The best thing about Super Bowl weekend to me is that it signals the end of all things football for a while. I realize that I am in the minority, but I really don't like football. They spend the vast majority of the time just standing around, then they interrupt the total boredom for a few seconds while they run a play. Then they stand around again.
Sorry, but I just can't get into it.
DirecTV used to advertise an option for their NFL Sunday Ticket subscribers (they may still have it, but I don't pay attention) that allowed them to watch a condensed game after the game had ended. The program was edited to only show from the snap to the whistle and then cut immediately to the next snap. They cut out all of the standing around time.
It says something about the excitement level of a sport when they can take a three-plus hour broadcast and replay EVERY PLAY in a 1/2 hour time slot, and still run commercials! That says that close to three hours of every broadcast has no action whatsoever.
BORING!!!!!
So I will, I'm sure, be forced to endure the Super Bowl this weekend if only because I am the only sane one in my family that recognizes what a boring excuse for a sport football really is. I will be delighted, though, when the final whistle sounds and I am given a summer respite from the "sport."
I really don't even care who wins - as long as it doesn't go to overtime and drag the torture out any longer than absolutely necessary.
So let's finally get this game going if for no other reason than to get it over with so I can stop being bombarded with the NFL.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
From Cornfield to Grocery Store
At some point during my high school years the heavy machinery came in and turned the cornfield and woods we used to play in into a Dierbergs grocery store. It was the first of many changes that turned my old stomping grounds into something I no longer even recognize.
Manchester Road was, even then, a busy road, but busy road by our definition at the time meant that it had two lanes going in each direction but Ron and I could still find large enough gaps in the traffic that we could run across the road.
And run across it we did.
Many times.
Ron and I used to walk to the Grandpa Pigeon's store in Ellisville or to the Winchester Plaza strip mall which housed a barber shop (where you could get a haircut for $2.50), a 7-11 and, for a while, a very small Bass Pro Shops outlet. There was also a small, family owned Chinese restaurant that employed Ron as a busboy for a while.
Those are all gone now, too.
Perhaps none of those long-gone treasures are as full of memories as the woods and the cornfield, though. The tiny patch of woods was crisscrossed with bike trails that we accessed from Spring Meadows Drive. The trails provided an outlet to a trail that skirted around the edges of a cornfield.
The story among the neighborhood was that the farmer who owned the field kept a shotgun loaded up with rock salt ready to shoot at any kids found trespassing. While I never ran across any farmer and certainly never heard a shot; the story was enough to keep us all on our toes as we spent hours riding bikes through his field and the surrounding woods. We had untold adventures as we rode our bikes and chased critters with our Wrist Rocket slingshots or Daisy BB Guns.
The trails eventually ended by the Glan Tai pond spillway where we would get back onto the subdivision roads and make our way down the hill on Baxter Acres toward home.
I remember the feeling in my gut when I saw the earth moving equipment come in. The cornfield disappeared to make way for the grocery store and the woods were replaced with a tiny park.
Like our trips down the flooded creek and the go-kart rides down the neighborhood hills, all of those childhood adventures are but a memory now; forever lost to future generations.
Manchester Road was, even then, a busy road, but busy road by our definition at the time meant that it had two lanes going in each direction but Ron and I could still find large enough gaps in the traffic that we could run across the road.
And run across it we did.
Many times.
Ron and I used to walk to the Grandpa Pigeon's store in Ellisville or to the Winchester Plaza strip mall which housed a barber shop (where you could get a haircut for $2.50), a 7-11 and, for a while, a very small Bass Pro Shops outlet. There was also a small, family owned Chinese restaurant that employed Ron as a busboy for a while.
Those are all gone now, too.
Perhaps none of those long-gone treasures are as full of memories as the woods and the cornfield, though. The tiny patch of woods was crisscrossed with bike trails that we accessed from Spring Meadows Drive. The trails provided an outlet to a trail that skirted around the edges of a cornfield.
The story among the neighborhood was that the farmer who owned the field kept a shotgun loaded up with rock salt ready to shoot at any kids found trespassing. While I never ran across any farmer and certainly never heard a shot; the story was enough to keep us all on our toes as we spent hours riding bikes through his field and the surrounding woods. We had untold adventures as we rode our bikes and chased critters with our Wrist Rocket slingshots or Daisy BB Guns.
The trails eventually ended by the Glan Tai pond spillway where we would get back onto the subdivision roads and make our way down the hill on Baxter Acres toward home.
I remember the feeling in my gut when I saw the earth moving equipment come in. The cornfield disappeared to make way for the grocery store and the woods were replaced with a tiny park.
Like our trips down the flooded creek and the go-kart rides down the neighborhood hills, all of those childhood adventures are but a memory now; forever lost to future generations.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
The "OH, NO" Patrol
There is something about a gathering of emergency vehicles with their assortment of flashing lights that bring out the worst in people. They suddenly seem unable to focus on anything else. The traffic report on the radio often warns of a "gapers block" as traffic seemingly halts as people lose focus on their driving and, instead, gaze at the scene in some macabre hope of seeing something awful.
I call it the OH, NO Patrol; and it is one of my greatest pet peeves.
At least some of my annoyance at such drivers is certainly rooted in my years spent working fire, accident and other emergency scenes as an EMT. Very few things in life were more frightening than knowing that a bunch of distracted drivers were making a very dangerous situation much more dangerous by their behavior.
While we always parked the responding apparatus in such a way as to provide as much protection for the crews working the scene as possible; there was no way to provide complete security from the OH, NO Patrol short of closing the road entirely. The state and county frown on avoidable road closures, so we worked on.
Far too often we dealt with close calls as the OH, NO Patrol brought traffic to a virtual standstill; cars slamming on their brakes or changing lanes suddenly to avoid the gawker in the car ahead.
I still cringe as I observe other drivers approaching an emergency scene.
My gut twists and turns as I see cars drift ever so slightly in their lane as the driver cranes in an attempt to catch a fleeting glimpse of whatever tragedy is unfolding.
My heart aches for those who have been affected by the instant in history that has, perhaps forever, changed the course of their lives.
And I fear for the emergency workers who must focus on the tasks before them while putting aside the emotions that go with dealing with broken lives and lost property; and the constant danger the OH, NO Patrol places them in.
Although I have not served beside those emergency responders for over a decade now, I still feel a sense of camaraderie with the men and women who stand ready to answer the call. To honor their service; I made a personal commitment to fight the magnetic draw of those flashing lights and, instead, keep my focus centered on the responsibility of piloting a vehicle through the scene's hazards. My passengers, if there are any, can attempt to catch a glimpse of what possibly went wrong and inform me when we are well past the danger. I, though, keep my eyes on the road and the cars around me as a tribute to those who are working the scene.
I refuse to join the OH, NO Patrol.
I call it the OH, NO Patrol; and it is one of my greatest pet peeves.
At least some of my annoyance at such drivers is certainly rooted in my years spent working fire, accident and other emergency scenes as an EMT. Very few things in life were more frightening than knowing that a bunch of distracted drivers were making a very dangerous situation much more dangerous by their behavior.
While we always parked the responding apparatus in such a way as to provide as much protection for the crews working the scene as possible; there was no way to provide complete security from the OH, NO Patrol short of closing the road entirely. The state and county frown on avoidable road closures, so we worked on.
Far too often we dealt with close calls as the OH, NO Patrol brought traffic to a virtual standstill; cars slamming on their brakes or changing lanes suddenly to avoid the gawker in the car ahead.
I still cringe as I observe other drivers approaching an emergency scene.
My gut twists and turns as I see cars drift ever so slightly in their lane as the driver cranes in an attempt to catch a fleeting glimpse of whatever tragedy is unfolding.
My heart aches for those who have been affected by the instant in history that has, perhaps forever, changed the course of their lives.
And I fear for the emergency workers who must focus on the tasks before them while putting aside the emotions that go with dealing with broken lives and lost property; and the constant danger the OH, NO Patrol places them in.
Although I have not served beside those emergency responders for over a decade now, I still feel a sense of camaraderie with the men and women who stand ready to answer the call. To honor their service; I made a personal commitment to fight the magnetic draw of those flashing lights and, instead, keep my focus centered on the responsibility of piloting a vehicle through the scene's hazards. My passengers, if there are any, can attempt to catch a glimpse of what possibly went wrong and inform me when we are well past the danger. I, though, keep my eyes on the road and the cars around me as a tribute to those who are working the scene.
I refuse to join the OH, NO Patrol.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
The Brader Estate
I grew up in a mansion on a large plot of land. Our backyard was so large that it had two levels, and our garage had a second floor accessible only by a scary old ladder.
A massive swimming pool provided endless hours of entertainment in the summer heat and a secret cave served as the venue for spelunking adventures.
Our yard included a large rock wall that we scaled to move between the yard's levels.
The house was a massive two story home with a full basement large enough to roller skate in as I played hockey. My second floor bedroom had three large windows overlooking the expanse of our estate.
Yes, we lived on an estate smack dab in the middle of our neighborhood in St. Louis.
I remember the first time I drove past the old bungalow on Mardel as an adult. It didn't look the same. It seemed to have shrunk through the decades since we moved away in 1974. Perhaps nothing was more disappointing, though, than the first time I typed the address into Google Earth and watched as the computer zoomed from a view of the entire globe to an aerial view of the neighborhood.
Google Earth has a way of ruining those wonderful memories with it's satellite images and street views of virtually every inch of the globe that I have ever had the pleasure of wandering. The technology somehow makes everything appear so much different.
Somehow it looks so much smaller...
The massive yard looked like a tiny postage stamp of a yard among an entire neighborhood of postage stamp yards. The spot that once housed the massive pool now a small section of grass barely twenty feet across; the mysterious, two story garage gone completely.
Even the street view picture of the terraced front yard and the house with its massive front porch that once held a swing large enough for all four of us kids was so totally different than the mansion I remembered. One of the beautiful, leaded glass transom windows in the living room now gone; replaced with a window air conditioner.
The Brader Estate had somehow vanished only to be replaced by this miniature replica.
Yet is isn't really gone at all.
Like Dad and Mom and Nana and Papa and Tanda and... the list goes on - it is still there; even if only in the living color and stereo sound of my memories.
A massive swimming pool provided endless hours of entertainment in the summer heat and a secret cave served as the venue for spelunking adventures.
Our yard included a large rock wall that we scaled to move between the yard's levels.
The house was a massive two story home with a full basement large enough to roller skate in as I played hockey. My second floor bedroom had three large windows overlooking the expanse of our estate.
Yes, we lived on an estate smack dab in the middle of our neighborhood in St. Louis.
I remember the first time I drove past the old bungalow on Mardel as an adult. It didn't look the same. It seemed to have shrunk through the decades since we moved away in 1974. Perhaps nothing was more disappointing, though, than the first time I typed the address into Google Earth and watched as the computer zoomed from a view of the entire globe to an aerial view of the neighborhood.
Google Earth has a way of ruining those wonderful memories with it's satellite images and street views of virtually every inch of the globe that I have ever had the pleasure of wandering. The technology somehow makes everything appear so much different.
Somehow it looks so much smaller...
The massive yard looked like a tiny postage stamp of a yard among an entire neighborhood of postage stamp yards. The spot that once housed the massive pool now a small section of grass barely twenty feet across; the mysterious, two story garage gone completely.
Even the street view picture of the terraced front yard and the house with its massive front porch that once held a swing large enough for all four of us kids was so totally different than the mansion I remembered. One of the beautiful, leaded glass transom windows in the living room now gone; replaced with a window air conditioner.
The Brader Estate had somehow vanished only to be replaced by this miniature replica.
Yet is isn't really gone at all.
Like Dad and Mom and Nana and Papa and Tanda and... the list goes on - it is still there; even if only in the living color and stereo sound of my memories.
Monday, January 27, 2014
A Man's Machine...
We awakened Sunday morning to about four inches of freshly fallen snow. This was four inches on top of the several feet already piled up along the side of the driveway. I would have been thrilled at piles of snow this large when I was growing up. Not only would we have built snow forts and skating rinks, but we would have almost certainly gotten one or more days off school while the city and county fought to return the streets to a safe state.
This year marks thirty years since I moved to Wisconsin and, if there is one thing I have learned through the decades it is that snow is not a big deal. I have missed exactly one day of work due to weather during those three decades.
We just deal with it.
I deal with it by firing up my machine. It's not just any machine, mind you; it's A Man's Machine!
By summer; it's a 26 inch brush mower - able to take down saplings up to 1-1/2 inch in diameter. You can see that attachment on the left edge of the accompanying photo.
By winter; it's a 30 inch snow blower - able to make short work of any snowstorm thrown at it thus far.
I love firing up my machine; whether for clearing brush from our wooded yard or clearing snow from our driveway.
Our driveway is a fourteen foot wide patch of asphalt that spans nearly one hundred feet before spreading out to a 34 foot wide path for the final 30 feet. All told; I get to run my machine over about 2,400 square feet of asphalt when the flares at the top and bottom of the driveway are figured in.
It's a job for A Man's Machine!
Matthew offers to help when it's time to fire up the machine. I must constantly remind him, though, that he is not allowed to use it. The instructions plainly state that children should not be allowed to operate this machine and he is and will forever be, after all, my child. He immediately gets puffed up and reminds me that I'm an old man and should leave the work like that to the young and strong like himself.
Thus begins the back and forth argument about each other's fitness for operating A Man's Machine.
The truth is that age and arthritis have combined to limit my ability to do many things. Fortunately, though, they have not yet robbed me of the pleasure of firing up my machine and clearing brush or blowing snow. While I often let Matthew take over the task for a while; I make sure he knows that I am violating the instruction manual by letting a child take control of such a powerful machine.
It is, after all, A Man's Machine...
This year marks thirty years since I moved to Wisconsin and, if there is one thing I have learned through the decades it is that snow is not a big deal. I have missed exactly one day of work due to weather during those three decades.
We just deal with it.
 |
| A Man's Machine |
By summer; it's a 26 inch brush mower - able to take down saplings up to 1-1/2 inch in diameter. You can see that attachment on the left edge of the accompanying photo.
By winter; it's a 30 inch snow blower - able to make short work of any snowstorm thrown at it thus far.
I love firing up my machine; whether for clearing brush from our wooded yard or clearing snow from our driveway.
Our driveway is a fourteen foot wide patch of asphalt that spans nearly one hundred feet before spreading out to a 34 foot wide path for the final 30 feet. All told; I get to run my machine over about 2,400 square feet of asphalt when the flares at the top and bottom of the driveway are figured in.
It's a job for A Man's Machine!
Matthew offers to help when it's time to fire up the machine. I must constantly remind him, though, that he is not allowed to use it. The instructions plainly state that children should not be allowed to operate this machine and he is and will forever be, after all, my child. He immediately gets puffed up and reminds me that I'm an old man and should leave the work like that to the young and strong like himself.
Thus begins the back and forth argument about each other's fitness for operating A Man's Machine.
The truth is that age and arthritis have combined to limit my ability to do many things. Fortunately, though, they have not yet robbed me of the pleasure of firing up my machine and clearing brush or blowing snow. While I often let Matthew take over the task for a while; I make sure he knows that I am violating the instruction manual by letting a child take control of such a powerful machine.
It is, after all, A Man's Machine...
Friday, January 24, 2014
Finally, some rain!
Not rain as in the kind that falls from the sky, mind you. That would be pretty much impossible while our temperatures continue to hover around three degrees in the "heat" of the day. No, I speak of the welcome rains that bring an end to a period of drought.
My blog has fallen silent for far too long lately. Going too long without a creative outlet is like a drought. The effects aren't necessarily obvious at first, but they become more of an issue the longer it endures.
I suppose it can be a good thing to be so busy that I don't have time to write.
It can also be a bad thing.
It's far too easy to get caught up in the press of things that we think need to be handled right now. Sometimes the time crunch is legitimate. At other times, though, I think we allow time to control us rather than us taking control of our own schedules.
There are some things that are so important that they are not negotiable. For example, my boss pays me to work a certain number of hours each week and he should reasonably be able to expect that I will adjust my schedule to accommodate that. Other things, though, are not nearly as important and I could probably easily set them aside for another time.
For me; writing should probably fall into the first category, but far too often I allow it so be set aside for seemingly "more pressing" matters.
Sometimes it's hard to keep that in perspective.
Writing is therapeutic. There have been many times that I have written without the intention of anyone ever reading it. It is those times that my fingers floating over the keys is merely intended as an outlet for some thoughts or feelings that are, and will forever remain, private. Other times I write with the knowledge that I will ultimately hit the Publish button to send my writings into the cloud to be read by whomever stumbles upon them.
Lately, not only have I not been writing for public consumption; I have not been writing at all. The longer that drought continues the harsher its effects. There is, hidden somewhere deep within me, the urge to write. There is an old saying that there is a novel within each of us. I'm not aspiring to be the next Harper Lee with her one great work of literature, but it would be nice to spend a little time writing each day - a little time feeding the creative need.
Yet I keep letting it slip; pushed aside by the mundane.
Thus began the drought.
The effects were not obvious at first, but over the course of days my mind began reeling with ideas for blog entries or thoughts to share. The longer it goes on the easier it becomes to feel so overwhelmed with ideas that it seems easier to just ignore it than take the time to decide on a topic and begin the work of fleshing it out.
Today, though, I decided that it was time for some much needed rain to end the drought. Time to renew the habit of taking a few minutes to write - a few minutes for exercising pretty much the only creative skill I have.
A few minutes of therapy.
I still love standing outside in the midst of a summer storm. The rain that brings an end to a dry period seems even sweeter.
It was a joy today to stand out in the rain.
My blog has fallen silent for far too long lately. Going too long without a creative outlet is like a drought. The effects aren't necessarily obvious at first, but they become more of an issue the longer it endures.
I suppose it can be a good thing to be so busy that I don't have time to write.
It can also be a bad thing.
It's far too easy to get caught up in the press of things that we think need to be handled right now. Sometimes the time crunch is legitimate. At other times, though, I think we allow time to control us rather than us taking control of our own schedules.
There are some things that are so important that they are not negotiable. For example, my boss pays me to work a certain number of hours each week and he should reasonably be able to expect that I will adjust my schedule to accommodate that. Other things, though, are not nearly as important and I could probably easily set them aside for another time.
For me; writing should probably fall into the first category, but far too often I allow it so be set aside for seemingly "more pressing" matters.
Sometimes it's hard to keep that in perspective.
Writing is therapeutic. There have been many times that I have written without the intention of anyone ever reading it. It is those times that my fingers floating over the keys is merely intended as an outlet for some thoughts or feelings that are, and will forever remain, private. Other times I write with the knowledge that I will ultimately hit the Publish button to send my writings into the cloud to be read by whomever stumbles upon them.
Lately, not only have I not been writing for public consumption; I have not been writing at all. The longer that drought continues the harsher its effects. There is, hidden somewhere deep within me, the urge to write. There is an old saying that there is a novel within each of us. I'm not aspiring to be the next Harper Lee with her one great work of literature, but it would be nice to spend a little time writing each day - a little time feeding the creative need.
Yet I keep letting it slip; pushed aside by the mundane.
Thus began the drought.
The effects were not obvious at first, but over the course of days my mind began reeling with ideas for blog entries or thoughts to share. The longer it goes on the easier it becomes to feel so overwhelmed with ideas that it seems easier to just ignore it than take the time to decide on a topic and begin the work of fleshing it out.
Today, though, I decided that it was time for some much needed rain to end the drought. Time to renew the habit of taking a few minutes to write - a few minutes for exercising pretty much the only creative skill I have.
A few minutes of therapy.
I still love standing outside in the midst of a summer storm. The rain that brings an end to a dry period seems even sweeter.
It was a joy today to stand out in the rain.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Windows...
Windows in modern houses seem to involve a mysterious mix of magic and science to create energy efficient portals to the world outside. They have multiple panes with the gaps between panes filled with inert gas in the hopes of creating a barrier between the weather inside and outside. They are clad in vinyl or aluminum to virtually eliminate maintenance and seek to completely seal any leakage of air or sound from one side to the other.
They're kind of boring, though.
When I think of windows I still think back to the massive solid wood, single-pane, double-hung windows that filled our old house on Mardel with light. Those windows would not have won any energy efficiency awards; nor would they ever be confused with maintenance-free windows, but they were beautiful.
I remember "helping" Dad fix the sash cords on those old windows. Dad always kept extra sash cord down on his workbench because it seemed like they had the habit of breaking at the most inconvenient time - right when Mom wanted that particular window open.
My boys don't even know what a sash cord or weight is, much less the fun that Dad and I had when I "helped" him fix them.
Dad would gather together his tools for the job; usually a hammer, a screwdriver, a little graphite for the pulley and a roll of friction tape. We would remove the window trim and stops so we could tilt the sash out of the window opening. Then we'd open the side trim and retrieve the sash weight from the bottom. Dad would tape the new cord to the broken piece and use the old one to pull the new cord through the pulley. I'd hold the heavy (okay it was probably only three or four pounds, but it sure felt heavy at the time) weight while Dad tied the cord to the ring at the top. I'd hold the weight high in the window frame while Dad cut the cord and tied a knot to hold it into the sash.
We'd replace all of the trim and put the sash back. Then came the moment of truth - when I got to test the window! Dad knew, of course, that the window would work just fine once the cords had been replaced, but he never told me that. He let me think I had the very important job of testing the window to make sure that our work had not been in vain. Mom would thank me profusely for my "help" - insisting that Dad couldn't have done it without me.
I'm sure today's windows are much nicer in every way, but we lost something when we started installing modern, high-efficiency windows in our homes.
We lost those times of a little boy "helping" his dad fix the windows and making his mom proud.
They're kind of boring, though.
When I think of windows I still think back to the massive solid wood, single-pane, double-hung windows that filled our old house on Mardel with light. Those windows would not have won any energy efficiency awards; nor would they ever be confused with maintenance-free windows, but they were beautiful.
I remember "helping" Dad fix the sash cords on those old windows. Dad always kept extra sash cord down on his workbench because it seemed like they had the habit of breaking at the most inconvenient time - right when Mom wanted that particular window open.
My boys don't even know what a sash cord or weight is, much less the fun that Dad and I had when I "helped" him fix them.
Dad would gather together his tools for the job; usually a hammer, a screwdriver, a little graphite for the pulley and a roll of friction tape. We would remove the window trim and stops so we could tilt the sash out of the window opening. Then we'd open the side trim and retrieve the sash weight from the bottom. Dad would tape the new cord to the broken piece and use the old one to pull the new cord through the pulley. I'd hold the heavy (okay it was probably only three or four pounds, but it sure felt heavy at the time) weight while Dad tied the cord to the ring at the top. I'd hold the weight high in the window frame while Dad cut the cord and tied a knot to hold it into the sash.
We'd replace all of the trim and put the sash back. Then came the moment of truth - when I got to test the window! Dad knew, of course, that the window would work just fine once the cords had been replaced, but he never told me that. He let me think I had the very important job of testing the window to make sure that our work had not been in vain. Mom would thank me profusely for my "help" - insisting that Dad couldn't have done it without me.
I'm sure today's windows are much nicer in every way, but we lost something when we started installing modern, high-efficiency windows in our homes.
We lost those times of a little boy "helping" his dad fix the windows and making his mom proud.
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