Saturday, August 31, 2013
Shoestrings ( written 0ct 2011)
Shoestrings
Recently I put on a new pair of shoes for work. The shoes were standard black non-skid work shoes, the kind that you can buy at Wal-Mart. I do not own a pair of sneakers, and aside from dress shoes that I wear at church, typically only wear sandals, if anything. I prefer to be shoeless. However, work is a different story. So, after my old work shoes finally wore out, I finally put on these.
One problem: the shoestrings were too long. I remember the same thing had happened with my old pair. The strings, if pulled straight reached almost to my knees. They would, perhaps, be more appropriate for boots.
I like to wear my shoes somewhat loose. I do not lace the top holes, but this made the problem worse. I tried to tie a large knot, but since I tried not to tie it too tight, it came undone. Repeatedly. Every time I walked from my booth to the office, the shoelaces on at least one shoe came loose, making me feel like a clumsy elementary school boy who did not yet know how to tie a proper knot.
So, I knew what I had to do. I had to buy some shorter laces. I did the same thing the last time, but the laces that I bought then were almost too short to stay tied—at least they did not flop on the ground like these long monstrosities.
But the local store did not have a good selection. They had 24” dress shoestrings—the kind I bought before that were too small. They had 48” strings, but no 32” ones.
I reluctantly bought the 48 inchers.
The next day I went to lace them up. I typically keep the shoes in my car, since I prefer to be barefoot and therefore do not need them at home. Anyway, when I laced them up, the laces still appear too long. But they were better than what I had had before. I still have to re-tie them during the day—just not as much, and when they come undone, they do not drag on the ground. So that is o.k., especially since I only wear them about 8 hours a day.
What do I make of shoestrings that are made too long? Is this a cultural fad? Surely, it is not about economy as more string means more cost. Yet the cost of string is low, no doubt, for if it were expensive, then the bare minimum would be used.
I do not remember shoestrings being that long when I was younger. You know, “back in my day. . . we made shoe strings short, and we liked it.” So, I wonder is this a fad. Am I just an old man pining about the way life was simpler back then, when shoes came with laces that fit?
Then I wonder if I am the only one. Maybe I’ve just been unlucky enough to buy the two pairs of shoes that came with too long laces. Or, maybe, because I do not like to wear shoes I therefore do not realize that long laces are not a big deal –that everyone has them, and that to have little laces on men’s shoes is a sign of weakness. “Real men have long shoestrings . . . you know, kind of a macho thing.”
But how could that be? Wouldn’t you trip when playing ball or trying to run in long strings? Ah, maybe that is it! Maybe these shoes weren’t meant for activity. Maybe they were a symbol of a man who does not have to work manually—someone like a boss or executive who sits behind a desk and ponders the meaning of life, in long-stringed shoes.
Perhaps then long-stringed shoes for men are like stiletto heels for women. A status symbol. A way to say see I am better than you because I can sit all day and work behind a desk, while you, in short-stringed shoes or, if female, in flats, can do the physical jobs that demand movement.
Now, I am kind of disappointed that I shortened my shoestrings. Perhaps I should have thought it out before hand. . . Oh well? Those kinds of people can have their long-stringed shoes and high heels. I do not need a
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The worst that could happen
The worst that could happen
“What is the worst that could happen,” he said to himself. With his finger on the button, the phone in his hand, he muttered those words. He wished he was brave—no, that’s not quite it—bellicose and confident, like a barker selling wares. He’d roar throughout the town, telling all what he needs. They would listen, he’d be sure. He’d get what he wants.
But, alas that is not him. He is no assertive fool. For him, life is peace and simple contentment. At times he whispers, “ a monk, I could be”.
“Life is for the taking. Grab the brass ring.” These sayings, and others, rang through his head. The voices kept telling him, that people achieve, aspire, produce. “Gung ho”, and “full steam ahead”, so the voice-in-his-head commanded.
He’d put it off as long as he could, finding anything to do—a drain that needs unclogged; a floor that needs swept. The hour was late. He wanted to stop.
“Tomorrow”, he thought, “I could do it well, then”. But he knew that was wrong, that the time was right, now. He had to at least try, or he’d sleep badly tonight. Then, in the morning he feel so tired, that, instead of the task, he’d roll back asleep.
Under the covers, away from the world, is a place that he regretfully likes. He’d been there before—escape was his friend. The world did not need him—he’d just simply retire, to a life of boredom disguised as independence. No one he needed, for they all get in the way.
But that is no life, that he wanted to have. So, back to the man with the phone in his hand, dialing a number to change his world. Slowly, as if about to announce the death of a child, the numbers were dialed. The phone began to ring.
Then all of a sudden a voice answered, not grouchy, or grim, but mellow and kind. He now had to speak, perhaps it’ll not be so bad. “what’s the worst that could happen”, he thought to himself.
The talk was fine. He stuttered a little, but no comment was made, no faux pas announced. The task was not done, for he promised to follow-up—to call again—to keep in touch. It seemed the thing to say.
What the worst that could happen? Who knows? It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, the call that he made. He had done it, finally, and at last. The start of new things, or just a brief change, that question may be the worst aspect yet.
“What is the worst that could happen,” he said to himself. With his finger on the button, the phone in his hand, he muttered those words. He wished he was brave—no, that’s not quite it—bellicose and confident, like a barker selling wares. He’d roar throughout the town, telling all what he needs. They would listen, he’d be sure. He’d get what he wants.
But, alas that is not him. He is no assertive fool. For him, life is peace and simple contentment. At times he whispers, “ a monk, I could be”.
“Life is for the taking. Grab the brass ring.” These sayings, and others, rang through his head. The voices kept telling him, that people achieve, aspire, produce. “Gung ho”, and “full steam ahead”, so the voice-in-his-head commanded.
He’d put it off as long as he could, finding anything to do—a drain that needs unclogged; a floor that needs swept. The hour was late. He wanted to stop.
“Tomorrow”, he thought, “I could do it well, then”. But he knew that was wrong, that the time was right, now. He had to at least try, or he’d sleep badly tonight. Then, in the morning he feel so tired, that, instead of the task, he’d roll back asleep.
Under the covers, away from the world, is a place that he regretfully likes. He’d been there before—escape was his friend. The world did not need him—he’d just simply retire, to a life of boredom disguised as independence. No one he needed, for they all get in the way.
But that is no life, that he wanted to have. So, back to the man with the phone in his hand, dialing a number to change his world. Slowly, as if about to announce the death of a child, the numbers were dialed. The phone began to ring.
Then all of a sudden a voice answered, not grouchy, or grim, but mellow and kind. He now had to speak, perhaps it’ll not be so bad. “what’s the worst that could happen”, he thought to himself.
The talk was fine. He stuttered a little, but no comment was made, no faux pas announced. The task was not done, for he promised to follow-up—to call again—to keep in touch. It seemed the thing to say.
What the worst that could happen? Who knows? It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, the call that he made. He had done it, finally, and at last. The start of new things, or just a brief change, that question may be the worst aspect yet.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Little Things
Little Things
I like little things. I do not know why, but I tend to interested in things that are “different”, out of the ordinary and unique. I seek out the details that others miss. Things that are little are often overlooked.
I am also a geographer, and understand the role of “scale”. Tiny animals like spiders, bugs and ants exist on a much smaller scale than humans do. What for us, is just a few steps is for them a journey. Yet they not only live, but seem to survive quite nicely.
There is something comforting to me about the fact that, in the midst of human chaos, life goes on. For example, at work one day I looked down and, there just inches from a heavily-travelled road was a line of ants. They seemed oblivious to the loud cars and trucks overhead. Instead they walked along the white line, in search of food, or water, or mates or whatever. Maybe that white line was a highway for the ants, and they were on a journey to visit other ant-friends a few ant-miles away (which for us would be a few feet).
Another time I was in an argument --a very heated discussion that had moved to a neighborhood park. I, and the person with whom I was losing the argument to, thought that going to the park would help to calm the situation. When we sat a picnic table, a tiny green bug, about the size of a comma, walked across the tabletop. I pointed it out. And stared at it, since staring at my argument opponent was not in my best interest.
Something happened! Quickly, the problem that had brought us to that picnic table seemed to—at least for a while—float away. We were both engrossed in the happenings of this tiny bug. It went between the wood planks, but did not fall. It traveled, as if on a mission, across the table top. In a moment the world seemed simpler, less complex, for this tiny bug had no knowledge that it was on a table, or was being spied upon by others who were not seeking prey.
Tiny little things are all around, be they small ants along a road, tiny bugs on a table, or small fish in the backyard pond. All these living things exist in spite of human interference and encroachment. Not only that but they seem content, and at peace with their space. That to me is a nice thought.
I like little things. I do not know why, but I tend to interested in things that are “different”, out of the ordinary and unique. I seek out the details that others miss. Things that are little are often overlooked.
I am also a geographer, and understand the role of “scale”. Tiny animals like spiders, bugs and ants exist on a much smaller scale than humans do. What for us, is just a few steps is for them a journey. Yet they not only live, but seem to survive quite nicely.
There is something comforting to me about the fact that, in the midst of human chaos, life goes on. For example, at work one day I looked down and, there just inches from a heavily-travelled road was a line of ants. They seemed oblivious to the loud cars and trucks overhead. Instead they walked along the white line, in search of food, or water, or mates or whatever. Maybe that white line was a highway for the ants, and they were on a journey to visit other ant-friends a few ant-miles away (which for us would be a few feet).
Another time I was in an argument --a very heated discussion that had moved to a neighborhood park. I, and the person with whom I was losing the argument to, thought that going to the park would help to calm the situation. When we sat a picnic table, a tiny green bug, about the size of a comma, walked across the tabletop. I pointed it out. And stared at it, since staring at my argument opponent was not in my best interest.
Something happened! Quickly, the problem that had brought us to that picnic table seemed to—at least for a while—float away. We were both engrossed in the happenings of this tiny bug. It went between the wood planks, but did not fall. It traveled, as if on a mission, across the table top. In a moment the world seemed simpler, less complex, for this tiny bug had no knowledge that it was on a table, or was being spied upon by others who were not seeking prey.
Tiny little things are all around, be they small ants along a road, tiny bugs on a table, or small fish in the backyard pond. All these living things exist in spite of human interference and encroachment. Not only that but they seem content, and at peace with their space. That to me is a nice thought.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Must. Write. Blog
Personal Essay
Must. Write. Blog. . . .
I think, for me, one of the most difficult things is self-discipline. I am too much of a free spirit. I do not like to be tied down. It’s okay if someone tells me to do something—like for class or for work, but left on my own—well, that is another story.
That is why writing a blog is important. It kind of forces me to write something. There, staring at me every day is the little icon, with my blog’s name on it.
It’s not as if I have nothing to say. Ask anyone. I have opinions. I am to be listened to. If only word of my well reasoned arguments can reach the masses, then maybe things will change. (Maybe my dogs can figure out how to open the front door and “go potty”, all by themselves too! They can just bark and we will let them back in.)
Part of the problem is that there are so many other things to do. Maybe, these aren’t the best things to do, such as watching TV. or surfing the ‘net, but they do manage to control a lot of time.
They say that the world is filled with good intentions. People often seem to live unfulfilled lives.
Yet, some folks are focused and disciplined. They have learned how to manage their time, plan their activities and accomplish their tasks. I am sure that these people must feel happy, but too often those who are driven seem unable to relax, smell the coffee, and enjoy some pointless show on TV.
Mom is like that. She does not slow down. But she is not unhappy. She enjoys her activities, and although she rarely watches TV. –especially when there is work to be done, and there is always work to be done! She does relax, with family and friends.
In short, mom likes to keep busy.
Sometimes it drove me nuts. “Geez, mom, I’ll do the dishes, but let me see this show first!” Eventually she’d relent and before I went to bed, I would finish the chores.
I guess I am still like that! (Sigh) My wife knows that I will do the dishes, and whatever, but first, I need to do this, or do that.
I think I will always battle this desire for freedom and responsibility. I am a rebel in that way; don’t tell me to do something for I may not.
I am also a dreamer—I like to think, and this thinking (er, dreaming) takes a lot of time. It can not be rushed. Like grilling meat, it is best to let it cook nice and slow, otherwise part of it is too done and part is not done enough. Yet, at some point, it’s time to take the food off the grill and move on to the next step. Dang it’s hard—I mean too well done!
Must. Write. Blog. . . .
I think, for me, one of the most difficult things is self-discipline. I am too much of a free spirit. I do not like to be tied down. It’s okay if someone tells me to do something—like for class or for work, but left on my own—well, that is another story.
That is why writing a blog is important. It kind of forces me to write something. There, staring at me every day is the little icon, with my blog’s name on it.
It’s not as if I have nothing to say. Ask anyone. I have opinions. I am to be listened to. If only word of my well reasoned arguments can reach the masses, then maybe things will change. (Maybe my dogs can figure out how to open the front door and “go potty”, all by themselves too! They can just bark and we will let them back in.)
Part of the problem is that there are so many other things to do. Maybe, these aren’t the best things to do, such as watching TV. or surfing the ‘net, but they do manage to control a lot of time.
They say that the world is filled with good intentions. People often seem to live unfulfilled lives.
Yet, some folks are focused and disciplined. They have learned how to manage their time, plan their activities and accomplish their tasks. I am sure that these people must feel happy, but too often those who are driven seem unable to relax, smell the coffee, and enjoy some pointless show on TV.
Mom is like that. She does not slow down. But she is not unhappy. She enjoys her activities, and although she rarely watches TV. –especially when there is work to be done, and there is always work to be done! She does relax, with family and friends.
In short, mom likes to keep busy.
Sometimes it drove me nuts. “Geez, mom, I’ll do the dishes, but let me see this show first!” Eventually she’d relent and before I went to bed, I would finish the chores.
I guess I am still like that! (Sigh) My wife knows that I will do the dishes, and whatever, but first, I need to do this, or do that.
I think I will always battle this desire for freedom and responsibility. I am a rebel in that way; don’t tell me to do something for I may not.
I am also a dreamer—I like to think, and this thinking (er, dreaming) takes a lot of time. It can not be rushed. Like grilling meat, it is best to let it cook nice and slow, otherwise part of it is too done and part is not done enough. Yet, at some point, it’s time to take the food off the grill and move on to the next step. Dang it’s hard—I mean too well done!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
“My two cents and/or Superstition”
Personal Essay
06-28-11
While walking my dogs, I picked up two pennies that were on the ground. If my wife was there, the first thing that she would have asked me, “is it heads up, or heads down?”, indicates what she thinks is important about the penny. A heads-up penny is valuable; it brings good luck. Yet heads-down; leave it alone.
I never cared about that. To me a penny is a penny—one tenth of a dime or one hundredth of a dollar. If I pick up two pennies, then I am now two pennies richer. True nothing can be bought with 2 pennies, but, I am not broke. Perhaps, I can find some use.
It seems that few people are concerned about pennies anymore. Though old superstition is cute, I think that hardly anyone takes it seriously anymore. Or do they? Superstitions are persistent; they must have some sticky glue for they never completely leave the brain.
I always wore a blue shirt when taking a test in High School, and though I never take tests anymore, I still think of blue shirts as lucky.
Pennies are not picked up any more. I have heard people (my wife, but also others, so as not to point her out) say that they do not bother to pick them up since they are nearly worthless. Sad! At least pick the poor thing up and let it mingle with other coins; it’ll be happier with its own kind instead of out in world alone.
Perhaps old pennies and silly superstitions are similar. They are part of us; part of our collective identity. Add all those pennies up and you may have enough for a stick of gum, or a bag of chips. Add all those superstitions together and—you get a myth or a legend. (Some say that religion is superstition, but that is another story.) At least they make a good story. Either way you have something! It all has value. That’s cool! So as I put my two pennies in my pocket, I smile. I am not broke!
Oh, by the way the first one was heads-up, the second was heads-down. I hope they cancel out!
06-28-11
While walking my dogs, I picked up two pennies that were on the ground. If my wife was there, the first thing that she would have asked me, “is it heads up, or heads down?”, indicates what she thinks is important about the penny. A heads-up penny is valuable; it brings good luck. Yet heads-down; leave it alone.
I never cared about that. To me a penny is a penny—one tenth of a dime or one hundredth of a dollar. If I pick up two pennies, then I am now two pennies richer. True nothing can be bought with 2 pennies, but, I am not broke. Perhaps, I can find some use.
It seems that few people are concerned about pennies anymore. Though old superstition is cute, I think that hardly anyone takes it seriously anymore. Or do they? Superstitions are persistent; they must have some sticky glue for they never completely leave the brain.
I always wore a blue shirt when taking a test in High School, and though I never take tests anymore, I still think of blue shirts as lucky.
Pennies are not picked up any more. I have heard people (my wife, but also others, so as not to point her out) say that they do not bother to pick them up since they are nearly worthless. Sad! At least pick the poor thing up and let it mingle with other coins; it’ll be happier with its own kind instead of out in world alone.
Perhaps old pennies and silly superstitions are similar. They are part of us; part of our collective identity. Add all those pennies up and you may have enough for a stick of gum, or a bag of chips. Add all those superstitions together and—you get a myth or a legend. (Some say that religion is superstition, but that is another story.) At least they make a good story. Either way you have something! It all has value. That’s cool! So as I put my two pennies in my pocket, I smile. I am not broke!
Oh, by the way the first one was heads-up, the second was heads-down. I hope they cancel out!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
R.I.P Squirrel
Personal Essay May 14, 2011
“I saw a squirrel get hit by a truck”
While walking the dogs along the street that runs through our subdivision, I saw (and heard) a squirrel get hit by a truck. The driver no did not stop, or even slow down. The old man seemed in a hurry to get to where he was going.
I heard the Thump; and saw the final shake, as the tail twitched back and forth. Cars zoomed by. Though now a carcass, I did not want another to hit it. They missed as they hurried up the lane.
I looked around. Trees were in full bloom. All bedecked in green, as squirrels and birds lived among their branches. Flowers and grasses marked the path ahead. All was alive.
I stopped to take it in as my dogs were panting; waiting patiently for me to move.
Such is life. But a death too early is not a happy thing.
I thought of the Native Americans’ view that everything has a spirit. Father Sky, I’ve heard them say. Something in that way of thinking brought peace.
Everything is Spirit. The Imago Dei, image of God.
As I continued my walk, nature seemed to echo this statement. Wind rustled through the green canopy above. A squirrel on a nearby tree stopped mid-climb to stare at me, the human stranger. My dogs’ tails swayed happily back and forth.
Life continues on.
Rest well little squirrel. Your spirit moves on.
“I saw a squirrel get hit by a truck”
While walking the dogs along the street that runs through our subdivision, I saw (and heard) a squirrel get hit by a truck. The driver no did not stop, or even slow down. The old man seemed in a hurry to get to where he was going.
I heard the Thump; and saw the final shake, as the tail twitched back and forth. Cars zoomed by. Though now a carcass, I did not want another to hit it. They missed as they hurried up the lane.
I looked around. Trees were in full bloom. All bedecked in green, as squirrels and birds lived among their branches. Flowers and grasses marked the path ahead. All was alive.
I stopped to take it in as my dogs were panting; waiting patiently for me to move.
Such is life. But a death too early is not a happy thing.
I thought of the Native Americans’ view that everything has a spirit. Father Sky, I’ve heard them say. Something in that way of thinking brought peace.
Everything is Spirit. The Imago Dei, image of God.
As I continued my walk, nature seemed to echo this statement. Wind rustled through the green canopy above. A squirrel on a nearby tree stopped mid-climb to stare at me, the human stranger. My dogs’ tails swayed happily back and forth.
Life continues on.
Rest well little squirrel. Your spirit moves on.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Why the NHRA is better
NHRA
It seems that we rarely hear about the NHRA anymore. They used to be on TV often, but in the world of auto racing NASCAR has become more popular.
Yet I like hot rods better.
1. The track is shorter; I do not have to wait all day to see who will win
2. There are many small races instead of one big race
3. I like the funny cars and the nitro cars so I get variety, whereas NASCAR has the same type
4. Yeah I admit it, I like the smoke, the squealing tires and the sometimes crashes.
I guess some people like NASCAR and the rest like NHRA –maybe my attention span is just too short
It seems that we rarely hear about the NHRA anymore. They used to be on TV often, but in the world of auto racing NASCAR has become more popular.
Yet I like hot rods better.
1. The track is shorter; I do not have to wait all day to see who will win
2. There are many small races instead of one big race
3. I like the funny cars and the nitro cars so I get variety, whereas NASCAR has the same type
4. Yeah I admit it, I like the smoke, the squealing tires and the sometimes crashes.
I guess some people like NASCAR and the rest like NHRA –maybe my attention span is just too short
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