Musings

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

The urge is upon me.

I can always tell when it’s time for me to sit down and write. I feel anxious, unsettled; there’s something inside that needs to come out. Usually, I can sit down in front of the computer, or pick up my notepad, or in extreme cases, pull the moleskin out of the back pocket and start putting things down. After a while, some sort of cogent theme will emerge. But not today.

It doesn’t help that I’ve got a lot of thought fishes swimming around in the ol’ brain pond these days. (How’s that for a flashy slice of mixed metaphor?) It’s becoming hard to sort out what my analytic priorities should be, and how long I should be spending on each one.

I’m still trying to work through the passing of our 5-month-old granddaughter in early April.

Passing.

Why can’t I bring myself to use the word “death?” Is it because of my religious beliefs and the promise of an afterlife? Is it a result of my own near-death experience? Or am I deliberately trying to soft-pedal the harsh reality?

I can’t answer these questions today. Tomorrow’s not looking good, either.

Mother's Day*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat  May 9, 2010
as "Mom Loves Us the Most"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A mother is the truest friend we have,

when trials heavy and sudden, fall upon us;

when adversity takes the place of prosperity;

when friends desert us;

still will she cling to us,

dissipate the clouds of darkness,

and cause peace to return to our hearts.

~Washington Irving

On the day we were born, hers was the first face we saw. It was her voice we first heard speaking softly those words of joy and affection. And it was in her arms where we first found safety, solace, and love.

A mother is, bar none, the most influential, most dynamic force in a person’s life. There is no more powerful, resolute, or boundless source of love for a child, save God Himself.

"A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity,

it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path."

-- Agatha Christie

She was tough on us, to be sure. But woe betide anyone who sought to do us harm. She laid down the rules and made sure we followed them to the letter. Through lesson and example, she taught us to be good persons. In those moments when our world crumbled, her arms would open. And when those arms closed around us, we knew we were safe from the worst the world could do.

The doctors told me that I would never walk,

but my mother told me I would,

so I believed my mother.

-Wilma Rudolph, U.S. Olympic Champion

To Ride, Or Not to Ride: Weathering the Choice

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Like many other aspects to life in the Laurel Highlands, spring is quite often an acquired taste. We came here from Missouri, a land where sauna-like summers and long, relatively dry winters are sandwiched around a few weeks of temperate nirvana we call spring and fall. We did have weather fluctuations from time to time, but the climate was fairly consistent. And predictable.

This is important to a motorcyclist. The decision to take the bike out for a spin or a commute involves a complex analysis of many climatic factors. Spring, at least around here, is a time when you scrape frost off the windows in the morning and wear shorts, sandals, and t-shirts in the afternoon. Jim, Tim, and Tony may tell you with confidence that the chance for precipitation is low, only to endure a tropical downpour or a snowburst on the way home.

As a weather nut, I understand the orographic influence that mountains have on air masses and how that can make forecasting a crap shoot. This leads to the inevitable question: “Do I ride today?”

Before you jump to conclusions, let me introduce you to the dynamics of my commute.

Grief: The Hardest Journey*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 2, 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

The loss of a loved one is perhaps the most common of the shared human experiences, but people still endure grief as something deeply personal and lonely.

In 1969, Dr. Janet Kübler-Ross introduced the now-familiar five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For the first time, grief was understood not to be an emotional state, but a process. Professional counselors could now use specific therapies to help people through their particular stage. Also, people who were grieving not only better understood their own state of mind, but knew that at the end of that process lay the hope of healing.

I thought that the death of our infant granddaughter was a rare event. However, I was surprised at the large number of people whose experience mirrored my own. One young lady stopped me on the street and told me how she had lost her baby at seven weeks old. As she spoke, she began to cry. That tragedy had occurred 10 years before, but the pain had not faded.

Grieving can take years.

For some, it never ends.

The Desert: A Forever Land*

The Dragoon Mountains,

near Tombstone, Arizona

*Somerset, PA Daily American
July 10, 2010
as "Putting the View in Perspective"
(May be listed online as "His Headshot is in Snibbets" )
(No, I don't know why.)
(I don't even know what "Snibbets" are.)

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

With its customary roar, the plane lifted out of Phoenix, leaving in its rippled wake Sky Harbor, certainly one of the most poetic names ever bestowed on an airport. We flew west for a bit before circling back east, bound for home.

I gazed out the window, watching as the lights of the suburbs slowly thinned out. Behind us, the sun was setting. A desert sunset is a beautiful sight, all purple and gold, the few clouds lit brilliantly by the fading star. The desert during the day seems bright and harsh, colored by the sharp blue sky, bright yellow sun, the darker yellow of the sands, the dark, brooding mountains. But come dusk, the angled rays reveal a wonderfully subtle palette of colors from the softer, gentler part of the spectrum. As the sun sinks into the west, the sky and earth begin to merge. Both are slipped by a velvety cloak of purple as the day ends.

However, these magical moments never last very long. The sun disappears below the horizon, the darkness slides in from the east and night takes the land.

Tragedy*

Zoe Arianny Villon

October 12, 2009 - April 2, 2010

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
April 11, 2010
as "Solemness of Good Friday Hits Home"

These are the most difficult words I have ever written.

On Good Friday, I received a call from our oldest daughter; the call no grandparent ever wants to get. Our five-month-old granddaughter, Zoe, had passed away.

She was born in October, 10 days premature, a tiny 4 pounds 9 ounces. The first two weeks were spent in the Neo Natal ICU, as she struggled to get a foothold on life. She had some physical problems, but none that seemed insurmountable. But after further testing, it was determined that she had a genetic defect. She was missing part of her fifth chromosome. The clinical term was “Cri du Chat,” meaning “Cry of a cat.” This is in reference to the thin mewling cry, sounding very much like a small kitten that is the hallmark of this syndrome. The outlook was bleak. There was a long list of possible outcomes, none of them hopeful. Among them were heart problems, cognitive difficulties, developmental issues, susceptibilities to a hundred different illnesses.
The Coroner called the cause of death "complications from Cri du Chat Syndrome.  But we may never know the actual trigger.  For reasons that still escape medical science, some infants just die.

She had been restless the night before, not going to sleep until after 1 am, long after her two autistic brothers had retired. Exhausted, Nikki and her husband Danny went to sleep. Nikki awoke later than usual, instantly aware that she hadn’t heard Zoe’s good morning cry. Going to her crib, she found her precious baby, already gone.

When she called me, she was frantic, crying and wailing. I yelled back, urging her to do CPR. But over the phone, Danny’s voice in the background, full of anguish, cried back that she was ice cold and stiff.
When the paramedics arrived, they determined that Zoe was beyond help. The Coroner, arriving later guessed that she had been dead for several hours prior to Nikki’s discovery. There were no signs that she had been in distress, or even that she had thrashed about. In fact, she was laying in the same position Nikki had put her in hours before.

Cheryl and I left for California on the next available flight. Our children, responding to my email appeal, rushed to gather from across the country. Upon our arrival, Nikki fell into our arms weeping in the heart-rending way only a devastated mother could. Later in the day, as I talked with her, she made this statement:

A Minefield Disguised as a Store*

*Somerset, PA Daily American  April 23, 2010
as "What's Your Weakness?"

For everyone, there is that one place where we know we shouldn't go; that one store that robs us of every ounce of self control. For some, that place may be a boutique that "sells the cutest clothes!" (I'm assuming that would be a female-only crowd) Guys, being...well...guys tend towards more technical places. The hardware and tools department of Sears was the minefield for one of my friends. He simply couldn’t go there without buying something. It got so bad that his wife, at one point, demanded he surrender his wallet before going. For other men, auto parts stores are supremely seductive spaces. Computer stores, new car showrooms number among some of those favorite places. I enjoy motorcycle shops, but since the cheapest thing there generally runs about 10 large, it's hard to just "pick something up."

Some time ago, big book stores began popping up across the landscape, the most iconic being Barnes & Noble. I've always loved books. To me they were the door left ajar to an author's heart and mind. Within those covers lies secrets from history, forecasts about the future, and the recounting of lives that changed history. Many have become old friends, going back to them for another visit from time to time. I always take a book with me wherever I go. I even stuffed a paperback in my back pocket when we went to Disneyland to while away the hours spent standing in line.

"What Have I Done For Him Lately?"*

*Somerset, PA Daily American, April 4, 2010
as "The Meaning of Easter"

Several years ago, I went with a multi-denominational group of Christians to see “The Passion,” Mel Gibson’s heart-ripping portrayal of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. It was a grim and silent group that filed out of the theater after the movie. We stood together, not wanting to be alone after such a traumatic experience. Turning to the man next to me, I asked, “What did you think?”

He replied, “Makes me wonder what I’ve done for him lately.”

Today is Easter Sunday; the traditional celebration of the day the Christ arose from the dead and appeared to his disciples and friends before ascending to Heaven. While generations of believers have intellectually acknowledged this man’s sacrifice, it really took Gibson’s horrifically graphic presentation for most of us to fully understand the extent of that sacrifice.

Throughout his ministry, Jesus blessed and healed thousands, relieving them of all manner of diseases and infections, and granting them forgiveness for past sins. For those people, it had to be a life-changing event, yet the scriptures are silent with regards to the rest of their lives.

Heroes

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

What constitutes a hero?  Obviously, it is someone we admire, but the reasons why are often a window into the most private part of ourselves.  Thomas Carlyle said, “Show me the man you honor, and I will know what kind of man you are.”  But, do we define our heroes, or do our heroes define us?

Some are elevated because of their ability in sports.  Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Michael Jordan, and George Brett are just a few of the tens of thousands of athletes who have enthralled fans over the decades.  Some are set apart just because of their statistics.  For others, it is not only what they do during games, but how they live their lives. 

Some are honored because of things they have accomplished for others, often at great cost and sacrifice.  Some are artists, musicians, actors, statesmen, religious leaders, or authors.  The common thread through all these lives is that in some way, they inspired us.

"You Can Take the Girl Out of Hawaii..."*

Definitely not Luau weather...

*Somerset, PA Daily American, March 28, 2010

as "She's One of Us"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It should come as no surprise that after 32 years, my wife can still surprise me. I thought I had her all figured out. I can detect that subtle inflection in her voice that tells me when she’s content, as well as that pulsing in her neck and jaw when I talk about buying something for the motorcycle. But even after all these years, she can still pull a rabbit out of the proverbial hat.

There is a saying, “You can take a girl out of Hawaii, but you can’t take Hawaii out of the girl.” This particular girl was born and raised in Hawaii and never lived in a cold environment until she moved to Missouri to finish her Nursing degree. It was a tough transition. Even with temperatures in the 60’s, usually shorts and flip-flop weather, she was wearing hat, gloves, and parka. When we began dating, I was amazed at how low her tolerance to cold was. At 70 degrees, she began donning layers. It was a bit of a letdown to find out that her cuddling was less about affection and more about heat.

In the last few weeks, the mountain of snow has melted, delighting us all. The other night, we were reminiscing about this past winter, one for the record books to be sure. I was waxing rhapsodic about motorcycle riding, a far-too common occurrence, I’m afraid. At one point, I remarked, “I bet you’re really glad that winter’s over.”

She sighed, tilted her head, and dropped this bombshell:

My Lawnmower and Me: A Tale of Betrayal*

*Somerset, PA Daily American, March 20, 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In the last couple weeks, temperatures have rebounded and the visible legacy of the Long Winter is finally in retreat. Slowly, the piles of white have shrunk, revealing for the first time in five months, the crushed and shriveled remnants of my lawn. As pitiful as the grass looks, after months of endless snow, it’s still good to see.

I’m also finding out that the ebbing of winter’s coat is revealing other things as well. Last week, I found a newspaper that had been delivered during a blizzard back in early February. Surprisingly, it was still perfectly dry, preserved by a double-wrap of plastic bags. One of our hand shears also made an appearance, rusted beyond use, lying at the base of a rose bush I had been trimming late last fall. But the most astonishing item (and potentially the most embarrassing) rose like a Phoenix out of a snowdrift two weeks ago.

My lawnmower.

When I was preparing to do the final cut last fall, the confounded thing refused to start. I yanked on the pull rope until my shoulder ached, but no go. I really wasn’t surprised, after all it was 15 years old and had been on its last legs for some time. The engine blew smoke, the wheels wobbled, and it had acquired an amount of baling wire and duct tape in a vain effort to keep things attached and functional. Despite its long and rugged service, I still felt betrayed enough to exile the cantankerous machine outside the garage.

The Dreamlusion of Becoming a Writer

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I was told once that the desire to become a writer was tantamount to volunteering for torture. I laughed at the time, but as I’ve learned since, there’s enough truth in those words to sting a little.

For most people, when the concept of being a writer is brought up think of books. But there’s so much more. A person can write ad copy, tech manuals, short articles, essays, columns, blog copy, longer feature articles, short stories, yada, yada, yada… So there’s no shortage of slots out there for the aspiring among us.

I write short essays, in the 500 to 1000-word range. While I have only two magazine articles to my credit, I did recently score my 65th newspaper column. (Why am I celebrating number 65? Because I was oblivious to the passage of number 50.) I do have three book projects I’m working on, but I find the most fulfillment in short pieces. Those who have read my columns have responded very positively, which is always balm to a writer’s ego. Unfortunately, the attempts to broaden my market have met with, shall we say, somewhat less than spectacular success.

Intellectually, I understand that the market is brutally competitive. Features editors are swamped with candidate essays, not only from local writers, but people like me who communicate via e-mail. An editor’s first responsibility and focus must be the local market. Add to that the conclusion that columns are probably the least-read parts of any newspaper, and you see the problem. But I continue to strive mightily, hoping for that one breakthrough piece of literary brilliance that gets people’s attention.

Restlessness*

*Somerset Daily American May 21, 2010
as "Feeling Restless"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Restless.

If I were to pick a word to describe my state of mind these days, that would be the one.
This is not an unusual feeling for me. All my life I have yearned for the freedom to explore. But as a profession, vagabondery doesn’t pay all that well and over the years that’s tended to keep me on the straight and narrow.

I’ve traveled far and wide over the years for both work and fun. In the rearview mirror of my memories lie 49 states and some 20 foreign countries. My wife and I have lived in several places in the 32 years we’ve been married, such as Missouri, Virginia, Hawai’i, California, Missouri again, and Pennsylvania. Except for the 14 years we spent in Missouri raising a bumper crop of kids, our stays in those places were relatively short. One would think that once I got into my 50’s I would be more inclined to put down roots. But that hasn’t been the case. The clock is ticking, the calendar is turning and as the time I have left dwindles, my impatience grows ever more intense.

I recognize the symptoms.

o On my daily commute, having to push back the strong temptation to sail past my exit and keep on going.
o The sense of adventure I feel when perusing a road atlas.
o The question my mind generates when looking towards the horizon: what am I missing?
o The stifling feeling of being chained to a routine.
o The longing I feel watching the trains pull away from the station.

With my motorcycle out of winter storage, it’s only gotten worse.

If restlessness was a disease, than I would be declared incurable; if it were a crime, I would have been imprisoned long ago. As to why I am afflicted so, I wish I knew. I know there are others in my same condition. Perhaps we could start our own support group...

Testing the Waters

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

As a motorcyclist, this has been a really tough winter.  For the first time in my memory, I didn't log a single ride between Thanksgiving and Tax Day.  A big reason for this has been the Siberianesque winter that was visited upon the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic this year.  The roads were never completely clear, and even now when asphalt is finally making it's long-overdue re-appearance, there's so much sand, salt, and cinders on the road that taking a ride means also taking your life in your hands. 

But, the weather is finally warming.  For the first time in two months, we've had two consecutive weekends without blizzards.  The snow packin our yard, responding to the sun and 40-degree temperatures has retreated from neck-high, to merely thigh-high.  Birds have made their return, their cheerful songs filling the once-silent sky.  Hopefully, by the end of this month, or by the latest, mid-April, I will go to Cernic's, the hospitable bike shop and liberate my Vulcan 900 (whom I've named "Wyatt") from his heated garage space.  Once again, I will sit astride my machine, feeling the steady beat of the engine from the souls of my boots right up my spine.  We will take to the road and revel in the joy as the world becomes a blur before vanishing in my rear view mirror.

Tempering my anticipation is the acknowledgement that it has been several months since my last ride.  I must endure some patience, while I carefully re-learn that plethora of skills that ensure a safe return from every ride.  Chief among these are my traffic instincts.  Every experienced rider knows whereof I speak.  Nobody can convince me that driving a four-wheeled vehicle and riding a motorcycle are anything close to analogous.  They require completely different styles, and even philosophical approaches.  Over the years, I have developed the "ability" to judge the difference between a motorist merely looking in my direction, and a motorist actually seeing me.  This is crucial because every accident database I've seen reflects a motorist's "failure to yield" as being the most common cause behind car/truck vs. motorcycle accidents.

"Back in the Saddle Again..." Getting the Motorcycle (and the Rider) Ready*

YEEEEEEEEE HAWWWWWWW!!!!!!

(Deals Gap Photo by Darryl Cannon, Powerhead Productions)

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat, March 24, 2010

as "Yee Haw, It's Springtime and a Man's Fancy Turns to Motorcycles"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Ahhh! Sunshine, warm days, soft breezes, clear roads…all welcome signs that winter is finally behind us and another motorcycle riding season beckons.

Most of us have watched our bikes sit idle in the garage since October or November. It’s likely that the engine hasn’t been started but once or twice, if at all, during that time frame. Before you give in to Spring’s seductive caress, there are some things that you should do first.

Clean it up good. Not only will it look better, but getting the winter’s accumulation of dust and…whatever…off the machine will make it far easier to spot any problems.

Charge the battery. And if your battery is more than three years old, replace it. While original batteries may last five or six years, most mechanics recommend replacing aftermarket units after three years, regardless of how good they may seem to be. Unlike a car, battery failure will kill an engine, even in mid-ride. This has happened to me twice (yeah, I’m a slow learner), both times far from civilization.

Change the fluids. Oil changes are no brainers, but don’t forget the other fluids, such as brake, clutch, any other hydraulic fluid, as well as radiator and final drive, if applicable. Most bike manufacturers recommend this be done every two years or 20,000 miles. If you decide to do this yourself, make sure you bleed the air completely out of those systems, especially the brakes. Air in the lines will keep your brakes from operating. Not a good thing to happen when you’re approaching a stop sign.

If your bike is chain-driven, check the chain for condition, lubrication (if required), and proper tension.

My Favorite Songs (Some of them, anyway)

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I was asked the other day what my favorite songs were. That took some thought. A tour of my iPod reveals a cornucopia of styles and genres, from classical to country and just about everything in between. So to try to narrow down some 800 songs to a few proved to be a challenging effort. Nevertheless, I persisted and came up with these, in no particular order.

Mahler’s “Resurrection” (the last 8 minutes).

This massive piece, written for orchestra and choir, is long (the 5th movement alone is 37 minutes long) but dramatic. Mahler’s pieces require augmented orchestras and choirs, but in this case it’s definitely not overkill. In the final movement, the conversation between the orchestra, the soloists, and the choir build to a climax that will put goosebumps on a person. It is a heroic affirmation of the Christian principle of eternal life, given voice by these words:

“What was created
Must perish,
What perished, rise again!

Cease from trembling!
Prepare yourself to live!

O Pain, You piercer of all things,
From you, I have been wrested!
O Death, You masterer of all things,
Now, are you conquered!

With wings which I have won for myself,
In love’s fierce striving,
I shall soar upwards
To the light which no eye has penetrated!


Its wing that I won is expanded,
and I fly up.
Die shall I in order to live.


Rise again, yes, rise again,
Will you, my heart, in an instant!
That for which you suffered,”

And with a tear-producing emotion, the choir cries triumphantly:

My Father's Hat*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

June 20, 2010
as "Tip Your Hat to Dad On His Special Day"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

The relationship between fathers and sons is a complicated one. For most of us, our Dad was a towering figure; the source of unquestioned wisdom and authority. We loved him, and yet feared him, or rather, feared that we would be measured and found lacking in his eyes. The good ones taught us how to be men, stressing the importance of integrity, honesty, fidelity, and inner strength. We learned from them how to treat our wives, with respect and dignity.

They made it look easy, but it wasn’t until we became fathers ourselves that we discovered how hard it was to be “Dad.”

My father died in the spring of 2004 from a host of ailments. He was a man of immense dignity and intelligence; a minister who had taken the Word to remote jungles in Africa, the hinterlands of a dozen Asian countries, and across the Iron Curtain during a time when people of faith were being imprisoned and even executed. And this after serving in the Navy on U-boat patrol in the North Atlantic. He lived a full life, touching the lives of thousands. My sister and I still feel his loss deeply, but at the same time we recognized his passing as a healing. He was in Heaven, released from his pain, and reunited with my mother and step-mother, both of whom had died of cancer.

In the days following the funeral, it was our sad duty to collect his belongings. One afternoon, as I was going through his clothes, I found his hat. Dad wasn’t much of a hat man after the popular Fedora of the ‘50s and ‘60s faded from fashion, but in his final years, he had often worn this one. And as I gently ran my hands across the surface, I knew I had to keep it.

What I Did Next Summer

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Outside my window, the snow is still flying thick and heavy, born by powerful winds.  There's a fire in the fireplace, and the room is filled by the ticking of the mantle clock.  Yet, my thoughts are not on the storm outside.  A road atlas lies opened in my lap, my eyes carefully following the colorful lines as they meander across the land.  I am confident that this winter will end, and spring will arrive, with warm sunshine, soft breezes, and the call of the open road.

My health has not been good this winter, but I am feeling better.  But it has been a reminder that time is passing, and the years are piling up.  I sense that there may not be many more motorcycle seasons remaining.

So, here I sit, perusing the maps and planning my trips for the summer.

In years past, such sojourns have involved pretty long distances, at least 4 to 5 thousand miles.  But this year, I'm thinking  a few shorter trips instead.

Random Thoughts, the Sequel

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

More random thoughts from inside a blizzard...

One of the frustrating things about this winter is that it doesn't seem to be ending.  By this time of the year, I would've expected more 40-degree days, perhaps even a brief surge into the 50s.  But instead, we remain in the 20s and for the third time this month a blizzard is raging outside my windows.  I'm glad now that I put my motorcycle in storage.  If I had to look at it everytime I went to the garage, I think I'd truly be insane by now.

Despite the weather, the folks around here are bearing up quite nicely.  There are a few grumps here and there, but mostly people remain upbeat.  We all have a deep and abiding faith that spring will come.  Some day.

The day before yesterday, the skies cleared and the winds died down.  That day, I wore street shoes into work instead of snow boots.  I have to admit that it was kind of a nice thing to feel fresh air on my ankles again.  Sort of liberating, in a black sock kind of way.

I'm in my third week of cardiac rehab.  Every day, I'm told to slow down and take it easy, but I'm feeling very impatient with the pace of things.  Which is strange, because on those days that I've really pushed it, I end up with some very uncomfortable consequences, like palpitations and some chest pain.  I'm old enough to know better, but there seems to be within me a sense that time has become a thing of essence, that I can't afford to slow down and pace myself.  I  have no idea where this feeling comes from.  And I have to admit to some disquiet as to it's possible source.

Last night, Tweeter jumped up on the couch and laid down, with his head resting on my leg.  I was almost overcome by a feeling of peace and contentment through his simple act of pure companionship.

Next Blog...And The Next...And The Next...

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A Blog is a wonderful thing.  I think it may go down as one of the most impactful inventions of the information age.  This is, after all, where we  bloggers regularly expose our innermost thoughts and whims, our joys and sorrows; where we "talk" about the things that ignite our passions.  Even when immersed in crafting my next post, I found myself wondering what other people were doing with their pages.  Lately, I've been making use of the "Next Blog" link that appears at the very top of my page, a neat little squib provided us by the good folks at Blogger. 

I've written quite a bit about the journey of life that I find myself on.  I find that I deal with life's upsets a little better if I imagine these things to be mere mile posts along the road I travel.  And like any trip up or down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, if I can put these posts in my rear view mirror, I can keep everything in perspective.  Once a thing is done, it is done.  Nothing can change what happened; you have only the future with which to craft and shape your path.

So, on several occasions, I've gone to that link and taken another kind of journey.  However, this is not a journey about me, but rather about the people and families I meet as I skip through all these blogs.

Courageous Canines and Fearful Felines*

Morley's Dog

*Somerset, PA Daily American, May 8, 2010

as "Dogs: The Noble Species"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In the middle of a mini-park along Market Street in Johnstown, Pennsylvania is the memorial to Morley's Dog.  This bronzed life-sized statue of a French Bloodhound has been the source of a host of tales, from the heroic to the mundane.  In the movie "Slap Shot" the dog was credited with having saved his master, or several people during the Great Flood of 1889.  The urban legends that surround this iconic statue have seemed to multiply over the years, but the current definitive "truth" is that the dog was never real to begin with. 

It seems that a Johnstown resident named James Morley, a Bethlehem Steel executive, purchased the original statue and had it placed in his yard.  During the flood, the statue was washed from it's resting place, ending up in the massive pile of debris at the stone railroad bridge, where it was retrieved and put back.  The hero legend gets confused with a true hero dog, a Newfoundland named Romey.  During the flood, the Kress family was trying to climb to the roof of their home to escape the roiling waters.  Mrs. Kress and one of their children, along with one of their servants, were all swept from the roof.  Romey dived into the water and saved all three of them.

This is a common story.  Over the centuries, there have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories of dogs risking and even losing their lives in defense of their owners.  I found a website, http://www.dogguide.net/25-hero-dogs.php that contains the stories of 25 such hero dogs.  I won't steal the site's thunder by copying those stories here.  You have the link, I encourage you to follow it.

Dogs have always seemed to have a streak of nobility.  Even in fiction, dogs are regularly portrayed heroically.  Argos, the faithful companion of Odysseus, Jack London's Buck from "Call of the Wild," Laura Ingalls Wilder's protective Bulldog, Jack, and of course, the legendary Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin. 

In our house, we are "protected" by a scrappy little terrier of uncertain parentage whom we call Tweeter.  He is enormously affectionate and (to use that overexposed descripter) disarmingly cute.  He is usually friendly and regularly charms the socks off of everyone he meets.

But even in his abundant good nature, he seems to be convinced that he is the first line of defense of our household.  We live on an alley, and people who walk or drive by are notified by his ferocious and persistant bark that he is on duty.  The mail carrier has given him his own name:  The Carnivore.  I don't know what the source of the enmity is that dogs seem to have for these harmless blue-suited public servants, but Tweeter goes absolutely bazonkers when he hears the mail slot open by the front door.

Top Ten Ways to Know You've Had It With Winter*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 21, 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Top Ten ways to know you’re done with winter.

10. You had to Google “Sunlight.”

9. In your nightmares, you’re being chased by evil snow plows.

8. Your wife caught you sitting on your motorcycle and saying “Vroom! Vrooom!”

7. You’ve given up getting mad at the borough plows for blocking the driveway.

6. You’ve developed a latent hostility towards Florida and California.

5. 30 degrees feels warm.

4. You think snowflakes are actually space invaders.

3. You dug through 58 inches of snow to remind yourself what grass looks like.

2. You went out to the garage and fired up the lawn mower “just for old time’s sake.”

And the number one way you know you're done with winter...

Your new name for the WJAC-TV Severe Weather Team is...

(Drum Roll)

The Three Horsemen of the Snowpocalypse.

The Great Wall of White

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

As I look out the window, I see that the hillside a quarter-mile away has once again gone opaque. 

Snow.  Again.

The Laurel Highlands normally gets a lot of snow, anywhere from 60 to 120 inches per winter season.  But this year has been something special.  After a fairly normal fall (first snow fell from the sky around mid-October), late January and February have become a monster.  We've had three major snowstorms which have left a total of 58 inches in my front yard, and if the forecast holds, we'll pick up another 12 inches over the next two days.  The long-range trends into mid-to-late March don't look pretty.  In fact, as the ice melts on the Great Lakes, we'll probably see quite a bit more before it finally ends.

(For a quick look, go to http://galerie-de-couey.blogspot.com/)

I like snow (or at least I used to), but even I have to admit to the massive inconveniences we face this year.  The plows have been very efficient, but there's no place left to put what they plow.  Dump truck drivers have enjoyed a bit of a bonanza as they have been pressed into service hauling snow out of the boroughs and into the countryside, and into the miriad of rivers in this area.

Destiny and the Wheel of Choice*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat April 18, 2010
as "Destiny and Wheel of Choice"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

All kids at some point dream about what they’d like to do when they grow up. I remember running through the normal male choices of astronaut, football/baseball, cop, fireman, helicopter pilot, etc. For girls, according to a study done by CNN in 2005 (the latest study I could locate on the Internet) their top three choices were teacher, lawyer, and doctor, along with nurse, fashion designer, scientist, writer, veterinarian, and artist. These choices flashed through our adolescent heads as we tried them on to see how they’d fit. At that time, we didn’t have to choose; time was on our side, so we were free to audition a lot of options. But at some point in our lives, it becomes necessary to make that choice.

The great thing about deciding on a career is that we are free to change it, and we often do. Multiple times, according to some researchers.

I’ve had three separate careers. Ten years in the Navy, 11 years with Caterpillar, and now with the Intelligence Community. In many ways, this path typified the path of many of my contemporary Boomers. The days when your career was tantamount to a marriage, staying with a single company for 30 or 40 years are past. Mobility is the new byword.

Random Thoughts from a Midwinter's Eve

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I wonder who’s going to be the first to mass-produce a hybrid (gas-electric) motorcycle? The time would seem to be right, and frankly, I’m getting tired of seeing electric motorcycles that are only the size of trail bikes. How about something for the real world? Like a hybrid Gold Wing. Honda, are you listening?

A fire in a fireplace can be hypnotic. There’s something so soothing about watching the flames dance over and amongst the logs while the cold winds blow against the windows.

When I first climb in bed, our cat jumps up and curls up on my chest, staring at me from inches away. I’m curious whether it’s because she really likes me, or because I’m just warm furniture on a cold night.

The Newest Good Old Days

"Book 'em, Danno!"

Publicity Still

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Every generation can identify something that defines them. It could be an event, or an historical benchmark, or the shift of a cultural paradigm that has shaped the environment in which they lived. The Civil War, The Gay ‘90s, The Roaring Twenties, The Great Depression, both World Wars, the Cold War, the list goes on and on.

The generation called the Baby Boomers occupies a unique niche in American cultural history. The Boomers bridged the gap from the post-war 1950’s, through the Space Age and civil rights movement of the 60’s, Viet Nam, and the explosion of the information age. But the one thing that has dominated our lives was the technological development of Television.

Our generation became the beneficiary of what I have come to call “The Instant Age.” For the first time, people had near-instantaneous access to events around the world. Images of coups in small, remote countries flowed to us as easily as did the local weather report. And as antennas gave way to cable and satellite, news became even more accessible. The knowledge about events around the world was just a remote click away.

But television was, at it’s genesis, an entertainment medium. The previous generation, confined to radio, had to use their imagination to invent the images suggested by the programs they heard. But with this new gadget, sound and images flashed in front of us, requiring very little brain work. Yet, the programs provided to us were interesting, even fun. Variety shows, evolved from Vaudeville, were the first successful shows. Then came situation comedies, such as the iconic “I Love Lucy” and hour-long dramas like “Ben Casey” and “Highway Patrol.” As audiences became more sophisticated, the shows evolved in content, color, and special effects. Over the decades, the shows we watched as children have stayed with us, providing the storylines and catchphrases that became the soundtracks and screenplays of our lives.

Scribophile: Learning How to Swim with the Sharks

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Freelance writing can be a universe of contradictions. You want a paying gig, but you want to retain your independence. You want a steady stream of projects, but you’d like to work at your pace and schedule. You want people to read your stuff, but you’re terrified of critics. And while you always work to refine your art, you still consider yourself to be the second coming of Hemingway.

It’s a crowded marketplace. There are tens of thousands of freelance opportunities out there, but there are tens of millions of competing hopefuls as well. In a perfect world, our doorsteps would be the battleground as reps from Random House, Harper Collins, and Simon & Schuster engage in fisticuffs over our book rights. But let’s be honest. This is not a perfect world; if it were, there would be no need for writers.

The Hell of Haiti

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

On January 12, 2010, a massive 7.0 earthquake hit the nation of Haiti. As is usually the case in a country with widespread poverty, irresponsible government, and no construction codes, the devastation was widespread, the death toll could be as high as 100,000. The government, barely functional in the best of times, has collapsed, emergency services nonexistent. People were left buried in collapsed buildings with no one but their neighbors to help them. Violence has begun as criminal gangs fight for control over scarce resources. It is, in a word, a mess, one that won’t be cleaned up for months, perhaps years. And the repercussions for Haiti and the rest of the Western Hemisphere will resonate for decades.

But the harsh reality is that the people of Haiti have been living with disaster on a daily basis for decades.

For a very long time, Haiti has been the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. The economy has forever been a basket case. The government, with a history of coups and counter-coups, has been infected with corruption and staffed by people for whom the welfare of their countrymen is an alien concept. There is no health care, except what can be offered by NGOs with very limited resources. HIV has been rampant in the country for as long as anyone can remember. Food is scarce, water always suspect. And if that weren’t bad enough, drug traffickers are using Haiti and the neighboring Dominican Republic as a waypoint for drug shipments between South and North America. The introduction of drug money into this penniless nation has made the corruption problem even worse.

Complacency...And The Choice*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat

February 28, 2010
as "Not Going to Waste Third Chance at Life"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It started as an ordinary day. I woke up, got ready for work, ate some breakfast, and headed out for my 30-minute commute to Johnstown. I was looking forward to the weekend and the big motorcycle show in DC.

As I walked up Market Street, I began to feel a dull ache in my chest. I paused briefly at the Vine Street intersection, and the pain faded a bit. I was trying to hold onto the shreds of denialism, but it was becoming difficult. I had to stop twice more, once at Main, and in front of Gallina’s as the pain spread into my shoulders and arms. By then, I had to finally admit to myself that this was no passing malady. The pain was familiar, having experienced it once before.

In the Spring of 2003, I ended up in the hospital with similar chest pains. A heart catheterization opened up and stented two blocked arteries. During the procedure, though, my heart quit and while the team worked feverishly to bring me back, I paid a brief visit to a land of tunnels and white lights.

Now, feeling that familiar sensation again, my discomfort began to turn to fear.

Our "Normal" Winter

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It’s a well-known fact of human interaction that if one brings up the weather, a conversation will almost always ensue. Since it is the one element of life we all share equally, it is the perfect icebreaker.

This winter, especially so far, has been the inspiration for a lot of conversations. There have been famous individual storms in history (The Blizzard of ’93, for example) but the bad weather that has rolled across most of the U.S. this time around has been steady and relentless. Literally thousands of low temperature and snowfall records had been set even before the New Year. In the southeast, the entire citrus crop is at risk from temperatures that have plummeted as far as the mid-twenties, sometimes for several days in a row. Colorado Springs, Colorado announced in December that they would no longer be plowing suburbs because they had already run through almost the entire snow removal budget. In the Northern Plains, incessant snow, high winds, and temperatures going as low as 30 below zero Fahrenheit has resulted in a winter that’s beginning to sound like one of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books.

Weather is not climate. Weather happens over a period of days, while climate is measured across hundreds of thousands of years, so to say that this harsh season is proof that the planet is cooling is premature. We did have a very comfortable summer, at times even distinctly chilly. Weather is also cyclical. Here in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands, we’ve enjoyed at least 5 relatively mild winters in a row. Normally, Johnstown receives around 55 inches of snow while Somerset, 30 miles south and 500 feet further up, averages around 100 inches per season, “season” being the operative word. Winter snowfall is measured from December 21 through March 21. But those totals don’t count the snow that, around here, can fall as early as mid-October and as late as mid-May. So even “official” totals can be a bit misleading. The National Weather Service warned us early on that this year we would be enjoying a “normal” winter for the mountains.

Hero*

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

(Photo on hundreds of websites without attribution)

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, January 18, 2010

as "America is Strongest When it Stands United"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

America in 1954 was a segregated nation, and nowhere more oppressive than the south. Years of systematic and institutionalized racism had fueled the anger and frustration among black Americans. The brutal murder of 14-year-old Emmet Till, followed by the astonishing acquittal of the two murderers (who later admitted their guilt), pushed that rage to the breaking point. The Civil Rights Movement in America had begun. All that was required was the right person to provide its unifying national voice.

In 1955, a young charismatic Baptist Pastor in Montgomery, Alabama with a brand-new PhD, led a boycott of that city’s bus system after a courageous woman named Rosa Parks was arrested for refusing to give up her seat to a white man. Through his gift of powerful oratory and his genius for organization, he united blacks and kept them faithfully holding the line for almost a year. With the bus system on the brink of bankruptcy, the city then admitted defeat, vacating the segregation laws.

This was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s first successful action in the struggle to come. Following the bus boycott, he organized the Southern Christian Leadership Council, providing him a strong organization in the south, and through the power of the new medium of television, access to a national audience as well. Over the next 12 years, he became the face and voice for racial justice. No one, either before or since, has galvanized social and political forces in the way he did. In so doing, he forever altered the American cultural, economic, and political landscape.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm..."

Graph by Dr. J. Storrs Hall, Foresight Institute

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

I've stayed (mostly) clear of the climate debate on this blog, mainly because opinion on the issue is so politically polarized.  People are yelling at each other, but nobody's listening.  And what's worse, people are utterly unwilling to critically examine the conclusions they spew. 

The release of emails from the CRU and the refusal of other researchers to allow public access to the research and methods underlying their work seems to have revealed a science bureaucracy and a compliant press intent on solely political motives, ignoring the voices of the 31,000 scientists who disagree.  Also, the revelation that the IPCC's findings on global warming came not from the scientific method, but an undergraduate's research paper.  This whole mishmash has, in my mind, called into question the entire basis for the conclusion of Anthropogenically-caused Global Warming (AGW), and its adherents who seem far more intent on destroying the economies of western nations. 

I've looked at data from both sides, but this chart, based on NOAA ice core data showing the temperature history going back some 425,000 years, is too compelling to ignore. 

The Battle of Gettysburg

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Between July 1 and July 3, 1863, the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania was the scene of what many historians call the pivotal battle, and the turning point of the Civil War. On this ground, the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia under the command of the legendary Robert E. Lee and the Union Army of the Potomac, under the command of General George Meade, met in a bloody fight, the result of which changed history. After three days of unremitting bloodshed, the two armies quit the field, having lost some 57,000 of their comrades dead, wounded, and missing. It was a battle characterized by bad strategy and stubborn leadership at the top, indescribable heroism in the ranks, and unbelievable luck and timing.

The battle was framed by events in the spring of that year. In May, Union and Confederate forces clashed at Chancellorsville, Virginia. The Confederates, as always, were outnumbered. Nevertheless, Lee divided his smaller force, sending Stonewall Jackson against the Union right flank. The Union 11th Corps under General Oliver Howard had been poorly deployed and were unprepared to meet an attack. The shocking appearance of the large Rebel force resulted in shock that quickly turned to widespread panic. They broke and ran. This attack sealed the victory for Lee. Unfortunately, even though they won the battle, the South lost General Jackson to friendly fire, as he was returning to his lines after reconnoitering the Union position. His eventual death from those wounds deprived Lee of a brilliantly aggressive battlefield commander, a loss that would prove pivotal at Gettysburg two months later.  In a surprising move, Lee appointed J.E.B. Stuart, his brilliant and colorful cavalry commander to take command of Jackson's troops.  Stuart proved his abilities as a professional soldier, performing brilliantly.

In June, Lee embarked on an invasion of the North. The Army of Northern Virginia marched through the Shenandoah Valley, using the Blue Ridge Mountains and Stuart's cavalry to shield their movements. Up to that point, the Union Army had proven to be slow to react and even slower to move. Lee counted on that temporary paralysis to allow him to advance unchallenged. By June 28, Lee’s forces were stretched out on a 55-mile arc from Chambersburg, PA to the outskirts of Harrisburg, the Pennsylvania state capital, a line that roughly follows the modern route of I-81. On that day, however, Lee and his “Old Warhorse” James Longstreet, received information that not only was the Union Army on the move, but were perilously close. Considering his options, Lee looks at a map, and seeing a farm town with a large network of roads, issues orders for his Army to concentrate there. The town was Gettysburg.

The Day of Dilemma

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

In the weeks prior to last Sunday, I experienced the growing realization that I faced a dilemma of major proportions, trapped between two competing loyalties.

I grew up in the Kansas City area, becoming a Chiefs fan when the team arrived in 1963 from Dallas. I was passionate in my support of the team, remaining loyal even during the crushing poverty the team experienced in the ‘80’s. The Chiefs began winning in the ‘90’s, but it was still annual exasperation and heartbreak as they never made it past the AFC Championship game.

In 2004, I moved to Pennsylvania, where I found myself unable to resist the Pittsburgh Steelers. I suppose it was natural. The Steelers and the Chiefs share some common attributes. Both are family-owned, The Rooneys and the Hunts beloved in their respective communities and supported by a fan base whose passion approaches religiosity at times. Both have a rich history and tradition. But the Steelers have won the Super Bowl twice in the last four years. The Chiefs haven’t even been to the Big Game in forty years. And the last three years have been exquisite agony.

So I am a guy who sports both Black and Gold, and Red and Gold with a clear conscience; you could call me ambi-teamdrous. Up until Sunday, it wasn’t a problem. The two don’t play in the same division, and due to the vagaries of the schedule, there never seemed to be time when I had to root for one against the other. But Sunday changed all that.

Meteorologist Jokes

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 And now for something completely eclectic...

How come it never rains inside a barn?
It's a stable atmosphere.

What did the Irish meteorologist name the stream behind his house?
The Mary O'Donnell Flow

What's the wierdest kind of snow?
Lake effect.  Because it can be Erie.

What kind of atmosphere exists in a theater during a chick flick?
A cry-osphere.

What does a meteorologist call the "Man Space" in his house?
The Him-osphere

What do you call a divorce lawyer's office?
The Exosphere.

What do you get if you're too slow in changing a diaper?
The jet stream.

What do meteorologists get after a long night of tacos and bad tequila?
Rear flank downdrafts and backing winds.

What do you call a kid's room?
Mess-o-sphere

Why did the meteorologist paint a big blue "L" on his house?
He wanted it to be an area of low pressure.

When is the monsoon?
Before the mon-later.

The First Snow*

*Somerset, PA Daily America, November 30, 2009

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

The days that populate the time between the last of the fall leaves and that first snow are bland and colorless. Bare-limbed trees stand watch over fields of grass, dead and browned; no flowers bloom. The wind, delightfully cool during October, now blow cold, every breath containing sharp edges. Even on the sunniest of those ever-shortening days, it is a monochrome landscape; a world cast in sepia tones. But, the arrival of that first blanket of snow softens and brightens the world. Dull brown is covered by brilliant white and the earth becomes beautiful.

There’s something marvelously magical and exciting about the first snowfall of the season. You see it first as an occasional white streak on an otherwise dreary day. Then, a few more flutter down, and eventually, the very air becomes alive. The ground turns white and the world is transformed.

Snowfall is curiously hypnotic. Rarely do the flakes fall straight down. They flutter and dance in response to the unseen winds, even moving upwards close to buildings. They seem to reflect the moods of the storms that create them. When the winds are high, the flakes move in urgent angles, seemingly in a hurry to reach some unknown destination. Yet, on calm nights, they drift down softly, even dreamily to land soundlessly on the blanket of white that waits to receive them. Even though they share paths and directions en masse, each individual flake still possesses an independence of movement, unlike their warmer cousins the raindrops which always fall drone-like in straight lines. But, whatever the mood, whatever the pace, I am ever drawn to the window to watch, lost in fascination. It is grace and artistry as only Nature can produce.

The excitement of this event touches us all. For children, the sight of snowfall brings bright anticipation of sledding, snowmen, snowball fights, and the possibility of a precious day of freedom from school. Even adults feel changed. As jaded as we would like to pretend to be, the arrival of snow breaks up the daily routine in the most delightful ways. Our daily commute, having been Xeroxed into dull routine, becomes a challenge, even an adventure. Upon our arrival at work, the very air seems alive with talk of the weather. Everyone has a story to tell. Throughout the day, we sneak glances out the window, gauging the accumulation and wondering silently, perhaps hopefully, if The Boss might cut us loose early. Most times, when the storm ends relatively early, we all feel a bit let down by the return to normality. But once in a while, the snow keeps coming and we are left with a world transformed.

Lunch and the Lunch Thief*

*Waterbury, CT Republican-American, November 18, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Like most workplaces, we have a breakroom, within which resides two refrigerators. They are placed there for the benefit of employees who bring lunches that might prove inedible after four hours in a desk drawer. In normal terms, the ‘fridge is one of the last refuges of safety and security. One can breeze through in the morning, drop the plastic discount store bag in an open spot, and proceed to the workstation with that confident feeling that your food is safe and secure.

A bag lunch is, naturally, an investment. You have to get up early enough (or stay up late enough) to make the sandwich, or package the leftovers, adding the bonus apple or thing of yogurt. (If you have a better name for those concave foil-topped plastic contraptions, let me know.)

The point being, time was taken; effort was expended. And when the noon hour arrives, there is a certain level of anticipation, even satisfaction in retrieving and consuming our custom-built repast.

But lurking among us are the lowlifes; the scum of the workplace; those whose own needs trump all others. They usually strike on bad weather days. They had planned to go out, but when visiting the window and seeing the driving rain, the blistering heat, or the biting wind, chose to be cowards to the elements.

These are the lazy; the slovenly; the careless individuals who went to bed too late, blithely assuming they’d have time to make lunch in the morning, only to sleep in just a little too long. This is the person you picture sprinting out the door, tie in one hand, electric razor in the other while doing the hop-along-tie-the-shoe-on-the-run thing, and turns a routine commute into something more suitable for Daytona or Indianapolis.

Flight 93: The Power of Unity*

November 7, 2009: The Dream Becomes Reality

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, and National Park Service website (www.nps.gov/flni)

November 12, 2009

as "People Bound By a Cause Can Achieve Great Things"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

It was a beautiful day, in many ways reminiscent of another perfect day, an early September morning in 2001. An impromptu speaker’s platform was set up in front of a line of flags, standing stiffly upright in the brisk wind, a familiar feature of this sacred valley. A singular group of people had gathered on this sunny day. It was a crowd whose members numbered among the famous and the mostly incognito. But every person there, despite their evident diversity, shared a common link.

Saturday, November 7, 2009, was a day when a dream ended, and reality began. Construction of the Flight 93 Memorial has officially begun.

For most of the past 8 years, a highly dedicated coalition of people have worked tirelessly, sweating blood as they surmounted innumerable hurdles. Working together, they survived unending frustration and celebrated each hard-won victory. It is an interesting collection of people. A task force and a commission made up of those with political power and personal influence; who possessed the "juice" to get things done. It also included stalwart members of the National Park Service, a few helpful volunteers, and a corps of dedicated Ambassadors, proudly wearing those sky-blue shirts. And at the heart of it all, a collection of families, all linked by a terrible personal tragedy experienced on the canvas of a larger day of Infamy. Together these remarkable people shared a dream; a dream to build a lasting memorial to 40 ordinary people who, in the face of terror and violence, stood together and fought back. On a dark day, they provided a ray of light; the light of unity, of courage, and of sacrifice.

"On My Honor;" Reflections on a Boy Scout's Life*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, January 31, 2010
as "Boy Scout's Lives Shaped in Honor and Courage"

*Waterbury, CT Republican-American, February 20, 2010

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

In 1909, a publisher from Chicago, W. D. Boyce, on a visit to England, encountered a Boy Scout. As they spoke, the American was deeply impressed by the philosophy which had guided the youngster’s development. Upon his return to America, he incorporated the Boy Scouts of America. It was Deputy Chief Scout Executive George J. Fisher in 1937 who articulated their goal:

"Each generation as it comes to maturity has no more important duty than that of teaching high ideals and proper behavior to the generation which follows."

The BSA’s current mission is "to prepare young people to make ethical and moral choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the values of the Scout Oath and Law.”
I was a Boy Scout, an Eagle, and a proud one. I remember with great clarity the moment that medal was bestowed. It was the first meaningful thing I‘d done in my life.

Though that moment lies almost 40 years in my past, the important things Scouting taught live within me still.

A Good Time In Vegas Doesn't Have To Be A Gamble

Vegas!

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 

As the plane banked into it's final turn, the wing dipped and revealed below a glittering carpet of lights. Unlike the airborne views of other cities, these lights didn't merely glow; they danced, making the cityscape come alive. A few minutes later, the wheels galumphed onto the runway and the overhead speakers announced: "Welcome to Las Vegas!"

Variously called "Sin City" or "America's Playground," Las Vegas has always seemed to exist in its own continuum. Regardless of events occurring in other places, boom or bust, war or peace, this oasis of neon in the middle of a very dark desert glittered without pause. I suspect that other-worldly quality is one of the reasons Vegas remains today a favored tourist destination. Yet even Vegas has felt the pinch, although you have to look hard to find the signs. Unemployment has soared to over 13%, due mainly to the suspension of the construction of several large developments. Even the entertainment industry has seen jobs dribble away. And yet, even when facing these difficult times, Vegas still manages to flash it's trademark diamond-studded smile.

The Gift of Life

Big, Big Grampa, Little Bitty Baby

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

For the last seven months or so, we've been caught up in the anticipation attendant to the birth of a grandchild. Our oldest daughter announced the coming event, not with a phone call, but in true 21st century style, via Facebook.

Through the intervening months, she's kept us up to date with her progress. Her husband was medically discharged from the Army and they left North Carolina for California with their car and a U-Haul truck stuffed with their worldly belongings. The pittance the Army advanced them for the trip ran out in Albuquerque, New Mexico, prompting a frantic phone call and some hurried negotiations with Western Union. Despite the hiccup, they eventually reached the Golden State and into the welcoming arms of his family. She made contact with her new doctor, and things looked good.

She went into labor on a Saturday, 10 days early. About 8 hours later, she gave birth to a girl, 4 lbs 9 ozs tiny. Zoe, as she was named, had eating problems initially and spent her first two weeks in the Neonatal ICU. At one point, the doctors called in a geneticist. She ran tests and a week later, dropped a bomb on this young family.

Hibernation and the Motorcycle

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

 
The wind blows stiff and cold. The skies are leaden, casting the world in a sort of gloomy semi-darkness. The warm days of summer, and even the sparkling days of fall seem distant. I, like millions of other motorcyclists, stand mute and sad in the garage, having come face to face with that depressing reality. It’s time to put the bike away.

I’ve lived in many places, the last one in Missouri. Winters there mimic the ones here in Pennsylvania temperature-wise, but get far less snowfall. But around here, that first accumulating snow can come as early as mid-October. And once the road crews lay that thick layer of sand, salt, and cinders on the roadways, riding season is officially done. Even on those rare days when the sun shines and the temperatures flirt with the upper 40’s, all that stuff on the pavement renders riding a hazardous undertaking. One of the worst feelings for a rider is to be leaned into a curve and hear that tell-tale zetz as the back wheel slides out from underneath, sending you and the bike skidding wildly across the oncoming lane and into a culvert.

With those dangers in mind, the prudent ones among us go through this annual ritual of hibernating the bike, and the first taste of separation anxiety.

Tool Time*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, March 21, 2010
as "Handy Man in Need of Repair Man"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

There are certain expectations that go along with being a man. Most I fulfill with ease. However, where home improvement is concerned, I definitely fall short of the mark.

Most men yearn to build, or at least remodel. There’s something about tools that awakens the primal urges buried deep within our DNA. All of us have experienced the sensuous power of the drill, or the circular saw. For men, standing in front of a fully stocked tool chest is like standing before the gates of Heaven. “I am Man; Watch me Build.”

Traditionally, sons learn from their fathers. This is accomplished by the father hijacking a perfectly good Saturday, and putting the son to work. I was raised by a father who hired repairmen. About the only thing I ever did that even qualified as home improvement was change the furnace filter. So while my contemporaries labored and learned alongside their fathers, I coasted blithely through my life, content to watch my Dad hire contractors and service people.

The Culture of Fear*

Sometimes, you're better off not knowing.

Photo by Thomas P. Peschak.

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 16, 2010
as "Sane Days and Peaceful Nights"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Last summer over Labor Day, our family went to Washington D.C. to take in the sites. It was warm and humid and we eagerly sought the cool air inside the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. The Smithsonian, or “America’s Attic,” is home to a seemingly infinite number of items, ranging from the historical to the merely curious. In one side gallery dedicated to diamonds, is a heavily fortified clear display case holding the legendary Hope Diamond. This huge 45.5-carat blue gem draws thousands daily, sparkling smugly and seductively behind the thick bullet-proof glass. As people cluster around the case, usually you can hear a woman say wistfully, “Honey, if you really loved me…”

This day was no different. The room was crowded, but despite the close atmosphere, no one seemed to mind. The conversations were muted, the atmosphere was calm.

Then, someone sneezed.

9/11 Anniversary Speech: “Today, We Remember”

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey




“Time is passing. Yet, for the United States of America, there will be no forgetting September the 11th. We will remember every rescuer who died in honor. We will remember every family that lives in grief. We will remember the fire and ash, the last phone calls, the funerals of the children. “

“Now, we have inscribed a new memory alongside those others. It’s a memory of tragedy and shock, of loss and mourning. It’s also a memory of bravery and self-sacrifice, and the love that lays down its life for a friend–even a friend whose name it never knew. “

- President George W. Bush, December 11, 2001

These words, spoken by President Bush, will be echoed by many this day. Nine years ago, in the space of 2 hours, the world was changed; our nation was changed; we were changed. 9/11 has become a watershed event in history, defining two separate worlds – the one before, and the one after. On that day, we were ripped from a world of the safe and familiar and plunged into another world; a world of dark uncertainty; a world dominated by shock, pain, horror…and fear. Our senses at first refused to accept the reality of the images transmitted to us, desperately hoping that the disaster unfolding before our eyes was a Hollywood concoction, or perhaps just a bad dream.

For Americans, the attacks were more than the sum total of damage and loss of life. Collectively, our myth of invincibility, our illusion of invulnerability, our delusion of safety was shattered.

But in the midst of that tragic day, a great light emerged. The darkness was dispelled, illuminating this nation from border to border and sea to sea. We, the people of the United States found our unity. For a few brief, precious moments in time, we stood shoulder to shoulder; arm in arm. We spoke with one voice. We felt with one heart.

And the world stood back in awe.

Today, we remember.

Our Journey; Our Story*

Sunset
The ending of day, the beginning of night;
A moment in time;
A moment of life.

--R. F. Couey

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, October 11, 2009
as"Everyone Has a Story to Tell"

*Ada, OK Evening News, October 11, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Recently, a legend of television journalism passed from this life. In 1968, Don Hewitt created the first “news magazine” for television, calling it “60 Minutes,” forever identified by the iconic image of a ticking pocket watch. 60 Minutes birthed the usual retinue of copycat programs, but none achieved the hard-hitting quality as the original, a power that remains undiminished today, in its 42nd remarkable season.

The stories were often complex and guaranteed to incite the righteous anger of the viewer. But however intricate the tale, Hewitt’s instruction to the producers and the reporters was deceptively simple:

“Tell me a story.”

The history of humanity is a vast collection of tapestries, upon which is recorded the journey we have all traveled, and shared. Some of these tapestries glitter with the light of notoriety and fame. Others hang muted and silent. But no matter how famous or obscure, each human has a story to tell. All these stories have in common triumph and tragedy, events that scale the heights of elation, and plumb the depths of sorrow.

Laura Ingalls and the Lotos Eaters

Laura Ingalls

Photo from her estate collection

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

I grew up a devoted fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, she of the famous “Little House” books. Those cherished tomes chronicled the nomadic life of her pioneer family in the 1870s and 1880s.

The most remarkable element is the recounting of how hard their life was. Everyone worked, even the children; and not for wages, but for the sake of survival. They endured unbelievable privations, all without the safety net we take for granted.

The work was exhausting; their pleasures simple and few. And yet the family was bound by respect, honor, and love. Parents taught solid lessons of right and wrong, which the children took to heart. They learned from them the honor-bound promise to stand on their own two feet, never living off the hard work of others.

Their life provides a sobering comparison to the standards by which we live. Even the poorest among us live in houses that would have seemed palatial to the Ingalls family. A trip to our local grocery store or food pantry in the middle of winter would have left that pioneer family goggle-eyed. Electricity is delivered to our doorstep, as is water, the freshness and purity guaranteed. And despite our whining about health care, we no longer die from those diseases that ravaged entire towns back then..

Charles worked 160 acres with two horses and a plow. Up before dawn, he broke the ground, plowed the soil, and planted the seeds. He harvested by hand all that he could before the winter closed in. He cut and stacked acres of hay, fed and watered the livestock, and took odd jobs in the nearby towns as they came available, working until it was too dark to see. All by himself.

The Ingalls’ knew the value of education, sending the girls to school, and insisting on their studying hard each night by lamplight.

The Ingalls’ would be shocked at how comparatively easy our lives are. Today, we live in houses and apartments. While they’re not as grand as we would like, they’re mansions compared to anything the Ingalls’ lived in. We don’t have to hunt to survive. We don’t have to chop wood; just turn up the thermostat. We think 8 hours is a long workday, and we complain about working weekends.

But the one thing about our modern life that would likely shock Charles and Caroline Ingalls right down to their toes is our laziness.

Boycott Illegal Drugs!!!

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Over the years, people attempting to change things they deem destructive have resorted to the practice known as the boycott.

The most well-known was the boycott of the Birmingham, Alabama bus system after Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white man. It became the focal point for civil rights activists, including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. After a year of nearly-empty busses, the bus company changed the seating policy.

Other examples of successful boycotts include:
• Companies that did business with South Africa during apartheid
• Wal-Mart and Target for allegedly selling the products of sweat shops
• Tuna fisherman for failing to protect dolphins from seining nets
• Agricultural interests for exploiting immigrant labor.

Yet, there exists today an ongoing source of human misery which has been largely ignored.

Motorcycles and the Death Wish

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey


Around my day job, I’ve become a highly-visible practitioner of the motorcycle arts. Hence, when an issue comes up concerning the sport, I become the recipient of many questions. But nothing generates conversation like an accident.

We humans are seemingly riveted by death and destruction. I think a big part of that is our fascination with the amount of destructive potential that exists in the simple act of driving down the road. Also, there is that sense of compassion for those victims who lives have been turned upside down. A motorcycle accident, however, is particularly horrifying.

In July, a motorcyclist was leaving town on a trip to Tennessee. He didn't get very far. As he approached the entrance to a shopping center, a driver turned left in front of him. The pictures in the paper were horrifying. The bike, a big cruiser, had essentially disintegrated; the rider, killed instantly. Over the next week or so, several concerned colleagues, some who had known the deceased, wanted to talk about that tragedy. Dependably, at some point, those conversations would wind around to the question, "Do you ever worry about accidents?"

I do think about accidents; all responsible riders do. In fact, one of the ways to avoid them is to think through the possibilities and plan for those situations. I don't, however, dwell on death. People burdened with that particular obsession have far more serious issues than traffic.With forethought, planning, and a lot of practice, the average motorcyclist can avoid accidents most of the time. Mostly it's the simple things, like...

The Love of a Dog

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

I've always been a dog person. While we've owned some cats (usually the result of a process of reverse inheritance), I've never been able to warm up to them in quite the same way. While dogs seem to respond to their owners with an uninhibited joy, cats are much more reserved, taking their affections on their terms. And at 54 years old, I have no patience for hard-to-get.

Train Travel*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat August 9, 2009
as "A Journey of the Soul"

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

I was sitting at my desk, contemplating an upcoming business trip to New York City. I was researching flight schedules out of Pittsburgh, adding up the hours I would need to allow, taking into account the drive over, security, and all the folderol I’d have to endure once I got there. My best guess was that this 90-minute flight would take about 8 hours to complete. Yes, I could have flown out of Johnstown to DC, but for two reasons. First off, the seats on those planes are decidedly tiny, whilst I am decidedly not. Plus, I’ve about had my fill of the roller-coaster ride I always seem to get on those flights over the mountains.

As I continued to ponder, my eyes went to the windows where outside, Johnstown lay basking under the bright sunshine of an all-too-rare perfect summer day. My gaze wandered across the rooftops, eventually resting on the train station. It took my brain a moment to make the connection, spawning a novel idea. Why not take the train? Upon researching, I discoverer that the train took about the same time as the convoluted process of flying. And cheaper, after looking at gas and tolls to and from Pittsburgh, a rental car, and parking in Manhattan (up to $50 per day at most hotels). I could catch the train one block from the office, and ride all the way into Penn Station, right near where I needed to be for my meetings. My bosses bought the idea, an easy sell since they tend to err on the side of the parsimonious.

On the appointed day, my wife dropped me off in front of the station, our goodbyes tinged with the sadness of two people grown used to having each other around. We've gone through this several hundred times, and no matter whether I am gone for 6 days or 6 months, those final moments weigh heavily upon us both.