Fuzzy Icicles

We've had light rain for the past week. Other parts of the area got bonified rain and snow. We didn't. But we still got icicles hanging from the roof around us. Being on third floor gives us a closer view of these things.

Today we have light snow. It's supposed to keep getting worse and worse. Nothing like the east coast just got, but snow nonetheless. It's a dry snow, and it's sticking to the icicles. While waiting for our tax guy to arrive I chanced to look out through the deck and saw them. So I took some pictures.

This was the first thing I saw.

And I did a close up.

The snow keeps falling off the top, but the stiles got their share of now.

Our third floor neighbor never uses his deck.

Our second floor neighbors had a nice Christmas scene.

And on the other side it looks like an avalanche under construction.

Fortuna's Wheel

Time is something we humans have been fascinated with for a long, long time. Even as individuals many of us think about going backward, or forward, in time. Backward to relive old experiences and possibly correct some errors in judgment we made. Forward to see what life will be like. We hate unpleasant surprises.

Not everyone is afflicted with this condition. Many people are quite content to live life in the moment. They could care less what happened in the past, or what is in store in the future. Now is the moment, and now is where they live.

I'm not one of those people. I'm a past person. I see past joys and wonder why they had to end. I see past sorrows and wonder if I would have averted them - if I had only known then what I know now.

But were past joys more joyful than current joys? Or is it simply that now that I can see them with a beginning, middle, and end, I recognize them as joys, whereas now I'm never quite sure what I have until it's done. I suppose that's the advantage of living in the now. Every moment is its own beginning, middle, and end.

There's an addage (I don't know exactly how it goes) that says we can only know the heights of joy by knowing the depths of sorrow. And vice versus, too. In essence, if I understand this aright, one cannot be any happier than they have been sad. Neither can they be any sadder than they were happy. Sounds safe enough. Also sounds dull. Almost robotic. I don't live that way. I don't want to. I'll take my great sorrows, because I know that coming my way is great joy.

Meanwhile, once again I haven't got anything intelligent to say.

Similar Parents

Stephen's relationship with his parents was what I considered to be - odd. It certainly was not like mine with my own parents. Although his mother was constantly yelling at him. But she didn't call him names and say she hated him. She just yelled at him all the time. In fact, everyone in his family yelled at everyone else. I think it was how they communicated.

But his parents could be so capricious. Without warning they would turn from yelling and screaming to complete and utter generosity. Or the reverse.

Every so often his dad would try to join some of the things we did: billiards, basketball, football, fishing, movies. He was better than average at billiards. He completely sucked at the rest.

I remember one time Stephen calling me up on a Saturday to ask if I wanted to go out that night. I said sure. He said he would be right over. I went outside to wait for him. It was a nice day.

Since Stephen only lived about five miles away it didn't take long for him to show up. Our house was on a corner and I saw him driving to the stop. Right behind him was his dad, laying on the horn. Stephen stopped and got out and he and his dad engaged in a loud exchange. I was too far away to make out the exact words, but the end result was both cars turned around and drove back to Stephen's house. I went inside to wait for the phone call.

I could hear the yelling in the background. It still wasn't clear what the problem was, but Stephen wasn't going to be able to use the car that night. I would have to drive to him. So I got permission to use the car and went to his house. He was eager to leave. The yelling continued until we were both in my car and driving away.

What had happened was this. Stephen's dad had decided to clock Stephen's speed. But he didn't want Stephen to know it, so he waited until Stephen was well away before getting in the other car and following. But to clock Stephen's speed he had to speed to catch up. When he found himself going 70 m.p.h. to catch Stephen he concluded that Stephen was going 70 m.p.h. Stephen, of course, argued that if he had been going that fast then his dad would have had to have gone even faster to catch up. The argument fell on deaf ears. All his dad knew was how fast he was going. Therefore, Stephen had to have been going that fast, too.

Now that I think of it, Stephen's parents were a lot like mine. They didn't make any sense at all.

What We're Comfortable With

Life is a series of milestones. Most of then quite insignificant. For instance, just a few seconds ago I won my 930th consecutive game of Reversi. You know the game. It comes free with most computers. Basically, it's Othello. I bought Othello back in 1977, I think. That was when I was living alone in a one room flat near the Har Mar Mall. It was also the place where I was unknowingly on display for the world every night. But if you're interested in that you'll need to look at post history. (See What to Watch When the Television is on the Fritz - 1970s Style)

I spent a couple of days getting the hang of the game before Stephen showed up. We played a few games - which he lost every time. Then Randy came over and I beat him. Eventually, Randy would take computer programming in college and he wanted to write an Othello computer game. He was always so frustrated because his program never beat me. He would ask me my strategies and I would tell him. No sense lying. All he had to do was watch me play anyway. So he would go back to the college and input all of the new facts. Then he would invite me in and I would play. And win. And I did it by not following my own strategy. When he asked me why I changed my strategy I replied, "Because what I wanted to do wasn't going to work." That was the element he could never program. The ability to completely toss out one strategy and adopt an entirely new on on the spur of the moment.

There was a time I was very into strategy games. Not all strategy games. For some reason I found (and still find) checkers boring and chess annoying. And I didn't like Go. But games out of the ordinary often fascinated me. Othello, Twixt, and number of others I can't recall the names of.

My sister-in-law had a game we used to play almost daily. I forget the name. I always won. Every time. And for a long time that didn't bother her. Then she decided that it wasn't good for me to win every time. And she decided to quit taking it easy on me.

I suspected she had been. She was (is) hardly a dummy. Her high intelligence and wild sense of humor was what kept us friends. So she decided she would win. She actually gave every move considerable thought. And suddenly, I found myself on the defensive.

It didn't stay that way. The game went back and forth. She had the advantage. I had the advantage. Stalemate. Repeat the cycle. There were only a few pieces left to each of us. It was a game in which you would jump opponent pieces and remove them from the board. Similar to checkers, but with a LOT more twists, from having different kinds of pieces making different kinds of jumps to a diamond board instead of a square. But the game had reached the point where neither of us was allowed any more mistakes. The next mistake, or miscalculation, would result in defeat.

To be honest, the strain was awful. It was so tempting to just give up. But I was convinced I had two things going for me that would result in my winning: my pride in having never lost would keep me going; she didn't believe she would win.

I don't mean she didn't believe she couldn't win. Of course she could win. She had proven that over and over again. But she didn't believe it. It wasn't in her heart. But she had already achieved her goal. Her goal was to prove to me that she could beat me. She had done that - even without winning. My goal was to never lose. Ever. And she knew that.

What I was counting on was her not wanting me to fail. In her heart she didn't. And so it was she who made the fatal mistake which allowed me to win. She didn't let me win. Not consciously. The move I made to claim victory came as a complete surprise to her, and I had to step through it again (slowly) so she could see its legitimacy. But I believe(d) she wanted me to win.

Stephen and I were like that. Stephen NEVER beat me at tennis. I NEVER beat Stephen at basketball or pool.

I NEVER beat my brother at much of anything. Even when I'm clearly better.

We all have relationships like that. There are people who will always win over. There are also people we will never defeat. It has nothing to do with ability. It's something in the heart. Something which tells us that if an alternate result were to occur, not only would life not be the same anymore, neither would it be as good.

My sister-in-law put the game away after that match and we never played it again. I don't think it was so much that I couldn't lose. After that match winning no longer mattered. But we had moved the game from something fun to do together to something which pitted us against each other. And we didn't want that. And so the game wasn't fun anymore.

In the years since I have lost that drive within that tells me to never lose. I hardly try in games anymore, and often lose when I could have - and should have - won. But it doesn't bother me. I find a peace in defeat which I never found in any of my past victories. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, it isn't about winning anymore. It's just about playing.

Unfortunately, I seem to have taken the same attitude toward life in general.

Willard Slough

Willard was an oddly sort and that was putting it nice
He never washed his hands just once he had to wash them twice

When Willard walked about the town he brought with him a sack
And when he put his smock coat on the front was in the back

One shoe was red, one shoe was blue, the other shoe was green
And Willard walking through the town was something to be seen

He wore pink gloves with the fingers out and carried a candy cane
Which he used to bonk folk on the head when they dared call him insane

One day I chanced to see the man he was in a backward run
I followed him so quickly then to see how this was done

It’s the eyes in back of my head, you see, was Willard’s quick retort
Then off in a flash he was gone again to seal up his fort

I miss the days of Willard Slough, running through the town
For when Willard Slough was with us then, who had a need for clowns

Happy Rabbit Hole Day!

What Happened Then

Here's a question for you: Do you ever dream about being in school again? Not as an adult returning, but at the same age you were 'way back when'. I do.

Actually, I also dream about returning to school as an adult. What's interesting about these dreams is that they do NOT take place at my old schools. The school are larger, more modern, and filled with new technology.

But when I dream I am young and back in school all is as it was. Kind of like Ebenezer Scrooge with the Ghost of Christmas Past.

For years I even remembered the combination on my lockers. Now I only remember a ten and thirteen. But I don't think they went with the same locker.

Memory is an odd thing. Back in the 1980s I worked at a small town newspaper. It was a rewarding job, albeit not with money. I earned $10,400 a year. Before taxes. Spouse worked three jobs and earned another $10,000. We paid roughly $6,000 together in state and federal taxes, as well as FICA. And, thanks to the Reagan Administration, had to pay an addition $1,600 at tax time. Apparently the 30% we had already paid wasn't enough. (The reason I remember this so well is that I was talking with a city administrator who was earning $70,000 that year. When he did his taxes he got a return of $7,000. Life is just so fair.)

Anyway.

While working at the newspaper I got wind through a school contact of a man who was celebrating his 105th birthday. I went out to interview him and take pictures. Not being the best photographer, my editor-owner sent the other reporter along to do the pictures.

He was a frail old thing, but still sharp as a tack. He had these tiny vials of brandy, and every night he would set one on his night stand. In the morning, the first thing he did was drink the whole thing.

He had served in World War I and remembered World War II. He grew up without electricity or automobiles or telephones. He told a lot about his life, but mostly he concentrated on the late 1800s and very early 1900s. And at one point he made a curious statement which I can now relate to much better (being about half his age now).

I find now that it is easier for me to remember something that happened back when I was five years old than it is for me to remember what happened yesterday.

Memory is kind of selective, isn't it? And not entirely reliable. I don't think I make too many mistakes with mine yet. But I have known several people who don't do well at all. And they're still quite young!

There is a theory - I don't know who's it is - that stored inside our heads is a record of everything we have done, seen, heard, felt, spoken and even thought. It's all there. Everything. Only the chemical pathways which allow us access aren't all connected for us anymore. But I remember reading some scientist's theory that there was a place in the brain which, if found and activated, would replay our lives for us in detail. Some think that is exactly what is going to happen when we stand before God for judgment. It's all going to play back for us. An irrefutable record of who we have been. For real.

Sometimes memory seeks to hide things from us. I remember a guy I worked with. He had been bicycling through Anoka when he crossed an intersection. He had the green light so he didn't think about traffic. Mistake. A woman ran the red light and struck him. According to witnesses, he never lost consciousness. He even spoke. Amazingly, he had no broken bones or other internal injuries. But he couldn't remember what happened. Everything from the moment he was struck until he left the hospital was gone from his conscious recall. Three years later it was still gone. I don't know if it ever came back to him.

Every so often I find myself wondering if I have any blank outs like that. Considering some of the things I do remember, if I do, whatever it was I'm not remembering must have been quite traumatic. Good thing I don't remember then. Right?

Memory. It plays such a critical part in how we get through each day. Without it we would have no hope of survival.

But that's just my opinion.

The Horses are Gone. Who Gives a Damn About the Gate.

So, we've lost the house, right? That happened a few months ago. But what do we get in the mail yesterday but a letter from the bank informing us that we now qualify for a vast reduction in interest rate. Just over two percent! (We were paying over five.) This "offer" lasts until the end of February. It reduces the monthly house payment by $800. Pretty fantastic.

Where were they two years ago when we begged them to cooperate with us and they refused? That extra $800 a month could have made the difference between us keeping the house or not. Now the house sits empty. Deteriorating.

When we left the roof leaked over the dining room and the foyer. The siding was damaged on the north and west sides. There was no siding on the west side of the garage. The carpeting was all original from the year 2000. (We were only in it two years when our income dropped from $95,000 a year to $30,000 a year. And since then it has dropped to about $15,000.) The walls in the major rooms need to be repainted. Some of the sinks were beginning to leak and a couple of the bathroom fixtures needed replacement. The house sits in a low area (weren't we brilliant to build there) and so the sump pump runs almost constantly. Year round. We actually went through one and had to replace it.

Sitting empty the ceiling will continue to leak. The already worn and dirty carpeting will not be vacuumed. Condensation around the windows (a problem in this house) will not be mopped up, thereby collecting and becoming a breeding place for mold. Should the sump pump quit running for any reason the lowest level will flood. And for whatever reason there is, houses simply tend to break down when nobody is living in them. I don't know why, but they do.

Spouse believes the bank has the house up for sale at the low price of $169,000. That's about $100,000 less than what we owed, and $80,000 less than it would be worth were it in good repair. My estimate is that it is going to take upwards of $100,000 to restore it to excellent condition again. The roof and siding will take up at least $30,000 alone. But most of the double glazing has popped and the windows should really be replaced. Lets' see: 10 windows on the south side alone; 2 more on the west; 7 on the north; and 2 more on the east. That's 21 windows. Windows aren't cheap. Neither is carpeting. Living room. Family room. Study. Three bedrooms. The vinyl flooring in the kitchen and foyer should be replaced. And since one is at it, might as well replace the vinyl in three bathrooms (the downstairs one is unfinished anyway).

I'm sure the letter we received was some kind of form letter, for it makes no mention of the fact that it's been more than a year since we made a house payment. The thing is, now that our income has dropped to where it is, even at an $800 a month discount we couldn't afford it. What a pity. What a waste.

It Sounds Easy

Faith in oneself. Believing in oneself. This makes an excellent foundation for achievement and success. How man times (as an adult) have I been told to "just believe" in myself, as though this were such a simple thing to do.

I expect that for people who grew up being told, shown, and supported in doing this it IS an easy thing to do. Something that comes as naturally as breathing. And these people are completely confused, frustrated, and sometimes even disgusted, by those who "won't" do it.

What these people fail to understand is that believing in oneself begins young, not old. Not that it can't begin when one is older. It's just that it's a h*ll of a lot harder.

As adults we either use what we learned as young people to help us continue to grow, or we have to overcome what we learned as young people to grow. The child who is told by parents (especially), teachers (also important), family and friends that they are special, gifted, intelligent, entertaining, athletic, creative, stupid, useless, unloved, unwanted, is going to become an adult who believes these things deeply in their heart. And what we believe deeply in our hearts will greatly affect how we live our lives.

One of the reasons my family has been 'unhappy' with me is because I kept my son from them. We seldom visited, and only once left Son in the care of any of them. My reason (and it was my reason)? I did not want my family to do to my son what it had done to me - and itself. What I saw it do to nieces and (especially) nephews. Disguised as humor, the constant barrage of harassment would have destroyed Son. He's a gentle sort. I didn't believe in my own ability to successfully combat the environment. So I kept Son out of it. The price I paid is that I went lower and lower in the eyes of my family. A price well worth the reward.

You see, Son has something I do not. Son believes in himself.

I know I have a high I.Q. I know I have ability in this and in that. And yet I find myself held back by a very strong conviction in my soul that none of that matters. I still can't do it.

Losing a negative self-esteem is a lot like losing weight. Those not suffering have a difficult time understanding why it's so hard to change. But it is. A good many of us never do.

What's the solution?

I have only one thought. Stop looking at fat people as "fat" people. Look at them as individual people. You might find they're worthy of your friendship after all. And the same goes for the broken down. What often happens is that "fat" people don't eat so poorly when they're around people who just accept them for who they are. And the same goes for the insecure. It has been true for me anyway. When I'm talking with my friends (all online right now) I find I'm not thinking about snacking, drinking pop or second helpings. And I find myself inspired to try again after my latest failure. When I'm with people reminding me of my weight and my failures all I want to do is find a place to hide and eat a bowl of chips with a liter of Pepsi.

My friends have not made me thin (yet). Nor am I a stalwart of confidence. But I do like my friends. They make me happy. Which is something I relish far more than success.