Halloween Traditions*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 29, 2010
as "Carving Into Halloween History"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I was thinking the other day about the upcoming observation of Halloween and remembering the traditions that are associated with this end of October event. Parties, pumpkin carving, costumes, and trick-or-treating, and of course, the haul of candy that kept me in a sustained sugar high for days afterwards. These were all  memories cast in the warm glow of childhood innocence.

But I became curious. Where did these traditions come from? What were their original purposes?

Halloween (or Hallowe’en) is a combination of the Celtic festival “Samhain” (“Summer’s End”) and the Christian holiday of All Saints Day. The name itself comes from Scotland of the 16th century and is a shortened version of “All Hallows Even.”

The Celts celebrated the festival as the end of the “Lighter Half” and the beginning of the “Darker Half” of the year and is sometimes called the Celtic New Year. They believed that on Samhain, the border between this life and the next became thin enough to allow spirits to pass through. Traditions welcomed family ancestors while warding off the evil spirits. The wearing of costumes, usually depicting one of the evil ones, was a disguise to protect one from the evil spirits by pretending to be one of them.

The "R" Word*

 *Somerset, PA Daily American

November 6, 2010
as "Working on 'The Plan'"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I’ve always thought of myself as being young at heart. Even at 55, I never really think of myself as being “old.” Old is always someone with more years than I. I suppose that’s a form of relativistic rationalization, but hey; it keeps me warm at night.

Earlier this year, my wife started to mention the “R” word. And she wanted to talk about it. In the dream-like existence I exist in, such conversation was vastly premature. I won’t be eligible for the pasture until 67, twelve long years from now. Plus, I love my day job and have a genuine passion for the work. My freelance writing is beginning to get a tiny bit of traction. I’m just now hitting my stride and have no interest in contemplating the end of my career.

When she first asked my when I was planning to retire, I thought for a moment and replied, “When the Coroner calls and says they pulled my body out from behind my desk, you’ll know I’ve retired.” Instead of the expected chuckle, all I got was stony silence.

Sometimes, she really has no sense of humor.

Though being the free spirit in this family, I realize that the future is flying at us at breakneck speed, and we have to be ready, lest we end up living in a piano box and eating cat food.

Fall Riding: Joys and Risks

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Fall is a joyous time of year for riding. For a few short weeks, our favorite roads become tunnels of riotous color, the sunlight providing a marvelous glow to the trees. The milky humidity-filled skies have cleared to a perfect cobalt blue and the air has lost its heavy summer feel to a cool freshness that engages the senses and enlivens the soul.

But in this beauty is an increased amount of risk for riders. This is the time of year when riders begin to disappear from the streets and highways. Because you are now a rarer sight, drivers will be less inclined to take notice of you. During the summer, humidity tends to soften the sunlight. But in the fall, the humidity disappears, leaving the air perfectly clear. This means that for anyone facing the sun, now at a lower angle in the sky, the light will be very bright, even blinding. Remember this, especially when you ride with the sun to your back. People coming towards you will be dazzled by the light and you will be very likely invisible to them, especially when it’s time for them to turn left across your path. Riding with your high beam on just may give you a little more visibility.

The fall storms drop rain and bring strong winds, blowing foliage off the trees. Remember that wet leaves are very slick and in the cool air, roads will take longer to dry. And as you ride down into deep valleys, there just might be a bit of ice or frost on the pavement, especially in the morning.

Autism and the Verdict of the Public Jury*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 24, 2010
as "No Fault in Autism"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I’m sure you’ve seen one. Maybe at the Galleria, a restaurant, or some other public place. A small child who yells, screams, or maybe collapses into a full-blown melt-down.

Do you remember your thoughts? Frustration, annoyance, judgmentalism. Perhaps you became angry enough to say something warm and supportive, like, “Can’t you control your kid?”

Chances are what you witnessed was not bad parenting or a lack of discipline, but one of a growing number of children afflicted with Autism Spectrum Disorder.

In the last 20 years, occurrence rates for Autism have increased rapidly. The latest round of statistics from the Centers for Disease Control shows that Autism is now the third most common developmental disability. It happens in 1 out of 110 births, more often than MS, Cystic Fibrosis, and childhood cancer, and seems to be increasing by as much as 17% per year.

The Autism Society of America defines Autism as “A neurological disorder that affects the functioning of the brain, impacting development in the areas of social interaction and communication.” Its cause is still a mystery, but growing evidence points to genetic disorders, particularly chromosome abnormalities such as deletion, duplication, and inversion. For a while, there was thought to be a connection to childhood vaccinations, mainly because that was about the age when the symptoms began to appear. However, recent scientific studies have completely discredited the connection.

The three hallmarks of Autism area:

The Days and Nights of Glitter Gulch*

Fremont Street

The Strip

"Oooh!  Aaah!"

Jaden drinks it all in.

*Somerset, PA Daily American

October 23, 2010

as "The Lights of Las Vegas"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

My wife’s family lives in Hawaii, and in case you ever wondered where people who live in paradise go for vacation, it’s Vegas. Every year around my mother-in-law’s birthday, the family gathers at America’s playground. Most times we go also, when the two elements of vacation time and available cash intersect.

Vegas, as you might expect, has an aura all its own. Even in the current tough economic climate (their unemployment rate hovers around 16%), the city works hard to keep its trademark diamond-studded smile. But behind the bright lights and glitter on the strip are the dark windows of too many empty rooms.

At the north end of Las Vegas Boulevard, the old downtown hotels are doing well. Our hotel, the California, was so busy that even arriving after midnight, we still had to wait two hours before our room was ready.

The downtown crowd is a mix of young folks, seeking the less-expensive rates, and the older folks who still listen to Dean, Sammy, and Frank while remembering the good old days when the brilliant neon on Fremont Street bequeathed its permanent nickname, “Glitter Gulch.”

The Folly of Borrowing Traditions*

*Somerset, PA Daily American

November 27, 2010
as "Creating Traditions"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Holiday traditions are a part of every family’s history, many going back multiple generations. They grow out of the magic that happens when family gathers. But one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t adopt someone else’s traditions. You have to create them yourselves.

My wife’s family usually gets together before Thanksgiving to make pies. This is not your usual baking of two or three pies for the holiday feast. They go into mass-production mode, usually turning out in excess of 350 pies, which they then give away to family, friends, coworkers, and occasionally, perfect strangers. It’s an amazing thing to watch as my mother-in-law and two daughters work swiftly, happily, and with supreme organization in a small, stuffy non air-conditioned Honolulu kitchen. They make pumpkin and apple pies, all of them delicious. Seeing them work, my son and wife decided to export this island tradition to his spacious climate-controlled kitchen in Maryland.

The week before, we were tasked with locating and buying a certain brand of pie filling here in Pennsylvania. My son usually clears the shelves of every grocery store in his area, so it was necessary for us to patch in the remainder of the supply. Having obtained our quota of cases, we loaded the car and headed east. It was a joyful arrival, although humping all those groceries up the stairs did take some of the shine off that particular apple. That evening, we all pitched in to make the crust. Immediately, we ran into difficulties. What the Hawaii experts had made look so easy became a job fraught with exasperation and frustration. The dough kept sticking to the rolling pin, even with generous amounts of flour, tearing holes in the sheets. Cutting and lifting the crusts into the pie pans was even more difficult, eventually leading to a frantic trans-pacific phone call to find out how to get the dough from table to pan in one piece. Finally, about 1 AM, tired, frustrated, and looking like floury Yetis, we retired.

Freedom, The Constitution, and The Vote*

*Somerset, PA Daily American

October 16, 2010
as "The Right to Vote"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

On July 4, 1776 a group of British ex-patriots declared to the world the intent to become a sovereign nation. Twenty-one years later, after a year of vigorous debate and hard work, a remarkable document emerged, one of the most profound, influential, and far-reaching of any since the Magna Carta.

The Constitution of the United States embodies the supreme law of the United States. It was a model of a citizen-led government, the meaning, focus, and intent proudly stated at the top of the page: “We the People.” Over the 221 years since ratification, 27 amendments have been added to the original document, the most crucial of those being the Bill of Rights.

One of the most precious and vigorously guarded rights of our citizenry is the right to vote. But that particular right is not enumerated in the original Constitution or the Bill of Rights. In fact, it isn’t specifically addressed until Amendments 15, 19, 24, and 26. This nation operated on a system of free elections for 100 years without a Constitutional mandate. Granted, at first only free white male landowners were allowed to cast ballots, but over the years, restrictions on race, class, and wealth were removed. Today, any citizen of the United States, who hasn’t been convicted of a felony, is allowed to register and vote in any election, whether federal, state, or local.

The power of the popular vote has shaped our history. Significant changes in the philosophy and direction of the United States have been ordered through elections. While control of the congress by one party existed for some 40 years in the 20th century, since 1994 that control has shifted at least three times, on two of those occasions, granting the controlling party significant majorities in both houses. And by all accounts, the next two may also result in sweeping changes.

The Folly of Man* (or Why I'm Not Playing Football This Year)

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 17, 2010
as "Athletes Face One Foe They'll Never Beat: Age"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In youth, man is brash, confident, full of inexhaustible energy, and consumed by an undaunting sense of immortality. There is nothing he cannot do; no task too large to attempt, save cleaning out the refrigerator. The display of strength and toughness is their stock in trade, their language, a silent articulation of challenge to each other and to the world.

It is this seemingly reckless sense of opportunistic animalism that drives the man into pursuits that prudent judgment may otherwise deem to be of unacceptable risk. Within man exists a contradiction. On the job and at home he is sane, rational, intelligent and skillful. Yet in an athletic endeavor, he is a man possessed, immune to pain inflicted or received; every injury is healed by the magic phrase, “Walk it off.” In this alternate universe, the highest compliment is, “Dude, he’s crazy!”

Man is inspired by visions of professional sports. In his mind, the images of athletes, their bodies cut like faceted diamonds throw themselves about their particular fields of endeavor with violent abandon. But their uniforms hide the cuts and bruises. Their skulls secreting the damaged brain matter held precariously within. Man knows not, nor cares not, that behind each of these star-crossed professional warriors is a battalion of medical miracle-workers armed with truckloads of diagnostic and treatment technology, all designed and purchased with the sole intent of getting that 8-figure contract back on the field as quickly as possible. However, for the ordinary man (alas, not ordinary in HIS mind!) what awaits his injured person is the neighborhood mediquick clinic and a couch where he will receive icepacks and derision from his dearly beloved.

Are We There Yet?*

*Somerset, PA Daily American

October 2, 2010
as "Destination and a Journey"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

In my youth, my father, on Saturday or Sunday afternoons, would pile us into the car and off we would go for a journey into the countryside. In the summer, we might visit a small town, or just drive to the airport to watch the planes take off and land. In the fall, we’d seek out the roadside stands where apples could be found, fresh picked and at the peak of taste and color. I will always remember the sweet taste of that fruit while watching the countryside flow past my window.

There were other times, other trips where we were governed by a destination, someplace we had to reach by a certain time. While I always found travel to be fun, I have to admit that having a destination took away some of the adventure.

At this point in my life, I understand that while travel is travel, there is a definitive difference between a destination and the journey.

The Ride Versus the Destination*

*Pittsburgh, PA Post-Gazette

October 14, 2010
as "Pittsburgh Rides: Traveling or a Journey?"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Years ago, I was bitten by the motorcycle bug and over time, it has grown into a passion. My wife has ridden her own bike in the past, but her view is far more practical. It’s transportation, nothing more. She tolerates my fervent single-mindedness about the bike and the ride, instinctively understanding how fundamental it is to my enjoyment of life.

I’m all about the journey. When I go on a joyride, it’s almost never with a specific destination in mind. She, on the other hand, is driven by destinations. If we go for a ride, we must stop someplace and do something, otherwise, why go?. Lately, I’ve tried to anticipate that requirement, but rarely successfully.

One Saturday, a glorious early fall afternoon, we rolled out of Somerset bound for my favorite destination, “Who-Knows-Whereburgh.” I went south, heading in a vague way towards Western Maryland. As the tree-lined road flashed past, the idea crystallized in my brain to go to Deep Creek Lake.

My wife was quiescent during these ruminations, occupied with her romance novel. Yes. She reads while we ride, which is better than falling asleep, which she used to do with disturbing regularity. When I felt the hard thump of her helmet between my shoulder blades, I put one hand on the bike, the other on her.

Rio Lobo and the Legend of John Wayne

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

I’m not an artist, especially where movies are concerned. When I think back to the movies I’ve enjoyed over the years, I suppose you could opine that my preferences are decidedly chauvinistic; perhaps even traditional. And where my favorite actor is concerned, there’s only one that stands out.

John Wayne was more than an actor. He was an American archetype; a symbol, if you will, of what we were in the eyes of the world. For men, especially adolescent boys, he had that commanding presence we all secretly desire; the ability to silence a room simply by entering it. Many say he lacked the depth of Jimmy Stewart, or the savoir-faire of Clark Gable. But to this day, when I surf the satellite and run across one of his movies, that choice takes precedence over everything else.

People complain that Wayne’s characters were all cut from the same bolt of cloth, so similar in personality, presence, and portrayal. I don’t think that’s necessarily so. His Rooster Cogburn in “True Grit” was unique, as was his role as Sergeant Striker in “The Sands of Iwo Jima.” Wayne once explained the genesis for his characters. In his young days as a strong-backed set worker on the early westerns, he met the legendary Wyatt Earp, who was working as a consultant to the directors. Wayne was deeply impressed by Earp, saying later that every character he ever created on screen was a reflection of the old lawman.

But even the bias I have for John Wayne doesn’t explain my inexplicable affection for one of the worst movies he ever made, “Rio Lobo.”

The Innings and Frames of Our Lives**

*Chicago Tribune
February 8, 2011
as "Remember to recall"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
February 19, 2011
as "Remember to recall"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

(Except for Bob Seger lyrics)

Bob Seger’s song, “Like a Rock,” is an anthem for middle-aged men. In the last verse, he sings:

“Twenty Years…where’d they go?

Twenty years…I just don’t know

I sit and I wonder sometimes

Where they’ve gone.”

There’s not a man anywhere in their 50’s or 60’s that hasn’t asked that most rhetorical of questions. But time is funny like that. Fun times flash by like summer lightning. Other times crawl by at the speed of a root canal. And then suddenly we wake up and discover that we’re old. I don’t really remember noticing the passage of my 20’s and 30’s. I did take note of my 40’s. And now in my 50’s, it’s hard not to think about it.

It’s funny in a way; the memories of those eras more often than not revolve around sports. In my early 20’s, I was a bowling fanatic. After years of consistent mediocrity, I had discovered something I was moderately good at. I carried a 180 average, bowling four nights a week.

Yes. I admit. I had no life.

Yet, it was in the Strike ‘n’ Spare that I met and fell hard for the girl who became my wife. The funny thing was that all her sisters met their husbands the same way. In a bowling alley. That is some clan. Once a month they have a family bowling league consisting of 32 5-person teams, all related. I just didn’t marry into a family; I married into a small country.

We continued bowling with our kids. Every Saturday morning, all of us went to the bowling center for Youth League, they as players, we as coaches. Even today, we go bowling together.

In my 30’s and 40’s, I turned to softball. Cheryl and I played nearly every year of the 14 we lived in Missouri. We also helped to coach our kids’ teams, furthering our family bonds.

Glory Days*

*Somerset Daily American

September 18, 2010
as "An Annual Love Affair with Autumn"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

September has arrived, and finally the heat, humidity, and haze has left the Laurel Highlands.  Over the weekend, Canada sent us our first mass of cool, dry air, presaging the best time of the year for riding in these mountains.

My favorite time of the year is that stretch of weeks from late September through early November.  Fall colors began to peek out here and there around the 4th week of September.  By mid-October, the season is usually in its full technicolor glory, the magnificent reds and golds against a sky of pure cobalt blue.

The Laurel Highlands is part of the Allegheny Range of the Appalachian Mountains.  Like most of the Appalachians, they are relatively low in elevation, less than 3,000 feet.  Unlike a lot of mountainous areas, the Laurels are covered in a rich population of leafy deciduous trees, rather than evergreen coniferous. Because of that, the hillsides at their peak can glow like the sun itself. 

There are dozens of roads that follow the hilly terrain, most gently curved, although you can find a few squigglies on the map.  There's no shortage of beautiful rides.  I've lived here six years, and I'm still not done.

Something marvelous happens inside on a fall ride.  The sky is crystal clear, the sun, angling towards the southern horizon, slants through the trees, giving the leaves a marvelous illumination.  The sunlight is warm but the air carries a refreshing coolness as it flows past.  Heat and humidity can make a summer ride uncomfortable, even laborious.  But for me, autumn is a time of new life.

9/11: Remembering Together*

Members of Congress stand together in unity on September 11th, 2001

They spontaneously sang "God Bless America."

(This photo is on a lot of websites and I was unable to

track down the identity of the original photographer.)

*Somerset, PA Daily American

September 11, 2010

as "Remembering Together"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Nine years ago today, the world changed before our very eyes. Our delusion of safety and security had been toppled and shattered. In New York City, Arlington, Virginia, and near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, 2,977 lives were lost.

Terrorism, up till that day, had been something foreign; always occurring far away in countries with hard-to-pronounce names. Even the deaths of 168 people in Oklahoma City failed to shake our complacency.

We live in a different world now. We walk through our days, glancing over our shoulders. When we travel, we are subjected to scans, pokes and prods; our suitcases are opened and our personal possessions pawed through. Once, we would’ve called this an invasion of privacy. Now, we passively accept such measures as necessary.

And yet, not all the change was bad.

9/11: The Real Memorial*

A memorial to an act of courage and sacrifice takes shape

behind a flag borne of courage and sacrifice.

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

September 11, 2010

as "Our Finest Memorial Would Be National Unity"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

9/11 was a deeply profound moment in our history; an event that utterly changed the attitude, and outlook of some 350 million Americans. No single event in the last 20 years has been written and commented upon more.

Nine years later, we still pause on this day to remember. We do this because we paid too high a price to forget.

Some may scoff and say that the passage of years has softened the event’s recollection. But think about the day that Air Force One did its low-level photo pass over Manhattan with two F-16 fighter jets in escort. That the huge jetliner was cloaked in that familiar white and blue motif with the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA boldly printed on the side made no difference to those on the ground. Their immediate reaction was one of visceral horror and fear.

Clearly, we haven’t yet “moved on.”

Such events are deeply etched into the national memory. We regularly honor those anniversaries because deep inside, we know that freedom is our most valued possession, and there will always be those who desire to take it away. In the face of those attacks, our defense has always been successful. But while we celebrate victories, we will always remember the cost that was exacted.

While in the Navy during the 1980’s, I came to know some of the Pearl Harbor survivors. Though 45 years had passed, time had not dulled their emotions. They still shed tears over friends who died on that December 7th.

We can say that this is a different generation, one that doesn’t hold grudges. But regardless of what people might claim, I have seen enough of those passions to know that even on September 11, 2051 there will still be many who will pause; remember; and shed tears.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Really Rapid Transit*

MagLev Bullet Train in China

Yeah.  They did.

That's 267 miles per hour.

Pictures from  http://www.galenfrysinger.com/maglev_train_shanghai_china.htm

*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.

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.
 

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

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Biker Down! What Do You Do?*

The end of a perfect ride.

From http://www.ftlauderdaleinjurylawyerblog.com/

*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.

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.