa and I both suspect that he will have trouble in this hurry up and wait, hustle and bustle world in which we live.
Seeing Christopher's inability to do anything quickly has been frustrating to me more times than I can count. Tonight, though, I hit upon a thought that may make dealing with and accepting Christopher's lack of alacrity about anything a bit easier to accept. When we retire, Teresa and I hope to buy a motorhome to live in a travel around the country, and we are sometimes convinced that Christopher will have to accompany us on the road.
In the world of the full-time RVer, a world we one day hope to enter, time is much more relative. There are no schedules unless you choose to have them. You don't need to be somewhere on a certain day, by a certain time unless you choose to. In a sense, time is more of a choice.
In that world, life is lived more slowly. People take time to notice and appreciate their surroundings. Although there are fewer younger people in that world, it is one tailor-made for Christopher, for whom time is often fluid, aside from deadlines and schedules imposed and enforced on him by others.
Amongst full-time RVers, Christopher may well thrive, and it may be me who frustrates him. I can't wait.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Power of Language - to Confuse
As an erstwhile English major and former writer for a television newscast, I suppose I have always been somewhat fascinated by the power of the English language to inform, to console, to lift up, and yes, to confuse.
Here is a case in point. Every day, on my way home from work, I drive past my son's junior high school. At the exit from the school grounds there is a sign that reads as follows: Golf and Metal Detectors Prohibited on School Grounds. Initially, I wondered about the ban on metal detectors, but then it hit me. Why would anyone need a detector to determine whether people were playing golf on school grounds? And what would such a detector look like?
Silly? Probably. But such nuances of the language cause problems for native and non-native speakers alike. Often, the meaning depends on how a person reads the message: pronunciation, intonation, etc. In my case, a sometimes bored mind starts to read unintended meanings into things.
Take for instance the road sign: Slow Children at Play. This mind wants to know where the fast children play. And where are the slow children? I never see them playing. They must be too slow for the human eye to notice.
Here in Idaho we also have signs such as Watch For Stock. Am I allowed to gather up any shares of IBM or Microsoft I spot along the roadway?
The first time I came upon a Game Crossing sign I looked for Yahtzee and Monopoly but did not see them. I also wondered if I would then see a Do Not Pass Go sign. I didn't.
On that same drive home every day, I pass two side streets that appear in many respects to be similar to one another. The main difference is that the first side street has a sign that reads No Outlet while the second street has a sign that reads Dead End.
What is the difference? Does one street have access to electricity while the other one doesn't? Does it mean that once you take one of these streets you can never make your way back out? Or does it simply mean that there is no cheap shopping to be had on the street labeled No Outlet? Sometimes, the power of the language is all in how you look at it and in how you say it. Sometimes, it helps to be a little bit out in left field.
Here is a case in point. Every day, on my way home from work, I drive past my son's junior high school. At the exit from the school grounds there is a sign that reads as follows: Golf and Metal Detectors Prohibited on School Grounds. Initially, I wondered about the ban on metal detectors, but then it hit me. Why would anyone need a detector to determine whether people were playing golf on school grounds? And what would such a detector look like?
Silly? Probably. But such nuances of the language cause problems for native and non-native speakers alike. Often, the meaning depends on how a person reads the message: pronunciation, intonation, etc. In my case, a sometimes bored mind starts to read unintended meanings into things.
Take for instance the road sign: Slow Children at Play. This mind wants to know where the fast children play. And where are the slow children? I never see them playing. They must be too slow for the human eye to notice.
Here in Idaho we also have signs such as Watch For Stock. Am I allowed to gather up any shares of IBM or Microsoft I spot along the roadway?
The first time I came upon a Game Crossing sign I looked for Yahtzee and Monopoly but did not see them. I also wondered if I would then see a Do Not Pass Go sign. I didn't.
On that same drive home every day, I pass two side streets that appear in many respects to be similar to one another. The main difference is that the first side street has a sign that reads No Outlet while the second street has a sign that reads Dead End.
What is the difference? Does one street have access to electricity while the other one doesn't? Does it mean that once you take one of these streets you can never make your way back out? Or does it simply mean that there is no cheap shopping to be had on the street labeled No Outlet? Sometimes, the power of the language is all in how you look at it and in how you say it. Sometimes, it helps to be a little bit out in left field.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Some Mental Decluttering
I don't really have anything specific on my mind, but it's been a while since my last post so I thought I ought to say something. So let me just unpack a few things rattling around my brain.
As I write this, it is closing in on 100-degrees here in Boise, and the neighbor and her daughter are sitting outside trying to hold a garage sale. They're sitting in the shade, but it has to be hot out there. What must make it worse is that I don't think a single person has stopped to look, let along buy anything.
That got me to thinking: what is it about us Americans and our need for stuff? Bigger stuff, better stuff, more expensive stuff, just more stuff. I've read that houses have gone from around 1100 or 1200 square feet in the 1950s to more than 2400 square feet a few years ago. I feel so below average in our 1,967 square feet. NOT! One day, we may even downsize into a 320 square foot motorhome, but we'll have to get rid of a lot more stuff first.
I recently found out I wasn't getting a promotion I didn't even know I was up for and didn't think I would want. I realized, though, that I was a little disappointed, even though the choice as made was to keep another, more experienced person with the company and not because of my qualifications or lack thereof.
Why is it that so many things that are good for you don't taste good while so many things that taste good are so bad for you? It just doesn't seem right. And will researchers ever make up their minds about coffee? First it's bad, then it's good, and now they say one cups of caffeinated coffee a day can help ward off dementia and reduce the risk of Alzheimer's. With as much as I drink, I should be in good shape until I'm at least 125.
While I'm in this decluttering mood, I should toss out some of the less pleasant memories of my life that have basically kept me from really enjoying life for all these years. I tried for so long to understand some of them that I forgot to live and make new memories. The process of reversing that began seven months ago. I wish I'd been ready sooner.
Along the way, I've been thinking about the people who have come into and gone out of my life. I wonder where they are these days, how they are, what they're doing, even what they look like. To all of you, I'm glad I knew you, even if only for a short time. I wish I'd been a better friend. Perhaps one day I'll be lucky enough to have a second chance at it.
As I write this, it is closing in on 100-degrees here in Boise, and the neighbor and her daughter are sitting outside trying to hold a garage sale. They're sitting in the shade, but it has to be hot out there. What must make it worse is that I don't think a single person has stopped to look, let along buy anything.
That got me to thinking: what is it about us Americans and our need for stuff? Bigger stuff, better stuff, more expensive stuff, just more stuff. I've read that houses have gone from around 1100 or 1200 square feet in the 1950s to more than 2400 square feet a few years ago. I feel so below average in our 1,967 square feet. NOT! One day, we may even downsize into a 320 square foot motorhome, but we'll have to get rid of a lot more stuff first.
I recently found out I wasn't getting a promotion I didn't even know I was up for and didn't think I would want. I realized, though, that I was a little disappointed, even though the choice as made was to keep another, more experienced person with the company and not because of my qualifications or lack thereof.
Why is it that so many things that are good for you don't taste good while so many things that taste good are so bad for you? It just doesn't seem right. And will researchers ever make up their minds about coffee? First it's bad, then it's good, and now they say one cups of caffeinated coffee a day can help ward off dementia and reduce the risk of Alzheimer's. With as much as I drink, I should be in good shape until I'm at least 125.
While I'm in this decluttering mood, I should toss out some of the less pleasant memories of my life that have basically kept me from really enjoying life for all these years. I tried for so long to understand some of them that I forgot to live and make new memories. The process of reversing that began seven months ago. I wish I'd been ready sooner.
Along the way, I've been thinking about the people who have come into and gone out of my life. I wonder where they are these days, how they are, what they're doing, even what they look like. To all of you, I'm glad I knew you, even if only for a short time. I wish I'd been a better friend. Perhaps one day I'll be lucky enough to have a second chance at it.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
It has been exactly one week since we returned from our nine-day excursion to south-central Utah. What a wonderful excursion it was! This may have been the most scenic and most relaxing vacation I have ever had.
Last year, we drove 11 hours to southwest Oregon and spent time seeing the Oregon and California coasts, Redwoods National Park, and Crater Lake National Park. Very beautiful but very exhausting. It felt like we did all three of those over consecutive days, even though I know we did not.
Compounding that was the fact that I was anticipating a possible new job, the offer for which came during our trip to Crater Lake. That meant an unplanned additional day's driver to find a Kinko's from which to fax back my acceptance of the job offer. Needless to say, when we returned I was exhausted and felt like I needed another vacation in order to recover.
Not so this time, even we did as much if not more sightseeing. Our campsite, in Fish Lake National Forest, was at 8800-feet, which led to cool, crisp nights and some great sleeping weather. The days were mostly cool and often wet, but we did not let that stop us from making road trips to three national parks, each perhaps more spectacular than the one before.
During our nine days, we made visits to, in order: Capitol Reef, Bryce Canyon, and Arches National Parks. We managed to put at least one day of rest in-between each park, which allowed us time to recharge our batteries. That spacing made each park more enjoyable and more picturesque, as evidenced by the fact that we took more than 500 pictures, and our son took nearly 200 additional pictures. (I promise to post some as soon as I get a chance to organize them.)
There are some wondrous sites to see in this country, and I hope to see more of them in the coming years. For now, just let me say that everyone should travel to see some of these wonderful places in Utah, and if you do go, be sure to try the buffalo burger at the Burger Bar in Roy, just north of Salt Lake City. Their shakes are fantastic as well.
And if you happen to be driving through Koosharem, a small town of fewer than 300 people seemingly in the middle of nowhere on Highway 62, 156 miles from Salt Lake City, be sure to stop by the Koosharem Cafe and have the Country Fried Steak meal. Very good food at a very good price.
Last year, we drove 11 hours to southwest Oregon and spent time seeing the Oregon and California coasts, Redwoods National Park, and Crater Lake National Park. Very beautiful but very exhausting. It felt like we did all three of those over consecutive days, even though I know we did not.
Compounding that was the fact that I was anticipating a possible new job, the offer for which came during our trip to Crater Lake. That meant an unplanned additional day's driver to find a Kinko's from which to fax back my acceptance of the job offer. Needless to say, when we returned I was exhausted and felt like I needed another vacation in order to recover.
Not so this time, even we did as much if not more sightseeing. Our campsite, in Fish Lake National Forest, was at 8800-feet, which led to cool, crisp nights and some great sleeping weather. The days were mostly cool and often wet, but we did not let that stop us from making road trips to three national parks, each perhaps more spectacular than the one before.
During our nine days, we made visits to, in order: Capitol Reef, Bryce Canyon, and Arches National Parks. We managed to put at least one day of rest in-between each park, which allowed us time to recharge our batteries. That spacing made each park more enjoyable and more picturesque, as evidenced by the fact that we took more than 500 pictures, and our son took nearly 200 additional pictures. (I promise to post some as soon as I get a chance to organize them.)
There are some wondrous sites to see in this country, and I hope to see more of them in the coming years. For now, just let me say that everyone should travel to see some of these wonderful places in Utah, and if you do go, be sure to try the buffalo burger at the Burger Bar in Roy, just north of Salt Lake City. Their shakes are fantastic as well.
And if you happen to be driving through Koosharem, a small town of fewer than 300 people seemingly in the middle of nowhere on Highway 62, 156 miles from Salt Lake City, be sure to stop by the Koosharem Cafe and have the Country Fried Steak meal. Very good food at a very good price.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Few Random Questions
Why is it that, as most men get older, their waistline expands even as their hairline recedes? Is it something to do with quantum physics? Perhaps in a parallel universe an alternate version of me is really thin.
Did you ever wonder why the louder you speak the harder of hearing your children seem to become? I can literally yell to ask Christopher to do something and he'll say he didn't hear me. But I could be on the other side of the house almost whispering, and he'll catch every single word - especially if none of them were meant for him to hear. Someone please explain that to me.
Do you think there might be a special place in Hell for people who race to pull out in front you even though there are blocks of empty space behind you and then proceed to drive well below the speed limit? I sure hope so.
Where is the reality in reality TV? Seriously, do you personally know anyone who does some of the stupid things these people do in some of these shows? I don't. With the exception of Survivor, of course. I mean, there is nothing contrived about putting 16 strangers on a deserted island or in the middle of the jungle and rewarding the person who does the best job of lying, cheating, and stabbing the other 15 contestants in the back. Oh wait, I'm confusing Survivor with climbing the corporate ladder.
Do you ever wonder why someone would take the time to write about what he thinks or feels when few if any people will read it and fewer still will comment on it? So do I, but I guess I'll keep doing so.
Did you ever wonder why the louder you speak the harder of hearing your children seem to become? I can literally yell to ask Christopher to do something and he'll say he didn't hear me. But I could be on the other side of the house almost whispering, and he'll catch every single word - especially if none of them were meant for him to hear. Someone please explain that to me.
Do you think there might be a special place in Hell for people who race to pull out in front you even though there are blocks of empty space behind you and then proceed to drive well below the speed limit? I sure hope so.
Where is the reality in reality TV? Seriously, do you personally know anyone who does some of the stupid things these people do in some of these shows? I don't. With the exception of Survivor, of course. I mean, there is nothing contrived about putting 16 strangers on a deserted island or in the middle of the jungle and rewarding the person who does the best job of lying, cheating, and stabbing the other 15 contestants in the back. Oh wait, I'm confusing Survivor with climbing the corporate ladder.
Do you ever wonder why someone would take the time to write about what he thinks or feels when few if any people will read it and fewer still will comment on it? So do I, but I guess I'll keep doing so.
Monday, June 1, 2009
It's Camping Season
This year, my allergies are the worst they have been since moving to Idaho in 2003. I've spent a great deal of time sneezing, reaching for a tissue, or trying to gouge my eyes out to stop the itching. If it isn't one of those, then it's the problem of trying to stay awake and alert after doping myself beyond the recommended dosage in a futile quest for relief.
In spite of these miseries, I am as happy as I have been in several months. Why? Because it is camping season once again. We already have three trips under our belt this season, with our big trip coming in less than two weeks, an eight-day stay in Utah. I am really looking forward to it.
This year, despite the allergies, camping is in many ways more fun than in years past. One key reason is that I am finally coming to terms with some of my demons that have haunted me for years. Another key reason is the addition of Oliver, our beagle, to the family.
The addition of a dog has changed our camping experience for the better. Oliver is an instant four-legged icebreaker. On our last camping trip, one of the volunteer camp host couples pulled into our campsite, apologized for the intrusion, then told us how much they admired our beagle.
We've spoken to several other beagle owners about owning perhaps the most stubborn breed in the canine world. We've had other dog owners apologize for the behavior of their dogs even as we have been compelled to apologize for Oliver. As a lifelong introvert, the whole transformation caused in the amount we interact with other campers simply by adding a dog to our family has been incredible.
I have come to truly love camping, even the setting up. I enjoy cooking at nearly all times, but it is even more fun when camping, especially when I can surprise with whatever I create. The food almost always seems to taste better. The wine most certainly does. The sunsets seem more spectacular, the stars seem brighter, and the moon seems closer.
Teresa calculates that, based on the amount of nights we already have scheduled and reserved this season, we will top the 100-night mark in the tent trailer we bought in June, 2006. With a little luck and perhaps a fall outing or two, we might push that number closer to 110. Most of them have been truly wonderful. We've been to some really lovely settings, and we've only scratched the surface. One day, we hope to make such outings a full-time adventure. I can't wait!
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