Category Archives: change

Pause On / Pause Off

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Pause on.

This past September weekend was a very busy one.  For five days straight, I spent time with many, many – say it again – many family members and friends, met with tons of acquaintances, and completed all kinds of activities that brought all walks of my life together.  People were in and out of my home.  We served meals, refreshed the laundry, and arranged and re-arranged our home as needed.  The purpose of all the activity was pure enjoyment with every motion made set to encourage positive results.  And I honestly believe that at the end of this particular stretch of time, fun was had by all.

But, at the end, I paused . . . and I am still pausing.  After all was said and done, I knew that I needed to do a little self-check on the lens that I use to see everything.

Through my usual lens, my life is rather rosy.  I have four wonderful children –  who are all well-educated, who are doing well financially, and who have fairly rosy lives themselves.  I live in a very comfortable home – and want for nothing.   I am surrounded by all that is good.  I travel . . . a lot.  I spend a couple of weeks in the mountains, a couple weeks on the beach, time in various metropolitan areas, and time in great Americana spots.  I have favorite breakfast spots that aren’t just at the area covered by my kitchen table.  Two very nice folks clean my home on a bi-weekly basis.  I don’t mow the lawn.  I have easy access to health care. My cars are bright and shiny, are parked in a garage, and when broken are repaired by someone else.  I have money in my checking account at all times.  My retirement plans are going well.

I exercise everyday – because I have time and the means to do so.  I use a dry cleaner who brings my stuff to my house when it is ready.  A young person delivers the newspaper to my doorstep, daily.  I own and display seasonal decorations, and have storage space to keep them looking new and organized.  I have a big, giant family.  And all of my brothers and sister have homes that have at least four bedrooms, countless bathrooms, two car garages, and extra refrigerators. And of that group, several of us have advanced degrees, all of us have undergraduate degrees, and all children among us have gone to college or are planning on going to college; and, all have parents and relatives who are totally and passionately involved in their lives – supporting them every step of the way.

I have more than one pair of tennis shoes – just for running.  I save one dollar coins on a whim, wear matching underwear just because, and have a ginormous backyard deck.  My home has air-conditioning, tons of extra toilet paper, a pantry full of food, high-speed internet, and kitchen gadgets for every and any purpose known to humankind.  My wardrobe changes with the season.

And due to all of this  –  coupled with all the motion and commotion at my house during that five-day period in September –  I paused.  For quite awhile.  For, there is another more challenging lens that is often obscured by my rosy one previously described – especially when I am in the middle of such frenzied activity.

I paused because I know and needed to remember that there are thousands and thousands of folks who are hoping to find food for tonight’s dinner meal.  They don’t have homes or cars or educational opportunities.  They certainly don’t have decks or seasonal decorations, or storage space, matching underwear, or kitchens.  They struggle with family and friends.  In fact, there are children begging for attention from anyone – any family member – any friend – and there are adults begging for the same.  The only clothes they have are the items they are wearing.  They can’t save coins . . . they can’t save anything for their immediate needs are too great.  They use pencils because they can’t afford pens.  The only vacations they take may be those taken during their best daydreams.  Newspapers aren’t delivered, garages aren’t attached to their homes, and they have no need for extra refrigerators as they have a tough time filling one, let alone two. Healthcare is a challenge.

So I paused.

Through the summer of 2012 in another part of my world,  I have been intentionally pondering  over the term creativity.  What does it mean?  Where does it come from?  How can I learn to open myself up to becoming a more creative individual?  Where is it most prominent?  Who are the experts?  How is it reflected in me and how can I strengthen my focus on it.    And suddenly – because I took a moment to pause – I may have gotten closer to the answers.

In all my wondering about and wandering with creativity, I might have been on an erroneous path.  While pausing, I had a moment to reflect, to consider the other side.  And I learned that I have examined creativity using only one lens. . . instead of many.

I am finding that when I look through the lens that is not so rosy, I see the creativity that people use just to make it to tomorrow.  I see folks finding solutions to problems that I can only imagine.  I see folks doing things differently not because of want, but because of need.  I see folks making their worlds keep spinning in any way possible, and hoping to affect change in their lives by doing so.  Their creativity is ingenious.  And as far as I can see, their greatness in this area has to come from their ability to face adversity and survive.

For me, I learned that the source of creativity is more than just one lens.  It is more than just two, and very likely it is found in hundreds of lenses. I just need to make sure that my eyes are open and ready to see.

Pause off.

The Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge in Omaha, NE, is a great place to ponder the intricacies of creativity . . . or any other subject!

The Comeback Moment

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I caught his eyes, and I knew it was the moment. My young, eighteen year old cousin was looking straight at me with that smile.  It was the moment we all waited for . . . the moment of excitement . . . the most anticipated moment . . . the defining moment.  He said absolutely nothing to me and I nothing to him.  But, we both grinned and we knew it.  And we weren’t the only ones who recognized it.

My sister was some twenty feet behind me laughing as she reached out for our tiny ten-year old niece who had just swallowed a bit of salt water, but was none-the-less smiling and laughing, too. My spouse, also laughing,  had tumbled back further towards shore and was intent on returning, pausing just long enough to squeeze water out of his faded yellow swim shirt and to meet up with a brother-in-law who likewise was making his way back to the group.

The teenage girls – six of them who were all nearly the same age, (old enough to be on their own, but young enough to need some watchful eyes) – were already waiting for the next round, as were the college kids – the bold, the crazy, the unabashed, the fearless – who had moved the center of the group several feet farther out into the ocean than the original position.

In all, there were nearly thirty of us, marching out from the inch deep shoreline to chin high waters in the Atlantic.  And with ocean waves crashing, we – aunts, uncles, parents, brothers, sisters, children, cousins, grandparents, and friends – stayed together.  The day was bright and the water was warm. The waves were all too often over our heads, yet for some reason their force was unusually weak, with just enough danger to make it seem dangerous mixed in with just enough safety for those of us old enough to be concerned to not be concerned.

Wave after wave, we would watch and wait for the perfect ride, the perfect catch. The waves would roll by and each of us would do our body surfing best, some with more success than others, to manage them with fun. It wasn’t the skill of the sport or the challenge of the water that interested us.  The lure was, and always has been, something else.

Vacation in my world has always meant traveling to the beach to meet up with a large assortment of family members.  For the past 45+ years, during the third week in July, we haul beach chairs, tents, umbrellas, buckets, shovels, nets, towels, cameras, toys, coolers, books, food, and now phones to the ocean shore.   Arriving mid-morning and leaving mid-evening, we pack, unpack, and eventually repack, learning to take a little less stuff and a little more food to the beach with each passing day.  As I watch my children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews carry my belongings to the beach, I fondly recall the times I helped my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles carry theirs.

Throughout these 45+ years, we have developed our fair share of family vacation traditions: take pictures Friday night, share homemade salsa, play miniature golf Thursday, late lunches and dominoes, ring the bell, get an ice cream, church on Sunday,  beach bocce winner-take-all, and evenings poolside.  Are they special, extraordinary, unique, exceptional traditions?  Hardly.  They are simple, average, common, uncomplicated, ordinary ones – with everyone included in everything and no official planning for anything.

These traditions have created a sense of ease to a vacation that could be considered a little arduous as relatives are required to pack up significant belongings and travel hundreds of miles in over-stuffed vehicles just to be together for seven straight days.  And vacations, regardless of type, time, or location, can be costly.  Gas tanks, plane rides, car rentals, maps, fun food, sunscreen, laundromats, movie tickets, and finally, the purchasing of all necessities sadly forgotten at home means vacations have a price.  But, we return every year – same time, same place – to once again carry our stuff to the sandy ocean shore.

In all honesty, over those past 45+ years, we have changed locations . . . albeit once.  And why we moved from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic is a mystery to most of us, but somewhere in the 80s, we shifted east. It is clear, however, that those before me sought a quiet, remote, uncluttered, and unpopulated spot with little more to do than link lives with those in attendance.  No fast food, go-carts, shopping malls, piers, boardwalks, high rises, tourist attractions, beach bars, jet skis, surf shops, or restaurant chains.  Just a roof over our heads with sand, water, family and friends. 

As I caught my cousin’s eyes, I knew it was the moment.  I could see it.  To my right, a cousin of my cousin had locked arms with my niece.  From the shore, my brother and my aunt were snapping photo after photo. My spouse ended up circled by the six teenage girls who were holding onto the lone surf board owned and operated by another young cousin. To my left, I saw a cousin’s friend raising a lost, then found baseball cap that had left the drenched head of another relative.   Two others were holding the hands of that tiny, young ten-year old for safekeeping. Everyone was smiling.  Everyone was laughing.   

In that moment, I saw a family – 30+ strong  – dancing in the waves . . . together . . . in sync . . .with no thoughts and no cares in the world.  And I knew that this moment was the comeback moment, the one that will bring us back . . . together . . . again . . . next year.

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                         Vacationing Together in the Summer on the Atlantic

On My Honor

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On my honor, I will try:  to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people at all times, and to obey the Girl Scout Law. – The Girl Scout Promise

I was a Girl Scout.

That’s right.  An all American, rock and roll, crazy-funny, dippy nerdy Girl Scout.  My troop number: 972.  Our motto: live, laugh, love.  My active scouting years:  1961 to 1974.  And not only do I still know the Girl Scout Promise by heart, but I am also quite familiar with the Trefoil Pin . . .  and the difference between a brownie, a junior, a cadet, and a senior . . . and the ten Girl Scout Laws, with the fourth (a Girl Scout is a friend to all and a sister to every other Girl Scout) being my personal favorite.

And I was an all-in Girl Scout.

I made, owned and used a sit-upon.  I proudly wore my uniforms from the brown Brownie dress and brown Brownie beanie to the green Junior jumper, keenly accessorized with a green badge-covered sash.  I read my handbooks cover to cover, making appropriate notations in the margins to ensure that I completely understood each and every Girl Scout rule.  I took pictures at my Fly-up Ceremony, was proud of the day I became a Senior Scout, and to me, the best thing to do on March 12th is celebrate World Girl Scout Day.

In my mind, the world of Troop 972 could only be described as the best type of crazy funny living that ever happened to me.  There was nothing better than me and nineteen of my closest Girl Scout friends sleeping in a lodge with no electricity and no running water in the middle of a cold Missouri January.  I can recall watching the snow shower down around us – hoping and praying for more.

As an eleven year old, the same group of twenty young ladies spent a week building primitive teepees, and a week living in them, again, no electricity or running water within a five-mile radius. Showers were built out of water-filled recycled Clorox bleach bottles tethered high enough to splash our faces.  At night, tin mess kits and battered canteens were kept in ditty bags and hung from trees, along with all food, far from the camp as we had no desire to encourage visits from nearby raccoons.

From eighth grade and throughout high school, Troop 972 bailed on lodges and teepees and took up hammock camping somewhere in the hills of Troy, Missouri.   And just before exiting high school, the gang decided that there was really no need for hammocks, as sleeping bags on the ground worked just fine.  Of course, transistor radios, flashlights, pocket knives, and rain tarps were must-have items.  Everything else was just something that had to be carried.

Throughout my Girl Scout years, I learned to tell the difference between a clove hitch and a bowline, cook anything in tinfoil packets, build fires quickly and efficiently, clean clothes in nearby streams, fend off spiders, and sleep in the great outdoors.  Though all insignia that we wore indicated that we were Girl Scouts, our hearts told us that we were more like modern American pioneers – discovering, inventing, creating, and surviving.

Today, as I look back on my scouting years, I am very aware that what I did as a young Girl Scout in the late 60s /70s would be impossible to replicate today.  For good or for bad, it just wouldn’t be allowed. It just wouldn’t.

Today, no one would allow a group of eleven year olds to winter camp, each of us carrying and using a hatchet to chop wood for the fire which warmed us and fed us for a week.  No one would allow twelve-year olds to live in teepees for two weeks without any access to any type of modern amenities including plumbing, electricity, and/or outhouses.

No one would ever allow thirteen year olds to hang handmade hammocks between two trees – the ultimate test of knot knowledge and skills – and sleep in them.  Truly the score was danger ten, safety zero.  And certainly no one would allow fourteen to eighteen year olds to march out for miles into the forest, throw down sleeping bags and set up camp in the middle of nowhere – with no functional means of communication to any parent – for seven to ten days.

Looking back, we were at best living on the edge and at worse, putting ourselves in the middle of many, many dangerous, age-inappropriate situations.  But we were Girl Scouts.  We were a group – a gang – of renegade young ladies, bonded together through scouting, learning to become the women we are today.  We didn’t really think about what could have happened to us.  We only thought about the next moment, the next challenge, and the next great adventure.

The good news is that we all survived.  We lost no one and encountered nothing that toppled Troop 972.  I am quite sure that I have long forgotten all of the awkward, anxious, and most likely, idiotic times that put me and my GS friends in some type of peril and only recall those that paint the rosier, heartier, and more captivating version of our history.  Today, I can see that had the troop been active during this century, its history . . . its story . . . its life would have been completely different.

And I can only think that it would be even better.

I still am a Girl Scout.

A Remnant From My Early Brownie Days

What Do You Wear When You Work Out?

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I am a workout nut. It’s hard to admit it, but it’s true.  My friends have kindly mentioned it, and even though I try my best to deny their characterizations of me as such, they are right.  It is true.  Each morning, I leave for work at 7:00am and spend the fifteen minute commute thinking about my post-work exercise plan.  During the spring, summer, and fall, I plot out my running route both in distance and time, and during the winter, I gear up for treadmill work or indoor activity at a local University’s field house.  I may tell folks that I believe working out is a chore, but in reality, I spend a great deal of time planning and participating in it. I like it.

Like any other workout nut, I have a variety of routines that I follow.  My family considers the routines to be a little quirky – and they probably are – but my workout nut pals all have their own quirky routines; thus, giving normalcy to what I do.  I dash home at 5:00pm, say hello to the folks in my house, change, and within no more than fifteen minutes dash out again. I rev up the IPOD, check my shoe strings, and hit the road . . . each day . . . every single day that I can.

I have come to terms with the realization that I may be a workout nut.  It was difficult to comprehend and internalize, but I’m okay with it.  But today, I was hit with another revelation – a new one – one that is much more difficult to accept than the workout nut moniker.

I am a workout nut . . . with a pathetic workout wardrobe.  Really, I am a pathetically clad workout nut.  My workout nut fashion sense is so pathetic that my loved ones have given up mentioning it to me.

My workout wardrobe isn’t swanky.  It isn’t groovy, with-it, or mod.  And it certainly isn’t hip, trendy, or fashion forward.  It isn’t flashy, flirty, or fun.  It isn’t pretty.  It isn’t any of those terms or any other term that would equate to workout stylish.

Rather, it is . . . more like . . . hmmm . . . let’s just say – utilitarian.

My workout fashion regime is simple: Shorts, shirt, shoes, socks – all in neutral, sweat-hiding colors: check.  Hair in a mandatory pony tail, workout glasses from the dollar store for treadmill reading: check.  Nearly broken, barely working ear buds threaded through the shoulder of my workout shirt to prevent me from losing them: check. A plain gray IPOD with a plain black case, and a green headband someone left at my house  to keep my eyes sweat-free: check.  With all this apparel, I think I am good to go out the door. Exciting activity, pathetic attire.

Well, yesterday, it was raining and my workout was moved to an inside venue.  There was a waiting line for the treadmill which meant that I had a moment to take a look around me. So I did.  And boy did I see a lot.

I saw fancy matching Under Armour everywhere and lots of Nike Dry Fit shirts that included tiny riveted holes made especially for threading ear buds.  I saw headbands with impressive logos and shorts with phone pockets.   I saw one person with what I would call a $9.99 two for one ShamWOW chamois; however, I learned that the proper name for it was the Trekkings Ultra Fast Dry towel.  The user had it hung around the neck to keep perspiration to a minimum.  No doubt it cost a pretty penny. And it looked impressive.

Bikers in St. Louis. No pathetic workout clothes here.

In the shoe line-up, there were pairs with toes, pairs that kept track of miles logged, pairs that were incredibly light, and pairs that were specifically for running indoors on treadmills.  Absolutely everyone had on designer socks with several of those folks explaining their sock choices to me. One person was wearing a workout hat and a couple folks were sporting workout gloves. My favorite was an individual who had perfectly matched everything head to toe.

Still there was me:  A peach colored shirt, black workout pants that had shrunk and were just a tad too short, the same all purpose tennis shoes that I had last year, the green headband, dollar store glasses, and the broken ear buds threaded through the sleeve.  I had been in a little rush at home and accidently was wearing a pair of mismatched socks, both I might add were in the Nike category, which is a little better in some way.  All in all, it was the same pathetic workout wardrobe that I have been wearing for years.  Workout nut / pathetic clothes.

Moments later, there was an available treadmill for me.  I hopped on, cranked up my IPOD, started my workout, and concentrated on forgetting about physical fitness fashion faux pas and the implications.  Perhaps I was making much ado about nothing.  After all, the purpose of working out is to workout.  There are no red carpets or runways to navigate. In some ways it makes more sense to sweat in ridiculous haphazard clothes than it does to do so in designer duds.  And I have never seen fitness paparazzi in my neck of the woods. Still I had to face my workout wardrobe and acknowledge that I was deep into the pathetic category.

I have two choices.  I can go on a quest to find and purchase better workout apparel.  It definitely isn’t hard: I can order clothing from the comfort of my living room.  There are a zillion of online venues at my fingertips, and a lot of them have very impressive selections!   Or, I can continue to be the same workout nut with the same pathetic workout wardrobe that I have grown to be over the last couple of decades.  There is something to be said for ignoring common social conventions and throwing all caution to the wind in this area.  It does feel a little exhilarating to be in the zone where something just doesn’t matter.

Either way, by the end of this year, I have made it one of my resolutions to make a decision in this area.  A December 2012 update – with photo – will follow.

All I Can Say Is Here’s to the Crazy Ones . . .

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Here’s to the crazy ones . . . the misfits . . . the rebels . . . the trouble-makers . . . the round heads in the square holes . . . the ones who see things differently.  They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo.  You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them.  But the only thing you can’t do is ignore them . . . because they change things!  They push the human race forward.  And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world . . . are the ones who do.  

– – Apple Computers – –

As I look back on my early life, at times, I think I grew up in a world of conformity.  The Pleasant Valley Sunday syndrome (my favorite 1967 hit single by the Monkees) described my neighborhood.  Rows of houses that were all the same lined my street.  Most – if not all folks – were of the same race and religion.  Each household had a dog, at least one Schwinn bike, two aluminum trash cans, a front lawn light that was turned on at dusk / off at dawn, a postage stamp sized back yard, and curb-side white and black painted house numbers.  A typical week included church on Sunday, school Monday through Friday, and barbeque on Saturday.  Dinner time was 5:00 o’clock – for the entire street.  School uniforms – the gray plaid wool variety – were the norm.  Being the same was in vogue.

In my youth, being the same – having a little bit of conformity –was somewhat comforting.  Bedtime – 7:30pm every night.  Television’s Wonderful World of Disney – Sunday night.  Fish sticks and tater tots for dinner – the Lenten Friday night special.  From kindergarten to eighth grade – recess at 2:00p.m.  And every weekend, it was radio time:

Here we go with the Top 40 hits of the nation this week on American Top 40, the best-selling and most-played songs from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to Mexico.  This is Casey Kasem in Hollywood, and in the next three hours, we’ll count down the 40 most popular hits in the United States this week, hot off the record charts of Billboard magazine for the week ending . . .

– – Casey Kasem – –

Listening to the American Top Forty fifty two Saturdays out of the year was only one of many rituals.  We did many things the same way at the same time with the same people; and, this behavior created more than just a system of status quo. It built a framework of traditions and customs that are still alive and well today. It added significant stability to daily life.  It taught me and the world around me a lot about the importance of patterns and the power of expectations. It created a solid level of security.

And through such a cozy life of conformity came the graceful ability to become the ones who saw things differently . . . the misfits . . . the rebels . . . the trouble-makers.  Many of us became so rather easily by combining what we knew about conformity with what we didn’t know about being the crazy ones.

Think of Johnny Cash.  He only wore one color – his trademark head to toe black.  He obviously knew the value of consistency and reliability . . . of conformity.  His audience expected him to wear black and he did.  But the Man in Black’s career was rebellious for sure.  His music spoke to challenging issues within religion, within justice and the prison system, or within human sadness.  He sang the tunes of change, but ironically enough,  started every performance with the same statement: “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”

Think of Harriet Tubman.  She was one very rebellious woman during her time of advocating for the end of slavery.  Words used to describe her include abolitionist, reformer, activist, and (my favorite) spy – all the language of the crazy ones.   Yet, it is interesting (and horrifying) to me to know that she started her early life out as a slave – a life that I am sure required great conformity in order to survive.  To be a slave meant holding together the status quo in order to avoid death or near death.  But, as the Apple saying goes, she never allowed folks to ignore her.  Quite the opposite –  for she was a crazy one, the round peg in the square hole calling out and demaning change.

All I can say is . . . here’s to the crazy ones.

Here is to the person with the great idea of painting the house pink in a neighborhood of white frame homes.  Here is to the family who didn’t eat dinner at 5:00p.m. sharp.  Here is to the folks who look at today’s technology and think of new and different uses with the idea that they may be the ones who harness the power of some type of gizmo to solve challenges like poverty and hunger. Here is to the young women and men who look at the solution to cancer differently than their predecessors in hopes of eradicating suffering and pain for the masses.

And thank goodness the crazy ones won’t let us ignore them.

I thank my lucky stars that the glory of genius allows . . . well . . . geniuses to stand out in a crowd.  The more the world sees and hears the mantra of their ideas, the more likely we will listen.  And the light should not just be shining on the genius of Apple, Disney, AT40, Cash, or Tubman.  It should be burning bright within everyone – within the framework of the conformity that provides stability for the emergence of change.

I only hope and prayer that folks see my children, my spouse, my family members, friends, and myself as part of the crazy crowd.  And I am hoping that the lessons taught through moments of conformity translate into strongholds of opportunities to ensure that when faced with a moment to change the world, I can.

Old Fashioned Is Always In Fashion

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I am solidly old-fashioned.

Nothing better to me than a sharpened, yellow number two pencil and a spiral bound notebook.  I like the Slinky, red lifesavers, manual umbrellas, shredded wheat, PF Flyers, and acoustic guitars. I would rather watch a good episode of Leave It to Beaver followed by Mister Ed and Ozzie and Harriet than any of today’s new-fangled reality TV shows.    I buy a new broom at the local broom-corn festival each year and use it to sweep the garage floor over using an electric shopvac to complete the same task.  A month ago, I bought a case of glass bottled SKI soda – an old-fashioned thirst quenching classic.

Old fashioned stuff is durable.  I have owned . . . and I still use . . . the same grey metal, non-mechanical three hold punch gadget since the late 1970s.   I am not saying that I use it daily, but it hasn’t collected much dust over the years, and it’s in perfect condition.  And forget the all-in-one Black and Decker laser level that has twenty additional functions beyond maintaining a straight line, my household is the proud owner of a 30-year-old red three-foot steel version.  It’s just a level – no bells and whistles – that has been dropped off many ladders, left out in the great outdoors for days, and often lost in a crowded garage.  Yet, it still works.

Proudly, I have only owned one rolling-pin though I have owned several kitchens; I have had the same key ring for a couple of decades; and, I am a one jewelry box per lifetime type of gal. Keep in mind that all of this has nothing to do with being frugal.  It has more to do with just liking things they way they were. Old-fashioned.

Same for my language.  Sure, I could use all of the latest and greatest lingo, including the more salty versions of yesterday’s banned language.  But, I still stick with the tried and true slang that has helped to get me to this point without too much trouble.  Groovy, righteous, awesome or bumble head, holy guacamole, yikes – multipurpose old-fashioned words that seem to fit well into all kinds of conversations.

And I have found that old-fashioned almost always equals crazy funny.  One of my relatives fixed and ate a fried bologna sandwich at my house recently.  For those of you who have not had the experience, fried bologna is an ancient delicacy first created by . . . probably Mr. Oscar Mayer himself in some long ago century.  Thirty seconds in a skillet, paired with white bread and catsup, this sandwich is a comedic display of old-fashioned in motion.  It is a chuckler!

And no game is as crazy funny as good old-fashioned Spoons.  Honestly, I have played several of today’s XBOX/WII/KINECT 3D video games, and they are fun.  But, Spoons!!! Played with a deck of cards, a handful of spoons and a bunch of crazy funny relatives, this game reaches deep into the crazy funny well. No laughs greater than when full-grown kissin’ cousins jump over a table to pull coveted spoons out of challengers’ hands during a family ‘friendly’ version of this game.  Another old-fashioned chuckler.

I often tell myself that I don’t understand the lure of the old-fashioned for me . . . that this old-fashioned fascination is a mystery.  But, when I really think about it, I know for sure that the draw towards old-fashioned isn’t simply due to a preference for card games, or food, or language, or frugality.  It’s more than that.

With every generation, there seems to be a strong penchant for change . . . from clothing styles . . . to modes of transportation . . . to energy sources . . . to an endless list of activities and items that have been reinvented, improved, changed.  Life today is significantly different from life in any other moment in time. Certainly, almost all changes have  been positive and welcomed and for the betterment of all humankind.

Yet, there is a part of life that I believe should remain constant . . . a part of life that should be considered a masterpiece, a part that should somehow be exempt from change.  Certainly that includes the lapping sounds of the ocean waves and the majesty of the highest mountain peaks.  It includes the freedom enjoyed by animals in the wild and the beauty each year of summer, fall, winter, and spring.  It includes quiet skies and peaceful meadows.  I know it includes the brilliance and genius of those who have gone before us along with the brilliance and genius of those who are still in our future.

Thus, however, explains my penchant for everything old-fashioned.

I may have to change the form of my telephone from a hard-wired, LAN line cordless system plugged into the wall to a cellphone carried in my coat pocket.  I may have to heat my home with solar, geothermal, and/or wind rather than the current fossil fuels available.  And I may have to give up the tried and true General Mills Wheaties – the breakfast of champions – for a more nutritious protein bar option.

But, for those few things that I can somehow manage to hold constant, I am on-board.

Bring on potato pancakes and King Bing bars.  Give me a pile of leaves and hand me a rake complete with a wooden handle and steel prongs.  Let me haul out box after box of old crazy funny holiday decorations that have lasted multiple decades because they were made in the days of the giants.

Finally, hand me a dented red level to keep me headed on the straight and narrow any day of the week.  And watch my willingness to change grow as I find comfort in keeping some things . . . just a few old-fashioned things . . . in my life constant.

The Rocky Mountains . . . An Old-Fashioned Constant