Weekly Journal

Here's a compilation of everyday thoughts and articles I've written. Many have been published as part of my recurring columns in the News Messenger, the twice-weekly paper in Montgomery County, Virginia.

Monday
Mar012010

* * Chasing dad and seagull poop

My mother and father are living on borrowed time.  Both of them realize that they are now past their statistical life expectancies.  They are looking forward to their 60th wedding anniversary this summer and appear in good enough health to make that pleasant experience likely.

Dad has reacted to the fact of his twilight years by greeting each day with the same exuberant spirit and wonder of nature that I am certain he enjoyed in kindergarten. He is an avid bird photographer and often shows his work at local galleries and in the newspaper.

Although they only live 8 miles away, we only see each other a handful of times each year, often for a birthday, holiday, or special occasion in the community.  Yesterday, I accepted his invitation and joined him on a bird-watching trip at nearby Claytor Lake State Park.

Never been one to follow the Boy Scout creed of “Be prepared,” dad took nothing more than a digital camera equipped with a humongous lens and a single support leg.  I, on the other hand, took my nice pair of binoculars that was a hand-me-down from dad, an extra jacket, a snack, a bird book, and a bottle of water.  Dad is so familiar with local birds that he doesn't even bother to carry a bird book anymore.

As we arrived at the lake at the park, it was evident that we would have it nearly to ourselves.  We parked our car in a large parking lot designated for boat owners, but ours was the only vehicle in it.

We walked slowly around the various coves including the beach where I have vivid memories of playing as a child.  We alternatively scanned the lake for ducks and the land for songbirds.  Dad complained many times about how skittish the ducks seem to be this year, often flying away as we’d approach on shore.  He also complained about how cold his hands were on this frosty, late February day.  “When you get old,” he said, “your circulation is not as good and your extremities get cold.”  Most of the sheltered coves had a sheet of ice on them.  The ground had snowy and clear grass areas.

I followed along dutifully.  Although I have always enjoyed bird watching and can identify most common local species, it is a few rungs down on my latter of favorite things to do.  Still, it was nice sharing this experience with dad, particularly having in the back of my mind that the future will probably have a limited number of occurrences.

We passed a sign that explained how the shoreline was being eroded by the constant activity of waves on the lake, caused primarily by powerboats.  The park had made extensive use of riprap piled against the shoreline to inhibit this erosion.  It seemed to me that prohibiting powerboats would be a much saner and more pleasant solution.  But I am well aware of how fervently powerboats enthusiasts enjoy their sport.

We stopped to tour the old mansion that now serves the state park as its office.  There is a nice museum on the main floor with an interpretive display focused primarily on the types of fishes that inhabit the lake.

At one point, I fell behind as I watched a canvasback duck with my binoculars.  Dad ambled onto a long boat dock that in places was crusted with icy snow.  This struck me as a relatively reckless maneuver and I dutifully followed him thinking that I could perhaps rescue him if he fell in.  I did my best to step around the numerous piles of seagull poop sprinkled about the dock and we returned to the shore without incident.

As we concluded our trip and sought refuge in the car for the warmth it would soon provide, we compiled this list of sightings:

coots
mallards
canvasback ducks
pied-billed grebes
buffleheads
ring-billed gulls
turkey vultures
kingfishers
cardinals
song sparrows
junkos
titmouse
blue jays
Carolina wrens
red-bellied woodpeckers
downy woodpeckers
sharp-shinned hawk
crows
robins

Dropping Dad off at his house in Christiansburg, I walked inside to say goodbye to mom.  To her horror and my embarrassment, my shoes were still soiled with seagull poop which left stains on her nice living room carpet.  I apologized profusely and stepped outside to clean the remainder off my shoes.  I felt guilty about it all afternoon.

A high school friend said to me recently, “Both of my parents are dead and gone.  Yours may drive you crazy but someday they will be gone as well.  Be sure to treasure the time you still have with them.”  Good advice, indeed!

Monday
Feb222010

* * Getting by with a little help from my friends

Running through my head this moment are the bouncy lyrics to the Beatles song, With a little help from my friends.

Friendship is one of those consistent inconsistencies in life.  All of us have friends; sometimes we have many, sometimes few. And we all rely on them for fun, entertainment, and emotional support.  During the holiday season, I spent extra time looking over the contact list that I keep of phone numbers, snail mail addresses, and e-mail addresses we have of our friends.  Many friends have drifted from our lives or have passed away.  Fortunately, being gregarious people, we are always adding new ones.

For example…

A few months ago at a Rotary club meeting, I had the opportunity to meet a man named Jim who is a professor at Virginia Tech and is in charge of volunteer programs.  Last night at a free dinner provided by the Sustainable Food Corps at Virginia Tech, we met his wife Robyn as well.  Jim and Robyn turned what might have been a quiet evening alone into an hour of fellowship (and great food).  We look forward to seeing them again soon and building a closer friendship.

Back in December, I was on my way to a Twin Valley Riders motorcycle club breakfast with my frequent riding companion Mike Gunther.  Behind us behind us at a traffic light stopped two other riders who followed us to breakfast. One of them, Carlos, has now become a friend.  He and his wife Jennifer recently moved to this area from Washington, DC to provide a more relaxed, small-town environment for their growing children.  Carlos invited me to join him on a motorcycle tour to Nova Scotia in June and planning is now officially underway.  Carlos is from Peru and brings an international perspective to our friendship.

Last weekend, I was cross-country skiing on the Huckleberry Trail.  I expected to have the trail to myself but began a conversation with a man named Brian who was traveling by, of all things, dogsled.  We chatted briefly as he passed, but I caught up to him at the parking lot where he was putting his sled and his dogs in his pickup truck, where I heard all about his love of dogs and dog-sledding.  Brian and his wife Lynn, who is several months pregnant with their first child, joined us for dinner on Saturday night.  Brian and Lynn are professors at Virginia Tech and are bright, interesting and well-traveled.  The following day, they invited me to join them at Mountain Lake where we had a terrific day cross-country skiing on deep snow and with a bright sun overhead.

Each of these new friendships, as well as ongoing friendships, brings joy and fun into our lives.  Friendships or something none of us can have too much of.  I am reminded of this time and time again as I get by with a little help from my friends.



Monday
Feb152010

* * Looking for Appalachia

My wife and I took a long walk on a cold, sunny Saturday afternoon on the Huckleberry Trail in Blacksburg.  We stopped to soak in the view where an expanse of snowy fields stretched for miles towards the west, book-ended by long ridged mountains.  I asked her flippantly, “Do you think we can see far enough to see Appalachia?”  This question, as she knew, was a bit of a joke. Blacksburg is deep within Appalachia.

I’ve been in an Appalachia state of mind for several years now.  I’ve just put a wrap on my first book, a non-fiction look at the people, places, history, and culture along the border between Virginia and West Virginia.  When I mentioned what I was doing to a friend some time ago, he suggested, “I didn’t know you were interested in Appalachia.”  The entirety of the region under my study was in Appalachia.  Yet it hadn’t occurred to me that I was actually studying Appalachia per se.

Just where is Appalachia?  The great Appalachian Mountain chain extends from Alabama to Maine.  But is everything in the Appalachian Mountains Appalachia?  Are the highlands of New Hampshire in Appalachia?  Somehow, I think not. Appalachia as a cultural region is limited to the hardscrabble ridges and hollows of the central and southern Appalachians.  But it’s a hard thing to draw a line around.  

I met and interviewed historian John Alexander Williams in doing research for my book.  A first-rate scholar, he wrote the definitive history of West Virginia during the nation’s bicentennial in 1976.  He concluded, “Appalachia, once a specialized term used by geologists, became a code word that summed up all things that made West Virginia different from the rest of the nation, the good things as well as the bad.” Most seem to be bad.  Appalachia is a land of misunderstanding and stereotyping.  Fairly or not, Appalachia in many minds is a land populated by indolent, uneducated rapscallions, pugnacious Stars-and-Bars waving, NASCAR-loving pickup truck drivers, and pregnant teenagers, all living off a scavenger economy or government checks. 

As observers grapple with where and what it is, both from inside and out, the question arises as to what qualifications one must have to be an observer.  I was talking with a friend about a book we’d both read.  She said the writing of the author, a relative newcomer to the area, wasn’t infused with the “true Appalachia.”

What is a true Appalachian?  How does a person know if he or she is Appalachian? (This sounds like the lead-in to a Jeff Foxworthy joke.) 

Being a true Appalachian implies some measure of residence longevity.  One woman I interviewed for my book says you qualify if you grew up here and your daddy or mommy went to high school here.  But surely there must be some gray area.  I grew up in Appalachia but my parents didn’t.  Am I Appalachian?  My daughter’s dad (me) went to high school in Appalachia as did she, but she was born in Seattle.  Is she Appalachian?

To be of Appalachia may imply many negative stereotypes, but as they relate to individuals, they are largely worthless.  I met or learned of exceptionally gifted people throughout, including athletes (e.g. basketballers Buzzy Wilkinson from Bluefield and Bimbo Coles from Lewisburg), Nobel Prize winners (John Nash from Bluefield), authors (Homer Hickam from Coalwood) and countless musicians, politicians, film-makers, and artists.  All stereotypes have some basis in fact, I suppose, but ascribing traits of the stereotype blindly to any individual is neither righteous nor fruitful.

The coal camp of War, West Virginia is one of the most startling places I visited.  After interviewing the mayor, Dr. Tom Hatcher, he admonished me in a follow-up email, “Don’t go home and write about us as if you know us.”  Yikes!  Tom was right; I don’t know War.  But I know what I saw and experienced.  In the way it is said that no two people see the same rainbow, I submit that no two people see the same Appalachia.  There are data, facts and statistics, but Appalachia is what we see it to be.  How does one qualify to know and then describe the pixie-dust of lightning bugs on a summer evening, the delicate dew on a gossamer spider web, the austere desolation of a mountaintop removal mine, the murderous power of floodwaters in a valley town, the twang of a banjo, or the hell-fire in a glass of moonshine?

Appalachia is what and where each of us thinks it is.  Appalachians are people who think they are Appalachians, regardless of where they live now, where they grew up or where their parents grew up.  Appalachians are people who embrace what Appalachia means to them and feel honor and a sense of dignity relative to the way the mountains have shaped them, their fortitude, spirit and world-view.  I’m proud to be one of them.

 



Tuesday
Feb092010

* * Enjoying the Good Ole Days

Like many folks these days, I hang out on several different blogs to get a sense of what people I share interests with are thinking about.  On one of the motorcycle interest blogs a few weeks ago, someone launched a thread asking about our experience over the years in motorcycling.  The occasion was the beginning of our new decade and the question was phrased, Which decade in your motorcycling history was the best?

Not surprisingly, this sent me into a whirlwind of contemplation.  We always hear about the good old days but how do they apply to my enjoyment of motorcycling? I’ve been riding since before I got my driver’s license, so I have four decades of experience. I started by riding off-road and did some motocross racing (poorly).  I gravitated to the street where I continue to ride now.

As with many engineered things, the technology in motorcycling has changed dramatically in the years since the first motorcycle was invented over 100 years ago.  Motorcycles are faster, smoother, more luxurious, and more reliable than in years past.  But how much relevance does this have to actual enjoyment?

As I have documented in a recent post, I recently lost an acquaintance who took his own life upon learning that he had terminal pancreatic cancer.  Last summer, I lost another acquaintance to melanoma.  It was completely coincidental that these men were both the same age as I am today, 55 years old.  My health is (presumably) good and every day is a blessing.

Meanwhile, there are four motorcycles in my garage right now, all of them vintage and all manufactured by Honda. 

The latest model is a 1998 VFR Interceptor.  The Interceptor is a sport-bike, blood red and fast.  Its 800cc engine is by no means as powerful as many of the newer bikes on the market but it certainly propels me every bit as fast as I would ever want to go.

Unless inclement weather precludes it, every day I ride a 1989 Hawk GT to work.  This little 650cc twin is the most reliable and economical transportation I have ever owned.  I bought it in 1993 for $2800 and it takes virtually no maintenance.  It gets nearly 55 miles to the gallon and is economical to own and operate.

Last summer, I bought another 1989 bike, a 800cc Pacific Coast.  This bike is like a miniature Gold Wing and is comfortable for two-up touring.  This is by far Jane’s favorite bike.

My pride and joy is a 1981 1050cc CBX.  This is one of the original superbikes. With its in-line six cylinder engine, it has style and panache that has seldom been equaled since.

Everyone loves to complain about the price of gasoline these days.  However, for the thrills it brings me it is still a bargain.  If I ride 100 miles round-trip to have breakfast with friends in my motorcycle club, the gasoline barely costs as much as the omelet, beverage, and tip.  We have many wonderfully scenic, curvy, and unpatrolled highways in our area and this is motorcycle heaven.

I can ride virtually whenever I want and feel the freedom and exhilaration that my motorcycles bring me. I have a stable of fine bikes, I have gasoline at the pump reliably, and wonderful mountain scenery and clear air.  Best of all, I have my health.  Waxing nostalgic about days of yore is always tempting, but for me these really are the Good Ole Days.

That said, motorcycling has been put on hold recently. We had our third major snowstorm of the season beginning on Friday and ending Saturday evening.  While the natives are generally pretty restless about this stuff, I am trying to enjoy this aversion from normal, everyday activities.  I have been skiing several times on the nearby Huckleberry Trail.  I generally have the entire trail to myself and have had to do my own trail-blazing.  Only on one other occasion did I see other skiers.  I asked these two women where they were from, assuming correctly they moved to our area from a colder place.  One was from New York and the other was from Minnesota.  Whenever I see skiers whenever I see cross-country skiers around here, it is always a fair assumption that they moved here from someplace else.

Monday
Feb012010

* * Staying (not so) busy

My younger brother lives with his wife and their three children in suburban Washington, DC.  I called him yesterday to ask about coming up to visit.  My wife and I have not seen them for over a year and we have an interest in visiting the Dulles Museum of Air and Space.

My brother said, “This is probably the busiest year of our lives but let me talk it over with (my wife) and I will call you back and let you know.”

As I hung up the phone, I got to thinking about how different my current lifestyle is from his.

He is two years younger than me.  He met his wife at the University of Virginia where both of them were earning their MBAs.  They both had terrific careers in corporate marketing and consulting.  Their eldest child, a son, is now about 15 years old.  Their second son is about 9 and their daughter is about 7.  The second son is mildly autistic. 

When the son began his educational journey, my brother and his wife were increasingly disappointed in the options provided to them by the public schools for special needs children.  My brother's wife is one of the most energetic people I have ever met.  He and she decided to start their own private school for special needs children.  This school is now in its first year of operation and it is open six days per week.  My brother has his own job teaching math at a private high school.  So between his teaching job, raising their own three kids, and creating and running the school, they are constantly on the go.

Two years ago, my wife Jane and I sold the commercial printing company that we inherited from my parents 18 years ago.  We still own the industrial shell building where that business was housed and my income comes from rents we collect.  So I spend several hours each week managing that building.  However, it is far from being a full-time job.  Jane lost her job as an instructor at Virginia Tech a year ago and with the budget situation being what it is, she has not been able to find a similar position.  Our only child is now a freshman at Virginia Tech and she takes little of our time.  The bottom line is that I have more free time than I have had perhaps since elementary school.

At home, I read those long books I’ve had on my shelf for years (including, at the moment, Bud Robertson’s Stonewall Jackson, The Man, The Soldier, The Legend).  I take long walks.  I do house projects. 

At work, I learn new software and explore the Internet while I wait for others to edit, review, and design my manuscripts.  Book #3 is still in my head and research awaits warmer weather. I made a stained glass panel for our home and have a commission job to start soon for a friend. (If you'd like to see it, Friend me on Facebook and see the post.)  I do volunteer work for the New River Land Trust and my Rotary Club.

I am not suggesting that my brother's life is better or worse than mine.  I believe that all of us need a purpose in life and I appreciate the value of work and achievement.  I heartily commend he and his wife for their dedication to special needs kids.  However, I believe that it is equally important to have free time for contemplation, renewal, and intellectual fulfillment.  He has chosen the lifestyle he now lives as I have chosen mine.  Both of us are blessed to be in positions to have the freedom of flexibility and choice in our lives.

Regardless, I hope he’s got time for our visit!