As the political season enters its frenzied final days, I am again amazed at the success of certain candidates with whom I disagree. I watch their ads and I wonder how these people ever got to be the standard bearers for their parties. I mean, they are so obviously misguided or outright wrong. Surely, everybody can see that, right? I tend to forget that the electorate is not a monolith of folks who think like I do. I forget that things that seem obvious or reasonable to me might be ridiculous or offensive to someone else. We are a diverse bunch, and sometimes I need to be reminded of that.
I received one such reminder this past Saturday. We were away from home for the weekend, enjoying Minnesota's lake country. I made a morning trek into town to look for a rake handle to replace the one I'd broken the day before (this incident resulted in a bloody head injury deserving of a post of its own). Anyway, I headed to a nearby town and ventured into the local hardware store. I usually love going into small town hardware stores. They are often like little museums full of useful items from the past. So much of what is made today is made with a disposable mentality. Use it until it breaks, then throw it away and buy a new one. The small town hardware store is founded on exactly the opposite ideology: take care of it, if it breaks, fix it and keep fixing it until all hope is lost.
When I entered the store, I was greeted by the strong odor of cigarette smoke. Other than a brief glance from the old man smoking at the cash register, this would be the only greeting I would receive. The old man was busy talking to another old man who was leaning against the counter. I made my way past them and began to poke around.
The store was fairly small, and I realized a few things fairly quickly: they carried no suitable replacement rake handles; I no longer had any tolerance for smoky places; the store's inventory was surprisingly disappointing. I browsed the aisles, hoping to come across something interesting. All the while I was gradually making my way toward the front door and the promise of fresh, breathable air. The shelves were packed with an odd assortment of items, more in line with what you might find at a typical gas station.
As I meandered, I couldn't help but hear the conversation happening at the counter. So often, when one overhears a conversation, it's ordinary, mundane. The two guys having this conversation spoke as if they were having one of these types of conversations and perhaps, to them, they were. To me, however, it was rich and different. I've paraphrased a portion of what I recall here:
Man 1: "So, when were you last around here? Seems like it's been awhile."
Man 2: "Oh, it's probably been at least ten years, I guess."
Man 1: "Ten years? Well, then you probably haven't heard about Mike. Did you hear about Mike?"
Man 2: "No. What about Mike?"
Man 1: "He got burned up real bad. He was working at an oil field and got burned up."
Man 2: "He did?"
Man 1: "Yup, he was crispy...most of his body. Retired after that."
Man 2: "So he survived?"
Man 1: "Oh yeah...he's a tough one." (chuckle) "Tough and crispy."
Man 2: (chuckle) "That's too bad."
Man 1: "Now I remember the last time you stopped by! You brought me some muskrats and a beaver."
Man 2: "Oh, that's right! I did do that, didn't I?"
Man 1: "Yeah, I fed them to the wolf. He loved 'em."
Man 2: "I'm glad he liked them."
Man 1: "Yeah, I knew he would. I know wolves and what they like. Y'know, you can put a dead cow and a dead horse in front of a wolf and he'll eat the whole horse before he touches the cow."
Man 2: "Really? Why's that?"
Man 1: "The horse's got better protein and the wolf knows that."
Man 2: "That's something."
Man 1: "Smart creatures."
At this point, I slipped out the door, once again reminded that not everyone is just like me. In fact, there are some people who are very much not like me. I did not ask these fellows who they planned on voting for and, to be honest, I have no idea how they would have answered.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I'm just trying to get food
As I mentioned in the past, the area where I work is inundated with people with clipboards, looking for support. Many of these folks emanate from small offices in the same building where I work. I see them in the hallways sometimes, but they never stop me then. Even if they have their clipboards with them, they seem to wait until they have taken up their stations at strategic street corners.
I've gotten pretty adept at avoiding this people. I either take circuitous routes that avoid their corners all-together or I position myself inside a larger crowd and move through quickly. The main reason I avoid these people is that I don't want to talk to them. It's not them, it's me. I really don't want to talk to anybody if I can help it. Plus, I'm leery of anyone soliciting on the street. Whether it's money or my signature they want, the answer is going to be no.
And I hate to say no to people. It goes against my internal programming to disappoint them. What makes it worse is that their causes are often ones to which I am sympathetic. Yes, I am for a cleaner environment. No, I do not want to talk to you about it. I don't have a problem saying no to the ones I disagree with but those are rare. Mostly, I'm telling kids that, no, I do not have a spare minute to hear about the atrocities of war. Inside, I want to tell them that it wouldn't matter if they were promoting a petition to end the duct taping of kittens, I wouldn't stop.
At lunch today, I wasn't paying attention and I came face to face with a clipboard. I'm not sure of the topic, something with gay rights and bullying, I think. As I approached, the boy asked me if I had a minute. I grimaced and shook my head, as if it were vitally important that I get to a restaurant and start eating a burrito in the next 60 seconds. I felt bad. He was polite and his cause seemed just. As I passed him, I said, "Sorry." Then, to really ease my troubled spirit, I threw in a "have a nice day."
I took the long route back to the office.
I've gotten pretty adept at avoiding this people. I either take circuitous routes that avoid their corners all-together or I position myself inside a larger crowd and move through quickly. The main reason I avoid these people is that I don't want to talk to them. It's not them, it's me. I really don't want to talk to anybody if I can help it. Plus, I'm leery of anyone soliciting on the street. Whether it's money or my signature they want, the answer is going to be no.
And I hate to say no to people. It goes against my internal programming to disappoint them. What makes it worse is that their causes are often ones to which I am sympathetic. Yes, I am for a cleaner environment. No, I do not want to talk to you about it. I don't have a problem saying no to the ones I disagree with but those are rare. Mostly, I'm telling kids that, no, I do not have a spare minute to hear about the atrocities of war. Inside, I want to tell them that it wouldn't matter if they were promoting a petition to end the duct taping of kittens, I wouldn't stop.
At lunch today, I wasn't paying attention and I came face to face with a clipboard. I'm not sure of the topic, something with gay rights and bullying, I think. As I approached, the boy asked me if I had a minute. I grimaced and shook my head, as if it were vitally important that I get to a restaurant and start eating a burrito in the next 60 seconds. I felt bad. He was polite and his cause seemed just. As I passed him, I said, "Sorry." Then, to really ease my troubled spirit, I threw in a "have a nice day."
I took the long route back to the office.
Friday, October 15, 2010
I wonder what's on?
I love to watch television. I know many people would likely look upon this admission with a certain amount of disdain, but I can't deny who I am. I am a person who likes to watch the old boob tube. Don't get me wrong, I like to do other things too. I like to read and play my guitar. Sometimes, I just like to watch my kids while they play. I have many ways I like to spend my free time, including watching television.
I suppose I could soften my TV admission by saying I only watch documentaries and public television - people who look down on TV usually make an exception for public TV, like it's the lone granola bar in a snack basket mostly full of Snickers. I could say that I only watch public TV, but that would be a lie. The truth is I watch a variety of things, some of them very pointless. In fact, often it's the pointlessness that I find attractive. Sometimes watching TV is like looking out the window, I don't need something that's going to engage me for too long or require me to watch the beginning in order to know what's going on. I just want to pop in, view the landscape and move on.
I spend most of my day working with computers and connected to the internet. But television is the medium I grew up with. On the farm, we had only black and white TVs. The reception was limited to a couple channels. Once in a while, if the weather was right, a couple of others would show up - those were always exciting times. I've heard that ABC had quite a lineup of prime time shows in the 70s. I missed most of it - our ABC reception was fuzzy at best. We got our first color television after we moved to town. I still remember when it was delivered, a Saturday morning - I think Scooby Doo was on.
Recently, my wife brought home some DVDs of Gilligan's Island. I used to watch Gilligan's Island on the farm after school. Seeing it now, in full vibrant color on our large screen TV was almost like watching a new show. In these episodes, you could tell that color was a relatively new feature. Everything is brilliantly colored. I suspect that we may see something similar happen with the advent of 3D TV - lots of things jumping out at us. Perhaps some day, one of my boys will be blogging about how he suffered with only 2D TV growing up - or perhaps blogging will be passé by then.
I love technology and I love all the advances that I've seen thus far in my lifetime. Cell phones do so many things I sometimes forget that you can also use them to call people. I have an IPod that serves as my primary link for surfing the internet and using email. So much power in such a small device. It's all wonderful, but for a guy who's becoming increasingly dependent on reading glasses, television seems to be the only thing getting bigger. It's like they're making it just for me and my aging eyes.
Yes, I do like television. Please don't judge me too harshly.
I suppose I could soften my TV admission by saying I only watch documentaries and public television - people who look down on TV usually make an exception for public TV, like it's the lone granola bar in a snack basket mostly full of Snickers. I could say that I only watch public TV, but that would be a lie. The truth is I watch a variety of things, some of them very pointless. In fact, often it's the pointlessness that I find attractive. Sometimes watching TV is like looking out the window, I don't need something that's going to engage me for too long or require me to watch the beginning in order to know what's going on. I just want to pop in, view the landscape and move on.
I spend most of my day working with computers and connected to the internet. But television is the medium I grew up with. On the farm, we had only black and white TVs. The reception was limited to a couple channels. Once in a while, if the weather was right, a couple of others would show up - those were always exciting times. I've heard that ABC had quite a lineup of prime time shows in the 70s. I missed most of it - our ABC reception was fuzzy at best. We got our first color television after we moved to town. I still remember when it was delivered, a Saturday morning - I think Scooby Doo was on.
Recently, my wife brought home some DVDs of Gilligan's Island. I used to watch Gilligan's Island on the farm after school. Seeing it now, in full vibrant color on our large screen TV was almost like watching a new show. In these episodes, you could tell that color was a relatively new feature. Everything is brilliantly colored. I suspect that we may see something similar happen with the advent of 3D TV - lots of things jumping out at us. Perhaps some day, one of my boys will be blogging about how he suffered with only 2D TV growing up - or perhaps blogging will be passé by then.
I love technology and I love all the advances that I've seen thus far in my lifetime. Cell phones do so many things I sometimes forget that you can also use them to call people. I have an IPod that serves as my primary link for surfing the internet and using email. So much power in such a small device. It's all wonderful, but for a guy who's becoming increasingly dependent on reading glasses, television seems to be the only thing getting bigger. It's like they're making it just for me and my aging eyes.
Yes, I do like television. Please don't judge me too harshly.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
New versions
My sons are growing up. I love to see them grow and change and I hate to see them grow and change. As a parent, I want to do whatever I can to help my kids grow and mature and reach their full potential. Also, as a parent, it pains me to see the previous versions of my children being replaced by the new models. The new models are great, but I liked the old ones too, and we had some great times.
This transformation has been ongoing since their birth. In the software world, we used to refer to it as incremental updates - little improvements and fixes. Each on its own may not seem very significant or even noticeable but eventually they add up or are combined with a bigger change. When that happens, you release a new version of the product. Usually, the new version is better, but often it introduces its own set of issues which inevitably cause more updates. Also, the new version is often different enough from its predecessor that it is difficult to work with initially. I had a word processing program I used to use despite the fact that it had a few bugs. I was excited when a new version was released because I'd heard that the most irritating of the problems had been addressed. After I installed the new version, I found that the bugs were fixed but the interface was also changed. At first, I struggled with the new version because it was unfamiliar. I longed for the old one and complained about the new one. Eventually, I learned how to use the new version and I came to appreciate and understand why the changes were made.
My sons aren't programs and they don't change in clearly defined update schedules. Still, there are stages of their development that stand out. Each of those stages is associated with a host of memories and moments that define them and me. They are gone in the sense that they cannot be recreated. Yet they exist in a very personal way within me. Even now, if the weather is just so and I happen to be walking near a park, I'll flash back to a moment shared with a toddler version of one of my sons. It's not the specific instances that I recall but more the way I felt back then. Those were good days. If I look back at my life, I can point to various times that were truly special and wonderful. In many cases, I didn't realize it at the time. Childhood memories, in particular, sometimes need to be seen with adult eyes to be fully appreciated. Many of my memories with my sons don't need such hindsight. I was aware when they were happening that they were special and significant. Looking back at them only confirms what I already knew.
My sons are growing up. With each change, I archive the old version, along with its accumulated experiences, and prepare to learn and love the new model. These, too, are good days.
This transformation has been ongoing since their birth. In the software world, we used to refer to it as incremental updates - little improvements and fixes. Each on its own may not seem very significant or even noticeable but eventually they add up or are combined with a bigger change. When that happens, you release a new version of the product. Usually, the new version is better, but often it introduces its own set of issues which inevitably cause more updates. Also, the new version is often different enough from its predecessor that it is difficult to work with initially. I had a word processing program I used to use despite the fact that it had a few bugs. I was excited when a new version was released because I'd heard that the most irritating of the problems had been addressed. After I installed the new version, I found that the bugs were fixed but the interface was also changed. At first, I struggled with the new version because it was unfamiliar. I longed for the old one and complained about the new one. Eventually, I learned how to use the new version and I came to appreciate and understand why the changes were made.
My sons aren't programs and they don't change in clearly defined update schedules. Still, there are stages of their development that stand out. Each of those stages is associated with a host of memories and moments that define them and me. They are gone in the sense that they cannot be recreated. Yet they exist in a very personal way within me. Even now, if the weather is just so and I happen to be walking near a park, I'll flash back to a moment shared with a toddler version of one of my sons. It's not the specific instances that I recall but more the way I felt back then. Those were good days. If I look back at my life, I can point to various times that were truly special and wonderful. In many cases, I didn't realize it at the time. Childhood memories, in particular, sometimes need to be seen with adult eyes to be fully appreciated. Many of my memories with my sons don't need such hindsight. I was aware when they were happening that they were special and significant. Looking back at them only confirms what I already knew.
My sons are growing up. With each change, I archive the old version, along with its accumulated experiences, and prepare to learn and love the new model. These, too, are good days.
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