Experience is the best teacher

Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.           ~Benjamin Franklin

Please note-- this isn't a photo of the actual car I talk about. I didn't have my cell phone handy enough for a photo of that one...

Most Wednesdays I travel down to see my mother, who lives in a retirement community about 25 miles from where I live. Since she has given up driving, I drive her around to run errands. We also "do" lunch together, and spend a lot of time chatting and just enjoying each other's company. Yesterday was one of those Wednesdays.

En route, I happened upon a car that had gone off the road. It was stuck in a snow bank, right next to a utility pole. There were 5 or 6 young men gathered, with the mission to help get the car out of the snow. One of them was "driving" the stuck car, and another was in an old minivan. The minivan had a chain attached to it's bumper and was attempting to pull the stuck car out of the snow from behind it. The driver of the car sat in it, spinning the tires as fast as they would go. Nobody was moving. I attempted to go around the car, but one of the 4 or 5 other young men stepped into the road and put his hand up. I had to stop. So I watched.

After just a minute or two of the chain pulling, there was a loud noise and I saw the bumper on the stuck car start to fold. The driver of the car spun the tires fiercely. The driver of the van kept up the pulling. There was more loud noise and I watched as the stuck car slowly move backwards, scraping itself against the utility pole. The passenger side mirror snapped off. The front bumper that curved around to the side crumpled. Slowly, the car became unstuck, but it sustained a great deal of damage to the rear bumper and the passenger side-- expensive damage. The young men who had gathered all cheered loudly, as if they had been successful, and I suppose they had been if the goal was to get the car unstuck. But at what cost?

I was reminded of this as my mother and I ate our lunch. We were talking about the weather, and about how the area we'd both grown up in was so different than what was usual here in Indiana. We are both Buffalo gals, born and raised in an area that regularly received a lot of cold and snow. We both had lots of memories of fun in the snow as children, and the perils of car travel in bad weather.

My mother remembered that as a young woman, she kept two carpet samples (they were about 2 1/2 feet square) and a snow shovel in the car. Our street was never plowed-- it was an old brick paved side street that didn't merit the attention of the city plow. But we always got in and out of our driveway because both my parents would go out and shovel the snow (and when I was older, I was out there helping too...), and once in the road they knew the secrets of driving in fresh, deep snow. Mom recounted that she often would get "stuck" but she knew that spinning tires only digs you deeper into the snow. She knew if you took the shovel and got rid of the snow behind the stuck tires, and then placed the carpet squares behind and under the tires, you could back up and then get moving again. Instead of spinning your tires, it was way better to rock back and forth, from Reverse to Drive, back and forth, back and forth until eventually you rocked right over the snow that had you stuck. And if you got really, really stuck, you assembled a team and one person steered and drove while the rest pushed. The worst thing to do was to sit and spin your tires. Especially when you were wedged up against a utility pole.

The winter we have had in Indiana is remarkably similar to those I remember as a kid in Buffalo-- snow about every 4 days, with bright, very cold days between. Our roads have had more snow and ice on them than I can remember in a good long while. Long enough that the young men assembled yesterday to help a friend get unstuck would have no experience driving on snowy roads. They would not have learned about carpet squares, snow shovels and rocking back and forth. I am sorry they didn't have anyone to tell them how to do it. Or, perhaps, that they were too young to be willing to listen.

I think the lesson here is that no matter what the problem, there is somebody out there who has dealt with it before and knows the best way to handle it. The secret is being wise enough to acknowledge we need help, and knowing who can give it to us. And listening. And learning. And once we've learned, sharing it with others.

Like a hibernating bear...

Perhaps I am a bear, or some hibernating animal underneath, for the instinct to be half asleep all winter is so strong in me.          ~Anne Morrow Lindberg

Perhaps I have become too accustomed to the mild winters we have had in Indiana recently. I have always claimed to enjoy the winters, and looked forward to any snowfall that came our way. I have scoffed at the discomfort of others when the snow flew, encouraged everyone to get out into the weather and embrace and enjoy it. I have railed against the constant gray skies Indiana has during the winter, remembering instead the skies of my youth in Western New York where it snowed about every three or four days but there were bright sunny days in between the snowstorms.

I must admit to you that this winter I have met my comeuppance... we have had a lot of snowy days. Lots of bitter cold with wind chills way below zero. And in between we have had bright sunny days. And I loved it-- for the first month or so. But the cold and wind and snow and icy roads have gone on and on and on.  And despite the sunny days, I am weary of the cold. Bone-chillingly weary. And I have grown lazy. Like a hibernating bear, all I want to do is sit around the house, eat and knit. I wear multiple layers of sweaters and socks and still feel chilled. I drink hot tea all day. My brain has grown fuzzy with inactivity. I am, as Anne Morrow Lindberg says, half asleep.

We had a little break yesterday. The sun was out in a cloudless, dazzlingly blue sky. The temperature rose above freezing for a few hours in the afternoon. When Lanny called me while he was out running errands to tell me about our creek and an ice dam that had formed, he encouraged me to get the camera and go take some photos.  Perhaps it was all that sun, but I decided to get up and get outside for a change. I bundled up, since there was still a stiff wind blowing. I put on my hiking boots and set out on the icy road toward the bridge over our creek.

The sunlight was dazzling, despite my sunglasses. I felt warmer than I had in weeks though-- the physical activity was warming me from the inside. My head was clearing. I was breathing hard from the cold air and the exertion, and that felt good too.

I arrived at the bridge, about a half mile from our house, to find the creek, which had completely frozen over in the subzero cold, had thawed just enough to have the ice break into huge chunks and flow downstream where the bridge caught it. And there was a jam of ice that extended back past our property-- over half a mile long of gigantic chunks of ice piled up in the creek bed. And the water was flowing under and around all this ice. It had flooded way up to the edge of the woods, as if it was a spring rain flood. The world of our creek had been transformed into something other-worldly and incredibly beautiful in the bright sun. The water and ice shimmered and dazzled and nearly blinded me.

I put the polarizing filter on the camera lens and started snapping photos. I walked beside the creek as well as over it on the bridge. I got lost in the beauty of how Mother Nature can adapt and change the world in an instant.

Today we are bracing for yet again another winter storm. It has returned to gray, bone chilling weather. We are only into the first week of February, so there is a lot of winter yet to endure. I have a feeling this next snow storm won't be the last either...  But like Pa told Laura, I won't let it beat me. I will outlast the winter and when spring finally does arrive I will be very, very ready...

“It can't beat us!" Pa said."Can't it, Pa?" Laura asked stupidly."No," said Pa. "It's got to quit sometime and we don't. It can't lick us. We won't give up."Then Laura felt a warmth inside her. It was very small but it was strong. It was steady, like a tiny light in the dark, and it burned very low but no winds could make it flicker because it would not give up.”           ~ Laura Ingalls Wilder, The Long Winter

Here are some of the photos I took yesterday...

The creek from the bridge-- completely dammed up with ice chunks for over 1/2 mile!

On the other side of the bridge-- the creek is flowing normally, dazzling bright in the winter sun...

views from the bank

Thin threads of ice, melting in the winter sun...

From our back yard... the water is where the woods is, the ice fills the creek bed completely. I estimate at least 12 feet of piled up ice lying in the creek bed... It will take until June to melt!!

Mr. Duffy's gift of poetry

I have received several kind responses to my previous blog post. Thank you to those who let me know they enjoyed it!

It got me thinking about poetry, and how it has enriched my life at times. Often, when I am feeling emotional, I will think of lines from poems I learned in my youth. You see, I was a very lucky student back in elementary school. I attended a small school that was a lab school for a small college in the little town of Fredonia New York. Called the Campus School, it was the place where the elementary education students from the college got to practice before being set out into the world as teachers. Each class had a teacher, plus numerous student teachers throughout the year. Our class size was limited to no more than 25 students. With one teacher plus sometimes up to 3 student teachers (a senior student plus two junior students) we had a lot of attention.

In the Fifth Grade, I was lucky to be assigned to Mr. Duffy's class. He was a young, energetic guy who not only kept up with 25 10 year olds, but kept us busy, interested and learning. And in addition to the usual subjects, he taught us poetry.

Mr. Duffy loved poetry. He read us poems daily. He encouraged us to write them (I have a collection of creative writing from our class-- many poems in there, including my own!) and to memorize them. His love for poetry was infectious... I learned to love it too.

As a thank you to this wonderful teacher (who I have heard is still living, reading poetry no doubt!) I present another poem for your enjoyment. I can still hear him reading this poem with great gusto and enthusiasm, the class listening wide eyed...

Mr. Gerald Duffy, many years after he taught me this poem...

The Charge of the Light Brigade

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Someone had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

 4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they run'd in air,

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thnder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred.

Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870

The Woods on a Winter Evening

Here in Indiana we are in the middle of a winter storm. It is predicted to snow over a foot, with rising winds and falling temperatures. Our TV has been full of dire warnings, advice on how to "survive" the storm, what to do and not to do to be safe.

Having been born and raised in Western New York, where snow like this was a frequent thing, I find all the fuss a bit annoying. Of course I want everyone to be safe-- and heaven knows folks around here have a hard time driving in bad winter weather. But my overall reaction to a winter storm is excitement and anticipation and then pure enjoyment.

I have pointed out in my blog before what I love about a good snow-- that it covers the brown and gray world in beautiful, pristine, dazzling white. That while it snows the world is a much, much quieter place. That it forces us to slow down. I think we all need a good dose of quiet, lazy beauty after the rush of the holidays!

So... when I got up this morning to see snow falling heavily and steadily, I didn't just get dressed. I got dressed to go outside. Heavy socks, boots, hat, scarf, gloves. And camera. I tromped around our little piece of this earth and took photos of the beauty. And was reminded of one of my favorite poems, written of course by Robert Frost.  I thought I'd share a few of my photos and Mr. Frost's beautiful, quiet poem in hopes that it will help any of my readers who are sidelined by the storm to appreciate the loveliness to be found in it...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923, © 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc., renewed 1951, by Robert Frost.

Life Lessons from an old Photographer...

You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.          ~Steve Jobs 

Last night, as I often do, I turned to PBS to see what was on. I love PBS dramas, news programs, and documentaries. Last night there was a documentary on someone I'd never heard of... though I certainly should have. The program was called "Eye on the Sixties" and was about a photographer by the name of Rowland Scherman.



If you are like me, and have never heard of him, I am certain you have seen his work. Mr. Scherman was literally everywhere in the 1960's taking photographs. He was a bit of a Forrest Gump kind of guy, showing up uninvited at some of the most important events of this momentous decade. He took photos at the Newport Music Festival in 1962, which was Bob Dylan's debut. Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary were also there. He heard President Kennedy's speech about the Peace Corps and presented himself to the Washington DC office, only a few desks and very few people at the time, and volunteered to be their photographer. That idea took some selling to the new Director of the Peace Corps, Sargeant Shriver (who happened to be President Kennedy's brother-in-law...) but eventually Mr. Scherman was sent out all over the world to photograph Peace Corps workers. His photos were used to promote the program and help make it the success it has been. It also connected him to the Kennedy family. He took photos of JFK, was invited by Eunice Shriver (President Kennedy's sister) to take photos of an event at her home  that was the founding of Special Olympics, and that led to Mrs. Shriver recommending him to her brother Bobby Kennedy to take a family photo  for the RFK family Christmas card.  Later, when Bobby Kennedy ran for President, it helped Mr. Scherman become the campaign photographer.

Mr. Scherman also had a knack for putting himself in the right place at the right time. He was one of the first to arrive at Woodstock. He was one of the first to arrive in Washington, CD for the March On Washington in 1963 (the event where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I have a dream" speech...) The documentary describes him as "a charming guy" and he used that to open doors for himself. It helped him get up close to the stage at a Beatles concert in 1963. It led him to photograph Judy Collins and Joni Mitchell and to be present in the recording studio for the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young debut album (one of my all time favorites...) He finessed himself backstage to get a photo of Bob Dylan at a concert that he sold to Capital Records-- and they put it on Dylan's "Greatest Hits" album cover. That album cover won a Grammy award in 1968.

There will be those who read this that won't know who some of the people are I have mentioned. The 1960's were a long time ago... long enough now that a lot of the details of people and events have faded. I wish I could show some of his photographs here, but alas, they are copyrighted.  I would invite you to look up Mr. Scherman online,  go to his own web site (http://www.rowlandscherman.com/) or to watch the documentary-- his story is fascinating!

What prompted me to think so much about this guy is not that he had met so many famous people or been present at so many historical moments. It was that he made it all happen for himself. He made sure doors opened to him. He made his own destiny, if you will. This guy was gregarious, charming, and genuinely liked people. He had a way of making people comfortable in his presence. And that allowed him to capture some very famous people at unguarded moments, when their inner self could shine.

The photos are amazing, but the story of the man who took them is equally amazing. I learned, I guess, that if someone has talent and believes in him/herself, they must not be afraid to open their own doors. Success requires creative planning sometimes. It requires an awareness of time and place and what should work in that setting. It requires not just a little BS... (or perhaps, a nicer term is "finesse".)

This is my message to my children and grandchildren:  Make your own success. Discover what you love to do and then go make your life happen so you can do that. Mr. Scherman is 76 years old and is still out there shooting photographs, meeting people, recording history in innovative ways. He says in the documentary that he still loves taking photographs. It doesn't feel like work to him-- it is pure joy. That's what I want my children and grandchildren to hear-- if you can do something you love, it won't feel like work. It will bring joy to your life and you will be successful.

Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.          ~Confucious                                 

Battling Extremism

                                

                                   


Extremism is so easy. You've got your position, and that's it. It doesn't take much thought. And when you go far enough to the right you meet the same idiots coming around from the left.
(Interview, Time Magazine, February 20, 2005)
          ~ Clint Eastwood

About once a week I drive the 45 minute route to visit my mom. She and I usually go out to lunch, and then we run her errands-- a few items from the grocery, or the drugstore, or a visit to the eyeglass store, stuff like that. This week she and I had a delightful lunch followed by a fun trip to her local mall to return some slacks she realized were the wrong color. We returned the slacks without difficulty, and had some extra time so we did a little window shopping at the newly installed Christmas displays inside the store. I always enjoy looking at the formal dresses -- and there were some really pretty ones shown. My mother and I giggled at the extreme high-heeled shoes, both of us now past the age when fashion in footwear is more important than comfort. She wondered if there were any purses on sale, so off we headed to the handbag department. I love this area-- the smell of leather and the smooth, handsome bags (all at prices now out of my retirement income reach...) are fun to look at. We were greeted as we entered the department by a very nice younger woman who was dressed very conservatively and spoke with a heavy accent I couldn't identify. She showed my mother the purses that were for sale, and then stopped to chat with me while Mom shopped. "Is this lovely lady your mother?" she asked. When I told her yes, she said, "Oh enjoy her company! I wish so much I could spend time with my mother, but she is 8000 miles away..." That comment seemed to demand a response, so I asked her, "Where is your mother?" and I was told "Iran..." I asked her if that was where she was from, and she said yes somewhat timidly. I wondered if she expected me to react negatively, given the friction now between our two countries. I only commented that "Wow... that is indeed a long way away to be from your mother!"

I thought about that saleswoman later. I don't know much about Iran, but I do know it has been ruled by Muslim extremists, and that women there tend to follow the extremist teachings of their faith. That is, they must cover their heads in public, are not allowed in public without their husband or father, are not allowed to be as educated as males. The woman I encountered spoke perfect English, did not have her head covered, and was working outside the home without a husband or father in attendance. I wondered how she got here, and whether the freedom she was experiencing from the extreme tenets of her faith were worth the separation from a much-beloved mother.

I was reminded of a patient I had cared for in an OB department long ago. She was surrounded by her mother and sisters, as she labored to delivery a baby. Her husband was there but was not participating in the birth of his child much-- just checking in to see how things were progressing now and then. The patient and the attentive women of her family spoke in hushed terms about the man, and about how the new baby would "bring him around". I learned over time that the marriage was breaking apart and that he had been seeing other women, and had been verbally and emotionally abusive to his wife. The family were all fundamentalist Christians-- the women dressed in skirts only (no pants allowed...), forbid the cutting of a woman's hair (which resulted in some elaborate hairdos!) and did not work outside the home. This woman was greatly troubled by her husband's behavior, and was reaching out to her family, her pastor, and even to me, for advice on how to fix it. Her family and her pastor all told her to pray harder, be a more submissive wife, bow to her husband's will in all things. I told her that there were options available to her besides submission and prayer, and if she wanted to hear about them I'd get the social worker to come in to discuss. As a young woman myself at the time, I couldn't imagine anyone sticking around in such a setting to raise a baby, and was heart broken when the patient did not wish to speak with the social worker and took her new baby home, with plans to be even more submissive, and probably even more miserable, than ever. 

Often, any discussion of religion meanders into the realm of politics too. It would seem that politics can have a similar effect on women-- influencing their personal, work day and social/political lives in so many ways. A hundred years ago women wanted to vote, and that was seen as extremist by some. Today, equal pay for equal work is seen by some as just as extreme. The ability to be just as educated, to choose a profession based on ability and desire alone, to own property, to live and work independently-- all are positions that at some point were seen as extreme-- or maybe still are. 

I do not wish to discuss religion or politics here... they are very private matters that each individual must ponder on their own, and seek out the company of like-minded people to share with. But I will say that extremism does not exist only in foreign countries-- it is here too. How a non-extremist deals with this can be delicate-- particularly in a country that has as one of it's tenets a strong belief in the separation of church and state. Where is the line between "fundamentalism" and "extremism", where does religion stop and cultism begin? And why, oh why do so many religions and political viewpoints focus on forcing women to be submissive or second rate citizens? 

I don't have any answers-- but I have a few guidelines I follow:
     1.  If your religion or politics require women to behave differently than men, beware. Are you being told you must not work outside the home? Or that equal pay for equal work is "bad for jobs"? Must you dress in a particular fashion?
     2.  If your religion or politics seems overly interested in your private life-- such as whether and how you access birth control, beware.
     3.  If your religion or politics does not encourage you to THINK and ASK QUESTIONS about important issues, if you are told to just accept the teachings of your faith or your political leaders, BEWARE!

Perhaps that last one is the answer after all... Women must be allowed to investigate, to think and ask questions, to seek out answers, to form their own opinions. Any religion or political system that encourages that is worth considering. Don't be afraid of new knowledge-- seek it out and embrace it. (Let's face it-- if you are reading this online, you already have at your disposal the ability to access almost all of the knowledge human beings have collected-- without going outside the door of your home!) Don't follow the old "Don't confuse me with facts!" attitudes that seem to pervade our culture-- it is what leads to extremists controlling us. Question everything. Keep your mind open to the opinions of others, and try to really listen to them. 

Our country's politics seems gridlocked with opposing sides both refusing to consider the opinions and ideas of the other side. Extremism appears just around the corner. It seems that perhaps women hold the key-- let us enter the debate, let us investigate, consider, discuss. Let us be fully human, and perhaps then we can begin to solve issues and bring people together.
                    

The world's oldest performance art!

               

Use what you have, use what the world gives you. Use the first day of fall: bright flame before winter's deadness; harvest; orange, gold, amber; cool nights and the smell of fire. Our tree-lined streets are set ablaze, our kitchens filled with the smells of nostalgia: apples bubbling into sauce, roasting squash, cinnamon, nutmeg, cider, warmth itself. The leaves as they spark into wild color just before they die are the world's oldest performance art, and everything we see is celebrating one last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter.  

          ~Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way

Every season has its merits. Winter brings quiet, a tendancy to stay home and hibernate. Rest. Snow, while often difficult to deal with, is beautiful. Playful sometimes! Spring brings warmer weather, flowers, and some color and beauty back to us.  It can mean the work of beginning a garden. Summer means long days, hot weather, and activity. But for me, it is the autumn I love best. For a few short weeks Nature puts on a show of color that is breathtakingly beautiful. Cooler weather makes us feel frisky again-- just walking when it is brisk and beautiful can make me happy.

Autumn does have it's own celebrations too... fall festivals, the foods we eat, cider to drink. The smells...  of cinnamon or a fire burning. I love it all!

This fall we have taken several short trips in the car. It has taken us out into the countryside of Indiana and Ohio, where fall also means lots of hard work harvesting the corn and beans. Yesterday we saw up close the labor that goes into harvesting a field of soybeans. The dust, the noise, the farmers who were working the machinery. It reminded me that besides all the beauty of fall foliage comes a lot of hard work. And while autumn is fleeting, I imagine winter can't come soon enough for some of these extremely hard working people.

My hope is that everyone enjoys the season-- whether it is by taking drives out into the countryside, working the fields or just taking a walk on a brisk morning. Get out there and be a part of that "last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter!"