I spent some time in the woods last week, a camera I hoped to use judiciously hanging from my neck and a gun I wasn’t thrilled about firing idle on my lap. I am usually enthusiastic come deer season because I like venison and being outdoors even on chilly days. But my objective this year was to shoot a buck with my camera.
The woods woke up around 6:30 when gray squirrels began to emerge from nighttime hiding places and forage for food. At least foraging was what they were supposed to do. They played instead, amusing themselves with a game of chase and the sounds they could make while clambering on and around the hollow trunk of a dead tree.
Squirrels are a lot like children. One leaped from a thin branch high above the forest floor to another equally thin branch. The squirrel that was tailing thought twice about making the jump and acted as if he had heard something, likely to buy some time and hope his compadre came back over. That didn’t happen and, with some hesitancy, the second one finally crossed the span. Later, the two met face to face while chasing and one thumped the other across the shoulders. Twice. Either a way of saying “I can’t belive you made me make that jump,” or “I can’t believe you didn’t follow me right away,” since I couldn’t tell who was who in the conversation.
Around eight, does began to wander through the area. Three came toward my stand, stopping about twenty-five yards away, acting as if they felt something was wrong, something they couldn’t quite place a hoof on. They carefully stepped toward some brush, often glancing at me in my stand, sixteen feet up the side of a tree. They disappeared into the brush.
I watched a brown creeper scale a tree next to mine and looked across the hills to spy Canada geese patrolling the skies. Crows had begun holding conventions in other trees nearby, their calls like speeches from windy keynoters. A runt squirrel was playing alone, away from but in sight of others. He had probably heard that he was too young for squirrel games so many times that he had created his own versions.
The deer trio came back after being gone just ten minutes or so. This time they snorted at me in unison, and I snorted back. I’ve done this before and can hold a deer in rapt attention for a few minutes while they try to decipher my broken whitetail. They finally gave a last, hearty bellow and ran up the adjoining hill, out of sight.
They were young deer, traveling with their momma and were in no danger from me. Even if I had been there for venison, I would have looked elsewhere. Still, I’m sure their conversation at deer camp that night was how brave they had been in the face of danger, and the fact that I never picked up my rifle probably never made it into their version of the story. They were likely great heroes who had thwarted the efforts of a human perched way up in a tree.
I never did see a buck, although I had come across a scrape line that was active. But the stories I saw being told, the communications I got to see, the conversation I got to make, made this deer week rank up with one of my best. There is something about being in a tree when the woods wake up that makes me feel a part of the scene instead of a mere observer.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Stargazer
I awoke at 3:30 this morning, dreaming my backyard was filled with deer. In my dream, I stepped out onto the deck to find a couple of fawns playing, then looked to my right and discovered a few does and three or four more fawns. I could hear a buck snorting as I watched another doe squeeze her way through a small hole in the privacy fence. Just as I thought to go back inside to fetch my camera, the deer lined up for a march through another hole in the fence and they all disappeared.
But deer slipping down the rabbit hole wasn't what woke me. I wanted to catch the Perseid meteor shower, something that had eluded me during normal waking hours.
When I stepped out into this summer night, it wasn't deer that greeted me but a symphony led by a large and boisterous cricket section with a much smaller but very resonant group of frogs croaking the rhythm. Car tires on a highway in the distance tried to solo, but only managed to lend a meager humanized voice to melodic chirping.
I am no stranger to stargazing and have learned that it works best to claim a section of sky and scan it continually by moving my eyes only, not my head and neck. It isn't much different from fishing in that regard. If a spot in the pool of stars is unproductive, try a different spot. You know they're out there, just be patient.
As I waited, I was astounded at how many commercial aircraft were in the air even at this hour. So many red-eye flights. Flashing lights that crept quietly until they passed overhead and the hiss of jet engines caught up with them.
Satellites appear with stealth and cunning. A surprise movement in a sea of stillness, they creep along, unannounced and sudden, like a deer that makes a mysterious entrance in the woods. I have often had dreams of staring into night skies, looking for something, only to find all the stars rearrange themselves right before my eyes.
Not the peak time for Perseids, this hour, but I saw a quick flash in my peripheral vision. Then another. A third was nearly transparent, a ghostly apparition in the pre-dawn hours of, Friday the thirteenth. Not that I see that as a bad thing. I turned thirteen on a Friday the thirteenth. And that was, well, a bit more than thirteen years ago.
When my kids were young, they liked for me to wake them on peak meteor nights so they could join me on the deck, or on the trampoline at the time, where we would gaze in different directions until we pinpointed where all the meteors were most likely to be spotted and we shared our finds. We talked about astronomy, Einstein, forever, vastness, time and space. Topics difficult to grasp in daylight hours and especially tasty to discuss in clandestine hours when children should be fast asleep.
A bright meteor parted the sky, leaving a contrail behind. A wispy line of vapor to mark it's brief presence in the world. Then it was gone. It seemed so close, close enough that I should have heard some sound as it passed, but only the orchestral interpretations of my nighttime friends played on.
Another long streak, this one glowing bright in a final gasp as it dissolved into the atmosphere. A few more, some quick bursts, several long shimmering tails, but no others leaving behind visible vapor maps.
Four thirty. I had seen about sixty dust particles burn in brilliance as the band played on. An hour nothing shy of amazing for me. I am a stargazer and always have been. I always will be. Flashes of fleeting light, grasped for a moment by my eyes to play in my mind forever.
But deer slipping down the rabbit hole wasn't what woke me. I wanted to catch the Perseid meteor shower, something that had eluded me during normal waking hours.
When I stepped out into this summer night, it wasn't deer that greeted me but a symphony led by a large and boisterous cricket section with a much smaller but very resonant group of frogs croaking the rhythm. Car tires on a highway in the distance tried to solo, but only managed to lend a meager humanized voice to melodic chirping.
I am no stranger to stargazing and have learned that it works best to claim a section of sky and scan it continually by moving my eyes only, not my head and neck. It isn't much different from fishing in that regard. If a spot in the pool of stars is unproductive, try a different spot. You know they're out there, just be patient.
As I waited, I was astounded at how many commercial aircraft were in the air even at this hour. So many red-eye flights. Flashing lights that crept quietly until they passed overhead and the hiss of jet engines caught up with them.
Satellites appear with stealth and cunning. A surprise movement in a sea of stillness, they creep along, unannounced and sudden, like a deer that makes a mysterious entrance in the woods. I have often had dreams of staring into night skies, looking for something, only to find all the stars rearrange themselves right before my eyes.
Not the peak time for Perseids, this hour, but I saw a quick flash in my peripheral vision. Then another. A third was nearly transparent, a ghostly apparition in the pre-dawn hours of, Friday the thirteenth. Not that I see that as a bad thing. I turned thirteen on a Friday the thirteenth. And that was, well, a bit more than thirteen years ago.
When my kids were young, they liked for me to wake them on peak meteor nights so they could join me on the deck, or on the trampoline at the time, where we would gaze in different directions until we pinpointed where all the meteors were most likely to be spotted and we shared our finds. We talked about astronomy, Einstein, forever, vastness, time and space. Topics difficult to grasp in daylight hours and especially tasty to discuss in clandestine hours when children should be fast asleep.
A bright meteor parted the sky, leaving a contrail behind. A wispy line of vapor to mark it's brief presence in the world. Then it was gone. It seemed so close, close enough that I should have heard some sound as it passed, but only the orchestral interpretations of my nighttime friends played on.
Another long streak, this one glowing bright in a final gasp as it dissolved into the atmosphere. A few more, some quick bursts, several long shimmering tails, but no others leaving behind visible vapor maps.
Four thirty. I had seen about sixty dust particles burn in brilliance as the band played on. An hour nothing shy of amazing for me. I am a stargazer and always have been. I always will be. Flashes of fleeting light, grasped for a moment by my eyes to play in my mind forever.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Winds of Change
At the pinnacle of my career success, I knew beyond any doubt that everything I had ever done toward my chosen field had prepared me for the precise moment I was living. My education, the people I had worked with, failures, successes, all the experiences I had collected were part of this knowledge storehouse I could tap into at will and find something that applied.
I was given the keys to be very creative with our policies and I took full advantage of my time in the driver's seat. I was a trusted advisor to peers and superiors, the go-to guy and the face of the company throughout a long slog of a battle against a union that some of our employees were fighting hard to bring in. After that two year battle to oust the Teamsters, a battle that was in many ways similar to a political campaign, I was tapped to usher in a new direction for the plant's employee involvement process. We started Kaizen teams and worked together to make rapid improvements in the manufacturing process.
And then, it all ended.
Rumors and speculation were rampant as to why the company would choose to close its most productive, most efficient, lowest cost producing plant. But the reasons didn't matter as much as the fact that it had happened and I was tasked with dismantling the lives of over 500 people who had come to earn a living making plastic toys. Even in that dismal time, I could see how my past experiences had prepared me for that moment, that time, that era. I reconstructed my department - human resources - into an outplacement service for our people and I went about trying to keep spirits afloat while we tore apart all that had become familiar.
After the doors closed, I lost my way career-wise. Like an ant scuffling as it tries to find its way back to the trail, I tried to grasp something that made sense for me. I consulted in human resources for a while, tried out another company or two, but HR no longer held an interest for me. I had grown weary of it all, I suppose. I owned a small business for nearly a decade, but I don't think I was all that good at being a businessman. Too many big ideas and too little budget to stretch over them.
But, finally, the winds are shifting again. I'm starting to see how all those experiences I've collected are once again pointing me to forge a new trail and see where it leads.
My first love always was producing the written word. I abandoned that dream to do something sensible and stable, like managing human resources in manufacturing companies. It's a return to my roots, an exploration of my faith in me, and a quenching of the dream I have always adored only to shove back into the closet like a once favored childhood toy. Only this time, it isn't a toy. It's for real.
And for the first time since those days of campaign tactics, new directions, inspiring others and trying out whole new concepts, I feel that everything I have ever done toward my new chosen field has led me to this very moment I am living today.
I think we all have to face a world that looks very different than it did when our lives began. The old securities are no longer valid. The trust that one could spend an entire career with one company is now so fragile it is a rare exception if it exists at all. So the only other option is to remake ourselves. It isn't a big deal because we do it all the time. We were students, who became workers. Maybe we were college students once. We got that promotion, changed industries, changed careers, our companies were sold, broken up and resold. It is how we survive, how we learn, how we continue to collect those valuable experiences that will prepare us for the next leg of the journey. We choose, we learn, we grow, we choose again. There are no assurances that all our choices will be good ones, or that we will prosper because of them. In a recent movie, Clint Eastwood's character said, "if you want a guarantee, buy a toaster."
I think I'll eat my bread untoasted, thank you, and follow my dreams instead.
I was given the keys to be very creative with our policies and I took full advantage of my time in the driver's seat. I was a trusted advisor to peers and superiors, the go-to guy and the face of the company throughout a long slog of a battle against a union that some of our employees were fighting hard to bring in. After that two year battle to oust the Teamsters, a battle that was in many ways similar to a political campaign, I was tapped to usher in a new direction for the plant's employee involvement process. We started Kaizen teams and worked together to make rapid improvements in the manufacturing process.
And then, it all ended.
Rumors and speculation were rampant as to why the company would choose to close its most productive, most efficient, lowest cost producing plant. But the reasons didn't matter as much as the fact that it had happened and I was tasked with dismantling the lives of over 500 people who had come to earn a living making plastic toys. Even in that dismal time, I could see how my past experiences had prepared me for that moment, that time, that era. I reconstructed my department - human resources - into an outplacement service for our people and I went about trying to keep spirits afloat while we tore apart all that had become familiar.
After the doors closed, I lost my way career-wise. Like an ant scuffling as it tries to find its way back to the trail, I tried to grasp something that made sense for me. I consulted in human resources for a while, tried out another company or two, but HR no longer held an interest for me. I had grown weary of it all, I suppose. I owned a small business for nearly a decade, but I don't think I was all that good at being a businessman. Too many big ideas and too little budget to stretch over them.
But, finally, the winds are shifting again. I'm starting to see how all those experiences I've collected are once again pointing me to forge a new trail and see where it leads.
My first love always was producing the written word. I abandoned that dream to do something sensible and stable, like managing human resources in manufacturing companies. It's a return to my roots, an exploration of my faith in me, and a quenching of the dream I have always adored only to shove back into the closet like a once favored childhood toy. Only this time, it isn't a toy. It's for real.
And for the first time since those days of campaign tactics, new directions, inspiring others and trying out whole new concepts, I feel that everything I have ever done toward my new chosen field has led me to this very moment I am living today.
I think we all have to face a world that looks very different than it did when our lives began. The old securities are no longer valid. The trust that one could spend an entire career with one company is now so fragile it is a rare exception if it exists at all. So the only other option is to remake ourselves. It isn't a big deal because we do it all the time. We were students, who became workers. Maybe we were college students once. We got that promotion, changed industries, changed careers, our companies were sold, broken up and resold. It is how we survive, how we learn, how we continue to collect those valuable experiences that will prepare us for the next leg of the journey. We choose, we learn, we grow, we choose again. There are no assurances that all our choices will be good ones, or that we will prosper because of them. In a recent movie, Clint Eastwood's character said, "if you want a guarantee, buy a toaster."
I think I'll eat my bread untoasted, thank you, and follow my dreams instead.
Friday, July 30, 2010
One Hour on a Lake
A summer weekday with humidity levels and air temperatures both in the mid-eighties led me to believe it was a perfect day to grab a kayak and explore. So, I headed out to Springfield Lake where the city’s parks department runs a nice pavilion and rents kayaks for $8 an hour.
Life jacket on, paddle in hand and an eight-foot Old Towne that still had the slight scent of sunscreen as a lingering reminder of the last renter, and I was ready to shove off. Once I made it past the vegetation growing along the shoreline, it was clear paddling. I headed toward the upper end of the lake, toward the Missouri Department of Conservation’s Nature Center.
Almost as soon as I passed the boat launch, I began to feel the calming influences that only a journey into nature can bring. Fish were jumping everywhere I looked and it made me wish I had thought to bring my angling gear along. Most of them were baitfish, but a small bass surfaced every now and then and could have fallen for a top-water Zara Spook.
The lake narrows between a tall bluff and a small island dense with vegetation, and with pink and white hibiscus in bloom in thick patches. I had spotted a heron there on my last trip and was able to get within 15 feet or so of him, the low profile of the kayak perhaps making my human shape seem less threatening. This time, I heard him crying out with a prehistoric voice from the other side of the island. The trees and brush blocked my view but added to the sense of being somewhere far away in time and place.
Homes dot the top of the bluff but are often obscured by trees and blend with the landscape. I saw a groundhog work its way out of a crevice in one bluff and followed its gaze to the backyard of a home where a man in coveralls was digging into another crevice, probably looking for that same ground hog. I wished I had brought my camera, but without a dry-bag on this trip, I did not want to take the chance of flipping my craft and losing my gear to the bottom of Springfield Lake.
My trip continued past the nature center’s photography blind and under an old railroad bridge, all the while accompanied only by the sounds of birds and bugs, the splash of fish. I did glide past a grandfather gently rowing a canoe while his excited eight year old grandson cast a line and bobber toward shore. They waved “hello” and said it was awfully hot, but they had landed one fish. Not bad for an overly eager young boy.
Not long after I passed them, a doe and a fawn slipped out from near a nature center path and hastily sipped from the lake before easing back into cover.
Paddling past the pylons of that trestle bridge, the sounds of nature were soon drowned by the roar of diesel engines and by hot tires on baked asphalt as I neared the Highway 65 bridge. Clearly, it was time to turn around.
Behind me, clouds were building quickly to form a pop-up shower that would instantly relieve the heat but leave its signature on the humidity. I estimated I had time to make it back to the dock before that happened, even with a brief side trip into the marshy area near the little island.
As I passed the nature center grounds on the return leg of my journey, I faintly heard at least twenty-seven of the forty questions being posed by a young voice that seemed to be filled with awe. I didn’t hear the adult responses, but there was not much room in the monologue for replies.
By the time I reached the marsh area, I glanced at my watch and realized I still had about ten minutes left on my hour of rental, so I steered into the grasses. The water was shallow and mud swirled from the bottom, maybe stirred by turtles and other creatures looking for a meal. Tufts of grass in green and gold poked up through the water and a red-winged blackbird took flight from one of them to signal my approach.
The clouds were beginning to thicken like gravy and my time was just about up, so I headed back to the dock, turned in my equipment and reminisced a moment about how easily an hour on the water could melt away any cares or troubles.
I closed my truck door, grabbed my notepad and began to jot down a few reminders of my kayak journey just as the first few sprinkles tapped on the windshield.
Life jacket on, paddle in hand and an eight-foot Old Towne that still had the slight scent of sunscreen as a lingering reminder of the last renter, and I was ready to shove off. Once I made it past the vegetation growing along the shoreline, it was clear paddling. I headed toward the upper end of the lake, toward the Missouri Department of Conservation’s Nature Center.
Almost as soon as I passed the boat launch, I began to feel the calming influences that only a journey into nature can bring. Fish were jumping everywhere I looked and it made me wish I had thought to bring my angling gear along. Most of them were baitfish, but a small bass surfaced every now and then and could have fallen for a top-water Zara Spook.
The lake narrows between a tall bluff and a small island dense with vegetation, and with pink and white hibiscus in bloom in thick patches. I had spotted a heron there on my last trip and was able to get within 15 feet or so of him, the low profile of the kayak perhaps making my human shape seem less threatening. This time, I heard him crying out with a prehistoric voice from the other side of the island. The trees and brush blocked my view but added to the sense of being somewhere far away in time and place.
Homes dot the top of the bluff but are often obscured by trees and blend with the landscape. I saw a groundhog work its way out of a crevice in one bluff and followed its gaze to the backyard of a home where a man in coveralls was digging into another crevice, probably looking for that same ground hog. I wished I had brought my camera, but without a dry-bag on this trip, I did not want to take the chance of flipping my craft and losing my gear to the bottom of Springfield Lake.
My trip continued past the nature center’s photography blind and under an old railroad bridge, all the while accompanied only by the sounds of birds and bugs, the splash of fish. I did glide past a grandfather gently rowing a canoe while his excited eight year old grandson cast a line and bobber toward shore. They waved “hello” and said it was awfully hot, but they had landed one fish. Not bad for an overly eager young boy.
Not long after I passed them, a doe and a fawn slipped out from near a nature center path and hastily sipped from the lake before easing back into cover.
Paddling past the pylons of that trestle bridge, the sounds of nature were soon drowned by the roar of diesel engines and by hot tires on baked asphalt as I neared the Highway 65 bridge. Clearly, it was time to turn around.
Behind me, clouds were building quickly to form a pop-up shower that would instantly relieve the heat but leave its signature on the humidity. I estimated I had time to make it back to the dock before that happened, even with a brief side trip into the marshy area near the little island.
As I passed the nature center grounds on the return leg of my journey, I faintly heard at least twenty-seven of the forty questions being posed by a young voice that seemed to be filled with awe. I didn’t hear the adult responses, but there was not much room in the monologue for replies.
By the time I reached the marsh area, I glanced at my watch and realized I still had about ten minutes left on my hour of rental, so I steered into the grasses. The water was shallow and mud swirled from the bottom, maybe stirred by turtles and other creatures looking for a meal. Tufts of grass in green and gold poked up through the water and a red-winged blackbird took flight from one of them to signal my approach.
The clouds were beginning to thicken like gravy and my time was just about up, so I headed back to the dock, turned in my equipment and reminisced a moment about how easily an hour on the water could melt away any cares or troubles.
I closed my truck door, grabbed my notepad and began to jot down a few reminders of my kayak journey just as the first few sprinkles tapped on the windshield.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Doolittle
I am convinced that the hummingbirds frequenting my feeders communicate with me. No, the heat hasn't affected my good senses. After all, it's not like we discuss politics or Proust or trade jabs. The conversation isn't spoken, so I don't hear tiny voices, but the topic is something very dear to a hummingbird's heart - food.
Over the years, I have observed hummers check the feeder, not sample the sweet nectar inside and simply fly up to the window, then move horizontally in a deliberate, sometimes jerky pattern. They do this once or twice before flying off. Sometimes they return and follow the same pattern.
Actually, it did not take long to discover why they did this little dance. The nectar wasn't so sweet after all. It had become soured by the heat of day or had disappeared completely and the fluid needed a refill. So, I made up new batches of sugar water, cleaned the feeders and refilled them.
Happy hummers. I know that because they returned, took a long drink, then hovered in front of the picture window and moved vertically a few times before flying off to another location. Side to side = "bad food," up and down = "we like this snack."
Scientists have discovered that communications does occur across species, and we are aware of that to some degree, too. Bats are known to be able to send out a sort of radar signal, and decipher the echo as their own, a colleague's or a sound emitted by an insect, or some other creature. And numerous studies have discussed the way dolphins communicate with humans. Same with pets - dogs, cats. When they need attention, pet owners know it by the animal's body language or by their whimpering. When those pets are hungry, they let us know.
In an ultimate example of cross-species communication and cooperation, I once heard a story about a fishing village that had a unique relationship with a pod of killer whales. It seems the killer whales knew where the larger whales were, the ones the fishermen were after. Not having the means to bring down these larger beasts, the killer whales showed fishermen the location. Their quest was simply for the tongues, leaving the rest of the animal to feed the fishermen and their families. A symbiotic relationship constructed through communication.
My hummers are not unique. I have heard of others in different states that hover inches away from a homeowner (the food provider's) face, but buzzing close to the ears of visitors they do not recognize, apparently to say "hello," or "who the hell are you?" I am certain there are plenty of other examples of hummingbird antics that really are means of communicating with humans.
Communications itself is a fascinating subject. The thought that I can write this with a series of symbols and you can look at them, decipher their meaning and maybe even create your own group of symbols in answer to mine is heady stuff. And that doesn't even begin to touch communicating through the spoken word, or art, photography, video, sounds or dance. But the concept of communicating with animals outside the human realm is, to me, nothing short of incredible.
Over the years, I have observed hummers check the feeder, not sample the sweet nectar inside and simply fly up to the window, then move horizontally in a deliberate, sometimes jerky pattern. They do this once or twice before flying off. Sometimes they return and follow the same pattern.
Actually, it did not take long to discover why they did this little dance. The nectar wasn't so sweet after all. It had become soured by the heat of day or had disappeared completely and the fluid needed a refill. So, I made up new batches of sugar water, cleaned the feeders and refilled them.
Happy hummers. I know that because they returned, took a long drink, then hovered in front of the picture window and moved vertically a few times before flying off to another location. Side to side = "bad food," up and down = "we like this snack."
Scientists have discovered that communications does occur across species, and we are aware of that to some degree, too. Bats are known to be able to send out a sort of radar signal, and decipher the echo as their own, a colleague's or a sound emitted by an insect, or some other creature. And numerous studies have discussed the way dolphins communicate with humans. Same with pets - dogs, cats. When they need attention, pet owners know it by the animal's body language or by their whimpering. When those pets are hungry, they let us know.
In an ultimate example of cross-species communication and cooperation, I once heard a story about a fishing village that had a unique relationship with a pod of killer whales. It seems the killer whales knew where the larger whales were, the ones the fishermen were after. Not having the means to bring down these larger beasts, the killer whales showed fishermen the location. Their quest was simply for the tongues, leaving the rest of the animal to feed the fishermen and their families. A symbiotic relationship constructed through communication.
My hummers are not unique. I have heard of others in different states that hover inches away from a homeowner (the food provider's) face, but buzzing close to the ears of visitors they do not recognize, apparently to say "hello," or "who the hell are you?" I am certain there are plenty of other examples of hummingbird antics that really are means of communicating with humans.
Communications itself is a fascinating subject. The thought that I can write this with a series of symbols and you can look at them, decipher their meaning and maybe even create your own group of symbols in answer to mine is heady stuff. And that doesn't even begin to touch communicating through the spoken word, or art, photography, video, sounds or dance. But the concept of communicating with animals outside the human realm is, to me, nothing short of incredible.
Monday, May 03, 2010
The Descendants
Poised like paratroopers on D-Day, we waited for our signal to jump, to make the leap of our lives, the one we had trained for and from which we would not return. I could feel the wind in my face, all of us could, and our anticipation grew stronger. We had been told countless times not to look down because the act could stir panic in our hearts, and our instructors would have no choice but to shake us loose and let us drop. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t stop myself any more than a child could keep from reaching for a cookie in a forbidden jar. I looked down. Below me and as far as I could see, hundreds more of us who had already taken the leap were standing tall with hands raised in triumph like a classroom filled with students who already knew the answer. Instead of fear, I felt excitement. Soon, if all went well, I would be joining them on the ground, my own arms raised and beckoning those waiting for their turn to come join our noble cause.
Drilled into my brain and now as much a part of me as my own genetic code, I could still hear the words barked at us for what seemed like forever: “Stick the landing, troops. It’s the most important thing you’ll ever do. Stick the landing and everything else will work out the way it’s supposed to.” I wondered how many times I had heard that in my young life.
Soon, a rattle of conversation rode through the group in front of us and I knew their time had arrived. A wave of anxiety flowed through my team as we heard the commands, “Get ready, now. It’s almost time. Be strong, don’t look down. Stick the landing.”
The wind seemed somehow stronger, and the group about to leap shook as they assembled into position. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” And off they went, cut free and surfing the wind, cascading down, each one gently yet, as a group, feverishly like a winter flurry.
The wind was in their favor and the ones who had stuck the landing stretched their arms further, welcoming the torrent of newcomers descending though the spring air. Suddenly and unpredictably, the wind shifted. The group attempted evasive maneuvers as they had been taught to do since the early days of our training. I watched as they tried one stunt after another, exhausting their resources as they drifted further, further off course. A few, just a few, were successful and they were greeted warmly by those who had stuck the landing. But the rest were blown too far away for us to even hear them cry out or curse, if they had been doing either. Those were the ones who ended up falling on hard ground. They didn’t stick the landing, their arms weren’t raised in triumph and, instead, lay motionless at their sides. The anxiety on my team grew and a murmur soon arose that had to be quelled.
The instructors were on it. “Listen up! Listen up!” they said. “Some of them will make it, OK? A great many will not, but we all know the odds don’t we? Now look, it doesn’t mean that’s going to happen to you. Remember your lessons, don’t panic. You feel the drift, you start reacting immediately. You got that?”
We said yes, but they made us say it again, louder and with more vigor so it sounded like we really meant it and I suppose that effect was to console and encourage each other whether we believed what we were saying or not. It didn’t matter. We had little time to ponder sincerity when our own time for a jump was at hand.
I looked down again, at the hard place where most of the last group had landed, and down below where many more of the ones before had ended up. There were more of the latter and I convinced myself that the odds were in my favor.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” And with that, our turn had finally come. There was no more time to worry, to grieve or to wonder.
We floated majestically and I looked around me to find a cadre of butterflies riding the breeze, laughing at the sheer delight of being airborne at last. The wind did not turn, remaining in our favor, away from the hard ground. We drifted and I looked down again. The others were waiting, and I was almost close enough to hear them call out a hooray. But the wind was not finished with me yet and I glided along a gentle current, actually floating up for a moment before cruising close to the ground.
Stick the landing! I had almost forgotten the most important lesson of all. The one that meant a chance at success or the death of failure. I looked around. I was in position. I was almost there. Almost. There! Softly into the grass, a spot all my own, near enough to be within sight of the others but far enough away that I had a chance. I had made it, and I had stuck the landing. The single most important journey of my life, a journey now at an end. I felt a melancholy ache, a memory made from what had become a quest fulfilled. There was little time to think about the past, for now it was time to dig in and allow a new adventure to take root.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Fearless Finches
My bird feeders are hubs of activity each winter and into the early days of spring. Every year seems to attract new animals. There are always squirrels who never understand that black oil sunflower seeds are meant for birds, but are nonetheless entertaining to watch. Doves have been frequent visitors the past several seasons and are quite content to peck away at scraps and fallen seeds although I do admit to spreading bucketfuls of food directly on the ground especially for them. This year, finches have come to the feeders in large numbers. At times, as many as forty purple and gold finches have showed up at once to dine on the most tasty treat seed-eaters relish.
I don't know why so many finches suddenly found my feeders, but I have been very grateful to have the opportunity to watch them during this longer than usual winter season. They fly in and out quickly and occupy the branches of a maple tree where the feeders are hung, taking turns swooping onto a feeder or joining the doves in a picnic style meal on the ground.
For a small bird, I have discovered the finch to be fearless when it comes to watching over the food supply. They are not protective or territorial, sharing the harvest with sparrows, juncos, even blue jays. But they tend to give a gentle nudge when it is time for these other species to move on. I've watched blue jays eat while under the watchful eye of several finches until the smaller birds decide the big guys have had enough. A finch or two will fly in and kick the jay out, apparently asking him to kindly find other venues. Even ruffian black birds act intimidated by the presence of a dozen or so finches and have not bothered to stop by my feeders until recent days when the finch population has begun to seek seeds elsewhere.
Why such a small bird, even in large numbers, seems to control the behavior of bigger, more aggressive birds, I do not know. But I have watched the choreography all winter long as each species gets a turn at the feeders while minding the policing action of a few finches who have accepted a role as the ones in charge of keeping the lines moving and making certain everyone gets their share. No more, no less.
As winter's dull plumage gives way to the striking colors of summer, as natural food supplies blossom and mating season begins in earnest, it will be interesting to watch priorities change and see what these little critters do next, if they stick around. Whatever happens next, for me, it's great entertainment.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Lessons Learned
I sat on a knoll concealed by trees and brushes on the edge of my deer woods one early fall morning. Straight ahead was an old farm road overgrown and brushy save for a small patch of open field, an acre, maybe two. To my left, a tree dropped its hedge apples which are said to be the perfect cure for ridding a home of spiders and which cattle munch in loud bursts. Just to my right the old pond was smooth, the banks containing it in covered with gnarled trees. Behind me, tens of acres of wide open grazing land cross-fenced and still green from last summer's showers.
Nothing much was stirring that morning and even my 360 degree check of the land every ten minutes or so detected little since the break of dawn. But finally, during one of those vision patrols, I spotted something moving. I slowly turned my head to see several deer making their way behind me and to my right, toward the pond. Three does and three fawns. I moved the rest of me just as slowly so I could better discover what was going on.
As I watched, the six of them stopped about three quarters of the way across that expanse of field. The three does gazed at each other and none were concerned with my presence, never looking my way at all so I was probably as invisible to them as an old fallen log or a harmless bush. The fawns stuck close to the older animals and looked anxious.
After a moment, maybe two, the largest doe began to walk in a circle, calmly and in a way that looked decidedly deliberate. The others - all of them - followed her. It wasn't a tight, follow-the-leader type circle but a circle nonetheless.
To my astonishment, the six of them made another circle, just a bit wider than the first and a third one with a slightly larger radius than the previous one. Then they stopped and gazed at each other again, this time even the fawns exchanging glances. The does looked back across the field toward the distant tree line. I thought I was beginning to understand what was happening and I continued to observe, still and quiet from my perch atop the knoll.
Another circle and another. A stop, one more circle and they all ran as fast as deer run off past the pond toward a spring-fed creek that divides one property from another and runs cold and clear all throughout the year.
Only a few minutes later, I saw them. Two beagles sniffing the ground, making haste toward where the deer had been, following the trail and looking up once in a while as if to get their bearings from landmarks and outcroppings.
When the two dogs made it to the confluence of circles, they ran smack into a wall of sensory confusion. They tried to pick up the direction the scent would take them but kept running into another deer path that seemingly went into a different direction. The dogs smelled and barked and kept their noses to the ground for a long time before one of them finally found the way out of that maze of confusion.
But by then, I am certain, those six deer were a mile or more away. And I would bet they did not cross the creek, not right away. I think they hit the water, followed it upstream for 60 or 70 yards and then emerged on the other side to further camouflage their scent. Wise creatures these deer.
I have thought about that day in the woods many times over the years. And I have assured myself that, although there was no language spoken, there was communication, although there were no blackboards or lecterns, there was teaching, and although there was nothing audible to my ears, there was most certainly laughter.
Nothing much was stirring that morning and even my 360 degree check of the land every ten minutes or so detected little since the break of dawn. But finally, during one of those vision patrols, I spotted something moving. I slowly turned my head to see several deer making their way behind me and to my right, toward the pond. Three does and three fawns. I moved the rest of me just as slowly so I could better discover what was going on.
As I watched, the six of them stopped about three quarters of the way across that expanse of field. The three does gazed at each other and none were concerned with my presence, never looking my way at all so I was probably as invisible to them as an old fallen log or a harmless bush. The fawns stuck close to the older animals and looked anxious.
After a moment, maybe two, the largest doe began to walk in a circle, calmly and in a way that looked decidedly deliberate. The others - all of them - followed her. It wasn't a tight, follow-the-leader type circle but a circle nonetheless.
To my astonishment, the six of them made another circle, just a bit wider than the first and a third one with a slightly larger radius than the previous one. Then they stopped and gazed at each other again, this time even the fawns exchanging glances. The does looked back across the field toward the distant tree line. I thought I was beginning to understand what was happening and I continued to observe, still and quiet from my perch atop the knoll.
Another circle and another. A stop, one more circle and they all ran as fast as deer run off past the pond toward a spring-fed creek that divides one property from another and runs cold and clear all throughout the year.
Only a few minutes later, I saw them. Two beagles sniffing the ground, making haste toward where the deer had been, following the trail and looking up once in a while as if to get their bearings from landmarks and outcroppings.
When the two dogs made it to the confluence of circles, they ran smack into a wall of sensory confusion. They tried to pick up the direction the scent would take them but kept running into another deer path that seemingly went into a different direction. The dogs smelled and barked and kept their noses to the ground for a long time before one of them finally found the way out of that maze of confusion.
But by then, I am certain, those six deer were a mile or more away. And I would bet they did not cross the creek, not right away. I think they hit the water, followed it upstream for 60 or 70 yards and then emerged on the other side to further camouflage their scent. Wise creatures these deer.
I have thought about that day in the woods many times over the years. And I have assured myself that, although there was no language spoken, there was communication, although there were no blackboards or lecterns, there was teaching, and although there was nothing audible to my ears, there was most certainly laughter.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Christmas Lights
November is always a busy month with Thanksgiving preparations, holiday shopping, deer season and Christmas lights. This year I got lucky. It was 65 degrees with calm winds the weekend I put up the lights but there have been Novembers past when I worked in weather so cold I could not feel my fingers and times when it sleeted on me and once, after the lights were all in place, that a hailstorm arrived to pummel roofs, cars and Christmas lights with golf ball sized ice.
It's during those bad weather Novembers that I question why I put lights up at all. My kids are grown, one has her own home and my granddaughter, though interested in lights, is probably too young to appreciate them. Oh yes, and Januarys, that's when the lights all come back down again and when I can safely predict cold, blustery days for the task.
When I'm putting them up, I can always count on at least two trips to Wal-Mart to replace a strand of lights that did not make it through the harsh summer of my attic or to add another extension cord because one got used for something else during the off season. I long ago learned that it is far less trying on my patience to replace a $2.38 strand of lights than to repair the non-working culprits. I have even begun preparing during the current year for the next by buying lights at 50-75% off in after Christmas sales although I sometimes find that those, too, meet with a tragic demise in my attic prior to the start of the season.
Last November the weather was pretty cold and I had to escape to the house several times for warmth before finishing lacing up branches and wrapping tree trunks, setting out a lighted moose and three Christmas trees of lights that my dad made many years ago.
And January was cold and blustery, just in time for removing the lights and packing them for storage.
I was concentrating on light removal during that inclement weather when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, sir?" I turned to find Betty, my neighbor from across the street. "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your Christmas lights," Betty continued. "I keep my shades drawn most of the time but I looked outside every evening and admired those lights."
What a wonderful compliment. I thanked Betty and she headed back across the street to her home. Betty is over 80 and she has Alzheimer's. She doesn't recall my name anymore but she remembers my Christmas lights. And she found joy in them. This year, I remembered why I put those lights up. This year, they are for Betty and every time I see her shades part, I know she has admired those lights.
It's during those bad weather Novembers that I question why I put lights up at all. My kids are grown, one has her own home and my granddaughter, though interested in lights, is probably too young to appreciate them. Oh yes, and Januarys, that's when the lights all come back down again and when I can safely predict cold, blustery days for the task.
When I'm putting them up, I can always count on at least two trips to Wal-Mart to replace a strand of lights that did not make it through the harsh summer of my attic or to add another extension cord because one got used for something else during the off season. I long ago learned that it is far less trying on my patience to replace a $2.38 strand of lights than to repair the non-working culprits. I have even begun preparing during the current year for the next by buying lights at 50-75% off in after Christmas sales although I sometimes find that those, too, meet with a tragic demise in my attic prior to the start of the season.
Last November the weather was pretty cold and I had to escape to the house several times for warmth before finishing lacing up branches and wrapping tree trunks, setting out a lighted moose and three Christmas trees of lights that my dad made many years ago.
And January was cold and blustery, just in time for removing the lights and packing them for storage.
I was concentrating on light removal during that inclement weather when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, sir?" I turned to find Betty, my neighbor from across the street. "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your Christmas lights," Betty continued. "I keep my shades drawn most of the time but I looked outside every evening and admired those lights."
What a wonderful compliment. I thanked Betty and she headed back across the street to her home. Betty is over 80 and she has Alzheimer's. She doesn't recall my name anymore but she remembers my Christmas lights. And she found joy in them. This year, I remembered why I put those lights up. This year, they are for Betty and every time I see her shades part, I know she has admired those lights.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Shift in Thinking
Not long ago I read that scientists had discovered bacteria, I think it was, that thrived in an environment of benzene. They were trying to determine what new possibilities existed with such a life form, one that could tolerate chemicals so extreme that our conception of how things could live was challenged. And that led to theorizing that our search for life on other planets was misdirected. Perhaps organisms in space did not need oxygen and water to survive and might do quite well with compounds like methane gas or ammonia maybe.
Our paradigms are difficult binds to break. We tend to conceptualize everything based on what we already know or assume we know. That's to be expected I guess. How else would we frame things, at least to begin with, than in terms we understand and with which we feel comfortable? But paradigms build a box we have to escape before we can move forward.
Everyone has paradigms and everyone is boxed in by them, apparently even scientists. Interesting things can happen when we free ourselves and go beyond the limits we set for ourselves and that can happen at all levels. New inventions are almost by definition a paradigm shift. So are new theories, like how life might be supported in other worlds. But it doesn't have to happen at high levels. We can shift paradigms anywhere and come up with something completely new.
When I worked in manufacturing, I was tasked to head a group that would address our attendance policy because our absentee rate was unbearable. The normal thing to do would have been to write people up faster for fewer incidences as part of taking a tougher stance. The group and I wanted to try a different approach. We set aside what we thought we knew about attendance and looked at it from two new viewpoints and only two viewpoints: 1) what do we really want to accomplish and 2) who do we want responsible for accomplishing it?
That was it, our only two goals. With them we realized we wanted to keep the machines running and we didn't want to bully people into running them. So we shifted everyone's paradigms by announcing a plan that anyone could miss any amount of time they wanted whenever they wanted in any increment they wanted. The caveat? If a person missed, it was their responsibility to find a qualified replacement to take their spot.
Gone were the complaints about not being able to take time to watch kids in a school play, likewise gone were supervisors running ragged trying to keep equipment producing and gone were people saying they were not getting enough hours. Gone. Everyone was happy, and productive, and we stopped chasing after attendance offenders like traffic cops and our supervisors went about managing the business. So did everyone else.
All because we were willing to shift our paradigms, throw them out really, and start fresh as if we didn't know what we thought we knew.
Our paradigms are difficult binds to break. We tend to conceptualize everything based on what we already know or assume we know. That's to be expected I guess. How else would we frame things, at least to begin with, than in terms we understand and with which we feel comfortable? But paradigms build a box we have to escape before we can move forward.
Everyone has paradigms and everyone is boxed in by them, apparently even scientists. Interesting things can happen when we free ourselves and go beyond the limits we set for ourselves and that can happen at all levels. New inventions are almost by definition a paradigm shift. So are new theories, like how life might be supported in other worlds. But it doesn't have to happen at high levels. We can shift paradigms anywhere and come up with something completely new.
When I worked in manufacturing, I was tasked to head a group that would address our attendance policy because our absentee rate was unbearable. The normal thing to do would have been to write people up faster for fewer incidences as part of taking a tougher stance. The group and I wanted to try a different approach. We set aside what we thought we knew about attendance and looked at it from two new viewpoints and only two viewpoints: 1) what do we really want to accomplish and 2) who do we want responsible for accomplishing it?
That was it, our only two goals. With them we realized we wanted to keep the machines running and we didn't want to bully people into running them. So we shifted everyone's paradigms by announcing a plan that anyone could miss any amount of time they wanted whenever they wanted in any increment they wanted. The caveat? If a person missed, it was their responsibility to find a qualified replacement to take their spot.
Gone were the complaints about not being able to take time to watch kids in a school play, likewise gone were supervisors running ragged trying to keep equipment producing and gone were people saying they were not getting enough hours. Gone. Everyone was happy, and productive, and we stopped chasing after attendance offenders like traffic cops and our supervisors went about managing the business. So did everyone else.
All because we were willing to shift our paradigms, throw them out really, and start fresh as if we didn't know what we thought we knew.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Fighting Sleep
Have you watched children just before bedtime on a day when they have played hard and filled with fun? There's a sudden burst of energy in a last minute refusal to give up and go to sleep for the day, perhaps a bit uncertain whether the next day will bring as much delight as the one passing into history. They fight sleep as hard as they can and want so badly to stay awake and stretch the day out as long as possible. They play briefly with a toy and abandon it for another, laugh, jump and refuse the bonds of slumber. But finally, they can fight it no longer and they give in to the inevitable. They sleep.
I think trees are like that. They awaken in spring to buds and blossoms that stretch into leaves and spend the summers waving gently in breezes, finding joy in gentle rains and in the animals that favor their branches. It's as close to an extended play day as trees can get and they make it last as long as possible, fighting sleep the entire time. When fall comes, trees expend a last burst of energy, displaying brilliant colors and they try desperately to hold onto their leaves through autumn rains and winds. But finally, they can fight it no longer and must give in to the inevitability of winter. They sleep.
I think trees are like that. They awaken in spring to buds and blossoms that stretch into leaves and spend the summers waving gently in breezes, finding joy in gentle rains and in the animals that favor their branches. It's as close to an extended play day as trees can get and they make it last as long as possible, fighting sleep the entire time. When fall comes, trees expend a last burst of energy, displaying brilliant colors and they try desperately to hold onto their leaves through autumn rains and winds. But finally, they can fight it no longer and must give in to the inevitability of winter. They sleep.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Cheers to Perusing
When I was old enough to ride my bike outside the confines of my immediate neighborhood, my usual summer destination was Edison Park which was a straight shot down Mulberry Street about five blocks from my home, a journey that took me past rows of closely packed houses on either side. Occasionally, I took a more scenic route down 167th Street past Concodria Cemetery and near a bank of businesses that included a bar, a bowling alley next to that and a few doors further down, DeLock's which was an old fashioned convenience store with nickel candy and where we could buy the Sunday morning newspaper on Saturday evenings which was an unbelievable concept for me when I was younger and thankfully not allowed to wander that far alone on bike or on foot.
Either route I took to Edison Park was interesting to me in its own right but never as interesting as the park itself or the building across the street from the park. In later years, I would deliver groceries to Mrs. Shein who was in her seventies, I think, and lived in a small townhouse across the street from the other end of the park. She always complained about the cost of her purchases but tipped me five dollars every week anyway and always asked for me to make the delivery when she called in her order to the grocer that employed me.
But Edison Park was a playground of enormous capacity to a preteen boy. There was a public pool, swings, slides, one of those small merry-go-rounds that is operated by someone outside the ride pushing it faster and faster and where I learned about centrifugal forces and how far you could fly if you let go. And the park had an open field with a depression that could be flooded and made into a skating rink in the winter months. There was also a cement column about three feet tall with thick walls and an iron pipe in the middle that continuously delivered the coldest water I ever sampled and without the need to operate a crank or a valve. It simply gurgled and flowed, eager to offer respite from the summer heat.
As wonderful a place as Edison Park was, what provided even more of a draw for me was the library across the street. It looked like a fancy home and inside the air was cool and refreshing even on the hottest most humid Chicago area summer afternoons. My house did not have air conditioning and the Edison Library was a stop to enjoy, to savor the breathing of refrigerated air.
I did visit the library for more than its coolness. I had learned about the treasures of books from excellent elementary school teachers and I loved books for their words, what I could learn from them, and even for how they felt in my hands, how they looked in neat, clean rows on library shelves. I was in awe of how the library smelled with its oak floors, pine racks and the mixture of aging paper and hardcover fabric that had absorbed the scent of hundreds who had been there before me along with the dust of the ages.
Most visits, I would spend perusing the volumes, stopping to sample an author, read a chapter, put it back and pick up another. Or simply scan the titles, touching each spine as if to reach out and make contact with a far away place, a distant land, a foreign concept. Each time I went, I would check out books and I learned how to field a baseball, took a trip under the sea, and discovered the stars. Long ago, I had found Hal and Roger Hunt and read about their adventures then I stumbled across many more stories in that series and I read them all.
I Google mapped my old neighborhood and I found Edison Park. It looks a little different today. The merry-go-round is gone but the pool pavilion looks new. Swings are there but different, same with the slides. I saw the berms that contained the skating rink but I have no idea whether the city still floods it in icy weather. And it looks like the library still stands, at least the way I remember the library but I admit I am only guessing because all I have to go by is the top of the roof from a satellite view. But something has never changed. I still peruse books. I still bask in their scent, enjoy touching their spines and admiring them in neatly arranged rows. I choose books to read based on how the first chapter appeals to me or by what amazing knowledge I might be left with from them. The habits I developed on all those trips to Edison Park and its adjacent library have never left me and I still go on magnificent adventures or teach myself new things from the words arranged just so in books.
Either route I took to Edison Park was interesting to me in its own right but never as interesting as the park itself or the building across the street from the park. In later years, I would deliver groceries to Mrs. Shein who was in her seventies, I think, and lived in a small townhouse across the street from the other end of the park. She always complained about the cost of her purchases but tipped me five dollars every week anyway and always asked for me to make the delivery when she called in her order to the grocer that employed me.
But Edison Park was a playground of enormous capacity to a preteen boy. There was a public pool, swings, slides, one of those small merry-go-rounds that is operated by someone outside the ride pushing it faster and faster and where I learned about centrifugal forces and how far you could fly if you let go. And the park had an open field with a depression that could be flooded and made into a skating rink in the winter months. There was also a cement column about three feet tall with thick walls and an iron pipe in the middle that continuously delivered the coldest water I ever sampled and without the need to operate a crank or a valve. It simply gurgled and flowed, eager to offer respite from the summer heat.
As wonderful a place as Edison Park was, what provided even more of a draw for me was the library across the street. It looked like a fancy home and inside the air was cool and refreshing even on the hottest most humid Chicago area summer afternoons. My house did not have air conditioning and the Edison Library was a stop to enjoy, to savor the breathing of refrigerated air.
I did visit the library for more than its coolness. I had learned about the treasures of books from excellent elementary school teachers and I loved books for their words, what I could learn from them, and even for how they felt in my hands, how they looked in neat, clean rows on library shelves. I was in awe of how the library smelled with its oak floors, pine racks and the mixture of aging paper and hardcover fabric that had absorbed the scent of hundreds who had been there before me along with the dust of the ages.
Most visits, I would spend perusing the volumes, stopping to sample an author, read a chapter, put it back and pick up another. Or simply scan the titles, touching each spine as if to reach out and make contact with a far away place, a distant land, a foreign concept. Each time I went, I would check out books and I learned how to field a baseball, took a trip under the sea, and discovered the stars. Long ago, I had found Hal and Roger Hunt and read about their adventures then I stumbled across many more stories in that series and I read them all.
I Google mapped my old neighborhood and I found Edison Park. It looks a little different today. The merry-go-round is gone but the pool pavilion looks new. Swings are there but different, same with the slides. I saw the berms that contained the skating rink but I have no idea whether the city still floods it in icy weather. And it looks like the library still stands, at least the way I remember the library but I admit I am only guessing because all I have to go by is the top of the roof from a satellite view. But something has never changed. I still peruse books. I still bask in their scent, enjoy touching their spines and admiring them in neatly arranged rows. I choose books to read based on how the first chapter appeals to me or by what amazing knowledge I might be left with from them. The habits I developed on all those trips to Edison Park and its adjacent library have never left me and I still go on magnificent adventures or teach myself new things from the words arranged just so in books.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Dreamscape
Dreams are fascinating to me. Even the strange and twisted ones. Where do they come from? Why do we have them? What do they mean? And why is it that sometimes we remember them so vividly when we first wake up only to lose their detail with each breath we take until they are completely wiped away. Yet there are others we recall almost exactly as we dreamed them, even years later.
Sometimes, I can slip into a dream state quickly, almost immediately after I close my eyes. A short nap on the couch or falling asleep again after waking up on a Saturday morning can often produce dreams the moment my eyes shut.
That happened to me once when deer hunting. After waking up at 4am, getting to the woods before dawn and seeing nothing at all that chilly November morning, the lack of substantial sleep the night before finally seized hold of me. I closed my eyes briefly, seconds really, but sounds got distant, the world went gray and I could feel myself drifting off. Just so you know, I was not up in a tree stand where this would have presented a great danger of falling. I was sitting on the ground on a hillside with my back propped up against a small tree.
As I said, my eyes were closed for just a few seconds, fifteen or twenty at the most. When I popped them open again, I had the very real and distinct impression I was in Germany. It was World War II and I had been assigned a forward position as a sniper sent to distract and confuse the enemy while our own thin troop levels could organize as best they could for a full assault. The 30-30 in my lap looked like a bolt-action M-1 and my insulated Walls coveralls looked like military fatigues. I could clearly make out the sound of several enemy troops working through the brush in front of me and my heart raced as if my job assignment was about to be fulfilled.
Keep in mind, I was fully awake as I saw and heard these things and had only moments before not slept, just felt myself drifting toward sleep. It was a struggle to convince myself I was in Carthage, Missouri and not in some battlefield in Germany. As I traversed time and my mind returned to the hunting day at hand, I could still hear the troops moving in the woods although they seemed further away and my drab green uniform was beginning to tan again.
You might think I'd say that the sound of marching troops was nothing more than an approaching deer which would be a nice, although predictable, twist in this story. But the deer were not moving and Damion, who was with me that morning, made no reaction that would indicate he had seen or heard anything. Squirrels had not yet descended trees in search of food and the raccoons had long before left their nighttime tree perches and wandered off.
I can't say what it was that made me have that experience. I had not watched any war movies anytime immediately or even distantly prior, nor had I been influenced by noises or sights around me at the time. It was more like two different time periods somehow intersected briefly on that hillside, and apparently only on my side of the hill as Damion never said he felt anything similar unless, of course, he isn't saying.
Perhaps this was an experience from a previous life, which would mean I would have to believe in reincarnation and while I admit that could happen, I am not certain I am convinced it does. If it was a throwback to a previous life, I had been sent to conduct a dangerous mission without a high probability of a successful outcome for me, which makes the dream a bit more like a nightmare.
Then again, it may have simply been a firing of synapses in my brain triggered by an overactive writer's imagination and a fully engaged subconscious mixed with some very sleepy eyes.
You choose the ending to this story.
Sometimes, I can slip into a dream state quickly, almost immediately after I close my eyes. A short nap on the couch or falling asleep again after waking up on a Saturday morning can often produce dreams the moment my eyes shut.
That happened to me once when deer hunting. After waking up at 4am, getting to the woods before dawn and seeing nothing at all that chilly November morning, the lack of substantial sleep the night before finally seized hold of me. I closed my eyes briefly, seconds really, but sounds got distant, the world went gray and I could feel myself drifting off. Just so you know, I was not up in a tree stand where this would have presented a great danger of falling. I was sitting on the ground on a hillside with my back propped up against a small tree.
As I said, my eyes were closed for just a few seconds, fifteen or twenty at the most. When I popped them open again, I had the very real and distinct impression I was in Germany. It was World War II and I had been assigned a forward position as a sniper sent to distract and confuse the enemy while our own thin troop levels could organize as best they could for a full assault. The 30-30 in my lap looked like a bolt-action M-1 and my insulated Walls coveralls looked like military fatigues. I could clearly make out the sound of several enemy troops working through the brush in front of me and my heart raced as if my job assignment was about to be fulfilled.
Keep in mind, I was fully awake as I saw and heard these things and had only moments before not slept, just felt myself drifting toward sleep. It was a struggle to convince myself I was in Carthage, Missouri and not in some battlefield in Germany. As I traversed time and my mind returned to the hunting day at hand, I could still hear the troops moving in the woods although they seemed further away and my drab green uniform was beginning to tan again.
You might think I'd say that the sound of marching troops was nothing more than an approaching deer which would be a nice, although predictable, twist in this story. But the deer were not moving and Damion, who was with me that morning, made no reaction that would indicate he had seen or heard anything. Squirrels had not yet descended trees in search of food and the raccoons had long before left their nighttime tree perches and wandered off.
I can't say what it was that made me have that experience. I had not watched any war movies anytime immediately or even distantly prior, nor had I been influenced by noises or sights around me at the time. It was more like two different time periods somehow intersected briefly on that hillside, and apparently only on my side of the hill as Damion never said he felt anything similar unless, of course, he isn't saying.
Perhaps this was an experience from a previous life, which would mean I would have to believe in reincarnation and while I admit that could happen, I am not certain I am convinced it does. If it was a throwback to a previous life, I had been sent to conduct a dangerous mission without a high probability of a successful outcome for me, which makes the dream a bit more like a nightmare.
Then again, it may have simply been a firing of synapses in my brain triggered by an overactive writer's imagination and a fully engaged subconscious mixed with some very sleepy eyes.
You choose the ending to this story.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Hitchin' a Ride
I make it a point never to pick up hitchhikers. It's just my policy and it always has been. Most are nice enough and probably mean no harm but there's always a danger that something could go wrong and I could end up badly hurt or worse. A couple of days ago, I violated my own policy and the thing is, I didn't even mean to do it, the hitchhiker crept in so quietly, so subtly I had no idea she was even with me until it was too late.
Of all places, it happened right there in my backyard, by the butterfly bush. The plant gets overgrown during the summer and gives new definition to the term "bushy." I brushed against it while mowing because there was no place else for me to go. The forsythias on the other side pretty well pushed me toward the butterfly bush, which I noticed was very aptly named as scores of the little creatures were taking in the last sips of summer.
I took some time to watch the butterflies who, earlier in the season, made a scene by landing on my ball cap and shoulders anytime I approached them while they savored the blooms. Sort of a butterfly thank you for planting the bush.
When I got to the storage building to put my mower up, my peripheral vision detected something bright green on my shoulder. At the same time I moved my head to see what it was, it moved its head to see what I was. I had picked up a praying mantis that was now staring me directly in the eye. When I moved my head, it moved its head and we danced like that for a minute or two before I remembered the mower that needed to be stowed and the rest of the chores on my list that day.
I released the mantis onto a honeysuckle planted next to the storage building and watched as it climbed those branches on the hunt for a snack. I guess in the future I will need to make a few exceptions to my "no hitchhikers" edict.
Photo courtesy of Sydnee R. Crain.
Of all places, it happened right there in my backyard, by the butterfly bush. The plant gets overgrown during the summer and gives new definition to the term "bushy." I brushed against it while mowing because there was no place else for me to go. The forsythias on the other side pretty well pushed me toward the butterfly bush, which I noticed was very aptly named as scores of the little creatures were taking in the last sips of summer.
I took some time to watch the butterflies who, earlier in the season, made a scene by landing on my ball cap and shoulders anytime I approached them while they savored the blooms. Sort of a butterfly thank you for planting the bush.
When I got to the storage building to put my mower up, my peripheral vision detected something bright green on my shoulder. At the same time I moved my head to see what it was, it moved its head to see what I was. I had picked up a praying mantis that was now staring me directly in the eye. When I moved my head, it moved its head and we danced like that for a minute or two before I remembered the mower that needed to be stowed and the rest of the chores on my list that day.I released the mantis onto a honeysuckle planted next to the storage building and watched as it climbed those branches on the hunt for a snack. I guess in the future I will need to make a few exceptions to my "no hitchhikers" edict.
Photo courtesy of Sydnee R. Crain.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Construction Projects
I don't know exactly why I thought of it today, but I remember as a child one of my aunts telling me that every mile we walked added a new artery to our circulatory system. That was quite a revelation to my young mind and something that had a profound impact on me at the time. My brain immediately started developing what if scenarios.
My first concern was what would happen if we walked only, say, a half a mile. Would just part of an artery get built? And what would happen to blood flow? Was the new, partially constructed artery open to traffic? When we walked again the next day, would the body's highway team know precisely where to pick up again?
Next, I recall wondering what would happen to us over our life spans as we walked hundreds, maybe thousands of miles. The body is finite. There simply would not be room for all those new arteries to be contained inside us. Would we have some kind of arterial explosion?
Ah, the worries of youth. I guess there is no real point to this story except, be careful what you tell children. It might be wise to explain exactly what is meant or how things work lest they fill in the blanks themselves.
My first concern was what would happen if we walked only, say, a half a mile. Would just part of an artery get built? And what would happen to blood flow? Was the new, partially constructed artery open to traffic? When we walked again the next day, would the body's highway team know precisely where to pick up again?
Next, I recall wondering what would happen to us over our life spans as we walked hundreds, maybe thousands of miles. The body is finite. There simply would not be room for all those new arteries to be contained inside us. Would we have some kind of arterial explosion?
Ah, the worries of youth. I guess there is no real point to this story except, be careful what you tell children. It might be wise to explain exactly what is meant or how things work lest they fill in the blanks themselves.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
My Secret
I have been carving out fifteen minutes a day every day for a visualization exercise. I am trying to picture where I see my life, my career, my finances as the future unfolds and becomes the present. It’s a great exercise and calls for living that fifteen minutes as if the future were already here today.
There has been so much written and said about creating our own realities and I have become a believer in that concept. I’ve never been one for destiny because it seems so unfair that everything is already decided and we just play our parts like actors on a stage without even so much as adlibbing. I think in terms of free choice and often wonder if we as humans over-complicate matters as we so often do. I mean, what if God’s plan is very simple: be happy, try new things, learn, grow. The rest is up to us. We have choices and the freedom to make those choices.
That said, my choice is to visualize a future I want to have unfold and one that I can create. My own reality built with my choices and then my actions. But I have learned that we need to be careful about what we wish for and where we place our thoughts and attention because that also creates our realities.
I learned about The Secret from a DVD and I was fascinated. I got on the mailing list and one of the newsletters was a blank check drawn on the Universe for whatever amount we thought was possible. I filled it in with a number I felt was realistic and I put the check on my desk where I could see it every day so that I could focus on it.
This I did at a time when my business was having difficulties just prior to the huge downturn in our economy that affected most all businesses. I guess you could say that my business was a leading indicator. As revenues diminished, I took on more debt to weather the storm and soon debt was where I focused my attention, paying this bill, moving money around, always struggling, always thinking about that debt.
You can probably see where this is going. The check I wrote was to be manifested in one year. At the end of that year, I recall telling someone that the only secret to The Secret was that there was that there was no secret. And that’s when my mouth dropped and I went back to my desk to get the check I had written a year prior. My debt level on the day I proclaimed there was no secret was exactly the amount I had written on the check. I had achieved my goal, only I concentrated on debt not revenues for an entire year. In fact, I seldom ever thought about revenues during that year, but I always thought about debt.
It was a lesson learned, I grew. I am writing a new check and I am concentrating on the revenue that will make that check a reality. A year from now, I hope to post a new story about the reality I am creating today to be manifested over the next 365 days.
There has been so much written and said about creating our own realities and I have become a believer in that concept. I’ve never been one for destiny because it seems so unfair that everything is already decided and we just play our parts like actors on a stage without even so much as adlibbing. I think in terms of free choice and often wonder if we as humans over-complicate matters as we so often do. I mean, what if God’s plan is very simple: be happy, try new things, learn, grow. The rest is up to us. We have choices and the freedom to make those choices.
That said, my choice is to visualize a future I want to have unfold and one that I can create. My own reality built with my choices and then my actions. But I have learned that we need to be careful about what we wish for and where we place our thoughts and attention because that also creates our realities.
I learned about The Secret from a DVD and I was fascinated. I got on the mailing list and one of the newsletters was a blank check drawn on the Universe for whatever amount we thought was possible. I filled it in with a number I felt was realistic and I put the check on my desk where I could see it every day so that I could focus on it.
This I did at a time when my business was having difficulties just prior to the huge downturn in our economy that affected most all businesses. I guess you could say that my business was a leading indicator. As revenues diminished, I took on more debt to weather the storm and soon debt was where I focused my attention, paying this bill, moving money around, always struggling, always thinking about that debt.
You can probably see where this is going. The check I wrote was to be manifested in one year. At the end of that year, I recall telling someone that the only secret to The Secret was that there was that there was no secret. And that’s when my mouth dropped and I went back to my desk to get the check I had written a year prior. My debt level on the day I proclaimed there was no secret was exactly the amount I had written on the check. I had achieved my goal, only I concentrated on debt not revenues for an entire year. In fact, I seldom ever thought about revenues during that year, but I always thought about debt.
It was a lesson learned, I grew. I am writing a new check and I am concentrating on the revenue that will make that check a reality. A year from now, I hope to post a new story about the reality I am creating today to be manifested over the next 365 days.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Foggy Morn
My knee is still sore today after playing too many consecutive hours of wallyball last week so I decided a nice, long walk would help rehab it. Last night's heavy rains left fog so thick I could barely see the ridge to the east and imagined mountains beyond. There really aren't any mountains nearby where I live and take my walks but I do have a vivid imagination.
Water droplets were poised on branches and leaves like divers composing before taking a plunge. And, since most people had already gone off to work and I work from home with no set hours, the peace and tranquility was welcome. I did see a gray haired woman struggle to control two poodles she was walking on long leashes. We said good morning but she seemed so preoccupied I doubt she recalled the greeting.
A bit further along, a younger woman was smoking a cigarette while pushing her baby in a stroller. She said hello to the mailman but never looked my way even though we passed within eight feet of each other. Maybe she was worried I was out for more than just a walk or she was simply savoring that last puff of Marlboro.
As I reached the furthest point from home in my journey, I realized that not a single dog had barked in almost two miles. Just then, a dog barked. He was inside a home and peered at me through the screen door. I heard what I thought was a loud conversation in the dog's house but it turned out to be somebody listening to a recording of George Carlin debating the existence of angels and using colorful adjectives to illustrate his point. Apparently, the listener had the volume turned up so the rest of the neighborhood could tune in as well although I saw no one doing so.
The rest of my walk was quiet, calm and without much to describe. My knee felt better and I may repeat the process again this afternoon. Then again, the fog has yet to lift completely which is keeping the temperatures steady at about 62 degrees. It's a nice, early fall day. I hear the woods calling my name.
Water droplets were poised on branches and leaves like divers composing before taking a plunge. And, since most people had already gone off to work and I work from home with no set hours, the peace and tranquility was welcome. I did see a gray haired woman struggle to control two poodles she was walking on long leashes. We said good morning but she seemed so preoccupied I doubt she recalled the greeting.
A bit further along, a younger woman was smoking a cigarette while pushing her baby in a stroller. She said hello to the mailman but never looked my way even though we passed within eight feet of each other. Maybe she was worried I was out for more than just a walk or she was simply savoring that last puff of Marlboro.
As I reached the furthest point from home in my journey, I realized that not a single dog had barked in almost two miles. Just then, a dog barked. He was inside a home and peered at me through the screen door. I heard what I thought was a loud conversation in the dog's house but it turned out to be somebody listening to a recording of George Carlin debating the existence of angels and using colorful adjectives to illustrate his point. Apparently, the listener had the volume turned up so the rest of the neighborhood could tune in as well although I saw no one doing so.
The rest of my walk was quiet, calm and without much to describe. My knee felt better and I may repeat the process again this afternoon. Then again, the fog has yet to lift completely which is keeping the temperatures steady at about 62 degrees. It's a nice, early fall day. I hear the woods calling my name.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Changes
As I wander the same trail through the same neighborhoods on my daily walks, I find myself less attuned to the mundane path I travel and more aware of the sounds of nature, the scents of the outdoors and the neighbors who painted their garage doors that hideous shade of green this summer.
Last evening, the scents are what captured my attention. I always manage to pick up something wonderful along the way: sweet batter coating onion rings in the fryer at Sonic, fresh laundry being tumbled in a dryer, honeysuckle and magnolia blossoms, newly mowed grass. Yesterday, the smells tricking into my nostrils told me a story.
About a block into my walk, I detected a charcoal grill that had been lit not too very long before my arrival. The oily odor of lighter fluid was gone and only the cooking smell of graying briquettes was wafting through the air. I imagined boneless, skinless chicken breasts or strip steaks, maybe hamburger patties eager to be rested on the grilling rack. Judging solely by the intensity of the bouquet, their time was near. There is nothing quite like food cooked outdoors even if the grill marks include incredible amounts of carcinogens according to experts who will someday change their minds and sing the praises of outdoor cooking as they have with so many other good for you, bad for you, good for you food and drink we consume. For me, I’ll take my chances to get a tasty, smoky cut of grilled meat onto my plate and into my diet.
I no sooner saw myself sitting at the dinner table cutting into a nice, tender and toxic steak than another smoky aroma swayed my attention. It was the musty, crisp perfume of leaves burning and I soon saw a smoldering fire and someone using a rake to tend a small pile of foliage that had already given up the ghost this season. I enjoy the scent of spent leaves burning and it immediately reminds me of cold walks in the woods in icy weather when the friendly smoke from a hickory fire beckons the weary traveler home. Alas, the change in seasons lets me wax poetic.
And that is the story the smells of the night brought me on my walk evening last. The change of seasons is upon us once more. Like floral spring to humid summer, musty fall to icy winter and finally back to earthy spring, each change has its own unique blend of aromas and each harkens the next step in a circular path. In fact, each season has its own smell, its own exclusive signature. But as one season gives way to the next, a sensual treat awaits that both hails the coming and mourns the passing.
Last evening, the scents are what captured my attention. I always manage to pick up something wonderful along the way: sweet batter coating onion rings in the fryer at Sonic, fresh laundry being tumbled in a dryer, honeysuckle and magnolia blossoms, newly mowed grass. Yesterday, the smells tricking into my nostrils told me a story.
About a block into my walk, I detected a charcoal grill that had been lit not too very long before my arrival. The oily odor of lighter fluid was gone and only the cooking smell of graying briquettes was wafting through the air. I imagined boneless, skinless chicken breasts or strip steaks, maybe hamburger patties eager to be rested on the grilling rack. Judging solely by the intensity of the bouquet, their time was near. There is nothing quite like food cooked outdoors even if the grill marks include incredible amounts of carcinogens according to experts who will someday change their minds and sing the praises of outdoor cooking as they have with so many other good for you, bad for you, good for you food and drink we consume. For me, I’ll take my chances to get a tasty, smoky cut of grilled meat onto my plate and into my diet.
I no sooner saw myself sitting at the dinner table cutting into a nice, tender and toxic steak than another smoky aroma swayed my attention. It was the musty, crisp perfume of leaves burning and I soon saw a smoldering fire and someone using a rake to tend a small pile of foliage that had already given up the ghost this season. I enjoy the scent of spent leaves burning and it immediately reminds me of cold walks in the woods in icy weather when the friendly smoke from a hickory fire beckons the weary traveler home. Alas, the change in seasons lets me wax poetic.
And that is the story the smells of the night brought me on my walk evening last. The change of seasons is upon us once more. Like floral spring to humid summer, musty fall to icy winter and finally back to earthy spring, each change has its own unique blend of aromas and each harkens the next step in a circular path. In fact, each season has its own smell, its own exclusive signature. But as one season gives way to the next, a sensual treat awaits that both hails the coming and mourns the passing.
Affirmations
I started this blog as an avenue of expression, to talk about whatever I wanted and to continue practicing my writing skills. What I ended up doing was only posting when I felt I had something poignant to say. But then, following that logic, I haven't had anything important to say since July 2nd.
Truth is, I have found other venues in which to write: freshare.net, Twitter, Facebook and a few paid writing gigs I recently picked up. But writing is what I do, it's what I love and it is my true passion. So today, I give my self permission to write on my blog a few times each week even if I have nothing all that big to discuss. I'll put together the occasional essay but I give myself the freedom to write simply for the sake of writing. I may try out a poem or post a descriptive paragraph and maybe a limerick or even a haiku if I decide to try one. Maybe I'll just say what I've been up to or speak about what might be on my mind.
It's a new direction for Amblin. Actually, it's the original direction rediscovered.
Truth is, I have found other venues in which to write: freshare.net, Twitter, Facebook and a few paid writing gigs I recently picked up. But writing is what I do, it's what I love and it is my true passion. So today, I give my self permission to write on my blog a few times each week even if I have nothing all that big to discuss. I'll put together the occasional essay but I give myself the freedom to write simply for the sake of writing. I may try out a poem or post a descriptive paragraph and maybe a limerick or even a haiku if I decide to try one. Maybe I'll just say what I've been up to or speak about what might be on my mind.
It's a new direction for Amblin. Actually, it's the original direction rediscovered.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Guide to Social Networking Sites
I have been trying to get immersed in social networking sites as a way of letting people know about freshare or my blogs and maybe even a little bit about me. I have accounts now on most of the major sites – Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn – and I started trying to figure out how each one works and what they attempt to provide to the user. So here is my very brief explanation of what you need to know about each of these social sites.
MySpace, of course, was one of the first big social networking hot spots on the web and its age is starting to show, not unlike the older part of a city where houses’ paint begins to peel and the shrubs need trimming. MySpace has a bit of a seedy feel to it. Page layouts are often gaudy and unkempt and led by flashy ads placed by Tom and the boys at the home office. When I am on MySpace, my adware/spyware software treads pages on high alert like a soldier weaving through a minefield. Ads, videos, even layout tricking sites often seem to have dangerous junk attached. Like I said, it’s a seedy place. From what I can tell, the object of MySpace is to make the foulest, coarsest comments, to be vulgar and to let your avatar project that same sense of style. I think the game is to collect as many “adds” as possible in an effort to spread this party atmosphere across the globe. To that end, MySpace is very successful.
Facebook has a cleaner, fresher look to it although there are still lots of nooks and crannies where you can sport a bit of jocularity and some shock value but not at the same level as on MySpace. There are still the profile questions about why you are there (friendship, dating) and your relationship status (single, married, it’s complicated) but you can choose not to fill out any of that and Facebook doesn’t mind. Facebook is to the suburbs what MySpace is to the red light district. But unlike MySpace, profiles are mostly set to private so it is much more difficult to try and befriend anyone you do not already know. Unlike the free-wheeling MySpace where anybody can see you and ask to cavort, Facebook is meant for people who want to stay in touch with friends they already have. But a word of caution: those suffering from low self-esteem are not likely to gain much on this site. If you do not already have a gaggle of friends in tow all with their own Facebook accounts, you are not likely to feel much better about yourself. With barriers firmly in place, Facebook seems to frown on making new friends. The object of the game is to keep in touch with existing friends online and to do so in front of all your other friends. This as opposed to such archaic communications means as texting, emails or (yuk!) phone calls. If you do not mind operating in a fishbowl, Facebook is for you.
LinkedIn is kind of the Facebook for professionals but without so much interaction, after all these are busy managers, executives and others who don’t have much time to offer meaningful dialogue so the makers of LinkedIn wisely left off that module. LinkedIn is a place to display your resume, a little important information about your skills and abilities and to, by your presence there, announce availability to potential employers. From what I can tell, the object is much like collecting coins on Mario Brothers except the term “coins” is dropped in favor of “Connections.” LikedIn is a great way to up others by showing just how plugged in you are, which is of high value to competitive business people.
Twitter is much different from any of the other major social networking sites. Twitter is like texting, but to a larger audience, or so one hopes. People talk about all kinds of things on Twitter from what they had for breakfast to breaking news stories. To keep things lively, Twitter imposes a limit of just 140 characters in your “tweets” which is the term used to describe your communiqué. That’s kind of an interesting challenge and, if nothing else, teaches us to tear out all the fluff and get directly to the point. The object of the Twitter game is to collect as many followers as possible who are willing to check in on what you have to say. To be perfectly honest, most probably don’t really care what you have to say they are simply adding you to the rest of the people they follow in hopes that you will return the favor and follow them. The more followers they have, the more they look like interesting people to follow. You follow?
There are other networking sites with broad appeal and some that simply serve niches but I am not familiar enough with any of them to offer any advice. What all these social sites do have in common is that hardly any existed until just a few years ago, people flock to them in droves, none of them seem to make any money, large companies are salivating to buy one.
In a world where phones are more useful as web browsers than for talking and we wonder how the postal service even stays in business, the future of how people connect and stay in touch will at minimum be fascinating to observe.
MySpace, of course, was one of the first big social networking hot spots on the web and its age is starting to show, not unlike the older part of a city where houses’ paint begins to peel and the shrubs need trimming. MySpace has a bit of a seedy feel to it. Page layouts are often gaudy and unkempt and led by flashy ads placed by Tom and the boys at the home office. When I am on MySpace, my adware/spyware software treads pages on high alert like a soldier weaving through a minefield. Ads, videos, even layout tricking sites often seem to have dangerous junk attached. Like I said, it’s a seedy place. From what I can tell, the object of MySpace is to make the foulest, coarsest comments, to be vulgar and to let your avatar project that same sense of style. I think the game is to collect as many “adds” as possible in an effort to spread this party atmosphere across the globe. To that end, MySpace is very successful.
Facebook has a cleaner, fresher look to it although there are still lots of nooks and crannies where you can sport a bit of jocularity and some shock value but not at the same level as on MySpace. There are still the profile questions about why you are there (friendship, dating) and your relationship status (single, married, it’s complicated) but you can choose not to fill out any of that and Facebook doesn’t mind. Facebook is to the suburbs what MySpace is to the red light district. But unlike MySpace, profiles are mostly set to private so it is much more difficult to try and befriend anyone you do not already know. Unlike the free-wheeling MySpace where anybody can see you and ask to cavort, Facebook is meant for people who want to stay in touch with friends they already have. But a word of caution: those suffering from low self-esteem are not likely to gain much on this site. If you do not already have a gaggle of friends in tow all with their own Facebook accounts, you are not likely to feel much better about yourself. With barriers firmly in place, Facebook seems to frown on making new friends. The object of the game is to keep in touch with existing friends online and to do so in front of all your other friends. This as opposed to such archaic communications means as texting, emails or (yuk!) phone calls. If you do not mind operating in a fishbowl, Facebook is for you.
LinkedIn is kind of the Facebook for professionals but without so much interaction, after all these are busy managers, executives and others who don’t have much time to offer meaningful dialogue so the makers of LinkedIn wisely left off that module. LinkedIn is a place to display your resume, a little important information about your skills and abilities and to, by your presence there, announce availability to potential employers. From what I can tell, the object is much like collecting coins on Mario Brothers except the term “coins” is dropped in favor of “Connections.” LikedIn is a great way to up others by showing just how plugged in you are, which is of high value to competitive business people.
Twitter is much different from any of the other major social networking sites. Twitter is like texting, but to a larger audience, or so one hopes. People talk about all kinds of things on Twitter from what they had for breakfast to breaking news stories. To keep things lively, Twitter imposes a limit of just 140 characters in your “tweets” which is the term used to describe your communiqué. That’s kind of an interesting challenge and, if nothing else, teaches us to tear out all the fluff and get directly to the point. The object of the Twitter game is to collect as many followers as possible who are willing to check in on what you have to say. To be perfectly honest, most probably don’t really care what you have to say they are simply adding you to the rest of the people they follow in hopes that you will return the favor and follow them. The more followers they have, the more they look like interesting people to follow. You follow?
There are other networking sites with broad appeal and some that simply serve niches but I am not familiar enough with any of them to offer any advice. What all these social sites do have in common is that hardly any existed until just a few years ago, people flock to them in droves, none of them seem to make any money, large companies are salivating to buy one.
In a world where phones are more useful as web browsers than for talking and we wonder how the postal service even stays in business, the future of how people connect and stay in touch will at minimum be fascinating to observe.
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