Game On

Game On

So, maybe I am a bit bloodthirsty. Maybe I do enjoy peering down the barrel of a weapon pointed at a bad guy, gleefully pulling the trigger and watching him splatter all over the place. Perhaps I might be a bit too fond of rolling a fragmentation grenade into a room full of no-goodniks and listening to the explosion and the screams.

I like it. It gives me a strange kind of pleasure that's missing in the rest of my life.

Of course, my dear reader, I'm talking about playing a computer game. The very idea of actually doing those horrible things in real life is completely preposterous.

I am a fan of what's called FPS video games. The FPS stands for First Person Shooter. It's a variety of video game where you see the action on the game screen as if through the eyes of the hero, and what he sees is what you also see. Generally there's the snout of some kind of weapon in front of you plus an aiming point for that weapon. As you walk around (or crawl or crouch or ride a hang glider) the viewpoint varies. When you click your left mouse button the weapon fires and, if you've aimed correctly, a bad guy gets shot. And who are the bad guys? That depends on the game. In some games he's a enemy soldier, perhaps a Nazi. Or maybe an alien. In others he could be a member of an opposing combat team. Lots of times the bad guy is one of a pantheon of monsters, their ferocity and ugliness only limited by the game programmer's imagination. In a “normal” game of this type it's common for the enemies encountered early in the game to be easier to kill or overcome than those you have to kill later in the game. In lots of games of this type you encounter “bosses” or particularly tough opponents at the end of each “chapter” of the game. Some of these bosses require you to do special things to kill them. Others just require lots and lots of hits from your weapons to bring them down. Most of them are real pains in the behind.

The latest in the series of these games which I've completed is named “Far Cry”. It won some awards as being the action adventure game of the year a few years ago. It's pretty straightforward as far as these games go. Your main enemies are mercenaries, with the occasional genetic monster thrown in for spice. What was great about this game was that it was played in a background of islands. You could swim from island to island or steal a boat. You could walk pretty much anywhere on each island and the bad guys could be almost anywhere. And if they saw you, they'd start hunting you, circling around behind you, using cover and working together. They could be incredibly tough.

You started out early in the game by getting a pistol and that's what you used to overcome your first mercenary enemies. You then could upgrade your weapon with one of the ones the enemies had dropped. You eventually had choices from your original pistol to a bigger pistol, several varieties of machine guns, assault rifles, sniper rifles with multiple-power scopes and eventually, hand-held rocket launchers. You could even use a machete for some incredibly bloody close-in work.

As you would play and encounter baddies, you would be killed yourself many, many times. This was normal and expected. You had to learn the techniques of besting your adversaries and those techniques would vary and change as the game progressed. You learned a lot of them by getting killed. A lot.

Some of the enemies you could shoot from a long distance away with the sniper rifle (good for clearing guards in towers). Others you could sneak up behind and shoot in the back (strangely gratifying). Still others required the John Wayne approach where you just ran into the group of enemies and started shooting them down. And hoped you'd kill them all before you were, yourself, done in. This melee approach was lots of fun and I used it from time to time.

Each chapter of the game gave you more information about the back story and what you were actually trying to achieve, vis-a-vis the adventure you were playing through. There were evil scientists, varied groups of mercenaries who ranged from pretty stupid to doggone dangerous, monkey-hybrids and other freaky cloned animal hybrids who were fast, loud and vicious as hell. Each chapter brought you closer and closer to the masterminds and ultimate biggie who was behind most of the nastiness.

The sound work on this particular game was extraordinary. You could hear the mercs talking amongst themselves or swearing at you as they attacked, the water sounded like water when you swam or waded in it, the leaves rustled when you walked through them. And the mutant creatures who were trying to kill you would growl and roar and scream and scare the living be-jesus out of ya. That was usually when you were quietly sneaking down some dark, dismal hallway in a underground fortress on one of the islands. There were occasions where my hand would shake so much from one of those growling attacks from the rear I could hardly aim my mouse hand and push the button to kill the beast. I got killed a lot from those son-of-a-guns.

During play you had a couple of meters you kept one eye on. One was your health, one your stamina and one your armor. When you would run or when you held your breath underwater your stamina would decline. When you took hits from an enemy, your armor would go down to zero. Then your health would decline to zero also. At that point you'd die. Sometimes it'd take a bunch of shots to finish you off, sometimes only one. That depended on what you were getting hit with. You could get hit with a lot of pistol shots and still keep fighting. But one shot with a rocket and you were toast. You could find first aid packs laying around that'd restore your health and you used them as you found them. Sometimes the enemy would shed his armor when he was killed and you could add that to yours. You could also find scads of ammo laying around for the various weapons you might be carrying.

During a few of the chapters of “Far Cry” I found myself getting very frustrated. I'd be getting killed over and over and over again trying to achieve some goal. And one of the peculiarities of this game was that you couldn't just save the game at any point like a lot of games let you do. Saves would only occur where they were programmed and they liked to establish them just after a big battle. And you didn't know exactly where those save points would be. You just had to keep playing until you achieved one of them. I grew frustrated enough I installed a cheat on this game whereby I could do an “instant” save pretty much anywhere in the game. I don't consider this a cheat, really. It's just a feature that “should” have been in the game from its inception. And it helped. A LOT.

I always chuckle when I read reviews of games I'm contemplating buying. They always say something like, “A good 10-12 hours of playing time.” Ha!

A good 4-6 weeks of playing time is more like it for me! Of course I'm not fanatically playing 10-12 hours a day and eating in front of the computer like a teenager might do. For me it's more like an hour or two here and there. Plus you have to realize that I'm not a 15-year-old kid with the reflexes of a king cobra any more, either. Those kids might be able to mow down dozens of mercs in a single burst of machine gun fire precisely aimed. I gotta see the buggers first, try not to flinch as they start shooting at me (or attacking from a dark corner with claws and humongous fangs) and click the fire button as fast as I can with my old, stiff fingers.

But then again, I'm not really in a hurry, am I? The baddies can wait.

I gave a little thought after finishing “Far Cry” recently as to the issue of violence in video games leading to violence in real life. You read about so-and-so having gone nuts from playing violent video games and then going out and performing some violent act. The media loves to paint all gamers with the violence-leads-to-violence brush. I just want to go on record here and now as saying I do NOT subscribe to that conclusion. I've NEVER been tempted to take a shotgun (or a rocket launcher, for that matter) and gun down anyone in real life. Never! It's never even crossed my mind. Apparently I, along with the 99.9999% of people who play these games are EASILY able to differentiate between pixels of light on a video screen and flesh-and-blood folks.

But, of course, it's the .0001% that grab the headlines.

Wanna know something? Most of those nut jobs would have done that or something similar even without the addition of a video game in their lives. They were doing actions like that long before the advent of those games. Maybe the pundits attributed the abnormality of those individuals in those days before violent video games to some other external stimuli. It seems like the “explainers” want to point their fingers at something, doesn't matter what.

My question is, why don't we just accept the fact that a tiny minority of us are nuts from the get-go and let it lie?

I do wonder though, from time to time, in the dead of the night... Am I having too much fun playing those games? Do I get too much of a visceral thrill from plugging a baddie? Am I grinning like an idiot too much as I survey the carnage I caused to the enemy?

Am I a candidate to climb a bell tower somewhere with a high-power rifle in hand?

And sometimes I wonder.

In His Own Words

In His Own Words

I talk to myself occasionally. Generally not long conversations, but I do ask myself questions once in a while. Who, what, where and when are the usual culprits and the answers to those questions are usually close at hand. It's the whys that really cause you to think. And a “why” question came up recently that I've been thinking about ever since.

Why do I write?

Why do I put pen to paper (or electrons to computer storage as this would properly be described)? Why do I sit down and write stories or reminiscences or just thoughts and post them on the blog in front of the critical gaze of friends and strangers alike? Why do I take the time to organize my thoughts and then place them in a coherent fashion in a piece of writing? And yes, this really is a legitimate question that a lot of people who write, even a little bit as I do, are wont to ask themselves from time to time. I mean, I could be doing something else. I could be reading, which I do a lot of anyway but I could be doing a lot more of. I could be working and making extra money in the time I spend pounding on a computer keyboard. I could even be sleeping, or goofing off or doing any one of a million other things with these hours that I put into doing what you're reading now.

I could be. But I'm not.

I've thought about it a lot recently and have possibly come up with a few reasons that feel like they might be close to the truth.

Are you at least a tiny bit curious? If so, read on...

First and most simply, I do it because I like to. I enjoy putting words together that make sense and convey a thought. I like the way the words look when they're all strung together into sentences and paragraphs. And I marvel that they originated in some dusty recess of my cluttered mind – some dark corner only lit by an aged 40-watt bulb, hiding under a box covered in cobwebs.

I also like the order, may I even say the art, of a well-crafted sentence or paragraph or story.

It pleases me.

Next I do it to chronicle memories that might well be lost. I'm not getting any younger, or at least that's what I've been told, and a lot of the things I write down I may not remember tomorrow or the next day. Not that they are of any import, but it might be nice in later years to pull up these scribblings and refresh my possibly failing memory at that time with them. And it's certainly a way to gather together pieces of my life into one place where they can be accessed. Perhaps I'll win the lottery next week or be called upon to do some valiant deed whereby someone might then be interested in how this lottery winner or this hero lived his life. It's not very likely but it is in the realm of possibility.

I do it to pass on to my son some things that we may never talk about. Or, in some cases, to reiterate stories or thoughts that I've related to him in the past which I wanted to revisit. My son and I have never had a comfortable relationship and, by doing this, I feel I might be able to communicate to him some memories that might allow him to see things in himself he might otherwise not recognize. He might not think he takes after his old man so much, but one day he might read or remember these words in relation to some circumstance he might be in and he might say, “Damn. Dad used to do/say that!”

It happens to me all the time.

I write for the sheer love of the mechanics of placing letters together to make the words – the correct words – and to place those words together in the precise way as to convey the message and the spirit of the message. It's difficult to describe the mental acrobatics necessary to achieve this but the result, when it's done correctly, sings a song to you when you read it. Metaphorically sing, that is. I couldn't hold a tune to save my soul. Perhaps that's another reason why I write?

To let my fingers sing from the keyboard.

Maybe I do it because I have to. Now don't laugh. Habits are laid down by repetition – good and bad. And once a habit has been initiated and has been repeated many, many times, stopping that habit is difficult. Write a bunch of stories yourself, receive some positive feedback and encouragement and you might have trouble not writing also. Or if this compulsion isn't actually a habit, then maybe it's some other itch that's begging to be scratched – some psychological addiction that manifests itself in the urge to write. Perhaps my psychologist friend might describe, in full Latin no less, the exact compulsion that drives it. She's always been helpful that way.

Hell, maybe it's just that I like to type, I'm good at it and I hate typing THE QUICK RED FOX JUMPED OVER THE LAZY BROWN DOG over and over. I kind of doubt that, actually. Typing on a keyboard, when you are competent, becomes just a vehicle that you use to place your thoughts on the computer screen. You generally don't even think about the mechanics of striking keys. You just think AND SHE SAID and the words “and she said” appear on the screen. Simple, eh?

But maybe, deep down, it's a genetic thing where an individual tries to leave something that will go on after he is no more. A legacy, if you will. Even a tiny effort such as these blogs. Someone, down the line a hundred or a thousand years from now might see these words and say, “That dude was right on. That's exactly how I feel too.”

It isn't Hemmingway and it isn't Steinbeck but that'd be so cool!

Or an ancestor 5 or 6 generations removed might stumble on these words and marvel at the antique notions of his great-great to the umpteenth generation grandpa/uncle/cousin.

As an infant in the fraternity of writers, I am constantly amazed at the gift a lot of them have and how prolific they are. For example, I recently became reacquainted with an old friend from my days in the Air Force. He has undertaken the task of writing a column/newsletter on line, he's done it for the past two years and he does it weekly! And the columns he creates are quite readable and always interesting. But the operative word I want to stress here is WEEKLY! I have not reached the point where I'm comfortable enough with my skills or my fortitude to guarantee some words on paper on a schedule. I am still only writing when the muse, as they say, strikes. She sometimes bites a couple times a week. But more likely it's a couple times a month.

I suppose if I were a journalist and had to write every day it would become commonplace and mundane. A job. A chore. But I'm glad it isn't yet. Every time I sit down to a blank piece of “paper” it's an adventure, a fascinating challenge to see if I can, again, come up with something I'm not too disappointed in and which I am not too squeamish about placing in this blog.

And so I approach the end of this communication and I look at the words above this line. Are they readable? Are they clear and do they make sense? Are they interesting, even if they're on a subject that might not be everyone's “cup of tea?” Are they acceptable to me?

Do they sing? Even a little?

I think so. I hope so.

Off Mouse Island

Off Mouse Island

Being in a position where the distinct possibility exists that you might lose your life can cause you to reflect, albeit briefly, on the circumstances that brought you to that point, and the stupidity that can cloud the minds of usually half-way intelligent people. As I sat in the rocking boat with a torrential downpour beating against my unprotected head and lightning bolts crashing into the water all around me, I thought back at the steps that had lead me to that position. And which might prove fatal.

It was the mid-'70's and I'd been married only a few years. My wife and I had recently visited a big boat show up in Cleveland and, after touring the sleek sailboats and gorgeous motor yachts, had caught a small dose of the “going out on the water in boats” fever . Obviously we didn't have the capital to invest in one of the biggies we'd drooled over, but the cash situation wasn't bad enough that we couldn't look around at some smaller, used watercraft. It wasn't easy finding a lot of boats in the landlocked portion of Ohio where we live, but there are a few man-made lakes not too far away, so there were boat dealers around. You just had to look for them. We visited a number of dealers both near and far and finally stopped at a small dealer at a crossroads of a place about 15 miles south of our hometown with the appropriate name of Lakeville. There we found a nice little used boat that seemed to be calling our names. It was a 14 foot MFG fiberglass boat with an elderly 40-horse Johnson outboard on the the transom. The price was well within that which we felt we could afford, so we bought it and made arrangements for it to be prepped and we would pick it up in a week.

The wife and I had been smart about making ourselves more educated about boat handling and had taken a U. S. Coast Guard Auxiliary boating and seamanship course at the local vocational school on the basics of boating. It was a very interesting, intensive course and we were apt students. We learned about PFD's (personal flotation devices – life vests to the uninitiated), anchoring (what kind of anchors there were, what were best for what kind of boating, how much rope was needed, etc.), rules of the road (passing other boats, etc.) and what the lights on the boat and the lights at harbor entrances meant . We looked at navigational maps and learned the different symbols and we charted imaginary courses here and there. We learned about safety and the uses of horns and flares, boat hooks and life rings. We learned what equipment was required on every boat and how to trailer, load, unload and dock the boat. We studied everything necessary to get ready for boat ownership.

Almost everything.

We picked up the boat on a sunny Saturday morning and took it home to admire. It was shiny and green and white and looked fabulous, at least to us. In actuality it was just a little boat with a medium-sized motor that we were just going to use for fishing and putting around in. But it sure looked nice sitting outside our home on it's trailer and begging us to take it to some water somewhere. Soon!

I thought it needed a name. I thought on it for a while, trying to come up with the right one and finally came up with a moniker that I felt was appropriate. (I knew I couldn't name it after an old girlfriend!) My wife and I, during that time period, used to go to visit her grandparents in a larger city about 30 miles away and play bingo with them at a local American Legion (40 et 8) bingo hall. On our first trip to play bingo with them we won a hundred dollars on the last game of the evening. Since that wasn't long before we'd bought the boat, we had used that money as part of the payment on the boat. So I thought she should be named “Bingo”! I went and bought the appropriate letters and applied them to our new baby. After loading all the safety equipment that we knew were required to have on board, we were ready for the water!

Our first trip was to a lake called Clearfork Reservoir, not too far from my in-law's home. We picked up my father-in-law and the three of us headed off to the lake. On arrival we made sure to have the boat inspected and got an Ohio watercraft inspection sticker to make us compliant with Ohio boating laws. Then we launched and had a marvelous day on the water. We putted around the lake and dropped a line here and there. If I remember correctly we caught a mess of crappies and had a fish fry at home not long afterward. “Bingo” performed fine.

It was a great day. It was also a sunny day, a calm day, the lake wasn't terribly big and we could see both shores. We neglected to realize that might not be the case all the time.

A few weeks later I had some time available to go fishing and I asked my father if he'd be interested. He asked me where I was planning on going and I said, “Lake Erie.” I was itching to get on the big lake. He was immediately interested and we headed up one Saturday morning. It was a “guys only” day and I left my wife at home.

It was just the two of us.

I noticed on our approximately 2-hour trip up to the big lake that the clouds had started moving in and the day wasn't near as bright as it had started out being. I tried to ignore the deteriorating day. We were going fishing, dammit! We arrived at the West Harbor boat ramp on Catawba peninsula around noon (we hadn't left home real early) and launched little “Bingo”. Dad held the boat close to the ramp as I parked the car and trailer. I jumped in shortly thereafter and we were off.

The passage through West Harbor to the open lake took us maybe a half-hour as it's a no-wake zone and we had to go ultra slow as to not rock the big cabin cruisers that were docked all along that waterway. The owners would yell at you if you tried to gun it, so we were careful. As we were heading toward the lake entrance we were concerned to see that most of the boats that were moving were coming in from the lake. We seemed to be the only boat heading out.

This probably should have concerned us more than it did.

We entered the open lake shortly thereafter, hung a left and headed north along the eastern shore of Catawba Peninsula. If you hold out your right hand and stick your thumb up like you're giving the OK sign, you can visualize our course. West Harbor is the crease your thumb makes with the rest of your hand. We were traveling up the crease then up the right side of the thumb to the tip and then a little bit further out into the lake to a tiny speck of land called Mouse Island. I'd heard that the fishing was good near there and had decided that Mouse would be our destination. Plus we were in a small boat and I was uneasy getting too far away from land.

It's actually not a long voyage from the entrance of West Harbor to the vicinity of Mouse Island, so it didn't take us very long to get there. We anchored and put our lines in the water. We'd caught a few fish and I was getting into the spirit of our fishing trip when dad mentioned that it was really getting dark to the west. I looked up and my blood chilled. It was really dark to the west and we could hear the rumbling of thunder approaching. West is where the weather comes from around there, so I knew we were in the path of whatever was heading our way.

There were no other boats around.

A small observation, if I may. My little 14 foot boat was an open boat. It had a covered bow but that was really only a storage space. 85% of the boat was open to the sky. A fact that was soon very apparent.

It started to rain.

Then the rain got harder. Then it got really, really hard and the waves picked up substantially. I suppose it was the lightning that really got us spooked. We figured it probably wasn't a good idea to have fishing lines in the water while the electricity was flashing and the thunder was booming very, very close to us. We reeled in and I pulled up the anchor. We were planning on heading back to the car. Dad said, “I guess we better start bailing a bit.” I looked back in the boat and noticed about 5 or 6 inches of water sloshing around in the boat. I gulped and agreed with him. I didn't think our boat could sink as I was pretty sure there was flotation foam in the hull but I wasn't totally sure. So he was in the back using our coffee can “pee” bucket and scooping out water as fast as he could. I'm not sure if he was keeping ahead of the rain or not. I had fired up the motor and had headed... where?

The rain had reduced visibility to about a 20-foot circle around the boat. On the way up to the fishing site we had never lost sight of land. I knew we were only a few hundred feet (probably) from the edge of Catawba Peninsula but... which direction? I knew we needed to head south.

I then realized the one item of equipment that the boat did not have. It didn't have a compass. A stupid damn $10 compass.

And that lack might be the difference between getting back or not making it at all!

I turned the boat to what I thought was the correct course and slowly started moving, worrying about the rocky shoreline along the peninsula. The rain was still coming down in buckets and the lightning was still crashing all around us. I shivered from the wet clothes and the unnerving thought of a lightning bolt hitting the boat smack dead center and cooking the both of us. I thought we were heading south, which was the way we should have been going. Dad thought we were veering more easterly and should come about further to the right. We were drenched to the skin and hadn't a clue which way was the way back.

It was pretty scary.

All at once we saw a sailboat nearby on a course similar to ours, running with full sail through the storm. We putted over to them and hollered to see if they knew where we were.

Of course they had to be all French speakers! Just our luck. We caught one word which was Lakeside. I wasn't even sure where that was but figured it wasn't where we wanted to go. (I checked later. It wasn't.) So we veered off and watched the sailboat disappear back into the rain shower.

It disappeared fast.

I motored a bit further and realized that I had no idea where I was and where I was headed so I just idled for a while, helped dad bail water and tried to ignore the electrical storm we were in the middle of. And prayed a bit.

Not too long after our rendezvous with the sailboat the rain slacked off and then stopped. The storm was over and we could see again! We discovered that our boat, which I had figured to be headed south or at least south-ish, was headed directly east and pointed toward the middle of Lake Erie through the shipping lanes and on toward Canada. Landfall was a long, long damn way that direction.

We continued to bail and finally got the majority of the sloshing water out of the boat. We then sat and looked at each other, smoked a cigarette and thought about our recent adventure. The sun had come out. It was becoming a fine late afternoon.

We looked at each other again. Well... Yes, we'd just had what anyone might call a close call. Yes, it could have been not so good for us. Yes, we could have possibly drowned. But... But...

We were sitting on a boat on Lake Erie in a great fishing area. We had plenty of bait left. We liked to fish. We didn't drown. We might not be able to do this again for a long time. So...

We motored over to the buoy that marked the entrance to West Harbor and anchored nearby. We promised ourselves that if the weather got nasty again we'd zip directly back to the harbor and safety. It was 2 minutes west.

We went back fishing and caught a mess of perch. They were biting well after the storm which was welcome but a bit unusual. We fished until almost dark then motored back to the dock, put the boat back on the trailer and headed off to a fish-cleaning place we knew of where we waited a long time to get our fish cleaned.

By the time we returned home it was almost midnight and my step-mother and my wife were agitated beyond words. Dad and I both had to talk fast and quick to keep out of the doghouse.

Of course that didn't work.

The next day I went into town and bought a compass for the boat and installed it. It looked so nautical screwed to the dash of the craft. I couldn't wait to see it in action.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

And, of course, I never needed it again.

A Late January Thaw

A Late January Thaw

The long-anticipated January thaw has at last arrived in my neck of the woods. It was late this year, sliding in from it's “normal” appearance in the middle of January into the end of the first week of February. I know that I, my family and most of my friends were thankful to see it come, even if it was a bit late. There had been, what seemed to us, an extraordinarily long stretch of sub-freezing days with lots of snow in the weeks and weeks before this thaw. Even a lot of days of below-zero wind chills and actual temperatures in the single digits for significant stretches of time. The kind of temperatures that make your nose hairs freeze when you breath and make your old cars wheeze and groan when you call upon them to take you somewhere.

Of course, during those snowy, windy days my “trusty” snowblower had decided it didn't want to run.

Lemme tell you the story about the old Toro sitting in my garage.

I had an older Toro quite a few years ago that I'd originally bought new which had totally given up the ghost. I was cleaning the garage one day and had noticed it hanging on the wall. So I had placed it on the curb on trash pickup day where either the trash collectors or some mechanically-inclined neighbor had picked it up. I hadn't needed a blower for a number of years as we had been scant on snowfall for quite a while in those days and figured I probably wouldn't need another one for a while.

Of course, the mere fact of tossing your snowblower away positively guaranteed that the next winter would be snowy. And, of course that's what occurred. You could have made book on that.

I survived that winter using only a shovel and it was miserable. The following spring I passed on the word to anyone who would listen that I was in the market for a snowblower sometime before the next winter. I really didn't want to buy new. First, because new snowblowers are doggone expensive. And secondly because I don't have that much territory that needs cleared when it snows. So lo and behold, a dear friend of mine showed up one day with a snowblower for me! He'd found it on a curb somewhere up near where he lived and he “rescued” it. He's got magic in his fingers as far as fixing things and he had checked it out and made sure that it ran. He'd also done a few things to it to keep it running. He warned me that the machine was an electric start, but that function was broken – probably the reason why it was originally pitched. He told me that the pull cord still worked, so it was usable, and that I could take it to a shop and they could fix the electric start. I thanked him profusely, said that I would just pull the cord when I needed to use it and not worry about the electric start. I hung the “new” machine on my garage wall in anticipation of the next snowfall.

I used that blower for the next year or two and it worked... kind of. It was a bit weak in power and was reluctant to start. And it took a LOT of pulls to make it go. I wasn't real satisfied, so I took it to a small engine repair shop a year ago and had them give it an overhaul. After that it worked marginally better but I was still unsatisfied.

That brings us to this winter.

After the first heavy snowfall I pulled the machine off the wall, added some gas/oil mixture (it's a 2-cycle) and commenced pulling. After a large number of jerks I found myself winded and tuckered out and looking at a dead snowblower. I've recently had to accept that I've gotten somewhat older over the years and pulling on a recalcitrant snowblower cord in the bitter cold probably wasn't doing me any good. I had visions of me dropping over with a coronary and not being found for hours and hours. So I packed old Betsy up and took her to another small engine repair shop, this one specializing in Toros, and instructed them to add the electric start piece and to tune 'er up again. I explained the machine's history and they assured me they could get it running like new.

To make this long story shorter, the repair to the snowblower and the new tune up really brought the ol' girl back to life! She's got plenty of zip and starting her is a breeze now. Just plug in an extension cord, couple pumps on the primer bulb, pull out the choke and hit the start button. Shazam! She cranks and sputters, then starts to roar. Then unplug her and we're off to the races! Huzzahs! I'm back in business!

Naturally, you could count the days on one hand between the fixing of my old snowblower and the beginning of the “January” thaw. I guess it's like washing your car knowing that will usually bring rain. So fixing a snowblower will bring a thaw? Guess so.

The good parts of a thaw, even a late one like we're experiencing now are: warmer temperatures to do some chores outside you've been putting off while the thermometer was in the basement, less fuel used to warm your house, bidding farewell to the icky, dirty snow and a chance to wash your heavy winter coat and put on something slightly less heavy for a couple of days. The bad parts of a thaw: seeing the dirty white snow disappear and being left with dirty brown mud and rising water in all the rivers and streams, the obvious need to wash the salt off your vehicles, the suddenly bare side yard where the dogs do their duty (yechhh) and the depressing realization that this is just a respite, and the snow, ice and cold weather will return before you know it. Our local forecast has already imparted this knowledge by informing us that we'll be returning to more “seasonal” weather ( translate that to cold, ice, snow) within a day or two. After high winds and possible thunderstorms in between.

Lovely.

But it is nice to realize that we are on the downward side of the hill now and that winter is eventually going to bid us adieu. The groundhog in Puxuntawney Pennsylvania, by seeing his shadow last week, told us we'll have six weeks more of winter. Hell, I didn't need a large, fat, bucktoothed rodent to tell me that. We live in northern Ohio and winter is often very reluctant to release it's grasp of us most years. We figure on seeing snow well into March most of the time and once in a while a touch in early April, too. But winter's back is mostly broken by mid-March, so we'll slog forward with that in mind.

We could have it worse. I don't mean Minnesota worse or Saskatchewan worse. I tip my hat to the people that live there. They experience winter with a capital “W”. Bitter cold, unending snow and howling winds. I was talking about just up the road right here in Ohio. My state is blessed with a great big lake to its north called Lake Erie. And that lake, along with the other Great Lakes, produces weather patterns that are unique to those areas adjacent and downwind from them. They're called “lake effect snows”. They occur when the lake is unfrozen and a westerly or northwesterly wind blows across it in the wintertime. The air picks up moisture from its fetch over the lake water, freezes it and dumps it on the land as snowfall. The local forecasters call ours the “Lake Erie Snow Machine”. The toughest hit counties are Lake, Geauga and Ashtabula in the northeast portion of the state where it snows almost every day. They get a LOT of snow. Feet upon feet of it.

Every winter.

I'm glad I live where I do. We get hammered by big snowfalls a couple times a year when the winds are south to southwest and bring the moisture up from the Gulf of Mexico. Those are what're called synoptic snows and they fall on most of the state. Those are the guys that give my hometown it's heavier winter blankets of the white stuff.

I hate to admit it but there are times when I do really enjoy the winter. (Don't tell anyone!) I work second shift and generally leave my workplace sometime between midnight and 12:30. My drive home is 25 miles in length on a state highway through mostly rural areas. If it had snowed that evening while I was at work I know my drive home will be a challenge some nights, demanding most nights but almost always beautiful. The traffic on that state highway is usually minimal during the wee hours of the morning and there are some nights when it's almost nonexistent. It's just you and the white-covered highway stretching away through the cornfields and pasture lands shining in the moonlight or veiled by softly falling snow. You steer your car in approximations – a little to the right, a smidge to the left, forward and onward toward home, your hands tight on the wheel. Your body listens intently to the language of the tires beneath you either rolling confidently or having the inconstancy of ice beneath their treads. You look out over the moonstruck fields and see the shine of the frosty snowcover as the lunar light makes it all ghostly and glittery and slick.

But mostly it's a chore, slogging through the miles, driving slowly and carefully to make sure you arrive home without making a detour into a ditch or a tree.

So winter's choke-hold on my part of the world was loosened a bit recently and for that I'm grateful. It was time for one to take a deep breath, relax a bit and gird your loins for the next onslaught that's bound to be just around the corner.

Please excuse me while I go and give ol' Betsy a pat on her red carapace and tell her we'll be back in business soon.

Preserve, Protect and Defend

Preserve, Protect and Defend

It wasn't a high priority for me on Tuesday. I had other things to do. For example, I was behind in answering my email and knew I had a few letters I had to reply to. I also had to run to the store for a few things – milk, orange juice, bread – stuff like that. So when I got around to turning on the TV it was already 10:30 or a little after. Sure, I remembered that Tuesday was Inauguration Day. Sure, I knew it was going to be historic. I'd have been deaf and blind to not know the significance of this particular Tuesday in January. The TV and the radio had also been reminding me about it for weeks. Most of the media that I saw or listened to were responding to the upcoming Inauguration with rabid anticipation. The liberal press, that is. The righties weren't all that enthusiastic. The event wasn't probably as anticipated as, say, the second coming of Christ would be, but I'll bet it wasn't too far behind, at least to my eyes. Breathless expectation was the byword on TV and radio.

Anyhow, there it was, a little past 10:30 on Tuesday morning and I'd finally clicked on the TV. The commentators, anchorpersons and media functionaries were there, all bundled up in their warm winter finery, their breath steaming in the frosty air, their eyes and their apple cheeks glowing in the clear light of a bright Washington morning. Their words described the activities that had already occurred and which would occur later this day. Very little that the incoming President's family would do on this Tuesday would go unscrutinized.

Then the picture changed and you saw a limo pull up under the portico of the White House. Barack and Michelle Obama got out and were greeted at the door by George and Laura Bush. After hugs, kisses and back slaps, the two couples made their way into the building. It was time for a cup of coffee and some conversation before they would ride to the capitol for the ceremonies. They looked like old and dear friends.

I'd venture to say they were not.

I took a sip of my own hot coffee and watched some more.

Here are some of the images that have stuck in my mind from that day:

The politicians and dignitaries wending their way through the Capitol, walking through areas that my family and I had also trod. Many of the faces were familiar. Some I could put names to, some not. Others were totally unknown to me but undoubtedly important people .

I watched the former presidents and their spouses as they walked by – number 39, Jimmie Carter and Rosalynn; number 41, George H. W. Bush and Barbara; number 42, Bill Clinton and Hillary; number 43, George W. Bush and Laura. I missed the smiling face of number 40, Ronald Regan and his Nancy. They would have liked to have been among that company, I'm sure.

How calm was the face of the man who would be number 44, Barack Obama. How he looked like a man who was sure of what he was doing and had gained comfort from that realization. I'm sure he could NOT have been as calm as he appeared, but he definitely gave the appearance of calm confident determination.

His charisma had never been more self evident.

Michelle Obama and the girls coming in and sitting down. How happy and proud they looked.

Watching all the people descend the stairs to the podium's seating area and how they ALL were schmoozing, laughing and playing at politics as they made their way to their seats. I realized then that the majority of the people I was seeing in that area WERE politicians and schmoozing, shaking hands, backslapping and kissing babies is, for a politician, like breathing for the rest of us.

It's the ocean in which those fish swim.

How the oath of office was botched by the Chief Justice of the United States, John Roberts. Thirty-five words. I guess it was nerves. I guess even a Chief Justice can feel the enormity of the moment. But Barack Obama, who's hand rested on Abraham Lincoln's Bible, knew exactly what the words were supposed to be and waited for the Justice to begin anew before repeating after him. There would be no mistakes from this man.

Not now.

(And to make sure, they did it all again the next day.)

The glory of the classical music from Itzhak Perlman, Yo-yo Ma, Anthony McGill and Gabriella Montero and how composed and comfortable they looked playing their marvelous music together on that frosty forenoon.

Aretha Franklin. Her sublime voice and her amazing hat.

Obama's stirring inaugural speech displaying his astonishing speech-giving prowess. How you felt your head nodding “yes, yes” as his powerful voice gave his words importance and weight. How he made you feel that anything was possible.

The sense of demarcation, of endings and beginnings. The old guard passing the torch to the new guy. A feeling of a pivot point being reached that divided that which was from that which is to be.

How quickly President Bush left the city after the ceremony – helicopter from the Capitol grounds, then the jet that used to be Air Force One to his old stomping grounds in Texas. And how abruptly the Bush era ended.

I wondered how many people across the world gave a sigh of relief at that moment.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't get too involved in the ceremonies, wouldn't get too involved in the solemnity of the occasion and then went ahead and got involved anyway. I felt the staggering weight of history as this young man raised his right hand and placed his left on the Bible – I saw the long hazy line of presidents before him who had gathered there to do the same, felt the spirits of those men looking down and lending their support to the man who was to continue their line, who was to shoulder the burdens they had carried, who was to walk in their footprints for a while. I saw a man who would leave his imprint in the sands of history no less than did Washington and Grant, Jefferson and Truman, Adams and Eisenhower.

I could hear the scratching of the pens as the scribes began a new chapter in the history books.

I watched the ceremonies on my television until 1:30 or thereabouts when I had to stop and get ready to go to work. I was going to miss the parade, but that was OK. I'd seen the important bits, the historical stuff. I didn't need to see the bands and the military groups marching down Pennsylvania Avenue. I didn't need to see any of the fancy balls being thrown all across the city. I didn't need to see the Obama's in their formal dress, dancing and celebrating. I'd seen the 44^th president of the United States start his term. I'd seen the first black man be sworn in as President of the United States.

I bore witness to history.

But I also felt a sense of the surreal qualities of what I'd seen. The ceremonies of the day seemed to have had the qualities of a dream or a fantasy, something from which I would soon awaken. I'd shake my head upon arising and wonder at the inventiveness of the sleeping human brain, how it could take the most unlikely set of circumstances and make a whole history out of them. My goodness, what would I dream up next?

But it was not a dream and it was not a fantasy. A 48-year-old black man is now my president, the leader of my nation and, in essence if not in fact, the world. He was duly elected in November and duly sworn in on Tuesday. The facts are the facts and reality is reality.

And how do I feel about it?

OK, I guess. He wasn't my choice, but I'm OK with that now. I'm a bit nervous about his politics. I'm a bit nervous about his age. I'm a bit nervous about his history.

But will he be saint or scoundrel?

History will judge the greatness of this man. The fullness of time will pare away the inconsequentialities of his presidency and will leave only the acts upon which he will be known. Will they be the acts of a great and wise statesman, another Jefferson or Lincoln? Or will he be simply known as the first black United States president with no distinguishing characteristics in his presidency? A political hack of the right color in the right place at the right time.

I guess time will tell.

But until then I'm going to wish him all the luck in the world. I don't think he really needs it but I'm going to wish it for him anyway.

I think this guy just might surprise all of us!

A River of Friends

A River of Friends

Tonight is a quiet night at my workplace. I work as a computer operator for a county municipal water department. I monitor a program that displays the real-time status of the water towers, pumps, valves and chemical feeds for the county. Some nights the work is demanding and takes a lot of concentration and skill to perform. On other nights the system pretty much runs itself with only the occasional tweaking necessary. Tonight was one of the quiet ones. I'd accomplished the additional clerical tasks that were my duty for the evening and had settled into an observant monitor mode, watching the system as it and I moved through the hours, moved through the night.

And as I sat there watching the display screen, my mind drifted a bit and began returning to a question I'd been puzzling over for some time. The question was, “What constitutes a friend?”

I don't believe there's an easy answer to this, even if you might think there was at first glance. Perhaps you could begin your determinations by formulating a list of what characteristics or qualities would define a friend.

Maybe it's someone you've known a very long time, most of your life even. Someone whom you're very familiar with. Someone who you're fond of or attached to in some way. And then there are the various degrees of relationships or friendships to consider – acquaintances, friendly acquaintances, people you are friendly with but not friends, near-friends, people who you are friends with but not close friends, just friends, close friends and best friends.

The sex of the friend is generally immaterial unless the friendship evolves into love but, even then, lovers can be friends, too.

One dictionary I looked at primarily defines a friend as, “a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.” I think that's about right.

The question then becomes “how do we obtain friends and can you lose one?”

On obtaining friends it seems obvious, at least to me, that you have to be a friend to get a friend. But losing friends? That's a toughie. I'm not sure it's even possible.

I've got friends I was almost immediately friends with the same day I met them, but that's not generally the case. It usually takes a period of time to move from the acquaintance, friendly acquaintance, etc., etc. before they slip neatly into one of the “friends” categories – near, just friends, close or best. And sometimes that progression falters at one step and the person stays at one of the lower levels.

An old joke states, “A friend will help you move. A best friend will help you move a body.” I think that puts it quite succinctly.

It really wouldn't take a genius to figure out why my head was full of these questions at this period of time. Some old friends had come back into my life over the past year and I was enjoying listening to the story of their lives. And, in return, telling some of my story back to them.

And I had reached a difficult period with one of my best friends.

In the first instance, I'd lost contact with a lady whom I'd been close friends with in the '70's and '80's. I didn't even know her address or her last name. I'd heard through the grapevine that she'd divorced, remarried and had moved to Arizona. That was about it. She returned around a year ago to her (and my) hometown for her father's funeral and I saw her again after a separation of many years. It took about one minute after again seeing her to rediscover our friendship and to carry on from where it was paused all those years ago.

I'd also restarted a friendship with a couple of guys I'd served with in the military. We'd spent the better part of a year and a half at an Air Force base in the Panama Canal Zone and had grown quite close. When the tour in Central America had ended we'd gone our separate ways – Joe stayed in the service, saw the world and retired to eventual college and a librarian position a stone's throw away from the Pacific Ocean in California. Al went back to the farm in northern Iowa for a while, moved around a lot, stuck his fingers into a lot of pies and eventually settled in a small town in southwestern Missouri. Ernie returned to his beloved Oregon, raised kids and dogs and eventually retired. And Tony ended up in West Virginia, divorced and dating again in his early 60's. Me? I went back to my Ohio birth town, married, had a son and worked with computers.

I've recently got reacquainted with these gentlemen (and lady) and am deep in the process of assimilating their life stories and annexing them with my own. It's an exhilarating process and I'm enjoying the hell out of it!

The second instance, the difficult period with one of my best friends, is occurring as I write. He had unthinkingly done something recently that may have some negative implications to my career. I know it wasn't done with animosity, but the action may end up hurting me in the long run. And in these uncertain economic times you have to be extra careful with your words, actions and thoughts.

I'm still trying to cope with my feelings regarding this action. I know that this man will always be my friend, even if we never pass another friendly word to each other again. Too much water has passed under the bridge for that to change. And he's been a lifeboat for me on too many occasions, pulling me from the fire, rescuing my bacon, being there for me when I needed someone. That will never be dismissed or forgotten.

So I sit here in my quiet office and watch the computers, listening to their digital words as they tell me what's happening in their world. “All is well with me,” one water tower whispers. “Me too, me too,” others say. Two pumps chatter with their messages also, “I'm pumping this much water a minute!” one of them excitedly says. “My chlorine is this much!” another one proudly displays. And through the long, quiet shift the tower levels move upward and downward, the pumps hum and the water wends its way down long, dark pipes to sit a while and wait. Soon a faucet opens for a thirsty child, a toilet flushes, a shower starts providing hot, steamy water for a thankful user on this cold evening. And the life-giving water flows some more.

My friends are out there somewhere on this dark, winter night in their different parts of America, going about their business right this very minute. Maybe they're sitting in their home with their feet up by the fireplace, watching a favorite TV show. Or sitting at a familiar desk, smiling at a well-turned phrase and writing their letters, stories and poetry. Or perhaps playing on the floor with their old dog, their furry friend and companion of many good years. Or maybe quietly watching a beloved husband as he naps on the couch under a window open to the warm, desert air. Perhaps even sitting in a nighttime meeting where the good works of the world are accomplished quietly, unobtrusively and with dignity.

And this river of my friends flows around me and through me, touching me and returning my touch to them. I am refreshed and revitalized.

I wish you well tonight, my friends.

Tummy Troubles

TUMMY TROUBLES

I could see it coming a long time ago. I knew that the possibility existed and that it would become more and more likely as time went on and the situation didn't improve. So when my doctor recommended a certain course of action, I guess I had to agree with him.

Even if I didn't really want to.

Let's cut to the chase:

I'd been having some occasional stomach problems for a very long time, years and years, actually. Most of the time it was usually something minor – some light pains, some off-and-on nausea, some low-grade discomfort a lot of the time. My family doctor had tried a few remedies out on me but none of them had seemed to do the trick. Nexium and Prevacid were two of the medications that were tried and eliminated. Nothing really seemed to hit the spot. And the discomfort was becoming more and more prevalent. So on my latest trip to see the family doctor I asked if there was anything else he might recommend. He said that it was probably time to see a specialist and he set up an appointment for me with a gastroenterologist. I agreed with him and marked the appointment on my calendar.

Maybe I'd start making some progress now.

The “tummy” doctor was a nice guy. I don't think I've ever met a medical doctor who didn't strike me as a nice guy (or lady!) They must teach them that in medical school. He was very personable and we talked for a considerable period of time going over my history and my current complaints. He wrote a lot of it down, nodded a lot and gave me assurances that we'd definitely be able to figure out what the problem was and be able to do something about it.

That was very encouraging.

I was waiting for his next words, though, knowing what they would be. I held my breath, hoping I was wrong.

I winced a bit as the doctor then spoke them, “Let's schedule you for an endoscopy – I'll take a little look around in there and then we'll see where to go after that. OK?”

I grimaced and nodded my head. “Sure. Guess that's the best course.”

So another appointment was made for me, this time at the local hospital where the good doctor would “scope” my stomach and “see what he would see.” I marked this date in my calendar also. I eyed the circled date with a critical eye. January 6. Hmmm... Anything portentous happen on that date? Let's see... Ted Turner purchased the Atlanta Braves, “Wheel of Fortune” debuted on TV, the last “Milton Berle” show aired, “Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom” debuted, Elvis Presley's final appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Merrill Lynch was founded, New Mexico became the 47^th state, George Washington married Martha Custis. All on different years, of course, but nothing too momentous. Guess I'll have to add “I get an endoscope exam” to the list of major occurrences on that date now.

One thing you probably should know about me. When I get nervous, the first place that it affects is my stomach. Guess you could probably figure that one out without too much help. And I have a vivid imagination that likes to conjure up horrific scenarios. So as the day for the “procedure” approached and my anxiety increased, the condition of my tummy deteriorated. When the night before the appointment rolled around my stomach felt like Muhammad Ali had walloped me a good one. Sore, queasy and nauseous. Sounds like a law firm specializing in medical malpractice, doesn't it? My sleep that night was almost nonexistent, with tossing, turning and colorful, terrifying nightmares, most of which consisted of my choking on rubber tubes being jammed down my throat by maniacal, wild-eyed Frankenstein doctors.

The morning of January 6 was overcast, gray and dismal with light flurries in the pre-noon forecast. I showered and dressed, trying to keep my mind off my upcoming appointment and on something light and inconsequential. Of course that didn't work. My fickle brain would constantly return to the looming procedure. Try not to think about elephants for the next 30 seconds and you'll see how much control you have over your own brain. My eyes would flicker to the clock almost every minute, calculating how many of them I could hold on to before I had to leave for the hospital. The minutes evaporated like smoke in a hurricane. Too soon the moment arrived when I must leave. I grabbed my son, who was to accompany me, and we were off.

I checked into the hospital at the main reception area and was told to go down the hall to the the elevator, go to the second floor, turn right and go to the end of the hallway to the endoscopy section. Our local hospital has grown immense during my lifetime and it was very easy to get lost in. We got into the elevator, rode up one story, turned right and went to the end of that hallway, where we found ourself at an exit door. No endoscopy department, nothing. We then realized that the floor we'd started on was the GROUND floor, not the first. So the first floor up from it was the FIRST. You confused yet? I was. We retraced our steps, rode the elevator up one more floor, which was the second floor this time, and walked the long hallway to where my destiny awaited me.

As a side note, have you ever noticed the demeanor of the people who work in health services? They are, with few exceptions, upbeat and happy. They really do seem to want to help you. At least they give that impression when you see them. I guess a lot of that is due to the fact that its you that's the patient, not them. The people I met at the endoscopy department were shining examples of the type – almost to a fault. I and my aching stomach were assured at every step of the way that the upcoming procedure was “a piece of cake” and that I should relax. They told me that almost no one even remembers what goes on there and they even asked a patient in my room who had just come out of the same procedure if he'd remembered anything.

“Very little”, was the answer.

So I was put on a hospital bed, my vitals were taken, some sheets of permissions were signed and an IV was started in my right hand. That was where the “twilight sleep” medications would be injected into me at the appropriate time. They then left me to my own devices for a while. I chit-chatted with my son for a bit and then I realized something. This was going to be my third “-oscopy”. I had previously had a Colonoscopy where they examined my innards from the rear. Then I had had a Cystoscopy where they had examined my innards from the front. Now I was going to have an Endoscopy where they were going to examine my innards from the top. I had just about run out of orifices to probe and innards to examine! This was to be my third of the series!

What a lucky boy I was!

Very soon a nice nurse (where do they find these people?) arrived and wheeled me down the hallway to the procedure room. I waved at my son as I went by and said I'd see him in a bit. I figured the odds were somewhat better than 50/50.

The procedure room was filled with lots of medical equipment of various sorts, most of which I had no clue as to their purpose. I didn't notice any long rubber tubes hanging around, so it appeared that my nightmares weren't to be repeated in actuality. Thank goodness!

I was hooked up to a pulse/blood pressure machine and had one of those annoying oxygen tube things stuck up my nose. I was told to roll onto my right side. Somewhere about that time my smiling gastroenterologist entered the room, like a lead actor stepping upon the stage, and asked if I was ready. I considered my options for a moment then, accepting my fate, said yes. He squirted a strawberry/banana-flavored liquid into the back of my throat to numb my gag reflex then inserted a rubber block with a hole in the middle of it into my mouth. That was supposed to keep my jaw open during the procedure.

I thought to myself, “Oh boy! Here we go!”

One of the nurses then injected the “sleepy” juice into my IV and...

And...

I could remember the nurses and the doctor talking together while the procedure was going on. I could remember burping a lot. I assume air was pumped into my stomach to open things up and I was expelling some of it. But as to the procedure itself?

Nothing. Zippo. Nada. Zilch. The “sleepy” juice had done its trick.

The first thing I remember for sure after the procedure was being wheeled into the recovery room where I lay in a marvelously delicious state of being half-awake and half-asleep. No pain, no concerns, everything comfy and cozy.

Sometime later my bed was wheeled back to the room where I'd started and I was given some juice, some Lorna Doone cookies and reunited with my son. My throat was a tiny bit raw, but the “happy” juice was still buzzing around in my veins so I could have cared less.

It was over! My appointment with the unknown had been accomplished and I was, once again, a man free from any upcoming terrors. Hurrah!

At least until the next time.

The doctor came in a bit later, showed me pictures of my innards and explained what he'd done. There was nothing of real concern he'd said, but he'd taken a couple samples to have analyzed just to make sure. The IV was removed from my hand not long after that and I was free to go.

The ride home was uneventful. It was still a gray, snowy day outside, but inside this old body it was blue skies, sunshine and tropical breezes blowing. (I just love that medical-grade happy juice!)

I suppose if I had to draw any conclusions from this experience they would have to include:

Do what's right for your body even if it scares you silly.

Trust in the expertise of the specialists.

Heed the wisdom of the knowledgeable.

And don't be such a ninny worrying about the small stuff!

I'll try to remember all this the next time.

But probably not.