About Me

Pearl City, HI, United States
Husband, father, grandfather, friend...a few of the roles acquired in 70 years of living. I keep an upbeat attitude, loving humor, and the singular freedom of a perfect laugh. I don't let curmudgeons ruin my day; that only gives them power over me. Having experienced death once, I no longer fear it, although I am still frightened by the process of dying. I love to write because it allows me the freedom to vent those complex feelings that bounce restlessly off the walls of my mind and express the beauty that can only be found within the human heart.

Thursday, September 02, 2010

Weather and the Mystery of What's to Come*


*Somerset Daily American
September 25, 2010
as "One For the Muse of the Changing Seasons"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Weather is the perfect conversation starter. It is without a doubt the most commonly shared element of human existence. And it doesn’t matter from where you come from, or the state of your finances, you can always talk about the weather.

Last summer, the topic was mainly about wondering when summer was going to start. This summer, we’re wondering when it’s going to finally end. There were several days in August when I wished that I could tell summer, “All right. You made your point. Now move along.” And last winter, (except for the Steelers and the Penguins) the weather was about all we ever did talk about.

There are usually three parts to that conversation:
1. What it’s like today
2. What it was like yesterday
3. What’s tomorrow going to be like?

One of the things we always try to do is outguess the forecast, usually by identifying the current trend as a precursor (or omen) of what’s to come. Thoughts of chest-deep snow and bitter cold were far, far away this summer as we staggered through the unusual heat and humidity. It was almost like we were afraid to bring it up for fear of jinxing the upcoming winter.

I’ve heard folks state with folksy certainty that a hot summer means a cold, snowy winter. And yet, these same folks were telling me last summer that because June, July, and August were so mild, the winter was going to mild. The most reliable estimate came, not from traditional lore or climate models, but from the fur on wooly-worms, which was unusually heavy and dark last year. I had another fellow tell me (with appropriate solemnity) that he’d never seen beaver lodges as thick and heavily-built as they were prior to last winter.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

An Evening at Kooser*

The Lake


The path through the forest

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 4, 2010
as "Enjoying Local Scenery"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

We often become blind to the things we see everyday, familiarity turning them into a sort of wallpaper to us; always there, but rarely noticed.

We’ve lived in the Laurel Highlands for 6 years now, the last 5 in Somerset. Upon coming here, my attention was grabbed by the things that marked significant events in the region’s past, like the Johnstown Flood Memorial and Monument and the Quecreek Mine Disaster site. My involvement with the Friends of Flight 93 group has made that cause, and those wonderful, dedicated people a big part of our lives. And yet, there are things I now realize I’ve completely missed.

Part of the pattern of our lives involves taking an evening walk with our dog, Tweeter. Somerset is a nice place to walk in the evenings. The sun is going down, and the day has moved into that long, purple twilight. Other people are walking as well, and folks come out on their porches to enjoy the cool air. It’s a quiet, peaceful time; a time when the stresses of the day are allowed to flow freely away.

And yet, walking the same blocks year after year, part of me yearns for an occasional change of scenery.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Simple Pleasures in a Complicated World*

Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
September 19, 2010
as "Enjoying the Simple Things"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

We live in a complicated world, leading complicated lives, complicated by complicated events complicating our already complicated lives. Mired in such a complicated environment, the simple pleasures become even more pleasurable.

You know what I mean. Those activities that bequeath us those precious moments when we feel like life has taken us tenderly in its grasp and holds us close, warm, protected…and loved. We feel happy and content. And, for a few moments anyway, we can set aside a world that at times feels as if it’s spinning out of control, taking us, unwillingly, along for the ride.

There are some who do gardening. I heard a lady say once, “Yes, it’s hard work at times. But all that goes away when I can see that through planting and caring for a flower, I’ve brought life and color to a bare patch of dirt. Every morning after that, I can look out my window, see that flower and know that I made a difference.”

Our pets can bring us those moments, sharing their simple and unconditional love, especially that moment when we come through the door after a particularly bad day to be “embraced” with boundless joy by a simple being whose just delighted that we’re home. Walking the dog is another simple joy. It gets us out of the house and into the sunshine. We see and talk to our neighbors, while the fluffball gets the exercise, we enjoy the peace and solace of a summer’s evening.

Monday, August 23, 2010

My Weather Rant: Raving Thoughts From a Humidified Mind*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
August 28, 2010
as "Another Snowpocalypse?"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I really like living here in the mountains. This is something that is far easier to state in August than February. Especially last February. The truth is, even as warm and uncomfortably muggy as this summer has been, it’s still a whole lot better than other places.

A couple of weeks ago, when things were really bad around here (“bad” being a purely subjective term), I was complaining about how uncomfortable it was in the house at night. All the windows were open, fans were blowing, but it still felt like Tampa.

Now we do have window air conditioners. Three, in fact. But they’re up in the attic and to be truthful, I’ve not been uncomfortable enough to motivate me to hump them down two long flights of stairs and install them. In previous summers (or at least the six we’ve been here) there just wasn’t any need. There were maybe two or three really uncomfortable days out of the whole summer, and it just didn’t seem worth all that work.

This year, its not been two or three days, it’s been two or three months of warm, sticky weather, the kind of icky air that caused us to flee Missouri and never look back. Speaking of the Show-Me State, on that day that I was griping, the heat index in St. Louis topped 115 degrees. Compared to them, this was arctic.

I’ve heard that the steady flow of moisture into the region that gave us that very forgettable winter is still in place, which is why its been so muggy. So, we have to ask ourselves if this winter, are we in for another snowpocalypse?

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Really Rapid Transit*

MagLev Bullet Train in China
Yeah.  They did.

That's 267 miles per hour.

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
October 10, 2010
as "Basic Train-ing a Joy"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

Last year, I took a train ride to New York City. The trip was…well you might call it a transportational epiphany. Looking for an alternative to air travel, I discovered, or perhaps re-discovered a far more enjoyable way to travel.

Since then, I’ve taken a couple of shorter junkets, and joined the good people of Rockwood as they celebrated the possibility of a Amtrak stop in their small town. From there, you can be in Washington DC in about 3 hours, or roughly the same amount of time it takes to drive.

On Saturday, The History Channel ran a program on high-speed rail that captured my attention.

For an hour, images of lightning-fast trains flashed across the screen. I learned that Japan has a thousand miles of rail lines exclusively for their Bullet Trains. In Europe, France and Germany both have similar fast trains, and are looking at a MagLev, or magnetic levitation train, which would rocket across the countryside at speeds over 300 mph. Even China, a nation most westerners consider primitive, has high-speed rail lines, and is building more.

But despite their high speeds, the trains have a proven safety record. In all those countries that run these trains, there has never been a single fatality. And some have been running regular schedules since the ‘80s.

So, I’m wondering, why don’t we have them here?

Other than the Acela that runs between Washington DC, Boston and New York City, there aren’t any American high-speed rail lines anywhere.

It’s no revelation how bad air travel has become. Airports are crowded, aircraft are stuffed tight, and aircrews and passengers are rude to each other, and airlines are hostile to luggage. If a customer had the option of taking a high-speed train from, say, Pittsburgh to Chicago without the hassles of airport security, weather delays, over-worked aircrews, wait times in the terminals and on the taxiways, long, long walks from arrival gates to ground transportation, and waits for luggage (when it arrives at all), who wouldn’t consider it? Imagine riding on a 200-mph train in comfortable seats with legroom, Wi-Fi, space to work, outlets for your electronics, plus being able to use your cell phone while traveling. This will pose a serious marketing problem for the purveyors of the now-hostile skies.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Speech: On the Occasion of the Sunsetting of the Flight 93 Memorial Task Force


Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Almost nine years ago, on a bright and beautiful September morning,
the world was changed;
our nation was changed;
we were changed.

It was a day of dark tragedy and destruction. And yet, in the midst of that darkness, a great light emerged. We, the people of the United States, had found our unity. For a few, brief, precious moments in time, our political differences vanished; we stood shoulder to shoulder; arm in arm. We spoke with one voice.

We felt with one heart.

Aboard United Airlines flight 93, a group of strangers also found unity; a unity of purpose. Knowing the risk, they stood together as one and fought back. And by all accounts, they almost succeeded.

The spot of earth where their plane fell almost immediately became a place of honor and pilgrimage, not only for Americans, but people from across the globe.

The Flight 93 Temporary Memorial was thus born, a purely spontaneous expression of sympathy and empathy. This memorial commemorates people from the common walk of life. They might have been strangers we brushed past on the street; neighbors from next door, or perhaps friends. Because of that, people have connected with the passengers and crew in a very personal way. I think all of us now realize that a hero is not always someone famous who walks the halls of power, but more often an ordinary person who saw a task that was greater than their fear.

Research Papers: Taming the Beast

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Research paper, term paper, thesis, dissertation, whatever term is used, it still describes the universal nightmare of just about everyone who ever sat in a classroom. The idea of this drawn-out, tortuous, labor intensive monster lurking on the academic doorstep is enough to deliver a host of sleepless nights. There are few words in the student lexicon that strike more fear into the heart.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. There is a systematic way to approach such a project that will make things less complicated and generate a quality paper.

Notice that I didn’t use the word “easy.” No matter how logical the process, a research paper is still hard work. And surprise, surprise, it’s supposed to be that way.

Language is the means by which humans convey messages and ideas. It has rules that must be obeyed. In every culture, the basic language gets altered (some would say “polluted”) by the use of slang.

The e-culture we find ourselves in today has rendered that distortion even further with the introduction of abbreviations arising out of instant messaging, and cell phone texting. When you write a paper, you need to omit slang. Slang. While it is colorful and fun, colloquial expression is inexact and certain words can have regional variations, the use of which can leave your audience completely baffled. I have a friend who is the editorial page editor of a newspaper. He moans often about the state of writing contained in the “letters to the editor” that end up in his inbox. Often, he says, “I have to send the letter or email back and ask for the writer to translate.”

As you do your research, spend some time studying the style of academic writing. Look at how sentences are constructed; how words are used. See how paragraphs are organized into ideas and how the paragraphs are knit together to craft the writer’s point of view. Yes, academic writing can be very boring to read, but that’s done on purpose. The ideas brought forth have to stand on their own merits, and not given false fronts by using emotional or excessively superlative words. If you can’t make those ideas stand on the strength of your research, then you either need more research, or a different set of ideas.

If you are able to write seriously, you will be taken seriously. If you don’t, you’ll be laughed at.
 

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Choosing...Or Not

Suzuki GS550T

BMW K75RT

Honda PC800

Kawasaki Vulcan 900LT

Soooo many bikes, soooo little time...

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Like any guy, I like to look at machines. My eleven years with Caterpillar has left me with a special appreciation for those big, brawny yellow tractors. A child of the ‘60s, I also have a soft spot for carefully restored automotive denizens from that era. A couple of months ago, I came across a pristine 1967 Corvette Sting Ray, my personal favorite, in a parking lot. I stayed there for a good 30 minutes, walking around, peering through the windows, drinking in the incredibly powerful, yet graceful lines. I couldn’t tear myself away; the owner showed up and drove away, favoring me with an understanding look. Once I got home, my wife wanted to know what took me so long. I mumbled something about traffic and long checkout lines. Somehow, I just knew she wouldn’t understand.

Even though I own a perfectly good motorcycle, that doesn’t deter me from surfing websites, checking out what else is for sale. I freely admit to a serious case of E-bay Envy.

I’ve always been a long-distance rider, preferring touring or sport-touring bikes. Now, I’ve bought my first cruiser. (Actually, my second. I dumped the first one.) It is such a different look than what I was used to. Sport-tourers are narrow and sleek. They seem to want to fly even when parked. A cruiser is entirely different; big and beefy, it’s voice a manly, hairy-chested roar when accelerating. At rest, it rumbles like a barely-stable volcano. The chrome catches the sunlight with a special gleam, those random rays of light that warm the soul of a man.

Life: It's Chapters and Verses*

Teacher, Adventurer, Sailor, Mom

In younger days,
Mom, Adventurer, Sailor, Teacher

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
September 5, 2010
as "In Book of Life, You Can't Read Last Chapter First"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A life seems very much like a book, each chapter a clearly definable segment of the journey we’ve taken.

The chapters of our child-rearing years are closed. Our adult offspring are scattered across the landscape like so many autumn leaves. This is to be expected. Coueys are sojourners by nature, afflicted with that stubborn gene which causes restlessness, itchy feet, and a yearning for far horizons.

Visits are infrequent and all too short. Grandchildren have been born, deepening the sense of separation. We do occasionally see one or two, but those moments when we all gather are rare indeed.

Children grow into adults; everybody knows this. And yet, parents still see them as kids. But there are those jarring moments when we suddenly realize that they’re adults.

Our son is a Navy Chief Petty Officer, a third-generation sailor, and a second-generation Chief. Intellectually, I know this. But seeing him in that khaki uniform for the first time was still a shock. The real jolt came a year later

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Riding and Risk*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
August 15, 2010
as "Motorcycles Can Be Risky Rides"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A couple of years ago I discovered a neat tool, part of the Google universe, called “Google Alerts.” You designate key words and an email address, and Google then searches the ‘Net 24/7 for results. As the backbone of my job is research, this has made things easier to find those needed snippets of information. Most of my alerts are work-related, but some of them are there just for fun.

One alert I titled simply “motorcycle.” My intent was to keep up to date on new developments in the industry as well as finding about motorcycle events around the nation.

However, as a by-product of that search I also get news reports of accidents as well.

I read these, not out of a prurient or morbid interest, but as a way to learn more about safe riding. Surprisingly, in these reports, it seems that most of these accidents involve factors that are in the control of the rider.

These are a representative sample:

In Clearwater, Florida, a car pulled out of a driveway on one side of a street at the same time a motorcycle pulled out from a driveway across the road, turning in the opposite direction. The two collided, the rider taken to the hospital.

Near Sacramento, California, a group of sport riders were practicing stunts on the streets of an undeveloped subdivision. One rider, after completing a trick made a sharp U-turn, turning into the path of another bike. The two collided, killing the rider of the second bike. Said one of the witnesses, "Each one of us... We got a real reality hit. We gotta think twice about everything. I told myself: I'm not riding anymore. Physically can't. Mentally can't."

Friday, August 13, 2010

A Tale of Two Cities, Two Rallys*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
August 21, 2010
as "A Tale of Two Cities' Biker Rallies"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

From August 3-8, the city of Columbia, Missouri, home to the University of Missouri, hosted the National Bikers Roundup. This is a traveling rally that annually attracts thousands of bikers. Last year’s rally, held in Atlanta, attracted around 85,000. The expected attendance at this Mid-Missouri metropolis was expected to be 35,000.

The Columbia Convention and Visitors Bureau’s executive director, Lorah Steiner, termed it “…one of the single largest events we have ever brought to the city in a concentrated period of time.” The reaction to the rally locally was apocalyptic. Even the publisher of the local paper admitted to “…a certain amount of community angst.”

We lived in Columbia for 14 years, so it was with interest that I followed the reportage via the Internet. Reader comments complained in advance about the traffic, the possible damage to the fairgrounds, the noise, an influx of drugs, guns, and other crime. When rally organizers contracted a private firm to provide security, the County Sheriff demanded that they be trained and certified. He said, “I’m not going to put two to four deputies inside an area where there’s 30,000 people unless there are additional security, medical and emergency service personnel available. This is a huge event. I don’t think people understand how big it is.”

The impending guests were called hoodlums, and compared to Marlon Brando’s “The Wild Ones.” One reader commented, “No good will come of this.”

To be fair, there was support for the rally amongst those same comments, but the general mood seemed like the city was hunkering down for an armed invasion.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Stalking Tiger*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
August 14, 2010
as "Tiger Observations"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Once upon a time, there was a Tiger. He prowled open spaces of emerald green grass, striking fear into all those who opposed him. He was so powerful that millions came to his territory, just to watch him crush his competition. At his peak, he was all-powerful, without equal; his rule over the grasslands, some said, would never end.

Then one day, the Tiger came face-to-face with the only foe that ever beat him. The face of that foe was in the mirror. The Tiger’s vanquisher proved to be the Tiger himself.

We have become jaded to stories of stars who have self-destructed. However, the most shocking story of a fall from public grace belongs to professional golfer Tiger Woods.

He always seemed to be marked for greatness. At 3 years old, he shot 48 for nine holes. He won the Optimist International Junior Championships six times. He was the youngest U.S. Junior Amateur Champion in history at 15. At 18, he was the youngest U.S. Amateur Champion ever. As an amateur at the 1995 Masters, he tied for 41st. When he turned pro in August 1996 at the age of 20, he played in 8 events, won two, and earned over $800,000, mere pocket change with $60 million in endorsement deals already in his hip pocket.

Monday, August 02, 2010

It's Never "Just a Ride"*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
August 21, 2010
as "Reasons to Ride"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

The passion for riding motorcycles is as much a spiritual thing as it is psychological. A motorcycle is often referred to as “the cheapest form of therapy” by those who have given in to that special kind of seduction. But there’s a lot of truth to that statement. Most riders treasure their rides; the best escape from the sometimes crushing pressures of daily life. Part of that has to do with the concentration required while in the saddle.

There is an inherent risk to motorcycling. Traffic, road surfaces, debris, animals, changing weather, and texting drivers are all part and parcel of the danger that surrounds us. When on the road, you can’t simmer over a bad workday, or plan the weekend construction project. Thoughts of relationships, bills, schedules, or chores have no place in the rider’s head. There’s just too much going on around to allow distractions of any kind.

The uninitiated might opine, “If that’s the case, then why ride at all?”

Listen carefully, Grasshopper.

There is a side benefit of being hyper-aware of the world around. You notice things of which you would otherwise be blinded. The breeze blowing past carries with it the scents of flowers, earth, and fresh air. The bright sunshine warms the shoulders. Above, the dome of a blue sky marks not a ceiling, but the gateway to the infinite. Rumbling along, you feel the texture of the road coming up through the handlebars and footpegs. You catch glimpses of forests, their interiors dappled with sun and leaves; fields and meadows full of grass gently swaying with the touch of the breeze. As the road rises and falls, turns and twists, you and the bike are one, feeling the rhythm of the landscape. All five senses are alive, and nature gently touches that secret poet within us all.

Yes, it is poetry; but not of words, phrases and stanzas. Rather, it’s the rhyme of senses and feelings soaring in a synchronous dance.

Friday, July 30, 2010

1966*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
August 7, 2010
as "Thinking Back About a Summer of Changes"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Most of my childhood memories have begun to dissolve into a jumble of disconnected images. If I think hard enough though, a few of those snippets will sew themselves into a mini-movie of sorts, but time has made their recollection difficult and inaccurate.

But one year seems to stand out a little more.

1966 was an integral part of that decade-long turning point we call the 60’s. Walter Cronkite was the iconic voice that brought those often turbulent stories into our homes. We got our first color TV, and the CBS Evening News was the very first color program I saw in our home. I was riveted by how different everything outside my insular little world looked, awash in colorful tints and tones.

I was eleven years old that year and at the point when I was first becoming aware of the larger world beyond. Vietnam was always the lead story on every newscast, either the war itself, or the dissident voices that were growing in protest against it. Race riots were beginning to occur in cities across America, as African-Americans reached the limits of their tolerance for unequal treatment. Dr. Martin Luther King was at the acme of his influence and prominence. The power of his words ignited those passions which had, for too long, been forced to simmer below the surface. For many southerners, the ground began to shift beneath their feet.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The New Frontier*


Image from History.com

*Somerset, PA Daily American
July 31, 2010
as "Final Frontier"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

My lifelong, I’ve been a huge devotee of space travel. I grew up riveted by the events of Projects Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. I could have recited the crews of every single manned flight the U.S. had undertaken. While there are times I can’t remember the location of my motorcycle key, the night that Armstrong and Aldrin took those historic first steps onto the lunar surface is as sharp and clear today as if it had happened yesterday.

To my young mind, it seemed natural that now that the moon had been reached, Mars would follow soon. But to my sorrow, I watched our space program shrink, put to the torch by narrow-minded political opportunists who seemed to think that cancelling a program largely responsible for a record low 3.7% unemployment rate and volcanic 8.5% economic growth would somehow help poor people. They seemed to forget that a space program not only needs rocket scientists, it also needs secretaries, welders, and janitors, mostly with contractors like North American Rockwell and Boeing. But when the space program effectively departed the marketplace, the economy tanked and unemployment exploded. America’s eyes, once lifted to the stars in triumph, were lowered in pain.

Sorry about that. Even after all these years, it still upsets me.

Finally, in this the 21st century, NASA has laid down a timetable for an ambitious program of exploration, including a permanent base on the Moon, and an eventual manned mission to Mars. But it will be a far more difficult and dangerous path than we ever thought possible.

Friday, July 23, 2010

It's All About The Journey*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
August 1, 2010
as "It's All About the Journey"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

During summer, families traditionally take to the road for those two weeks of exploration and adventure we call “vacation.” For most, this involves choosing a destination. It may be Disney in Florida or California, a resort in the mountains, or a visit with family in another city.

When I was young, our family would take trips, usually out west. I generally don’t remember the destinations. What I do remember are the journeys.

Time has become a very precious thing to us all. For that reason, vacations are planned out almost to the minute. We approach them with a list of things we want to do and the days we want to do them. The schedule becomes so tight and frantic, that some of the fun and relaxation is drained away. This has led to the oft-voiced complaint, "I need a vacation from my vacation."

Between work, freelancing, church, and taking care of a 108-year-old-house, my life is more regimented than I'd like it to be. So when I go on vacation, it’s not just to visit someplace, but to de-schedule my life; take the time to relax and breathe a little. I have coined an oft-used (perhaps overused) phrase that describes my ideal trip:

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Stuffin' Nonsense in the Closet*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
July 24, 2010
as "Stuff and Closets"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one family to dissolve the emotional bands with things which have connected them with another time and place and to assume among the powers of the earth, that it’s time to clean up the mess, with decent respect to the opinions of mankind who, accidentally or otherwise, should behold the mess.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all closets require cleaning and that even though men are created equal, women are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are absolute judgment over driving habits, no limits on shoes, and a majority of closet space.

Over the years, we acquire “stuff.” Most of the “stuff” we use often. Some were used only once, but stay around because…well…you never know when you’ll need them again. We usually store stuff in places where we’ll never find them, attics and closets, and sometimes the entire garage.

Our closet has two tiers. On my side, the upper tier holds my pants, suits, and sport coats. On the lower tier are my shirts, sweaters, and sweatshirts. (Yes I hang them up. Don’t ask why. Please.) On Cheryl’s two-thirds she also has things divided into two tiers. The system by which she makes that division is an utter mystery to me. After I hang up the clean laundry, she comes in and moves them, grumbling that I put everything in the wrong place.

There are two things in the universe I don’t understand: Quantum physics and my wife’s closet space.

A Warning for Writers: Trite Phrases and Cliches

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey


In this day and age, the epic struggle of a free-lance writer to survive the acid test of becoming eminently successful, as an overnight success, in the dog-eat-dog world of publishing stands like a stone wall across the path to achievement. At first glance, there would seem to be ample opportunity for writers. But the reality lies in marked contrast to the dream. To be perfectly frank, it leaves much to be desired.

Needless to say, the sum and substance of a writer’s muse is a reflection of their life’s path. The bone of contention of whether that reflection is marketable depends upon whether a particular emotion felt by the author can be conveyed to the reader. On the surface, a writer faces overwhelming odds in that endeavor. Even when a publisher gives the green light to a project, success is still not a sure thing. Along these lines, the writer must carry grave concerns about the universality of expression and understanding that must be part and parcel of the written word.  There is no irony here, since irony is how one fixes a wrinkly shirt.


A common fault of writers, usually those new to the game and unfamiliar with the rules of the road which define professional standards and practices, is the careless use of run-on sentences that contain more than the one idea that can usefully be contained in a shorter sentence, while extending the use of commas and semicolons as connectors that unnecessarily lengthen what should be a concise expression; a cogent thought; a model of brevity and clarity that successfully communicates to the reader in such a way that fosters full and complete communication not only from intellect to intellect, but from heart to heart, which is, simply stated, the purest form of human communication, a premium in a world of runaway hate, vitriol, and misunderstanding; the sources of human conflict, and the stone wall that stands between humanity and the often vain hope of peace and harmony.

Clear?

If previous efforts generated a low level of interest or a mixed bag of results, then the writer must be prepared in no uncertain terms to execute an about-face; to make sweeping changes to his or her’s labor of love in order to remedy the situation. In this reassessment, the writer’s point of view and the publisher’s needs are often not one in the same. In fact, the importance of a writer’s personal opinions pales into insignificance in standing before climbing the mountain of subjectivity. Yet if one is to gain some traction on this slippery slope, then the writer must drill down and synergize a different paradigm in order to gain buy-in from the reader, to be sure.  To be perfectly honest, in this pursuit, the writer must always see their glass as half-full in terms of maintaining that rose-colored view of optimism

There's no harder task than targeting an uncertain market.  The nature of the audience must be made crystal clear quick as lightning,  That particular struggle may lead to a period of flat inspiration, requiring a last-ditch effort in the wee hours of the morning to pull the project from the fire. A failure of this magnitude can leave the writer mired in the depths of despair.  These unsung heroes expected an outpouring of support only to discover that critics always go for the throat in picking the low-hanging fruit.

On more than one occasion, writers have tried to set the world on fire, to coin a phrase, utilizing tried and true formulas that may have been worth their weight in gold once upon a time, but now only deliver homogeneity which throws a stumbling block onto the ladder of success. Many a writer has emerged from such an experience much sadder and wiser at the end of the day.  Even when it happens in the morning.

But as in every endeavor, setbacks are inevitable. The career of a writer is, after all, not for the faint of heart. Rejection is not the crushing blow it is reputed to be. Editors won’t always throw a prospective writer under the bus, so they don't have to be thought of as the personification of the grim reaper. 

Okay, maybe they do.

Too many writers employ a lottery attitude, striving for quick success, a flash in the pan.  That attitude must be nipped in the bud.  A writer should rather take the slow and steady path that will win the race and result in ruling the roost at a ripe old age, left to enjoy the finer things in life.

It takes, by a conservative estimate, years, even decades to become a successful writer. Racheting up expectations early on can be destructive.  But for all intents and purposes, that challenge should be sauce for the goose, and not the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sweet success should be a festive occasion, tempered by the knowledge that the defining moment of a big paydays may be few and far between.  And even though making the big splash may occur late in life, it is still better late than never.

Every writer needs to work at their craft. To make a long story short, go at it tooth and nail, through thick and thin. Last, but not least, work like a dog, become wise as an owl, and you will emerge, tired and happy, having faced the music and able to point with pride to a body of work that will stand the test of time, leaving your contemporaries and rivals green with envy.  Notoriety and reputation are the Holy Grails of success.  Once a writer has achieved these, then the rest is the history of a brave new world.

Oh, and by the way…

Avoid, on pain of death, the use of common cliches and trite phrases.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

What if Walt Whitman Had Worn Chaps?*

Somerset, PA Daily American
July 17, 2010
as "Riding Along with Walt Whitman"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I've been reading Walt Whitman's wonderful poem, "Song of the Open Road," a magical piece of prose that speaks to the heart and spirit of all who have sought the far horizons.  In reading this, I think ol' Walt was ahead of his time.  Had he lived today, I think he would own a motorcycle. 

Always in search of ways to express the magic of the ride, I decided to play around with this poem a bit.  I didn't want to post the whole thing -- over 9 pages and 2,800 words -- but I chose verses that I thought appealed to the spirit of the ride, and the rider.  And yes, I did "update" some of the language.

Maybe I've committed an act of literary sacrilege.  I'm sure the Whitman Society would say so.  But after reading about 50 or so of his poems, and reflecting on my own 18 years of open roads, I think Walt Whitman and the modern motorcyclist would be cheerfully inclined to go together, seeking spiritual fulfillment; riding together and singing..."This Song of the Open Road"

Mounted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long path before me,
Leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth, I ask not good fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth, I whimper no more,
Postpone no more,
Need I, nothing.

Strong and content, I travel the open road
The earth expanding right and left,
The picture alive, every part in its best light.
The engine sings amid the trees, the cheerful voice of the public road.

From this hour, freedom!
From this hour, I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently but with undeniable will, divesting myself of that which would hold me.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Hard Truths and Sacred Cows*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
August 8, 2010
as "Hard Truths, Sacred Cows"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In our lives, we have come to accept some ideas as irrefutable truths. Some are ideas that have stood the test of time and research; others are accepted for no other reason than they “feel right.” Sometimes, a sacred cow has only remained sacred because nobody has studied it carefully.

For motorcyclists, one of those sacred cows is the idea that if a car turns left in front of a biker, then the car’s driver is completely, totally, 100% at fault.

Well, maybe not.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Preserving the Community Voice*

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
July 9, 2010
as "Newspapers in Battle as Technology Age Booms"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A newspaper is many things to the community it serves. First and foremost, it reports the news, chronicling the events that happen daily. Many would understand this task as a paper’s primary role. Historians certainly do. When researching an event or a place, one of their first sources is the local newspaper archives. In the almost 130 years since the famous shootout at the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona, the two local newspapers, the Nugget and the Epitaph, were invaluable at untangling the series of events that led to that 30 seconds of gunfire that forever enshrined the sepulchral name of an isolated mining camp.

When I was in my teens, my mother gave me a stack of old newspapers. Eagerly I read headlines about Pearl Harbor, and the battles in North Africa, Europe and the Far East. But of far more interest to me was the recollection of the everyday and the mundane. The price of a home, groceries, and clothes. Announcements of meetings, engagements, weddings. Stories about city council meetings and local political issues. And, of course, the breezy words of the local columnists. These stories painted a clear portrait of community life, allowing me to clearly imagine what it might have been like to live in that time and place.

A newspaper is also a public forum; a virtual speakers circle where editors, pundits, politicians, and just plain folks can air their opinions and passions. Left, right, center, radical and reactionary, all points of view are printed for posterity, fueling the community conversation.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Celebrating Freedom*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
July 4, 2010
as "Freedom, Our Greatest Strength"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Every July 4th, Americans pause to celebrate the day when our forebears declared to the world the intent to become our own nation. It is a day when we lay aside our bitter political divisions and find agreement in our mutual love of the United States of America

In a decade of service with the Navy, I visited some 22 foreign countries. I spent those times walking the back roads and barrios of far-flung places, talking to people and learning about their lives. Everywhere I went, I was always asked: “What is it like to live in America?” I tried very hard to be realistic. I talked about the problems that we face. I spoke of how expensive life is here. But I also talked about the opportunities that exist; how anyone with an idea, the desire to dream, and the willingness to work hard could succeed. The reaction was universally the same: “I dream of someday living in America.”

On a particularly brutal hot day on the dusty streets of Berbera, Somalia, an older man asked me about America. I told him my story, but he insisted that he still dreamed of some day going to America. He said, “Here in my country, I was born ordinary; I have lived ordinary; I will die ordinary. In America, all things are possible. In America, an ordinary man can become a great man. In America, I would never be ordinary.”

Comedian Yakov Smirnov, an émigré from the former Soviet Union, notes that half of the word “American” consists of two other words: “I Can.” It is this determination that marks us; it is this unbreakable faith in ourselves and our courage to risk that truly sets us apart.

America's Birthday; Our Birthday*



*Somerset Daily American
July 3, 2010
as "It's the Birthday of Our Country"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Today is the 234th birthday of the United States of America. On this day in 1776, a courageous group of patriots declared to the world that a new nation was born. They did this in the face of the most powerful nation on earth.

However, the process of forming a government and forging a nation united by one vision was a difficult journey. In the halls of congress, men debated whether we would be a nation of autonomous states, or with a strong central government leading states which would still have clearly defined rights, an argument that really wasn’t settled until the Civil War. On unforgiving fields of battle, blood was shed and men died. For a time, this nascent revolution tottered on the brink of disaster until pulled from that brink by the unbreakable will and inspirational leadership of a gentlemen planter from Virginia named George Washington.

The United States has risen to a globally dominant position. And yet, unlike empires and despots before, enemies who fought us and lost were astonished to discover that America was not only fierce and unbending in battle, but also generous and benevolent in peace.

Friday, June 25, 2010

EARTHQUAKE!!!

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

My family has lived in a lot of places over the years, one 5-year stretch which we spent in Southern California.

Southern California is a geographical euphemism for a 230-mile long by 70-mile wide stretch of prime real estate stretching from Santa Barbara to the Mexican Border. It is a beautiful, if painfully expensive place to live.

We learned quickly is that this region is not stable. The earth moves there on a regular basis, an unsettling experience, to say the least.

Now, I’ve been through thunderstorms, tornados, hurricanes, blizzards, drought, floods, heat waves and cold snaps. I think the only thing left is to be struck by lightning. Knowing this, during a thunderstorm, I find my friends moving away from me with alacrity.

But of all those events, nothing is more unsettling than an earthquake.

We think of the earth beneath our feet as solid and imperturbable. It is, after all, a planet. In addition, while you can take shelter from a storm, an earthquake leaves you no place to hide.

October 1, 1987 dawned bright and lovely in Orange County. We had taken the day off and liberated the kids from school to go to Disneyland. This is something you do to avoid the heavy crowds and long wait lines. We were getting the kids ready to go when it happened.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Biker Down! What Do You Do?*


The end of a perfect ride.

*Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
July 15, 2010
as "Biker Down!  What Do You Do?"

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
July 18, 2010
as "Bike Down; Tips to Assist at Scene"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written material only

It was a beautiful day; bright sunshine and comfortable temperatures. A line of motorcycles stretched out in front of you, thundering along roads dappled in sunlight and leaves. Suddenly, it happened. An oncoming vehicle strays across the centerline. You see a bike swerve to avoid the collision and go down. A shower of sparks flies from the sliding machine as it shreds itself all over the road. Everyone pulls over. People jump off bikes and rush toward their fallen friend. Men are shouting, women screaming; the scene has devolved into chaos. And from over the hill, you hear the unmistakable roar of a coal truck headed your way.

Summertime is the best time for group motorcycle rides. Most times, the rides are smooth and uneventful. But occasionally, it all goes sideways. In those situations, you have to act. But knowing what to do, or just as important, what NOT to do can keep a tragedy from becoming a disaster, and an injured friend from dying.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Why We Ride, the Sequel

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

There's a horizon out there.

On the far side are places I've never been...
Things I've never seen...
People I've never met...
Experiences I've never had.

All day long I ride to that horizon, freed by the knowledge
that I have nowhere to be,
and all the time in the world to get there.

There is no destination because the ride itself is the adventure.

And yet, I am driven by the desire to go there,
see that,
do that...
feel that;
The urgency of a finite life in which to explore the infinite universe.

I reach out and touch the world, and the world reaches back.

Riding is a timeless exercise that frees the human spirit to soar, unburdened.

Each day is a lifetime unto itself;

And every morning there is a new horizon out there;

Calling to me...

My soul answers;

And in the fresh light of a new day,

Am I reborn to live again.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

The Sailing Sunderlands and the Power of Dreams*

Abby and Zac Sunderland, from

*Somerset, PA Daily American
June 20, 2010
as "Father's Day and Empowering Dreams"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Any man who’s ever been a Dad to a teenager is familiar with that ultimate moment of fear; the first time your 16-year-old asks for the car keys. The tests have been taken, the license has been awarded. Still, you’re terrified because you know that being a qualified driver is completely different from being an experienced one.

Swallowing hard, you pass over the keys with one last piece of advice: “Be careful.”

For the next few hours, you sweat inwardly, jumping every time the phone rings. The sound of a distant siren brings your lung function to a complete halt. Later on, the car pulls back in the driveway, thankfully intact. Getting the keys back, you chide yourself for your lack of confidence. After all, it was just a trip to the Galleria.

One day in California, a Dad watched his teenager get into a vehicle. Only it wasn’t a car, and this wasn’t a trip to the Mall. 16-year-old Abby Sunderland stood alone in a 40-foot sailboat on her way around the world.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Being a Skeptic*

So far, he's dragged that buck in front of cameras in 17 states.

*Somerset Daily American
June 11, 2010
as "Be a Skeptic"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written material only

Raymond Tomlinson is a name you may not be familiar with, yet he is responsible for an invention that literally changed the world.

In 1971, while working for a tech company, he was asked to change a program used to exchange messages between users of the same computer into something that would enable messages to be sent via the ARPANET Network Control Protocol. The resulting software became known as “email” and the rest, as they say, is history.

Email has changed communications across the globe. Before, it took letters, stamps, and a sometimes iffy international mail system in order for people to communicate. Now, communication is nearly instantaneous whether your recipient is five feet or five continents away.

Of course, with any good, there’s always bad.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Thunder's Positive Rep Spreads*


*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
Special Thunder in the Valley section
June 24, 2010
as "Thunder a Template for How Successful Rallies Should Be Run"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

For over a hundred years, the valley embracing the city of Johnstown thundered with the sound of steel and iron. Hard times silenced the mills in the ‘80s, but starting in 1998, the valley once again thundered, this time with a different kind of steel and iron.

Thunder in the Valley, or in local shorthand, “Thunder,” began as a modest gathering and has grown into one of the premier motorcycle events in the eastern United States. Attendance at this June event has climbed to over 200,000, quite an accomplishment for a city a tenth of that size. It’s like hosting every man, woman, and child from Richmond, Virginia or Montgomery, Alabama for the weekend. Neighboring towns, like Somerset and Ebensburg, seeing the financial bonanza, have chimed in with their own events, spreading the spirit across two counties.

The benefits to the community have been substantial. Although a full-blown economic impact study has never been done, Lisa Rager, who heads the Thunder team at the Convention and Visitors Bureau, conservatively estimates a payday of $20 to $30 million. That’s a lot of coin to an economically distressed area.

In addition, Johnstown’s profile is raised in the eyes of the visitors, nearly all of whom leave with a very positive impression of the city and her people. Cruising just a few of the plethora of motorcycle lists on the Internet, one finds uniform praise for Thunder, and for Johnstown, flowing from those who have been here.

Thunder in the Valley has been popular for not only attendees but residents as well. Some cities merely endure their rallies. Johnstown embraces ours. The annual incursion is recognized for the economic benefits, and for bringing a few days of color and excitement into the life of the community.

Bikers from across the country have put Johnstown on their summer schedules, even with the country in somewhat less than rosy economic conditions. There are numerous rallies across the country every summer. But what is it about Thunder that makes it such a unique event?

What Year Is It, Anyway?

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

A writer, even a freelancer, is familiar with language struggles. The on-going effort to articulate life as it happens around us can be tough. I wish I had a nickel for every time I have stopped in mid-sentence as my brain sorted madly through its word files for that elusive perfect term.

The turn of this still-new century presented us with a whole new problem: what to call the year.

For the previous 100 years, it was spoken as “nineteen-something” or shortened to the last two digits. For many who were around at the turn of the previous century, the first ten years were referred to as “ought.” “The Wright Brothers flew their plane in ought three,” I heard older folks say. But that antiquated language has long passed from common usage. At first, we heard those years expressed as “two thousand three,” or “two thousand eight.” There were a few attempts to use the previous convention, as “twenty oh eight.” But the problem with those expressions was their length. Each one was a complicated collection of four syllables, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get them to roll smoothly off the tongue. This is a tech age. Everything is short-cutted or just converted to an acronym. Even trying to shortcut them left us with attempts like “twenty seven.” So, was that 2007, or 27? We seemed to settle on simply saying “oh eight,” oh nine” finding that to be the easiest to say.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Circumstance and the Wall Around the Presidency*

Theodore Roosevelt at a camp in Yellowstone. 
From
Library of Congress

*Somerset, PA Daily American
October 9, 2010
as "Changes in the Presidency"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written material only

I’ve been reading Edmund Morris’ bio of Theodore Roosevelt, covering his Presidential years between 1901 and 1909.

To say he was a vigorous man is to engage in understatement. He led “Rough Riders” during the Spanish-American War, winning a legendary victory on Cuba’s San Juan Hill. As New York City Police Commissioner, he single-handedly cleaned up the notoriously corrupt NYPD.

As President, he championed the Panama Canal, which fundamentally re-shaped the Western Hemisphere. Using the Navy’s “Great White Fleet, he took America onto the global stage, demonstrating our ability and resolve to defend our overseas economic and political interests.

He undertook explorations of the American west by horseback. Visitors were warned to “wear your worst clothes” in preparation for hikes up mountains and through gorges. He took an annual winter skinny-dip in the Potomac, and practiced sparring. There are pictures of him walking the streets of Washington in the mornings, accompanied by one or two friends. And there are stories of him racing his horse up those same streets with reckless abandon and a shouted “Ki-Yi!” Under his leadership and irrepressible spirit, the nation surged into an era marked by confidence and prosperity. Though a conservative Republican, he gave birth to “The Progressive Era,” championing conservation and the establishment of America’s National Parks. Booker T. Washington made one of the first African-American official visits to the White House.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Floods and Citizens*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
May 27, 2010
as "Water Tried to Put City Down, But Human Spirit Buoyed Us"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Monday, May 31, is Memorial Day, set aside after the Civil War to honor America’s war dead. It’s also the holiday weekend that marks the “official” start of the summer holidays.

But for the people here in Johnstown, the day marks an event that is far more personal.

In 1889, after two days of torrential rain, a poorly maintained earthen dam in the Laurel Mountains gave way. Some 20 million tons of water roared down a twisting series of gorges for some 14 miles before exploding on the city of Johnstown. The town was almost completely destroyed and 2,209 people perished.

These are familiar facts to those who live here. For others, it is history. But for Johnstowners, these are memories.

This was not the only water-borne disaster. March 17, 1936, after another long torrential downpour, the city flooded again. 24 people died that day. And on July 20, 1977, the skies opened yet again, and another dam collapsed. This time, 85 were lost. The damage totals, corrected for inflation are staggering. The $17 million in 1889 becomes $414 million in 2010. The 1936 total of $41 million explodes to $649 million today. And even as recent as 1977, that $300 million would be $1.07 billion if the flood happened today. If you add those figures up, floods in Johnstown have racked up a total of over $2.1 billion in damages.

The Field of Dreams of Fathers and Sons*

Father and Son
Universal Studios publicity still

*Somerset Daily American
June 27, 2010
as "More Than a Movie"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written material only

A colleague and I were sharing some breakroom chat when he dropped a minor bombshell.

“Did you hear that the Field of Dreams is up for sale?”

I’m sure there are a lot of guys who shared my wildly irrational thought of whether I could somehow afford the $5.4 million asking price.

The history of the field outside of Dyersville, Iowa has not been without controversy. It was built by the movie studio on land owned by two neighboring families. The Lansings owned the infield, right field, and the adjacent house, while the Ameskamps owned left and center fields. For years the two families ran competing enterprises until 2007 when Rita Ameskamp sold her share to the Lansings. But even the supernatural forces of Shoeless Joe and the White Sox couldn’t shield this pop culture shrine from hard economic realities. Thus, on May 13, 2010, the Lansings announced that the field was on the market. In one unusual twist, the listing agent for the property is Ken Sanders, who spent 12 years in The Show as a relief pitcher for the Brewers and the A’s.

In America, baseball fields scattered across the landscape, as common a sight as the grass that covers them. But of all the fields in all the parks in all the land, there’s something very unique and special about this one.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Be Happy...for once!*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
June 6, 2010
as "How Are You?"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It happens a hundred times each day.

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

And the conversation dies. On the other hand…

“How’re you doing?”

“Not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

And things are off and running. An opener like that can keep two people engaged from a few minutes to several hours. Part of that is related to that unfortunate part of our psyches that seems to be fascinated by bad news. It drives us to “dish the dirt” on each other, and in that process passing judgment like a caffeinated Solomon. Most of the time, we feel motivated by an empathetic concern for another person’s welfare. Sometimes, however, it is a way for us to not think about our own situation and feel grateful that someone else is worse off than we are.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Gushing Over Galloways*

Belted Galloway
From Golden Howe Farms, UK

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
June 13, 2010
as "Co-Worker Giddy Over Galloways"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
Written material only

I am a pet person. Like so many others, I have come to enjoy having that cute little furball around the house to greet me excitedly at the door, take me for walks around the neighborhood, and lie quietly beside me as we both gaze hypnotically into the flames of a warm fireplace on a cold winter’s eve. I’ve heard that people with all manner of initials after their names have said that it’s good for humans to have something to take care of because it draws us out of our self-protective shell as well as helping to make us feel needed.

Most of us have settled on dogs and cats, although birds, snakes, gerbils, and iguanas are among the list of creatures we have adopted into our homes and taken into our hearts. Occasionally, you hear of someone who has something creepy like a tarantula, or something scary like a lion, but for the most part, pet people are normal humans.

But last month I realized just how far afield this pet thing can go.

One morning, a co-worker be-bopped into work. She was smiling and laughing, coming close to actually dancing an Irish jig. For a few brief moments, I thought she had won the lottery. But unbidden, she exclaimed, “We got ‘em!”

Monday, May 03, 2010

The Evolution of a Motorcyclist

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Like most other endeavors, motorcycle riding involves a sort of evolutionary track for the rider. From the day we first mount up and through the years and decades to follow, each ride is a learning experience, accumulating skills and experience and constantly becoming more proficient.

My first motorcycle was a 1981 Suzuki GS 550T, a relatively small naked standard. I learned a lot on this bike, like how to execute a climbing right hand turn from a dead stop, how to maneuver around a sofa and cushions that had flown off a flatbed trailer in front of me, and what to do when riding into a fogbank at night and having your windshield, faceshield, and then glasses cloud up leaving for visibility only that small gap between the edge of my glasses and my cheekbone available to find the solid white line that marked the edge of the shoulder, and safety.

On that bike, I fell over several times (a common occurrence for newbies), doing slight damage to the machine, but incalculable wreckage to my ego. I learned how important it was to be on a first-name-basis with the closest motorcycle salvage yard.

Most importantly, this was the bike I took to the MSF Rider Safety Course. That was a real eye-opener. I learned a ton that weekend, and I wasn’t the only one. On graduation day, a grizzled old guy got up and said that he had taken the course to reduce his insurance rates. But, he said, “I learned (stuff) this weekend that I haven’t learned in 25 years of riding.” That was all the endorsement I needed.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

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.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

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

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

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.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

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.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

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.

Monday, April 05, 2010

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.