Race the Sunset

Humanity and the Right Fight

2012-01-23T22:46:00.003-05:00

except quoted portions.

"By rights, we shouldn’t even be here, but we are.

It’s like in the great stories, the ones that really matter.

Full of darkness and danger they were.

Sometimes you didn’t want to know the end.

Because how could the end be happy?

How could the world go back to the way it was

when so much bad had happened?

In the end it’s only a passing thing. Like a shadow, the darkness mustpass.

But a new day will come;

and when the sun shines, it will shine out even clearer.

Those are the stories that stayed with you, that meant something,

even if you were too small tounderstand why.

But I think I do understand. Iknow now.

Folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only theydidn’t.

They kept going because they were holding on to something.

What are we holding on to?

That there’s some good in this world; and its worth fighting for."

--Samwise Gamgee

"The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers"

This quote is from a movie, a fantasy called “Lord of theRings.” Everyone knows the story, one ofheroism and cowardice; of holding true and falling to temptation; of featsaccomplished, and catastrophic failure. A quest that defined friendship and courage, and yet still told the darkstory of how human flesh sometimes fails in the face of challenge. Similar stories have been told for thousandsof years. The Iliad, The Aeneid, The Odyssey, all have contributedtales of the best, and the worst, of humankind. In those tales, people suffered and died. Worlds came apart and ended. In the reality of human history, much thesame has happened. But even in thosedarkest of times, when it seemed that the tapestry of our collective story wasapproaching a ragged end, humanity still survived. Kingdoms rose and fell. Global powers waxed and waned. Swords were drawn and blood was spilled. Yet, we still stand here today, survivorsall.

It becomes easy tolook around at the evil we continue to do to each other, at the violence andhate we insist on inflicting and assume that once again, humanity is fallinginto the abyss of self-imposed extinction. It’s easier still to wallow in despair, taking a perverse kind ofcomfort in the idea that surrender is the only option.

The soliloquy quotedabove, given in the Two Towers by the characterSamwise Gamgee, is one I find particularly poignant. Frodo and Sam, along with a fellowship ofknights and warriors undertake a journey to carry a powerful ring across awar-torn land in order to cast it into the fires of Mt Doom in the heart of thedark land of Mordor. It was a journey that cost lives and changed the hearts of all whoshared it. But they never turned backbecause they knew that the act of destroying the ring would save their worldfrom destruction.

We find such storiesinspiring because they demonstrate to us the greatness we are capable of, evenwhen slowed and crippled by our own weaknesses.

We who inhabit thisworld at this particular juncture of time see also a dark world. People die in wars, and in our communities bytheir own hands. We see floods andearthquakes, and fear what time has shown to be a cyclical shift in climate,fearing that our mother planet is somehow turning against us. Governments, always prone to human frailties,have become so corrupt, so unresponsive to human need that even those of us whoenjoy free elections despair of participating. The process has been poisoned by greed and lust for power and those whobecome candidates we see as completely warped by the system. Some we send to office with high hopes anddreams, only to feel the crushing disappointment of just how human they provedto be.

Humanity continuesto bring children into such a world, that being the testimonial act of the lastremaining hope for our future. We raisethem and sent them forth, praying that they may find the knowledge we have lacked,and the wisdom which has thus far eluded us.

Yet in the face ofall the darkness, I can find a ray of light in the words of Sam Gamgee. Like those brave Hobbits, I think we willcontinue to struggle forward. Despitethe mountains we must climb, the battlefields we must cross; despite thebetrayal and the hate, we will complete our journey. Even though the trail behind us will belittered with the deaths of millions and the shattered remnants of dreams greatand small, we will eventually discover the greatness that lies so oftensmothered within us. And that there isso much more power in unity than even in the greatest army.

We have not yetlearned how precious a human life truly is. Astronomers have discovered at least 730 planets that lay outside oursolar system, ranging from huge gas giants to smaller rocky worlds like ourEarth. They think that the number ofsuch worlds may number as high at 160 billion in this galaxy alone, and theremay be as many as 200 billion other galaxies as well. But nowhere in that blizzard of zeroes anddecimal places have we yet found another where we could live; or even one thatharbors life. While it seems incredibleto contemplate, there exists the possibility that we may be the onlyintelligent life…anywhere.

That truth aloneshould be enough for us to rethink our animal passions. And yet, throughout human history, there hasnever been a time when somebody wasn’t at war. Some have thus opined that conflict is a normal part of humanity’sbehavior.

We can only hopethat isn’t true.

I used to bepassionate about politics. But I havestepped back. I learned some of thevital critical thinking skills and applied them, not only to “the other side,”but to my own as well. In the light ofthat dawn I saw revealed the lies that both sides tell; the blatantmanipulation of their particular audience. Hitler ascended to the leadership of a war-devastated Germany by simplytelling people what they wanted to hear. And the people followed him over a cliff because no one ever asked himto provide proof to his version of the truth.

We have all falleninto that same trap.

So instead ofparticipating, I now stand back, preferring to witness the bread and circuses,rather than standing with the mob. I canno longer support what I have come to see as a system racked with a terminaldisease that infects all who come in contact with it. Everyone acknowledges that truth, but no one wantsto fix it.

And yet, I stillfind hope. We survived the plague, wesurvived the Great Depression. We havesurvived countless wars. We will alsosurvive this.

Someday, people willagain tell great stories. Someday,people will choose to be heroic and just. Someday, we will find that it possible to live in peace.

Someday, we will choose to fight for what is right.

It is a vision, tobe sure, but not one that I will witness. For the road is too long, the night is too dark.

And my journey istoo close to the end.

The Newest Model

2012-01-16T20:39:00.000-05:00

Witnessing the birth of a child is one of the most profound moments any human can experience. To come face-to-face with the power and miracle of life simply redefines a person's entire outlook. We know the biology, the science. We can be intellectually satisfied with discussions of fertilization and cellular mitosis. We can look at a pregnant woman and know what lives inside. But to be present at that moment when a human life emerges from another human simply takes our breath away.

My wife bore four children, of which I was present for three. While my aging brain is beginning to shed memories of the mundane, the images of those births remain crystal clear.

The years that followed were chaotic and rambunctious, stretching us to our limits. There were difficult moments, and others of boundless joy. Now they're all grown, most with families of their own. They've managed to drag us kicking and screaming into the 21st century, announcing the arrivals of their newest children via text, cell, and even facebook.

Last spring, our middle daughter announced she was pregnant. It would be her first child. That we already had been blessed with 5 grandchildren did nothing to lessen our joy and celebration. As the months progressed, our anticipation grew. In a courageous decision, Crystal announced that she would host the family Christmas gathering. We were even more excited as it became apparent that all four of our kids would be there at the same time. At this stage of life, those moments become rarer with each passing day. So it was with great anticipation that the family gathered.

Our son and his family arrived first, then went immediately up into the mountains for several days of skiing. My wife, Cheryl flew in on the 19th, our oldest daughter arrived from California with two of her three kids two days later. Our youngest, Jamie, a resident of Denver, was already there. I was the last to arrive, landing on the 23rd. When I arrived at Crystal and Andy's home in Littleton, I leaned over, patted her belly and said, "Okay Elena. Grampa's here now, so you can come out anytime."

The holiday passed with all the delightful chaos of a family gathered. The grandkids opened their presents and played incessently with each other's toys. Later that day, we all gathered around the table and broke bread together, laughing and sharing joyful memories. At one point, I put down my fork and just sat there. Everybody was there; the love in the air was palpable. I couldn't have been any happier. I sat there, purposefully committing the scene to memory, not the transient "where are my car keys?" memory, but the deeper one; the one where moments reside in perfect clarity until the moment we leave this life.

The days passed, much too rapidly for my taste, and gradually they disbursed. Robbie and his family went first, then Nikki headed back for California, Jamie went back to work on the other side of town. Cheryl would stay for another week, intending to help Crystal with the baby. Unfortunately, Elena demonstrated that she possessed that signature Couey stubbornness. As the day for my departure drew nearer, she still refused to be born. We had a false alarm on New Year's Eve, but everyone came back home around 3 a.m., frustrated, tired, and grumpy. Finally on the eve of my flight, the contractions started in earnest. Crystal got down to 5 minute intervals, but went no further. Finally, we went to the hospital, where her contractions became even more intense. I waited as long as I could, but reluctantly I left for the airport.

Never have I regretted more the airline's banning of cellphones in flight. But while I was in the air, Crystal finally gave into exhaustion and asked for the epidural. The Pitocin drip was hung, and two hours later, Elena entered the world.

When I landed in Baltimore, I immediately activated my phone and was rewarded with a string of text messages and photos of our newest grandaughter.

It was a grand moment, if made bittersweet by the distance.

Every family has these moments, when the permanency of the generations becomes perpetuated. The family lives on through the arrival of the newest lives, each one a precious miracle. And as we stand on the precipice of those generations, it is a view that is eminently joyful.

Techo-Thought

2012-01-09T20:44:00.000-05:00

The human race has undergone numerous changes overthe centuries. Life span, height, finemotor skills, and other developments have helped us rise from simplecave-dwellers to what we have become today. Some argue pointedly that our facility to create technology has sweptpast the moral and ethical capability to control its usage. But the most profound evolution involves ourability to communicate.

Anthropologists hypothesize that the first spokenlanguage appeared around 2.5 million years ago. But the development of written words didn’t come about for a very longtime until the Sumerians produced their proto-version of cuneiform around 3500BCE, with the Egyptians following about 200 years later. Clay tablets were the first media for thisnew form of expression and record-keeping. Animal skins, called “parchment,” gained favor in the 6^thcentury BC. The Chinese invented paperaround the 2^nd century BC, and in its various forms has been thestandard of publication since.

With the birth of the information age, words wouldbe rendered electronically and stored on a silicon disc. And as computer software and processorcapacity has grown, the required space for that storage has shrunk considerablyto the point where the 8gigabyte mini SD card in my cell phone could hold, ifmy information is correct, some 1, 024,000 pages of text, all on a piece ofmedia smaller than my pinky fingernail.

Scientists are telling us that in the very nearfuture, even more efficient storage media will advance that incredible figureby several orders of magnitude.

Technology is leaping ahead almost faster than wecan comprehend. Just in my lifetimethings have drastically changed.

In the early 1980’s I was in the U.S. Navy, spendinga good deal of time on the water half-way around the planet from home. Mail was a vitally important way to keep intouch with loved ones, but one that required patience. Letters would leave the ship on an irregularschedule, most times air-lifted by helicopter to another ship. We all held our breath as that bag swungthrough the air before it landed safelyon the other flight deck. Eventually,those bags would go on a delivery aircraft that would fly to an airport wherethe bags would be handed over to another conveyance for eventual shipment tothe Fleet Post Office in San Francisco, where it would be distributed throughthe US Postal Service system to our loved ones. That was a journey that could take a couple of weeks in the best ofcircumstances.

But even at that pace, we had it so much better thanbefore.

In the study of the American Revolution, it is soimportant to remember that even the most critical communication between Kingand Colonies would take up to 6 months to be received and answered. And if that particular ship foundered inthose brutal North Atlantic storms, those dispatches might not ever reach theirintended recipient.

Even as late as the 1960’s national leaders couldnot simply pick up a telephone and talk directly to each other. That lack during the Cuban Missile Crisisnearly drew the human race into what surely would have been the last world war.

I think the moment at which I came to grips with theadvance in communications was on a vacation trip to Las Vegas some fifteenyears ago. I was waiting on a sidewalkalong Las Vegas Boulevard when my cell phone rang. On the other end, my son had called to relaysome piece of information which time has washed from my memory. We finished our conversation, but as Iclicked off the phone and began to return it to my belt, I was struck by theenormity of what had just happened. Myson had called from Seoul, Korea to my phone with a Missouri number in LasVegas, his voice as clear and strong as if he had called from across thestreet.

It was truly a “wow” moment.

Our children are products of that instant age. They dragged us kicking and screaming intothe modern era to the point where we text and email with casualfamiliarity. I still don’t tweet,because I find it simply impossible to be comprehensible in only 140 characters. When our daughter-in-law visits her family inKorea, we can, via webcam, see our lovely grandchildren, and they us by simplypushing a button. We both have KindleE-readers that hold hundreds of books. We take entire libraries with us wherever we go, despite the annoyanceof having to turn them off during takeoffs and landings.

Cell phones that fit in a shirt pocket have vastlymore computing power than those warehouse-sized dinosaurs UNIVAC and ENIAC thatrepresented the pinnacle of computing power in the 1950’s. Televisions, satellites, GPS…I could go onforever, but I think you get the gist.

What’s truly amazing to consider is that scientistsand engineers tell us that what we find so amazing today will be outdatedbefore the 2016 elections.

I remember a time when the future was predicted tobe a time of universal prosperity, where everyone lived in a cute house in thesuburbs and flew their own private helicopter to work. Of course, it never came true. But the speed of technological development,especially in how we communicate with each other is increasingexponentially. It’s no longer easy topredict what our lives will be like, good or bad, even 10 years from now, letalone 50 or 100 years into the future. Humans may have moved beyond the written or spoken word entirely andcommunicate with our brains alone.

However the future turns out, one thing I feel sureabout is this:

It will be so much more than we can possiblyimagine.

Resolutions and the Power of Decision

2011-12-30T13:19:00.001-05:00

(except quoted portions)

"A resolution to avoid an evil

is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced

as to make avoidance impossible."

--Thomas Hardy.

"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed

is more important than any other."

--Abraham Lincoln

We all seem to go through this exercise every New Years. We look back at our past life, identify certain faults and bad habits, swear to ourselves that we will strive to overcome them -- and then two weeks later, rationalize our way right out of them. It is a so very human thing to do. Thomas Hardy's quote above would certainly sting most of us. The further down the hill you walk, the harder it will be to climb it again. The trick is to identify those disasters-in-making before they become so large and so difficult that fixing them becomes impossible.

While we may tell others that we're happy with our lives, very few of us really are. There's always something we can fix, some bad decisions we can avoid, and even some situations we can try to put behind us. Part of that is good, in that we should always strive to better ourselves. Joe Namath once said, "I can't wait until tomorrow because I get better looking every day." Putting aside the obvious self-absorption in that statement, it's not a bad attitude to have. We all have value; to ourselves, to others, and to God. To ignore that and focus on the bad parts is at the very least, counterproductive. We should take a moment at this time of the year and reflect back for a few moments on the good we've done. Knowing that we have done kind, unselfish, and loving things in the past should make it much easier to do them again in the future.

As I've written before, my habit is to not make resolutions until the spring. The return of sun, warmth, and new growth helps me to reinforce those promises that in the past have died a quick death in the long, cold days of January and February. Historically, those resolutions I have made in April and May have been far more successful than the ones I used to make in January.

2011 was for us not a bad year. We added two granchildren to our family, with another due any day. I was rescued from a bad employment situation by a new job that has been nothing but fun since the day I started. My lap-band surgery was successful and I'm down just over 100 pounds since I started that process. My self-esteem, as a result is so much higher than ever. I find myself far more willing to challenge myself, and expect success as a result. As sad as it is to say, fat people just aren't taken seriously by their skinny colleagues. Although we are neck-deep in a relocation right now, and the selling of our old house in Somerset isn't all we'd like it to be, we nonetheless face a brighter future than the one we faced just 12 months ago.

I know now that none of this would have taken place had I decided to float along with the events that were unfolding at the time. Good things happened because I stood up, made a decision, and took control. Yes, there have been some days when despair enveloped me. But I vowed not to let myself become drowned in bad feelings. I was particularly successful in forcing myself into positive mental and emotional states, which made those decisions much easier. Mr. Lincoln's quote has been my byword in 2011 and will continue to lead me through 2012. I won't be deterred by setbacks; I won't let depression and sadness take me over. In outer space, the explosion of a single star provides the raw materials for the birth of a dozen more. In the challenges I will face in the coming year, are the lessons that, if I take the time to learn them, will prove to be the foundations for a better life.

I look forward to 2012. I am convinced that the next 12 months will be full of promises made and accomplishments attained. I will survive the tough times because I have simply decided to do so. And the force of that decision will make all the difference. I know that 2012 will be the springboard for an even better 2013.

Unless, of course, the Mayans were right all along.

Searching for "Home"

2011-12-28T23:23:00.000-05:00

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey
(Except quoted lyrics)

You and I have memories
Longer than the road
That stretches out of here
Getting nowhere on our way back home
we're on our way home
we're going home
--"Two of Us"
Written by Boney M

Shopping for a new home is an experience that touches a person on so many levels, and engages most of the baser emotions. "Home" as a concept is something quite different from "house." A house is just a structure, a place where a person sleeps at night. A home, on the other hand, is so much more. It is a structure, true. But it is that place where safety and security provide a place for love to exist, even to flourish.

Home is where we go when the world has turned against us, a door to shut out all that creates the miseries of our lives. It is where family lives, where all can be sure that love trumps judgement.

So when we shop for a home, we're not just looking for a building to contain us and our stuff. We're looking for that one place where we can be..."us."

Like many, I have had in my mind, and perhaps in my heart, the place I have always dreamed about. Some of the details change, but I know that it has a big front porch, with white posts and a pair of rocking chairs where we can pass a pleasant evening. The interior details I leave to Cheryl, except that I'd like to have a room where bookshelves line the walls, where a desk and computer wait to give life to the words that flow through my brain. I'd like the house to have a sense of style that touches the past without surrendering things like in-the-wall wiring for electronics and computers.

Oh yes, and a garage big enough for two cars and a place to store a motorcycle during the winter months.

I know Cheryl has her thoughts about what she wants, but I have a hard time pinning those down. I know that she likes an open floor plan, with as few walls as possible. She'd like a single-story because she gets tired of stairs, or at least having the master bedroom on the main floor. Other than that, its a bit of a mystery.

We've been shopping for a new home for a few months now with one of three results. Either I like it and she doesn't, she likes it and I don't, we both hate it, or it's too darn expensive, or too far out of town. It's been really hard to pin the tail on the right donkey, so to speak.

It's rare moments like this when I wish I was independently wealthy and the price (to a point) wouldn't matter. But that's fantasy. And this is real life.

The whole matter is complicated by the thought that I may be transferring again in 3 - 4 years, so perhaps I shouldn't be looking for that something in which I'd be emotionally as well as financially invested. We want to retire in Las Vegas, and that's really where I wanted to go in the first place, but unfortunately, it just wasn't in the cards this time around.

The other big question is whether to rent or buy. Here in the virtual shadow of the Nation's Capitol, the differences in cost between renting and buying aren't significant enough to sway the argument either way. Of course, a lease is a lot easier thing to get out from under than a mortgage when moving time comes. The thing is, all the experts whom I've queried (and there's been a long list of them) say the same thing -- that the market here has gone as far down as its going to go, and is starting to creep back towards positive territory. Because of the constant in- and out-flow of people, the market is pretty strong, in that there's always people looking to buy. So, in that light, we'd be foolish not to buy and therefore miss out on what looks to be a promising return on our investment. It's also possible that things could go even further south. But I've always lived by the dictum, "Take not counsel of your fears." To seek reward entails shouldering risk. That's simply the way the game's played.

We will find a place, one way or another. And one day, hopefully sooner rather than later, we will find that perfect piece of heaven we can call home.

At least for now.

Civil War: Events of January 1862

2011-12-27T00:17:00.000-05:00

On the first day of the new year, General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson opened what wascalled the Romney campaign, or the Valley campaign. It was the campaign through the Shenandoah Valley in Virginiaduring spring 1862 in which Jacksonemployed audacity and rapid, unpredictable movements on interior lines. His 17,000 men marched 646 miles in 48 daysand won several minor battles as they successfully engaged three Union armies(52,000 men), preventing them from reinforcing the Union offensive against Richmond.

This was also thefirst day of the United States first income tax, a levy of 3% of incomes greaterthan $600, and 5% on incomes over $10,000.

On the 4^th,Jackson’s force attacked Bath, Virginia, and on the 6^th, hisartillery shelled Hancock, MD for two days from the West Virginia side of thePotomac River.

On January 10^th,President Lincoln, becoming frustrated by McClellan’s lack of aggressiveness,met with Irvin McDowell, William Franklin, Salmon P. Chase, Edwin Stanton, andThomas Scott, telling them “…if McClellan is not going to use the army any timesoon, I would like to borrow it.”

On that same day,Federal forces withdrew from Romney, WV.

Also on January 10,Federal forces attacked Confederate forces at Middle Creek in Eastern Kentucky. The Rebels were forced to retreat intoVirginia by a Union Colonel named James A Garfield, who would later become the20^th President of the United States. This battle, along with the Mill Springs battle, cemented Union controlof Eastern Kentucky until the fall.

Simon Cameron,Lincoln’s Secretary of War, resigned amid charges of corruption on January 11^th.

On the 14^th,Stonewall Jackson’s forces take Romney, WV.

And on the 15^th,Edwin Stanton becomes Secretary of War, replacing Cameron.

On January 18^th,the confederate territory of Arizona was formed.

January 19^thsaw the Battle of Mill Springs in Eastern Kentucky, completing the rout ofConfederate forces in the area.

On January 26^th,Lincoln issued General War Order #1, calling for a Union Offensive. McClellan ignores the order.

And on January 30^th,the future of the world’s navies was re-written with the launching of theironclad USS MONITOR.

So, This is Christmas

2011-12-24T11:21:00.000-05:00

The event occurred over 2000 years ago, and the date is still in dispute. In the midst of the crush and chaos of a government-ordered census in the city of Bethlehem, a baby was born to the wife of an itinerant carpenter from the tiny village of Nazareth. There being no room at the regular inns, the couple were relegated to the mean shelter of a cave used as a stable. Sometime during the night, some say as a new star shone brightly above, the baby arrived. He would be praised by people as the Son of God, but eventually put to an agonizing death by most of those very same people.

The "official" histories of the region mention him rarely, if at all, yet one is hard-pressed to name another person who has had such a profound effect on humanity.

We celebrate this birth on December 25, although most historians agree the event most likely happened in April. The holiday is a curious mixture of Christian belief and pagan symbolism, the baby Jesus displayed alongside Christmas trees. A beloved and bearded character dressed in red and white delights young and old alike, the blending of several historical personas. It happens just after the Winter Solstice, the time when the dark of night lasts much longer than the light of day, and even this is seen as symbolism, as houses and buildings are decorated with brightly-colored strings of lights. As those displays push back the dark, so we believe the arrival of the Prince of Peace also pushed back the darkness with the light of love.

It is a time of selfless giving, when people are generous with their time and resources to help those less fortunate. Charities receive their biggest contributions of the year, and in every city volunteers give up part of their day to prepare and serve a turkey dinner to the homeless, a few moments of warmth and acceptance before they return to the cold streets. People exchange gifts, some small and humble, others extravagant and expensive. Folks gather for parties at businesses, clubs, churches, and other places, breaking bread and spreading cheer and best wishes.

In homes across the world, families gather. It is a time when the bonds of family are renewed; love shines in rooms brighter than any collection of lights ever put together. And in some very special places, men and women who have lived with war leave the fear and violence behind to immerse themselves in the peaceful and loving world, that one place of safety and sanctuary they call "home."

Christmas is so many things to so many people. There are other holidays throughout the year, but none carry with them the same sense of love, peace, and togetherness as this one.

Most parents about my age realize that as the years pass the times when families can gather in the same place at the same time become rarer and rarer. Children are now adults, with their own careers and lives. Some have married and are busily raising their own children. With all the things occupying their time, it is difficult for them to be able to lay aside those few days to travel long distances in bad weather. So when that does happen, it is a time of great joy.

For us, this is one of those years. We are in Colorado, gathered at the home of our middle daughter and her husband. She is due to deliver her first child, our 6th granchild, sometime in the next 7 days, so it is even more meaningful. Last night, we all sat at the table, sharing chili and cornbread, a delicious repast on a winter's evening. Outside, a foot of new-fallen snow lay glittering in the moonlight. The tree was up and decorated, presents are piled underneath. There is laughter and love in the air as the grandchildren scurry through the house, getting acquainted with their cousins.

At one point, I stopped, put down my spoon and cornbread, and spent several moments soaking in the moment. Here they were; all around the table, laughing and having fun. We were together and joy put a sizeable lump in my throat. We will be together for a few days until the family begins to scatter again. Our son and his family back to Maryland, our oldest daughter and her boys back to California, and the other two daughters remaining in Denver, on opposite sides of town. My wife and I will return to Virginia. The house will empty of guests, grow quiet, and life will go on into the long, dark tunnel of January and February. And yet for these precious few days, we will enjoy each other, and love each other. Our cups of happiness will fill to overflowing, and a whole new collection of memories will flow into our hearts to be preserved forever.

This is what Christmas is to me; a time for family when such times become more rare. It is a time that we will take with us to tide us over during those months when we are far separated. Love and joy abound, and perhaps that is what God intended all along.

But even more profound is that this feeling becomes shared among us all.

Because the one enduring and lasting element of Christmas is that for a few priceless days, there are no strangers.

We are all "family."

Riding Plans

2011-12-20T20:08:00.000-05:00

For most of the years I've been riding motorcycles, I've been lucky to live in areas where traffic wasn't a real problem. Sure, there were specific places where you really didn't want to be during rush hour, but while those locations were all knotted up, there were others where I could get free of the gridlock. Not so here in Northern Virginia. Traffic is bad. I have to get to work by 6:00 a.m. in order to get free of most of the mess, but mainly because if I leave the office anytime after 3:30, then it's 9 miles of stop-and-go in first and second gear.

I miss the 30 miles of wide-open US219 in Pennsylvania and the similar stretch of I-70 through Missouri. Cruising at highway speeds is not only better for the bike, it's better for the rider as well. Stop-and-go is very hard on the clutch and tiring on the clutch hand as well. I remember on one ride from Pennsylvania to Richmond, VA I was caught on I-95 in the fallout from an accident some 40 miles ahead. I ended up overheating the clutch, which forced me to the side of the road. I parked the bike and got off...and then almost got crushed by some crazy lady in a Suburban who was cruising the shoulder.

The hardest part of this commute is that there's no real alternate route. All the roads are crowded, and the side streets rarely connect. On one particular Friday, It took over an hour to get those 9 miles and I literally never got higher than 2nd gear. I guess the other thing I miss is the freedom to take a longer more scenic route. In the big city, there's just no such thing. In looking at the map, I think I'd have to go 30 or 40 miles further west before things really opened up. It's kind of frustrating, but at least around here, winter hasn't really started yet. There have been one or two 20-degree mornings, and a surprising amount of rain, but I can still get a day or two of riding in. Up in PA, there's snow on the ground and sand and salt on the roads. My bike would alread be in hibernation.

At some point, our life will settle a bit, probably after we sell one house and buy another one. At that point, some semblance of routine will assert itself and things will become a bit less frenetic. Or not.

I do look forward to spring and summer, since it will arrive here much earlier than in the mountains. 50 miles west of here lies Front Royal, VA, the gateway to the Blue Ridge Mountains and all the best motorcycle roads in the state. Just thinking about spending a Saturday careening along those twisty roads through that spectacular scenery gets me all twitchy inside. In the meantime, it looks like I'll have a few riding days between now and then, enough to keep me sharp and whet my expectations.

I also look forward to visiting the many Civil War Battlefields, of which Virginia is awash with them. That's one of the neat things about this part of the country. You can visit sites representing three distinct eras in our history, the colonial era, the revolutionary era, and the Civil War era. Maybe that's snooze city for some, but I've always had a strong interest in history and nothing gives context to knowledge like actually being there.

So my plans are being made for an adventurous spring and summer, full of riding and touring.

Now if I can just get through winter.

It Takes a Village to Sell Groceries

2011-12-19T21:15:00.000-05:00

One of the vivid memories from my childhood was our regular weekly trip to the grocery store. We lived in glorious suburbia, an area where a 5-story building was considered a high-rise. We always went on Friday night, payday for my Dad. It was a fun time for me because they let me redeem the week's worth of soda bottles. I got 18 cents, which in those halcyon days was enough for a comic book and a Hostess Twinkie.

While I was engaged in picking out my weekly reading material, my parents walked the aisles, picking up those miriad items that fed our family for the next seven days. Money was always on their minds -- I remember my Dad leaving the store one day, grumbling that ten dollars of groceries now fit in one bag. He's gone now, but I'm sure he'd shake his head to know that ten dollars of groceries doesn't even require a bag anymore.

A grocery store was kinda boring for a kid. I was far more interested in the consumption end of the food chain, so wandering the aisles tended to make my eyes glaze over. But what I remember clearly were aisles and shelves, coolers and freezers, and a deli. That was a grocery store.

How things have changed.

In recent years, grocery retailers have realized that survival in a gritty high-competition environment has meant being nimble and flexible, stretching the definition of a grocery store. In some cases, you have minimalist warehouse-type stores that sell off-brands directly out of the packing cases they came in. And then there are the others.

One of the inevitable things that happens when you relocate is finding things like a reliable and honest mechanic, new doctors and dentists, and a new grocery store. Such it has been with us. It was here in the big city where I realized just how far the grocery store has evolved.

Exploring the area around our temporary housing (an extended stay motel), we've tried out several grocers, but last week we found one that truly has taken things to another level.

To avoid the appearance of advertising, I won't tell you the name of the place, but I don't think that's really relevant, since I've seen enough of these elements in other stores to call this an honest-to-goodness trend.

The decor of the place was not the semi-industrial motif I was used to. There is extensive use of woods in the shelving, which in some places takes on the look of a small building. The net result is the look of a neighborhood shopping area; a quaint village. It's easy to imagine that you're outside walking along sidewalks, rather than inside. In fact, the height of some of the partitions make you feel like you're in a town.

Along the aisles are the usual assortment of products. There are still freezers and coolers. But when you walk into the produce section, I'm instantly reminded of those farmers markets that set up in downtown areas, selling produce out of home-built kiosks. This place has that feel to it. The quality is first-rate, although the bananas always seem a bit green for my taste.

But the big surprise lay ahead.

Most grocers have a deli section, a lot have a small steam or ice table for hot food and building a salad. But his place...

There are 9 steam tables holding pans of food under the usual red lights. Not only is there the usual selection of traditional American food, there is also Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Mexican, as well as a collection of hot tureens holding home-made soups and the usual salad bar. And despite the mass-production look of the presentation, the food is good! My wife is hard to please when it comes to Asian food, having been born and raised in Hawaii, but she found the food pleasing. The soups are all good, and I'm afraid Campbells will never taste the same.

They also sell flowers, books, magazines, and there's a full-service pharmacy as well.

I think the primary inspiration for all this was Wal-Mart's entry into the grocery field, making the case that there was no reason to go anywhere else for anything else. In my old home town, I saw three old-time grocers go bust when the Wal-Mart Supercenters hit town. These were not fly-by-nighters, but established grocers who had been around for over a century. That development has forced grocers across the country to expand or face extinction. Some will try to do it on the cheap, adding a few aisles and shelves and some new product line. Others, like my new store, will completely redraw and rebuild, changing the decor and the feel into something new -- and old.

Retailers must learn to be nimble, to change with the times and try as much as possible to stay on the crest of the wave of consumer preferences. With grocerey stores, this means that good product at low prices won't always be enough. People want something positive, even adventurous to make their weekly shopping more than a chore.

They want an experience.

Muse on a Winter's Morn

2011-12-14T20:11:00.000-05:00

I step out the door and my senses are shocked by the cold air. My exhalations become visible clouds as I blink away tears. The sky is still dark, the stars above brilliantly sharp points of light. Sunrise is still two hours away and will last but a short time before falling below the horizon in what used to be the middle of the afternoon. The world is silent; the music of birdsong has gone with their artists southward to warmer climes. What I do hear is the distant sound of traffic, the steady "aahhhh" of tires rolling on pavement. Cold air is dense and thus transmits sound much more efficiently and in the distance those sounds of humans beginning their day fill the void of nature's silence.

Winter mornings are like that, at least the ones that I remember. One such morning I awoke in a tent in woods I thought were miles from civilization. Yet, as I stepped out into the darkness, I could hear in the distance the sound of a highway.

We're closing in on the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. On that day the sun won't rise until after most of us are at work. And when we leave, night will have already fallen. We miss the sun and recall with nostalgia it's warmth on our face. And yet, in the midst of this darkness, it is also Christmas, a season of light. All around us, houses have been decorated, some simply, others with displays rivaling Fremont Street in Las Vegas. The lights dispel the dark and bring welcome color and cheer to our hearts. We scramble in these last few shopping days to complete the gift lists and the preparations for the traditional family gatherings. For some, this means plotting that trip to the airport; for others, preparing our house for the coming invasion. The kids are bubbling with excitement and anticipation and their happy spirits lighten our hearts. No matter how old we get, this time of year always brings back the child within.

For those of us who live outside the towns, the world is utterly silent. Occasionally a cold breeze will blow through. The trees, long bereft of leaves, respond with creaks and groans as the bare branches rock back and forth. Soon, snow will fall and will cover the world in a flawless blanket of white, while inside we watch the flakes float down, safe and warm by the fire.

This time will pass, and before too long we will be in that long, dark tunnel of January and February, months of relentless cold and storms that will tax our patience and add unwelcome challenges to our daily routines. It is a 60-day month that at times seems unending. But we endure, knowing that eventually, the sun will again rise into the sky, warming the air and bringing the welcome rebirth of spring.

These are the rhythms of our lives, as we move from one season to another. We will alternately celebrate and endure, and life will go on. The seasons pile into years, the years into decades. We will age, hopefully with grace, storing the memories along the way. For what is life, if not the passage of the years? Yesterdays and tomorrows flank the todays as we try to remember that each moment contains opportunities that will pass in an instant, never to return.

These thoughts pass through my head as my nose crinkles in the cold air. But today, the sun will rise, and I will go about my life until sleep claims me tonight. And years hence, long after I am gone from this life, days will continue to pass; seasons will wax and wane, and years will roll by like an endless river.

And as those waters flow, I discover that I am but a small piece of flotsam adrift on the currents of eternity.

Cosmic Reflections On a Rainy Evening

2011-12-07T20:27:00.001-05:00

Early December and it's pouring rain outside here in Northern Virginia. Our former hometown up in the mountains is in the process of receiving about 8 more inches of snow, the fourth accumulating snow they've had so far this year. Just outside our hotel room door, my motorcycle sits, bagged against the weather, and staring the end of the riding season square in the eye.

With the immediate surroundings so grim, my mind has drifted beyond the immediate meteorological mess to the universe beyond our little planet.

As I've noted before, I am a big fan of the website "Astronomy Picture of the Day." Every day, I get my space fix through images detailing stars, nebulae, whole galaxies, collection of galaxies, the wonders of the observable universe.

Science has known for some time that at the center of most known galaxies lies objects called Supermassive black holes. They may have started out as the tombstone of a massive star, but are billions of times more massive than the sun that sits at the center of our star system. The black hole generates a gravity field so intense that even light itself can't escape. Around the edge, a disc of white-hot matter spins as nearby stars spiral in, get ripped apart, and fall into the black hole to end up...well, no one knows where. This is not news to anyone who's ever watched the Discover or Science Channel, but my musings on this wet evening go well beyond even those far-off stellar mysteries.

The known universe is about 154 billion light years across, according to the latest estimates. Doing the math, my son, the genius, tells me that the assumed sphere of the universe is an area 3.26 x 10 to the 26th cubic light years. (Blogger doesn't do math nomenclature). I did a bit of a search, but while astronomers know the location of the earth in relation to the Milky Way Galaxy, nobody seems to know where the earth lies in relation to the center of the universe. Man's instruments have reached out some 13 billion light years, but it's plain that there's much more out there that we can't see.

So, I wondered as the rain pattered outside, if the center of a galaxy consists of a supermassive black hole, what wonder lies at the center of the known universe?

The big bang that created the universe (this one, anyway) was a massive explosion that originated from a singularity that, while incredibly tiny, contained all the mass. When it blew outward, the blast carried all the matter that eventually made up the stars, planets, and us, into the void. So, now, some thirteen billion years later, I can't help but wonder what lies there now.

Since any blast tends to clear out from the middle, maybe there's nothing there other than an empty space. But if the center of a galaxy is a supermassive black hole, maybe the center of the known universe holds the supermassive black holes to end all supermassive black holes. But since we don't apparently know where earth lies, we don't know where the middle of the universe is, or even, apparently, which direction to look.

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter. We have so many more important things we should be asking about, or pondering. But when the world gets too angry or complicated, maybe it's more worthwhile to contemplate the universe.

It's certainly one way to put man's insurmountable problems in their proper context.

Civil War: Events of December 1861

2011-12-03T20:57:00.001-05:00

On December 7, Stonewall Jackson scored asignificant victory by disrupting major Union logistical and transportationinfrastructure when he attacked and destroyed the West Virginia side of DamNumber 5 on the Potomac River. Thedestruction affected water levels on the C&O canal and made it verydifficult to repair the B&O railroad lines.

On December 10, John T. Ford acquired a lease to theformer First Baptist Church on 10^th Street in Washington. He converted the building to a theater, whichhe named after himself.

The Battle of Camp Allegheny was fought on December13 at a site in Pocahontas County in what is now West Virginia. Rebel troops commanded by Colonel EdwardJohnson had occupied the summit of themountain, defending theStaunton-Parkersburg Pike. The camp wasattacked by a Union force under BGEN Robert Milroy. The battle ebbed and flowed across thebattlefield throughout a day that, while sunny, was cold and windy. In the afternoon, a Confederate artillerybarrage against their fortifications, largely destroying them. Johnson then led an attack, at one pointpersonally laying into the Union troops with a musket in one hand and a club inanother. Milroy’s troops were forced toretreat. The Rebel leader’s leadershipand courage led his troops to bestow oneof the more colorful nicknames of any leader during the war. After this battle, he would be known as “AlleghenyJohnson.”

On December 20, the U.S. Congress seated the JointCommittee on the Conduct of the War.

On that same day, Confederate forces under thecolorful, and soon to be legendary J.E.B. Stuart encountered a Union forceunder General Edward Ord conducting a similar winter patrol at the smallVirginia crossroads town of Dranesville in Fairfax County. Ord met Rebel cavalry pickets near thecrossroads and quickly drove them off. He set off in pursuit, only to be attacked from the rear by Stuarts mainbody. Ord wheeled his troops, formedbattle line and deployed his artillery while this was going on, the Rebel 6^thSouth Carolina mistook the 1^st Kentuckians for Union troops and thetwo regiments began fighting each other. The Union 9^th Pennsylvania charged but was driven back. An artillery duel ensued, the Unionprevailing. Ord then formed an infantryskirmish line and sent it towards Stuart. The two battled for about two hoursbefore Stuart, his supply wagons safely away, withdrew. It was the first Union victory in the EasternTheater.

December 21^st marked the birth of America’sfirst medal, called the Navy Medal of Honor. While not the vaunted Congressional Medal of Honor, it was nonetheless amark of distinction.

Thoughts From a Sunset Train Ride

2011-11-23T20:22:00.001-05:00

Now three weeks into my new job and new city, some semblance of routine is finally asserting itself, although I don't know that I'll ever get accustomed to waking up at four a.m. Still, the new opportunities are exciting and the future looks like a thrill ride waiting to happen.

I've already written about the dynamics of my commute, so I won't bore anyone with more details about that. But one thing that I've discovered in my two-hour car-train-subway-bus journey is that I have time now to think. A mass-transit commute provides that, since sitting there waiting for the next stop is essentially empty time anyway. I do listen to music some times, but I find more and more that the best way to spend those hours is to gaze out the window and let my mind wander in whatever direction it desires. For a writer, these are truly precious hours.

I love the train most of all. It's less crowded, quieter and more contemplative. The landscape glides by the windows, sights of cities, towns, and back yards. A house will flash into my view, all lit up in the late autumn darkness. Inside, I catch a snapshot of someone else's life. A family sitting down to dinner, or just in front of the TV. One evening, I saw in a family room a pile of intertwined humanity engaged in a game of Twister. I smile, knowing that I am also headed to a place where love glows and I am embraced by the unbreakable bonds of family. There have been too many other nights when I was traveling for work, feeling lonely, and wishing that one of those lighted windows belonged to me.

It has been all rain and gloom here for several days. DC weather has been far too much like the Pennsylvania mountains. But this evening, just as the sun touched the horizon, the clouds began to break up and we were all treated to one of those spectacular sunsets you only get after a rainy day. The sky was glowing gold as the sun's rays lit up the underside of the clouds. I looked around the subway car to see if anyone else had noticed. Most were deep into their smart phones and iPods, some were sleeping. It seemed that I was the only one who noticed. Looking outside again, I felt that familiar feeling of peace and contentment I always get under the light of a pretty dusk.

Even as hectic an chaotic as things have been, I feel extremely fortunate, even blessed to be in my current situation. It almost seems like a dream, and I'm afraid to pinch myself lest I wake to a far more mundane life. There is that sense of dream-like unreality to these days, which the reassertion of routine will eventually dull. But for now, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone, although my stubbornly painful back is up for the lowest bidder.

While the past few weeks have been exciting, they've also been frantic with the tasks associated with a relocation, getting one house ready for sale, and finding a new one in which to live. Consequently, I haven't had the time to sit down and write at all, and I really have missed that. More and more, I look to writing as my way of finding a measure of contentment. Now I've discovered, in the hectic pace of my new life how much I need this time to sit and express myself. But I knew my time would be short, which is why I stopped doing my columns. I knew I wouldn't have time to do a proper job of it and I'm bound and determined never to give my readers short shrift. They deserve nothing less.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and even if I didn't have access to a calendar, I would recognize the approaching holiday by the excitement in the conversations around me. People were planning meals, activities, and plotting the best way to attack the shopping madness of Black Friday. I heard about families getting together again after too long a separation. One mother talked at length about her son, newly returned from Afghanistan just in time for the holiday, alive and whole. "I know he'll spend a lot of time watching football, but as long as I can look in the living room and see him there, I'll be just fine." Her joy permeated her entire being and even seemed to spread a little light around inside the car as well. She reminded me that this is the time of year when families gather, either for Thanksgiving or Christmas, or perhaps both. No matter that they gather from down the street or across the ocean, it's always a time of great happiness. It will be the light of those memories that will carry us through the long, dark, and cold tunnel of January and February.

I know these are difficult times. Economies are struggling, as are people. Jobs are still tough to come by and those who were able to hang on to their homes are so impossibly upside down that they couldn't sell even if they had to. Wars are being fought, politics are as crooked and nasty as ever. All over, people are looking for the clouds to begin to break, and the sun to shine once more. After shouldering so much misery, we're all just looking for a break. And just in time, here comes the holidays.

Perhaps this break is what we should really be grateful for.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Has the Wall of Einstein Finally Cracked?

2011-11-23T19:42:00.001-05:00

The famous Hubble Deep Field. Image credit NASA/JPL

Each one of those smudges is a galaxy, like our Milky Way, containing between 200 billion and 500 billion stars, like our Sun. Perhaps ten percent of those stars may have planets. And maybe, just maybe, 0.01% of those planets (which works out to about a million worlds) may harbor intelligent life. The Universe is a place with more possibilities than any human can imagine.

For centuries, humans have looked to the night skies and seen a vast expanse that for the most part never changes. Oh, you’ll see meteorites, comets, and the occasional supernova, but by and large, the night sky never changes. The stars that make up the familiar constellations Orion the Hunter and the two Dippers have always been there, and will likely still be recognizable touchstones in the sky when the human species fades away.

The unchanging nature of the universe extends itself to the science of physics, the root of which is the theory of relativity, authored by Albert Einstein in 1905. Einstein is widely acknowledged as the greatest scientific mind humanity has ever produced. His theory has been poked and prodded at ever since, but despite all the challenges, it remains the cornerstone of our understanding of the universe.

I won’t take the space to explain all the ramifications of Relativity Theory, but one of its basic tenets is the assertion that it is impossible for a material object to travel faster than the speed of light. And that speed, 186,000 miles per second, has been the constant by which all things in the universe have been measured and the universe itself understood.

In March of this year, scientists working at the CERN lab near Geneva, Switzerland conducted an experiment where they sent a burst of particles called neutrinos on a journey of some 730 kilometers to another lab near L’Aquila, Italy. What the original purpose of the experiment was hasn’t been discussed but the results have shaken the physics community to its very foundations.

If the speed of light is an unchangeable constant, then the arrival of a particle at a certain point should be predictable. Imagine the shock of those physicists when the neutrinos arrived about 60 nanoseconds earlier than expected. This was stunning. A nanosecond is a billionth of a second, and only in particle physics could one say that 60 billionths of something is substantial. Multiplied out, that meant that the neutrinos were rocketing along at roughly 6,000 meters per second faster than the speed of light. Doing the conversion, that means they were going 13,421.5 miles per hour faster than the speed of light, the figure which was thought to be the cosmic speed limit.

The experiment was repeated in September with the same results.

The reaction was immediate and vociferous. The results were immediately challenged, questioning every aspect of the experiment, even the fact that gravitational fields in Spain and Switzerland were minutely different and therefore may have affected the speed of the two clocks that timed the release of neutrinos and their subsequent arrival. But mainly what was detectable was a real fear that if the results were true, that it was possible for objects to exceed the speed of light, then every single fact, every single theory and assumption in physics, from the micro of the subatomic to the macro of the entire universe would have to be changed.

Our understandings of life itself would be completely altered.

It’s hard to overestimate what this would mean to the scientific community. And to us, as well. Normally what goes on within such esoteric fields of endeavor are so far above our level of our understanding as to be completely incomprehensible. But so much of everything we take for granted in our lives, from a microwave oven to a GPS works because the underlying physics is understood. To have all that assumed knowledge, some of which has been around for a couple centuries, turned on its ear would throw scientific knowledge in to chaos. All of a sudden, a universe whose rules made sense would now become enigma. It would be as if we went to sleep and woke up to find that everyone else was suddenly speaking Portuguese. What we thought we knew and understood became alien overnight.

Dr. Michio Kaku is a theoretical physicist who has become a ubiquitous face on the science channels in the past few years. His fame is perhaps helped by the fact that he has the greatest head of hair of any scientist since Einstein. Far more likely though, for many, he has become the Carl Sagan of this generation, making the science of the universe something we can all understand a little clearer. While not yet willing to say no to the results of the experiment just yet, he still believes that further exploration into the experiment itself will eventually reveal a flaw in the calculations. As he pointed out, Einstein said that just as an object ages slower as it gets closer to the speed of light, an object going beyond that limit would be, like a neutrino, pretty much without any mass and may even age in reverse. That's probably why Captain Kirk still got all the pretty girls. Einstein was convinced that faster than light, or FTL travel, was physically and scientifically impossible. And that's been the default position of scientists ever since, not because of universal adoration for the good Doctor, but because in all these years, nobody's ever been able to prove anything different.

The final word on this won’t be reached for some time, years perhaps. And that’s a good thing. Rigorous reexamination is fundamental to science and keeps things neat and orderly. There is a saying, “The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine.”

Which is why it is still the final frontier.

Having That Traffic Chat

2011-11-17T22:56:00.001-05:00

Moving to the big city would have consequences. This, I knew. Things cost more, everywhere is further away, and things just aren’t asconvenient. As I review the past twoweeks in the Washington DC area though, the traffic has far and awaybeen the biggest adjustment.

Somersetlies at a crossroads of several state and US highways as well as thePennsylvania Turnpike. But traffic israrely an issue. Saturday mornings on North Center Avenuecan be a real challenge as people make their shopping forays to the retailersand grocers that line that particular street. Other than that, it’s a rare thing to actually have to slow down or eventake the car off cruise control.

I’ve lived in big cities before, most with major trafficproblems (L.A.for five years), so I’m not altogether a virgin at this kind of thing. But I’m an older and slower man now, sothings are tougher.

As anyone who has lived in the DC-Northern Virginia area cantestify, everything in life revolves around “the commute.” Basic decisions of life are made with thatdaily drive in mind. The area is awashin freeways, most of which seem to be under construction or repair, as theauthorities strive in vain to keep up with the flood of vehicles that streamin, out, and through the area daily. It’sironic that so many are out of work right now, but to look at the area freewaysin rush hour, you’d think the economy was booming.

Heavy traffic does things to people. Some become very aggressive, zipping in andout of lanes, taking advantage of the smallest hole only to be brought to asudden halt. At the other extreme arethose who take things easy, leaving a lot of room in front of them and easingoff the accelerator instead of constantly using the brakes. Then there are therest of us, alternatively driving hard for certain stretches and then resigningourselves to the slow crawl.

In traffic, my wife becomes incredibly judgemental. Not that this is unusual. One of her endearing charms is that when shehas an opinion, she generally states it. In the last couple of years, I’ve moved more and more to the rightseat. I say that this is so I can read,write, and stare out the window. Buteven she suspects that I find it more peaceful. I know I have my driving flaws, but even I can ride shotgun withoutscrewing things up too badly.

Cheryl in traffic is a steady stream of comment and judgment,rapidly passing out summary rulings that would do credit to Judge Judy. A recent sample:

“Come ON! Stop using your brakes so much! Drive smoother!”

“Can you believe this? He’s not letting me over!

“Hang up your phone!”

“Texting??? TEXTING???

“Does your mother know you drive like that???”

“Can you PLEASE make up your mind which lane you want?”

“Why is this guy tailgating me?”

Of course, many of them richly deserve to be yelled at. That nobody else can hear her is of no consequence. Once, she found me looking at her with asmall grin. Her response was, “I needpressure relief. Or would you rather Iyell at you?”

That question had to be rhetorical.

I, on the other hand, tend to float more with thetraffic. I only change lanes when I haveto in order to make a ramp, or to get around someone whose even pokier thanme. Rush hour, to me is something to bepersevered. She thinks it has to bebeaten.

Those two responses are directly reflective of ourpersonalities, so that’s perhaps not surprising. In looking around, I find she’s not alone inthose habits. It used to be if I sawsomeone having a conversation in a car with…nobody, I figured they were a fewquarts short an oil change. Now, they’reeither having that traffic conversation, or their cell is on hands free mode.

Still, we have all become more interconnected, what with Facebook,Twitter, texting, and other social networking sites. How long before someone creates “TrafficChat?” You know, a way to directlycommunicate your displeasure to that cretin that just cut you off at theramp. I think that would even make usall better drivers, knowing that if we pulled some foolishness, we’d hear aboutit.

That is, unless that other person is packing heat.

Rootless

2011-11-09T21:44:00.000-05:00

I'll never forget the moment. It was my last day in uniform, capping 10 years of a globe-trotting Navy career. I had spent the morning with the inspector from the Navy Housing Office as she cleared us out of quarters. The furniture had been gone about a week, the kids with in-laws in Hawaii, and Cheryl was in Missouri already on her new job. I was alone, but looking forward to the time when we'd be all together again.

The afternoon I spent aboard the ship, completing the checkout process and saying my farewells. Finally, everything was finished and after one last nostalgic tour of the ship, I ended up on the quarterdeck. For the last time, I saluted the Officer of the Deck, saying those long-anticipated words, "Request permission to leave the ship." I then saluted the flag, and headed down the brow. When my feet hit the concrete surface of the pier, I suddenly felt a dizzying sense of disorientation. I was homeless. I was jobless. I had no place to go, no sanctuary. Looking back at the magnificent gray lady that had carried us across the seas, I realized that I was now an outsider.

My recent situation brought back those desolate feelings with full force. I've changed jobs and am in the process of changing locations as well. While we still have our home in Somerset, it will be going on the market soon, and then we will get serious about finding a home in our new location. But on that day when I left my job for the last time, the memories of that day 20 years ago came flooding back. I had spent the week doing those multitudinous tasks associated with ending a professional relationship, including passing my current projects onto their new custodians. The rest of the time, I spent talking and saying goodbye to people who had become more than colleagues, much more than friends. It was bittersweet and at that moment when I turned over my access badge to the security officer, I was under a bit of a cloud.

I left the building, crossed the street, and like Lot's wife, I turned and gazed back at the building where I had invested so much of myself. For years, this had been a familiar place for me. I was part of the town, I was part of the organization. But in that moment, I realized I could never go back in there again. I felt empty and alone. Once again, after a short walk, I was an outsider.

It would only be a short weekend before I would start my new job, so it wasn't the emotional guillotine that I experienced when I left the Big Blue Canoe Club. But it was still a difficult moment.

I've written a lot of words lately about change and loss. Like many columnists, the subjects I choose often reflect the direction of the current of my life. I'm coming to grips with the full implications of this new situation. A commute that once flowed across mountains and through the valleys of the beautiful Laurel Highlands has become a unending cityscape flashing past the windows of a train. People who who greeted each other with a small town's friendliness has changed into throngs of strangers who close their privacy around themselves like a burial shroud; who won't even look you in the eye, and who've apparently forgotten how to smile. But then, this is the Big City in all its impersonal glory. I shouldn't have expected anything more.

I know time will pass, and I will slowly become accustomed to the new environment and the faster pace of life. I will make new friends and what is new and unfamiliar will eventually become normal and accepted. Such is the process of change. But this is what I live for. I never wanted a life where I did the same thing every day for decades until retirement was forced upon me. I like the challenge of new and different, and hopefully, my remaining years will be liberally decorated with new horizons.

For me, life will always be about the unknown ahead rather than the familiar in my wake.

Death and Dimensionality

2011-11-03T14:51:00.001-04:00

Vortex Tunnel from http://www.gepproductions.com/vortextunnel.html

Copyright © 2011 (Written content only) by Ralph Couey

“Life” has many definitions from the physiological to the metaphysical, but can be basically characterized as that period of existence when the body is functional and the brain active. It is generally accepted to begin at birth, and end when the body and the brain cease to function. It also can go beyond pure biological function to describe the universe in which we live.

Our existence consists of three dimensions: length, width, and height, thus we live in a “3-dimensional universe.” Many, however, grow this to include the dimension of time. Scientists have postulated the existence of higher dimensions for quite some time. M-Theory, a development of String Theory, proposes that there may be as many as ten spatial dimensions.

To understand this at a very basic level, take a piece of paper and draw a straight line. This is a one dimensional construct. Now draw another line at a right angle to the first one. Now you have two dimensions. Imagine living in such a universe. You have forward and back, left and right, but up and down are utterly unknown to you. Were you to use additional line segments to draw walls, you could create a small “house”. But from the lofty perch of the third dimension, you see that walls are not obstacles. You can see inside structures. Were there inhabitants of such a town, you could observe them wherever they went.

Now stand the pencil upright with the point at the intersection of two lines. Now, you have created up and down. This is where you live, in this third realm, 90 degrees apart from flatland.

The creation of a fourth physical dimension would require you to draw another line segment, 90 degrees away from the other three. Of course, you can’t; nobody can. But just imagine that another being is watching from atop his line segment, observing you as you move around your little universe.

Such a higher dimension is possible, but since it can never be proven, it remains a theory.

The question of what happens after death is one that has occupied humans since the birth of conscious thought.

The moment at which the body ceases to function is what we call “death.” It is almost universally feared, mainly because it is unknown. People who die generally don’t come back to report on their journey. But there are many who have experienced a death. They have “gone away” and come back, all with fascinating stories to tell.

I happen to be one of those people.

There are common elements to these accounts, such as white lights, personages, meeting and interacting with long-lost family, and even moments of choice whether to go on, or go back.

Every religion that has ever existed has in its belief system the expectation of a beneficent afterlife of some kind. Since most of them arose in times of great human tragedy, it only seems logical that religion would offer such an idyllic hope for those struggling through the trials of their existence, and that people thus encumbered would be drawn to such a promise. But since such an afterlife cannot be proven by anything a human scientist would term “fact,” those hopes are dismissed by the agnostic among us. Their claim is that the tales of white lights and tunnels are merely the frantic electrical impulses generated by a dying brain.

In 1907, Dr. Duncan McDougall conducted a series of experiments involving people who were dying from terminal illnesses. He had them placed on beds attached to very sensitive scales. In four of the six cases, a definitive drop in weight was observed at the moment of death, amounting to about 21 grams, For those of a spiritual bent, this makes perfect sense. The loss of weight is the soul departing the body. Since that time, many have dismissed the studies, citing a flawed methodology, the small sample size, and the instruments used not precise enough to measure such a small weight. Some thought even the idea of such an experiment ghoulish, at best, and inhumane at worst. MacDougal seems to have conducted similar experiments on dogs, only to record no loss of weight at the moment of demise. To MacDougal, this made sense because of his religious belief that animals had no soul. Those of us who have beheld the shining eyes of a beloved pet however find such a conclusion is ridiculous.

So what if we do possess a soul, one that passes into us at the moment of conception, and flies away at the moment of death? If that is the case, then where does this soul flee to?

To try to propose an answer to that question, let me take you back to our original discussion, involving higher dimensions.

“Heaven” is a common word used to describe the realm of the afterlife. For Christians, Jews, and Muslims, it is a place populated by those who went before, in some cases with a support staff of angels, and ruled over by an omnipotent and all-powerful God. Depending on the religion, “He” is gentle, kind, and filled with boundless love, or vengeful and angry, capable of inflicting untold amounts of death and destruction. This is the place we believe that we come from, and where we will end up.

Agnostics dismiss the idea of a heaven, pointing out that if they can’t see it, taste it, feel it, hear it or smell it, then it must not then exist.

I beg to differ.

Consider this. What if “Heaven” existed, but as a realm on a higher dimensional plane? This would be a plane far beyond the restrictions of linear distance and time. Communication would be instantaneous and unhindered by language barriers. Such beings would be able to hear our thoughts and monitor our movements, much like we would be watching the inhabitants of Flatland. There might be direct communication, but their appearance would be only that portion of themselves that could exist in three dimensions. And when they spoke, we might hear those voices come from within us.

This model of inter-dimensional interaction was described by Dr. Carl Sagan in the ground-breaking science series “Cosmos.” Upon hearing it the first time, I was struck by the similarities between the science and the stories of divine interaction in the Bible. The more I thought about it, the clearer things became. Heaven didn’t exist beyond the stars, it was all around us, yet mostly invisible because of our three-dimensional restrictions. The soul, I realized, was a trans-dimensional part of ourselves that when the body died, was freed to return home.

For several years, I carried this comforting assumption around. That it was quantitatively unprovable bothered me not a whit. After all, even in science there are continuing mysteries like the inner workings of black holes, and the existence of dark matter, and dark energy which are characterized by a host of suggestive hypotheses, but utterly lacking in proof. They are speculations, true; yet, because this is what science thinks is happening, that belief becomes a sort of transitory fact. This is not intended as a criticism of science, per se, but rather an expression of our dimensional limitations.

In my experience, which can be read about here, I discovered that the white light wasn’t light, but the love of God, so pure and powerful that it was visible. The tunnel was a familiar construct bridging the “here” from “there.” Though it happened seven years ago, I am still processing the experience. But I came away with a firm conviction that my suspicion of Heaven as a dimension was essentially correct.

I no longer fear death; although I remain terrified of the process of dying, mainly because I’m a wimp when it comes to pain. I’m not ready to give up life; the fact that I wasn’t given a choice whether to stay tells me that I still have much to do before I go. But at that moment when the transition becomes clearly inevitable, I know I can face it without fear.

It’s natural for a human to fear the unknown. But the events that follow the end of my earthly life is no longer the mystery it once was. It is known, and therefore safe.

As hypotheses go, it is, I feel, a healthy one.

The Civil War: Events of November 1861

2011-11-02T10:10:00.000-04:00

On November 1, the highly-popular George McClellan was promoted to General-in-Chief of the entire Union Army.

On the 2^nd, President Lincoln relieved the controversial John C. Fremont from duty.

Two days later, the U.S. Navy entered Port Royal Sound which lies between the strategically vital ports of Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA after being battered by a fierce storm on the trip down the coast. On that same day, Major General Thomas Jackson, now called “Stonewall,” took command of Confederate forces in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

On November 6^th, Jefferson Davis was elected to the office of President of the Confederacy for a 6-year term.

November 7^th saw the opening of a major attack and amphibious operation against the Confederate forts of Fort Walker and Fort Beauregard guarding the entrance to Port Royal Sound. Union commander Flag Officer Samuel DuPont put his ships on an elliptical path, bombarding first one fort, then the other. The Union ships were challenged by Rebel gunboats, but the smaller craft fled when fired upon. By early afternoon, the guns at Fort Walker were silenced, and the troops were withdrawn. The commander of Fort Beauregard followed suit and Union soldiers were landed and took possession of both forts. As a result of this action, Union forces moved north, taking St. Helena Sound and the city of Beaufort. The Port of Charleston was besieged and remained that way to the war’s end.

That same day, Ulysses S. Grant saw his first action as commander of the District of Southeast Missouri when, on his way to attack Rebel forces at Columbus, Kentucky, learned that enemy troops had crossed the Mississippi and occupied Belmont, Missouri. Grant landed his force on the Missouri side of the river and overran the encampment. However, the Confederate remnants reorganized and reinforced from Columbus, counter-attacked, supported by heavy artillery from across the river. Grant was forced to retreat to Paducah, Kentucky.

Williams then met Nelson at a point northeast of Pikeville between Ivy Mountain and Ivy Creek. Waiting by a narrow bend in the road, the Confederates surprised the Union troops by firing upon their constricted ranks. A fight ensued, but neither side gained the bulge. As the shooting ebbed, Williams's men felled trees across the road and burned bridges to slow Nelson's pursuing force. Night approached and rain began which, along with the obstructions, convinced Nelson's men to go into camp. In the meantime, Williams retreated into Virginia, stopping in Abingdon on November 9. Sill's force arrived too late to be of use, but he did skirmish with the remnants of Williams's retreating force before he occupied Pikeville on the 9th. This bedraggled Confederate force retreated back into Virginia for supplies. The Union forces consolidated their power in eastern Kentucky Mountains.

Between the 8^th and 10^th, Unionists in Kentucky, encouraged by the approach of a large body of Federal troops, revolted, burning railroad bridges to delay the advance of Rebel troops. Also on the 8^th, a British mail ship, carrying two Confederate commissioners was stopped in the Bahamas Channel by the US warship San Jacinto. The two commissioners were removed and were taken to Fort Warren, arriving there on the 23^rd.

On November 9^th, Major General Henry Halleck, who would eventually become the Union General-in-Chief, was given command of the states east of the Mississippi. Major General Don Carlos Buell took command of eastern Kentucky and Tennessee.

On the 15^th, Buell’s former command, the Department of Ohio, was taken over by William T. Sherman. Also on the 15^th, a second Union rebellion began in eastern Tennessee, centered on the city of Chattanooga.

On the 19^th of November, Julia Ward Howe penned the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which would become the anthem for the Union.

On November 20^th, after a previous request by a Reverend from Ridleyville, Ohio, Treasury Secretary Salmon P. Chase instructed the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia “The trust of our people in God should be declared on our national coins. Eventually, the phrase “In God We Trust” would be added to all U.S. currency and coin.

On November 22^nd, Union naval forces under Harvey Brown commenced bombardment of Fort McRee, which lay on the road to Pensacola. Even though the guns of the fort eventually fell silent, darkness and the falling tide compelled the Union ships to withdraw without completing the assault.

Also on the 20^th, Kentucky’s Confederate government filed a secession ordnance.

November 26^th was the day that the constitutional convention for the newly-declared state of West Virginia was convened in Wheeling.

On November 28^th, the Confederate Congress officially admitted Missouri to the Confederate Army.

And on the 27^th, the British ship Trent made port in London and reported that the ship had been boarded and the two commissioners removed by the U.S. Navy.

The next day, November 8^th, another battle was fought around Ivy Mountain in Kentucky. While recruiting in southeast Kentucky, Confederates under Col. John Stuart Williams ran short of ammunition at Prestonsburg and fell back to Pikeville to replenish their supply. Brig. Gen. William "Bull" Nelson sent out a detachment from near Louisa under Col. Joshua W. Sill, while he started out from Prestonsburg with a larger force in an attempt to "turn or cut the Rebels off." Williams prepared for evacuation, hoping for time to reach Virginia, and sent out a cavalry force to meet Nelson about eight miles from Pikeville. The Rebel cavalry escaped, and Nelson continued on his way.

"W" Also Stands for "Whoa"

2011-11-01T11:04:00.002-04:00

The Chiefs won. On Monday Night Football. A field goal tipped the game in OT causing what might have been the largest mass-orgasm in Arrowhead history. I suppose I should just let it go at that. Some things, no matter how joyful they may seem, should not be examined too closely. Such was this game.

The San Diego media this morning is full of the typical wailing, gnashing of teeth, and garment rending that appears in every newspaper (including the Star) when the Home Team throws up a real skunker on national television. Even though the Chargers are a divisional rival, I still empathize. That fumble between center and quarterback will live forever in lurid full-color HD memory for all Bolts faithful, not the least of whom would be the two players involved. It’s the kind of disastrous occurrence one looks back on from the 20/20 hindsight of February with a certainty that that’s where the season soured. The Chargers have the 7-0 Packers next week and nobody sees a good outcome in that contest.

Before I say anything else, let me opine that the officiating was about the worst I can ever remember. It’s not all that unusual when one official blows a call. But this whole crew seemed to have partaken of way too much allergy medication before kickoff. Let’s be honest. Antonio Gates did not commit offensive pass interference. And Dexter McCluster’s fumble was clearly caused by the ground. The crew from ESPN, some of whom have played a game or two, were baffled by the quality of the calls.

Before the Chiefs nation gets too rhapsodic, there are some sobering things to consider. The Chiefs are on a four-game winning streak, yes. But two of those wins came against arguably the worst teams in the league, and the last two against pretty good teams that just played badly. After a productive first quarter, the Chiefs offense went into a coma, not awakening until the game was almost lost. If Rivers & Co. had been at the top of their game, it would be the Chiefs faithful who would be emoting disaster this morning.

Still, a W is a W is a W, and first place is still first place no matter how you got there, or how many other people are crowded onto that podium. It’s an accomplishment for a team that lost three key players to injury.

We’re all salivating over the possibilities of the next two weeks. Miami has not played well, and Denver doesn’t have a quarterback controversy; they have a quarterback disaster. For all his glorious accomplishments in college, Tim Tebow is not ready to take the reins of a team that is dissolving around him like a rain-soaked paper bag. New England looked entirely too human against the Steelers, but Tom Brady is still Tom Brady. And the Pittsburghers have found their stride and swagger. The Bears can be unpredictable, the Jets can be dominant, and the week before Christmas, the seemingly invincible Packers come to Arrowhead. Yes, the Chiefs could be 6-3; but against a string of quality teams, that could just as easily become 6-7. Yes, they could win a weakened division. But even if this bunch gets into the playoffs playing like they did last night, they could not just be beaten; they could be humiliated and destroyed.

4-3 notwithstanding, the Chiefs have serious issues. Communication between sideline and quarterback has to get better. Passes that fall into players hands and don’t require Olympian contortions, whether offense or defense, have to be caught. Stupid penalties have to be eliminated. The offense has to be more consistent.

And ball security. You know what happens to me when a Chief breaks a long run? I don’t cheer. Instead, I chant the mantra, “Don’t fumble; Don’t fumble; PLEEEEESE Don’t fumble.”

I’ve been a Chiefs fan a long, long time. My first heroes were Sherrill Headrick, Chris Burford, and Curtis McClinton, so I have a 48-year emotional investment in this team. It’s been a long time since the ultimate dividend was paid in the Super Bowl, and I’m just as anxious as you to see them return to that February prom. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Todd Haley, even after last year’s glorious regular season warned us that the Chiefs weren’t quite there yet.

Perhaps we should listen.

Farewell to the Laurel Highlands**

2011-10-31T10:22:00.000-04:00

*Somerset, PA Daily American

October 29, 2011

as "Farewell Somerset County

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 30, 2011

as "Farewell, my friends; a new chapter is beginning"

If there is one constant in the universe, it’s that change is the only constant. If you watch the night skies long enough, even the universe changes.

Human life is fluid and dynamic; never static. We seek stability; the comfort of routine and familiarity. But like a hungry predator, change lurks; crouched and ready to spring when we least expect it. I’ve been its prey many times. But then I’ve always been drawn to the far horizon. I’ve never “put down roots” no matter how inviting the soil. For me, there was always another place to go, another life to live. But for the last seven years, this place has been my home.

The exigencies of politics in a city 3 hours distant ignited a chain of events that has once again set loose the predator. In a few days, I will leave this place for another. A page has turned; a chapter has closed.

Seven years ago, Cheryl and I left Missouri and came here. I’d never been to Pennsylvania before and really didn’t know what to expect. There were only three things I knew about the Keystone State: The Steelers, Willie Stargell, and Ben Franklin.

In the years since, I’ve come to love this place. The natural beauty of the Laurel Highlands in all its moods, from high summer to the depths of winter, touched the poet

within me. I found solace in the cool of the forests and the streams that murmured their secrets as I walked along their banks. With my motorcycle, I found thrills in the winding mountain roads tracing landscapes vibrant with life.

In the towns, I found an America I thought had been lost. Celebrations of holidays that pass unnoticed in larger cities are marked here with parades and celebrations. Several times a year, the hillsides echo with music; polka, jazz, country, rock, and the ageless classics resound through the valleys. Folks are neighbors in the best sense of the word, looking in on one another and reaching out in times of trouble. Simple kindnesses are rendered, not for remuneration, but because it’s the right thing to do. Evening walks around the neighborhood are an institution here, people smiling and talking with each other, even complete strangers. People embrace their ethnicities, but never forget that their story is but one strand woven into the cultural tapestry of community. Visitors who come here are enveloped in that communal embrace and always leave with a smile and a warm remembrance.

I also came to know the people who live here, who made us so welcome. Your friendliness and warmth made each day a pleasure.

Wherever we go, a little trade takes place. We leave a part of ourselves here, and take with us a piece of the land and the memory of friends. Every experience flavors our lives, changing us in ways both subtle and significant. In the movie, “Field of Dreams,” Dr. Graham said,

“Once a place touches you like this,

the wind never blows so cold again.

You feel for it, like it was your child.”

I have enjoyed sharing with you my thoughts, my feelings, my words. Some of you have written; others stopped me on my walks and took the time to share their stories and thoughts. For that, I thank you. I hope that the piece of myself that I leave here, in the words I’ve written and the friendships I’ve shared, has given you a small space of pleasure and enjoyment, perhaps even a smile or two. For me, the gift of yourselves that I take from here will live forever among the warmest of my memories.

If someone were to ask me to characterize the people of the Laurel Highlands, I would say it is your unhesitating willingness to support each other in times of tragedy. And that the word “quit” does not exist here.

You have faced some terribly difficult times, events that would have destroyed lesser communities and yet you survived. No matter how hard things may have been, you never forgot your neighbor. Continue to support each other; keep your faith close and alive, and know that by your faith and the strength of your perseverance, better times will come.

I leave you with a blessing from my Irish ancestors:

“May the road rise up to meet you,

may the wind be ever at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face

and the rain fall softly on your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”

Farewell, my friends.

Why "Change" and "Pain" Rhyme

2011-10-21T12:10:00.000-04:00

It is so seductive to float through life on the calm seas of predictable routine. It’s a comfortable, if somewhat tedious existence. But the alternative means enduring upheaval and uncertainty, not the kind of excitement we generally seek in our lives. In the novel “Andromeda Strain,” author Michael Crichton quotes Lewis Bornheim, who defines a crisis as “a situation in which a previously tolerable set of circumstances is suddenly, by the addition of another factor, rendered wholly intolerable.” Now that’s a lot of long words from a guy I’m pretty sure is fictional, since the only references I can find for “Lewis Bornheim” is that quote from the novel. But let me put it to you this way.

An afternoon drive in the country becomes a crisis when the engine quits. Dinner preparations become a crisis when the oven stops working. A Super Bowl party becomes a crisis when the flat screen dies. Work on a paper or a project becomes a crisis when the blue screen of death appears on the computer monitor.

In my case, the even tenor of life was thrown into chaos when I was informed that I was being transferred to another state. Granted, this was something I desperately wanted to happen, but I discovered that there is a huge difference between wanting something, and actually getting it.

My new employers are making this process as easy as they can, but there is still a mountain of work for me to accomplish and not a lot of time to get it done.

The first priority has been to prepare the house for the real estate market. These days, that’s a scary leap into some very troubled waters. Home values have plummeted. At one time the concern was to gain as much equity as possible in the sale. Now homeowners desperately hope that the offers will at least clear the mortgage.

In reviewing real estate listings online, I’ve learned something very important. I see a lot of interior pictures of homes for sale where you can’t see the room for the clutter. As homeowners, we decorate according to taste. For some, that means displaying evidence of our passions, be it stuffed animals, statuettes, souvenirs from trips, or (in my case) way too many books. What I had to learn was that potential buyers aren’t interested in my passions. They want to imagine what they can make of the room if it becomes theirs to own. You can’t do that when there’s too much “stuff” in the way. So, I’m going from room to room, boxing things up, clearing shelves (even that repository under the coffee table), and generally getting my life out of the way. And that’s a lot of stuff. It took five boxes alone to clear the living room.

My next stop is the kitchen. Like many folks, we’ve inadvertently turned horizontal surfaces into ad hoc storage. The kitchen has become a real nightmare, and I know that’s going to take at least a full day on its own. But it’s not just the accumulation of papers, magazines, recipes, etc. that have piled up. We have to take away some of the appliances as well. I want people coming in to marvel at all the countertop space and the only way that’s going to happen is to make the space empty.

The third trouble spot is going to be the closet in the master bedroom. The shelves in there are jam-packed with all manner of detritus. I think most of it just got put there one day when I had to clean someplace else in the house.

Now this process is going to create some inconvenience in my life and will force me to change some habits, for example storing and taking my prescription meds in the closet. And if I need to research information in a certain book, I have to remember to put it back when I’m done. This is not the comfortable pattern of my life, but in order to get this house sold, I’m going to have to accept some discomfort for a while.

Change is never easy, especially when it’s a major kerfluffle like a transferring jobs and moving houses. But change can’t be stopped or avoided. It stalks us every day, waiting to pounce at the most inconvenient moments. As adults, we must accept change for what it is, a part of life. and face it bravely.

Really, it’s the only way we can grow.

Sitcom's Biggest Bang

2011-10-19T22:23:00.000-04:00

It was a slow evening. Cheryl had gone out for the evening with one of her friends and I had found myself in the classic squeeze of entertainment poverty. Out of some 200 available channels on crystal clear digital satellite television, there wasn’t a single thing worth watching. I had long ago exhausted my prurient fascination with reality shows. The games on the Connecticut sports channel’s family were either blowouts or involved teams I didn’t care about. Even the old standby, Law & Order, was an episode I had seen enough times to have the dialogue committed to memory. Of all the science-oriented channels there wasn’t a single one running a program on planetary apocalypse. My evening just isn’t complete without an image of a giant asteroid crashing into Cleveland, a deadly gamma ray burst, a super volcano eruption, or a magnitude 15 earthquake. Or at least the computer-generated recreation of same. Normally this would be a night I would pull out the Godfather and watch that classic of American cinema. But Cheryl would not be gone long enough to watch even one of the three movies, and she and I have a long-standing agreement that I can only watch those movies when she’s not there. Being a man of honor, I chose to leave Marlon and the boys in their sleeves.

Wandering over to TBS, I saw they were running back-to-back-to-back episodes of the comedy show “The Big Bang Theory.” I had heard of this show, but hadn’t ever watched it, for several reasons. First of all, sitcoms generally bore me to tears. The scripts are predictable, the humor contrived and uncreative, being overly dependent on bodily functions. Besides, they never featured crashing asteroids. The last TV series I watched regularly was Gilmore Girls. The writing featured the creative fast-paced bang-bang type of humor I fell in love with during the early years of “Moonlighting.” So having nothing to do, and the balance of the evening to do it in, I decided to tune in.
The show, in case you’re as clueless as I, is a buddy show about four scientists, all sharing an apartment building and outrageous idiosyncrasies. Across the hall, lives a waitress who sort of plays the Pat Priest to this clan of Munster-ish geeks. The lead character, whose name is Sheldon, is the most brilliant of the four, and naturally the most odd. While he is clearly the star, all four mesh together in a sort of black shoe and white sock ballet of wit and weirdness. Most of my friends have tended towards the odd side of humanity, so naturally I was drawn in to their strange little world.

The other thing that caught my fancy was the common references to science fiction and the comic book world. Throughout my life I’ve had a fascination with space and space travel. This was fed by the U.S. space program which was firing up about the time I turned 5 years old. In fact, one of my earliest memories was listening to Alan Shepherd’s suborbital flight on the radio. Yes, the radio; a massive oak-encased Motorola that must have weighed 200 pounds, if it was an ounce. So naturally, when we finally did get our first television, something with a screen about the size of a large smart phone, I was front and center for every sci-fi show there was. The first one I remember was a stiffly drawn show called “Space Angel.” Then came Fireball XL-5. Somewhere in there were re-runs of Buck Rogers. I read everything by Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov. Of course I was a Star Trek fan. Still am, although I’ve never owned or worn a single pair of ears. I do ride a model of motorcycle called “Vulcan” but that's just coincidence. At least I think so. Like many others, I was also entranced by the heroic quality of Star Wars, especially the incredible special effects.

So when these characters spit out the references to those shows, I get them. Given the uber-oddness of the cast, I’m not sure whether I’m proud of that or not. Still, I’ve always admired intelligence, regardless of the off-kilter character of the packaging. So I became a fan of Big Bang Theory. I get the stories because I’ve always felt like the weird one in whatever group I was in, like I never really fit in.

Big Bang Theory is a funny show, well-written and paced, and the cast fits their characters like a well designed space glove. While it hasn’t been elevated to DVR status yet, I’ll still catch it whenever I can. These days, something which is that creative and makes me laugh out loud, is worth 30 minutes of my time. And after years of watching inhumanly pretty actors in boringly repetitive plots, BBT is a breath of fresh air.

They are, I dare to say, my kind of people.

Becoming Grampa and Gramma

2011-10-14T16:06:00.000-04:00

There are three distinct “highs” in the life of most adults. There’s marriage, when you commit yourself, body and soul, toanother person for the rest of your life. Then there’s the moment when you become parents. There’s simply not another moment like the one when you hold a tiny infant in your arms for the first time and come face to face with the shocking realization that you are now a parent. The sense of delight and wonder is balanced by the awesome responsibility you feel for the life of another human.

What follows are a couple of decades of barely-managed chaos and insanity as you strive to give to the world a hard-working contributing member of society. Or, failing that, at least getting them to adulthood alive and without a rap sheet. But eventually, they do grow to the point where they can stand on their own two feet. As you watch them fly from the nest, there is a bit of a letdown. The one thing that has been the purpose in your life is gone.

What follows is a succession of days, weeks, and months you find out is that there’s no hobby, no career, no avocation that carries with it the same ecstatic highs, devastating lows, and meaning as raising children.

The hardest thing is that creeping sense that they don’t need you anymore. The whole reason why you struggled through those child-rearing years was to make them independent. But as time goes by and the phone stops ringing, and the frequency of mail falls off, it’s a hard feeling to shake.
But when disaster strikes, whether emotional, economic, or personal, you are the first ones they think of. There will be a night when the rain is falling and you will hear a tentative knock on the door, and there on your doorstep they will be. When the world has rejected them, turned them out into the night they know there is one place where they are still welcome; where they are still loved.

At some point, you will become aware that they have found someone special. They may mention a name, but mainly you see that faraway look in their eyes, the faint smile. And you remember what new love felt like.

The wedding is chaos, generating the kind of funny anecdotes that will delight Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings for decades to come.

Then comes that special day when you become grandparents.

It may be a call in the middle of the night. She’s in labor and we’re headed to the hospital. All hope of sleep vanishes at this point and you crouch by the telephone like a couple of starved mountain lions, ready to pounce. Woe betide any telemarketers who call during this vigil.

Finally the message comes through. Across the miles comes the vital information, gender, weight, length, who does he/she look more like, how long was the labor. Then you throw some things into a bag, get into the car and head for the hospital, wherever that is. There is an urgency that drives you. When our third grandson was born, I was not even 2 days out of surgery; yet I poured myself into the car and we made that three-hour trip to see the baby.

In that moment when you’re holding your grandchild for the first time, you realize how life has come full circle. As your father and mother held you, and as you held your children, now you hold a new baby. The wonder never goes away. Here is a new life, embodying every ounce of hope you possess.

Our sun rises when we are born and sails across our sky through those long decades that follow. But just as it begins to sink towards the horizon, here is this new bundle of joy who will bring a special kind of light to your life in the years you have left. You will love them without limits and spoil them rotten. Once again, you will go to innumerable games and concerts, each one as important as the World Series or a night at Kennedy Center. You will watch them grow and learn, and pitch in, taking their tiny hand in yours as you reveal the world to their listening ears.

And no matter how bad a day you have, no matter how grumpy you may be, nothing raises you spirits and brings you joy more than the sound of that little voice…

“I love you , Grampa!”

Sojourn: A Guide for Motocycle Trips

2011-10-06T13:57:00.001-04:00

Two views of my old PC800 loaded for long distance, above, in Bisbee, Arizona..

...and Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado
(Both images scanned from photographs)

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

In the past, vacation trips were rarely about a particular destination. They were rather about the trip itself and the many stops along the way. It was that philosophy that sent Americans out on legendary highways such as Route 66, Route 50, US 1, and California 1, the famed Pacific Coast Highway. If you left Chicago on Route 66 heading west, you weren’t just traveling to the Santa Monica Pier in California. You were going to see St. Louis; cowboys between Tulsa and Amarillo; the high plains of Tucumcari, Albuquerque, and Gallup; The deserts and mountains of Holbrook, Flagstaff, Kingman, and Barstow, and then, and only then, the cool waters of the Pacific Ocean. The point of the trip was not to dabble your toes in the surf, but all the natural beauty and wonder of the American west.

People don’t travel like that anymore. Most have a single destination in mind, minimize the travel time to that place, and then rack and stack everything you want (or feel obligated) to do into those few days. That kind of a killer schedule has led to the oft-voiced phrase, “I need a vacation from my vacation.”

However, that old spirit of adventure hasn’t vanished entirely. Within the motorcycle community it lives and breathes in the hearts of sojourners who have never forgotten the power of a journey.

I’ve taken a few long trips, all of which still live in vivid recollections. While they were all fun and adventurous, there were those things I planned well, those I didn’t, and other details I never thought about. Hopefully there is some value in those experiences that will assist others in planning trips.

Planning the trip

There is this persistent fantasy about a motorcycle trip where you just climb aboard and ride off into the sunset going wherever your impulses take you. That may be fine for a Saturday ride, but for a multi-thousand mile trip, it takes a bit more forethought.

In a car, we think nothing of doing 700-mile days. But a bike is a different type of trip. It takes more effort to ride than it does sitting in the car, and the exposure to the elements can leach away your energy. For reasons that still befuddle me, I never average the same speed over a day on a bike that I do in a car. Plus, you want to leave time for visiting the sites you’ve came so far to see. I’ve learned the hard way that the best pace for me is about 250 miles per day. It’s hard to enjoy a trip when I’m fatigued all the time. That kind of pace allows me to enjoy myself by visiting various sites, as well as deal with the inevitable delays with road construction and heavy traffic.

Most long-trippers I know don’t have a specific point in mind, but rather point to a region on the map and decide to tour there. Maybe Colorado and the Rockies, or the Gulf Coast, or New England; maybe a tour of Arizona ghost towns. Once you get there, you can adopt a sort of aimless wandering to your days. But you still have to plan your route in and out, and at least have a general idea where you’ll rest your head each night. In the ‘30s, you would just go until wherever the sunset found you and throw a bedroll down. But now, even in the wide-open west, there are rules about where you can camp. It’s better to utilize an organized campsite. Not only is it legal, you’ll minimize the danger of being visited by a carload of ruffians who are looking to spice up their empty lives by beating the crap out of a luckless tourist. Hotels and Inns offer a more civilized alternative for those, like me, whose back problems mandate something better than a sleeping bag on hard ground.

Cost should be calculated, at least in general. You don’t want to run out of jack and have to go home early. Summertime is when campsite rentals, hotel rates, and gas prices are highest, so be prepared. Think about gas. There are places out west where you may go as far as 70 miles between gas stations. Don’t be reluctant to fuel earlier than normal. It beats pushing the bike through the desert.

Most of us have a child-like faith in our machines that they will function perfectly for the entire trip. Murphy ’s Law mandates that you should be prepared for the alternative. Look up the location of a few bike shops and know which ones are reputable. If the bike does break down, hopefully you’ll know where the nearest reliable wrench can be found.

If this is going to be a long trip (longer than a week), plan a rest day, or at least a half day about halfway through. You will probably be ready for a day off the bike by then. You can laze around, hike, do laundry, take a nap....whatever. In the grand scheme of things, it will help you tremendously.

Once your route is settled, let someone at home know. Give them your cell number and check in from time to time. There are places, particularly out west, where you could crash off the road and not be found for a very long time. If you miss a check-in, then someone at home knows at least the area where searchers can look for you.

Preparing the Bike

Have your trusted wrench do a good once over on your ride. If your trip is going to be 3,000 miles or more, go ahead and get your oil changed. If your other fluids haven’t been swapped out in a couple of years, have them done as well. Have the shop take a good look at your lines and hoses, as well as filters (air and fuel) and replace them if necessary. Do this at least two weeks before you leave, so if there’s a part that needs to be replaced, there will be time to order and install. Tires need to be looked at closely, the tread depth measured, and the inflation checked. This may sound like overkill, but it’s far better than being stranded in a place where traffic is a rare and beautiful thing and cell signals are nonexistent.

Preparing the Rider

About a month prior, start taking longer rides. Try to stay on the bike at least 5 to 7 hours at a stretch. This will accustom your muscles and prepare your mind for those long stretches of road. Practice things like emergency stops, evasion maneuvers, and scanning. You’ll be on unfamiliar roads with unknown hazards, not only other drivers but wildlife as well.

Packing

Most Americans over-pack for car trips. I’m especially guilty of this, having hauled things around in a two-week trip that I never ended up using. A motorcycle, even the two wheeled RV variety, have limited storage space and weight. So the kind of things you take with you should be carefully considered. A lot of folks have a riding suit that they wear over just their skivvies, packing only a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and a t-shirt for walking-around purposes. But you need to be aware that just because it’s summer, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s always going to be warm. On one trip to the southwest, I rode through Phoenix on a day when the mercury topped 114 degrees. Plus, being July, it was the middle of the monsoon, which meant that it wasn’t a dry heat, but rather sultry and humid. A day and a half later in Leadville, Colorado, I endured two hours of temperatures in the upper 30s and low 40s. On a New England junket, most of the ride through Vermont and New Hampshire was cold and wet. But once we got into Boston, the temperatures soared into the 90s. Take it from me; you need to plan for both extremes.

You can cut down on toiletries, simply by using the free samples hotels put in their bathrooms. But take some sunscreen for your face and neck.

Most bikes come with tool kits, but it doesn’t hurt to toss in a couple extra just in case, like a knife, both screwdrivers, pliers, and a roll of duct tape. Take two flashlights, a large one, and a mag light you can put in a pocket, and spare batteries for both. Pack a small first-aid kit as well; simple stuff like Band-Aids, gauze, tape, anti-bacterial gel, and burn ointment. If you take prescription meds, don’t forget them. If you’re in your 40s and beyond, talk to your doctor about taking an 81-mg aspirin each day. This will thin out your blood and help prevent the formation of clots resulting from long hours in the saddle. Oh, and when you stop for fuel, food, or touristy stuff, take some time to walk around the parking lot before getting back on the road. A good, brisk 15-minute walk will do wonders for your circulation and your attention span.

If you have those small triangular road reflectors, take them along as well, in case you get stranded alongside the road and have to mark your location to oncoming vehicles. Some guys take a road flare or two, but I'm kinda hinky about putting something that flammable on a bike loaded with gasoline and other burnable items.

If your bike or helmet doesn’t have a sound system, consider taking an iPod and a set of earbuds. Music has a marvelous way of keeping the brain alert, the mood up, and helps pass the time. Just don’t turn it so loud that you don’t hear the sounds from the bike, car horns, and especially, a siren from your six o’clock. Make sure to pack the charging cords for your portable electronics, and spare batteries for those items that require them.

One thing you might think about is to take a medium-sized notebook with you and in the evenings, spend some time jotting down information about that day’s travels. You don’t necessarily have to wax poetic – although that’s perfectly okay – but put down things like about what time you started, what your route was that day, the things you saw, where you ate and what you thought about the place – information that would be helpful to others who might be contemplating such a trip. Also, those notes provide interesting reading afterwards. I kept my notebooks and read them from time to time, reliving the experience of the trip. That’s always a nice thing to do in the middle of winter.

If you have a motorcycle GPS device, make sure you know how to use it. Most of them are set up to give you the quickest and shortest routing. But motorcycle touring is more often about the back roads instead of the interstates, so having that paper map as a backup can be helpful. If you have to change the GPS, please do it while stopped off the roadway. If a cop sees you entering data while tooling down the road, he could pull you over for distracted riding.

Practice loading the bike a few times, so you’ll have a routine for every morning on the trip. Also, take some rides with the full load so you’ll be used to how the bike handles with that extra weight and mass aboard. If you have to strap stuff to the bike, whether individual items or extra luggage, make sure it’s secure. And if you use bungee cords, MAKE SURE that you don’t leave any loose ends dangling. Getting one of those wrapped around your rear wheel will just about ruin your day.

Go get one of those things they call CamelBacks. This is a small (1 or 2 liter) device that holds fluids. You wear it on your back and the drinking tube snakes over your shoulder into your helmet. The CamelBack saved my trip (and quite possibly my life) on my trip to the southwest. I would fill it with ice and some kind of sports drink (the kind that replenish electrolites) and sip on it throughout the day. Because you’re sedentary when riding and exposed to the cooling effect of the wind, it’s easy to miss the signs of dehydration. When you’re riding in the heat, you have to keep yourself hydrated. This is not a comfort thing; this is a keep-yourself-alive thing. That day going from Tombstone through Tucson and Phoenix was six long hours of 110-degree-plus heat which didn’t abate until I climbed the Yarnell Hill into Prescott. It was that day that, after feeling tired and dizzy, I switched to Gatorade instead of plain water. The difference was remarkable and literally saved the trip.

And don’t forget the camera!!!

On the Trip

Finally, after all the preparation and planning, the big day arrives. You swing the leg over, hit the starter, and off you go. The first day is exciting to be sure, but can also be a bit of a let-down after you discover just how long four or five hours really is.

Before getting underway each morning, do the T-CLOCS checklist: Tires, controls, lights, oil, chassis, stands.

Tires: Check air pressure. This is best done when the tires are cold. This is important. A few years ago, I read about a gang of kids that would sneak into motel parking lots and let the air out of tires. Don't let yourself be surprised.
Controls: Cycle all your controls to make sure everything works like it should.
Lights: Check your headlamp, both low and high beam, and turn signals and running lights as well. I have always carried a spare headlamp bulb on the bike, just in case.
Oil: Check the level. Some riders even get down to look for any seepage around the drain plug.
Chassis: This may be a bit harder, but look at the places you can see. Make sure the welds haven't cracked.
Stands: Your sidestand and centerstand (if you have one) should be able to retract and stay retracted. Make sure there's no play where the bolt attaches the stand to the frame.

Make sure your luggage is mounted properly and securely, and all the loose straps and strings are tucked away. Check that your saddlebag lids are closed and clipped. You'd be surprised how many riders take off with them flapping in the breeze.

Take one last look at your route for the day, paying particular attention to your next turn point.

Then just before pulling out, double check your gear, making sure that all the zippers are zipped, buttons are buttoned, snaps are snapped, and pockets closed. Confirm that you have your wallet, cellphone, cash, and ID. Oh yeah, and your key as well!

I wait until morning to fill up the gas. Wide awake and rested, it gives me one last time to take a slow, careful walkaround of the bike and baggage before hitting the road. Take time to clean yesterdays collection of dust and bug splat off the headlamp, windshield, and helmet face shield.

Start off slow; ease into the pace of the day. You shouldn't go more than three hours without stopping for a break. Don't sit; walk around briskly and stretch. Double-check your straps and strings and do another walk-around. During these stops, people may come up to you and want to talk about your bike and the trip. Have that conversation. Riding long distances is by nature a solitary activity and it will only help you to open up and talk a little. Plus, being friendly and gracious helps improve the reputation of all riders.

Resist the temptation to speed. Most cops will allow a 7- to 10-mph bubble above the posted limit, but don’t push it. You may know that you’re not a violently-inclined one-percenter, but that cop doesn’t. Be nice, calm, and respectful if you get stopped. If you dispute the reason for the ticket, a courtroom is the place for that battle, not the side of the road. Cops have heard every excuse in the book, so there’s no argument you can offer that will change his mind. But being a “nice guy” may just possibly earn you a warning instead of the yellow slip.

Things don’t always go smoothly. Delays happen. Don’t get flustered, just do the best you can with the situation you have. A morning call to that state’s DOT may give you the information you need to route yourself around road projects. Stay away from cities during rush hour; heavy traffic is a breeding ground for disaster.

Try not to ride after dark on unfamiliar roads. Wildlife gets active after sundown and can be in front of you before you know it. Also, it’s easy to get lost in the dark and that can be stressful.

Most of all, enjoy yourself. Make this a time when you’re less driven by clock and calendar. Stop and see stuff along the way, even just pulling off at an overlook and diggin’ on the scenery for a while. That’s one of the big reasons for keeping the daily mileage around 250. You have a lot of flexibility. And if you get to the motel earlier than you planned, just spend some time in the pool. One of my favorite memories was pulling off of New Mexico Route 82 northeast of Douglas. I was in a valley that stretched for 15 miles in every direction. This was land that hadn’t changed appreciably in the last 500 years and the only sign of man’s influence was the road itself. I just sat on the bike, looked at the land, and listened to the wind. I had nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there. To this day, when I’m feeling stressed and overwhelmed, I can pull up that calming memory.

For me, the last day of a trip is the hardest one. I’m torn between the let-down of The End, yet anxious to get home to my family. As I get closer, the roads grow familiar and finally, I make that last turn into the driveway and into the garage. Reaching for the key, I hesitate, knowing that killing the engine writes the final denouement to a time of adventure and self-restoration. But once I open the door and receive the welcome of my family, I am glad to be in the one place I truly belong.

When you get home, tell your family about where you’ve gone and what you’ve seen. Share the pictures and tell about each one. As you’ve missed them, they too have felt your missing presence. Sharing the story of the trip makes them feel, at least a little bit, that they went along. And maybe you’ll plant the seed of curiosity and discovery in your children and one day, they will make such a journey themselves.

There is a real sense of accomplishment in such a journey. To go for a 4,000-mile ride and return safely is no small thing. There are hazards beyond number out on the road, but you have survived them successfully. You will have accumulated tales to tell and memories to recount that will last a lifetime.

Every rider should at least once take a long trip. It’s really more than a vacation, after all.

It’s a trip for the soul.

Seeking the Glory of Autumn**

2011-09-30T16:08:00.001-04:00

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
October 14, 2011
as "The peak is here"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
October 15, 2011
as "Peak is here"

After eleven long months of waiting, October, my favorite month has finally arrived.

I’ve written a lot about my love of autumn, maybe too much. But I can’t help myself. I love forests, but when the chlorophyll is withdrawn from the leaves and their natural colors reveal themselves, a dormant part of myself comes alive.

It is the month I actually make time to spend in the woods, camera in hand, or winding along the roads through these mountains trying to capture forever these all-too-ephemeral days.

We are so very fortunate to be in an area that rarely disappoints us leaf hunters. Vermont and New Hampshire may boast and brag, but the Laurel Highlands is truly a fall foliage paradise.

We live in what is called “Fall Zone 2” a…well…tree-shaped area of Pennsylvania. The roots and trunk start in the east in Pike, Monroe, and Northampton counties and runs west as far as Centre County where it “branches” northwest to Erie and southwest to Fulton, engulfing the rest of the western half of Pennsylvania. As far as I can determine according to several authoritative websites, the peak of these counties should arrive this weekend. The warm summer and abundant (in some cases over-abundant) rainfall, along with the prompt arrival of cool weather has provided the set-up for what I’m told should be one of the most spectacular years in recent memory.

The great thing about living in the Laurel Highlands is that you don’t have to go far at all for spectacular vistas. For some, all that will be required is a glance outside the kitchen window.

I’ve found a few favorite places to go to absorb Fall’s karma. One of my favorites is the drive (or ride for us motorcyclists) along PA Route 381 from US 30 running south past Ohiopyle to the National Pike, US 40. Another favorite is the heavily forested PA Route 31 between Bakersville and Laurelville. For a short jaunt, I take Trent Road south from Pa 31, through Laurel Hill State Park, to the Copper Kettle Highway/County Line Road past Seven Springs to Champion. Another great drive is PA Route 271 from Westmont over Laurel Mountain to Ligonier, then going west on 30 through the Loyalhanna Gorge. It’s so pretty, I have to do it twice. Mt. Davis Road around High Point Lake provides some beautiful vistas as does PA Route 56 through the Conemaugh River Gorge northwest of Johnstown. There’s also US 219 from Somerset through Berlin and Myersdale, leading to the Maryland border.

US 30, the Lincoln Highway, is highly recommended, essentially running from the Loyalhanna Gorge all the way to Gettysburg. An area I found last year is along Old Forbes Road, starting just east of Stoystown and going to Ridge Road, which takes you back to the Lincoln Highway.

These are few of my favorites, but I’m sure everyone reading this has found their very own autumn nirvana, which is one of the many benefits to living around here. The challenge, of course is to do this safely, ensuring I don’t drive off the road or into the oncoming lane while rubbernecking at the leaves.

You don’t even have to be in a car, for that matter. The Laurel Highlands has an abundance of forest trails, including the 70-mile-long Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, for both casual strollers and hard-core hikers that will take you through the hills amongst the glowing trees. There, of course, you get to enjoy that unique fall aroma of the leaves, and that soul-satisfying experience of swishing through them while walking along. I particularly enjoy the 2-mile path that leads to the Allegheny Portage Tunnel near Mineral Point. You walk in the darkness of that 900-foot tunnel and suddenly a hillside lit up in reds and golds appears at your feet. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

Words are my tools, my toys, my playground. But even after years of effort, I have been unable to fully articulate the miraculous joy that I feel on an autumn day. The bright sunlight, cool air, and the glorious colors in the trees combine to create in me an inexpressible happiness.

This is a busy time of year, especially for families. But try to find the time in that short span of time when the leaves are peaking to take a drive, take a ride, or take a walk somewhere. It’ll be a memory you’ll treasure forever.

Oh, and don’t forget your camera!

Friendships and the Pain of Farewell*

2011-09-29T11:32:00.004-04:00

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
October 17, 2011
as "The only constant in life is change"

Our environment is often spoke of as nature, the sun, moon, trees, climate, all the elements of our world. But we also exist in another atmosphere; one of people, friends, loved ones, and acquaintances. They occupy our home and workplace; where we play and worship. They become a part of the very air we breathe.

In recent weeks hard times have hit home in my world. Layoffs have been in the news a lot, an unwelcome accompaniment to hard times.

But now it’s personal.

People…friends who have been a beloved presence in my life have gone away. It’s been a sad time, this parting. But the most admirable thing is the courage with which they faced the coming change. They refused to be bitter or angry. They talked instead about possibilities and how they believed in themselves, refusing to surrender to self-pity.

Above all, they spoke of faith in God. “Everything happens for a reason,” one said, “and it’s up to me to discover that reason.”

When my time comes I wonder if I can be that brave; that faithful.

These remarkable people have lived in my world these many years and their departure leaves a hole in my life. The hardest day was when we had to say goodbye. Everyone put up a brave front, but the ache we felt was real.

I value friendship. I treasure my friends. I simply could not live without them. Friendship goes beyond a pleasant conversation. I will always need those people who will take my side when I’m right, and yet care enough to call me out when I’m wrong. Their advice, counsel, and support keeps me on track. And their effusive greetings remind me every day that I have value. As Carol Sobieski and Thomas Meehan once wrote, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

My wife and I have moved a lot in our marriage, so I’m no stranger to leaving people and places behind. That I’ve done it often, however, doesn’t make it any easier. But it is in those last moments together that the barriers come down and a priceless sharing occurs. Jean-Paul Richter wrote, “Man's feelings are always purest and most glowing in the hour of farewell.” Our culture is somewhat stilted when it comes to honest feelings. Thus, it is only in that last conversation that we feel freed to say out loud those things that have been tacitly understood.

But even for those who have been our foes, this is a time to perhaps heal a wound. I once knew a fellow with whom I had seemingly shared nothing but arguments. It had been a flinty relationship, at best, so I was surprised when I left my last job that he sought me out. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hand and said, “I’m sorry that we couldn’t have been friends.” As we shook hands, I felt thankful that our last words weren’t spoken in anger.

Gilda Radner, the vivacious and hilarious star of Saturday Night Live, died too early from cancer. As she neared the end of her life, she said,

“I wanted a perfect ending.

Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme,

and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Life is about not knowing, having to change,

taking the moment and making the best of it,

without knowing what's going to happen next.”

There’s no such thing as “Happily Ever After.” Every life endures continual challenge and change. How we face those unexpected trials in many ways defines us as individuals. With each challenge met, with each change embraced, we grow stronger, more resilient. Whether we win or lose, we are better people for the experience.

On this train ride we call life, few people will ride with us for the whole trip. Most will climb aboard, ride for a while, and disembark to continue their own journey. But in their absence, they leave a piece of themselves with us, just as they take a piece of us along with them. That gift, those memories, will live in our hearts forever; their recollection will always bring a smile and a laugh, and perhaps a tear. We changed each other. And neither of us will ever be the same.

Friendships don’t have to be local. They can thrive across the barriers of miles and time.

Because they are things of the heart. And the heart is never out of range.

Civil War Events of October 1861

2011-09-28T13:38:00.000-04:00

On October 3, Union forcers under Joseph Reynolds fought an inconclusive action against Confederates under Henry Jackson. The Union’s aim was to dislodge Confederate troops from a camp near present-day Bartow, WV in order to clear an invasion route into Virginia. Jackson’s forces were in the throws of sickness that had reduced their effective numbers by 2/3. It was cold, wet, and miserable when Reynolds attacked the camp. Rebel sentries had left their posts without relief which allowed the Union forces to enter the camp. Upon hearing the sounds of battle, the 52^nd Virginia Infantry ran to the fight, keeping the Union from over-running the camp. The battle raged for some five hours before Reynolds retreated to Cheat Mountain.

A new development in warfare was demonstrated before President Lincoln on October 4^th. A hot air balloon intended to be used as an observation platform floated into the skies outside of Washington, thus inaugurating the use of aerial platforms in battle.

On that same date, the CSA government signed treaties with the Shawnee and Seneca Indian tribes.

In England, the division of opinion over the American Civil War was demonstrated in editorials by the two major newspapers. The London Post on October 5 backed the idea of an independent Southern government, while the London Times in an earlier editorial backed the restoration of the Union.

On October 6, Winfield Scott relieved General Robert Anderson of his command of the Kentucky Department after Anderson suffered an emotional and mental breakdown.

Continuing to reach out to the Native tribes, the CSA concluded another treaty with the Cherokee on October 7^th.

General William T. Sherman was given General Anderson’s command on October 8^th.

On the 11^th, William S. Rosecrans took command of the Federal Department of Western Virginia.

On October 12, the ship Theodora left Charleston Harbor carrying two CSA commissioners bound for England and France.

Also on the 12^th, the CSA ironclad warship attacked the Union warship Richmond on the Mississippi River.

The CSA began selling postage stamps on the 16^th.

A growing conflict between CSA Generals Johnston and Beauregard came to a head when President Jefferson Davis stepped in on the 19^th to try to settle the dispute.

On October 21, a series of reconnaissance probes undertaken by Union General in Chief McClelland resulted in the Battle of Balls Bluff. Union troops attempted a crossing of the Potomac River into Virginia, but lacked sufficient boats to carry the entire force. In the battle, CSA forces pushed the Union troops to the edge of the bluffs. In an attempt to evacuate, overloaded boats were capsized and some troops drowned, their bodies floating as far south as Mt. Vernon. While an action that didn’t accomplish much strategically, it had far-reaching political effects. A sitting U.S. Senator Edward Dickinson Baker was killed in the action. This being the third lost battle by the Union (including Manassas and Wilson’s Creek), Congress established the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War which would be an albatross on the necks of Union commanders for the balance of the war, and would lead to political infighting among Union Generals. A participant in the battle, Lt. Oliver Wendell Holmes, survived a near-fatal wound to eventually become Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.

On October 22, the Confederate Army of the Potomac was placed under the Department of Northern Virginia.

On that day the first coast-to-coast telegraph line was completed and on the 24^th, the first transcontinental telegram was sent from San Francisco to Washington. This development ended the famed Pony Express.

West Virginians overwhelmingly voted in favor of becoming a new state under the Union on the 24^th.

On October 31, and aging and infirm Winfield Scott was relieved from duty as Supreme Commander of the United States Army.

A Collection of Summer Haiku

2011-09-27T11:39:00.004-04:00

The days are now hot

Air is hazy and humid

My forehead is damp

The school doors open

Finally free, we run home

Students are now kids

III

Dad packs up the car

“Buckle up for adventure!”

The journey begins

Outside the windows

A brand-new world passes by

I’ll have tales to tell

The trip is over

But summer is not yet done

There’s yet time for fun

The ballgame with Dad

Peanuts and sodas we share

Bugs flit in the lights

VII

The Fourth of July

Barbecue’s smell fills the air

Fireworks at night

VIII

Back-to-school shopping

New clothes, paper and pencils

Where has summer gone?

One last summer fling

Play like there’s no tomorrow

Because there isn’t.

School year starts today

Sadly we get on the bus

Why is Mom smiling?

A Collection of Spring Haiku

2011-09-27T11:38:00.001-04:00

The snow is melting

The new grass reveals itself

My spirit awakes

The sun has come out

The air is finally warm

Put the coats away

III

Open the windows!

Let the fresh breezes blow through!

Refresh my stale soul!

Digging in the dirt

I plant the new year’s seedlings

The earth smells alive

On the garage shelf

I see my old baseball glove

“Wanna have a catch?”

I hear the thunder

The lightning flashes above

The spring rain falling

VII

It’s snowing in March

But it doesn’t make me sad

I know it won’t last

VIII

Rivers are flooding

The people are in danger

Homes are washed away

Clouds begin to spin!

A twister is touching down!

Flee to the basement!

Suddenly I hear

The birds are singing again!

Music to my soul

A Collection of Winter Haiku

2011-09-27T11:37:00.000-04:00

The trees have gone bare

They shake in the frigid wind

The sight makes me sad

Rain can only fall

Snow floats down on Angel’s wings

Softly touching me

III

The grass was once green

The snow now covers deeply

Hiding until May

Awake in the dark

I hear cold winds through the walls

From ‘neath warm blankets

Winter is lonely

Folks hide inside from the cold

I walk without friends

My shovel in hand

I contemplate the new snow

Sparkling in the sun

VII

Come in from the cold

Stomp the snow from heavy boots

Cocoa and the fire

VIII

Walking in the woods

The air is cold and silent

Is it death or sleep?

I feel so tired

I don’t want to go outside

Let me hibernate

Deep in winter’s grip

A long, dark tunnel I see

How I yearn for spring!

A Collection of Fall Haiku

2011-09-27T11:20:00.000-04:00

I've never tried Haiku before, but Autumn is such a special time of year for me, I thought I'd attempt a few. These are written in the classic 5-7-5 English Haiku format.

Sunlight through the leaves

The fall colors blaze brightly

The cool breeze rustles

A stream reflects fall

I look down from the stone bridge

The still water glows

III

Our steps stir the leaves

We smell the perfume of fall

Her hand warm in mine

A Sunset in fall

The sky turns a deep purple

The clouds like gold wreaths

The sun rises late

The day has become so brief

The hours precious

There’s football today

Teams tussle in the cool air

A sweater feels good

VII

Pumpkins on the porch

The glow through evil eyes

Carved by smiling kids

VIII

A princess arrives

“Trick or Treat,” she sings with hope

Candy hits the bag

The wind passes through

Leaves fall from far above

Cover me in gold

Night is dark and cold

I can feel the frost forming

I breathe moonlit clouds

The Conundrum of Place Names*

2011-09-22T08:50:00.001-04:00

Every community has place names that are, to say the least, odd-sounding whose explanatory origins have been lost in the mists of time

When I first came to Johnstown, I was looking for a place to live. I called one landlord asking about the vacancy on “Men-O-Her.” The landlord replied, “Menocker.” I responded, “Geseundheit.” I heard another person refer to the locale of her apartment as being “in the bucket o’ blood.”

I’m sure there’s a great story there.

One of the hardest things to figure out was the ward system. A ward is a political subdivision of a city. I know this. But the real estate ads are full of locations like the “8^th Ward” or the “6^th Ward.” Being new to the area, I had no idea where these places were. It didn’t help that nobody ever bothered to publish a map.

For a while, Giant Eagle grocery stores ran a video outlet called “Iggle.” It only took me three years to figure out that “Iggle” was how people in Western Pennsylvania pronounce “Eagle.”

But there are three place names that really set my mind to itching: Scalp Level, Tire Hill, and Paint Township.

It is my understanding of human nature that when people who live in a certain place bestow a name upon it that they understand that the name is also an identity. In most cases, it is a name the locals can speak with pride, one that reflects positively on the area and the natives. There are exceptions to this, however.

Kansas City, Missouri is possibly the only major city named for a state it doesn’t exist in. Why would a city in Missouri be named for Kansas? To add to this confusion, there is a Kansas City, Kansas as well. But while geographically inaccurate, that’s still way better than the original.

Possum Trot.

I’m not kidding.

So…why Scalp Level? As a noun, it is that layer of skin beneath your hair. As a transitive verb, it can mean the traumatic removal of same. My first instinct was that it might refer to the tree line on a particular hill. But the heights around here don’t go up that far. When you look at the land, there’s nothing that suggests how this name came about. And when I ask around, nobody seems to know. I’ve entertained several theories. The only one that makes any sense to me is maybe it was once the home of a really bad barber.

Tire Hill is another odd one. I asked around, thinking that at one point it was a place where people dumped old tires, but the name apparently pre-dates the invention of the automobile. One local scholar postulates that the hill is so steep that to climb it would wear a horse completely out, especially if the poor animal was hauling a wagon. “Tire” was a corruption of the word “Tired,” which is what the horse (or hiker) would be after struggling up those slopes. Thus, “Tired Hill.” That’s as good an explanation as any, I suppose. It wore me out just thinking about it.

Paint Township is another mystery. Out west, there is the Painted Desert, and Painted Rocks, both referring to the colorful nature of the local geology. But that doesn’t seem to apply here. The rocks I’ve seen there are the same dull motif as any other in Western Pennsylvania. Maybe there was a paint factory there at one time. Or the person that named it saw the area in autumn when the trees “painted” the landscape in those incredible reds and golds. Or, maybe that’s where all the hot bars were, where people would go on Saturday nights to “paint the town.” Again, nobody around here seems to know for sure.

Yes, I know this a world full of more important things to chew on, but a brain itch can be hard to scratch. Surely at some point in the past, someone knew the secret of how those places were named. Did the last of those sages die without sharing that local lore? The Knights Templar apparently carried a dark secret for a thousand years. Maybe their descendants came here and needed a secret to keep. Perhaps there’s a secret society that meets somewhere in Cambria County on dark moonless nights to tell the stories and swear the oath of secrecy.

But for a writer, there’s always another option.

In the absence of fact, just make something up.

The Rhythm of Life**

2011-09-18T21:43:00.002-04:00

Words and image Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
October 7, 2011
as "The rhythm of life"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
October 8, 2011
as "The Rhythm of Life"

I love the changing seasons. To experience the world as it shifts from summer to fall, to winter and spring, and back to summer is to take comfort in the orderliness of a universe that is impervious to the mistakes and missteps of man. It’s the way we mark the passage of time that goes beyond clocks and calendars.

The shift from summer to fall is my most favorite time. I don’t do well in heat and humidity, so I tolerate summers. But in mid-September, the air begins to cool. They sky sheds its milky, hazy summer film to be replaced by a blue that is vivid beyond words. The nights shift from cool to cold, and some mornings, a coating of frost sparkles on the grass. The leaves begin their shift from green to a riotous orchestra of brilliant color. Even the sunlight changes. Freed of atmospheric haze, the light angles through the forests brilliantly illuminating the changing foliage.

One morning last week, the alarm went off at its normal time of “too early.” I’m not a morning person, so the process of going from sleep to full functionality is long and difficult. It is in this time of year that the shortening day adds an unwelcome degree of difficulty to that process.

I don’t mind getting up early when the sun has beat me to it. Even rising in the grey light of pre-dawn is acceptable. But now, when the alarm goes off, it’s still completely dark. I’m now engaged in a battle between my brain that stoutly insists it’s time to get up, and my body that steadfastly proclaims, “Are you kidding? It’s still dark!”

Humans are subject to what are called “circadian rhythms,” biological cycles driven by the 24-hour rotation of the earth. These rhythms are built in; part of how we are hard-wired by our planet. These rhythms are externally influenced, usually by the amount of daylight. That’s why the best cure for that geographical disruption called jet lag is to sit in the sunlight for a period of time each day, training the body to adjust to the new schedule.

I guess what I have is “season lag.” When the day shortens and I’m forced to wake up in the dark, my instincts resist that change. Intellectually, I know that this happens every year. In another three months, it’ll be dark when I leave for work, and getting dark when I head home at the end of the day. I’ll be more tired, as my body, influenced by the dark and fighting off the colder temperatures, will demand earlier bedtimes. Humans are not alone in this. After all, bears and raccoons hibernate. But then, they don’t have jobs and mortgages.

Winter is really tough, especially around here when we might go a week or more under a gloomy blanket of clouds before the sun peeks out again. Having to work all day, we miss the sunlight, how it raises our spirits.

Nature has begun to react to the change. Deer are becoming more active, increasing the risk to drivers on area highways. Everywhere I look I see squirrels and chipmunks scurrying around, their cheeks stuffed with nuts as they work to store away food for the winter. Ducks and geese are making practice flights, their V-shaped formations criss-crossing the sky as the sounds of their calls float down out of the blue.

For us, it’s time to get the house ready. The chimney has to be swept, the radiators bled, the furnace checked. Outside, we begin the laborious process of clearing the garden of the summer’s growth of hostas and other plants and putting down a layer of mulch to hold the soil. Soon, the trees will begin to shower their leaves to the ground, and we will be raking them up. That smell of those leaves in the cool air is for me the signature aroma of autumn. I can smell it in the yard; I can also smell it in the forests along PA Route 31 between Somerset and Donegal.

We lived in Hawaii for five years, a place where the difference in the seasons is mostly restricted to the amount of rainfall. I’ve never been more bored. When we moved back to the mainland, I was delighted to once again feel the change of the seasons.

It is a rhythm of life that connects us to our world.

"In the Arms of an Angel" and the Healing of Flight 93

2011-09-16T10:45:00.002-04:00

Sara Mclachlan was at the Flight 93 National Memorial Dedication service and sang two songs. One was "I Will Remember You," and the other was "In the Arms of an Angel." Both were so incredibly apropos that it's hard to imagine that they were not written especially for the grieving family members.

"In the Arms of an Angel" really touched me. I was able to feel at least a portion of the incredible sense of loss felt by anyone who has ever unexpectedly lost someone they loved. With Ms. Mclachlan, the words are only half the story. Her soft and sadly sweet voice lends a poignancy that the words alone can't convey. The video is available on You Tube, and I would encourage you to watch it. The lyrics are printed here as a way of remembering the family and friends of those who were lost, and who grieve still.

Spend all your time waiting for that second chance
For the break that will make it ok
There's always some reason to feel not good enough
And it's hard at the end of the day

I need some distraction oh beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
They may be empty and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

In the arms of an Angel fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of an Angel; may you find some comfort here

So tired of the straight line, and everywhere you turn

There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting, you keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack

It don't make no difference, escaping one last time

It's easier to believe
In this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

In the arms of an Angel far away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie
In the arms of an Angel; may you find some comfort here

You're in the arms of an Angel; may you find some comfort here

My Lap-Band Life: 8 Months In

2011-09-16T10:17:00.000-04:00

After a bad month, I resolved to pay closer attention to my diet, but as the month progressed, I realized that it was taking more food to fill me up. Instead of going 5 to 6 hours between hunger pangs, I was only able to go about 2 to 3 hours. So this time when I saw the Doctor, I was the same weight as last month. I asked, nay demanded, an adjustment and he cheerfully put in about a quarter of a CC. I could tell the difference immediately. Now, three days later, I'm already down 5 pounds and I have my portions back under control. My wife also pointed out that I had been eating more carby foods, which was undoubtedly adding to my hunger problems. So I'm back on the wagon as far as portions and food choices go, and re-energized after some, if not promising, at least concrete information on my job situation. Last night, I slept a solid 8 hours, something I haven't done in a couple of months.

I'm still losing inches, and my pant and shirt sizes are going down, albeit much slower for which I have only myself to blame. I can find most of the wardrobe I need at consignment sales and at Goodwill. But a nice dress shirt (needed for work) is harder to find, since the shirts that end up at Goodwill are so limp and worn that they won't hold a press any longer. So from time to time, I've been buying a shirt here, a shirt there, when I find really good sales. That has helped upgrade my appearance. My old fat shirts are mostly gone, but the few that are left are beginning to look goofy. The shoulder seams are a good 3-4 inches down my upper arm and the short sleeves now go halfway down my forearm. All the excess material around my waist actually makes me look bigger. When standing up to do presentations, if I turn around, my guests see all that extra material gathered up in the back around the waist.

Looking sloppy hurts my credibility, so I have to pay special attention as my clothes become looser and baggier. My co-workers are very nice in telling me constantly how good I look, and going past mirrors and store windows isn't as painful as it once was. I'm holding off on the suit thing until I get closer to my goal weight, since that requires an outlay of some serious bucks. I have a barrel chest and skinny legs, which means suits have to be almost custom fit in order to look professional. An ill-fitting suit just looks bad, whether it's too tight on a fat man, or too baggy on a less-than-fat man. And that's expensive, my friends.

Complicating things lately, my lower back, which has been quiescent for over two years, became inflamed. For three weeks, I haven't been able to exercise at all (even walking has been intensely painful) and at this stage of the lap-band game, exercise is essential to continued weight loss. I can't take my old silver bullet Aleve (Naproxen Sodium) because of the effect it has on the stomach lining at the band. I tried to crush one and take it that way, but it set my mouth on fire. So we got some liquid ibuprofen (children's strength) from the drug store and have been taking that for the last week or so. It has helped and my pain is slowly going away.

Drug manufacturers probably don't think of us Lap-Banders very much, since we can't take large pills, and some, like Aleve, can actually burn a hole in the lining around the band. It would be nice to have a liquid Aleve. The ibuprofen is children's strength, so to get the dosage I need (as dictated by the Doctor), I'm going through this stuff rapidly, and it's not cheap.

I have to take responsibility for this problem since I had become lax in performing my back exercises before this happened. Those exercises consist of two regimens. One involves lying face down and raising my upper body off the floor, in sort of an inverted sit-up. I concentrate my efforts in isolating the lumbar muscles, instead of the hamstrings. I was doing about 75 of those twice a day and I guess I got lazy. That routine is followed up by a about 50 "cat backs," which means while on hands and knees, I arch my back, again concentrating on the lumbar area.

Humans are funny like that. We won't fix a leaky roof if it's not raining, we won't fix a leaky tire if we're not driving, and we are less likely to do exercises religiously if we're "feeling fine." I'll do my best not to make that mistake again. I have to remind myself that I'm still 56 years old and my muscles and joints need regular attention through exercise.

Lap-Band surgery is a tool to reduce weight, but only a tool. I know I've said this before, but there are people reading these posts who are considering weight-loss surgery who need to hear the following:

Surgery, whether the lap-band or a full-blown Rouen-Y gastric bypass, is only a tool. There are many elements to the causes of obesity but the biggest one is our emotional attachment to food. As I said in my last post, because of some externally-imposed stresses from my job situation, I had fallen back into depending on food for emotional support. This meant making bad food choices, eating when I really wasn't hungry, and getting portion-creep (watching the portion sizes creep up). It's so very important that in the run-up to surgery, and in the time afterwards that the patient come to terms with this emotional bonding. We have to, in a sense, get a divorce from food. That doesn't mean stopping eating altogether, but stopping the dash to the refrigerator when we feel depressed, lonely, or stressed out. There are other activities we can do that don't involve stuffing our faces, and we have to, in those trying moments, make those responsible choices.

If you can't do that, achieve a healthy emotional attitude towards food, then regardless of which surgery you have, or what diet program you embark on, you --- will --- fail.

I'm sorry to be so blunt, but those are the facts.

Obesity feeds and festers two weak and destructive parts of the human psyche: Illusion and self-loathing. We can wear loose clothes and pretend that we're not fat. And we can (and do) hate ourselves after packing away a 4,000 calorie meal filled with fats, grease, starch, and sugar. But neither one will promote weight loss, surgery or no surgery. The process of curing Obesity the Disease is as much mental and emotional as it is physical. You can't attack one leg of that tripod, ignore the other two, and expect success. Taking responsibility for one's own progress (or lack thereof) is critical.

The good thing is this is not an impossible thing to do. Counseling and support groups help tremendously. It's so important that you know two things: (1) You're not alone in this struggle, and (2) you must be held accountable by somebody else. Obesity exists, after all, because we've proven we can't police ourselves. And admitting that weakness to the very human person in the mirror means we're already halfway home.

Nothing replaces personal courage, and an unwavering commitment to a better life. And if you struggle with food emotionally, you will need the power of both of those.

As always, you must consult your doctor in this decision process. And you must have full buy-in from your loved ones, because you will need their help. I'm not a doctor, merely a patient with some personal experience. But I am available for questions at Ralph.Couey@gmail.com so feel free to ask.

Lap Band surgery is a huge step towards better health and a longer life.

But in the end, it's still all up to you.

Random Thoughts on Calendars and Seasons

2011-09-15T15:05:00.000-04:00

September 15^th.

Man, wasn’t it August just 20 minutes ago? Time is absolutely flying by these days, and for once I can’t blame it on my busy life. I am busy, but not the kind of busy that usually causes the clock and calendar to shift to warp speed. This may that part of growing older that I’ve read about, that as the years pile up, the days seem to move much faster.

But whether I want it to or not, September is officially half over. October, my favorite time of year is rapidly approaching. It’s the one month of the year that I wish would slow down, take its time and drift languidly through its 31-day lifespan. But as usually happens, there is a significant gap between what I want, and what actually is.

The heat and humidityof summer has finally left us here in the mountains. The first breaths of cool air have blown down from Canada, and we are now in that time of year when weather shifts wildly and sometimes rapidly. Two days ago, it was warm, humid, and still. Tonight, we will have our first frost of the season. This does create difficulties in dressing one’s self, especially for motorcycling.

In the mornings, I install the zip-in liners in jacket and pants, and don a sweatshirt for one more layer. I put on my heavy gloves and take off for work. The air is chilly, especially on the hands and feet, and with the shortening daylight, the commute is now done in the gray half-light of dawn. On my mind also is that this is the time of year when deer become active, and I must be extremely vigilant as I travel. But while the daylight lasts, the ride is spectacular. In another three weeks or so, the leaves will start dressing themselves in their Technicolor hues and the mountainsides will become iridescent. The sky will lose its milky shade and turn a spectacular vivid blue. The sunlight, freed from summer’s haze, will make all nature’s colors starkly beautiful.

Of course, on the way home, it’s warmed up. This time of year, the difference in temperatures between six in the morning and 5 in the afternoon can range as much as 40 degrees. So the liners come out and the sweatshirt comes off. The heavy gloves are swapped for the perforated summer versions. My current bike, a Kawasaki Vulcan 900, has these kinda small saddle bags that don’t hold much. Folding and rolling those liners into a size and shape that will fit can be a frustrating process. But we don’t ride motorcycles for convenience. Gas mileage, maybe. But the whole purpose is tied to that singular moment when, bereft of wall, roof, and window, you find yourself one with the beauty of nature. Yeah, baby…that’s livin’; that’s life!

But fall never lasts long enough for me. Summer really drags by, at times seemingly endless. For you poor souls in Dallas who have had to deal with 100+ degrees for the last…what? 6 months?...this time must really be exasperating. You have my sympathy. But around here, the best days of fall – clear skies, highs in the low 70’s and lows in the upper 50’s – don’t happen often enough. We get days of gloomy clouds, wind-blown rain, that really unpleasant cold and damp feeling that is just uncomfortable. Towards the end of the month the air gets cold enough for our first snow of the year. I used to be excited by that, but these days it means that the riding season is just about done. Once PennDOT puts that sand-and-salt mixture down on the roads, then fuggeddaboudit. I don’t ride well on roads covered in ball bearings.

Weather is what it is, and there’s no changing that. Life deals your hand of cards, and that’s the hand you have to play. It doesn’t do any good to complain, because there’s nobody who can do anything about it. But I will do my best to enjoy these days as I get them, and not whine too much.

Winter will be coming to these mountains before too much longer. The snow will pile up, the cold winds will blow, and life will shift to a far more indoors mode. The motorcycle will be prepped and placed into storage and for the next 6 months I will have to be satisfied with memories of sun-splashed roads and the gentle feel of a perfect day.

Those are the memories that become dreams.

Where Do We Go From Here?**

2011-09-12T12:02:00.000-04:00

The anniversary has passed. All weekend long, speeches were made, songs were sung, and ceremonies were conducted across the country while we as a nation solemnly marked the passing of a decade since the terror attacks on September 11, 2001.

The United States has worn an open wound for ten years. The trauma of that day, and the days that followed were at times almost too difficult to bear. Almost 3,000 people, innocents all, whose only crime was going about their normal lives on that day, were murdered in four coordinated acts of sheer hate.

But on this September 11^th, we saw signs that perhaps the wound is beginning to close. We will wear that scar forever, but perhaps now we are starting to heal.

There are now permanent memorials in place and open to the public at all three sites. The names of those who were lost on that terrible day have been inscribed in stone, to be passed to future generations to honor and remember.

As adults, we measure time by the growth of children. The children who were barely in elementary school are or will be high school graduates. We don’t really see significant changes in ourselves over ten years, but in our children we see how time has passed. Their lives, like ours, were forever altered; their futures will be far different than ours.

On Saturday when the Wall of Names was uncovered, I was visited by urgent thoughts. I have been to many memorials and seen many lists of names. But it wasn’t until I visited the Columbine Memorial that I realized that names are not enough. At that site in Littleton, Colorado the people who were lost that day are remembered with memories from loved ones. The words describe the type of people they were; their personalities and interests. They had dreams and desires; full lives and bereaved loved ones. And bright futures denied them by events terrible and violent.

In reading those words, I came to know them, not just as names, but as people. The forty names engraved on those tablets who were killed on Flight 93, also deserve to be remembered as the people they were. The names alone will never tell who they were, or what was lost. We must speak for them and work to ensure that their stories become the legacy we pass on to generations yet to come. For there will come a time when no one will be left who was awake, alive, and aware on September 11, 2001. If we of this time and place do not preserve that legacy, then a big part of the meaning and purpose of those memorials will vanish in the mists of time.

That task must be undertaken by us. Only we can tell our children and grandchildren what those forty people did on that day, and why their sacrifice was so important. A big part of that is what the Memorial is all about. But we, too, have a duty to perform – a duty to remember and teach.

We must now look forward from today, and ask that very important question of “where do we go from here?”

Our nation faces a future shrouded in the darkness of doubt and foreboding. We are divided politically perhaps as deep as we ever were in the Civil War. Our economy lies on the brink, and we are all learning the bitter lesson that America’s resources are not infinite, but limited. Once upon a time, the future was a time of unlimited potential; a time when only greatness seemed to await us.

It is different now.

We are way past civility and respect. We rail at one another in anger, and even hate, flinging insults like junior high schoolers. There is no compromise. And every day, the divide grows ever deeper and wider.

I don’t know what America will be like in a hundred years, or if the America we know today will even exist by then. Only time will tell.

But as we promised ten years ago to Never Forget, can we find it within ourselves to remember the ideals those people died for? What accountability will we present to them for our custodianship of this nation?

At that Field of Honor near Shanksville, I saw a glimpse of a nation united; of a people intertwined with each other bound by the love of country.

It was a glimpse that I pray will one day become a vision.

The Call of 9/11*

2011-09-11T17:45:00.000-04:00

The tenth anniversary has past. The first heat in the breathless race to establish a memorial for the crew and passengers of Flight 93 has been won. In a field near Shanksville, along one side of the Pentagon in Arlington, and around the empty footprints of two towers in New York City, people gathered. Across the country, small memorials were dedicated, speeches were made, and words were written. Everywhere, Americans paused to remember a day that changed us all.

As I sit here, brief images of this past weekend’s events flash by. We arrived early and spent time talking to others nearby. Though strangers, we were linked by the common purpose in being there. We spoke of the common thread of where we were and what we were doing when we first heard the news out of New York; how we felt when we knew our country was under attack.

Every American who was alive, awake, and aware on September 11, 2001 will forever share that common bond. Because for Americans, everything that happened that day was personal.

I remember George W. Bush’s words of faith and country; Bill Clinton’s words about the courage of choice; and Joe Biden’s powerful words of how September 11^th, 2001 changed us all; as a country, and as individuals.

I remember the somber tolling of the Bells of Remembrance as the names were read by the family members, and the catch in my throat at the words “…and unborn child.”

Among the cluster of pilots and flight attendants seated behind me, the heartbreaking sound of weeping.

There were the first responders, firefighters, police, and EMS, proudly wearing their dress uniforms. I remember thinking that these folks are not well-paid, and those beautiful and dignified clothes must have set them back considerably.

I remember watching as the family members walked through the wildflowers in the crash site, laying flowers and memorials where their loved ones made their sacrifice. And one person who found that one special panel on the Wall of Names, and knelt in prayer.

And above it all floated the soft and sadly sweet voice of Sara Mclochlan flying us all into the arms of the angels."

Mostly, I will remember the sense of unity. Even amongst the politicians assembled, there was not one tiny whiff of the stink of partisan politics. None of us were conservative, liberal, or libertarian.

We were one country; one people.

It was a healing weekend; a catharsis, not only for survivors but for our nation as a whole. For ten years, the memory of 9/11 has been an open wound. Now the wound has a chance to close, although we will wear the scar forever.

Time will pass. The years will come and go. Children will grow to adults, and adults will age into senescence. Eventually, a time will come when there will no longer be any left who were witnesses of that day.

But the memorials will remain. They will stand in testimony of all 9/11 meant to this generation. The shock and horror of the act, the heroism of those involved, and that most bitter lesson of never again taking anything -- or anyone -- for granted.

Long after we are gone from this life, those names will remain. We, even we here, in this place, at this time must solemnly vow to send into the future not just the names, but the people they were. A hundred, or even an improbable two hundred years from now when people visit the Flight 93 National Memorial, that they can come to know those forty heroes, not as one-dimensional names on a wall, but as people with dreams and desires, lives and loved ones. That they will take away from that place the knowledge that ordinary people are at times called upon to do extraordinary things, for no other reason than just being at a certain place in a particular moment of time. And when that moment arrives, and that choice is laid before them, then the story of Flight 93 will inspire them to act.

Make no mistake, those moments of challenge and adversity will come. We face a future which lies before us dark with foreboding and shrouded in uncertainty. The struggles America will endure in the coming years will be a time when heroes are needed, and heroes will be called.

Let us hope and pray that in the memory of 9/11, we will, without hesitation, answer that call.

Promising the Past to the Future*

2011-09-09T22:33:00.001-04:00

Ten Years.

Yes, it’s been that long since the bright sunshine of a late-summer’s day was darkened by the cloak of terrorism. America hadn’t experienced the ravages of war since the silence of an April day in 1865. But on September 11, 2001, our country was brought face-to face with war’s brutal realities.

The recollections remain, enduring in crystal-clear digital video and photo images. And in our hearts, the memory of almost 3,000 innocent humans who lost their lives, and the living pain of countless thousands who mourn them still.

It was a day that began with sheer mind-numbing disbelief; shock, horror, and fear. But it was a day that ended with a rare feeling of national unity.

For those associated with Flight 93, on this day, we remember the past; but we also dedicate a future.

This morning, people will gather at a new memorial near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. After a decade of ceaseless dedicated efforts, the Flight 93 National Memorial has been dedicated.

The story of Flight 93 has resonated deeply. From across the country and around the world, people have come to this field of honor.

They came on warm days in summer, when the sun shone and the grass grew thick and green;

They came on winter days when frigid winds knifed across the valley and every object lay encased in ice or buried in snow.

They came in the crisp air of fall, amid trees ablaze in the breath-taking colors of autumn.

And they came in spring, when the breezes blew soft and warm and wildflowers carpeted the field.

They did not make that pilgrimage frivolously. They came to remember.

There is something inherently noble in acts of determined heroism, especially when those acts are undertaken by seemingly ordinary people. Their example demonstrated to us that the only thing that separates a hero from any one of us is not the lack of fear, but the will to act.

A memorial exists for one purpose: To carry a memory and a message into the future. On that field today, one promise will be fulfilled, a promise made 10 years ago, that September 11^th, 2001 would never be forgotten.

Today, a new promise is being made.

Time passes. People who were once young grow old and eventually pass beyond this life. Along with their lives, their memories are lost to us as well.

Today, we of this time and place will make a promise: That this remembrance will live on. We promise that the shining example of 40 people who stood in unity on a dark day of disaster will live for generations to come. And the spirit of national unity that once shone so bright will survive to shine again.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain spoke of the battlefield of Gettysburg,

“Reverent men and women from afar,

And generations that know us not

Shall come to this field to ponder and dream;

And that power of the vision will pass into their souls.”

The sun was sinking in the west as I climbed the hill known as Little Round Top. The day was ending under a sky painted in gold and purple. In the quiet of that sunset, I beheld the field before me, refelcting on the battle that had torn this ground; and the blood that had been spilled. I thought of the courage and the sacrifice; the price that had been paid for my freedom.

Nearby, a young family also stood atop the hill. Suddenly, the thin voice of their child broke the silence with a question, “Daddy, what happened here?”

Her father knelt down, put his arm around her shoulders, and the story of Gettysburg was passed to a new generation.

Perhaps a century from now, another young family will stand in that field near Shanksville, and once again, that question will be asked: “What happened here?”

We are charged by the future to remember the past; to bring forward in time accounts of heroism and unity that have sustained, and saved our nation.

As long as there is a United States of America; as long as there are people who honor courage and selfless sacrifice, this memorial will tell the story of September 11^th and the brave people of United Airlines Flight 93.

A promise has been kept. We now make a new promise; a promise to the future:

To Teach,

To Honor,

To Remember.

The Man Cave**

2011-09-09T11:03:00.001-04:00

Women like to joke about men. No surprise there. One of the sources of those giggles is that space in the house that men can claim as their own that we call the “man cave." I suppose that's a sort of “funny ha ha” reference to our more primitive natures. Of course, everyone knows that women are a more advanced form of life.

Well, more complex, anyway.

Every man needs to have a space over which he is the absolute monarch, especially those of us who married…shall we say…women of an assertive nature.

It can be a corner of the basement or the entire garage, but never anywhere in the main part of the house. It is where we are free to be our dirty, messy, sometimes smelly, unshaven selves, free of frilly bedspreads, fluffy pillows, and towels and weird-looking soap that must never be used. It is that place where we can explore, experiment, and create, and not clean up afterwards if we don’t feel like it.

There is a sense of freedom in the man cave, the exhilaration of being let off the leash for a time to explore and pursue our own interests. Wives need that as well, but in my lifetime, I’ve never heard of any room referred to as a “woman cave.” I guess because their cave is actually the whole house. You can go in any room of any house and see that she has been there. It’s in the style and colors, and the furnishings.

And that it’s clean.

In our home there are two man caves, one in the basement, the other in the garage. Not the whole basement, mind you, just a section that includes a TV, DVD, my computer and a comfy chair. In that space I can write, think, and watch The Godfather to my heart's content.

It may surprise you to know that I love to write. The process of transferring thoughts from my head and feelings from my heart onto the blank canvas of an empty page is one that challenges and exhilarates me. Sometimes the words flow like a torrent, my fingers racing to keep up. Other times the sentences come in fits and starts and I spend many minutes staring at the screen, cursing my stubborn brain.

At some point though, I've followed my thoughts through to completion and I can sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labors. That kind of task requires time and focus, both of which are found in my man cave.

My other man cave is in the garage. I’m not much of a fix-it guy; most of my home improvement projects usually end up in disaster. But some of my best times have been spent out there polishing my motorcycle. Riding, even in dry weather, produces grime on a bike, especially one with a lot of chrome. When I ride in the rain, it really gets ugly.

There’s something innately satisfying about taking a messy machine and making it shine. A motorcycle, as I have related before, is much more than a machine. It is my ticket to adventure, that gold-leafed invitation to escape the mundane. So cleaning and polishing is not really work; it’s a labor of love. When complete, I can stand back and admire the shine, walking around as the light glints off the paint and chrome. My wife, like most women, doesn’t understand how I can “commune” with a machine, and it’s so very hard to communicate that to her. But, she possesses that tolerance that is so much a product of her love for me. And while she may not understand, she understands that I understand. And that’s enough for her.

She does join me in the cave from time to time. She watches her shows while I labor at my writing, and prunes her roses while I polish the bike. We share our joys and accomplishments with mutual pride.

And yes, I feel better when she’s in the room.

I have a very busy life, so the hours I spend in my man cave are meaningful. I know I can’t spend all my time there; my other responsibilities spring from activities that do bring me a lot of joy. But that time away recharges and refreshes me, giving me the energy to tackle the rest of my life.

It helps make life worth living.

Happy Trek-Day!

2011-09-08T14:28:00.001-04:00

(except image above and quoted segment below)

“Space; the final frontier.

These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise.

Her five-year mission:

To explore strange, new worlds;

To seek out life, new civilizations.

To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

With those stirring words, on September 8, 1966, Star Trek was born. Conceived by Gene Roddenberry, it was intended to be a “wagon train to the stars,” using space, a ship, and the people aboard her to tell the story of the future.

It was a hopeful future. War, poverty, racism, hunger all were things of the dim, distant past. Earth had come together in a global government and formed an interstellar Federation of Planets peacefully uniting newly-discovered civilizations. Warp drive powered faster-than-light ships, making interstellar exploration and commerce possible. The transporter made possible instantaneous transportation over thousands of miles; tricorders provided explorers all manner of information about the environment. Cancer was eradicated, along with most other terrible diseases. Broken bones, torn blood vessels, and damaged organs, all could be healed without surgery.

But conflict hadn’t become extinct. The Federation fought regularly with the Klingons and Romuluns.

The ship, called a “starship” rather than a space ship, was named “Enterprise,” a name familiar to Americans. The original aircraft carrier was the most decorated ship in World War II. Enterprise was the first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier in 1960 and the Navy is under considerable pressure to bestow that name on the lead ship of the new CVN-21-class carriers.

Space of the 23^rd century was a multi-cultural environment. There was an Asian navigator, a Russian helmsman, an extra-terrestrial second-in-command, and an African-American communicator (a woman, no less), officers all. It was a daring approach to prime-time television.

Star Trek dealt up front with issues of racism and war, freedom and slavery. Kirk and Uhura gave television its first inter-racial kiss.

But even with all its qualities, it was probably a bit too smart for its time. The show lasted only three seasons.

Then, something amazing happened.

In 1969 the show went into syndication. Running in time slots more amenable to its target audience, Star Trek found its resonance with a younger generation of fans. The series’ inherent optimism played well against the backdrop of the dreary, cynical post-Vietnam era, giving young people a vision of hope. Fan conventions emerged. The first one was a small affair organized by the Newark, NJ Public library in March 1969. A much larger one in New York City in 1972 drew 3,000 fans. The next year, 6,000 showed up, and in 1974, 15,000 people attended the convention, most in costume. Cast members from the show began to appear, albeit befuddled by all this attention for a canceled TV show. By 1979, the first of 11 Star Trek-themed movies was released. On television, Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted in 1987, followed by Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager, and Star Trek: Enterprise.

Currently, there is no first-run Star Trek series on television, the first time that has happened in almost three decades. But the series is far from dead. All five series are in syndication and film number 12 is due out in 2012.

Star Trek has become a cultural icon, with many of its catch phrases in common use. NASA named the first space shuttle Enterprise, although it never flew in space. A probe utilizing a revolutionary ion propulsion engine was named “Deep Space 1.” People who don’t know Adams, Jefferson, and Madison do know Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. And I know business folks who go into difficult meetings with the muttered phrase, “shields up.”

No material object can attain the speed of light, much less go beyond. A transporter could only work if the object is heated to a thousand degrees. Artificial gravity? Nobody yet knows how real gravity works. Shields, tractor beams, all the technology which is part of parcel of the Star Trek universe exists only as fiction, beyond the laws of physics as we understand them.

But we still have hope that humankind is capable of astounding achievements, given enough time. And while we are still at each other’s throats, we still have hope that at some point all our hatred will end and humans will share this planet, not as separate nations, but as one single species.

Hope.

It is the one thing that underpins everything Star Trek.

And as long as we have hope, is anything really impossible?

The Sanctity and Responsibility of Remembrance**

2011-09-06T09:47:00.001-04:00

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
September 9, 2011
as "Today we make a promise to future generations"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 10, 2011
as "Today we make a promise to future generations"

Ten Years.

It’s been that long since a brilliant late-summer day was darkened by a series of violent acts, driven by anger and hate. America, a land that had since 1865 escaped the ravages of war, was brought face-to face with its brutal realities.

The recollections remain, preserved by digital video and photo images that will endure forever. And in our hearts, the memory of almost 3,000 innocent humans who lost their lives, and the living pain of countless thousands of loved ones and friends who mourn them still.

September 11, 2001 was a day that began with mind-numbing shock and disbelief. But it was a day that ended with Americans bonded by a new sense of national unity.

For those associated with Flight 93, this is a day to remember the past. But it is also about dedicating a future.

This morning, after a decade of ceaseless, dedicated, sometimes heart-breaking efforts, the Flight 93 National Memorial will be dedicated.

The story of Flight 93 is one that has resonated deeply. From across the country and around the world, people have been drawn to this field of honor.

They came on warm days in summer, when the sun shone and the grass grew thick and green;

They came on winter days when frigid winds knifed across the valley and every object lay encased in ice or buried in snow.

They came in the crisp air of fall, amid trees ablaze in the breath-taking colors of autumn.

And they came in spring, when the breezes blew soft and warm and wildflowers covered the field.

They did not make their pilgrimage frivolously. They came to remember.

There is something inherently noble in acts of determined heroism, especially when those acts are undertaken by those who were no different than any of us. They showed us that the thing that defines a hero is not the lack of fear, but the will to act.

A memorial exists for one purpose: To carry a memory and a message into the future. On that field near Shanksville today, one promise is fulfilled; the promise we all made a decade ago, that 9/11 would never be forgotten.

Today, another promise is being made.

Time inexorably passes. People who were once young grow old and eventually pass beyond this life. Along with their lives, their memories are lost to us as well.

Today, we of this time and place will make a promise. That the shining example of 40 people who stood in unity on a dark day of disaster will live for generations to come. And that the spirit of national unity that briefly shone so bright will shine once again.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain spoke of the battlefield of Gettysburg,

“Reverent men and women from afar,

And generations that know us not

Shall come to this field to ponder and dream;

And that power of the vision will pass into their souls.”

The sun was sinking in the west under a sky painted in gold and purple as I climbed the hill known as Little Round Top. In the quiet of dusk on that hilltop, I reflected on the battle that had torn this ground; and the blood that had been spilled. I thought of the courage and the sacrifice; the price that had been paid that my country would live.

Nearby, a young family also stood atop the hill. Suddenly, the thin voice of their child broke the silence with a question, “Daddy, what happened here?”

Her father knelt down, put his arm around her shoulders, and the story of Gettysburg was passed to a new generation.

Perhaps a century from now, another young family will stand in the field near Shanksville, and once again, that question will be asked: “What happened here?”

We are charged by the future to remember the past; to bring forward in time accounts of heroism and unity that have sustained us, and saved this nation.

A promise has been kept. We now make a new promise; a promise to the future:

To Teach,

To Honor,

To Remember.

The Selfless Essence of Leadership*

2011-09-04T23:40:00.002-04:00

Every year, the United States Navy selects a deserving few First Class Petty Officers for advancement to Chief Petty Officer. The magnitude of this achievement cannot be overstated.

In Navy culture, the Chief occupies a special place. Of all the ranks, from Seaman Recruit to Admiral, none is more respected and revered.

Chiefs are the technical experts within their rating or specialty. But the rank goes way beyond expertise. A sailor has more direct contact with the Chief than any other person in the chain of command. Thus, no other person has a more direct or powerful influence over their life and career. The tasks performed on a daily basis are assigned by the Chief. An individual’s work is monitored and measured under the eyes of the Chief. But the Chief is also primarily responsible for the sailor's morale, health, welfare, and training, making sure they are technically competent and ready for advancement when the time comes.

But most importantly, the Chief is the one person whom sailors must trust absolutely, the one they know will come to their aid in times of trouble; the one person who will hold them accountable, but won't abandon them. This is the key element in the life of a young sailor far from the safety net of home and family. In their wisdom and leadership, Chiefs are that steadying influence in an often chaotic life.

Because of their position, Chiefs are set apart by a different uniform, different berthing, and even separate clubs on base. In every aspect of Navy life, the line between the junior enlisted ranks and the Chief Petty Officers is clearly drawn.

The Navy is rigidly structured and often hopelessly bureaucratic. It is a harsh existence, consisting of long hours, high stress, and difficult work. It is a system slow to reward, yet quick to punish. And yet, it is in those harsh fires where the steel of leadership is formed and the tradition of honor is passed along. Youngsters who were barely trusted with the family car are now adults responsible for the maintenance and operation of complex and dangerous systems that cost tens of millions of dollars. And yet they do it everyday, led by the cadre of khaki-clad old salts who have lived the life, navigated its rocks and shoals, and haven't forgotten what it was like to be away from home for the first time.

Leadership is never about the leader. Leadership is about the organization, how to improve it and the people within. Thus, the organization’s laurels are how the leader is known. A leader may be a manager, but a manager isn’t necessarily a leader.

Young people who join the military have left home, family, and friends for the first time. From day one, they are thrust into an utterly alien environment; an existence regimented beyond anything in their experience. They're pushed to discover their true capabilities. The pace is relentless, and the standards high and unbending. One finds out quickly that individual actions have consequences for the entire group.

There are reasons for this. Most young people are self indulgent and must learn to think of others first. The sailor must be taught that the group is more important that the individual and the mission is more important than the group. If there are shipmates who are struggling, you don’t leave them behind. You encourage and support them. This is why friendships from the military last for lifetimes.

Politicians are often referred to as "our elected leaders." But far too often, we discover that their idea of public service is actually a thinly-veiled cover for selfish interests. One could argue that such an attitude is less a personal failure than survival in a corrupt environment. But great leaders rise above the system instead of surrendering to it.

In my life, I've known ordinary leaders, and some bad ones. I’ve also known a few exceptional ones, men and women who earned my respect. Their example showed that a leader cannot command respect. They must earn it.

A small percentage of sailors make Chief because the standards are high. Each one who earns those anchors learns that the corps of Chief Petty Officers is only as strong as each individual chooses to be.

John Quincy Adams once said, "If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more, and become more, then you are a leader."

It is the standard by which we should measure all who desire to lead.

The Valley of a Dream*

2011-09-04T22:44:00.002-04:00

In the last several years, I've made enough trips between Somerset, PA and Washington DC to, as they say, wear a rut in the road. I've gone often for business reasons, but mostly for the pleasure of being with family. The drive takes around 3 hours -- longer if we get caught in the massive evacuation that takes place every Friday afternoon. To be honest, I'm often surprised that anyone is still in town after seeing those epic backups on the outbound Interstates.

As often as I've traveled that route, it wasn't until recently that I took the opportunity to gaze out the side windows. When we drive places, it’s hard not to become locked into the duel of traffic and the press of time. Even as passengers, we tend not to take notice of the land as it zips by. But lately I’ve noticed that this trip, so often taken, really is a pretty drive. As the mountains give way to gently rolling hills, and eventually to coastal plain, you can see everywhere the dense forests carpeting the landscape. I began to notice little things, details that over the years I had ignored. For example, trees are not all the same shade of green. Looking at those hillsides, you can see an orchestra of different species. Giant oaks, graceful elms, sycamores, and maples each one an individual, yet an integral part of the greater symphony. Off the sides of small bridges, I see glimpses of tranquil streams under the shady arc of trees.

But my favorite place lies just outside of Breezewood, PA, where I-70 leaves the turnpike and takes that big bend to the south. Just past the exit for Town Hill, PA, the road jogs suddenly to the east along a path carved out of a mountainside. To the left, the trees thin out and below lies the most picturesque sight of the entire trip.

I don't know the name of the valley, or even if it has one. From the elevated position of the highway, the land below seems heart-breakingly beautiful, reminiscent of perhaps Southern England or Eastern France. The terrain gently rolls, lined by dense stands of forests in its low points. The hills themselves were cleared of trees perhaps long ago replaced by the striking geometry of crop fields. On other fields is the perfect green of grass where pastoral herds of horses and cattle drift along, almost cloud-like. Barns and farmhouses dot the landscape here and there, and standing like a sentinel, the graceful steeple of a perfect white-painted country church.

The valley is almost storybook in its perfection and peacefulness. Gazing down from the highway, I am transported to a different time and place, where life runs at a more sedate, peaceful pace.

I don't know anything about the valley or the people who live there, only to wonder if they know how lucky they are to live in a place of such peaceful beauty.

Someday, instead of droning on past, I should separate myself from the stream of traffic and go down into that valley. I don't know what I'll find. It’s a sad fact that for things far off, beauty rarely retains that quality when examined close-up. Maybe what keeps me from taking that drive is the fear that reality will not be the dream I see from above.

But I am an optimist by nature. I always look for the good in situations and people. Who knows what new experience will welcome me?

One of my favorite “Twilight Zone” episodes revolves around a man whose high-pressure job has become a living hell. His wife, ambitious and vain, treats him with scorn. A gentle soul, his life has become unbearable. On his daily commuter train ride back home, he seemingly falls asleep only to wake up in a town called Willoughby. It is an existence apart from his, a peaceful page from the 1890’s where life was easy, simple, and moved at a far gentler pace. He is drawn to that idyllic existence, choosing to go there, leaving his old life behind. He sought peace and tranquility, and found it.

Perhaps this valley is my Willoughby; a place where the gentle pace of a forgotten time calls to me in the din of my frantic pace of life.

In that unnamed valley, I see not so much to a different place, but the dream of another time.

The Kawasaki VN900LT: My Take

2011-09-01T15:45:00.000-04:00

I don’t think there’s a more difficult thing for the American male than to admit a mistake, especially when it comes to the purchase of a particular motorcycle.

I’ve been riding for 18 years and over 200,000 miles. My passion for riding started with a job some 35 miles from home. The commute was becoming a real burden, with gas at that time a killer $1.14 per gallon. My better half had thus far resisted my entreaties with that consummate skill all wives possess. But by this time, the kids had become old enough that she decided I could risk my neck in the cause of the family budget.

I acquired my first bike, a 1981 Suzuki GS550T, for $500. It was a sharp-looking standard, cheap enough to buy and maintain while I learned how to ride. I dropped it a few times, but the only casualties were the turn signal lights, which stuck out from the forks. A nearby salvage yard managed to keep me supplied with fresh ones. I rode a lot in all weather conditions (save snow and ice) and that bike taught me a lot. Over time, I moved up to a 1980 Yamaha XS Eleven Special, then a BMW K75RT, and a Honda PC800 Pacific Coast, with which I enjoyed an enduring 100,000-mile relationship. However, once I sold the PC, we went into a period of financial trial that forestalled the purchase of a new bike for two agonizing years.

Finally in the spring of 2009, I bought a 2007 Kawasaki Vulcan 900. I had that bike for about two months before having my third accident. I was distracted by a car that had started to pull out of a parking lot across my path and thus didn’t see the guy who had stopped in front of me. I applied the brakes, which were quite a bit more reactive than what I was used to, and locked up the front wheel. My lane positioning was completely wrong, riding in the “grease pit” portion of the lane, so the bike snap-rolled to the left and went down hard. I was saved from a broken leg by the crash bars, but still managed to crack a rib. With my own elbow. Fortunately, this happened right in front of a hospital, so I had two doctors by my side in seconds. I survived. The bike was totaled.

It took a couple of months for me to heal up. (A busted rib is a whole new kinda pain, let me tell you.) But I managed to find a 2006 Vulcan 900LT with fewer miles for a real good price, so I bought it.

These Vulcans were my first cruisers, having ridden mainly standards and sport-tourers. Today, after having put some 10,000 miles on the clock, I feel qualified to speak with some authority on this machine.

First off, it’s a gorgeous bike. The engineers sculpted a long, low frame that looks sleek and powerful. The engine was fit into its assigned space with no empty gaps, making the bike look bigger than it actually is. The stock pipes produce a satisfyingly manly sound that makes the spirit sing as you roar down the road. It has a very good windshield and it does have saddlebags, which is the same as saying a sports car has a back seat. They’re small and they’re only rated for about five pounds each. You can’t take much of a trip with that kind of restriction. To this ensemble, I added crash bars and a luggage rack.

Like all cruisers, this one has chrome. But it’s tasteful and not ostentatious or overdone. And when clean and polished, it is truly a joy to behold. It has boards for the rider, but only pegs for the passenger, perched a couple of inches above the pipes. This means that the passenger’s boot heel easily contacts the hot pipe and melts the rubber onto the pipes. The common wisdom is to use oven cleaner on the pipes when they're hot, but I'm reluctant to put something that caustic on chrome. The need for passenger footboards is painfully obvious to the owner. Why it didn’t occur to Kawasaki is a mystery. Maybe they didn’t test one two-up.

But that’s not the only riddle.

The speedometer reads high by a consistent ten percent across the entire range, verified by radar. If that isn’t annoying enough, the odometer is also scaled by the same amount. To test this, I drove a 30-mile course in my Toyota Highlander, which I know is accurate to within 1%. That same course measured 33 miles on the bike. Which means that it will always read 10% more mileaged than it actually is. Not exactly a strong point in a re-sale.

The fuel gauge is a joke. You can tell when the tank is full, and that’s the last piece of accurate data you’ll get from it. Apparently, the float doesn't go either all the way to the bottom of the tank, or all the way to the top. The Vulcan 900 list shows 39 pages of owner frustration. But it also gives two fixes. One involves inserting 270 ohms of resistance across the fuel gage connector. The other means doing a bit of surgery, by going into the tank through the filler neck and bending the floater rod so the float will go it's full range. Yeah, you can get it fixed, but Kawasaki really screwed the pooch on this one, since this complaint exists on nearly all model years of this bike. The only thing that works reliably is the warning light, which glows when you have 1.3 gallons left in the otherwise-generous 5.2-gallon tank.

Checking the oil is a two-man job. The sight glass is down on the bottom of the engine. There being no center stand, the oil level can only be read while the bike is upright. Now, you try to hold a 650-pound motorcycle upright while bending over to look at something the size of a nickel on the bottom of the frame. See?

And then there’s the seat.

Of all the design conundrums on the bike, this one is the worst. Sport bikes and standards are meant to be ridden for short distances. Those seats don’t have to be all that comfy. This is supposedly a touring bike (hence the “LT” caveat), one that should be able to be ridden for several hours. But this is, hands down, the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever sat on. Cement blocks are easier to take. Kawasaki obviously gave this bike’s physical design to its most skilled engineers. Why, pray tell, did they pawn off the seat design to the intern?

Another beef is restricted to the model years of 2006 and before. The stator design left holes in the casing for the wires to pass through. Over time, road gunk is thrown into those holes, shorting out the stator. Mine died at 12,000 miles, which for a 21^st century bike is beyond stupid. Sorry, but hoisting a $300 repair like that (with Kawasaki refusing to pay for their design mistake) that early in a motorcycle’s life is unforgiveable. I guess I was spoiled by the PC800. When I sold that bike at 100,000 miles (in two days, no less), it still had the original stator.

My wife complains about the passenger seat and the vibration. I explain that V-twins are like that, but she ripostes that the PC800 had a V-twin and it never vibrated like this. She doesn’t ride much with me these days because of the pain the bike causes her. And I miss that. Lest you think her wimpy, three years ago, we rented a Goldwing and did New England over 5 days and 1,600 miles, and she loved every minute of it.

Back to the kudos.

Riding this machine is sheer joy, at least for the first hour and a half. The motor is responsive; the bike, though heavy, takes the twisties with a surprising amount of grace. There is a surprising amount of ground clearance here. Now, you can’t fling it around madly; it’s not a ‘Busa after all. But there is more than enough responsiveness for such a long-wheel-based bike. The brakes are a bit touchy, but you get used to that. The tranny shifts cleanly and without drama, and the Kevlar drive belt sends the engine’s power smoothly to the rear wheel.

It also does good with the gas. I average in the mid-40’s (riding aggressively); others boast of figures into the low 50’s. A decent amount of passing power is there, as long as you’re not going uphill, and the weight and big, beefy tires make for a stable ride, even in winds up to 40 mph. Other than the tailbone, the seating position is good. The boards push the feet out just enough to take the strain off the knees. The height is perfect, so us old guys don’t end up Painfully hunched over at the end of the ride.

If Kawasaki had spent even 15 minutes contemplating the seats, this would be an outstanding bike. But I am a “go-far” rider. For me, a short ride is 200 miles and in the crenelated terrain and twisty back roads of the Allegheny Mountains, that’s a good four to five hours in the saddle. Kawasaki calls this bike a tourer, but it’s just not up to the drill, mainly because of that rock-hard seat and the smallish bags. I look at the pillowy cushions on other touring cruisers, for both rider and pax, and ask, “Why not?”

I love the looks and the sound of the VN900. It is, to my view, pure eye candy. It has the right amount of chrome, the right amount of growl, and the right amount of power. It handles the freeway like a pro and can still carve a twisty with a lean angle that can leave the rider a bit breathless. It handles nimbly, has great range, and sips gas like a miser.

All it needs is a pair of seats designed for the long haul, something to keep boot heels from melting on the pipes, and bags that handle a realistic amount of storage.

I admit I made a mistake with this bike. For what I need most in a motorcycle, comfort enough for a 700-mile day, just isn’t in the hand dealt by Kawasaki with the VN900LT. That doesn’t apply to everyone, of course. If you’re happy with a couple hours here, a couple hours there, and the 30-minute commute to work, you’ll love this bike.

But if the horizon calls to you; if you think your bike looks bare without a bedroll, tent, and a tall T-bar bag strapped on, and you're not really happy unless you've crossed three midwestern states that day, you might be happier with a bike toting a better designed seat and gages that don't lie.

Civil War: Events of September 1861

2011-09-01T13:08:00.000-04:00

Ulysses S. Grant takes command of Union forces at Cape Girardeau, Missouri.

On September 2, the battle of Dry Wood Creek (known in the South as the Battle of the Mules) was fought in Vernon County, Missouri. After winning the Battle of Wilson’s Creek, Confederate-loyal Major General Sterling Price, leading some 6,000 poorly trained and underequipped Missouri State Guardsmen, occupied Springfield. Soon after, he headed towards Ft. Scott, Kansas. En route, they encountered a 600-man Union cavalry force under the command of Colonel (and Senator) James H. Lane. (a caricature of Senator Lane appeared in the Clint Eastwood movie “Josey Wales.”) The Union troopers surprised the Southerners, but in a fight lasting about two hours, Price’s numerical superiority eventually decided the dispute. Because of this battle, Union troops abandoned southwestern Missouri.

On September 3, Confederate General Leonidas Polk, concerned about the Federal build-up in the west, ordered General Gideon Pillow to seize Columbus, KY on the Mississippi River.

On September 4, Pillow succeeded in taking Columbus.

But on September 6, Union General Grant took Paducah, KY without opposition.

In late August, Union General William S. Rosecrans grew concerned about Confederate General John B. Floyd’s drive to reclaim the Kanawha Valley, in what is now Nicholas County, WV. Although the Confederate forces had built entrenchments, the attack by Rosecrans on September 10 on Floyd’s camps was successful, forcing the Rebels to retreat across the Gauley River. The Union victory contributed to the eventual withdrawal of Confederate forces from Western Virginia.

Also on that September 10, Jefferson Davis appointed Albert Sidney Johnston to command of the forces in the Confederate West, known as Department No. 2.

On September 11, President Lincoln ordered John C. Fremont to rescind the order that freed some of the slaves in Missouri. The new orders conformed to the Confiscation Act passed by Congress. On that day, the President also ordered the arrest of Maryland legislators who were openly pro-South.

From September 12-15, the Battle of Cheat Mountain was fought in Pocahontas and Randolf Counties in what is now West Virginia. It is notable because it was the first time Robert E. Lee led troops into combat. Union General Rosecrans deployed four regiments (1,800 men) in the area to defend the major transportation lines. General Joseph Reynolds was assigned Fort Milroy in the Cheat Mountain district. Lee planned a two-pronged attack against the Fort, and to seize the turnpike west of the fort. The approaches by the Southerners was not coordinated at all, especially in the rain, fog, mountainous terrain and dense forest. The forces never made contact with each other and attacked independently. Although the Union’s 300 defenders were vastly outnumbered, the piecemeal attacks against prepared fortifications were defeated. Lee withdrew on the 17^th.

The first school for freed slaves opened at Fortress Monroe, VA on the 17^th.

Also on September 12, Confederate forces under Sterling Price laid siege to Lexington, Missouri. After continued attacks by the 18,000 Rebels, the 3,600-man Union garrison surrendered on September 20^th.

The first naval action of the Civil War occurred on the 13^th. Union Lt. John Henry Russell sailed into hostile Pensacola Harbor and destroyed the privateer “Judah.”

On September 16, the Union Committee of Naval Constructors recommended building the ironclad ships “Galena,” “Ironsides,” and “Monitor.”

Entering Kentucky through the Cumberland Pass, Confederate Genderal Felix Zollicoffer forced a small federal garrison to flee from Barboursville on the 19th.

On the 25^th, the Union Secretary of the Navy authorizes the enlistment of slaves.

Being the Weird Guy in the Yellow Helmet*

2011-09-01T09:51:00.001-04:00

I’ve been accused of being a little weird at times. I suppose there’s some truth to that.

My particular brand of strangeness usually involves puns or my inexplicable lack of fashion sense. I love puns, because I am a purveyor of words; words are my playground, and finding twists of irony and nonsense in them is one of my favorite games.

Where I really get the odd looks is when I dress myself.

I am partially color blind, which makes color matching difficult. Fortunately, my favorite colors are blue and gray, which I can identify easily. Most of my wardrobe is some variation of blue, white, or gray. (On a side note, what’s the difference between “gray” and “grey”?)

Where I run into trouble is in matching the few greens and browns hanging in my closet. When my wife is at home, I ask her to interpret for me. When I pull a pants and shirt out of the closet and I see her shudder, I know I’ve picked the wrong pair. Sears used to have a line of children’s clothes called “Roos” which could be mixed and matched by the type of animal on them. I think someone needs a line of “Roos” for men. At least for me, anyway.

As most of you know by now, I ride a motorcycle for reasons best explained on my motorcycle-themed blog, “Soul of a Motorcyclist.” I’m always concerned about my visibility to other motorists on the road, so I bought a bright yellow Nolan helmet last year. It seems to have worked because I’ve had far fewer close calls this year. I see the double-takes from people, which is good, since inattentional blindness means if they look once, they probably don’t see the motorcycle.

Plus, bright yellow just makes me happier.

This year, I saved up my money and bought a communications system for that helmet, which means that I can get calls on my phone that I would have missed before, giving me a chance to pull off the road before they hang up. I can also listen to music on this system as well, either from my phone or my iPod.

I don’t just ride for fun. I commute a lot (unless there are thunderstorms in the forecast) and run errands, such as the grocery store. The saddle bags are kinda small, so there’s not much I can cram in there. Going to work, I carry my little cloth bag which holds my lunch, the morning paper, and my 64-ounce orange mug. One of the requirements of my lap band life is to drink plenty of water between meals. It’s also big enough to put out a small fire, and being orange, I can even block off a section of road as well. Some people, when they see the mug, make the assumption that it’s coffee. I understand their discomfiture. I’d worry as well about someone guzzling 64 ounces of coffee every day.

I also carry stuff out of the stores. The helmet, made of modern composites, isn’t heavy, but bulky and hard to tote with other things in my hand. I used to put it in the kid carrier on the cart, but the metal scratches the helmet and the face shield. So I just leave the helmet on my head, since it’s easier to wear it than to carry it.

Now this does cause some looks, especially in the store. I get comments from people, usually along the lines of, “I didn’t know shopping was so hazardous.” Kids are especially fascinated. They’re so honest; they just stare. Things get really interesting if I’m listening to music inside the helmet and singing to myself. I don’t mind the looks or the comments, because I value my convenience over other people’s opinions.

Truthfully, there’s value in making someone’s day, giving them a story to take home about the weird guy who was wearing the yellow helmet in the grocery store.

Part of me wants to be known as a pretty good writer, someone who produces columns that people can read and enjoy. I stay away from politics, because it’s divisive and inspires dark feelings in at least half the readership.

Besides, this world needs another political columnist about as much as it needs a strike from a 7-mile wide asteroid.

But if I can inspire a smile and a chuckle just being a weird guy in a yellow motorcycle helmet, I guess that’s okay as well.

The Mirror of the Past*

2011-08-29T22:28:00.000-04:00

Hazel and Ralph E. Couey, with my Dad, Duane

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 23, 2011

as "Family Treasures Discovered"

When our father died in 2004, my sister and I had the sad duty of going through his belongings. He had been a minister who traveled the world and amongst his things were reminders of his missions to all seven continents and a host of Pacific islands. He was an avid reader, very much a self-taught man, and had acquired a prodigious collection of books. They were mostly theology and philosophy, but included some history, and the collected poems of Wordsworth. What we didn’t donate went into a storage unit, and eventually into my sister’s garage.

We think we know everything that’s in those boxes, but occasionally we get surprised. Once, she found a box of letters that our grandfather had written to Dad while he was in the Navy in World War II. Neither of us ever knew our Grandfather, even though I bear his first name, so this was a priceless opportunity to peer into the life, mind, and heart of a man we wish we had known.

And it was amazing. He was a man of strong opinions, and was not at all shy about sharing them. He wrote at length about his life and the times in which he lived. And those things that all parents fret about, namely the welfare and behavior of their children. His words opened a window on a life we had never known.

Our grandmother died at age 32, of what cause we’ve been unable to determine. So, since both passed before we were born, we’ve always been hungry for knowledge and insight about the kind of people who raised our Father. We even lacked photographs of them.

Then, in late July, my brother-in-law made an amazing discovery. He was going through a box of what he thought were canceled checks, when suddenly he came upon a small manila envelope. Inside, he found a treasure trove of pictures.

For the first time, we were able to see our grandparents.

The pictures dated mainly from the late 1920’s and early 1930’s, but the images were surprisingly clear and sharp. My Grandmother Hazel always looked young. Even those pictures with two or three children about, she never looked older than a teenager. In her face, I could see those familiar features that decorated all of my aunts and uncles. She had a gentle, yet mischievous smile. In those pictures, she looked happy, vivacious, even at times frivolous. You could tell she was in love with life.

My Grandfather Ralph, though, was a real revelation.

Even with a limited knowledge of body language, I could immediately see a lot. He was a strong man; even the shapeless clothes of that day couldn’t hide a muscular barrel chest. His legs were thick, his arms chiseled. And in nearly every picture, he stood with his legs apart, hands on hips, chest out, head held high. Here, I realized, was a man to be reckoned with; proud, tough, and resolute. His bearing communicated challenge to the world; a dare, if you will. I realized that the steel I knew to be in my Father had been milled in the heart and cast in the hands of this man.

There were other things that we could see. In the midst of the Great Depression, they dressed well and lived in houses that, while not mansions, were large and well-built nonetheless. They had cars and apparently took vacations, mainly around the Great Lakes.

The more I looked at the pictures, the more I realized that the Depression hadn’t defeated my Grandfather. He looked hard times squarely in the eye and had beaten them.

I looked at that face from across the decades and yearned for just a few minutes to hear his voice and gage his personality; to shake those huge hands, or even perhaps to feel his embrace. I wanted to hear his stories about life and receive the wisdom of his experiences. I wanted to look him in the eye and find the warmth of his love.

And I wondered; what would he say to me? What advice or counsel would he offer? And would he find favor with his grandson?

In those pictures are people I will never know; a past I can never share.

And on this cool, rainy night, eleven years into the 21^st century with all its wonders and tragedies, I find myself yearning for what time has stolen from me.

The privilege of knowing my Grandfather.

"A man of adamant."

United by That Moment***

2011-08-25T22:48:00.002-04:00

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
September 2, 2011
as "United by remembrance"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 3, 2011
as "United by Remembrance"

*Independence, MO Examiner
September 10, 2011
as "United in moment of remembrance"

It seems like just yesterday. And yet it also seems like a lifetime ago; that bright, blue, sun-splashed September morning 10 years ago when our world changed forever. It was one of those moments, like Pearl Harbor and John Kennedy's assassination, that we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing at the moment we heard.

I was working in a Caterpillar factory in Boonville, Missouri. It was a pleasant day for a change, but the morning air had felt distinctly chilly during my motorcycle ride to work.

My co-worker and best friend John and I were working steadily when the phone rang. John answered, the looked up and said, "A plane flew into the World Trade Center in New York." We shook our heads sadly and continued working. I was thinking about an incident in July 1945 when a B-25 twin-engine bomber, lost in the fog, slammed into the Empire State Building, when the phone rang again. John answered it and then his face became agitated. "Another plane hit the other tower! The whole damn world's gone crazy!"

We tuned the radio trying to find some news. After several moments we found a station out of nearby Columbia that had stopped their usual soft rock format and gone over to the audio feed from Fox News television. We kept working, but our minds were churning. As the reports flowed from the radio, we were shocked by the enormity of what had happened. We heard about another plane crashing into the Pentagon, and a fourth one apparently crashing in Pennsylvania. The government ordered every aircraft out of the sky. And then in a moment of horrible disbelief, we were told that in New York City the twin towers of the World Trade Center had collapsed.

At lunchtime, we turned on the television in the breakroom. The reception was terrible, but the images were clear enough.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur, marked only by the flow of news and rumors. Finally, the workday ended and I headed home. It was still a bright, beautiful day, but in my mind and heart, it had become very dark and ugly.

Close to home I saw a sight that brought my only smile of that day. Fearing what the attack would do to gas prices, people had lined up outside our little neighborhood Texaco mini-mart. The line of cars snaked for more than a mile up the two-lane road. The owner of the station never changed his prices, yet it was the biggest single day he'd had in 17 years.

At home, we were glued to the TV. Each cycle of reporting brought new details. But there were also disturbing stories of angry Americans who had sought their own vengeance.

Towards the end of the evening, a group of senators and congressmen gathered on the steps of the capitol in Washington, DC. The leaders of both parties, who had lately been at each other's throats, solemnly pledged unity. At the end of their speeches, someone amongst them started singing "God Bless America." They all joined in, and at home, I wept without shame.

Lying in bed that night, I wondered what kind of world I would wake up to.

The next day broke cool and clear. The sun was just rising when I rode past the front of the plant. There, a flagpole held Old Glory waving in the gentle breeze. Unconsciously, I slowed to a stop and looked at the flag. In my mind, the words came to me, unbidden:

"Gave proof through the night

That our flag was still there."

I suddenly understood the emotion that Francis Scott Key had poured into those words, often so mindlessly sung. We had been attacked. But by the dawn's early light, our flag still flew proudly. We were bowed, but never broken.

In that moment, I knew America would survive.

Ten years later, we face a serious economic crisis, unprecedented since the Great Depression. The tone and tenor of the political debate grows more hateful by the day. We are a deeply divided people.

Yet on September 11th, 2011 all that will be laid aside. For a few precious hours, we will unite in the memory of a shared tragedy. Unfortunately, that solemn moment will not last. As soon as the following day, the war of words and partisanship will resume.

But for one day, we will be one nation, united in our memories, our sorrows, and in the promise of remembrance.

EARTHQUAKE! The Sequel

2011-08-23T22:27:00.000-04:00

Well, it happened again. Today, August 23^rd at 1:51 in the afternoon, the earth moved. No, I wasn’t kissing my wife. Somewhere beneath the rolling hills near Mineral, Virginia, two pieces of the earth’s crust bumped and ground against one another for a little less than a minute. The result was a temblor that measured 5.9 on the Richter scale. Southern Californians may be able to shrug off one like that, but here in the relatively quiet east, it was the most powerful quake in 67 years.

We felt it strongly here in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania. At work, we felt our building begin to sway. It was a gentle back-and-forth movement that began to fade, but then surged even stronger. Shelves rattled, plants swayed, chairs rolled. The shaking of the earth lasted less than a minute, the shaking of the building a bit longer. However the shaking inside my fellow Pennsylvanians may go on for some time yet.

Earthquakes are a rare thing around here, even given the two we’ve had in the last 14 months. So its not surprising that the local equanimity might have been a bit bruised.

We lived in Southern California for about five years, during a fairly active seismic period. The first one we felt, a short 10-second magnitude 3.2, was a novel sensation to be sure. But during those years, we seemed to have detectable shakes every other month or so, sometimes a couple per week. The biggest one was the one known as the Whittier Narrows quake on October 1, 1987. That one was initially estimated at magnitude 7.1, but was later downgraded to 5.9.

We had taken the day off from work and pulled the kids out of school to go to Disneyland. Weekdays in the fall were the lowest crowds, the shortest lines. So we were up getting ready when at 7:42 a.m., the house began to shake. We hustled everyone out of the house into the front yard and waited for things to calm down. It started slow, then intensified as it surged. It became difficult to stand as we heard our house shift and groan. All around us, alarms were going off in cars, in houses, and in nearby businesses. Finally, the shaking ebbed and stopped. For the next hour or so, we were rocked by several aftershocks. Meanwhile, further north in places like Rosemead and Temple City, people were picking up the pieces. And two people died. An electrical worker was buried in a ditch collapse, and a woman was crushed by a concrete facade that fell off the parking garage she was fleeing.

So today, when the earth moved once again, I knew immediately what was going on. What I wasn’t prepared for was its length and intensity. I admit to a certain phlegmatism when it comes to quakes, having been through more than I could count. I approach these events with a certain devil-may-care attitude, simply waiting to see just how bad it gets. In a lesser building, that attitude could end up putting me at risk. It’s strange in a way. I preach to people constantly about the danger and unpredictable nature of tornados. I tell them don’t stick around to watch, just get to shelter. And yet, an earthquake, which certainly generates much more destructive energy over a wider area than even an EF-5, leaves me almost careless.

Part of that I know is that essential kind of optimism every motorcyclist needs. When you throw a leg over a machine like that, you have to know in your heart that you’re going to come home safely. I’m always aware of threats and hazards, but I never think I won’t be coming home. I don’t get panicky in an earthquake because I always think I’ll survive. Okay, even I’ll admit that’s kinda dumb. The other part is that silly male macho thing. After all, the Man Code states clearly in Article 7, “The Man shall maintain imperturbability even during disasters of biblical proportions, regardless of whether or not he caused them.”

The planet earth is a dynamic entity. There’s stuff happening in the atmosphere, on the surface, and deep under the ground, all of which can either bring a pleasant day, or a terrible disaster. But as inhabitants of this wonderful world, we have to learn how to cope with those unexpected moments when the power of the planet is turned loose on its dominant life-form:

Us.