I brought a pear in for lunch today because we were out of bananas. It's yellow, rather than the usual light green, with a slight pinkish blush, so it stands in well for my daily banana. I also have a woodblock print of a pear by my desk that I like having around, along with family photos, a jovial little wooden troll from Minnesota, and other visual artifacts that help make a cube a habitable space.
Not everything has found its place in my new cubicle environment, and that, like the relocation to a new office itself, will take time. The pear theme, however, stands a good chance of continuing, even when I get back to the daily banana.
My wife Gven Golly is the pear person in our household. She can be counted on to buy pears in season at the grocery store, and they're always in season somewhere, aren't they? Pears from California, pears from Argentina, pears from New Zealand, maybe even the occasional pear from - gasp - Ohio. Does anyone grow pears commercially in central Swingstate? If so, do they look as pretty under the lights in the produce aisle as the cosmetically enhanced, genetically engineered variety that's shipped as containerized cargo from some far-off trading partner? Probably not.
Today's pear is d'Anjou, and the bar-coded sticker on it says "USA/E-U" (estados unidos), which tells me it might have come from some temperate place in latinoamerica. The sticker has an image of a mountain next to a giant ladybug next to the word 'Stemitt', all of which is code for some hemispheric operation that I can only wonder about and guess at. Okay, Ladybird Johnson's family owns a division of United Fruit that grows pears on a plantation in Uruguay, and their marketing people had fun with the play on the words 'stem' and 'summit'. No?
Week 2 in the new location has now come and gone with remarkably little turbulence. The usual comparisons with the old location are inevitable, usually saying more about the speaker than the place itself. And my own cubicle microcosm has not radically altered either, with only a few images tacked on the cube walls: a randomly found poster of Bookwus Mask by Beau Dick [1992. Red cedar, paint, feathers, horsehair. 43.2 x 38 x 51 cm (17 x 15 x 20"). Northern Heritage Art Co., Ltd., Tucson, Arizona], a calendar, a department phone list, photos of my family c. 1956, 1973, 1985, and 2007, and the pear print.
When Gven and I were courting, one of our early dates was a trip to the High Museum in midtown Atlanta, where there was an Asian art exhibit that quickly got our attention. The most memorable work was a painting titled The Elusive Flaming Pear that was both beautiful and hilarious. Something about it spoke to both of us - quest for enlightenment, mystical transformation, chance encounters with the unexpected, fresh fruit - and the phrase stuck.
The one on my desk, while just a bit overripe and not exactly flaming, is still delicious with a bit of baby Swiss cheese. Bon apetit!
Monday, November 09, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
RE cycling
I took the plunge this morning and rode le Trek to work at the new office. It wasn't much of a leap of faith, since I had ridden the eight or nine miles down the Alum Creek trail many times on weekends, so I knew more or less what to expect. This was just the first time doing it in work mode, so now I know empirically that it can be done.
Although there was almost no wind, the morning air was, shall we say, brisk. Hat and gloves were necessary, not optional. Ten degrees colder would have made it a tough ride; ten degrees warmer and I would have had to change into the spare T-shirt I brought just in case.
The creek was very high, so the trail was flooded where it dips under Schrock Road coming out of Methodistville. Once I had dodged traffic to cross Schrock, it was clear sailing south, except for the oblivious grandmother in the minivan turning right onto Cooper Road, who breezed right through the red light without looking. Close calls with idiot drivers like that show me that I really should wear a helmet.
The other close encounter occurred a couple of miles down the trail where it winds through woods and parks. As I careened down the leaf-covered path, I startled a couple of deer having breakfast on the creek side of the trail. The buck was pretty big and sported a rack of antlers with maybe eight points. Other than birds and squirrels, the only other wildlife in evidence was a tall young woman running with her dog in Casto Park just north of highway 161.
What I love about this trail is its avoidance of roads and traffic. After winding a few blocks through residential streets, I'm by myself without cars and stoplights, save for crossing route 3 at Cooper Rd. and then Sunbury Rd. at Easton, then a few blocks coming up Easton Way to the office. The middle seven miles is glorious solitude, except for grandma and deer. Which begs the question, what will the weather be like on the way home? As George Carlin, the hippy-dippy weatherman would say, "The forecast for tonight - dark."
Although there was almost no wind, the morning air was, shall we say, brisk. Hat and gloves were necessary, not optional. Ten degrees colder would have made it a tough ride; ten degrees warmer and I would have had to change into the spare T-shirt I brought just in case.
The creek was very high, so the trail was flooded where it dips under Schrock Road coming out of Methodistville. Once I had dodged traffic to cross Schrock, it was clear sailing south, except for the oblivious grandmother in the minivan turning right onto Cooper Road, who breezed right through the red light without looking. Close calls with idiot drivers like that show me that I really should wear a helmet.
The other close encounter occurred a couple of miles down the trail where it winds through woods and parks. As I careened down the leaf-covered path, I startled a couple of deer having breakfast on the creek side of the trail. The buck was pretty big and sported a rack of antlers with maybe eight points. Other than birds and squirrels, the only other wildlife in evidence was a tall young woman running with her dog in Casto Park just north of highway 161.
What I love about this trail is its avoidance of roads and traffic. After winding a few blocks through residential streets, I'm by myself without cars and stoplights, save for crossing route 3 at Cooper Rd. and then Sunbury Rd. at Easton, then a few blocks coming up Easton Way to the office. The middle seven miles is glorious solitude, except for grandma and deer. Which begs the question, what will the weather be like on the way home? As George Carlin, the hippy-dippy weatherman would say, "The forecast for tonight - dark."
Sunday, November 01, 2009
untitled seasonal stream of consciousness
Let's connect some dots and see if anything hangs together. It's moving day at the office, Halloween in the suburbs, Samhain in the forest, All Saints Day in the Church, el Dia de los Muertos en Mexico, and the end of Daylight Saving Time in the U.S. of A.
So what?
It is time to turn a corner. Take a look back and move resolutely forward. Put the nonhardy plants like spider lilies in the cellar for the winter, because we will have a hard freeze before you know it. The patio looks naked without them, but I want them to live and bloom again next year.
It's also an ideal time to get up on the garage roof and sweep off the leaves and pine needles, scoop the wet gunky debris out of the gutters, and liberate it all to the flower beds below. All of which was a tangent to the original task of replacing a sheet of metal roofing that blew off the shed more than a year ago in Hurricane Ike. Now it is nailed down nice and tight.
It was clear and cool today, so the wet sticks I stacked yesterday had a chance to dry, but you know that clear sky will make it colder tonight, so the dry kindling will come in handy starting the first fire of the season in the stove tonight.
The moon is full and very bright.
Gven and I ended a satisfactory Saturday of mowing, weeding, and breaking of sticks for kindling with a hearty meal of brots and a salad, with pauses to give out candy to dressed-up Methodistville street urchins on All Hallows Eve, one of the few times we have both been home to enjoy that neighborhood ritual. Tonight she made eggplant parmesan, which was perfect with bread and red wine.
The Yankees are beating up on the Phillies in game 4 of the World Series. I did catch one electric moment when Pedro Feliz took Joba Chamberlain deep, but I think the Yanks have too many horses.
Instead of going to church or open meditation this morning, I ended up at Jersey Universalist Church in rural Licking County, a tiny congregation I visited infrequently several years ago. I love the setting, for one thing, just off the old highway 161 at the edge of the village of Jersey, Ohio, east of New Albany, nestled in a grove of pine trees surrounding an old cemetery in front of a cornfield. About 12 people showed up for a service consisting of readings and open-ended commentary from the Book of Daniel. The imagery of Nebuchadnezzar's dream was fascinating: head of gold, chest of silver, belly of bronze, legs of iron, and feet of clay mixed with iron. I might have to visit again to discern its mystical meaning(s).
Afterward I drove up Mink Road to Jug Street and east to Alexandria through some of the prettiest rolling countryside in central Swingstate, then west toward Methodistville on Central College Road, confirming my desire to bike that way some time. But when will the stars align, giving me three hours on a weekend with good weather?
Tomorrow I'll drive Hank the Ranger southeast instead of northwest and park myself in a different cube in a different building among a mostly different cast of charcters. Should be interesting to see how it plays out.
So what?
It is time to turn a corner. Take a look back and move resolutely forward. Put the nonhardy plants like spider lilies in the cellar for the winter, because we will have a hard freeze before you know it. The patio looks naked without them, but I want them to live and bloom again next year.
It's also an ideal time to get up on the garage roof and sweep off the leaves and pine needles, scoop the wet gunky debris out of the gutters, and liberate it all to the flower beds below. All of which was a tangent to the original task of replacing a sheet of metal roofing that blew off the shed more than a year ago in Hurricane Ike. Now it is nailed down nice and tight.
It was clear and cool today, so the wet sticks I stacked yesterday had a chance to dry, but you know that clear sky will make it colder tonight, so the dry kindling will come in handy starting the first fire of the season in the stove tonight.
The moon is full and very bright.
Gven and I ended a satisfactory Saturday of mowing, weeding, and breaking of sticks for kindling with a hearty meal of brots and a salad, with pauses to give out candy to dressed-up Methodistville street urchins on All Hallows Eve, one of the few times we have both been home to enjoy that neighborhood ritual. Tonight she made eggplant parmesan, which was perfect with bread and red wine.
The Yankees are beating up on the Phillies in game 4 of the World Series. I did catch one electric moment when Pedro Feliz took Joba Chamberlain deep, but I think the Yanks have too many horses.
Instead of going to church or open meditation this morning, I ended up at Jersey Universalist Church in rural Licking County, a tiny congregation I visited infrequently several years ago. I love the setting, for one thing, just off the old highway 161 at the edge of the village of Jersey, Ohio, east of New Albany, nestled in a grove of pine trees surrounding an old cemetery in front of a cornfield. About 12 people showed up for a service consisting of readings and open-ended commentary from the Book of Daniel. The imagery of Nebuchadnezzar's dream was fascinating: head of gold, chest of silver, belly of bronze, legs of iron, and feet of clay mixed with iron. I might have to visit again to discern its mystical meaning(s).
Afterward I drove up Mink Road to Jug Street and east to Alexandria through some of the prettiest rolling countryside in central Swingstate, then west toward Methodistville on Central College Road, confirming my desire to bike that way some time. But when will the stars align, giving me three hours on a weekend with good weather?
Tomorrow I'll drive Hank the Ranger southeast instead of northwest and park myself in a different cube in a different building among a mostly different cast of charcters. Should be interesting to see how it plays out.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Apex Update
My son and I communicate pretty well if only sporadically. I'm a spore and he's a radical. Our conversations don't always follow a conventional template, and that might be a good thing. We have a lot of history, some difficult but most of it very positive. The lines are open. This post attempts to make up some recent lost time.
Last month Jessi finished his construction skills course at Apex Academy, a trade school in New York City. The final phase, Electrical II, was his favorite part of the program, and the teacher, Mr. Neese, was the best of the lot. Mr. Neese also taught one of the plumbing courses, which Jessi also liked. He did well in the theory classes and in the shop. He has always been a good student and a good test taker, and he thrived on the combination of theory and practice with tools and materials.
They learned pipe bending and wired circuits and electrical panels using different kinds of cable, such as Romex (two- and three-wire cable in plastic sheathing) and armored (also called metal-clad, or BX because it was invented in the Bronx). They installed switches, outlets, and lights according to code.
In the week or two between the end of school and the start of cranberry season, his band, Hey Baby, was extremely busy. They began sharing a new practice space in Brooklyn with two other bands, and that required assembling amps, speakers, a PA, and drums. The space is more readily available than their previous space, and it looks like a good arrangement. They played shows at DIA Beacon in Beacon, NY, at Don Pedro's, and at Tommy's Tavern in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
The first week of October, Jessi and friends went up to Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, to start work on the cranberry harvest at Mann's Farm. Once again this year, the seasonal workers have a house to live in right on the farm, and the living situation seems to agree with him. They put in long days picking, cleaning, sorting, packaging, and shipping berries to customers. Some of it is in the bog, and some of it is in the shed. I gather that they work hard and play hard too.
Gven and I have big plans for the prodigal son when he comes home for Thanksgiving - bearing a box of berries, we hope. We have a couple of house-renovation projects - including wiring, flooring, and a bathroom - that are currently on-hold awaiting someone with his skills and creative problem-solving ability. This is not a test, but we are eager to see what he can do.
Last month Jessi finished his construction skills course at Apex Academy, a trade school in New York City. The final phase, Electrical II, was his favorite part of the program, and the teacher, Mr. Neese, was the best of the lot. Mr. Neese also taught one of the plumbing courses, which Jessi also liked. He did well in the theory classes and in the shop. He has always been a good student and a good test taker, and he thrived on the combination of theory and practice with tools and materials.
They learned pipe bending and wired circuits and electrical panels using different kinds of cable, such as Romex (two- and three-wire cable in plastic sheathing) and armored (also called metal-clad, or BX because it was invented in the Bronx). They installed switches, outlets, and lights according to code.
In the week or two between the end of school and the start of cranberry season, his band, Hey Baby, was extremely busy. They began sharing a new practice space in Brooklyn with two other bands, and that required assembling amps, speakers, a PA, and drums. The space is more readily available than their previous space, and it looks like a good arrangement. They played shows at DIA Beacon in Beacon, NY, at Don Pedro's, and at Tommy's Tavern in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
The first week of October, Jessi and friends went up to Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, to start work on the cranberry harvest at Mann's Farm. Once again this year, the seasonal workers have a house to live in right on the farm, and the living situation seems to agree with him. They put in long days picking, cleaning, sorting, packaging, and shipping berries to customers. Some of it is in the bog, and some of it is in the shed. I gather that they work hard and play hard too.
Gven and I have big plans for the prodigal son when he comes home for Thanksgiving - bearing a box of berries, we hope. We have a couple of house-renovation projects - including wiring, flooring, and a bathroom - that are currently on-hold awaiting someone with his skills and creative problem-solving ability. This is not a test, but we are eager to see what he can do.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Retreat
A few examples of an imperative sentence:
Go into the forest for a couple of days, even if it costs a little money, and sleep in a sleeping bag on an unfamiliar bunk in a dormitory full of relative strangers. Live by an altered, imposed, and accepted set of boundaries. Wake up at 5:00 to the sound of a bell, followed by chanting, drumming, and another bell. Be silent until breakfast at 7:30. Sit as much as you want. Take a break, then sit some more.
When you're not sitting, go outside in the crisp October air and walk down the trail to visit the bald eagle, the red-tailed hawk, kestrels, barn owls, barred owls, and turkey vultures that are sheltered at the Raptor Center. Do a taiji form on the brick fire circle just outside the kitchen with your morning coffee, then do another one after dark while the stars come out.
Go for a serious hike down into the glen, across the bridge, past Helen's Rock and Pompey's Pillar, and take a drink from the yellow spring that gives the town its name. Walk along the top of the ridge, down some steep steps, and closer to the creek. Mind your own business, just like the other hikers - young, old, and in between - mind theirs. Get a little bit lost, and find out by accident that the trail loops back to where you came from. Take off a layer or two and cool off.
Help with lunch, then help clean up. Collect enough kindling to get a fire started after dinner, and sit around talking with four or five other people while the fire burns down to coals.
When it's time to go, pack up your stuff, help clear the rooms of furniture, and mop the floor. Take a detour into town, and since it's such a nice day, take a bike ride up the paved trail, stopping to fix a flat tire on the way back, thankful that you brought a spare tube and a hand-pump. Recover from that little adventure with a sandwich and coffee at a little place on Xenia Ave.
Drive home and do a couple of chores because the back yard looks so welcoming.
Go into the forest for a couple of days, even if it costs a little money, and sleep in a sleeping bag on an unfamiliar bunk in a dormitory full of relative strangers. Live by an altered, imposed, and accepted set of boundaries. Wake up at 5:00 to the sound of a bell, followed by chanting, drumming, and another bell. Be silent until breakfast at 7:30. Sit as much as you want. Take a break, then sit some more.
When you're not sitting, go outside in the crisp October air and walk down the trail to visit the bald eagle, the red-tailed hawk, kestrels, barn owls, barred owls, and turkey vultures that are sheltered at the Raptor Center. Do a taiji form on the brick fire circle just outside the kitchen with your morning coffee, then do another one after dark while the stars come out.
Go for a serious hike down into the glen, across the bridge, past Helen's Rock and Pompey's Pillar, and take a drink from the yellow spring that gives the town its name. Walk along the top of the ridge, down some steep steps, and closer to the creek. Mind your own business, just like the other hikers - young, old, and in between - mind theirs. Get a little bit lost, and find out by accident that the trail loops back to where you came from. Take off a layer or two and cool off.
Help with lunch, then help clean up. Collect enough kindling to get a fire started after dinner, and sit around talking with four or five other people while the fire burns down to coals.
When it's time to go, pack up your stuff, help clear the rooms of furniture, and mop the floor. Take a detour into town, and since it's such a nice day, take a bike ride up the paved trail, stopping to fix a flat tire on the way back, thankful that you brought a spare tube and a hand-pump. Recover from that little adventure with a sandwich and coffee at a little place on Xenia Ave.
Drive home and do a couple of chores because the back yard looks so welcoming.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Isabelle
This one won't be easy.
That was the start of a blog entry dated almost three weeks ago, then sat unfinished and barely begun. The sweetest cat in the known universe died at the foot of our bed some time during the night. It was painful to watch, though we knew it was coming, and it is painful to recall now. So I will not dwell unnecessarily on her long, slow decline or the strange sight of her blank open eyes near the end as she labored to breathe.
Izzy and her brother Gus joined our family on my daughter Zelda's seventh birthday in 1991. We lived in Grandview, and our previous cat, Big Louie, had been hit by a car while crossing Northwest Boulevard. We buried Louie in the tiny back yard of our double and started looking for another cat. My running partner MacKenzie's tabby had kittens soon after, and he and his family were generous enough to let us have not one but two longhaired picks of the litter, the orange male and the black and orange tortoise-shell female.
Gus and Isabelle moved with us to south Alabama that summer and helped make our little house on Brook Lane a home. A year later they moved back to Columbus with us. Zoe bonded with Gus, sometimes wearing him draped across the back of her neck like a fur collar. My favorite thing was to lie on the floor after a run and cool down while Isabelle took a nap on my chest. Good times those.
The prime years were the ones we lived in a big brick house set back from High Street surrounded by an acre of pine, spruce, poplar, and maple trees with lots of wildlife. It was cat heaven and not too bad for humans. We acquired a dog during that time, and it took awhile for Gus and Izzy to accept Dali into the club, but eventually they came to terms.
Our move to Methodistville was relatively smooth for the animals, and each of them claimed their favorite places in the smaller house and yard. Now all three are buried in the back corner, just inside the fence on high ground under the cedar trees. Gus went first, and Isabelle was a wreck for maybe a year, crying day and night for her brother. Already losing weight and strength, she became much more needy and feeble but lasted another couple of years on sheer pride and stubbornness.
The question of another cat or dog has come up naturally. I think we will take our time with that and just let the house be empty of animals for awhile.
That was the start of a blog entry dated almost three weeks ago, then sat unfinished and barely begun. The sweetest cat in the known universe died at the foot of our bed some time during the night. It was painful to watch, though we knew it was coming, and it is painful to recall now. So I will not dwell unnecessarily on her long, slow decline or the strange sight of her blank open eyes near the end as she labored to breathe.
Izzy and her brother Gus joined our family on my daughter Zelda's seventh birthday in 1991. We lived in Grandview, and our previous cat, Big Louie, had been hit by a car while crossing Northwest Boulevard. We buried Louie in the tiny back yard of our double and started looking for another cat. My running partner MacKenzie's tabby had kittens soon after, and he and his family were generous enough to let us have not one but two longhaired picks of the litter, the orange male and the black and orange tortoise-shell female.
Gus and Isabelle moved with us to south Alabama that summer and helped make our little house on Brook Lane a home. A year later they moved back to Columbus with us. Zoe bonded with Gus, sometimes wearing him draped across the back of her neck like a fur collar. My favorite thing was to lie on the floor after a run and cool down while Isabelle took a nap on my chest. Good times those.
The prime years were the ones we lived in a big brick house set back from High Street surrounded by an acre of pine, spruce, poplar, and maple trees with lots of wildlife. It was cat heaven and not too bad for humans. We acquired a dog during that time, and it took awhile for Gus and Izzy to accept Dali into the club, but eventually they came to terms.
Our move to Methodistville was relatively smooth for the animals, and each of them claimed their favorite places in the smaller house and yard. Now all three are buried in the back corner, just inside the fence on high ground under the cedar trees. Gus went first, and Isabelle was a wreck for maybe a year, crying day and night for her brother. Already losing weight and strength, she became much more needy and feeble but lasted another couple of years on sheer pride and stubbornness.
The question of another cat or dog has come up naturally. I think we will take our time with that and just let the house be empty of animals for awhile.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Turn the page
New job, new cast of co-worker characters, new set of acronyms and idioms to go with the new subculture of production. New kinds of problems to try to solve, new chaotic situations out of which to bring order. I've been an editor for so long, it had become burned into my identity, and officially at least, I'm not an editor anymore. We shall see how readily I shed that skin.
It seems like a lot of changes are happening all at once, because they are. The star wheel is turning from summer to fall, and just today the pine trees were shedding their golden needles like crazy. It's a downer in a sense, gravity and the receding sun's rays doing their thing, but I love the look of fresh pine straw on the ground.
The cooler temperatures are not harsh just yet, so the cold is not a problem either. Wear long pants, put on a sweater. It gets dark pretty early, so there will be no more eight o'clock bike rides deep into Delaware County with plenty of time to loop back home while the cars can still see the green flash of light that is me on le Trek.
I'm starting a new job in a different department of the same company, although the "same" company is morphing into a whole new starship publishing enterprise, so the department I was in for almost ten years will not be the same old department much longer. Even if I wasn't the new/old kid on the second floor, it would not be business as usual. Good news or bad news, you tell me.
I chose to disappear from the fourth floor quickly rather than make it a long, drawn-out leave-taking. It's not like I'm leaving the company or the big small town that is Central Swingstate. I just need to be here now rather than dwell on where I am not.
The plus side of not making many close connections with people at work is that when it's time to move on and call it a day, there are fewer attachments to break. I know that sounds harsh, or a lame rationalization, or fair-weather friendly, but it's not intended that way. I'm not the jilted boyfriend who says, after the fact, that he never really like her anyway. I'm more like the survivor of a shipwreck who washed up on a desert island and lived a good, long time on the nearest beach, in no small part because of help from the other inhabitants of that island. Now another tempest has washed me out to sea, and I'm learning to live on the fruits and nuts that grow on the next island.
Since I did not choose to make this particular move at this particular time, I have less at stake in its being the absolutely best thing ever to happen. Even an intentional change of situation has only an even chance of success: either it will or it won't work out to my advantage, however that is measured. As it says in the middle school math book, just relax and do the best you can. When the next challenge, opportunity, or long strange trip comes about unexpectedly, it's not all that different: I don't know where this story is going, but I will do what I can to make it go somewhere good.
That's just the thing. Being ejected from my comfortable seat in Editorial Land after all these years might just be the best thing that ever happened to me. Yeah, like it "happened to me" and I had nothing to do with it. I probably sowed the seeds of this departure/exile/deportation/ostracism many times over. Paraphrasing that most revered and respected of elder statesmen, Trickie Dick Nixon, they won't have Sven Golly to kick around anymore.
If anything, I'm anticipating a whole new professional adventure, and in the Joseph Campbell sense, you don't pick your adventures, they pick you. So I'm game. Let's see what kinds of trials and tests, temptations and traps, hidden helpers and hoodwinking hindrances lie in wait.
It seems like a lot of changes are happening all at once, because they are. The star wheel is turning from summer to fall, and just today the pine trees were shedding their golden needles like crazy. It's a downer in a sense, gravity and the receding sun's rays doing their thing, but I love the look of fresh pine straw on the ground.
The cooler temperatures are not harsh just yet, so the cold is not a problem either. Wear long pants, put on a sweater. It gets dark pretty early, so there will be no more eight o'clock bike rides deep into Delaware County with plenty of time to loop back home while the cars can still see the green flash of light that is me on le Trek.
I'm starting a new job in a different department of the same company, although the "same" company is morphing into a whole new starship publishing enterprise, so the department I was in for almost ten years will not be the same old department much longer. Even if I wasn't the new/old kid on the second floor, it would not be business as usual. Good news or bad news, you tell me.
I chose to disappear from the fourth floor quickly rather than make it a long, drawn-out leave-taking. It's not like I'm leaving the company or the big small town that is Central Swingstate. I just need to be here now rather than dwell on where I am not.
The plus side of not making many close connections with people at work is that when it's time to move on and call it a day, there are fewer attachments to break. I know that sounds harsh, or a lame rationalization, or fair-weather friendly, but it's not intended that way. I'm not the jilted boyfriend who says, after the fact, that he never really like her anyway. I'm more like the survivor of a shipwreck who washed up on a desert island and lived a good, long time on the nearest beach, in no small part because of help from the other inhabitants of that island. Now another tempest has washed me out to sea, and I'm learning to live on the fruits and nuts that grow on the next island.
Since I did not choose to make this particular move at this particular time, I have less at stake in its being the absolutely best thing ever to happen. Even an intentional change of situation has only an even chance of success: either it will or it won't work out to my advantage, however that is measured. As it says in the middle school math book, just relax and do the best you can. When the next challenge, opportunity, or long strange trip comes about unexpectedly, it's not all that different: I don't know where this story is going, but I will do what I can to make it go somewhere good.
That's just the thing. Being ejected from my comfortable seat in Editorial Land after all these years might just be the best thing that ever happened to me. Yeah, like it "happened to me" and I had nothing to do with it. I probably sowed the seeds of this departure/exile/deportation/ostracism many times over. Paraphrasing that most revered and respected of elder statesmen, Trickie Dick Nixon, they won't have Sven Golly to kick around anymore.
If anything, I'm anticipating a whole new professional adventure, and in the Joseph Campbell sense, you don't pick your adventures, they pick you. So I'm game. Let's see what kinds of trials and tests, temptations and traps, hidden helpers and hoodwinking hindrances lie in wait.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Peregrination
Let's say you're out for a nice bike ride on a gorgeous Sunday evening in Methodistville, and the wind is a mild sou'wester. MacKenzie's First Law says that you would start out going southwest, against the wind, to get the tailwind on your way back. It's an ideal late-summer time to unwind, in the immortal words of Chuck Berry, with no particular place to go.
If you go west on Walnut and hang a left at the cemetery, then head down Knox and cut through the service department past the skateboard park, you get to Alum Creek bike trail and go south, under Schrock Road and I-270, past a row of condos to a little unofficial eroded pedestrian trail up the bank to Cooper Road.
Here it gets tricky for a minute, as you ride uphill a short distance north, looking out for traffic on the curving two-lane road, before turning left on Corporate Exchange, a wide connector through an sort of office park campus that wends its way up to Cleveland Ave. and comes out, lo and behold, at the Home Depot. This was my objective: to find a route to that corner. Success!
There's no bike rack at O'Charley's, which is not a surprise, only a mild disappointment, since I was secretly hoping to bicycle there to meet my posse later this week. However, at the back of the parking lot I notice an inconspicuous, heretofore unnotice driveway, like a call to adventure leading around a bend and over a small rise to the Xenos campus, which looks busy, well-organized, and wholesomely friendly, like a cross between the Hallmark Channel and the Sci-Fi Channel. Just past the well-marked Cafe in the rear of the the back building I spot a gap in the fence, squeeze through a narrow gate at the back corner, an almost hidden portal onto an out-of-the-way dead-end street that leads to the mainstream normalcy of Sharon Woods Blvd.
I love to discover these obscure connections between the public geography that's printed on the map and the places that the locals know only because they happen to live there. Sharon Woods winds south from Schrock about a mile through a suburban residential neighborhood not unlike my own, past Underfunded Public High School, and comes out on state highway 161, one of the ubiquitous commercial strips from hell so common in central Swingstate.
Crossing 161, the neighborhood changes, as they say, and for an old white guy it doesn't feel so familiar anymore. Since I'm macho in my backward Buckeye cap and cruising along in high gear on le Trek, I have no fear, but through the roundabout of Tamarack Circle I know I'm not in Kansas anymore. I get as far south as Morse Road and things get really strange.
I haven't been to what's left of Northland lately, and apparently no one else has either, because it's deserted save for the surrealistic movie fascade of a building labeled State of Ohio Department of Taxation. This is either some extreme irony or people actually work here, but it's Sunday so I can't really tell, and the sun is going down, and I don't want to turn into a pumpkin, so I definitely need to head back from whence I came.
With no buildings blocking the view it's easy to find my way through the uninhabited expanse of pavement to Karl Road and head north past familiar landmarks like Woodward Park Rec Center, Epworth Methodist Church, the Northside YMCA, and the Karl Road branch of Columbus Public Library, all of which are, in my insular world, bastions of civilization.
Karl turns residential again north of highway 161 revisited, and it would be a stretch to say that I'm on my own with no connection home like a complete unknown, though I was enjoying the indirect route I was riding not quite like a rolling stone. After turning right on Schrock, I happened to notice a gate left open at the very back corner of Sharon Woods Metropark where it ends at I-270, so I doubled back and snuck through the gate into the park and found the unexpected treat of a perfect curving path through protected woods and picnic tables back toward Methodistville.
Directly across from the park entrance is St. Ann's Hospital, which reveals itself as a kind of campus, too, as I coast downhill through a succession of parking lots leading back to Cooper Road, which takes me back to Alum Creek trail and up the hill to Otterbein, which really is a campus, back to Walnut Street and Om Shanty, where there is a cold Great Lakes Eliot Ness Amber Lager waiting for me. Pointless but satisfying nonetheless.
If you go west on Walnut and hang a left at the cemetery, then head down Knox and cut through the service department past the skateboard park, you get to Alum Creek bike trail and go south, under Schrock Road and I-270, past a row of condos to a little unofficial eroded pedestrian trail up the bank to Cooper Road.
Here it gets tricky for a minute, as you ride uphill a short distance north, looking out for traffic on the curving two-lane road, before turning left on Corporate Exchange, a wide connector through an sort of office park campus that wends its way up to Cleveland Ave. and comes out, lo and behold, at the Home Depot. This was my objective: to find a route to that corner. Success!
There's no bike rack at O'Charley's, which is not a surprise, only a mild disappointment, since I was secretly hoping to bicycle there to meet my posse later this week. However, at the back of the parking lot I notice an inconspicuous, heretofore unnotice driveway, like a call to adventure leading around a bend and over a small rise to the Xenos campus, which looks busy, well-organized, and wholesomely friendly, like a cross between the Hallmark Channel and the Sci-Fi Channel. Just past the well-marked Cafe in the rear of the the back building I spot a gap in the fence, squeeze through a narrow gate at the back corner, an almost hidden portal onto an out-of-the-way dead-end street that leads to the mainstream normalcy of Sharon Woods Blvd.
I love to discover these obscure connections between the public geography that's printed on the map and the places that the locals know only because they happen to live there. Sharon Woods winds south from Schrock about a mile through a suburban residential neighborhood not unlike my own, past Underfunded Public High School, and comes out on state highway 161, one of the ubiquitous commercial strips from hell so common in central Swingstate.
Crossing 161, the neighborhood changes, as they say, and for an old white guy it doesn't feel so familiar anymore. Since I'm macho in my backward Buckeye cap and cruising along in high gear on le Trek, I have no fear, but through the roundabout of Tamarack Circle I know I'm not in Kansas anymore. I get as far south as Morse Road and things get really strange.
I haven't been to what's left of Northland lately, and apparently no one else has either, because it's deserted save for the surrealistic movie fascade of a building labeled State of Ohio Department of Taxation. This is either some extreme irony or people actually work here, but it's Sunday so I can't really tell, and the sun is going down, and I don't want to turn into a pumpkin, so I definitely need to head back from whence I came.
With no buildings blocking the view it's easy to find my way through the uninhabited expanse of pavement to Karl Road and head north past familiar landmarks like Woodward Park Rec Center, Epworth Methodist Church, the Northside YMCA, and the Karl Road branch of Columbus Public Library, all of which are, in my insular world, bastions of civilization.
Karl turns residential again north of highway 161 revisited, and it would be a stretch to say that I'm on my own with no connection home like a complete unknown, though I was enjoying the indirect route I was riding not quite like a rolling stone. After turning right on Schrock, I happened to notice a gate left open at the very back corner of Sharon Woods Metropark where it ends at I-270, so I doubled back and snuck through the gate into the park and found the unexpected treat of a perfect curving path through protected woods and picnic tables back toward Methodistville.
Directly across from the park entrance is St. Ann's Hospital, which reveals itself as a kind of campus, too, as I coast downhill through a succession of parking lots leading back to Cooper Road, which takes me back to Alum Creek trail and up the hill to Otterbein, which really is a campus, back to Walnut Street and Om Shanty, where there is a cold Great Lakes Eliot Ness Amber Lager waiting for me. Pointless but satisfying nonetheless.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Yo Ho Ho
You can feel the change of seasons in the air. The maple tree outside the office window already shows a distinct splash of orange. We pull up the down comforter sometime during the night. Football season is underway across this great pigskin nation. That must mean it's time to switch from gin to rum.
Gin and tonic is a summer drink, and on a warm summer evening, there's nothing quite like it, wedge of lime, thank you. Spring is for tequila, por supuesto. In a margarita, or with grenadine and OJ in a tequila sunrise, or all by itself, what the je. Viva agave! In winter it's vodka. Russian, Polish, Swedish, whatever. And from around Labor Day to New Year's Day, here roughly defined as 'fall', rum is the liquor of choice in my house. It's versatile, as refreshing in OJ as in tonic or, as a Christmas treat, egg nog.
Let's be clear. I am not advocating that anyone overindulge. Have one drink to take the edge off. If it's a seasonal libation, it becomes a little more celebratory, a little more connected to the four directions, the solstice and the equinox, the turning of the big wheel, with the cultural observance of winter, spring, summer, and fall. When I figure out the eight trigrams, the five elements, and the five flavors, you'll be the first to know.
Gin and tonic is a summer drink, and on a warm summer evening, there's nothing quite like it, wedge of lime, thank you. Spring is for tequila, por supuesto. In a margarita, or with grenadine and OJ in a tequila sunrise, or all by itself, what the je. Viva agave! In winter it's vodka. Russian, Polish, Swedish, whatever. And from around Labor Day to New Year's Day, here roughly defined as 'fall', rum is the liquor of choice in my house. It's versatile, as refreshing in OJ as in tonic or, as a Christmas treat, egg nog.
Let's be clear. I am not advocating that anyone overindulge. Have one drink to take the edge off. If it's a seasonal libation, it becomes a little more celebratory, a little more connected to the four directions, the solstice and the equinox, the turning of the big wheel, with the cultural observance of winter, spring, summer, and fall. When I figure out the eight trigrams, the five elements, and the five flavors, you'll be the first to know.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Nine, nine, oh nine
My son Jessi was born 27 years ago today. Over the years, the numbers 9/9/82 have been kind of special for me, as well as an easy-to-remember PIN or lock combination.
The online Merriam Webster dictionary gave me this additional factoid this morning.
So there you go. Nine not just another number. Nine is out there. Dressed to the nines. The whole nine yards.
Everyone knows that 9 is super cool numerologically. If you add 9 to any digit (let's say 2 + 9 = 11), and then add the digits of the sum (1 + 1), you get the original digit (1 + 1 = 2). Oh wow!
Nine is very heavy in the Book of Changes (I Ching) too, indicating a strong yang element in any changing situation. Nine is all about creativity, mobility, and dragon-like power. Three in a row has to be auspicious.
So by the quirks of the base-10 numbering system and the Western calendar that has September (literally "seventh month") falling on the ninth month, September ninth in the ninth years of the current century kind of stands out. Three nines in a row, 9/9/09, makes 27.
Happy birthday, Jessi. You are a nine nine oh nine!
The online Merriam Webster dictionary gave me this additional factoid this morning.
Did you know?
Since ancient times, various groups of people have considered nine to be a very special and sacred number. Legends and literature have long characterized groups of nine as having a special, in some cases magical, significance. Ancient Egyptians organized their gods into groups of nine; even today, their principal group of gods (headed by sun god Re-Atum) is called the "Great Ennead of Heliopolis." The "Ennead" English speakers use in that name traces to "ennea," the Greek word for "nine." "Ennead" is also used generally to refer to other groups of ancient gods. Furthermore, it is the name given to six sets of nine treatises by Greek philosopher Plotinus that were collected and organized by his 3rd-century disciple, Porphyry.
So there you go. Nine not just another number. Nine is out there. Dressed to the nines. The whole nine yards.
Everyone knows that 9 is super cool numerologically. If you add 9 to any digit (let's say 2 + 9 = 11), and then add the digits of the sum (1 + 1), you get the original digit (1 + 1 = 2). Oh wow!
Nine is very heavy in the Book of Changes (I Ching) too, indicating a strong yang element in any changing situation. Nine is all about creativity, mobility, and dragon-like power. Three in a row has to be auspicious.
So by the quirks of the base-10 numbering system and the Western calendar that has September (literally "seventh month") falling on the ninth month, September ninth in the ninth years of the current century kind of stands out. Three nines in a row, 9/9/09, makes 27.
Happy birthday, Jessi. You are a nine nine oh nine!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
It's a Bean!
If you've been following the continuing story of our search for a car, the search is finally over. Thank goodness. It's been almost six weeks since the deer leaped into the path of Gven's Honda somewhere in western Pennsylvania, totalling both the car and the deer. The car made it home safely; the deer didn't.
In the meantime, we've been getting by on one vehicle, plus the Lincoln Town Car on loan from Gven's friend Kate. As Commander Cody said, "My pappy said son, you're gonna drive me to drinkin' if you don't stop drivin' that hot rod Lincoln." Now Kate can have her Town Car back, because Gven has bought a Toyota Echo named Bean. It's a cute little, dark red, kidney-shaped car, hence the name.
We test-drove Accords, CRVs, and Civics; Volvo S40s and XCs; a Subaru, a Land Rover, and a Sportage. Some came close, but none filled the bill. It's a good way to meet interesting people from the Middle East, Africa, Mexico, Ukraine, and Grove City. Long story short, car culture is vast and varied. Our research was less exhaustive than exhausting, and it seems to have worked out fine.
The Bean doesn't have power windows, a sunroof, all-wheel drive, or turbo. It isn't an SUV, station wagon, hybrid, or amphibious armored urban assault vehicle. It does have four wheels, an engine, air, and a CD player. It runs. It handles well, and it's great on gas. I think it will do, even without bells and whistles.
We'll have to see how Gven bonds with her car. It's doing well bopping around town, and soon we will take it on a road trip to see the parents. It's just good to have the car issue resolved for now.
In the meantime, we've been getting by on one vehicle, plus the Lincoln Town Car on loan from Gven's friend Kate. As Commander Cody said, "My pappy said son, you're gonna drive me to drinkin' if you don't stop drivin' that hot rod Lincoln." Now Kate can have her Town Car back, because Gven has bought a Toyota Echo named Bean. It's a cute little, dark red, kidney-shaped car, hence the name.
We test-drove Accords, CRVs, and Civics; Volvo S40s and XCs; a Subaru, a Land Rover, and a Sportage. Some came close, but none filled the bill. It's a good way to meet interesting people from the Middle East, Africa, Mexico, Ukraine, and Grove City. Long story short, car culture is vast and varied. Our research was less exhaustive than exhausting, and it seems to have worked out fine.
The Bean doesn't have power windows, a sunroof, all-wheel drive, or turbo. It isn't an SUV, station wagon, hybrid, or amphibious armored urban assault vehicle. It does have four wheels, an engine, air, and a CD player. It runs. It handles well, and it's great on gas. I think it will do, even without bells and whistles.
We'll have to see how Gven bonds with her car. It's doing well bopping around town, and soon we will take it on a road trip to see the parents. It's just good to have the car issue resolved for now.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
It's a pergola!
After a prolonged gestation period, a new addition to our family has seen the light of day. This baby was first conceived about four years ago, and finally has been delivered unto us, a joyful addition indeed.
It's a big one, about 20 feet long, 12 feet wide, and 9 feet high. Roughly speaking, since all measurements are just a bit off. It has been an interesting project, you might say, from a vague idea to a vivid daydream, through some initial sketches and multiple design changes, pacing off the length at least a hundred times, right down to what I'm tentatively calling "completion."
If I was a carpenter, and you were a lady, would you marry me anyway, would have my pergola?
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