A Journey Half-Done

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

First off, I have new windows going in today, so I'm wearing a mask in the house while the workmen are here.  While they began setting up, I jumped on the computer, only to discover that the facial rec software didn't know me.  Then I remembered.  The mask.  It was such a 2020 moment.

Anyway, Cheryl is finishing two weeks of vacation this week, and it's been fun to have her around during the day, and not just seeing each other when one of us is completely fogged in with sleep.  Tuesday, we drove over to Kaneohe to play pickleball.  This game, played primarily by people in our age group, is a hybrid of tennis and ping pong, is played on a court about 2/3 the size of a tennis playing surface.  The ball is sorta like a whiffle ball, plastic with holes all over and the paddles are hard-surfaced, about twice as big as the ones used for ping pong.  Cheryl has fallen in love with the game and I went through a beginners course with her last year.  At the time, I couldn't "hook" the game.  The rules were, to me, strange, counter-intuitive, and confusing.  I've played a ton of tennis over the decades, and it was hard to set aside those habits for this new endeavor.  I went a few times, but never really understood the game, so she ended up going by herself, usually when I was at work.  

But yesterday, we went together, for me not without trepidation.  I'm a guy, and therefore have little tolerance for looking foolish in front of others.  But after watching a couple dozen YouTube© videos, I felt game enough to give it a go.

It wasn't as bad as I feared.  I remembered most of what I had been taught.  The biggest challenge for me is staying out of the no-volley area just in front of the net.  In tennis, you charge the net and get right up next to it to (hopefully) intimidate your opponent into playing a more defensive mode.  I can't tell you how many killer shots I made, only to find out that I had trespassed into that area, called by players "the kitchen."  Still, the ladies we played with were tolerant of my errors, and despite some light-headedness caused by having to run, actually sprint for the first time in...years?...under the hot sun. I walk about 15 miles per week, but running is a whole new level of exertion.  I managed to survive the day, earning a high complement from my spouse, who said, "Good job, Honey!"

So...This Was Christmas

 

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

This was Christmas Day, certainly one of the most quiet and subdued in memory.  Banned from large gatherings, families nevertheless sat in front of Christmas trees while children eagerly tore into the carefully-wrapped packages.  There were still the squeals of joy, the best Christmas music, in my view, but so many of the cherished traditions of the holiday were set aside because of the Pandemic.

For us, it was just Cheryl and I and her mother.  There were just a few gifts, several for Cheryl to unwrap and enjoy.  My big gift this year was parked in the carport, waiting for my commute to work.  We were able to link with family via video calls, and enjoyed interacting with our grandkids, who are growing up entirely too fast.  Still, I missed being there; getting the hugs, wading through the sea of wrapping paper, actually talking face-to-face, the lack of for which I feel a growing sadness.  Children are fluid creatures.  They change minute to minute, and being away for months -- or years -- at a time leaves us with the inescapable sense that time is leaching away, the one thing nobody can ever get back.  They'll never be this young again, and we will have missed it all.

I suspect many of you are having some of the same feelings.  This COVID Christmas was hard, but I think there is a bit of wisdom being dropped upon us.

Safe, Warm, and Surrounded by Love.

Image Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

"Christmases past tend to blur together,

with occasional memorable moments making themselves visible.

There were good Christmases and lonely Christmases

and Christmases that came and went entirely too fast.

But when I look back over the years, and all those memories,

there is one image that rises above all the rest.

Seated before the tree, my loving wife beside me

two posts in a protective circle of our grown children and their spouses

surrounding a herd of excited grandkids on the floor, tearing open gifts

with excited squeals of joy. seeming to swim through a sea of discarded wrapping paper.

For me, this will always be Christmas, because Christmas is about family

sharing that most precious of time, and the rarest and most durable love."

--Ralph F. Couey

 I've been idle with my writing of late, mainly because I've been in a kind of funk and I really didn't want to share that with all of you.  But as Christmas approaches, I have found myself looking back over the decades, to those more conventional holidays in simpler times.  In those journeys of the mind, I have found a way to rekindle that sometimes elusive thing we call the Spirit of Christmas.  I found it was far too easy to focus on the tough times that are now, and thus opening myself up to sadness and despair.  But in the past were better, happier times.  These were memories made and carefully stored away in that priceless treasure chest we call the human heart for just such a time as this one.

One of my earliest Christmas memories involved the arrival of a small dachshund who would be a part of our lives.  I suspect he may have been a little frightened by the hugs he was getting from my sister and I, but we grew up together, the best kind of companion.

One winter, my parents decided to go north for Christmas.  They both hailed from Wisconsin, he from Milwaukee, she from Madison.  Weather forecasting was still a struggling science at the time, and by the time we hit Moline, Illinois, the snow was coming down thick and fast.  I remember looking over my Dad's shoulders (no seat belts or child seats back then) out the front window to see that the road was rapidly disappearing.  Fortunately, we were in a long line of cars, so we continued to push on.  I became mesmerized by the huge snowflakes dancing in the headlights.  I wasn't driving, so of course I thought it was great.  Eventually, we arrived in front of that grand old house on Erie Court.  We piled out of the car and I rushed through the unshoveled snow up the front walk into the arms of my grandmother, and my six cousins, with whom I would subsequently join in many nefarious activities.  We sledded in the nearby parks, built snowmen, had snowball fights, while my grandmother, who had been the head chef for the University of Wisconsin, prepared some of the best meals I can ever remember.  We played until we couldn't keep our eyes open, then ascended the interminable stairs to the large dormitory-style attic where we retired for the night.  I felt safe, warm, and surrounded by love.

Post #800

 

A place of unbearable pain;

of indescribable beauty.

"Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life,

Every quality of his mind is written large in his works."

--Virginia Woolf

Fourteen years ago, almost to the month, I signed up for a blog, having no idea where that particular journey would take me.  I remember that I had ideas banging around inside me between my heart and my head, and I felt that if I didn't get them down in some recordable form, I'd either go crazy or spontaneously explode.

Tonight, I sit here contemplating the 800th addition to this blog.

I named the blog "Race the Sunset," a small piece of inspiration borne out of a motorcycle trip.  I was cruising across Kansas -- the long way -- and as afternoon began to turn into evening, I watched the sun ease its way towards the horizon.  The wheat fields I had been endlessly passing all day began to take on that warm pallet I can only describe as "evening colors."  My goal was the town of Liberal, the end of a very long 650-mile day, on the far western border, and as the miles-to-go wound down, I saw that my arrival would be very close to sunset.  In a sense, I was racing the sunset to my destination.  I remember a lot about that evening, how peaceful it was as the sky gradually darkened, and the weary anticipation of a long day coming to an end.  It was the first of what would be a nine day journey across the American west, perhaps the nine greatest days of my life.

Except, of course, any nine days I've spent with my beloved (and long-suffering) wife.

In beginning the blog, I certainly didn't have any particular agenda.  I wanted to write about life, how I experienced it and the impact it had on me.  I deliberately stayed well away from politics.  I don't know everything about writing, but I do know better than to enrage half of the potential audience.  

That first effort, posted on November 3, 2006, was a post about Ben Roethlisberger, the Steelers quarterback, who had bought a motorcycle, the fastest production bike available at that time.  He promptly wrecked it, putting him in surgery for some seven hours.  It was also the first of my essays to be published, finding its way into the pages of the Johnstown (PA) Tribune-Democrat the previous July.  I continued to write for the paper, at first only once per month, but eventually given a weekly slot.  The editor paid me a high complement, saying, "Your stuff was just too good to leave out."  I eventually learned that a complement was as rare and savory as a perfectly done prime rib, and should be treasured.

Laughing

Johnny Carson hosting Don Rickles

NBC/The Tonight Show

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Written material only

 So I had an evening when time was hanging heavily on my hands, so I turned to that incredible piece of technology we euphemistically call a phone, but is actually more aptly described as a hand-held computer.  I went to the YouTube© site and started by looking for the best John Wayne scenes from his movies.  At one point, I happened across a piece of video taken from one of Don Rickle's many forays into network television (all unsuccessful, as it turned out).  Rickles was hosting a variety show and one of his guests was The Duke.  Well, as these searches sometimes go, that turned into a lot of video from Rickles' career.  But while he was a superstar on the stage circuit (he was huge in Vegas), I think so much of his best work came from his interaction with the legendary late night talk show host Johnny Carson.

I pretty much grew up watching Carson.  His monologues with which he opened his show were fabulous, and even when he had a joke that went flat, he had a way of rescuing the moment in a way that was incredibly funny.  Carson had a universal appeal that went beyond the glitz and glamor of Hollywood and New York.  A big part of that was his roots.  He was a Midwesterner, born and bred in Nebraska, and even in the presence of such legends as Jack Benny, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin (I'm undoubtedly dating myself here), he struck the perfect balance between folksy and sophisticated.  Even after he finally retired, the affection of his audience never faded.  On one occasion, just a few months before his death, he was invited on the Letterman show to do a Top Ten list.  He came out on stage, and the audience erupted in cheers, standing in tribute.  The adulation went on so long that Carson abandoned the bit and eventually left the stage, I suspect moved to tears by the crowd's obvious affection.  In the years since, there have been successors and wanna-be's, but in the minds of those who watched him all those years, there was only on Johnny Carson.  And there'll never be another.

Anyway, as I began to scroll through the videos of Carson's unquestioned reign, I came upon one compilation that covered just about every appearance Don Rickles appeared on The Tonight Show during the decade of the 1970's.  Rickles was known as primarily an insult comic, that is, getting his laughs through apparently putting down other people, even Carson himself.  But those who knew Rickles privately were unanimous in their assessment that offstage, Don Rickles was a humble and gentle man, who treated people with unquestioned warmth and dignity.  The schtick of insult was merely for the stage.  The end result of his act was a kind of mad hilarity.  Watching those snippets, I was transported back in time to a different era, where we were not nearly as obsessively sensitive about what people were saying.  We still had the ability to laugh at ourselves, especially laughing at comedians laughing at us.  The compilation lasted over an hour, and before it was even a quarter over, I had laughed myself into tears and rib pain.  It felt wonderful.  I hadn't laughed that long or hard at anything for...well, longer than I could remember.  I felt something shake loose inside me and fall away, that dark shroud over my spirit put there by the events of the past year or so.  

Now, I know that Don Rickles is, at least by today's standards, very much an acquired taste.  And if you weren't around during that time, it probably won't mean anything to you.  But his humor was never meant to be taken seriously or personally, and everyone knew it, especially his friends (very much including Carson) of which he had legions.

"Sailor Man"

 

Originally published in the Eugene, Oregon Morning Register, February 2, 1929, author unknown, but I feel reflected in these words.

Sailor Man
--Unknown

He was one who followed
Dreams and stars and ships;
They say the wind has fastened
Strange words upon his lips.

There was something secret
In the way that he would smile,
As if he could remember
The laughter of a child.

Wayward as a seagull
Lonely as a hawk;
Yet he believed in angels
And heard the dolphins talk.

They speak of him as careless
A whimsical salty stray;
Nothing ever held him
Longer than a day.

I truly think he swaggered
Playing the sailor’s part;
But the rock of his exterior
Hid a gentle heart.

He spent his life a-roaming
With this hope he did contend
That the other side of nowhere
Led him somewhere in the end.

The Year Without

 

An empty Waikiki at the height of the shutdown.

Image © 2020 by Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

In the year 1816 there occurred what has been known as "The Year Without a Summer," a climatological and agricultural disaster on a global scale.  The precipitous drop in temperatures was the result of three influences.  First, there was the eruption of the Tambora supervolcano in Indonesia that dumped about 60 cubic miles of debris and gasses into the atmosphere.  On top of that was the ongoing climate event known as the Little Ice Age, a period of global cooling that lasted from the 16th to the 19th centuries.  Those two events coincided with an historic low solar minimum, during which the sun's irradiance lowered significantly.  Some paintings survive of this time, showing people skating on the frozen river Thames in London during June, and other art depicting the garish sunsets caused by the ash, dust, and gas in the atmosphere.  What doesn't make it into the art of the period is the story of the collapse of agricultural growing season and the resulting famines around the world.  It was one of those moments in time when the human race survived on its sheer stubborn toughness.

The Pandemic of (plug in whatever reference you want here) has been a part of our lives now for nearly a year.  During that time, we have seen the numbers the ill and the dead climb steadily.  Now that the weather is colder and more people are staying inside, the numbers are skyrocketing, even as the welcome news of vaccines begins to trickle in.

That life we once called "normal" is gone, possibly for good.  We lost most of our summer activities, although some stubbornly continued to travel.  Baseball was a foreshortened season, and other sports, notably basketball and hockey, suffered impacts.  The NFL soldiers on, although playing in front of mostly empty stadiums with piped-in crowd noise.  We waded through those changes and now face a new round of shutdowns as governors and mayors try to stem the advance of the disease.

But now we are facing the most heart-rending loss:  The Holiday Season.  

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always eagerly anticipated as times when families, however far-flung, would traverse the miles and gather.  There, in that bubble of love, affection, and way too much food, we would be able to emotionally recharge each other.  For nearly all of us, the most precious and heart-warming memories revolve around these two months of joy.  These events, these gatherings have been celebrated in poetry and song, cementing those golden memories within us.

But this year will be different.  

Peace, Healing, and Places

Photo © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

"I go to nature to be soothed and healed;

To have my senses put in tune once more."

--John  Burroughs

 I found a few free hours this week to steal away from everything.  The collective division and angst over the election, along with other things of a more personal nature, had pushed me to the point of just wanting to unplug.

Fortunately, I have a place to go where this can happen.  Just north of Hale'iwa Ali'i Beach Park, the shoreline curves seaward.  There, a number of trees have taken root, their graceful branches arcing across the sand.  It's a quiet place, away from nearly all of the tourist traffic.  Swimmers don't come here much because the exposed lava rock beneath the surface make it a hazardous place for feet, hands, and elbows.  But I don't go there to swim.  Under the shade of those trees, I sit in my beach chair, stretch out my legs, and rest.

It was a mostly sunny day, a bit of a relief from the spotty showers that signal the onset of the wet season here.  The trade winds were back, bringing a refreshing breeze which lowered the heat and kept the flies away.  After getting settled, I leaned back and listened to the steady roll and wash of the surf, a sound that always relaxes me.  Pretty soon, I began to see sea turtles floating among the rocks at the water's edge, occasionally sticking up a head to look around.  The steady breeze crenelated the surface of the sea, but not harsh enough to raise whitecaps.  It was a perfect, peaceful moment.  

I sat there for several hours, not thinking about anything.  I had brought a pad a pen along in case inspiration proffered, but I was content to sit quietly, and just...be.

I need this time.  Unfortunately, the vicissitudes of life make it less available than I'd like, so when the opportunity presents itself, I head north.

I kind of lost track of the time as the afternoon passed.  Above, puffy clouds slowly passed, only occasionally blocking the sun.  I felt myself slowly relaxing, my muscles gradually relaxing to the point where scratching my nose felt like a major effort.  I could hear the birds in the trees, singing their songs, occasionally descending to the sand where they wobbled past, giving me an inquisitive sidelong glance.  Little insects skittered across the sand, always zipping landward when a wave got too close.  With my mind empty and undistracted, all the details of life became visible.  

The View From Orbit; The Perspective of Eternity

International Space Station

NASA

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

A few weeks ago, I was standing outside in Diamond Head Crater, taking a few moments for a breath of fresh air.  I was using a new app I had downloaded which when pointed upwards, allows the user to identify stars and planets in the night sky.  As I was scanning, a new object entered the screen, moving rapidly.  The app identified the object as the International Space Station, or ISS.  I lowered the phone, and sure enough, I found a point of light streaking across the sky.  It was an interesting moment, finding something man-made in a vista where I had only seen the stellar and planetary residents of the universe.

I watched the tiny speck until it dipped below the walls of the crater.  Up there, about 260 miles up, a group of humans were busily working on scientific experiments, folks who had forsaken earth and family for months working in that most inaccessible of labs.  There were people there, not so different from me.  For a moment, I felt a small connection.

Last summer, I found another app called "ISS Live Now."  There, anyone can access an HD camera that is always trained on the planet below.  As most of earth is covered in ocean, it can be kind of boring.  But when the station does pass over land, the vistas are tremendous.  I accessed that app tonight, perhaps looking for an off-planet escape from the mess here on earth.  I had read once that astronauts described the most profound moment of their lives as that first time they saw their home planet from space.  That perspective, they said, was life-changing.  When I opened the app, the station was passing over the Pacific southeast of Australia.  A little while later, it crossed the terminator into night and passed over southern Europe.  I was hoping to see the glow of great cities, but all I saw were small bits of light. Occasionally, I saw other lights streaking through the camera's field going in the opposite direction.  I puzzled over that, until I realized that they must be aircraft.  Their apparent speed was the effect of the ISS's orbital speed of 17,100 mph while they were zipping along at 600 or so mph.  That meant they were passing each other at a combined speed of almost 18,000 mph.  Nights and days in orbit pass quickly, so it wasn't too long before the terminator was crossed again, just prior to the station passing southeastward over the Arabian Peninsula.  The app allows you to grab images from the display and I got these:

About November 3rd...

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the election.  I promise I will not write about the 

That Time Change Thing

 

Hashed areas are where DST is not observed.

from NationAtlas.gov

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Well, its that time again, that twice-a-year misery that marks the onset and end of Daylight Savings Time.  Here in Hawai'i, the shift is not observed, but I remember what a burden it was when I lived in the mainland.  The system's genesis is rather murky, and it's continued existence has depended solely on its own momentum.

The first person to come up with the idea was a fellow named George Hudson, an entomologist in 1895. Yes, a bug guy.  You can probably guess why he wanted an extra hour added to his summer evenings.  It wasn't until 1916 that the first nationwide implementation of DST was done by the German Empire and Austria-Hungarian, two political entities which have both been consigned to the dustbin of history.

Today, the system exists in multiple countries, but even in the United States, there are states and parts of states that refuse to go along with it.  As to the basis for continuing to do it, well, that's a difficult thing to find.

A Different Kind of Holiday Season

"After all the angst, anger, and sorrow that has been 2020,

It is my sincerest, deepest hope that when, or if, families gather

for Thanksgiving and Christmas that everyone remembers this year

and how precious is that joy that accompanies the season

and the love which has always been there.

For if 2020 has taught us anything at all,

it is that nothing is certain

and whatever moments we have must be cherished

before they slip away."

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Cheryl and I were sitting on the couch the other night, watching yet another joyful replay of Super Bowl LIV, when I asked, "What are we doing for the Holidays?"

Her response was almost automatic, that we would gather with family for food, fun, and Mah-Jong.  I accepted this at first, then asked, "But what if we can't?

This is not an idle question.  For the first time in modern memory, the traditional family gatherings around Thanksgiving and Christmas have been thrown into a kind of purgatory.  While the numbers here in Hawai'i are flattening to the point where the government has started a phased re-opening, in the mainland, the numbers are spiking alarmingly.  The tourist industry is ramping up, and the response was almost immediate.  Almost overnight, the daily arrivals went from around 100 to 18,000.  While we are delighted to have that revenue stream restored, some of us are concerned about people coming from places where the numbers are once again out of control.   Gatherings of any kind are still restricted to five people or less, but we have 16 people, and maybe more, so unless the restrictions are eased, it's hard to imagine how to have a traditional type of holiday.

But this is the Pandemic, after all, and Pandemics are where traditions go to die.  I don't know how you folks on the mainland will manage this without adding to your sadness.  No doubt some, perhaps many, will throw caution to the winds and gather anyway, accepting whatever consequences ensue.  That is, if the neighbors don't call the police on you.

"Getting to Know You, Getting to Know All About You..."

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Tomorrow marks the first week with my Mustang, and in those first days, the car and I are beginning to know each other.  To quote Bogie, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

The first day or so, I drove it carefully, getting used to the feel, which is world's different from the SUV I've been driving for the past four years.  Go figure.  The biggest adjustment has been the steering, which is quick and responsive and requires far less movement of the wheel.  It's easy to over steer, especially when just changing lanes on the freeway.  Speed limits being what they are here, I've had very little opportunity to engage the turbo boost, but when I have, the response is...well...thrilling.  It's not the Saturn V feeling of the V8 GT model,  but more than enough for around the island.

The seats are fabric, and well ventilated, a nice thing in the tropics, even though the interior is dead black. The edges come up around my thighs, ribs, and shoulders, ensuring that I will be firmly planted in the drivers' position regardless of what's going on outside.  The Kona Blue Metallic paint is breath-taking in the day, as the tropical sun highlights every single metal flake in the paint, making then sparkle and dance as if the car were painted with diamonds.

My only mild complaints involve the outside mirrors, very tiny after the SUV, and the lack of a rear window wiper, although honestly it would probably ruin the look.  Getting in and out is...not smooth, given my age, but I WILL make it work. Changing lanes involves actually turning my head and shoulders to check the neighboring lanes because the tiny mirrors are very insufficient for safe viewing.  But, if I recall my driver's ed training from 47 years ago, this is something I should've been doing anyway.  

But these are very small things.  Folks, I LOVE THIS CAR!!!  Every commute, every errand, even taking Cheryl's Mom to her daycare in Ewa Beach is too much fun.  

The Context and Perspective of "Home"

 

One of the most famous optical illusions.

It's either a young woman looking away,

or an old woman looking down.

"Its amazing how our perspective of life can change

simply by moving ourselves a few inches

or a lot of years."

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

There is a scene in the film "Dead Poets Society" where a teacher, played so brilliantly by Robin Williams, invites his students to the front of the classroom to stand on top of the teacher's desk, and thus look at the room from an entirely different perspective.  Leading teenagers on an exercise of this type can be frustrating, but the looks on those boys' faces as they took in this new point of view showed that they "got it."  I've seen similar reactions in speech classes when a student went from their desk to the front of the room.  They were comfortable at the desk.  But in front, with all those eyes on them, the familiar was suddenly frightening.

The image at the top of this post is an exercise in perspective we call an optical illusion.  There are actually two images there.  One will occur immediately, the other not before several minutes spent in deep thought.  Its the same artwork, but exists in two different points of view.  There are many such kinds of things in life.  There are basically three different perspectives.  How we see things, how others see things, and how things really are.  One of the most painful shifts a person can make is from seeing something with which we are familiar to the sudden realization that it was never that way at all.  Or as Mark Twain put it, "It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.”

Perspective is kind of a funny thing.  It's not just a physical change, but could be a philosophical one that could forever alter one's view of the universe.

A Dream, and the Horse it Rode In On

"Dreams that you dream really do come true."
--Yip Harburg

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

It's been a day of emotional contrasts, a ride up and down the proverbial roller coaster.  It was one of those days that was both memorable and forgettable.

After falling asleep about 1:30 this morning, I rolled out of bed just before 7 am.  I don't make a habit of this kind of schedule, at least not since my 20's.  This was Raiders week, and my Chiefs were kicking off at 7:05.  I figured I would have time for a nap later.  Oh, the best-laid plans...

The game was a bust.  The Chiefs iffy style of play finally caught up to them.  I knew they wouldn't go undefeated, that a loss was inevitable.  But to the Raiders???  It was worse than a root canal, or a colonoscopy, and just as uncomfortable to sit through.  But, it's just one game.  Last year (Super Bowl year, remember?) they won their first four games, then lost four of the next six, and almost their unicorn quarterback to boot.  This year, it appears that NFL defenses have cracked the code of the Chiefs' offense, and some sloppy play at key positions has exacerbated the problems.  But, there are 11 games left, and the hope, not yet ephemeral, exists that they will still win out.  Clearly, there is work to be done before they play the Bills next Monday.  Or Tuesday.

But that was the low point of the day.  After losing to the Raiders, things could go only one direction.

About two weeks ago, Cheryl and I were on our way to Costco when we drove by a local mega-car dealer.  Parked along the edge, visible from the road was a beautiful blue Ford Mustang.  It had been there for awhile and for me, hard NOT to notice.  As we drove by, I said wistfully, "My Mustang's still there."  

Cheryl, who really should know better, asked, "Want to go drive it?"

"Don't tease."

The Power of the Ballot

 

My Freedom Ticket

Image Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

"Voting is the right upon which

all other rights depend."

--Thomas Paine

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

This election will be like no other in American history.  This is so obvious, it almost seems silly to make that statement.  The Pandemic, the widespread violence in the streets, a continual train of hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico, scandals, both real and imagined, impeachment, and other problems too numerous to mention have left a general feeling that America is on the brink of its own destruction.  That may be true.  It would also be true to remember our past, when events and actions created dire national situations, and didn't result in our ruin.  Its probably closer to the truth that every election feels like the last chance to lance the world's biggest boil and save our future.

But perception, for many, is reality.  And there's no denying that the United States is awash with a multitude of very dark perceptions.

But we're now looking down the barrel of the 2020 elections, not only for President, but a third of the Senate (think treaties and judicial nominees) and the entire House of Representatives.  On the local side, there will be governors, legislators, mayors, council people, school boards, county executives, judges, prosecutors, county clerks, and probably somewhere, dogcatchers.  There will be issues as well, like bonds for schools, highways, tax hikes, new laws and regulations -- anything and everything that can be squeezed onto a ballot.  All important stuff.

But despite the bountiful lessons from around the world of how special and precious this right to vote is, far too many of us will decline to participate.

Let's try to put this in historical perspective.  At the birth of this nation, those who had brought us through the agony of revolution and thirteen years of sometimes rancorous debate, it was decided that ordinary citizens of the United States would be given power over their government.  The British thought this was laughable, perhaps even dangerous.  Despotic leaders watched nervously, hoping this particular disease would not cross their borders.  Eventually (and far too slow, IMHO) the vote was expanded to racial minorities and women.  While the right to vote is not enshrined in the Constitution, the requirement of government to be responsive to the will of the people is.

The Limp of Fear

 

Centers for Disease Control

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

For much of the eight or nine months of this Pandemic, we've been taken on a road full of twists and turns, and even double-backs.  For several weeks, it was growing exponentially, then came a time when we all thought the thing was almost whipped.  Then, it came roaring back.  People were told many contradictory things about the best way to protect themselves, and there were those who were convinced that the whole thing was a gigantic conspiracy, and refused to undertake any mitigation at all.

Early this morning (late yesterday evening, Hawai'i time), a bombshell broke out of the nation's capitol.  The President of the United States and the First Lady had contracted COVID-19.  Early this evening, we were told that he had been airlifted to Walter Reed because of some breathing issues.

There was, of course, the inevitable well wishers and gleeful haters who spoke up and flooded social media.  I'm not going to get into that, mainly because, as I've written previously, I'm pretty much disgusted by both sides.

The point here is that the President is one of, if not THE most well-protected person on the planet.  He is surrounded by multiple layers of security, and subject to immediate displacement into any one of a number of secure bunkers, or a convenient jet.  Any attempt to violate that security and do harm to the President is likely to result in the violent death of the assailant.  

But despite gates, locks, police, Secret Service, electronic surveillance, dogs, the most advanced home surveillance system ever conceived, and sheer odds, the virus scored a direct hit.  

My Place of Peace and Healing

 

Image © 2020 by Ralph F. Couey

"Be Still.

Be Quiet.

Just...Be."

--Unknown

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

I think for many of us, when life just gets too much, there is a place; a quiet place, of peace and beauty to which we can retreat and for a precious space of time, shut the world out.  We all need such a place, and such a time, especially in a time when angst seems to consume the world around us.  It is necessary to take time to put space between us and the rest of the world because the constant assault of negativity takes a toll on our minds, our emotions, and our spirit.  This place of refuge will be different for each person. I'd like to tell you a bit about mine.

On O'ahu, there are a lot of beaches.  Some, like Waikiki, Ala Moana, and Sunset are well known.  But there are others that aren't as well known, or populated.  On the north shore is a stretch of state beach park named for the nearby town, Hale'iwa.  I'm told that the translation means "House of the Frigate Bird."  It is a short stretch of beach between the road and the water, mainly because in 1964 when the state built Magic Island adjacent to Ala Moana beach, they took a lot of sand from the north shore beaches.  As a result, not only is it a narrow beach, but just a few feet into the water, rocks from an ancient lava flow cover the shallow sea floor, making it kinda iffy for swimming.  At one time, this was a wonderful beach, plenty of sand, and no rocks. Not now.

Anyway, it is an area of some historical note.  Just a bit up the coast is an abandoned airfield from which two pilots, Lieutenants Welch and Taylor, took to the air on December 7, 1941 and were two of the very few pilots who scored aerial victories against the Japanese Navy that day.  I've been there, not much to it, just a lonely strip of asphalt surrounded by trees.  

Hale'iwa is a place where Cheryl and I used to go to watch the sunset.  Not many people go there, so its always quiet and peaceful.  And in Hawai'i, there's never a bad sunset.

Poets, Love, and Death

Columbia Records, Inc.

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Like many of you, the gift of 21st century tech allows me to carry my music collection around on my phone.  It's more convenient than toting around an iPod or similar device.  One can only have so many pockets.  The collection is an eclectic mix of rock, religion, jazz, traditional Irish, classical, and even some country and western.  The music makes my long walks better by helping establish a good pace, and when I'm in the car and there's nothing worth listening to on the radio, I can fill the time with something that is worth listening to.  Some of the songs are relatively new, some are hundreds of years old.  And there is that music which was associated with the protest movements in the '60's.  Among these are songs by Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, and Simon and Garfunkel.  These songs were the soundtrack of my youth, and bring back some good memories.  Once in a while, I'll be listening to a particular song, a familiar one, that suddenly opens a door into new understanding; a context formed over the years.

In September 1966, Simon & Garfunkel debuted a new single from their third album, "Parsely, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme."  The tune, entitled "The Dangling Conversation" at first glance was the retelling of yet another gritty New York romance gone south.  The song didn't chart well, only climbing to number 25.  Simon later remarked that the lyrics were "above the kids."  But that day, for the first time, I listened -- really listened -- to the lyrics.

Paul Simon has a gift for creating images in his words that are deeply textured, creating not just a scene, but a piece of life itself, something not so much seen as felt.

"It's a still-life watercolor

of a now-late afternoon

As the sun shines through the curtain lace

And shadows wash the room" 

Taking Shelter Within a Game

Tyreek Hill

from Kansascity.com

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

I am thrilled to have the NFL back, even with all the atypical caveats that attach during these difficult times.  With the abbreviated MLB schedule, and the uncertainty regarding the other pro and college sports, it is for me an important touchstone towards that nebulous state we used to call "normal."

I am a Kansas City Chiefs fan.  Have been as long as there has been a Kansas City Chiefs.  I was eleven years old when the first Super Bowl occurred, and 14 when they won their first championship in 1970.  Between then and that scintillating victory last February, there lay 50 years of disastrous outcomes that at times could only have been crafted by Stephen King.  The victory in Miami was so much more than just a football game.  It was a moment when the past was finally buried.

Along with all the other members of Chiefs Nation, I awaited with great glee the approach of the new season.  Because of some brilliant wheeling and dealing by GM Brett Veach, the Chiefs returned almost the same roster for the new season, led by an inhumanly good quarterback and a brilliant head coach.  All the experts (a term to be used advisedly) predict that this team will repeat as Super Bowl victors, and we were all lined up and ready to watch the parade.

This NFL season is unlike any other in its history.  The Pandemic has hung on stubbornly, and effectively changed the paradigm of all our lives.  The protest movement growing out of the deaths of African-Americans at the hands of police officers has moved front and center.  

9/11: What Have We Learned?

 

Flight 93 National Memorial

Image © 2011

by Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

I won't bore you by telling you where I was and what I was doing when the news came through.  I won't expend the words recounting the events of that dark day.  I won't even try to articulate how that day impacted that circle of friends and acquaintances that surrounded me at that time.  But as we are upon the 19th anniversary of September 11, 2001, there are some things that need to occupy our thoughts.

It's hard to believe the speed at which the intervening time has seemingly passed, and the miles we have traveled as a country since then.  Times have certainly changed.  The world is an entirely different place.  But we are still deeply, irredeemably divided, standing on either side of a political and social chasm that widens noticeably each day.  The lesson about unity which was so harshly taught that day has been swept aside by a seeming competition as to who can hate more intensely.  In 2011, it took an attack; a disaster unprecedented in our history to drop the walls of separation, at least for a time.  I think if an attack of that magnitude happened again today, we might come completely apart in the spasm of blame which would surely follow.

So, the question begs:  What have we learned?

The passage of years has largely healed the pain of the wound America suffered that day.  There will be ceremonies of remembrance and commemoration in Manhattan, Arlington, and outside of Shanksville.  There will be smaller events scattered across the country.  The media will cover the events locally, but I haven't heard if the Big Five will carry them nationally in their entirety.  I doubt that most Americans will consider it must-see TV.

In a sense, this reduced awareness is a sign that America is healing.  In another sense, it is a sign that what has been a painful memory to many is about to become history for all.

Seasons

Autumn in the Shenandoah

Image © 2015 by Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

For as long as I can remember, I have looked forward to the coming of autumn.  Part of that arose from living in Missouri and after enduring the heat and humidity of summer, how wonderful was the arrival of much cooler and drier air.  But always the best experience was the turning of the leaves.

For about three weeks, the world became a bright cacophony of color as the trees turned from green to spectacular reds and golds.  As the leaves began to fall, there came that remarkable smell that arose from the ground as I walked through the forest, kicking up the leaves.  Fall was always a time when my spirits rose and joy returned.  One strong memory lives, a day when I took my motorcycle and rode along western Pennsylvania's twisty, windy roads dappled in sunlight and leaves.  Towards evening, the light from the setting sun slanted through the trees and made the already vivid colors even more spectacular.  I remember the cool, scented air flowing past as I negotiated the tight curves.  It was one of those singular moments when I felt amazingly intensively alive.

Along with the change of seasons came the change of wardrobe.  Shorts and t-shirts were packed away to be replaced by jeans and sweaters.  I loved wearing a sweater while being outside in autumn.  The nights grew chillier until the first frost.  Those mornings saw the early sunlight illuminating that silvery patina on the grass.  There was a snap to the air that pulled energy from deep inside and planted a smile on my face.  The best time was in late October when the leaves were at peak.  For about two glorious weeks, the world became beautiful and exciting.  Of course, that never lasted as long as I would have liked.  Once the leaves lost their colors and dropped to the ground, we had a few weeks where the world became shrouded in a kind of noir, consumed in brown and black.  Then came that interminable wait until the snow began to fly, covering the dead landscape with a blanket of white lit by jewel-like ice crystals by the sheer brilliance of the winter sunlight.

The Kansas City Chiefs and the Winds of Change

 

VectorStock #1462503

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

The winds of change blow wildly these days, particularly where ethnic symbology exists.  Sports teams who have used Native American symbols and names, some for more than a century, are just now becoming sensitive to how those portrayals are perceived by those who hold that real life heritage.  The Washington DC football team has shed its controversial "Redskins" moniker, but as a replacement is still being debated, will be known this year as...the Washington Football Team.  Practical, if not particularly inspirational.  The Cleveland Indians have stated that they will be considering a change to another name as soon as one is nominated that everybody can agree upon.  Other teams are feeling the pressure as well.  

The Kansas City Chiefs were not named after Native Americans, but rather a former mayor H. Roe Bartle, whose nickname was "Chief."  But the symbology adopted by the team after their move from Dallas to KC has reflected the Indian motif.  The association went beyond the helmet symbol, the touchdown flag, and the stadium name to include a horse named "Warpaint," who galloped around the field after every touchdown, rode by a team employee wearing a ceremonial headdress.  Fans as well chose costumes such as the headdress, painted faces, and one Arrowhead legend known as "Arrow Man," who showed up at games wearing the opponent's jersey liberally perforated by arrows.  But as cultural awareness has started to mature, even this team is looking at alternatives.

One of the choices, the most popular, as I'm given to understand, would be the Kansas City Fire Chiefs.  Firefighters are some of the most universally loved public servants in America, but this new association dates back to a tragedy that happened almost 32 years ago.

"All I Wanted Was a Darn Refrigerator"

LG Industries

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

We're all trading stories these days as to how life has changed with the Pandemic.  To this point, I've been focused on the obvious things, such as masks, distancing, large gatherings, and the daily drumbeat of statistics.  But there are other ways in which the influence has been felt.

A few days ago, the power went out in Pearl City about 2:30 in the morning.  I was awakened by the sudden silence from the grumbly air conditioner in our bedroom.  The power was down for about four hours.  Now, this happened back in January or February and the result was a fried thermostat in one of the refrigerators (the one in the rec room).  We lost a couple hundred dollars of food from that episode.  For some reason, I had allowed myself to forget that particular outcome.  It was two days later when I opened the freezer door, and realized what had happened.  In my defense, I had spent a good portion of those days trying to get all of the electronics back up and running, and interfacing with the cable company about a recalcitrant DVR.  (And let me tell you how much fun THAT was...)  This power outage was different than the last.  All our devices -- computers, modems, routers, external drives, the television, and those pesky microwave clocks -- had to be restarted, reset, and rebooted not once, but multiple times before they became fully functional.  Most modern electronics are supposed to be protected from events like this, but for whatever reason, it took extra effort this time.  Not to mention the aggravation.  

I called the appliance repair folks and was told that he couldn't come out for another three days.  I moved as much of the expensive food (is there any other kind?) into the kitchen freezer.  I managed to save a lot of it, but we still ended up trashing about $300 of defrosted food.   Thankfully, this happened the eve of trash day.

Fast forward to today.  Cheryl and I discussed the situation and decided that perhaps the best solution would be to purchase a new fridge, one that perhaps wouldn't be as susceptible to power outages.  The closest place is Home Depot, where we found a unit (pictured above) for a really good price that fit the hole in which the current one sits.  Since there are no water lines for either fridge, there was no reason to get one with an ice maker or water spigot.  A very basic, simple refrigerator.  Easy, right?

Now, the bad news.  

The Toughest Task of Parenting

 

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

So, after ranting about yardwork the other day, today we went out to the backyard and raked up a two-day accumulation of mango leaves.  Again, the trade winds were blowing, and at times we were forced to re-pile leaves, after chasing them across the property.  But in the midst of that effort, something interesting happened.

As I was raking, something gray flashed by my leg.  I looked down to see a baby bird sitting on the ground.  Above our heads, we became aware of a couple of birds, parents obviously, hovering above and chattering loudly and frantically.  Apparently, it was time for the baby bird to learn to fly, and the lesson was not going well.  We were concerned because our neighborhood is home to a large population of feral cats, and the last thing we wanted was for this cute little birdie to become dinner.  

Of course, we kept our distance.  We know that if you try to put a baby bird back into the tree, the parents will ignore it because of the human smell now on the bird.  Eventually, the bird gathered it's courage and flew a few feet to latch onto the window screen.  We moved in quickly to gather the leaves and then retreated.  

The parents were flitting about frantically, squawking what I hoped were encouraging messages to their baby.  We felt an instant kinship with them, as anyone who has raised children would.  Instinctively, we realized that the time had come for the baby to grow up.

Thorn Rage

The Vanquished

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

I've never been a huge fan of yard work.  I know by that bold statement that I just alienated a whole bunch of guys for whom their grass is their life, but growing up in Missouri meant doing that kind of work when it was in the upper 90's with humidity levels north of 70%.  I mowed when I had to, watered and applied fertilizer when needed, but it was never a priority for me to have a yard that looked like the 18th green at Sawgrass.  I had four kids and a motorcycle, so my priorities were elsewhere.

I live on a tropical island now, so the lawn care -- and mango tree and coffee plant and banana tree -- season has no start or end.  It just is.  I remember how hard we had to work keeping rust off our ship in the Navy.  This is the closest thing to that endless task.

The big mango tree in the back yard drops leaves like there's no tomorrow.  In Pennsylvania, we had maples which, when they drop leaves in the fall, do it all over about three days.  After that, we were literally knee-deep in maple leaves.  Of course, once that was done, the branches were empty.  This mango tree drops leaves all year long but always has a never-ending supply on its branches.  I literally have to rake every day.  I can fill a 55-gallon trash barrel with leaves in five days flat, no problem.  There are times when I look up and swear its doing this just to annoy me.  The back yard is oriented so when the northeast trade winds are blowing  -- 20 to 25 mph -- the air just howls through the yard.  Not only does this add to the leaf droppage, but after many minutes of raking and gathering, the wind just spreads it all around again.  I have a device to put the leaves in the bin, but it seems just as I lift it up to the edge of the bin, the wind manages to empty it.  Grrr.

The banana tree doesn't drop leaves.  It does other things.  The tree is actually a collection of several trunks, each growing out of the ground by itself. When you harvest a bunch of bananas, the trunk dies, and either falls down, or has to be cut.  It's nasty work, as the trunk is sappy and sticky, which gums up the saw blade.  I guess that's the price to pay for fresh bananas.

Robots and the Dark Future of Labor

"Flippie" at work on the grill

The future of food service?

 

In addition to doing our jobs at least as well as we do them, 

intelligent robots will be cheaper, faster, and far more reliable than humans. 

And they can work 168 hours a week, not just 40. 

No capitalist in her right mind would continue to employ humans.

--Kevin Drumm

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

except images and quote.

Robots have always held a fascination for people.  Not for just the physical and computational labor that is done, but as science fiction has shown, as companions as well.  But the actual appearance of robotic technology in our daily lives hasn't been looked upon a just around the corner.  Always it was decades, even centuries away.  But recent developments, and anticipated advancements in robotics and artificial intelligence have put us on the cusp of a paradigm shift in technology and the impact on human labor.

Robots, androids, etc. have been sci-fi staple for as long as the genre has existed.  There was Robbie from 1956's "Forbidden Planet."  Then "Robot" from the original "Lost in Space."  ("Danger, Will Robinson!)  Although with Bill Mumy, it always came out "Robut".)  C-3PO, R2-D2, and BB-8 from the Star Wars franchise.  The cute Wall-E and the nuke-wielding EVE from the eponymous Disney movie.  My personal favorite was Robin Williams' beautiful portrayal of the android Andrew in "Bicentennial Man."  And who could forget those Terminators?

These were created for entertainment purposes, for sure.  But in these portrayals we saw both the good and the horrifying sides of machine intelligence.  Robots have been active in industry for years.  I used to work with one making clutch disks for Caterpillar tractors.  It had to be monitored, in case it lost control and started flinging steel rims around the plant, but other than the set up required to move from one size disk to another, it pretty much ran by itself.  My biggest job was making sure it was resupplied with materials.  But even then, some 20 years ago, I could see a point where another intelligent machine could do that job.  The introduction of robots into the retail world has been slow, mainly in response to human sensitivities, but make no mistake, the day when robots will fit you with clothes, help you find things at Walmart, repair your car or home, take your order, cook your food, and deliver it to your table is closer than you think.

A Badly-Needed Moment of Humor

 

Egret

Marine Life Photography

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

This beautiful snow-white bird is very common in Hawai'i, often seen walking the emerald-green grass of area parks.  While they are very pretty, I'd just as soon not have them around me.

Why?

Because I want to live a life free of egrets.

Oh, come on!  That ain't half bad for a Pandemic!

The Waking Nightmare

From Pinterest

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Like most people, I have dreams.  In this context, not the goal-oriented life-focused kind of dream, but rather the gauzy ambiguous visitor that comes in the night.  Most times, I wake up with the images rapidly fading from my mind, never to be recalled.  But once in awhile, one arrives with enough impact to stay.

In my dream, I'm out walking, something I do while awake several times per week.  The sun is shining, but suddenly a shadow passes over me.  I look up to see a hawk circling, eyeing me in a disquietingly speculative manner.  I continue to walk, but suddenly there is a whoosh just over my head.  I look up again to see the raptor banking sharply for another pass.  In my dream, I cannot run or even dodge and as the bird swoops ever closer, I begin to feel afraid.  Somehow I know that eventually the hawk will strike home, its claws sinking into the back of my neck.

Yeah, I know.  Stephen King stuff.

Now, I rarely have nightmares, as I am generally speaking a happy and upbeat kinda guy.  But this was different.  Dreams and nightmares, according to the experts, are reflections of the subconscious, mirroring the unspoken and unrecognized fears that somehow never make it to the surface.  So, for the past few days, I've ruminated over those images, and I think I figured out what birthed the unwelcome nighttime visitor.  

Like everyone else on this planet, people in the U.S. in general, here in Hawai'i in particular are feeling for the first time, a very real sense of this Pandemic.  The feelings started with dismissiveness, and elevated to discomfort, then concern, worry, and now fear.  As with most events, it started as being something that was remote; happening far away.  But as time has passed, it has come ever closer and therefore, more personal.  The precise mode of transmission from person to person is still not fully known, as well as how long the virus particles can survived in the open air and on surfaces.  Sure, we engaged in mitigating activities -- masks, social distancing, staying away from large gatherings -- but the circle of infection seems to be closing in on all of us.  And as time passes, it seems almost inevitable that we will be infected.  

Hence, the dream.  The hawk is the virus, circling in the air around me.  Like a predator, it circles ever closer.  There doesn't seem to be any place to hide; no sanctuary, no wall of protection to stand between us and the virus.  With dread certitude, it seeks us out.