Watch Parts

December 30, 2013

Greetings from between the tics,

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.”

Albert Einstein

The first watch I ever owned had a large crown on it which was designed to be wound until the watch was broken, which is how you know when to stop winding.  It was not an elegant timepiece.  The only thing it had in common with a Rolex was the last two letters.  I wore it proudly, this symbol of maturity and responsibility.  Looked good with my Spiderman pajamas.

The numbers on the face and the tips of the hands were coated with something phosphorescent, a phrase that I think means ‘dangerously radioactive’.  I remember lying in bed with the blanket over my head in the darkness, watching the second hand make its way around the face.  Tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic.  I was amazed.

The workings of the watch are still an intriguing mystery to me.  I have seen the insides, actually have seen them scattered out on a countertop when curiosity got the better of me.  But how they go together and why is still a mystery. 

A simple watch might contain a few hundred parts.  Somehow they are nested together in synchronicity, in an impossibly small space.  Tiny machines, delicate and durable, precise and magical.  

Watches, like my first one, are often powered by winding a mainspring, which slowly releases the energy in small bits so as to drive the wheels and gears and other miniscule mechanisms in this tiny factory of time.

There are far more evolved ways of driving the passage of time, including the use of tuning forks, batteries, solar power, and probably witchcraft.  There have been self-winding watches, but I never trusted such an independent device.  Seemed like one step too close to machines taking over.

Watches are easy to take for granted, because now they are plentiful and cheap.  And so it is easy to lose respect for them, what a marvel of ingenuity they are.  And perhaps for what they represent.

I tend to look at my watch, and the passage of time it relays to me, as a reminder of what I should be doing next; appointments, projects, eating and sleeping.  I occasionally forget it is an instrument that tells me ‘when’ it is, -now- and reminds me that time continues to pass.  It says: Live in this moment.  Are you doing what you want with this time? 

Last year I wandered into a small clock repair shop to get a new battery for my watch.  The man behind the counter, an impatient and surly man, agreed to fix my watch in exchange for $15 and fifteen minutes of complaining.  The former was stated, the latter assumed as part of the bargain.

While he was doing what he did best, I browsed his shop.  On one wall there was a picture frame with a disassembled watch, exploded and mounted in a pattern not unlike what I imagine the Big Bang might have first looked.

It was a compelling piece of art.  The origin of time, represented in the bits and pieces of a tiny time machine, fanning out in unfathomable directions.  My estimation of the proprietor went up slightly.  I waited for a pause in his grousing and asked him about the ‘time as art’ piece on the wall.

“Oh that.  I put that up to show how complicated it is to fix a watch so people would quit bellyaching (my word) about how much it cost.”  Oh.  That perspective should not have surprised me.

Watches are tiny pieces of functional art.  I am fascinated by the intricacy and the complexity, and the way in which everything must fit together for it to function the way it is meant. 

This morning I have been watching the light slowly etch itself into the day.  It is curing into place even as I write this, pushing back the grey shadow on this side of the globe.  It is like watching the second hand move one miniscule step in the advancement of time.

The year has unwound, one tic at a time, powered by some amazing mainspring, and I’ll admit at times I have only glanced at it cursively to see if I am late or to plan what’s next.  It’s a dangerous perspective to take, one that occasionally causes me to miss out on the art right in front of me.

I spent some time already this week looking back at how the year worked.  I am fascinated by the intricacy and complexity, and the way in which everything must fit together for it to function the way it is meant.  A year, divided up in seconds or months, is filled with moments and experiences nested together in synchronicity, in an impossibly small space. 

We decide what drives it all.  We ‘wind’ up our day with what we want to put into it how we filter what we get out of it.   I’ve got my hand on the crown, ready to wind again, ready to see what the next tic brings.  I’ll watch more carefully.

Hope this finds you amazed again,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith

1st Moanin' of Christmas: Life is Good

September 8, 2008

Greetings from a friend of Jake’s,

If you could go back to the moments just before these words are typed each week, you would find me sitting here in my den, just the other side of my favorite coffee cup.

My favorite coffee cup.  It’s a diner’s mug, a little scratched up and little discolored from countless servings of the elixir of life that start my day.  On the outside is a simple drawing of a guy running, a giant smile on his face.  Under him is the caption: “Life is good.”

The guy on my mug is Jake, the ultimate optimist, the creation of two guys who started the ‘Life is good’ company.  You probably have seen the clothing and accessories and everything else they merchandise featuring Jake, and his dog, Rocket.

Almost twenty years ago John and Bert Jacobs started ‘Life is good’ and grew it into a cultural icon.  Not only do they have a successful brand, built almost entirely on word of mouth, but they have created a force for positive change for kids.  Cool stuff.

Several weeks ago when I was in Nashville I had the opportunity to meet Bert Jacobs.  He was a keynote speaker at the convention I was attending and after only a few minutes of listening to his story, I was inspired.  And a little uncomfortable.

During his presentation I flipped open my notebook and on a blank page I wrote in large letters:  “I want what that guy has”. 

I ran into him in the hallway afterward and talked with him for a while about his company and this simple, optimistic philosophy that he prints on his stuff.  The same excitement rolled off of him that I sensed when he spoke on stage. 

A few weeks later I was sorting through some papers and came across this lined notebook paper, torn at one corner, and my large almost indecipherable scrawl reminding me. “I want what that guy has.”

What is it about Bert Jacobs that I found so inspiring?  His success?  Certainly.  He and his brother have made an incredible brand from nothing, and his company is churning $130 million dollars in sales every year.

Is it what he does?  From the sounds of it, he has a pretty good working day.  Fun corporate culture, spends his days in shorts and flip flops.  Creates products that people enjoy.  His company regularly puts on ‘Festivals’, events around the country that are dedicated to raising money to help kids who are facing challenges they can’t handle on their own.           

And, by the way, he is tall, good looking and has all of his hair.

Maybe all of those things, but eventually what I realized that there was one thing that grabbed me, one thing about his message that it made me write,  “I want what that guy has.” 

What that guy has is passion. 

Who hasn’t had times when everything is a grind, when every decision is a repeat of yesterday’s decision, where it seems nothing we do has any significance?  There can be days when it’s all we can do to drag ourselves from one crisis to the next.  Hard to find passion when life seems like one long chain reaction.

It’s not to say that I don’t have passion.  If you slice me in any direction you’ll find it.  But there are times, days, situations, environments, when I stand dull, flatfooted and uninspired, waiting to be moved.  That can leave you with doubts sometimes.

On the other side of my favorite coffee mug is this phrase: ‘Do what you like.  Like what you do.’

And that is my salvation.  It still gets to be a choice.  Passion doesn’t have to come down from heaven or be discovered like the sword in the stone.  You choose.  Whatever I am going to do I am equipped to bring the passion.  Like what you do.

It is work.  It takes some effort to renew your passion.  It is not a switch in your head.  It can be a process of building the passion; there is value in this work, this relationship, this creation.  I have the gifts, the skills, to bring the value out, to make it significant and useful and positive. 

For you philosophy majors who are rolling your eyes at this overly simplistic and naïve position, try not to spoil this for me.  I know it’s easy to say ‘Like what you do’.   But life is good.  There is value in almost every place we find ourselves.   There are segments of life where you can do what you like AND like what you do.  Sometimes they are different things.

If you could go back to the moments before these words were typed and look over my favorite coffee mug, you would see a man doing what he likes.  Yes, it might look like I have a dazed, slightly lost expression on my face, but beyond that, I promise you, is a passion that even Jake would be impressed by.

Hope this finds you passionate,      

David

Copyright © 2008 David Smith

Greeting Card

December 23, 2013

Greetings from the greeting,

The room was technically a rectangle, but it had been so long since anyone had seen the original shape it was unlikely a visitor would be able to testify to that fact.  The walls were crowded with tables, old desks, and piles of papers, magazines, and old drawings.  The open space where the two men worked was an approximate triangle carved in the flotsam. 

Two desk lamps lit the center of the room, green glass shades over mismatched bulbs, spilling two ovals of yellow-white light on the desktops.  Dust motes floated aimlessly into the light.  Plates with scraps of lunch, from today and other lunches, crowded the workspace.  The two men sat facing each other, or would have been if they had looked up.  Both held their heads in their hands, as if they shared the same migraine.

They had worked across the desk from each other for almost fifty years.  They had both joined the company when LBJ was president, started as apprentices, worked for peanuts, held on until someone saw what they could do.  They were partners from the first words they wrote on paper.  Hank and Chet.

Hank and Chet.  It was a brand now; all of their cards had the names embossed on the back, along with the prices in U.S. and Canadian currency.  Hank and Chet.  They didn’t even use their last names on the paychecks anymore.

Five decades of writing greeting cards.  Funny, inspirational, silly, serious.  Holidays, birthdays, occasions or no occasions.  Belated thank you, humorous graduation, romantic New Year, condolences for loss of pet, congratulations on legalization of same sex marriage.  They filled in the blanks for tongue tied teenagers and husbands who forgot how to say, and grateful parents and proud stepmothers, absent friends.  

 They wrote like it was the most natural thing they could do and it always seemed to work out.  They had been stuck before, and one or the other would break the logjam and the ideas would roll out and they would scribble and draw until they left exhausted.  And they would produce cards.  Good ones.

But not now.  They had been staring at blank paper for a solid week, both of them filling whole wastebaskets with ideas; some were bad and the rest were worse.

“Lissen lissen..” Chet said, snapping his fingers to get his partner to look up, “this is it: ‘Making Holiday Memories are like lighting candles, … they make the moments brighter.’  Close up of a candle, real kinda frosted lens shot.”

“It’s too cliché.” sighed Hank.

“Really?  You’re worried about cliché?  You just threw away your best offer: ‘Hope you’re squeezin throughout the season’.  Jee-Zuss.  I’m gagging.”

“The couple hugging on the cover was the key.” said Hank, clasping his own shoulders to demonstrate an embrace.

Chet said nothing.  He pinched his nose, like he smelled something sour. 

Hank scribbled a drawing in front of him: “How about on the cover we have, like, a serious looking pig, and inside ‘We wish you a very muddy Christmas’. 

“I don’t get it.”

“Seriously?  Come on, you get it, don’t be obtuse.”

“Pigs and Christmas.  Really?  I don’t get PIGS.  Not at Christmas.”  Chet scowled, his eyebrows dueling under a new layer of wrinkles.

“Then you come up with something.”

“Psssh.” Chet flipped his hands out in dismissal. “I can’t work with you.”

The clock on the wall was given to them by the department director, long since passed away, when they won the ‘LOUIE’ award in 1987.  There was a small brass plate on the base of the clock.  A testimony to brevity, driven largely by their boss’s indifference and the engraver’s charge per letter, it said: ‘To Hank & Bob. Congts’.  After that, Hank called Chet ‘Bob’ and it was a funny for about ten years, and then not so much. 

The clock snicked quietly, pushed the arms around the face until it said nine fifteen.  They had been sitting at the desk for twelve hours.

“Here.” said Hank. “The cover says ‘You might want to reconsider your naughty..’”

“This is a stick figure!” Chet snapped. “This is what we get?  I could get my four year old grandson to…”

“It’s Santa. Here, I’ll add a beard.” Hank reached for the page.  Chet snatched it up.

“Don’t bother, it’s ridiculous.  Let’s go back to the nativity theme.”

“No, it’s over-done.  No one is going to reach for another red flocked card with a star on it.  We gotta update.  I tole you.” Hank raised his hands over his head.

“And I’m telling you; we are not going to put the word ‘twerking’ in a Christmas card.”  He wadded the page up angrily and threw it across the desks.

“Fah la. La. La. La. Whatever.”  Hank folded his arms and lowered his chin to sulk.

The radiators clunked, moaning uselessly behind the piles of paper near the wall.  The room was usually too warm, even with the mounds of cardboard insulation between the hot water heat and where the men sat.  Outside the windows, snow began to cover the sills. 

Chet sagged in his chair.  “Seriously Hank, I am not enjoying this.  I gotta get out of this business.  It’s sucking the life out of me.  I can’t even enjoy the holidays anymore.”

“Again with this.” Hank said, throwing his hands up.  “What are you going to do?  Start over?  ‘Welcome to Walmart?’  That’s not a career for us Chet.”

“US? Who asked you?” Chet sputtered, “Stay here, on another Christmas eve, working on some card nobody is going to remember in a week.”

The two men sat staring at one another.  Fifty years of creative juices, deadlines, dead ends, and arguments and sweating out inspirational messages for people who would never think twice about throwing their work into the trash.  And for fifty years they did it anyway.  Across the desk, thinning hair, shoulders sloped, thin arms jutting from rolled up sleeves, crepey skin stretched over brittle bones, Hank and Chet, slightly mismatched bookends, waited each other out.

 “You gotta stick it out with me Bob.”  Hank said finally. 

Chet snorted a little and held back a smile.  He lowered his gaze to the desk and folded his gnarled hands together as if he were praying for something to change. 

The room was quiet, only the sound of Chet’s breathing, a little whistling sound from his nose.  Hank waited.  Chet did not look up.  Hank pulled a sheet of paper in front of him, sketched out something freehand and etched a caption under it.  He slid it at Chet.

“Read it.” 

Chet spun the paper around. A simple line drawing of a box with a single bow. 

“Read it out loud.  Like you’re at the drugstore picking it for somebody.” said Hank.

Chet pushed his glasses up so he could rub his eyes and then focused on the paper.

“Your friendship has been the most important gift I’ve known. I enjoy opening it every day.  Merry Christmas.”

The page drifted from his hand and settled in front of him.  The two men looked at each other across the chaotic desks, and felt the years melt away, felt the aches fade and the worries dwindle.  The room closed around them, and the piles of paper disappeared, their world shrunk down to a spill of oval light on the stained oak in front of them.  They exchanged smiles and said nothing. 

Hope this finds you gifted,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith

2nd Moanin' of Christmas: Night Train

May 18, 2009

Greetings from the junction,

Something woke me up during the night.  It was not a big change.  I was simmering in sleep, floating just below the surface of consciousness. 

I don’t ever remember dreams, if I’m having them.  Somewhere in the last dozen or so years that part of my brain stopped checking in with me.  I wake up with fractured memories of events that happened during the night; barking dog, car headlights, toilets flushing.   But not dreams. 

The pillow was hot and flat.  During the last few hours, while I was still wrestling with the unsolved issues of the previous day, I dodged in and out of sleep, peeking occasionally at the clock to see when I could reasonably call it morning.

I swung my legs over the edge and pulled myself out of bed, crept across the bedroom carpet, waving my hands in front of me.  Somewhere in the dark two doors, maliciously ajar, waited to stub my toes or worse.  Down the steps, trying not to make my knees pop in the silence, I moved toward the kitchen.

Standing in front of the sink, wisps of a song from the day before playing in my head. 

‘I open my door, and here’s what occurs,

A pretty little girl with pretty little curls,’ 

Something –something-something.  Hmmmhmmmhmmm.  Strains of a banjo.

My eyes are burning from the lack of sleep, somehow causing my ears to roar.   I run the water in the sink, wishing it was quieter.  In the dark kitchen I reach into the cupboard, pat around looking for a glass. Empty.  They are all on the counter, milling about like commuters waiting for the next dishwasher to pull into the station.

I rinse out the least crusty glass, fill it and shut off the faucet.  Stretching on my toes I peer through the kitchen window to see if any deer are in the yard.  A breeze pushes through the open window. 

And the sound of a train. 

It occurs to me right then that it is not winter.  The window is open because it is a cool spring night.  It would be called ‘warm’ if you considered the standards of the last six months.   

I don’t notice trains unless they are blocking my way.  Sometimes I’ll admire the graffiti, wonder if hoboes still ride the trains to get around.  But they don’t register normally.  Maybe they used to.

This night train is making a racket, clanking and creaking, moaning metal on metal, even from a mile away I can hear the wheels thumping as they drop off the crossing.   I can picture the curve the train will make before it moves across Main street, hear the brakes screeching as the engineer slows the cars to a walking speed.

I put the glass back with his brothers on the counter, making more noise than I intended as the glasses protest the crowding.  I can see better now in the dim light and I tiptoe to the back door and quietly let myself out. 

In the yard I stand in my bare feet, my flannel pajama pants, the night sweat drying on me in the slight breeze.  I can hear the leaves moving on the trees.  How did I not notice the leaves were back?  I listen to the soft sshh of the leaves, punctuated by the staccato of the train making its way through town.

The sound of the trains at night have been muffled by the closed windows, so maybe they come every night, I don’t know.  But somewhere in my half awake state I picture this train bringing me a new season, a warm season.  Longer days, sun baked afternoons, running in shorts.  Eating outside, biking with my family, ice cream cones.  Color.

This spring train is late, as far as I am concerned, long overdue.  But I am not going to harbor any grudge.  It’s here now.  I breathe in the night, stretching my lungs to get as much of the new warmth as I can.  It is still too early to see any softening of the night sky, no hint of the sun yet.  Maybe there is still some sleeping left to do.

The sounds of the night train are fading as I climb the stairs back to my bed.  Each step my ankle creaks or my knee cracks, and in the quiet house I am louder than the boxcars bumping on the tracks.  Before I get into bed, I slide the window all the way open.

When I wake the next morning I can still smell the cool night air, still feel the vibrations from the ratcheting metal noises of the train.  And I wonder if I am remembering a dream.

It doesn’t matter.  Outside the sky is opening early, the sun is setting the new hours for this season.  We need more day because there will be so much to enjoy, so much to really hear and see and smell. 

Hope this finds you sleeping with window open,         

David

Copyright © 2009 David Smith

3rd Moanin' of Christmas: Toilet Paper

November 3, 2003

Greetings from the reading room,

If you are squeamish you may want to avert your eyes while reading this issue.  The subject which I am about to address may leave people of sensitive persuasion appalled and aghast, perhaps with their arms akimbo. 

Toilet paper is one of the hallmarks of civilization; it is a feature of an advancing society.  Evidence of this is that there is no toilet paper in primitive cultures, or in backward nations.  Residents in such places must substitute leaves or the local primitive backward newspaper.  There is no toilet paper on Mars, according to NASA research, which proves that it is uninhabitable, and that Earth is superior, even with a hole in the ozone layer.  I realized this morning that such an important aspect of our life deserves some contemplation. 

There is toilet paper that has lotion, or scents, or antibacterial treatments or webbing or quilting.  These are all examples of someone trying too hard. Some toilet paper is so coarse you can see the wood chips and bits of pinecone from the manufacturing process.  This is an example of someone not trying hard enough. 

Bathroom tissue manufacturers are always comparing their number of plies, and softness, absorbency, tensile strength, fire resistance and anything else that will sell the product.  We have purchased toilet paper made from recycled materials in the past but I can’t get the image out of my head that it is recycled toilet paper. 

If you desire, you can buy novelty toilet paper with printing on it.  Pictures of Osama bin Laden, or camouflage, or Christmas ornaments.  You might choose toilet paper printed with your monogram, or with advertising by your favorite beer, or embossed with the IRS code.  You are limited only by your imagination, and the boundaries of bad taste.

There are two trains of thought when it comes to installing the roll of toilet paper.  There is the ‘over the top’ method, and there is the wrong method.  I won’t bore you with the reams of exhaustive scientific study done on this subject, wherein I might mention the prestigious MIT or the Nobel Prize.    Just trust me, if God wanted us to start a roll of toilet paper on the bottom, he would done the whole gravity thing differently.

If it seems like you are the only person who ever changes the toilet paper roll, you are wrong.  It is me.  I change it at your house too.

I don’t ordinarily choose to conduct my affairs in such places, but I am annoyed by public bathrooms which are equipped those giant rolls of toilet paper, ironically dispensed one square at a time. This is often the single ply version created by the military to torture POW’s.  These rolls are usually encased in stainless steel vaults so that no one will be tempted to steal them and perhaps use them to print a newspaper or roof a house. 

At our house we buy toilet paper by the truckload.  There are two reasons for this: 

 

1. There are six people in the house.  Four of them are using toilet paper at a rate that is killing trees faster than clear cutters in South America.  Each child in our home uses their weight in toilet paper each day.  (This also explains why our water bill is so high since so much water is required to flush away 300 pounds of toilet paper.)  Aside from the traditional use, I have witnessed toilet paper used to wrap a life sized Mummy, as padding for sagging stuffed animals, for disposal of insects, for craft projects, and as a chew toy for our dog.

2. We always have at least a few hundred rolls on hand in each bathroom so that there is never a chance that one will discover a shortage an inopportune moment.  Discovering an empty toilet paper roll can be a discouraging event, depending on the timing.  There is nothing more lonely looking than an empty toilet paper spool.  It is especially sad if you have not noticed the emptiness until you are not in a position to positively influence a change.  To avoid this possibility, my wife has applied the military method of ‘shock and awe’ when it comes to stocking the bathroom with toilet paper.

You might be curious as to why the topic of toilet paper is on my mind.  While I often consider toilet paper and its value to a civilized culture, I was more conscious of it this weekend as I drove by several homes where the trees were draped with toilet paper.  This is not a trend in outdoor décor, but rather these poor folks are the butt of a prank.  Yes it is an unfortunate turn of a phrase, but somehow it had to be used.

TeePee-ing houses is a strange custom.  Young people, in the dark of night, throw perfectly good rolls of toilet paper at innocent trees.  Research has indicated they do this because they either like someone residing nearby, or they are mad at someone residing nearby.  It is a nonviolent way of illustrating a contrary point of view.  TeePee-ing a house is also an expression of art, and therefore protected as free speech under the First Amendment.  Local law enforcement, not schooled in constitutional matters, may debate this however, and that is why this particular expression must be done surreptitiously. 

Because so many of them are lawyers, adults rarely engage in TeePee-ing to settle disputes.  This is an unfortunate development in our country, especially considering the vast wealth of toilet paper here, particularly in my house.  We could unclog the courts if we chose, for example, to let our neighbor know we are unhappy with their loud music by adorning their bushes with Charmin, instead of filing a lawsuit.   I dare say that if we all took up the cause, we might use toilet paper to wipe out lawyers completely. 

Hope this finds you with a spare square,

David

4th Moanin' of Christmas: Katherine's Braid

April 16, 2001

Greetings from my fairy tale,

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess named Katherine.  She was kind and thoughtful and caring, and was a dutiful daughter to the King and Queen.  There were many wonderful things about the Princess, but what people noticed first was her long golden hair.  It flowed in lovely wheat colored locks down her back.  By the time she was ten her hair reached well below her waist.

Each day families from the Kingdom would come to the palace to see the King, and everyone would want to meet the Princess.  They all admired how smart she was, and everyone wanted to see her magnificent hair. 

One day, a man came to the throne room to meet the Royal family. He gripped his hat tightly in his hands, his eyes were down.  He stood alone in the great hall and bowed politely to the King and Queen.  He said nothing, only looked at his feet.

”Where is your family?” asked the King.  He was a busy monarch, and did not like to be kept waiting.

“My wife and daughter wait outside.” The man said. “My daughter is too ashamed to come into the palace, because of how she looks.  A sickness has left her with no hair.”

The King and Queen were shocked.  The Princess did not know what to say, she had never heard of such a thing. 

Finally the King said: “We hope your daughter will feel better soon.  Perhaps one day there will be a cure for her illness.”

The man thanked them for the visit, and he left.

The Princess rushed to the King’s throne.  She was close to tears.

“How can this be?” she said to her father.  “You must do something to help this girl.”

Her father stroked his chin, and shook his head.  “There is nothing I can do, daughter.  Even though I am the most powerful man in the land, I cannot bring back this girl’s head of hair.” 

The Princess went to her rooms, and watched out the window as the man and his family walked out of the palace toward their village.  She thought for a moment and then called her maidservant.

“Send two horsemen to the village and bring back the family who visited today.  Then come back with your best shears.”

The maidservant did as she was asked, and when she returned, Princess Katherine had wound her hair into a thick braid.

“You will cut this off, please.” she commanded the maidservant.

Looking at the Princess, she could see that no amount of arguing would change her mind, and so the maidservant brought out her shears.  Katherine sat quietly, a determined look on her face.

Afterwards, the Princess ordered the royal weavers to create a gorgeous golden wig, woven from her braid.  As they worked, the Princess brushed her short hair up under her crown.  She looked in the mirror and smiled.  Then she prepared for her guests.

In the great hall, the Princess sat next to her parents.  The King and Queen looked at their daughter’s hair, and could not believe what they saw.  Before either could speak, the Royal page announced the next visitors.

The man from the village brought his wife and daughter into the throne room.  The young girl would not look up, her head was wrapped in a tattered turban.  The three of them stood quietly waiting for the King to speak to them.

The King hesitated, not sure why this family had returned. The Princess said: “Father, please allow me.”

Katherine stepped from her throne and gently removed the girl’s turban.  With the help of her maidservant, they placed the golden wig on the girl’s head.  Then, the Princess removed her crown, and set it on the girls’ new hair.  Katherine held a small mirror for her to see.  The girl looked up into the Princess’ face, her eyes were shining with tears.

Katherine said:

“I give you these gifts because I hope they will bring you happiness.  But always remember that your true beauty comes from within.  Those who love you can see this beauty.  I can see it too.  Time and sickness will never take that from you.”

As the family left the throne room, their arms around one another, the King stepped from his seat to join his daughter.

“You are a wonderful daughter, Katherine.  You have given more than you know.  You have shown us that compassion is lonely without deeds.”

The King and Queen were very proud of their daughter.  To commemorate the day, they selected a fine piece of marble to be displayed in the Royal garden.  On it they had inscribed these words:

“…whatever you did for the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”  Matthew 25:40

Hope this finds you in a happy ending.

David

PS

Katherine donated her hair to Locks of Love, an organization who provides wigs for children with a variety of illnesses.

5th Moanin' of Christmas: Tartled

January 21, 2013

Greetings from the tip of my tongue,

In my desk I have a package of those ‘My Name Is’ tags.  I bought them some time ago for a meeting I was hosting.  As with most things, I bought the cheapest version I could find and that was reflected in their quality.  As soon as anyone put one on, they fell off. 

In the end there were 20 people standing with random names on the floor around them.

There was only one name I knew for sure I could connect with the correct person. 

That’s a visual metaphor for my daily interactions with people.  I am sure I have their name, probably nearby, but there is a major challenge in trying to make an exact match.

I meet a lot of new people every day, and I have a large network of friends, professional acquaintances, relatives and casual contacts, and I’m fairly sure they all have names.  I believe that somewhere around 1997 I hit my capacity for retaining these names, or more accurately, for knowing who they belong to.

Recently I learned a new Scottish word; ‘Tartle’.  It describes the panic you feel when you are about to introduce someone whose name you have forgotten.  At some point if you must admit your memory lapse you might offer: “Sorry, I tartled just now.”  If you should actually say this out loud, don’t be surprised if people around you all subtly back away.

Remembering someone’s name is an art.  You can always tell when something is going to be hard when it’s described as ‘an art’.  It doesn’t help at all in this case unless the person whose name you’re trying to remember is Art.

There are a variety of tricks for getting people’s names right.  The only one that I know for sure to be effective is to write down the person’s name.  On their forehead.

If the other person is resistant to this, there are other techniques.  One is the FACE method; Focus, Ask, Comment, Employ.  I like this practice because it has an easy name to remember.  Beyond that, I have no idea how it works.

There are several methods that require looking at the person and inventing a mnemonic or a picture story or a rhyme or some algebraic equation so that you will associate their face with some famous person or a state capital or a Pepsi product.  I’m too busy trying to remember who I am talking to, so this kind of complex thinking does not help.

I was in a training session once where the speaker gave us a method for memorizing a name.  He (no idea what his name was) said that you should use the person’s name eight as soon as you meet them and you won’t forget it.  Like:

“It’s nice to meet you Karla, may I call you Karla?  That’s a beautiful name Karla, is that spelled with a ‘k’, Karla, or a ‘C’ Karla?  Is that a family name, Karla, or is Karla a nickname, or do you use Karla as an alias, or did you used to be called Carl and you changed it to Karla, Karla?”

At this point, Karla is reaching for her pepper spray.  You will undoubtedly remember her name after this because it will be on the restraining order.  Assuming her name was Karla to begin with.

So rather than actually remember names, people like me (David) employ compensation techniques.  Avoidance methods like assigning nicknames: Ace, Champ, Beautiful, Buddy, pal, old friend, So and So, Rascal, or Hey,..You.  There several stall tactics that will provide the other person to volunteer their name.  One is to pretend to faint.  When the other person tries to revive you, say ‘Where am I? Who are you?’  This only works once.

Sometimes it helps to introduce the person to someone else and hope they fill in the name for you.  Like:  “This is my sister (pause)…..who I believe you have met (pause)….she is (pause)….a teacher….her name is (pause) (pause) (pause)…familiar to you I am sure…” 

When all else fails you can just admit you tartled and say: “Tell me your name again…”

If the other person says ‘Mom’, you need to start keeping name tags in your pocket to hand out to people as you meet them.  Splurge; buy the really good ones.

Hope this finds you in good company,

David

Copyright © 2012 David Smith

6th Moanin' of Christmas: Boston Strong

April 22, 2013

Greetings from the bubble,

My friend Kirk asked me: “Do you think they will run it again?”

I might have answered with a little more emotion than I intended.  I was still in the space between wishing I had been in Boston and relieved I was not.  My eyes burned, my chest was tight with anger.

“They won’t cancel the Boston marathon.  They won’t give up.  It’s 117 years of running.  Never.”

In Hopkinton there is a huge open space behind the high school.  It is the Athlete’s Village for the Boston Marathon.  In the hours before the race it fills up with men and women from around the world, in all manner of physiques, different shades and gaits.  But there is a look they have in common.  It is passion.  It is determination.  It is a force of will, the human spirit. 

It is a unique environment, something pure and simple.  There is no politics or race or economic pecking order.  There are competitors, but there is an implicit understanding and respect. Runners sign each other’s race bibs, pose for pictures, sit around games of cards or simple prerace meals.  We make idle chatter and wait.  We hold hands and pray. A space forms around us.  And then we run.

I wasn’t with them this year, but I felt their nervousness, felt the jitters, the anxious tension waiting for the gun to go off, to release us onto the downhill, to push back the rest of the world for a few hours and let us run just to run.  To demonstrate who we are, to test ourselves in community with others of our kind.  In that time, when humanity lines the road to cheer the human spirit, there is a space created, a buffer between the usual and the expected, and in space is filled with an incredible positive energy.  It is excitement and joy and triumph and even with the challenge and struggle, it is hope.  It is a bubble of sorts.  It sometimes seems a fragile thing, this bubble, but it is remarkably resilient.

In 1972 at the Olympics in Munich, the bubble was pierced.  Terrorists shredded the thin element that surrounded the games, showed the world that there is nothing sacred or beyond the reach of evil.  They used the Olympic stage, stepped into the space formed by the athletes and those who stood to cheer the competitors.  They violated the space.

Bill Bowerman, who became one of the founders of Nike, was the track coach who marshaled the athletes.  He knew they were afraid, defeated even before competing.  He knew the space that surrounded them had deflated, leaving them stained and confused, doubting the value of the competition.

"If there is one place where war doesn't belong, it is here," Bowerman told them. "For twelve hundred years, Olympians laid down their arms to take part in these Games. They knew there is more honor in outrunning a man than killing him. So you must not believe that running, or jumping, or throwing are meaningless. They were your fellow Olympians' answer to war. They must be yours."

The tragedy unfolded and it seemed the competition was over.  But when the Olympic committee determined to let the events restart, the bubble had been pierced.  The separateness, the safety, the faint illusion that the games protected them from the world, had leaked out.  The athletes huddled together, tense, afraid that there would be more violence.  The marathoners debated the sensibility knowing they could be targets.  But in the end, the will to compete, the passion to hold the fire higher so the world could witness, won out. 

Frank Shorter, who went on to win the marathon, said: “This is as scared as I’m going to get.  Let’s run.”

Five months ago the bubble took on a different shape.  When superstorm Sandy devastated the east coast and turned the Big Apple into a dark scary place.  40,000 runners surged toward New York to run the marathon, an overwhelming force.  Their message was that the race must go on, the space must be honored.

But the people living in darkness, without water or safety, bristled.  Soon the race was seen as frivolous, trivial, irrelevant.  The voices said: “Who do these people think they are?  Coming here like they are something special?  Taking resources from us.”

The bubble was an intruder.  I didn’t think so at first, but of course it was right to cancel the race.  The space that is created around the marathon, and events like it, is meant to include not exclude.  The runners who had already arrived, from all over the globe, stayed to help.  They cleaned and carried water and made themselves useful.  And promised to run again.  And in that first moment, the space began to form once more.

In Boston terrorists used the stage again.  But we will not let them take the space we created.  After the explosion people ran from the spot, but look to see who the first responders were.  Runners.  Men and women who had just completed 26.2 miles of challenge, who turned and ran back to the chaos to help.  Marathoners literally lined up to give blood. Runners in tears, terrified, held on to one another, and to the people around them, and slowly built strength, renewed resolve.  And in before the day was over the space began to build again.

George Sheehan, the runner philosopher, said this: “Winning and losing is what you do in team games. The runner is not in a game; he is in a contest. And that is a word whose Latin root means to witness or testify. The other runners are witnesses to what he is doing. And therefore, anything else than all he can give is not enough. When you race, you are under oath. When you race, you are testifying as to who you are.”

We run to testify, and to push those around us, running with us, standing watching us, to do the same.  To say: we commit to be the best we can for ourselves and for each other.

We run to test ourselves.  To improve.  To inspire.  To remember.  To represent.  To compete.  We run not to be separate from the world but to bring the world with us.  To testify.  To give witness that even in this simple act we can be as one people.  We can rise above the grey dimness that threatens humanity and hold the light high, for ourselves and for those who would run with us. 

There is not enough world to hold us back.  Not enough violence or disdain or hate or ridicule or fear or cynicism or doubt.  We will run again, not because we are elite or different or special, but because we are meant to run, as humans, as companions.  We are meant to express ourselves in this way.  I believe it.

In Hopkinton, 26.2 miles from Boston, behind the blue and gold starting line, with its iconic unicorn, we wait. There is a moment before the big gun goes off, when the anticipation is palpable, and you can feel tens of thousands of people lean forward, eager for the first step.  And you look in to the eyes of the runner next to you, and you see the miles and the pain and the time and the tears and the failure and the challenge and beginning again and failing and never ever giving up.  It is the human condition, the spirit that keeps us from giving in to what would make us less than what we are meant for.  And then we take the first step, and run with all we have into the space the world has made. 

We will run again.

Hope this finds you testifying,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith

7th Moanin of Christmas: Murmuration

January 2, 2012

Greetings from the tips of my wings,

I have this list.  I have been carrying it around for a month or so, adding things and scratching things off.   I left it in a pocket and couldn’t find it for a few days but it doesn’t matter.  It is under my skin.

Murmuration.

Last week I saw clouds of starlings, swarming back and forth, creating shapes in the sky.  Sweeping across the road out over a field, doubling back and forming dark waves, then spreading out almost invisible in the grey sky then reforming in dark living pools over me.

You’ve seen this phenomenon, I hope, somewhere in the sky around you.  It is one of those events for which the word ‘awesome’ was originally created, before surfers kidnapped it and made it as common as Kleenex.  When you see it for the first time you are amazed and perhaps frightened and then….inspired.

Ornithologists might explain this swarming in dry bird words, but I like to think the starlings do it for a far more poetic reason.  You think so too, because when you see it, you want to join them.

A flock of starlings is a murmuration, a word I love rolling around in my mouth.  Makes me smile to have a word so unusual to describe something so awesome.

I think that starlings swarm and swirl and make shapes in the sky because it’s what they do when they have a reason to celebrate.  Like when you hear Sly and The Family Stone play ‘Thank You Falletinme Be Mice Elf’ and you either dance or explode.

When you are brimming with whatever is inside you and something pushes you over the edge into doing what you absolutely must do, must express, must say because it is the natural outlet for who you are, possibly who you are when you are at your best.

I have a list in one of my pockets that starts with ‘What I am doing when I’m at my best.’  It is something I have circled back to again and again, and as the year closed I started the list once more.  One of the things on that list is ‘Celebrating’. 

A few of you might be tempted to roll your eyes here.  Might seem a little superficial to you at first glance.  But, any of us probably feel at our best when we are celebrating.  Having a reason to celebrate and doing something about it.  Not just making a cake or decorating with balloons, or putting on party hats and throwing confetti, although I’m in favor of any activity that involves cake.  Celebrating in the traditional sense is just one part.  There is more waiting to be discovered. 

When we are children and everything is awesome we are inspired to celebrate more often.  That wears off; it’s not sustainable as adults.  Life is hard.  There are taxes to pay and stains to wash and people to correct.  We have serious responsibilities and it is frivolous to bounce all over creation like life is one big birthday party.  Right?

Every one of us is given gifts, and the tools to use them in some way.  We are put here for reasons we don’t always understand, but I think we come closest to knowing when we find ourselves where we are at our best.

So, when do you feel you are at your best; when you are complaining about how hard things are, or when you celebrate a moment that elevates your heart rate and your smile can barely keep from turning into laughter?   So, pretend you get to choose: how do you want to spend your day today? 

Perhaps not every moment inspires celebration, but the further apart those moments are, the more your life can feel like someone else’s ‘To Do’ list.  And we choose, no matter what your day is like, what we celebrate.

The other great lesson from the starlings is that when we celebrate, and really express it, the joy becomes contagious, it is fluid and natural and overwhelming and soon you find others around you pick up on it, and swarm and swirl with you.  That’s one of the moments when I feel I am at my best.

So here is what it is: first, I am challenged to really look at what I do in each day, and then push myself into places where I am doing what is the best expression of my gifts and my passions.  To live where I am at my best.

And on that list is to Celebrate.  To find the moments that are valuable and important, those that I decided, not the calendar, not Hallmark, and hold them up and laugh or sing or eat a piece of cake, find a way of marking the moment.  And share it.

I am looking over the leading edge of this year, thinking of how I would make this calendar better than the last, this chunk of days more satisfying, challenging, fulfilling.   I am determined to shape what I do intentionally, not let the days accumulate around me like lint.  I will figure out where I am at my best, and be there.  It starts with this list.            

Among other things on the list of ‘… at my best’ is when I am writing to you each Monday.  I want to thank you for that privilege.  I hope it gives you as much pleasure as it brings me.  Happy New Year.

Hope this finds you swarming,

David

8th Moanin' of Christmas: Fishing

September 16, 2002

Greetings from the bank,

If you live in the Great Lakes state of Michigan, you likely have been fishing.  There are lakes and creeks and rivers of all sizes packed with fish of all sorts.  The roads are filled with people dragging their boats, often past one another, to the best fishing spots.   You’ll find anglers on bridges, in boats, wading in creeks, and on the shores of any body of water large enough to support life.  You’ll find them fishing in all seasons, including the winter, when all you have to do is cut a hole in the ice to get at the fish.

In more than four decades of Michigan living, I might have been fishing four times.  Evidently, I do not have the fishing gene in my DNA.  So, I made a little moaning noise when I learned that this week’s Cub Scout adventure included a trip to a small pond to go fishing. 

We came to our little fishing expedition relying on the kindness of strangers, since we don’t own any fishing equipment.  Our preparation to fish included putting on bug spray, and sharpening sticks to roast marshmallows on.  The only way we were going to catch fish is if I could talk them into giving themselves up, or lure them ashore with a toasty marshmallow.

The other fathers were men with knives on their belts.  Somewhere at home they have nets and waders and hip boots.  They have hats with lures stuck in them, and they know where to buy a license in what season.  They know where to go to find the fish, and how to tempt them out of the water.  They know how to cast, how to twitch the rod to make the line jump for the fish.  They know how to clean the fish so there is something edible when the job is done.  Standing in their company, I am an imposter. 

I watched them open their tackle boxes, with the little fold out drawers, filled with sinkers and bobbers, hooks, line, spoons, plugs, dipsey sinkers, spinners, snubbers, barrels, and all manner of colorful lures.  I listened as they talked about rigging: split shot, Texas, wacky, trolling.  All I could hope was that no one would ask me about wacky rigging.  I’m pretty sure I missed that in driver’s education.

Our Scout den took pity on us, and loaned us a couple poles, pointed us toward the pile of tubs containing the worms we would use for bait.  Since I am the Dad, I was nominated to handle the slimy work.  I followed the example of the seven year old kid next to me.  Cut the worm in half, (using your fingers, you sissy).  Impale it on the hook.  Try not to  shred the worm to tiny pieces while doing this, or it dissolves when it hits the water.

Once you are prepared with your hook baited, however tentatively, you must now cast your line into the water.  That’s where the fish are.  Waiting for the fish to evolve enough to walk out of the water is not very efficient. 

In the company of men, one never asks for help, it just isn’t done.  If I was going to show my sons how to catch a fish, it was going to be using the tried and true Smith method: Wing It.

You probably have seen movies of people fly fishing, casting graceful loops of line over the water, placing the hook neatly in the places fish are likely to be waiting.  This was nothing like that.  It was more like watching someone having a sneezing fit.

I stood at the bank, watching the others cast their lines.  I shadowed their moves as best I could; hold the rod back over my head, push the button down on the reel, fling the rod forward just as you release the button.  Perfect.

The first cast goes straight into the mud bank.  The second cast loops back around the pole.  Then I cast into the weeds. Caught two little yellow flowers.  Cast into the grass behind me.  Didn’t catch anything and the worm escaped.  Worms are not smart, but this worm knew I was embarrassing myself, and didn’t want to be a part of it.

Before long, the boys were flinging their lines into the water with the natural ease of those who aren’t trying too hard.  Catching fish in this little pond was not a problem.  The fish were more than willing to give up a little time in the water in order to provide sport for our boys.  No sooner did the line hit the water, there was a fish waving his fin at us to reel him in.  I suspect the fish have heard about my prowess as an outdoorsman, and were taking pity on me.

The boys caught fish after fish, giving out the appropriate whooping scream at each strike.  Some fish were so small, it was a close battle between the worm and the fish.

Once you have the fish, you must take it off the hook, so you can throw it back in the water to catch it again.  Since my job was to handle the slimy work, I released the fish.   After a few, I was actually pretty good at getting the hook out without hurting anyone, other than the minor insult to the fish.  I threw a lot of little fish into that pond.  I swear one of them looked at me like “You again?” 

We made our way back to our car in the fading light, the boys running ahead with their pals, mighty hunters, hollering boy stuff to each other.  They were exuberant, filled with pride over their new accomplishment.  We have conquered fish, and the fear of failing to fish.   Another adventure, another memory that will stay with us, long after I get this smell off my hands.

Hope this finds you getting a nibble,

David

Copyright © 2002 David Smith

9th Moanin' of Christmas: Planet Elvis

August 21, 2006

Greetings from my gravitational influence,

Based on comprehensive research, speculation, and most importantly, a large dose of my imagination, I find that many people turn to this weekly essay for inspiration, information and as a distraction from the more aggravating issues of the day.  I take this responsibility seriously, and every Monday morning I make every effort to provide a string of words. When possible, with questionable punctuation.  Today will be no exception.

Recently the International Astronomical Union announced that the approval of a new definition of what makes a planet. This new development will allow certain objects in space, formerly anonymous rocks, to be named officially as ‘planets’.

First, I’m not sure why the International Astronomical Union gets to name planets.  I don’t remember being consulted about this, or voting on it, or even having the policy forced upon me by elected politicians.

It seems like if we are going to name planets, which clearly is our right as people at the center of the universe, it would be more appropriate to appoint a major advertising agency, a world leader or Oprah Winfrey.  But somehow it has been left to astronomers, who don’t even get my daily horoscope right.

Regardless, it’s important that the common people weigh in on this topic.  We cannot afford to have a repeat of the unfortunate planet naming that we have suffered through in generations past, leaving us the unofficial laughingstock of the galaxy.  I’m making some astronomical assumptions here.

We have planets named after moderately priced sedans, candy bars, a cartoon dog from Disney, a division of Ford, and a world class tennis player.  Jupiter and Neptune I think were named after the kids that Angelina Jolie adopted.  No one really knows who named ‘Earth’, and we cannot even discuss how the planet Uranus came to be labeled. 

The whole point here is that we cannot leave this important job to astronomers.  Right now there is a planet waiting to be named, which so far has the spicy moniker ‘Object 2003 UB313’.  I can’t wait for the poetry this will inspire.

Which leads me to the solution that I am sure is already obvious to every sensible reader of this weekly wisdom.  Elvis Aaron Presley. 

Elvis Presley, officially named by the International Musicians Union as the “King of Rock and Roll”, unofficially passed away 29 years ago on August 16.  There are still a few fans that are holding out for one last tour, but I think it’s safe to say that he’s had his last encore.

What better tribute to Tupelo’s favorite son than to honor his memory by naming a lifeless rock in space after him?  And at the same time, we can give the International Astronomical Union an example of what ‘cool’ is about.

We cannot risk adding yet another “Uranus” to our solar system for our children to gaze up at for inspiration.  We have to act now.  Call your official union representative of the International Astronomical Union and let them know you want the next planet to be named after the greatest star ever to wear enormous sideburns: Elvis Presley.

In a rare moment of synergistic clarity I have taken two monumentally insignificant current events, and combined them for what might unofficially be the most implausible, ridiculous idea ever printed.  Of course, you realize that’s what makes it so likely to succeed.  I’m so impressed with myself I may go into politics.  Or astronomy.

Hope this finds you spinning on your axis,       

David

Copyright © 2006 David Smith

Elf on the Shelf

December 16, 2013

Greetings from the informer,

When I was in my formative years, often referred to as PGE, (Pre Girl Era), I had two main preoccupations.  Three if you count chocolate cake.

The first had to do with a list of sometimes conflicting super powers.  When you have a steady diet of cartoons and comic books, your daydreams can get bewildering.  Ultimately I would become Ironman/Spiderman/Flash/Batman on my adventures as Jonny Quest, acted out through my GI Joe with Kung Fu grip.

The second had to do with Santa.  I’ll admit that it was not yearlong obsession, but as soon as the temperatures began to approach a winter chill, I started wondering if my behavior matched the prerequisites to get on the preferred list.  Even though I knew that the Christmas morning outcome could be arbitrary and capricious, in my still maturing PGE brain I sensed the loose connection between admirable behavior and excellent reward under the pine tree propped up in the living room.

What I remember of the concept, was reinforced by a song which, while catchy, was not a dance favorite on American Bandstand:

“He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake,

He knows when you’ve been bad or good, So be good for goodness’ sake.”

Once you add a layer of adult cynicism, this song is downright creepy, but from a young person’s perspective, it is seems pretty reasonable.  Santa’s powers fit in with the same kind of omniscience possessed by the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny and my elementary school principal, Sister Mary Edwin.

Recently I have heard about a new development that augments the Santa folklore.  An Enforcer for St. Nick.  It is the Elf on the Shelf.  The character of Father Christmas, probably 400 years old, now has a sidekick; The Elf on the Shelf.

I have been out of the realm for a while, so I haven’t been paying close attention, but somehow the Elf has become a household word seemingly overnight.  A quick survey of a small, but projectable, sample of people indicated that EVERYONE knows about the Elf on the Shelf but me. 

If my understanding is correct, the Elf is there to monitor behavior.  He is a scout, someone to keep an eye on the girls and boys as the holiday season approaches.  He has a pretty good arrangement; he simply sits (possibly on shelf, hence the name) and observes. The rules are that no one can touch him, and that he cannot move or talk when people are around.  He is just there to listen, for Santa.  And perhaps the NSA.

I will admit I am a few years past caring about this, but it still troubles me a little.  To me this feels like messing with a pretty solid tradition. 

Yes, Batman had Robin, Jonny Quest had Hadji, the Green Hornet had Kato, and Sister Mary Edwin had Sister Marie Lenore.  But Santa has always worked alone.  He has his entourage up north in his secret lair, but on the road he worked solo.

                                                                                           

As I write this I realize that my image of Santa has gotten blended in with that of Superman; Kal El stayed at the Fortress of Solitude somewhere in the frozen north, and flew around doing his best to make good people happy.  And Superman didn’t have a sidekick. 

It’s silly, I know.  Maybe it’s time for a change.  And therapy.

There are probably practical reasons for the Elf on The Shelf.  When Santa started his career, the planet’s population hovered around half a million, and today it has blossomed above the seven billion mark.  By all rights, he should have some help.  I don’t think we can count on the ‘helpers’ that are working the malls or ringing bells outside of liquor stores.

So maybe a Santa protégé is a needed addition.  I have to be open to additions in the traditions.  As long as Santa doesn’t start relying on FedEx.

Hope this finds you on the nice list,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith

10th Moanin' of Christmas: Snowglobe

February 25, 2013

Greetings from within the glass,

Over a hundred years ago a man named Erwin Perzy perfected the snow globe, those dust collecting tchotchkes with tiny scenes of endless winter.  Three generations later his family still makes them, hundreds of thousands every year.  Even with the endless list of far more interactive distractions, people still shake them, turn them, roll them, and then set them right and watch the miniature ecozone evolve.

From swirling chaos to quiet harmony.

Snowstorms have wreaked havoc around the country. Closing schools cancelling flights.

Meteorologist hurrying to predict the next paralyzing layer of cold before their competition can call it.  And now the snow storms even have names.

The snowfall on this morning is too gentle to have a name, which is ironic.  It seems the kind of snow you would want your kids to play in and it’s almost too bad it doesn’t have a name.  “Go out and play with Cosmo the Snowstorm”

Nature challenges man’s plans with snow and ice and wind.  Trucks rush to push it back, people slash with shovels and snowblowers and point little tractors to stave off winter’s assault.  In the end it is always a draw.  Nature can bring more snow, man can push it aside.  Nature gives way by allowing it to all melt eventually, the last laugh on mankind.

This morning there is none of that.  It is too early for the world to care much about what the weather is doing.  The man who delivers the newspapers grinds into the unplowed places near the mail boxes, fishtailing in the new layer of winter.  Other than that the people here are sleeping, the snow is irrelevant to their dreams.

I woke with a whirling list in my head.  Words and numbers that refused to settle into any shape that I could put in order.  Like trying to capture a crumb floating in your coffee, chasing something that is too small to be bothered with but must be bothered with.

So I abandon sleep and push through the process of being awake.  I scratch the dry places and rub my eyes and absorb my coffee.  The chaotic cloud slows but the gap between my synapse is still too large to connect cogent thought.  There is only one solution.  I lace up my shoes and head for the outside.

Outside it is still winter.  I pull on the layers, tug a hat down over my ears, step out into the morning. Under the crust of new snow the roadbed is slick.   I try to run so my feet won’t slip, an awkward flatfooted choreography.  

The morning is dim, cold.  The window in the garage is frosted over, a work of art waiting for someone to scratch a crude heart into. I jog to the street and look up at the white dome above me.  More snow spirals toward me.  The moisture in my eyes freezes into a scrim.

It is quiet.  There is no sound except the noise my breathing makes, made louder in my head by the hat tight over my ears. I am barely aware of the crunch and squeak of snow under my feet, my running shoes stamping my progress in the white crust.

I trudge along the shoulder, my body tense from the cold, the air chilling my teeth, teasing my lungs into little coughs.  I dream of a warmer place, a sandy beach, where footprints are washed by surf, not filled in by frozen flakes.

Wind cuts commas in the snow.  Small drifts build up in seemingly random banks, a design perhaps only God is aware of.  The trees stand in futile silence, their arms empty, stretching up in the grey, barely making a contrast against the early morning sky. 

Here are deer tracks along the shoulder.  I imagine the doe stopping at the mail box to look at the headlines.  She left the paper there for someone else to worry about.

Slowly I settle into the cadence my body is willing for, my arms and legs work almost forgotten.  The rhythm helps jiggle and settle the things in my head into an order, each thought fitting gently against another, not really interlocking.  After a few miles I can almost make sense of the bedlam bouncing between my ears.

To the east the sun turns the horizon into peach sherbet.  I have been running long enough for night to give up holding us in darkness.  Soon the sun peels back a tiny space in the snow clouds to say good morning and then lets the curtain fall back.

The snow drifts down from the glass globe around me.

I stop running and walk up the lane to a field I will cross to go home, break into fresh powder, the cold cotton fluff piling up on my shoes.  Empty soccer nets stand in proud poses in the frozen field, braced in permanent attention.

I stand still for a moment and look up.

Snow floats slowly toward me, perfectly choreographed, no matter which angle you look the flakes seem to be impeccably spaced.  They are falling as if there is no hurry, there’s already enough white on the ground. Drift down, choose the place where they will rest against one another, not interlocking but in order, in their place.

Perhaps somewhere someone has shaken the world so that the snow will swirl and then settle, so that I can watch the flakes glide toward me, soft and quiet and in some order science could not describe. 

I close my eyes and feel the frozen down melt against my face. Inside my head the words and numbers and images begin to sift into place too.  Not at all orderly but at least in places I can see them, make some sense of them.  Where I can scoop them into my hands and shape them into what I need.   Like this.

Hope this finds you letting things float into place,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith