What's Your Theory About Gasoline Usage?

Remember when you used to pull your car up to a gas pump and an attendant would pop his head in your window and say, “Regular or unleaded?” If not, you are probably younger than 40.

Some cars ran on regular (leaded) and some on unleaded, so it’s not like we really had a choice. The attendant was just asking which type of fuel your car required.

Getting gas was simpler then.

After we learned leaded gas wasn’t the wisest choice, manufacturers built engines that only ran on unleaded gas, but somehow we ended up with three blends. I never know which one to use.

But as I talk to people about gas prices, gas usage, etc., I’m amazed at how strongly opinionated they are about which blend to use and why. Some even have strong opinions about when you should fill up and when you shouldn’t. And others have opinions about which stations you should frequent and which ones you should not.

Here are the opinions I’ve heard about the three different blends of unleaded gas:

• Leaded gas with ethanol is cleaner, and therefore better for your vehicle. Since ethanol is also the cheapest, it seems like a no-brainer to use ethanol then, right? Well, not so fast.


• Regular unleaded (non-ethanol) doesn’t burn as quickly as ethanol. If that is true, the question that always comes to mind is, how much longer does it last and does the additional expense at least even itself out? And if it only evens itself out, what’s the difference?
  
  As a side note, calling a blend of unleaded gas “regular” is confusing for those of us over 40. Regular used to mean something else. Yes, my tongue is in my cheek. But only slightly.


• Premium unleaded prevents engine knocking, so it’s the way to go. It also supposedly has more detergent to prevent engine build up. It’s ridiculous price tag keeps me from testing either theory.

Is it wishy-washy to so say I don’t really have a strong opinion about which type of unleaded gas to use? I tend to go with ethanol because of the price, but if my vehicle seems to delay or knock, I go with regular unleaded (that phrase still seems like an oxymoron to me). I never use choose premium.

Here are two theories I’ve heard about when to fill up:

• Never go below a fourth of a tank because it is hard on the engine. Easier said than done when a tank of gas costs $50.00 or more.


• Always run the tank as close to empty as possible because if your car starts acting weird, you’ll know who to blame. The theory is, you’ll be able to go back to the gas station to complain, or you will know not to use their gas in the future or you will know which blend of unleaded not to use in the future.

For me, this decision is an economical one. I put gas in my vehicle when I have the means to do so. When I don’t, it gets a little closer to empty than I would prefer.

Additional theories/opinions:

• Always buy gas from the same place. You know what you are getting, and presumably it should be the same every time.


• Never trust discount stations because their gas isn’t of the same quality. I’m not sure what people mean when they say discount stations, but doesn’t 87 octane mean 87 octane no matter where you go? Maybe not. I don’t know.

I rarely stop at the same station twice in row. My stops are based on convenience and means.

So, I’m dying to know your theories/opinions about gasoline usage. Share away in the comments.

The Third Lap

Last week I reached the one-third mark of my 100-mile walking goal from August 7 to the end of the year. The first 33 miles have not come without difficulty.

One overcast day I got up early and my body wasn’t all that thrilled about walking a mile. My back hurt, my hips were sore and I walked with a slight limp since overcast days tend to aggravate my bad leg.

I popped my headphones on, pressed play on my iPod and walked anyway.

The park was empty except one middle-aged man. He was on the softball field, taking practice swings in preparation for an apparent game or practice.

On my second lap, the man had moved to a spot close to the walking track where he was tapping a tree with his softball bat. I had no idea what he was doing. Simulating contact? Steadying his swing? Preparing to attack me?

I was cautious as I passed him. Once I knew I was in the clear, I stopped trying to figure him out. My body was still protesting my decision to walk. I pressed on anyway.

Half way into the third lap, my pace picked up and my arms began to swing a little harder, and mysteriously, the pain in my back, hips and leg were gone. The final lap and a half were easy. I just had to push through the first two and a half laps to get to that point.

A former co-worker once said I spend too much time talking about what needs to be done and not enough time doing it. After considering what she said, I knew she was right (note: I had to spend time thinking about what she said before concluding she was right). But knowing she was right and doing something about it are two different things.

Contemplation is in my nature.

I need information and then I need to process it before I act. I mull over major decisions from every angle. And I like getting feedback from people I know and trust. I talk myself into beginning every new work project – not because I’m lazy, but because I want to do it well, and to do it well, I need to figure out my approach.

But when I finally do push past the point of contemplation to the third lap, I always find a rhythm. I just need to make sure I get there as quickly as possible.

Birthday Reflections

My niece doesn't have to look all that
hard anymore to find my gray hair

“There’s one. There’s one. There’s one. There’s one. There’s one.” On and on it would go as my oldest niece, who was probably eight years old at the time, pointed out my growing number of gray hairs.

“I only have two or three – you’re just making that up.”

And she would start counting all over again.

I miss those days.

Now I have hundreds of gray hairs. I even have gray whiskers.

I turned 46 yesterday. That’s 14 years from 60 and 24 years from 70.

Life is short, isn’t it?

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is to read between the lines. People aren’t always direct. In fact, we are rarely direct with one another. That’s probably a good thing in most cases.

Over the past few days, this blog has lost a couple of subscribers and nobody has left a single comment regarding my walking posts. I’m not lamenting either fact. In fact, I’m reading between the lines that you aren’t all that interested in hearing about the music I’m listening to on my daily walks. So, I’ll stop with those posts. But if I see something interesting along the way, I’ll be sure to blog about it.

Something else I have learned is to be prepared. I recently visited the bank to review my safety deposit box. I pulled out my life insurance policy, property deeds, birth and death certificates of family members, and various other paperwork to review it. That led to me updating my records and then putting them back into the safety deposit box.

Finally, I’ve learned that I need to operate somewhere between the stone age and the most current technology available. I tried to move away from my Moleskine notebook this summer, using an app on my phone to take its place to keep track of my life. It just didn’t work. If I can’t see everything all at once, I can’t process it. So, I’m back to carrying around a Moleskine and my smartphone. It might look ridiculous, but that’s okay with me.

I am getting old after all.

Two Beautiful Acts of Mercy

Photo: Alex Proimos

The woman shuffled her feet, allowing the cane in her left hand and the Village Inn employee on her right side to help her get from the lobby of the restaurant to her car.

“You got a great spot today,” the male employee said to her. He looked to be 24 or 25. “Right up front.”

She spoke in such a hushed tone that I couldn’t hear anything she said.

Once she got outside, the employee stayed with her, helping her into her car that was parked at a 45-degree angle. I slid into my van, which was parked close by. I couldn’t help but watch.

They chatted for a couple of minutes and then he placed one of his hands on her shoulder as they said goodbye. It made me want to go shake his hand, or go tell his manager about this tender act of mercy. But I got the feeling that this was a common occurrence. Apparently she is a regular. And why wouldn’t she be with service like that?

My mind raced to fill in the gaps of her story.

Is she a widow whose only regular contact with people is at Village Inn? Is she stressed out, thinking about the day she will no longer be able to drive to the restaurant, church or the grocery store? Who will be there for her when that day comes? Are her days of independent living coming to an end, causing her to savor Saturdays like this one in which she can still drive to her favorite restaurant to enjoy her favorite meal that always ends with a nice chat with the employee who goes the extra mile with her?

Two nights later, I was in a different Village Inn with my mom. When we walked in, a woman was seated in the lobby with a walker in front of her. She was waiting for a ride.

“Your cab is here,” said a female employee who has worked at the restaurant for 10 years.

The woman began the laborious process of gathering her things.

“Take your time,” the employee said. “I’ll go tell the driver that you are on your way.”

She came back in and the rustling behind me said she was helping the woman gather her things.

Two beautiful acts of mercy in two restaurants in the same chain across town from one another. Who says chain restaurants can’t have a homey, personal touch?

Weeping with Those Who Weep

The Porter family in 2005
www.trishporter.com

It’s a fallacy to think we always have tomorrow.

Last Thursday, Pat Porter, a two-time Olympian distance runner was piloting a twin-engine Cessna that crashed, killing everyone on board, including Pat, his 15-year-old son Connor and Connor’s friend Connor Mantsch.

I’ve known Pat’s wife, Trish, for a number of years. She too has competed in the Olympics – in fact, that is how she met Pat. I wrote a story for Christianity Today, International about her journey as an Olympian and about how she continues to compete at high levels. I also played a small role in helping her with her book, Rekindle Your Dreams, that was released in 2010.

The USA Today reports that just before the crash, Pat and Trish exchanged a series of humorous text messages. Her last text to Pat asked him when he was coming home.

When I heard about Trish’s loss on Thursday night, it felt like somebody punched me in the stomach. I ached for her and her 11-year-old daughter Shannon. I still do. She wrote this heartbreaking message on her Facebook page:

Thank you everyone for your thoughts, prayers, and kind words. This has been the most difficult time in my life and my heart is broken. I am so thankful that Pat and Connor loved the Lord and had a personal relationship with Jesus. God's strength and your prayers are what is keeping me going. I can't neglect Shannon is too! I wish I could respond to each of you personally but I am just not able to. Know that I will read each message and you are part of my healing process. Thank you. I have included the link to the local t.v. station Ch. 4 that aired a very nice tribute to Pat and Connor.

Here’s the video she linked to. I could barely get through it.



None of us know when we will breathe our last breath. Don’t wait to live deeply or to love genuinely. Say everything you need to say now and do everything you need to do. We are not promised tomorrow.

A Red Wall of Support

Sometimes you stumble into something and you learn about its significance later. That’s what happened to me on Saturday.

My brother-in-law turned right onto a street in Columbia, Missouri that was lined with Harley Davidsons as I looked on from the passenger seat. The motorcycles had signage that identified their owners as the Patriot Guard Riders.

Everywhere we looked, we saw the American flag. Every motorcycle displayed one and many people who were milling around had one in their hands. One person draped a huge flag across his or her truck’s tailgate.

My brother-in-law and I kicked around ideas about what might be going on – a patriotism parade of some sort or annual festival? Neither one of us is from Columbia, so we had no idea. We were there from my niece’s soccer tournament.

The mood wasn’t festive. It was somber, determined.

I shot a few photos with my cell phone from inside the vehicle and figured I would look up the event later. Once I was back in my hotel room, I found this article in the Columbia Tribune: ‘Red Wall’ of supporters comfort fallen soldier’s family.

Turns out that Columbia native Sterling Wyatt, 21, was killed while serving in Afghanistan on July 11 and when an acquaintance found at that the hatemongers from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka planned to protest Wyatt’s funeral, she decided to organize a small gathering to show Wyatt’s family their support.

She had no idea that thousands of people would show up.

They wore red shirts, forming a red shield to protect Wyatt’s family as they entered First Baptist Church to mourn the loss of their loved one. The line of support also ran along Broadway Street and on the route to the funeral home.

The event occurred after the Boone County Fair parade. Apparently, my brother-in-law and I arrived after the parade and the funeral, because, like I said, the mood was somber and the supporters seemed to be breaking up.

The good news is, the red wall worked. The newspaper reported that “About six people from the Westboro group held signs at College and Broadway, although most of the messages were blocked by American flags that Patriot Guard members waved nearby.”

Several times, Wyatt’s family came out of the church to thank the supporters. I imagine the tears flowed both ways.

I wasn’t wearing red that day, but as I wrote this after learning about what took place, I envisioned myself wearing a red shirt.

*****

As I was about to post this, I found this video on YouTube about the Patriot Guard Riders. They have been showing up at funerals of fallen soldiers for years. God bless this group for mourning with those who mourn. 

The Before and After

Photo: AudreyJM529

July 3 was the five-year anniversary of my mom’s stroke.

I always dread that date. What do you say to someone on such an awful anniversary date?

“Happy recovery day, Mom,” seemed to work best, even though the recovery took much longer than one day. It just feels more redemptive to talk about the recovery than it does the stroke – it’s a way of taking the date back.

As I thought about how I would acknowledge the date to my mom, it made me realize something. Most of us, myself included, can point to a date (or an event) in our lives in which the natural course of events changed so much that we refer to a before and after. Sometimes it is health-related, sometimes it’s not.

Before I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I had never experienced physical rehab, or heard of a Pulmonary embolism, or been totally dependent on other people. I never had to worry about blood clots forming in my leg when I rode in an airplane or drove long distances in a car. And I never dreamed that I would spend portions of every afternoon since then sneaking away from whatever I’m doing to elevate my leg to keep it from swelling.

After I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I longed to play tennis the way I used to, but my side-to-side mobility was limited. My internal anticipation on the court was the same, but my body would not cooperate. In hindsight, I should have kept playing anyway, but it was frustrating to be a shell of the player I was before the accident. In more ways than one, I was struggling to process the after of my injury, and in some ways, I still am.

Many people face health challenges that are far more severe than mine. I recently followed Olympic swimmer Kaitlin Sandeno as she visited ill children at Children’s Hospital & Medical Center here in Omaha (here’s a link to the story I wrote for the US Olympic Committee website about the events of the day -- Kaitlin Sandeno: Joy by the Jar). Seeing what those kids are facing put my after into perspective.

But this isn’t a competition. It’s reality, and we all have realities to face.

I cannot speak for anyone else, but personally, I like it when people ask me about my before and after. Not because I need or want anyone to feel sorry for me, but because it tells me they care enough to ask and then genuinely want to hear my answer. Somehow, having someone else acknowledge my before and after makes it feel like they are sharing my burden, and that makes it lighter.

This makes me want to ask other people about their before and after. I feel like I need permission to do this though. The before might be too painful to think about and the after might be too depressing. But I think I’ll gently broach the subject with people in the future because if it helps me to tell my story, it might help them too.

A Long Pit Stop

Photo: U.S. Army

It was supposed to be the equivalent of an average NASCAR pit stop – 14 seconds. My plan this morning was to be in and out of Dollar Tree in a minute or less with a box of the pink stuff for my coffee and a three litter bottle of pop.

The round trip should take 12 minutes or less. I would be at my desk with a steaming cup of coffee, complete with the pink stuff, in 15 minutes.

Knowing exactly where both items were located in the store, I found them easily and got in the check out line behind a woman and her little boy.

Uh oh, this doesn’t look good. The clerk looks confused.

“Ma’am, this table cloth is ringing up as one cent and it should be a dollar. I’m going to have to get my manager.”

He walks toward her office, but she can’t be bothered. “Ring it up as a $1.00 miscellaneous item,” she says through the door.

He tries it. This time it rings up as a quarter.

Another clerk comes over to try to help him. And then another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Seven people are now trying to figure out what to do. Nobody thinks to open another register to check me out. I ask one of them to do so and he says he’s not open.

Okay, I might as well settle in. This is going to be a while.

The seven people discuss the possible problem. Maybe he hit the wrong key? Maybe it was entered in the computer incorrectly? Another clerk says it happened to her yesterday too. Finally the manager leaves her office and tells all the other clerks that the item must be on recall and they can’t sell it.

“Maybe you can choose another color,” the manager says to the woman.

“But I don’t want another color. I want this color.”

At this point I don’t want this store. I want another one.

“But I can’t sell you this color. It has been recalled.”

Funny how definitive she is about the recall at this point.

“Well, what are you going to do with them? Throw them out? If so, I’ll take them.”

This is one determined customer. How could I not laugh? My one minute pit stop has now turned into ten minutes and there appears to be no end in sight. I now know what Greg Biffle feels like when the gas man cannot get the can lined up with the car and his stop takes much longer than anticipated.

“Ma’am, we have to return the table cloths to the manufacturer. It’s a recall.”

She sighs and then decides she wants the red table cloths that are not on recall. And the clerk plans to wait for her to return before ringing me up. Thankfully, the manager intervenes.

“Ring up your customer,” the manager says to him.

“That’ll be $2.00.”

I can’t tell you how happy I was that he didn’t say two cents.

As Strong as Reeds Tied in a Bundle

Tama Westman writes about the notion of love extending beyond the realms of time and how connections exist between generations on her blog, The Touchstones. Tama recently posted something her mother wrote about a teacup that has been passed down through the generations of her family. Here’s how it starts:

It’s just a simple cuppa,
(That hardly seems like much)
But served in Granny’s teacup
It lends a tranquil touch.

Check out the rest of the post when you get a chance.

As I read the words penned by Tama’s mom this morning, I glanced up on the wall in my office to a greeting card my dad (who has been gone for 11 years) sent me many years ago. Inspired by Jewish writings, it says, “Separately, we are as fragile as reeds and as easily broken. But together, we are as strong as reeds tied in a bundle.”

Those words were certainly true of our relationship while Dad was still alive. They may be even more true now.

Many of our conversations were about things that matter. I wonder how many sons can say that? The topics progressed as I got older from grades to girls to family history, and finally to mistakes. Dad made many mistakes, and while he didn’t always own them the right way, he owned them in his soul. I know, because we often spoke about them.

While he was alive, he, like all of us, was free to alter his advice, thoughts, beliefs and confessions. Now that he is gone, everything he passed on to me is frozen. And while it’s never good to give too much credence to such things, because the living need room to make their own mistakes, it’s daresome to give too little.

Together, we are as strong as reeds tied in a bundle.

The Dodge Journey

Anytime you can advertise a product and make somebody want to blog about it, even going so far as to embed the commercial, you probably need to give your marketing team a raise. The Dodge Journey is one of those products.

I've never driven one. Probably never will. But I could watch the commercial over and over. I think there are several variations of it, but the one below works because it contains these lines, "People don't make a list of websites they want to see before they die. They don't fill photo albums with pictures from an online search. Like being there, is not like being there. It's okay, the Internet will be just fine without you."



The ironic thing about this commercial is, Dodge is using the Internet to sell the Journey. Dodge uploaded the commercial you see above to YouTube and it has been viewed by more than 300,000 people. According to the video's description, Dodge left three Journeys somewhere out there for us to find. If we find one, it is ours. And the commercial says the Internet "might help you figure out where they might be."

Irony aside, this campaign is brilliant because it taps into something we know to be true. Life isn't nearly as memorable when there is a lack of adventure. All of us might define adventure differently, but I'm guessing we can all agree that as fun as Angry Birds might be to play, nobody will look back while on his deathbed and wish he had played it even more.

But visiting a pumpkin patch once a year, going to an Apple festival, taking in an art exhibit, joining a tennis league or book club, spending a Saturday at the lake with friends, traveling down Route 66 with a loved one, with stops in small cafes and gift shops, these are the moments we will, as the commercial says, fill our photo albums with -- even if they are digital photo albums.

Things That Make Me Go Hmm

Photo: Sam Howzit

For years, the most popular posts here at Little Nuances were related to the movie Elizabethtown – specifically the post I wrote about the phrase, “substitute people,” from that movie. But there’s a new sheriff in town. It’s a post I wrote called Baseball Dartboard, and if Blogger’s statistics are correct (I’m pretty sure they are inflated), then some 3,384 people have googled or found that post – far more than my “substitute people” post has drawn (2,147). What it is about a baseball dartboard that is drawing so much interest?

While in various waiting rooms the past few weeks, I’ve heard the song “Easy” by the Commodores a couple of times. I love the line, “I’m easy like Sunday morning,” but I have no idea what it means. From what I can tell, it’s a song about a man who is leaving a woman after knowing he’s done all he can do to make the relationship work. And now that he’s come to terms with that, the pressure is off. What do you think?

While sitting in yet another waiting room this morning – this time at my car dealership, waiting for some routine maintenance to be completed – an elderly gentlemen sees me pull out my laptop and says, “A laptop, huh? Do those damn things work?” I had no idea how to answer him. I didn’t really have to though. Without missing a beat, he glanced down at the USA Today on the table between us and started complaining about something President Obama did. I’m thinking he just needed somebody to talk to.

Same car dealership waiting room, one hour later. A woman sits down at the PC provided by the dealership for customers to use while waiting for their vehicles to be fixed. She brings up a website and begins playing a pinball game. It’s so loud that it wakes up the the guy who was questioning the validity of laptops, but has since fallen asleep. And it causes me to do a double take. I’m thinking, “Surely, she won’t keep playing it, given how loud it is.” And I was wrong.

How about those recent changes to Facebook? They seem to have generated a lot of complaints. I’m not really complaining. I just no longer understand what I’m looking at when I sign in. Little info bubbles pop up, informing me about the changes and all I can think is, “Why in the world would I want to do that?” In fact, the more I look at the news feed, messages, events, pages, lists and apps, the more I want to hit the X button and sign back into Twitter. But I’ll stick around anyway. Too many people I know and love are on Facebook.

My bowling season started a few weeks ago. I entered the season with a 180 average. I just never found a rhythm last season – couldn’t make the proper adjustments. I didn’t touch a bowling ball all summer, but three weeks into the new season, I have a 202 average. The adjustments I’m making are working. I have no idea why, but I’m not complaining.

Yeah, it’s a random list, but it’s what is floating around in my head right now.

Capturing Reaction

Photo: Lee Warren

I’m a sportswriter who often has to take photos at sporting events. Not being a photographer puts me in some awkward situations.

Last year I covered a professional tennis event for a local magazine. The media relations representative led the photographers courtside where she told us to find a spot on the ground to shoot our photos. She said we had five minutes and then we had to leave our cushy spots on the ground. I looked down the row of long lenses pointed toward the court and knew I had little or no shot of getting a decent action photo with my non-SLR camera with a rather short lens. I was right. Every time I tried to get an action shot, all I got was a blur.

As I was browsing a friend’s Flickr account one day recently though, I had a revelation. She has an eye for sports photography. What I failed to really see until recently though was, many of her photos aren’t action shots – even though she has an SLR camera.

Instead, she does a fantastic job of capturing players, mascots and fans laughing, grimacing and in funny poses. Earlier this year, she took an adorable photo of a smiling little boy at a ballpark. Last year, she shot a photo of a member of the Powerade Power Team tying the mascot’s shoe. It was the epitome of minor league baseball. In fact, it was so good it would have made a great cover shot for the team’s media guide.

Photo: Minda Haas / Royal Blues

Photo: Minda Haas / Royal Blues

Her photos helped me realize I don’t need to worry about action shots. In fact, I’m not an action-shot sort of guy. I’m more of a capture-the-moment-between-action sort of guy. That fits my writing style much better anyway. I’m not an Xs and Os sort of sportswriter. I’m a feature writer who loves to dig for a great story from an athlete or fan.

I love talking to the journeyman athlete who can walk into Walmart unnoticed, and the truth is, he’ll never be noticed because he sees very little playing time, and therefore, nobody knows who he is, but he sticks with the game anyway. I love talking to a father who is sitting next to his 4-year-old son the first time he takes him to a game. And I love hearing how his dad did the same thing 30 years prior.

Now I’m finding I love to capture moments with my camera I otherwise ignored. The other day I was working at a minor league game and a player who recently had been sent down from the major league team was chatting with his minor league manger before the game. The player put his hand on his manager’s shoulder, making it look as if were offering some sort of consolation to his manager, rather than the other way around. I pointed my camera and snapped the photo you see above.

I still have a lot to learn about photography, but with a new philosophy, I think it can become something I really enjoy.

Walking Toward Hope

Photo: barto

The first time I took to the walking trail at Churchich Park many months ago, I sensed all of us were walking or running from something.

The trail is flat and meanders around life on the softball field, tennis courts and playground. The trail’s flatness is less intimidating for the broken. Anybody who can walk can navigate her curves. 

A short, elderly woman wearing a purple jogging suit slumbered toward me one day, her hand grasping her Chihuahua’s leash as he pulled her along. Her eyes met mine, which is walking trail code for “Please acknowledge me.”

I took a chance and stopped. 

“His feeties are covered in mud – looks he’s having the time of his life,” I said, pointing at her dog. He looked up at me with his head tilted as if to, “What’s the problem?”

The woman smiled.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “The dirtier he is, the happier he is.”

We both knew the exchange was about more than her dog. I suspected she was lonely, so she fled her home for the walking trail. I could be wrong of course, but I doubt it. I trust the code.

During another walk at the park a guy dribbled a soccer ball past me multiple times. He stayed off the walking trail, dribbling the ball in the grass next to the trail – probably partially as a courtesy and partially because soccer fields aren’t made of cement. Apparently, he was trying to get in, or stay in soccer playing shape. I got the feeling he was running from stagnancy – not wanting to give up on a dream.

Since I started walking on this particular trail I’ve seen fathers and sons playing catch, fathers pitching to their kids, middle-aged men playing tennis, families navigating the playground, young men playing basketball with no thought of waking up with sore knees or stiff backs, twenty-somethings playing softball and 40-somethings attempting to play softball.

It’s a beautiful mixture of life.

I took to the walking trail a couple of years ago because I have type 2 diabetes and one of my A1C tests didn’t delight my doctor.

“You need to get more active,” he told me. “Even if it is just walking.”

So I hit the trail, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that all of us at the park are either walking or running from something.

Filling in the Gaps

Do you see an abandoned shoe in this photo or do you see
a woman running barefoot in the sand with her boyfriend?
(Photo: Ol.v!er)

I have a romanticized view of the world, which, for a Calvinist, I admit is a bit of a paradox. One of my sisters reminded me of this after she read the Katherine’s Baseball post here a couple of days ago.

When I first saw the baseball lying where flowers would normally go next to a headstone, my mind raced to fill in the gaps in Katherine’s life. Surely she must have been a baseball fan – so much so that eleven years after her death, a loved one left a baseball on her headstone on Memorial Day weekend.

My sister’s take was a little different.

“Ok well the first thought I had was that maybe a dog just happened to drop the ball there?” she said. “It looks pretty beat up! But, your version of the story is much better!”

Katherine's Baseball

My mom and I visited the cemetery this weekend to decorate graves. During our visit, we went looking for the headstone of a couple of relatives – a husband and wife – we’ve never visited because we didn't know for sure where it was. But I had a general idea of where it might be and we had some time, so we gave it a shot.

As we browsed the rows of headstones, I stumbled across a headstone that stopped me in my tracks.

Her name was Katherine. She was born in 1911 and died in 1999. I stopped because somebody had placed an old beat up baseball where flowers or flags would ordinarily go – at the top of the headstone.

Obviously, Katherine must have been a baseball fan. Growing up in the 1920s, she would have had the chance to gather around the radio with her family and listen to broadcasters paint beautiful pictures of players such as Babe Ruth, Rogers Hornsby and Lou Gehrig in action.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind the baseball itself. Did it belong to her? Was it autographed? Did she play catch with her grandkids with it? Did she catch it at a baseball game? Did one of her grandkids inherit it?

Oh, if baseballs could talk!

After stopping for a minute to snap a photo of Katherine's baseball with my Blackberry, my mom and I found the headstone we were looking for. I made a mental note of where to find it in the future. And when I visit it, I’ll be looking for another baseball on the headstone nearby.

Staying in the Flow

Photo: Mark Robinson

Life has a certain flow.

The interstate flows at a certain speed and we merge into traffic at the speed of traffic – or, at least we are supposed to. If we go too slow, we clog the flow and make it harder for people behind us to merge. If we go too fast, we force other drivers who are already on the interstate to make decisions about whether they should go on defense or not or just hope we don’t run them off the road.

Conversation is like that too. When we are receptive to each other – asking one another questions, shaking or nodding our heads in response, offering mmm-hmms or oh nos, the conversation meanders like a stream. It’s not in a hurry. Both parties feel like they are being heard and the conversation gets to where it needs to go. When it’s not natural – when there isn’t a give and take – it’s awkward, unsatisfying and we cut it short.

Nearly everything else in life is like this – appointments, walking routines, waiting in line at the movies, finding a spot in the coffee shop, romance, friendship, education, bowling. It all has a certain flow and if one of us steps out of that flow, it disrupts everyone around us.

Recently, I read a passage in a novel called The Dead Don’t Dance by Charles Martin and he says it better than I can:  

The river’s got its own rhythm, and you either dance to it or you don’t. Whether you’re man or woman matters not because the river leads, and if you’re stepping out of time, then it’s your fault because the river changes its beat for no one. You want to go swimming? Go swimming. You want to sleep? Sleep. You want to fish? Fish. You want to go faster? Too bad. You want to slow down? Good luck. The river’s got one speed, and it’s not going to stop and wait on you. And unless it rains, it’s not going to hurry you along either. Amos and I made our pact with the river long ago. We built a raft, shoved off, and never complained. Rain, no rain, sun, no sun, wind, no wind, hot, cold, fast, slow, wet, dry. It really didn’t matter to us. We were just boys, happy to go wherever the river carried us. And all the river cared about was that we were going in the same direction it was and that we could swim, because it didn’t like us dying.

New Businesses in Old Buildings

I drive by an old Taco Bell building often that has been converted into a State Farm insurance agent’s office. I always have a desire to go through the drive-thru to order a nacho supreme and a life insurance policy.

But I don’t do it because they probably disabled the drive-thru and because I’m a follow the rules kind of guy and I’m pretty sure that would violate somebody’s rule.

An Old Dunkin’ Donuts building sits next to the old Taco Bell. It’s a Subway now. I stop there for lunch a few times a month, but it’ll never really be a Subway. It’s a Duncan Donuts that just so happens to serve foot long oven roasted chicken sandwiches on Italian. 

On that same street, about a block away, an old Big Boy restaurant has been converted into a Pizza Hut. I’ll never see it as a Pizza Hut. The vision of the Big Boy statue that used to sit out front is still too vivid, even though it’s been gone for 25 years or more.

If I could have things my way, I’d adopt the philosophy of Stars Hollow – the fictional town from the Gilmore Girls (no asking how I know about such things).

Luke owns and operates a cafe in the same building his dad used to own a hardware store he called Williams Hardware. In one of the first season episodes, the camera pans away from Luke's cafe and you can still see the Williams Hardware sign. Nobody seemed to mind. They knew they could enter Williams Hardware to order a cheeseburger.

Another store owner has a restaurant called Al’s Pancake World. It doesn’t serve pancakes. He started by serving pancakes but switched to international cuisine shortly thereafter. He didn’t change the name because he printed too many napkins with the original name. The town isn’t in an uproar over the non-name change.

Star’s Hollow respects tradition. I like that.

I’m in favor of passing an ordinance in my own home town that says once a building is named, it can never be renamed. How fun would it be to watch someone from out of town go through a Taco Bell drive-thru and be greeted by an insurance agent who says, “Welcome to State Farm. We have discount rates available on car insurance today. Would you like that in a combo with renter's insurance?”

Paperboys Are Fading into a Bygone Era

A boy on a bicycle with a Toronto Star
newspaper carrier bag. Whitby, Ontario.
February 6, 1940 (Photo: Public Domain)

Ding dong.

“Mom, it’s the paperboy – he’s here to collect.”

“You know where the envelope is, go ahead and give him the money.”

My sister or I would open the door, hand him the money we owed along with the punch card. He would punch our card and then his (remember how paperboys used to have their punch cards bound at the top with three rings?). As he handed it back, he would say, “See ya next week.”

I can’t say I ever took the time to get to know our paperboys very well, but everybody in our neighborhood seemed to know their names. And I remember my mom giving the current paperboy a Christmas bonus every year, which couldn’t have been easy for her to pull off given that she was a single mom with two kids.

Paperboys were an established part of neighborhood life. That’s why I was bummed to read this at Time.com: “With physical newspapers making their way to an ever shrinking number of customers, paperboys (and girls) have become an endangered species. In 2008 they made up just 13% of newspaper deliverers, down from nearly 70% in 1990.”

The article lists several reasons for the demise of the paperboy. Newspapers have shifted to large distribution centers so carriers had to deliver bigger bundles to large areas, which led to adults with cars applying for and receiving the positions, causing the term “paperboy” to become obsolete in favor of “independent delivery contractor.” Could there be a more sterile title? The article also cites stranger danger as a reason kids no longer deliver the paper on foot.

We live in an ever-changing world and all of the clichés apply, including the only thing constant in life is change. I get that. But losing interaction with other humans, even when it is just routine business-like interaction, isn’t a good thing. We just need to keep looking for new ways to connect. I once had a pastor who encouraged us to stop using our debit cards at the gas pump so we could go inside and interact with the clerk. I don’t do that often enough. Do you?

5 Characteristics of Someone Who is Wise

Photo: Jo Jakeman

I take on this topic in the spirit in which it was intended in the Name 5 game, for which this series is based. The question assumes everybody should be able to name 5 characteristics of someone who is wise – it doesn’t automatically assume the person answering the question is wise.

My answers come from observations of people like my grandfather and one of my former teachers, whom I perceive to be wise.

What exactly is wisdom?

To possess wisdom, you must have knowledge, but possessing knowledge does not necessarily lead to wisdom. Wisdom is knowing how to apply knowledge to a specific situation. Wisdom is knowledge plus experience plus intuition (not in a mystical sort of way, but in a practical sort of way – like a wise grandfather who offers to match every dollar his grandson saves toward a car, knowing his grandson will learn the value of saving). 

On to the 5 characteristics of someone who is wise ...

1. Well rounded. He isn’t dependent on one source or one point of view because he knows human nature is to shade the truth when it doesn’t line up with an agenda. After hearing all sides, he lives out what he has learned and is able to make corrections and adjustments as he goes.

2. Slow to speak, quick to listen. A wise person doesn't care about looking wise. He just wants to help. I once had a Sunday school teacher listen to all of my theological concerns while sitting on his living room couch before he gave me any input. When I finished speaking, his input was short, it spoke specifically to my situation and it changed everything for me.

3. Patience. A wise person is not in a rush unless a true crisis warrants him to be in one, and even then, he usually makes the right choice because has practiced enough patience in the past to know what to do when the pressure is on.

4. Mindful of his tone. My grandfather rarely raised his voice with people who needed his advice whether they knew it or not. Instead, he sat down at a table with them and listened. He asked questions. Not accusatory questions, but gentle questions that disarmed people. In so doing, he gently led people to the right answer for their exact predicament.

5. Humility. A wise person doesn’t talk down to people because he understands the bent of human nature and that bent includes him. Instead, he puts his arm around someone and says, “I’ve been there. Here’s what finally worked for me.”

Add to the list in the comment section ...

5 Items Found in My Junk Drawer

A few years ago, I wrote about junk drawers and it turned out to be a pretty popular post. What I didn’t tell you at the time was – I have three junk drawers. One in the kitchen, one in the living room and one in my office.

In the spirit of the Name 5 series, here are 5 items found in my office junk drawer:

1. My old Blackberry Curve 8330. I upgraded to a Blackberry Curve 8530 last summer and haven’t gotten around to selling my old one. If you are looking for one, drop me an e-mail and I’ll sell it to you for a good price.

2. A small pill box. It’s way too small to hold the medicine I take. It didn’t start out that way, but as the number of my prescriptions grew, I had to move on.

3. Uneaten candy – mostly red licorice. Being diabetic, I try to stay away from candy as often as possible, but licorice doesn’t harm my blood sugar. Problem is – I don’t really like licorice. So it just sits in my junk drawer. But one of these days ...

4. Various cables. Every piece of technology comes with cables it seems, but often other gadgets will run on the same cable so why clutter my desk any further with duplicate cables?

5. Batteries. No matter how many batteries I have in my junk drawer, I never have the size I need. Maybe that’s just poor planning on my part.

How about you – what’s in your junk drawer?