Old Suit

A year ago today, I said goodbye to my brother. His wife tried to wake him for church that morning, but he had already left, having died in his sleep. Ron was 48.

I have to admit, I didn't know Ron very well. I'm not sure many people did. He had a big heart and a warm personality, he laughed heartily and he never lost that child-like wonder and excitement of his youth. In fact, you should have seen him at Christmas. You could give the guy a Bic pen and he would have reacted with unbounded joy. As long as it was something to unwrap.

But he had opportunities along the way he never seemed to fully seize and a desire to learn he never seemed willing enough to allow himself to nurture. He had good jobs and left them, had money sometimes and spent it quickly.

It would have been easy to describe Ron as lacking ambition or self-confidence, but I don't think so now. I think his was a soul that never felt completely at home in this life. Everyone's heard the old chestnut about not feeling comfortable in one's own skin, and I think Ron exemplified the saying. No matter where he looked or what he tried to do, it was like putting on a poorly tailored suit. The sleeves were always too long or the pants cut too high.

I don't think Ron in any way hastened his own death. But neither do I think he feared dying. He was ready when the time came. And for Ron, that time came sooner than later.

Ron's last days on earth were spent with his son and his grandson - fishing. They were happy times for all of them and I'm glad for that. Ron loved fishing, and he loved his son, and he loved his grandson. Maybe, if only for the last week he was here, Ron felt like the old suit fit him.

Hope

On a break from work one day, one of my co-workers (that I'll call Jim) told us about growing up poor in Arkansas. Jim's family owned a small plot of land where they grew a few crops to sell at local markets. Jim's father worked at odd jobs to supplement the small income his family earned from scratching out a living off the land.

All in all, though, Jim said it was a pretty happy childhood. He and his brothers and sisters played, worked, and the family created strong bonds between them. Although they had little in the way of material posessions, it didn't really matter to Jim and his family and they seemed to want for very little.

That went for Jim's parents as well, hardy people who could make due with whatever little they had on hand to build a storage bin or fix the tractor. The only real wish Jim could remember his mother ever expressing was a desire for running water in the kitchen. The old clapboard house was not plumbed for water but they did have a hand pump about fifty feet away that brought up cool, clear water from a deep well. Still, Jim's mother felt her time could be better utilized by working the fields than by walking to and from the hand pump every time she needed to wash dishes or wash the children.

As you can imagine, money was tough to come by and an extravagance like a water spout in the kitchen was hard to justify. But Jim's dad planned to accomodate her some day and probably wished so hard that he could make her dreams come true on the spot. Jim's mom never made a fuss about the lack of water. She most likely just mentioned it a time or two as anyone would about something they wanted.

Things went along the same for many years. Times, financially, for Jim and his family didn't change much, but they were able to get by.

Arkansas lies in a part of the country where storms can be very strong. Pressure systems can sweep across Texas and Oklahoma, combine with copious amounts of moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and produce high winds, large hail and crop drenching rains that can sometimes wipe out fortunes in minutes. Many times, small farms like Jim's have a difficult time recovering.

One such storm entered the area where Jim lived and it spawned a tornado. Luckily, Jim's family had an old root cellar near the house and they were all able to make it inside moments before the tornado swept across their farm. Jim can recall the frightening sound of limbs being sheared and tin hitting trees as the tornado's wickedly high winds tore through, nothing but destructon in its wake.

It's an eerie thing about tornadoes. As quickly as the winds pick up to a deafening roar and destroy in minutes what it took years to build, it is just as quickly that a still calm replaces the storm and the sun smiles again.

Fearing the worst for their small place, Jim's dad cautiously swung open the root cellar's door. Everyone gasped when it became immediately obvious that the house was gone. Where it once stood was only a patch of wet dirt and a a pile of tree limbs. Jim looked at his mom and saw fear in her face, some of the smaller children were sobbing. Jim understood then how much they had lost and wondered how they would go on now. Where would they live? Who would take them in?

As a hundred different emotions coursed through Jim, he looked up to his father still standing on the cellar steps. His father slowly turned back to the family, a widening grin stretching across his face. They looked back at him wondering if the loss had jarred his sense of reality.

"It stands," was all Jim's dad said. He pointed to his right.

Everyone clambored up the steps, surrounding the father as they strained to take a look. Sure enough, the house stood. In tact, except for a few broken windows and a large swath of missing roof shingles. Jim had heard about this kind of behavior from tornadoes. He read about a church organ being found atop the rubble of a leveled town miles away from the church were the organ had once been. The organ was unscratched and still playable. It amazed Jim that his house was now not unlike that church organ.

Once everyone had piled outside the cellar, they could see there was work to be done on the farm, clean-up had to begin soon so they could save what they could and rescue the crops. Jim's dad headed to the house and told everyone to wait outside while he went in to make sure it was safe.

He sooned stepped back into the sunlight, another silly grin across his face. Montioning rapidly with his index finger, Jim's dad said, "Come here, all. You just got to see this."

The floors of the old house looked pretty solid, no worse then they had ever been. The walls were all right, too, although the beds and bureaus were wrecked and clothes were scattered about. But it was the kitchen where the father wanted everyone to assemble.

He hugged his wife, smiled at her and said, "Honey, you got what you wanted." The house had landed square on that old hand pump. Jim's mom now had running water. And in the kitchen to boot. Jim went over and worked the pump a few times. A steady stream of cold, sweet water issued. Soon, everyone was smiling. What was once a terrible misfortune now seemed a little brighter.

Someone, I don't know who, once described God as "the world's greatest comedian playing before an audience who is afraid to laugh." We often seem to blame the worst of events - floods, hurricanes, tornadoes - on God, ascribing them to His will. I think those things happen because it's just the way the world and the universe works. A constant state of flux and change, upheaval, creation, destruction and re-creation. It isn't God who sends those events upon us, but rather it is His love and His laughter that get us through them.

A Rose

A small gathering of the Korpella clan took place at my mother's house this Easter weekend. We got the opportunity to visit, we got caught up on each other's lives, and we ate to contentment. Maybe even a little past contentment.

As a result of my daughter's school assignment, our conversation turned to my Grandma Rose, my mother's mother. Grandma died in 1964 when I was still very young, but I have fond memories of the diminutive woman with the hearty laugh that couldn't help but make you laugh, too. I recall her smile to this day, one that was genuine and seemed to never leave her face, even when she was in pain the last days of her life.

One of my warmest memories of Grandma Rose was a Christmas when she was bedridden but still not willing to sit out the season. She loved Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and would gleefully hand over a silver dollar to any of her grandchildren who would sing her the song. I was painfully shy in those days and usually walked around cowboy hat hung low over my eyes, head down and hands in my pockets - about as withdrawn from the world as an eight year old boy could get. I was far too shy to sing in front of anyone, even my own grandmother, so Grandma made a rule change for me. I only needed to say Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer to collect my silver dollar. Even then, it took all the courage I could muster to say the words, but I did say them and I did get a silver dollar. I got several of them that Christmas, and I still have every one of them today.

Grandma Rose was also a very brave person. At the tender age of fifteen, when most young children are facing the specter of entering junior high school with all its trappings, Grandma Rose set out alone from her home in Austria to a new beginning in America. She sought and found her sister, who had settled in Ohio, then moved on to Chicago where she met Andrew, an immigrant himself, and the man who would become my grandfather.

I never got a chance to meet him. He died of asthma long before I was born. But he and Grandma Rose had seven children, although two of them died in childhood. With the help of the oldest children, Grandma was able to raise and provide for her family after Grandpa's passing.

Grandma Rose spoke little English, but we always understood her. I think her major purpose in life was to spoil her grandchildren and she was masteful at her art. She loved to watch an old television show called Queen for a Day, although it came out as Queen for To-Day when Grandma said it. I imagine her wishing she could live one day of her life like that, like a queen. But her life was probably a daily struggle of making ends meet, cooking meals, doing laundry and otherwise going about what most would consider a rather routine existance after she made it to the United States.

But routine or not, Grandma Rose knew how to laugh. It was her laughter I liked best about her. Grandma's eyes would tear up and her whole body would shake when she laughed. And everything made her laugh. This was a woman who valued humor in any form, any shape.

History is not likely to recall my Grandma Rose, but I remember. Anyone whose life she touched will remember her in some way. And even those who didn't know Grandma remember someone like her. Someone who left a deep and lasting impression on their lives forever. We're all like that, you know. We touch and impact lives when we don't even realize it. Everyone we have ever met, seen, spoken with or known in our lives is forever different in some way - small or big - because of us, as we are because of them.

So hat's off to you, Grandma, a simple tribute to a wonderful woman who lived on this Earth for a mere sixty-seven years but was able to touch lives well beyond her short stay with us.

New York, New York

Many years ago, when I was a shift supervisor at a manufacturing company, a group of us headed to the local watering hole for an after-the-work-week drink. We were assigned to evening shift, so we got to the bar around twelve-thirty in the morning, which feels just like five-thirty in the afternoon to anyone on nights. And, like the song says, “It’s five o’clock somewhere” so why not partake?

The bar was packed with the typical Friday night crowd and the din of a hundred different but simultaneous conversations flooded the place. It was so loud, my colleagues and I strained to hear our own conversation. The juke box was playing something, but who could hear over all that noise?

Until Frank Sinatra’s version of “New York, New York” hit the airwaves. This all occurred in Connecticut, which is close to New York, and a small enough state to be considered a New York suburb. Whatever the alliance, a few people started to sing along. Then a few more, and then, more still. All conversations ceased and soon the whole bar was singing along to every verse of “New York, New York” including my friends, and even me. We were all especially vigorous on the chorus. Or maybe it just seemed that way because, even if you don’t know the rest of words, anybody can belt out the name of the song.

No matter what our backgrounds, no matter what our cares, our worries, our own individual triumphs or failures, for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds we were simply one very loud voice in that bar that night. Singing along with Old Blue Eyes just as if we were the best of friends.

Once the song ended, the cacophony started in again as if nothing had happened. Now I know that what went on in the bar that night was no different than what occurs in countless other places all across the world on any given night. We start out as individuals, find some common thread to unite us, then promptly forget all about it.

Lawn Care

I once read that a weed is simply a flower whose beauty has not yet been realized. If that's true, then my front yard is the most misunderstood piece of property in the area.

In my zeal for curb appeal, I've tried most every brand of commercial fertilizer and weed inhibitor approved for residential use. I even thought about renting a crop duster once, but that seemed like overkill. I've reseeded, overseeded, watered and nurtured my lawn (lawn being liberally defined here) to try and establish more understood grasses that would stifle the growth of those pesky weeds. Instead, I got more pesky weeds.

After a decade of unsuccessful lawn care, I finally realized I had fought the encroachment of misunderstood flowers for far too long. A couple of years ago, I stopped buying fertilizers and grass seed in favor of a more rustic frame for the front of my house. And the results have been phenomenal.

If I look outside right now, my lawn is a patchwork quilt of purple henbit and yellow dandelions, which is great, really, because it's almost Easter and purple and yellow are seasonal colors. I've got some green mixed in there, too - some of it in the form of real grass - so the whole front yard is like peering into the bottom of a five thousand square foot Easter basket. Not everyone in my neighborhood is lucky enough to have that.

Plus, the money I've diverted from the purchase of lawn care chemicals was invested - in a new set of golf clubs. And the time freed up from playing in my lawn is now better spent playing on fairway lawns and smooth greens.

I've come to believe we should look at our lawns with the childlike wonder we brought into this world. Children know the benefits of a dandelion. They appreciate the beauty of the flower, not the weed. A child will pluck a few and bring them to her mother as a present from nature. Or they'll take great joy in blowing the white dandelion seeds to the winds, thereby propagating the species and ensuring there are many more dandelion delights in the days ahead.

Yep, I take immense pride in knowing I am ahead of my time. I'm taking that childlike wonder of my youth and realizing the beauty of the flowers growing among the sparse grasses of my front yard. What wonder, what contentment, what freedom.

I wonder if my neighbors look at it the same way?

Howard the Hummingbird

Note: I wrote this piece last fall after observing the real Howard in my backyard. Since these little winged critters are due back in less than a month, I thought it fitting to remember.

It’s September now, which means those mercurial winged summer visitors will soon be leaving for warmer climates. September, while marking the beginning of the next season, also marks the end of those aerial acrobatic feats I’ve enjoyed for the past five months. Hummingbirds seem to zip into our lives suddenly in late spring, then leave just as suddenly at the onset of autumn. I’ll miss watching them chase each other in wild dogfights all over my backyard. I’ll miss their loud chatter - louder than seems could be emitted from such tiny creatures. But travel they must, to follow the warmth and I can certainly understand their need for warmth. Maybe even the warmth of going home. It’s easy for me to think that this is their home – my yard, I mean. It’s another thing altogether to think home for them may be across the waters in some South American locale.

As much food as these little birds consume all the while they’re here makes me wonder how they could possibly make it all the way across the Gulf of Mexico on just one stomach of fuel. That’s a long way for something with a 1200 beat per minute heart rate. Just the energy it takes to keep that little pump pounding has got to be a number akin to the size of the national debt. Then again, it may be the adrenaline rush from knowing they are headed home that keeps those wings cutting the air.

But there’s this one guy in particular I worry about. Howard I call him. No, no particular reason why his name is Howard, it just is. First thing I thought of when I saw him. Maybe that means something and should be further analyzed, but I’m not going to do it. At least not in front of you. Anyway, Howard was a new hummingbird arrival this year, and he had put on some ounces over the summer, let me tell you. We always advise our kids that too much sugar will make them fat and I guess it’s the same for hummingbirds. If there is such a thing in the hummingbird world, then old Howard is a real porker.

I watched Howard land on his favorite hummingbird feeder and I swear the thing tipped toward him as he perched there. For certain, he was never in any hurry to leave, resulting in a lack of proper exercise which no doubt added to Howard’s girth. He’d while away the dog days by taking long draws of the red syrup and hanging out for a while just taking in the scenery and enjoying life. None of the other hummingbirds tried to shoo Howard away, either. I guess his size was intimidating to other hummers. Or maybe he had a reputation as a tough bird in hummingbird circles. I don’t know. I just know the guy could hold his weight in simulated nectar and never even let on that he was the least bit inclined to work it off. I also know that when this husky fellow has to vent, look out below! How could such a (relatively) small bird make such a big … well, you know.

The reason I worry about Howard is that, like I alluded to earlier, it’s a long way to South America. And over vast stretches of water with no where to light for a few moments’ rest. If Howard’s not getting any exercise now, how’s he supposed to get in shape for the journey of his life? Doesn’t he care about going home (or on an extended vacation, whichever the case might be)? Really. It would be like you or me preparing for the Boston Marathon by laying in front of our television sets, eating Krispy Kremes and washing them down with non-diet, full strength sodas by the liter!

I wish I could speak hummingbirdese. Maybe I could talk some sense into Howard before it was too late. Better yet, I wish I could come up with some kind of hummingbird treadmill or maybe a fan to offer Howard some wind resistance so he could do a little isometric flying and burn off some of that excess flab he’s carrying around. But I have a feeling Howard wouldn’t listen to me anyway, and he would probably use the treadmill and fan once or twice then put them in the corner to gather dust, or to be used as a sort of hummingbird shelf for storing whatever it is hummingbirds have a notion to collect.

Can hummingbirds get heart attacks? Can you imagine what would happen to something beating 1200 times a minute when the brakes are slammed and it goes to zero in an instant? That can’t be pretty. So what’s up, Howard? Don’t hummingbirds think of things like that? And doesn’t it just kill you to be surrounded by svelte young hummingbird babes and sleek hummingbird dudes? That should be encouragement enough to drop off a few grams at least.

But, Howard doesn’t look like a bird that would take advice from a human. I think he has already made up his mind. Oh, he’ll probably set out on that journey, all right. Instincts alone will make that decision for him. And I’ll bet the rest of Howard’s plan is wait and see. Wait and see if his weight will hamper the flight. Wait and see if he falls too far behind the rest of the hummers and loses his bearings. Wait and see if his chest starts heaving and struggling for every breath. Wait and see. Poor Howard.

I do worry about him. I hope he has a plan, and I hope it all works out just the way he wants. But what I hope more than anything else is that I get to see old Howard again next spring. Until then, Godspeed, Howard. Godspeed.

Waterworld

As most of us learned (or should have learned) in high school biology, over half the human body is made up of water. And, if our geography lessons took, we also found out that over seventy percent of the globe is covered in water. Pretty much all life as we know it depends on water.

A few years ago, a gentleman named Dr. Masaru Emoto decided to subject water samples to different thoughts and feelings through written and spoken words as well as through music. Now I know that sounds a little odd but stay with me in this. Dr. Emoto then froze the water samples, observed them through a powerful microscope and used high-speed photography to capture images of the ice crystals.

What he found was astonishing. The crystals varied in shape and color depending on what the water samples had been subjected to. For example, the photo on the right is of a crystal formed by water that had been drinking up Mozart while the shot below it is a water crystal on heavy metal music.

More interesting still are the two photographs below, the first of which is a crystal formed from water that was labelled "You make me sick." Take a look at how that one compares to the bottom right photo of water that was drowned in a sea of love and gratitude.

Dr. Emoto says that water from clear springs and water exposed to kind expressions generally show "brilliant, complex, colorful, snowflake-like patterns" while polluted water as well as water exposed to negative thoughts form "incomplete, assymetrical" patterns with "dull colors."

Having a difficult time fathoming all this? Read on:

Recently, researchers at Stanford University made a big splash when they discovered that water is not quite what we all thought it was. It had long been assumed that four water molecules got together to form a sort of pyramid structure with a triangular base - a tetrahedron. After examining X-rays of the little rascals, scientists found that concept was all wet. Most water molecules seem to only attract two other water molecules and form strong bonds with them in a ring and chain fashion.

I emphasized most because not all do. William Tiller, a former Stanford scientist says that "water can indeed have its properties and hence its structure changed rather easily." His review of over 100 different studies concluded that water is "a 'zoo' of mixed sizes of molecules." Professor Giulia Galli of the University of California Davis said that "in a tube ... holding 60 to 80 water molecules, interactions with the wall of the tube might change water's structure."

So if water molecules can be so easily persuaded to change structure and interact with other media, maybe the idea that they can react to suggestions, well, holds water. A Los Angeles company, H2Om (yeah, Om - like the mantra) is betting on it. They take bottles of spring water and claim to alter the structure within by labelling it "Love" and "Perfect Health." Nice entreprenurial move there, guys. But who's to say they're skating on thin ice?

I know this: we are all made up of water. Fifty to sixty percent water. Seventy-three percent water if you're a baby. And if Dr. Emoto and the Stanford team are right, what do you think we accomplish if we look in the mirror and say, "man, I look old" or "I'm too fat." Or what if we say something mean to another person? Are we completing some self-fulfilling prophecy for that individual? On the other hand, think of how good it feels when someone tells you they love you and you sense they really mean it. You know the warm feeling that seems to encompass your entire body. Could it be the reaction of millions of water molecules interacting with the words you heard? Makes me wonder.

And by the way, did I tell you I think you're great? No, really. I like you a lot. I'm thankful for you. Why not put on some Mozart, crack open a bottle of spring water and float in a sea of love and gratitude? You deserve it.