A Place from Childhood

Sitting in this spot, a spot which is more cherished today than when I first encountered it, I can see incredible distances. Beyond the distance traversed in mere seconds, time itself is bent to my will. I may choose to visit Disneyland (1964) or Pensacola Beach (1961) complete with the go-kart and paddle boat races. The colors just as vivid, the people restored to youth and vibrancy. One of my personal favorites, the igloo built by piling snow into a huge mound, a hole burrowed for a door, and the inside expanded to create Nanook's nook.

Such is the American Magical Reality of the Bell & Howell slide projector. The first time I encountered my magical spot I was 5 or 6 yrs. old, the spot being the seat next to this wonderful contraption. The whir of the cooling fan laboring to keep the ultra bright bulb from self destruction. The aroma of the heat coming from that bulb, its light focused on the screen which emitted a kind of chemical odor. My father would turn the nob and work the sliding mechanism, projecting the next image onto the screen, providing instant transport to a distant moment in time.

We would gather together, immediate family, extended family, friends and neighbors to view the color images of these captured moments in time magically transported into our living room. We would tell the story of the man that was a dead ringer for Harry Truman, swimming in the same Pensacola waters we swam in. The collective "awww" of adults verifying the cuteness of Stevie and brother Peter, anglers of incredible courage and skill, warmed by the Florida sun and secure in the knowledge that dad was only a few feet away. There is the image of brother Bill, smiling large with vanquished squirrels hanging by their tails in each of his fists. His name sake, Uncle Bill, standing behind him with the knowing look. Always good for a laugh, that one.

I'm a member of a kind of club, I'll call it the Kodachrome Club, connecting me to others of my generation. The phenomena has been documented in song (thank you Paul Simon) and countless nostalgic musings. All the members of the club have their own magic spot where they sat before the conveniently sized stinky white screen, listening to the whir of the fan cooling a really hot bright bulb, enduring the rehashing of family vacations, Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, various parties and coming of age events. What makes this club so great is there are never any large gathering of its members. Instead we each operate individually, like a terrorist cell, subjecting our victims to the physical demands of time travel and birthday parties.

I was recently listening to "Talk of the Nation-Science Friday". A physicist was explaining that a time machine, if it could be built, wouldn't be able to transport itself (and occupant) back in time beyond the day it was constructed. He obviously isn't a member of the Kodachrome Club. Little does he know of time travel. Members of the "Club" have time machines, these machines make noises and smells and are made up of complex components, controlling these time machines sometimes requires operator technique. The complex components are individual to the operators, each of us having our own slides that transport us to or individual histories.

I worry about my magic place and the time machine that takes me there. Who can I leave it to? My daughter can't be transported to my magic place, she has to find her own magic place. That requires her own version of a time machine, which she carries in her hand and sometimes in her purse. But the day will come when she inherits my time machine. I envision her using the more complex components, the slides, and converting them into something she values. Maybe a lamp shade or a ridiculous dress to be worn on Halloween. The projector and stinky screen are destine to be dumpster fodder. But, if she captures their existence in her time machine, they will live on as she travels to her magic place reliving the events that make her who and what she is. Just as I do, when I am in my magic place.

Happy Trails to you...

On the kitchen table rests, "The Happiness Project" a book by Gretchen Rubin. A quick scan of the cover elicits the cynical thought, "happiness, what a quaint concept!" As I flip through the contents of this book, it dawns on me, this book was placed here as a not so subtle hint. "Please, Stephen, abandon your curmudgeonly ways!", my loving wife's futile plea.

So I sift through this book, hoping for amusement. But just reading about Ms. Rubin's exhaustive research and preparation to find happiness, leaves me weary and unhappy. I find many of her suggestions suspect. I don't mean to disrespect Ms. Rubin nor discount her noble effort to help people find happiness. So I ponder the whole happiness concept. It seems to me happiness is purely subjective.

I wonder about people who seem to be happy all the time (aside from them just annoying the hell out of me). Are they truly happy, or addicted to positive attitude? Are there other elements in play here? How much of our happiness is a product of our DNA, how much a result of our environment? Ms. Rubin's research indicated that as much as 50% of our capacity for happiness is our genetic make-up, and as much as 30% is a result of our environment. That would leave a slender 20% for a positive attitude to reverse the effects of who you are and where you came from.

Does geographic location effect one's happiness? Life in paradise could lead to happiness. Is there a wall chart some where, a map of the world marked up by a Sharpie, indicating people from this area are 20% happier than people from another locale? I hope I'm wrong, just the thought of such a chart makes me unhappy.

I've decided to start my own happiness project, one that appeals to my own subjective sensibilities. But there must be rules! First, I mustn't be unduly cruel to the terminally happy, even if it would make me happy to do so. Second, I must document what I did that made me happy and why it made me happy (even if the effort to document makes me unhappy).

Day One: Jason and I went to the shooting range for some target practice. I got some practice getting used to my newly acquired S&W 10mm. It's a substantial gun that feels good in my paw, and after about 40 rounds I was getting a reasonable grouping at 3 meters. I shot the Ruger .22 and even at 10 meters it provides a nice tight group. I shot Jason's Ruger 9mm and it is a very nice gun that is easy to shoot. I was entertained by the guy in the booth next to me, he had a bunch of really nice guns. I really liked his Beretta .40, what a beautiful gun, and boy does it bark! This was a fun outing, but did it make me happy? It cost $60 in fees and ammunition (that doesn't make me happy), and I was gone from the shop for an hour in the middle of the day. Did my absence cause some undue cruelty to a terminally happy person? It's hard to say, there were no anxiety ridden messages on the answering machine, but that's not to say someone didn't stop by while I was away.

This is getting too complex (which makes me unhappy), am I allowed to flush conscience and responsibility in order for me to consider this a totally happy experience? Maybe I'll just give it a 2.5 on the happiness scale (a 1 being a not so happy experience and a 5 being a really happy experience).

Day Two: Saturday!! That makes me happy already, I'm going to give today a 5 on the happiness scale. Well maybe a 4, I do have to help Paul with his remodeling project, when what I ought to be doing is working on my own list of the million things that I've got to get done. I think I'll just drop by and offer Paul some encouragement, let him borrow a few tools (which I hate to do, it could provide unhappiness) and get to work on my own stuff. Then there is the movie factor, if Machete turns out to be the truly funny movie it promises to be, today could salvage it's 5 rating...

Tomorrow is Sunday, which normally would be an automatic 5 rating. The Sabbath, a day of worship and rest from cares of the world. But a couple of weeks ago I was called to be a counselor in a Bishopric. This is a calling that carries much responsibility, which in and of itself doesn't bother me. It's hearing about all the problems people in our ward have, difficult hard to solve problems. This could severely impact tomorrow's happiness rating, but I'm going to take the positive attitude approach. I'm just a counselor, all the real responsibility and heavy decisions are the Bishop's problem. I hope Hank is up to the challenge. Maybe I'll give him a copy of "The Happiness Project", a book by Gretchen Rubin.

Affairs of the pump

I'm typing, "If it is to be, it is up to me," my fingers furiously fumbling over the keys of the Royal typewriter in my ninth grade Personal Use Typing class. Mrs. Statchel, my little world's equivalent of a Nazi SS officer, focuses her disdain on me with laser beam intensity, her cat-lady glasses dangling from the chain draped around her neck. Being the third Wittkop male to find himself in one of Statchel's P.U.T. classes hadn't helped matters. The second Wittkop male, my brother Bill; was, at least in his mind, the equivalent of James Dean. That legacy, along with the splint on my right thumb, had not endeared me with Col. Statchel. "Go ahead, stone me to death with Royal typewriters! Throw in an old heavy Underwood, just for good measure!"- my thoughts as I wished for relief from this unpleasant state of affairs of my own making.

My mother had advised me to take Personal Use Typing, extolling the merit of this adroit discipline. Of course she would, my mother had been an executive secretary. Her fingers could gracefully glide across the glass keys of her ancient Underwood, effortlessly pumping out word after word. I had agreed with my mother's reasoning, figuring there couldn't be a better place to meet chicks...

It's fair to say I've been extracting revenge on machinery ever since, in my mind all of it being kin to that cursed typewriter. I am not by nature a competitive person, so I don't consider my crusade a man vs. machine struggle. It's much more primal, a love/hate relationship that began long before attending summer school to improve my failing grade in Personal Use Typing.

My father was particularly good at keeping me busy, so I often found myself on the business end of our reel type lawn mower. Two bucks to cut the Green's front yard, another three bucks for the rear yard. I had to cut the lawn of the widow across the street from the Green's for free, I still feel gratitude for the modest size of her yard. The Willifer's, the Harris', and several more who's names time has erased. That old reel mower never needed anything more than an occasional squirt of oil. Then came the Sears gas powered lawn mower! Wow! What a great invention, I could breeze through my tasks with a fraction of the effort. But at a cost, this convenience came with the price of maintenance. Change the oil, clean the air filter, sharpen the blade, plus the obligatory squirt of oil.

From the sweat of my brow came fabulous wealth. This is how I secured my first vehicle. Brother Bill had borrowed $40, a princely sum at the time. The debt was forgiven in exchange for his '59 Volkswagon Van (with a bad engine). A VW "how to" book was purchased and within weeks the engine was swapped out and I had taken to modifying the interior. Of course I was still over a year away from getting my drivers learners permit, however this fact didn't dampen the honeymoon. One night I got a little too brave. While my parents were out for the evening, I decided to take the van for a spin. This was another "Wow!" moment. Machinery provided more than just the challenge of repair and modification. They provide freedom and mobility!

By the time I had adequately ripened to receive my learners permit the van had been traded off for a '63 VW Beetle. In comparison to the van, it seemed like a rocket ship. The union of automobile and drivers license cemented my love affair with machinery. I had even come to terms with maintenance, just as the love struck ignores the faults of any object of desire. Being a teen aged boy I was well practiced at ignoring faults, especially my own, and had a crush on every female I encountered (my mother and Mrs. Statchel being the exceptions). First the throttle cable broke. Then the clutch cable. Exhaust leaks, oil leaks, brakes, flat tires. Reality being the harsh schoolmarm, I had to steel my resolve. I was in this for the long haul, especially when I saw the ad in the newspaper for the MGB.

As I was navigating my way into Irvington, to investigate this B series car of the Morris Garage marque, I was already envisioning myself sporting dark sunglasses. The wind trying its best to outdo my Odell hair trainer. Girls flirting with me, just on the outside chance they might get to go motoring in such a magnificent vehicle. It is not easy living with the knowledge that Alexander Pope was writing about me when he penned, "for fools rush in where angles fear to tread"

So a fool I have been, for 45+ years, loving machines until I hate them. Yet, I find comfort in this perverse relationship; knowing I will never relent, never retire. I will go to my grave, confident in the knowledge that no machine in my care was allowed to shirk it's duty, having sworn to make the infernal things fulfill the purpose of their existence.

I often think about how many different paths my life could have taken, where I might be now and what other type of machinery I would be cursing under my breath. I would trade the automobile for nuclear submarines, or the M1 Abrams tank. But regardless of how fascinating these other objects of desire might be initially, at some point the truth would be found out. They all share the machine equivalent of DNA with a Royal typewriter. Which is why, after all these years, I feel no remorse for throwing that anonymous iceball at Mrs. Statchel's Cadillac.

None finer in all the world.

I wasn't the first to reach the golden zone; David beat me there. I was lazy and didn't arrive until just after 7:00 am. Don't get me wrong, I love David like a brother, but he is a harvester. I am a gatherer.

To the casual observer, harvesters and gatherers might be considered the same. But there are fundamental differences. The harvester scrapes everything into the bucket, ready or not! The little green pea sized ball, the red slightly larger and definitely not ready globe, and the purple almost ready sphere. They all find themselves in David's bucket. This approach might work well for wheat or corn, but not for something as precious as a seasonal fruit.

A gatherer carefully picks that which is ready. It must have the right shape, size, texture and color. Each berry undergoes a rigorous evaluation. To do otherwise robs them of their God given right to fully mature, thus I allow them to better fulfill the measure of their creation. To the harvester a full gallon bucket represents an hour of work. To the gatherer a gallon bucket is a spiritual journey, something that isn't measured in time or effort.

I suffer from an extreme blueberry dependency problem. There, I've said it and the cat is out of the bag. But I offer no apologies, my reverence for the little blue orbs drives my pursuit for fruit excellence. However I don't hoard my stash of blueberries; I share them with friends and loved ones. A gift should be the best one has to offer, so from my personal stock I offer the gift that is a measure of how much I value the recipient. Such gifts are also a personal measure of ones humanity, the willingness to sacrifice time and energy in order to enrich another.

That is why the golden zone is so important. The berries gathered there are exceptional, their flavor exquisite. I would only share the location of the golden zone with someone I know would revere it as I do, another gatherer type. The golden zone has become for me my personal Garden of Eden. My cell phone has no reception there, so it cannot bother me. You can't hear a loud truck from a nearby highway, nor an obnoxious train to disturb with its audible vibrations. There is only the song of a bird or the buzz of a bee as it takes care of bee business. It is a place, when conditions are just right, you can hear Him whisper, "enjoy these blueberries, for there are none finer in all the world."

But, He also whispers to me, "be tolerant of David, even if he is a harvester."

Help!

I have been thinking a lot about help, what it means to help someone, or to be helped by someone. Here is just some of what Webster's dictionary defines help as:

1. to make things easier or better for (a person); aid; assist, a) to give something which is necessary, as relief, succor, money, etc. b) to do part of the work of; ease or share the labor of c) to aid in (getting up, down, in, out, etc.) 2. to make it easier for (something) to exist, happen, develop, improve 3. to keep from, avoid, prevent

And this is just the verb portion of the definition! I know I am helped daily, often in ways I am unaware of, and I am immeasurably improved and enriched by the efforts of others in my life. I am also one that is unlikely to ask for help, I am loath to ask anyone to do for me that which I am perfectly capable of doing myself. But sometimes, when I've done all I know to do, I seek out help. I'm sure my friend Bob gets tired of my requests for help with my computer. He should probably tell me, "No, figure it out, learn and develop your own skills". But he doesn't, and I don't know why. Easier to fix it than to answer a thousand ignorant questions? Allows him to showcase his superior computer knowledge and skills? Just a darn nice guy that enjoys helping others? Probably all the above, and more.

Bev and I were watching an episode of Lost (we tend to lag 5-10 years behind popular cultural phenomenon), in which the mysterious John Lock was explaining to the lame drug addict Charlie what a double edge sword help really is. The analogy is a moth cocoon, the struggle the emerging moth goes through to free itself of the cocoon, is exactly what strengthens it so it can fly away and fulfill it's moth destiny. Helping it in any way weakens it, and the emerging moth would be incapable of flight. The Walking Moth, sounds like it could be a rock band.

So, this is my question, what is appropriate help? When is one making a difference for the good of another in need, and when is the helper just being co-dependent?

I ask this question for obvious reasons. All of my life I have been led to understand that helping others is a good thing, a moral imperative. The only instances in nature where one animal will help another is symbiotic relationships. There is always a one hand washes the other, so to speak, each animal reaping benefit from the other. But not with humans, we help one another constantly, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. I now struggle with this question, with my own motivations for helping others, with the apprehension of weakening instead of strengthening. This line of thought reinforces my aversion to asking for, or accepting help. But I also know that I don't have control over anyone but myself. Others will pray on my behalf, and offer help, and do things for me out of love.

So, I move forward, a seeker of truth and enlightenment. Sometimes a seeker of help, sometimes a giver. Wondering if I'm a walking moth, huddled up with other flightless bugs waiting for the bus.

Against my better judgement

Politics is something that shouldn't be discussed in polite company. I have spent the last couple of hours reading from the website: www.jewishworldreview.com. It's a website full of articles from different writers, all thoughtful and thought provoking. I enjoyed several articles by Thomas Sowell and Cal Thomas, I consider them wise and rational. Then I read an article by Mona Charen, about Greece's economic problems.

Greece is a small country, 11.3 million people. Seems that one in three Greeks works for their government. There were riots last week in Athens, Greece, over government austerity programs. The people rioting, government employees. Three are dead from the rioting. Greece is a nation on the brink of chaos and disaster. Why were they rioting? Because they don't want to sacrifice any of their benefits. The Greek government employee has a higher wage, better benefits and an earlier retirement than their private sector counterparts. It's impossible for a civil servant to get fired, even in light of gross incompetence.

All this news didn't much bother me, that's all Greece's problems, and we have enough of our own to worry about. Then the article moved on to problems much closer to home.

More than 50 percent of union members in the United States are public sector employees. There is a quote of an economic historian that points out, "Federal workers now earn, in wages and benefits, about twice what their private-sector equivalents get paid. State workers often have better health plans and retirement benefits than the private-sector average: 80 percent of public-sector workers have pension benefits, only 50 percent in the private sector." Then this article makes a statement that brings everything into acute focus (this is a copy and paste quote from the article, my apologies to Mona Charen if this offends her).

"It's no coincidence that the states with the most powerful public sector unions — New Jersey, California, and New York — are facing the most severe budget crises."

Oops! I only thought I was reading about Greece's problems! But these should be considered Spain's or Italy's or, yes, the good old USA's problems. We are facing a crisis that has been a hundred years in the making, our economic and government models are at odds, and our current political system appears inadequate (or impotent, you can chose the adjective). Mr. Obama and his administration seem to feel that growing our government is the answer to our economic problems. He is doing this at a time when industry and service sectors are struggling. This being the only portion of our economy that actually provides wealth, and therefore tax revenue, to pay for governmental services. This appears like the same approach that FDR used during the depression of the 1930's. It didn't work then, it's unlikely to work 80 years later in a larger and much more complex economic/politically diverse world.

Now we get to the really depressing stuff. Mr. Roosevelt's economic policies didn't fix the depression, know what did? Mr. Obama's economic policies aren't looking to good either, know what's gonna happen? Do a Google search on: What is Chaostan? You will find an article by Richard Mayberry. A pre 9/11, twelve year old article that is eerily accurate.

A wise man once said, "the worst time to be a parent is 18 years before a war". I have a nephew in the Marines, I wish he's get out, right now!

But I have a plan, a way to fix this problem. I need to be benevolent dictator of the world! Well, maybe just the USA for right now. Once I get the USA straightened out I can move on to Chaostan and the rest of the world. Be of good cheer! All I need is everyone's complete cooperation for the next 5-10 years....

Repton, AL

Today's newspaper had an article in the travel section about Monroeville, AL. My mother's hometown claims to be the "Literary Capitol" of Alabama, which is what any article about Monroeville would be quick to point out. But to those with roots in L.A. (lower Alabama) there are always expeditions to places off the beaten path. I beat my path down I-65 south to exit 93, turning right onto US 84. 15 miles closer to Monroeville, you pass a sign declaring you are in Repton, AL. The first right hand turn past your welcome to town is Burnt Corn Road. How could anyone not want to drive on a road named "Burnt Corn"? Actually, traveling on this road takes you to Burnt Corn, AL. But that would be someone elses story, because I'm talking about Repton.

Repton may not be the bustling metropolis that Monroeville is, but it is just as firmly woven into my heritage (and my heart), as any place in the universe. Not far up Burnt Corn Rd, on the right hand side of the road is the William Carter Hospital. My mother gave birth to her first child in that hospital. Not even Monroeville, the soon to be literary capitol of Alabama, had such modern conveniences as hospitals in the mid 1940's. A little further up the road on the left hand side is Alabama Rut and Strut. I'm certain that taxidermy has its place of importance, but for me the Rut and Strut is a landmark. Directly across from the "Strut" is the front gate to Daddy Bill's farm. My mother's younger brother, William Lee Hendrix, is and has been my favorite uncle for as long as I can remember. My first cousins, Babs and Jacque, have called their father "Daddy Bill", also, for as long as I can remember.

Last year, and again this year, we have held our family reunion on DB's farm land. Turning off Burnt Corn Rd, through the gates, you have little choice but to follow the path made by the tractor as it heads toward the fields were Pensacola Fescue is grown for livestock feed. Passing through what was once a marvelous pecan orchard (severely damaged by hurricane Ivan), you enter the first large field. At the far end you turn to the left and head slowly (I don't drive a Jeep) down toward the pond. The pond could well be the center of the universe, a nexus of Louisiana Iris and Pear tree. A place where worry and stress float away, for they have nothing to hold on to. There could be no better place for a family gathering, and cousin Babs and her husband Jeff have added to natures perfection. An outhouse complete with hand wash station, and a fire pit so fine I think it should be patented. An adjacent field provides room for dueling clay launchers, where the men folk can embarrass themselves with their lack of marksmanship. This allows us to work up a healthy appetite, so we burn animal flesh over the fire pit and talk about how next time those clays won't be nearly so lucky. For those with an aversion to shot guns, there is always the pond itself. One can fish it, and probably be just as challenged as shooting skeet, or one can walk all around it, which will provide a more sublime satisfaction.

I wish I could understand exactly why I feel such a strong connection with this place. Why do I want to repair that pecan orchard? There is no doubt it is to some degree the peace I feel while I'm there, but it's more than that. Some people want to belong to something larger and more important than they are individually. The fields are large, but they are only important to a handful of people. It's said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe it's the beauty my eye perceives, a simple elegance that only nature can provide. The way the fescue waves in the wind, and the divine color scheme on a perfect Saturday in Autumn. But it's something more, beyond the beauty and the yearning to belong, a secret element to this equation which defies definition.

I am a believer, and I will make my pilgrimage to the temple that is DB's farm land. I will worship at this temple, with the other believers, my cousins and their husbands and other family members that may be in attendance. I seek enlightenment at this temple, because it is here that my perception of God is clearest.