It's About Tines....

In retrospect it wasn't that good a deal. Sally wanted a small tiller to use in processing the output from our new tumbling composters, which we bought in the handy two-pack at Costco. I did some research and found just what we needed: a Mantis, 2-tine furrower for only 64.95. It even qualified for Super-Saver Free Shipping! Sally was happy. I was, as it turned out, inordinately pleased with myself. We had found just what we wanted, for a fraction of the price we thought we might have to pay.

Last night I received the welcome news that our order had shipped. In reviewing the details of my order I read that, instead of a 2-tine furrower, I am receiving 2 furrower tines. In disbelief I returned to the website where I had ordered the tiller, and saw that the photo of the small tiller I thought I ordered had been replaced with a photo of the replacement tines that fit onto a $300 tiller which we do not own. Alas. Alas and alack.

In the late 1950's and early 1960's our family lived in Terre Haute, Indiana, next to the Beals. The Beals had a particularly nasty three-year-old named Billy who was my younger brother's playmate and nemesis. Though Billy always wanted to play with my brother, he quickly became violent when he didn't get his way. My brother still has a cowlick on the front of his head as a result of the time Billy pistol whipped him with a cap gun. My brother shared that fate with the Beal's dentist, who once bent down to greet Cowboy Billy, and wound up with a cavity in his scalp.

Anyway, one day we couldn't help but notice that Billy's hands and wrists were deep purple. These were innocent times before anyone thought of the practice of dyeing the fingers and thumbs of people as they voted, a practice which might have changed the outcome of many elections in Terre Haute. It wasn't a natural look, and we were worried about Billy. O.K., truthfully we hoped he had some dreaded, though uncontagious disease.

In feigned concern for Billy, and real concern that his condition might spread to her brood, my mother asked Mrs. Beal about Billy's hands. It's fun to imagine that conversation. "Isn't this weather something? Your roses are lovely. And speaking of lovely colors, I couldn't help but notice that Billy's hands are totally purple.... "

Mrs. Beal responded in hushed tones. It was her husband's fault you see. He was a notorious bargain hunter, and when he came across cases of raspberry Jell-o for a song, he just couldn't resist, despite the fact that no one in their family could stomach raspberry Jell-o. Those were the days before anyone thought about using Jell-o for hair dye, and not wanting to be wasteful, they did what any other responsible bargain hunter would do with excess cases of raspberry Jell-o. They poured it into Billy's sandbox. I'm just guessing here, but I imagine it was more than Billy's hands that were sorta purple.

I've told that story many times over the last 40 or 50 years, but am just now feeling a sense of compassion for Mr. Beal. Sure, he got a great deal on cases of something he didn't need, but which Costco member can cast the first stone? Certainly not I. Not after buying replacement tines for a Mantis tiller that I don't own. They were quite inexpensive, by the way. And I bet they would be great for incorporating Jell-o into our compost.

May

Spring morning sunshine

Beams through my north side window

It is May, I see

The 93rd Running of the Indianapolis 500

Of course it isn't the same as being there. When you're at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, you are tuned in to the public address system, and aware of each passing moment as you move toward the 1:05 p.m. order: "Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!" Notable steps on the journey include the Purdue University All-American Marching Band playing, "On the Banks of the Wabash" at 11:15, "America the Beautiful" at 12:43, "God Bless America" sung by Florence Henderson at 12:47, the National Anthem at 12:54, and flyover of vintage B-25 aircraft at 12:56.

The announcement, "Drivers to your cars!" is also made at 12:56, despite the fact that they've been in their cars for some time already. From their cockpits they listen to the invocation at 12:57, "Taps" at 1:02, and "Back Home Again in Indiana" sung by Jim Nabors at 1:03.

The precision with which these pre-race formalities were scheduled and carried out was always a source of wonder to me. We remain mostly unaware of the other times and places in our lives where the minutes are so carefully meted out.

As I said, it's different when you're not at the race in person. Unable to rely on the festive atmosphere to provide excitement, the television broadcast attempts to create it artificially with scripted commentary delivered by white-toothed TV journalists clad in simulation racing suits. These rookies, who couldn't tell Lloyd Ruby from Ruby Tuesday, breathlessly tell the viewer that it's time to get excited, just before cutting away to another commercial for GoDaddy.com.

In spite of the distance between Spokane and Indianapolis and the need to rely on ABC/ESPN for the coverage, I know what is going on, minute by minute at the track. I remember. I remember the hot sun on aluminum bleachers at 10:17, the worried gazes to the west at gathering storm clouds at 10:28, and the smell of fried chicken and Stroh's beer at 11:09. Beyond that, I remember the orders being called out the previous day at 1:02 p.m., "Boys, it's time to clean out the garage.", the starting of the charcoal at 4:19, my brothers and I singing to our mother at 8:13, and brother Bredy lugging out the famous, "Wheelbarrow of Beer" at 9:42.

I've used this space to write about time-binding and nostalgia, but written words do not do justice to the alluring power of the past, calling to us from somewhere just beyond our reach, often in the voices of loved ones lost. The sights, sounds and smells of the present moment instigate our time travel, but like the young sportscasters in their racing togs, the present always seems a dim and twisted reflection of the cherished moment we wish we could experience just once more.

At the conclusion of the Yom Kippur service and the Passover meal our Jewish friends recite the words, "Next Year in Jerusalem." Meaning no disrespect to the depth of their religious conviction, moved by the depth and intensity of my memories I offer my avowal: "Next Year in Indianapolis!" 

Aiglatson

My dad used to have a lapel pin with the single word, Aiglatson, printed on it in such a way that the word seemed to be spiraling out of sight. The button always raised eyebrows, and elicited questions. "What does Aiglatson mean?" Of course, Aiglatson is nostalgia spelled backwards. The subtle, underlying message of the button is that we often twist and distort the past in the course of looking back on it.

I thought of Dad's old button when I read an article in the May issue of Funny Times, written by Co-publisher/editor Raymond Lesser. Entitled "Kite String Theory", the article waxed nostalgic about the good old days in which the author grew up. He noted, however, that everyone tends to wax nostalgic about their past, including a 12-year-old in his son's school class who wrote a poem about the lost simplicity of VHS videotapes.

Engaging in an episode of nostalgic remembrance once in a while is not altogether harmful, invoking as it does a pleasant feeling of warmth, not unlike eating nachos or tossing down a shot of peppermint schnapps. (Then again, wetting your pants also feels warm for a while, or so I've been told.) 

Much like dancing, playing cards or video games, and gardening, repeatedly entertaining nostalgic longing can become habit forming, leading to loss of productivity and general feelings of malaise.

Most dangerous are the times when we forget that nostalgia is a distortion. It is all too easy to become cynical and negative about the present, as well as the efforts of those trying to make the most of it, by constantly contrasting the here and now with the "Once upon a time...". 

I am especially concerned about institutions, including the Church, that have withdrawn from the hard, important work of visioning the future we wish to create. True visioning cannot take place when the most compelling image of the future a distorted, nostalgic longing for a comfortable past. As my mother was fond of saying, "Things just aren't like they used to be, and what's more, they never were."

One of our two (reportedly) national political parties has been characterized as The Party of 'No'. I think it's more accurate to say that the Republican Party is often The Party of No-stalgia, stating the desire to return this country to its former values, which imply Christian, male, white, English speaking, and heterosexual. The good old days are sought, like the 50's (1850's or 1950's...your choice). Of course, this begs the question, and distorts it, as to what extent the country ever truly embodied such values, and whether that extent was a good thing for anyone not Christian, male, white, English speaking or heterosexual.

In The Life of Reason, George Santayana wrote: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." I wonder what Santayana would have said about those who cannot remember the past objectively, yet employ their distorted, nostalgic recollections to justify present decisions and actions?

A Green Future, or a Black, Stretchy One?

Sally and I attended the Spokane City Council Meeting yesterday evening to express our support for the passage of Spokane's Master Bike Plan. Our Council representative had encouraged us to attend after Sally forwarded him my last two posts about bike parking and connectivity. Once at the Council Chambers, we were encouraged to sign up to speak in favor of the plan. Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, which is true for Sally, by the way, we signed up.

In her remarks Sally emphasized that she rides her bike for shopping as well as commuting, and that she makes decisions about where she shops in part by whether they have bike racks. I made the point that, unlike most of the other speakers, I was not an officer of any bicycle advocacy group. In the course of my statement I noted that I did not wear spandex, nor were my shoes permanently attached to my pedals. I stated my concern for bike facilities and plans that would allow everyone to be able to ride safely, including children, and amateurs like me.

Gauging by the response after the meeting, our remarks were well received. Members of the council and subsequent speakers made reference to our comments, which made us feel like the evening was well-spent.

After the meeting, however, a woman bedecked in black spandex pants, patterned jersey and reflective yellow vest approached me. Though she thanked me for my remarks, she vehemently stated that I really should get some spandex and proper clipless pedals and shoes. By the way, clipless pedals and shoes clip together, leaving me wondering why they are termed "clipless". The woman's disposition was reminiscent of brokers on the floor of a stock exchange or the two ladies who came to my door last week toting copies of The Watchtower. Yes, she was an enthusiast.

In response to the woman's stinging indictment I mumbled my usual excuses for being ill-equipped and underdressed while I ride. But I knew. In the depths of my being I knew that I stood convicted as a pretender, a would-be Ponce De Leon seeking to use my bike as a Fountain of Youth on two wheels, relishing the sensation of the wind blowing through my helmet and what's left of my hair.

After disentangling ourselves from my Inquisitor, Sally and I had a few moments to recover and debrief. Sally made an insightful comment about her support for bicycling as an alternative means of transportation for everyone, and not merely for enthusiasts. It was this broader notion that seemed important to us, and that also appeared to be in danger of being swept away in a sea of spandex and special interest advocacy. I wondered aloud, "In Amsterdam, did we see anyone among the throng of bicycle commuters wearing spandex?" The answer was no, though we saw cyclists there in business suits, dresses and high heels! We then tried to imagine people changing into "driving clothes" before getting into their Toyota or Land Rover. I guess some people do....

John Wiesner climbed down from the cab of his truck holding the remains of a six-pack of Diet Coke and wearing a motorcycle helmet. John stated that he viewed all roads as unsafe, and that he never drove anywhere without his helmet. He was never without a Diet Coke either, though I can't recall whether he considered that particular libation to be a safety component. My hunch is that he did.

John Wiesner and his helmet came to mind as I thought about "driving clothes".  In the past, automobile driving gloves and coats were employed, following in the tradition of jodhpurs and long boots worn by equestrians. I imagine that my agrarian ancestors were less likely to don such finery than they were to wear their work clothes, whether driving the milk wagon or astride a horse, as they went about their daily lives. Like my workaday predecessors, we moderns have given up the practice of cladding ourselves for travel, instead jumping into our cars for the commute to work, a quick run to the grocery store, or a trip across the country wearing whatever we are wearing. 

I fear that bicycling will not be accepted as a viable transportation alternative for the masses in this country as long as clothing protocols reminiscent of the showy habits of the aristocracy persist. I further wonder if it is possible for Americans to embrace any simple activity or pursuit -- biking, hiking, camping, cooking, gardening, to name a few -- without it becoming justification for a flurry of shopping activity. If we are ever to move toward a simpler, greener future, we'll need to take a route that does not commence with a side trip to REI, Williams-Sonoma, or L.L. Bean. 

A Dollar's Worth of Hope

It was unusual for us to stop. Sally and I were riding our bikes to Huckleberry's, luxuriating in the second straight day of beautiful, spring-like weather. As we rode down 27th Avenue, our attention was drawn to some young girls operating a lemonade stand. We stopped, and almost immediately noticed that this lemonade stand was special. Yes, they were selling organic, gluten-free energy bars and organic lemonade, but it wasn't the products that made their effort so special. "MONEY YOU PAY GOES TO: Lands Council Charity" proclaimed the sign in front of their table. Apparently the girls really wanted to do something for the Lands Council, and had decided that a lemonade stand was what they could do.

These are lean times for non-profit organizations of all types. The economic meltdown has chased away donors. At the same time, other sources of non-profit organizational support, such as grants and income from endowments and investments, have declined precipitously. As daunting as these challenges have been, there is an even greater threat to the future of non-profits. Our society has forgotten the powerful words from FDR's first inaugural in 1933:

 

the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

We find ourselves constantly in the shadow of fear... fear of financial loss, fear of other religions, fear of illegal aliens, fear of change, nameless fear. In reaction we turn inward, focusing on ourselves and our individual concerns, rather than the significant, long-term issues non-profit organizations work so hard to address. In that same inaugural address, FDR also stated:

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto, but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men (sic).

In the midst of these dark days, a ray of sunshine broke through. Four rays actually. Four young girls who care about the future of the planet made a decision to raise money, not for a trip to the mall or a ride on Spokane's renowned Looff Carousel, but for a local charity, the Lands Council.

I didn't have to ask how much my lemonade would cost, for the girls volunteered the figure. "You can pay whatever you want." How much is a sign of hope worth? It turns out that it was priceless.

Bike to Work Week - Day Five, Final

Time: 1 hour, 6 minutes, 24 seconds

Distance: 11.79 miles

Rode to Sally's office, and we rode home together on a lovely spring afternoon.