Cutting The Cord

Cutting The Cord 

By John R. Greenwood 

Dad, I apologize, but I had to do it; it was time. I sure hope you’re looking down right now and nodding your head in agreement. I finally retired your favorite heavy-duty lead cord that you used for work. My first recollection of it as a kid was seeing it coiled up and lying on top of your toolbox in the back of our old International Scout. That yellow lead logged many miles and showed up ready for work at hundreds of job sites all over the Capital District and beyond. I’ll bet it even rode with you to the top of Gore Mountain when installing those giant windows in the ski lodge. That lead and your electric drill helped put food on the table and a roof over our heads long before battery-powered tools were invented. 

I remember the day you passed it on to me. We cleaned out your workshop just before you and Mom moved into the senior apartments. While mom was whittling down her collection of Farberware, you were thinning down your lifetime collection of hand tools and hardware. I went on to use that lead for years. One day, I decided to add a four-foot fluorescent shop light above a dark corner in the basement. The only outlet was several feet away, so I enlisted your fifty-foot lead as a temporary fix, hung it on the floor joists, and then wrapped the excess around a couple of 16-penny nails. That part-time assignment lasted twenty years until the other day when I finally installed a junction box and ran fifteen feet of wire to a new LED shop light. 

Your old work partner was tired and brittle. He served us both well. I never took that fifty feet of yellow for granted. Whenever I looked at that thing hanging there, I thought of the care you took with your tools. That lead represented your thirty years as a union glazier split between Arrow Glass in Schenectady and Spa Glass in Saratoga Springs. How proud you were that in all those years working with storefront-size glass, no one working with you was ever hurt. With that thought in mind, I knew the right thing to do was retire that old lead before something terrible happened. 

I pulled the lead from the scrap bin the next day and cut off the two ends. I plugged them together and stapled them to a post in my workshop. They are a constant reminder of your work ethic and the pride you put into every job you ever did. Your calloused and scarred hands were a testament to the wear and tear it takes to make a blue-collar living. I’m forever grateful that you passed those traits on to me. I do my best anyway. 

Dad, I’ll end this piece with something that makes me smile and think of you several times a week. Whenever you and I were doing something together, and a jackknife was the tool of choice, you would look at me with that raised eyebrow, tilted head look a father gives his son when he’s sure he already knows the answer. 

“Do you have a jackknife on you?” 

“Is it sharp?” 

The answer was seldom yes and yes. 

I sure do miss those days…

First Mow

First Mow
By John R. Greenwood





Lawnmower clogs of fresh cut grass are a welcome change from the wet snowblower variety. April is only on week four, but if I'd waited any longer to mow, Vincek’s Farm would have another field to hay. A wimpy winter and 24 hours of cool rain had my lawn as thick as the fur on a Samoyed’s back. Even the dandelions looked exhausted trying reach the surface. 

I’m not a lawn snob or grass-rat. I know my monetary limits when it comes to golf course quality lawn care. The moles and grubs keep me on the edge of crazy and a dirty carburetor on the mower almost resulted in the neighbors having to call 911 to report a rabid old man foaming at the mouth in his driveway.

I’ve been an active member of the “First Mow Club” since I was designated a teen. Even though I’m now deep into geriatric territory I still look forward to that first pull start. It’s different now than it was fifty years ago. Now the grass I mow is my own. The mower, the rake, the view from my front window is mine. My yard is far from Augusta National but it’s my personal labor of love—bare spots and all.

There’s been a movement in recent years to turn front yards into native flower gardens or at least let them grow uncut through May. This in an effort to provide pollination habitat for bees. I fully support and commend those who embrace this admirable practice. I’m simply not wired for it. I’ve been edging walks, raking grass, and trimming lawns for my entire life. I did it as a boy to put money in my pocket and as a young father to buy baby formula. Now it’s mostly therapeutic and the best exercise money can’t buy. To sit by and let the yard go wild in the spring would be cruel and unusual punishment for me.

I do have a confession to make. In the heat of last summer I purchased a riding mower to give me some needed relief. It was a not purchase made easily. I felt like a traitor, a sellout, and a fraud. I still do. I feel guilty when I’m barging my way around my 1/4 acre on a mower made for one or more. I could live without it and may yet. In the meantime I think it took a little worry off Mrs.G. She says she wants to keep me around awhile. So, if you drive by and see me tooling around on my rider or following behind a mower, know that I'm in my happy place--perspiring grimace and all.

The Obituary of Leaf Rake

The Obituary of Leaf Rake 

By John R. Greenwood

Leaf Rake 

October 25,1100 B.C. — November 19, 2020

Saratoga Springs, NY

Leaf Rake, age 3120, passed away this morning on West Ave., Saratoga Springs. Mr. Rake was born in China in 1100 B.C. His first years were spent clearing fields of leaves and plant refuse. His childhood friends described him as being made entirely of wood—wooden tines attached to a wooden head. His facial features remained wrinkle-free and relatively unchanged for his entire 3120 year existence. 

Leaf Rake graduated with honors from Garden State College at the age of 5. His hard work and long hours made him outstanding in his field. He never asked anything of his handler that he wasn’t willing to do himself. After college he spent centuries on farms all over the world. In the 20th century he committed his remaining years to suburban yards across the globe. He was never boisterous or condescending and was always willing to work in the front, side, or backyard at a moments notice. 

At the time of his death Leaf Rake lived in the dark recesses of sheds and garages. During his last days he might be found leaning against the back of the house, rusty and neglected. Leaf met his demise today at the hands of the “Blower Boys.” A posse of masked marauders in hoodies, brandishing gas-fueled death-wands of hurricane force winds. Leaf Rake was doomed. His manually operated handle and tines had zero chance of survival based on the shear numbers of his staggering opposition. 

I witnessed the murderous act in real time. It brought personal sadness and despair. Leaf Rake and I spent most of our lives together. When we were kids we made soda and candy money together. We bonded instantly. We went from elementary school through high school together. When I needed money for the movies or a new bike tire, Leaf was there. He never let me down. When we got older and started families of our own, Leaf and his cousin Garden would show up at my house to help seed the new lawn or fill in the low spots over the septic tank. He let my rambunctious sons play pretend landscaper minutes after they’d used him as a makeshift axe on the old maple out front. He and his cousin were tough cookies right to the end. 

As the scene above unfolded I pulled over to the side of the road. I yelled out in anger but my voice was smothered by the roar of two-stroke horsepower. My efforts were nullified by progress and the unstoppable future. A tear rolled down my cheek, and as it did an oak leaf floated in my truck window as if to say, “Don't worry, Leaf's okay and you will be too. You two had a good run together. You made memories and money. You bent his back, he gave you blisters, but you remained friends until the end. You both paid your dues, let the Blower Boys have their fun. Things always come full circle. Someday you’ll both be remembered fondly for your hard work and low maintenance."

"Most of all be proud of all those mountainous leaf piles of autumn you two made." 

"The Blower Boys can’t do that now, can they?"

RIP Leaf Rake 

60 Days In

60 Days In

By John R. Greenwood

"Look Closely"

Wow, that went fast! 

It’s been 60 days since I used my prox-card, 60 days of waking up without a job, 60 days of re-working my non-work brain. 

What can you accomplish in 60 (free) days? 

• Mow the lawn on Tuesday morning before noon.
• Paint that rusty old plant stand you promised your wife you’d paint during the last Bush Administration.
• Go to the actual library to get a new library card— when you can find an actual parking spot. 

• Ride the new bicycle you retirement-gifted yourself—whenever you feel like it. 
• Spend the day exploring the Town of Greenfield with Town Historian, Ron Feulner—and learning things you never knew.
• Go to the market with your wife—on a Thursday morning
• Take your 6-year-old grandson to swimming lessons—in the middle of the day
• Stay up past 9pm— or even later! 
• Volunteer to man a non-profit's booth at the Saratoga County Fair for three hours—on a Friday afternoon. 
• Work on an indoor remodeling project(s) you’ve put off since the first Bush Administration.
• Go to breakfast with your wife—on a Wednesday 
• Go to lunch with your wife—on a Monday
• Eat dinner at dinner time—or not

The list was simple and relatively short. The first 60 days were more of a settling in process; re-organizing our habits and routines; prioritizing our priorities; redefining our lives and goals. Realizing just how much of your work had soaked into your body. Not on purpose, but slowly by osmosis. Its like shedding a heavy wool coat while standing in front of a roaring fire—comfort is more comfortable without the extra weight. I’d dreamt about having hours and hours of free time to sit and contemplate my words on to sheets of paper. First I have to uncluttered my desk. The years of, “I’ll get to it later,” had overflowed its banks. Restoration would take time. At least I had more choices now. 

As I write this I’m sitting at a metal picnic table in front of the business I dedicated the majority of my working life to. In the last 60 days, the customers haven’t changed, the employees haven’t changed. But, I’ve changed. Now I have more time to reflect and digest my life. I can sit next to a busy convenience store parking lot and dissect my life, appreciate it in chunks, savor it in nibbles. It went from a spring run-off North Hudson torrent to a meandering summer Battenkill in just a few short weeks. I feel calmer, happier. It’s not about having little to do, its about having lots to do—but from a higher vantage point. 

Today’s goal is to get this posted on my blog. I foolishly thought that I might be able to post once or even twice a day after I kicked work to the curb— how naive. I keep forcing myself to enjoy the moment—the feeling of untethered freedom. My wife and I have worked hard for this moment. Adding pressure to it isn’t necessary or healthy. Take that walk now, the lawn will wait another day for a haircut. 

In a few hours, I will be headed to the Greenfield Town Historian’s Office to work on my last Stewart’s project. It will encapsulate much of my life from beginning to the present. I have to keep reminding myself to enjoy the project and not let the importance of it overtake the process. It’s a constant conversation I must have. 

Time’s a-wastin' — just a phrase…

Day One

Day One 

By John R. Greenwood 

Day one of “rewirement” has begun for my wife and me. I compare it to summer vacation as a child. Hopefully, it exceeds expectations. This will be the first summer in our forty-five-year marriage that we will be able to enjoy more than a long weekend free from work. The thought of it has left us feeling like a house-cat loose in the backyard—skittish of the songbirds we’ve long been salivating over from the windowsill. 

It was an emotional roller coaster of a week. We both had the good fortune and pleasure of working for long time employers who treated us with respect and generosity from beginning to end. In today’s work environment, that is rare. There are few words to express how grateful we both are for that employer/employee relationship.

The perpetual weekend is now upon us, and it will be a challenge to savor every drop of joy we can. For me it will begin with the keyboard I’m using to write this post. For my wife, it started with a bouquet of flowers from yesterday’s send-off. She has an artist’s touch and can transform a simple bouquet into a dramatic centerpiece. Seldom does a day go by that there isn’t a prize winning arrangement gracing our dining room table. 

We both have our own lists of want-to and have-to. My hope is having enough time on the laptop to be able to write without having to look at the keys. For me, it’s important to set the bar low and slow. That book of mine may take a while. 

The hardest part for us both was leaving our coworkers. These are the faces that have blessed our workday for decades. We’ve watched each other’s children grow and have been there when parents passed, or tragedy reared its ugly head. In both cases, our jobs were an integral part of who we are. Spending a lifetime solving the problems of others takes a toll on you, but it also comes full circle when you realize people were paying attention and pay you back ten-fold with their friendship. That list is long and dear to us both. It doesn’t mean staying in touch comes to an end, but realistically the opportunities shrink like the list of friends who would line up to help you move.

Sunday afternoons may seem longer now without the dreaded Monday peering in the window. Hell, I may even stay up to see the third quarter of a Monday Night Football game. Tuesday’s can become the new Friday, especially if that’s the day our now monthly paychecks arrive. We can get groceries on Wednesday mornings instead of Saturday afternoons. Those crowded aisles of stressed moms, impatient fathers, and rambunctious three-year-olds, now replaced with shuffling feet and grey perms—Booyah! I can mow the lawn on Thursday’s starting at 8am—and take all day if necessary. Friday has now lost its rank among the favorites, but knowing the joy it brings to others still shoveling the pile will take up the slack. Saturday’s will be errand-free, taste delicious, and will feel like they last all week. 

In closing, I know I also speak for Mrs. G., when I say thank you to all those people who crossed our paths in our long and blessed careers—you made it all worthwhile. 

Signed,

Grateful

Young. Old. Just Words.

Young. Old. Just Words

By John R. Greenwood

“Young. Old. Just Words...” - George Burns 

I released this bottle a few weeks ago on a visit to Washington County. All my other bottles have been released in the city of Saratoga Springs. I hadn’t set any bottles free since earlier this year. My life had clogged with other responsibilities and my focus on writing had blurred. It wasn’t as though I’d gone completely off grid. In 2018 I had stories published in five issues of Simply Saratoga Magazine. The Winter Edition that came out last week is my first for 2019. As I contemplate retirement and the next phase of my life, the subject of age keeps knuckle-punching me in the arm. Having spent forty some years processing, selling, delivering, and picking up milk I’m trying to prepare myself to living a life simply drinking it. Retirement is not a comfortable word for me. The fact that I have Studs Terkel’s 600 page book “Working” on my bookshelf should provide a clue that work holds a special place in my life. Based on my struggle with the word ‘retirement’ itself, it would probably be a good idea to hang on to my alarm clock. 

I’ve had a good run, I should be looking forward to owning my own days--and I am. The difficult part for me is the fact that my head and mind don’t match the creaks and groans of my body. It brings to mind a poem I wrote a decade ago called, “Man Mirror.” I’ll re-share it here. 

Man Mirror

It is a special mirror

Unlike the female version 

Man Mirror is magic

It flattens, flatters and fixes

Man Mirror creates strength 

Full thick manes of blondness

No hesitation, no insecurity

Man Mirror inverts numbers

52’s become 25’s

Wrinkles become muscles

Grey t-shirts transform 

Dads into starting quarterbacks 

Boys into men

Men into boys

Man Mirror steamy and hot

Make reflections like 

No imperfections

No flaws

All appear clean, cut, and vibrant 

Who can resist the vision that stands there

Strong, tall rippled Adonis

Man Mirror

Man Mirror

On the wall

Who’s the fairest of…

The poem is true to a man’s interpretation of themselves. We all think we’ll live forever. We don’t see the same thing our wives see. It’s a healthy place to reside—until, the rust starts to fall off. Then we can’t believe what’s happening. For now, I’m content and comfortable. I’m optimistic about the days ahead. Its normal to approach the end of a 45 year career with trepidation. The difficulty lies in feeling like it began yesterday. 

I hope whoever adopted this bottle understands the feelings behind the phrase. It’s meant to battle back the fear of aging. As the AARP mailings flood my mailbox and overflow my recycling bin I refuse to buckle. With busload after busload of my fellow baby boomers lining up for flights to the Sunshine State I plan to remain right where I am. I’ll continue to unfurl my snow-rake and pull the snow from the roof’s edge. I’ll relish in the ankle-high maple leaves each fall. I’ll anticipate spring with the fervor of a young farmer. I’ll ask for my senior discount if I want it, and I’ll refuse it if asked. I enjoyed my fifties more than I ever imagined. My sixties have caught me off guard and unprepared. I’m not afraid--maybe a little nervous. When all is said and done, I have no regrets, only thanks. Thanks for all the friends, stories, and experiences that I’ve been blessed with. Add to that my family, and my work, and I hit the life-jackpot. 

Isn’t that what it’s all about? 

Old? 

Just a word… 

What Does It Feel Like To Be A Loser?

What Does It Feel Like To Be A Loser?

By John R. Greenwood

What does it feel like to be a loser? 

It feels awesome! 

After peaking my weight somewhere between xxl and xxxl, I once again committed myself to shedding some weight. I have stayed fairly consistent over the past couple of years with my morning routine of stretching and using free weights to keep my back from seizing and my muscles from wilting. The problem is, when it comes to cookie avoidance, my willpower tends to run weak. This past Christmas season was particularly challenging. It seemed like each day from Thanksgiving through New Years someone at work was bringing in a fresh batch of something chewy, crunchy, filled with chocolate, or coated with sugar. It was like living between Martha Stewart and Ina Garten during Sweep's Week on the Food Network. Being weak and polite when it comes to cookie trays can be a deadly combination. So, when several people in adjoining departments decided to start off 2017 with our own, "Biggest Loser" contest it was a no-brainer for me to yell out, "I'm in." In January there were still lingering containers of goodies lurking around our homes and in the office, so we didn't start our contest until February, and then I didn't roll up my sleeves and lace up my sneakers until the beginning of Lent. I figured I needed all the help I could get so I added Jesus to my team. He did his share by keeping me away from meat on Fridays. I also heard a voice from above every time I passed the bottomless candy dish perched on our hutch in the living room, and I get a kick out of the #1 on the back of his jersey. 

The main ingredient in my 2017 Thrive To Stay Alive Weight Loss Tour was a magical trick called "Get off your ass and just walk." So, I did just that. I walked every morning, noon, and night, for the last two months. That, along with a divorce from bread, pastry, and cookies helped me achieve "Biggest Loser" status. When I weighed in at 4:30am May 1st I'd lost 25lbs of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas Cheer. 

I'd be lying if I told you it's no big deal. Because, it is a big deal. It ranks second behind quitting cigarettes some 15 years ago. That was a battle that took everything I had and my first grandson being born to pull off. Being a big loser took second in the importance race but both challenges had an immediate impact in my health. It's something we all know but somehow it becomes an insurmountable wall. I also know how fragile success can be. All it takes is a couple of off days or missed routine and the numbers on that scale can climb faster than Morning Glory's up a lattice wall. What inevitably happens is we revert to old habits and easy excuses. I won't say this times different, I know better. I'm a professional quitter. All I can do is keep reminding myself how hard it was getting this far. Hopefully knowing I need to go a little farther down the scale will keep me motivated and honest. 

The real test came later in the day when I was reveling in my "Biggest Loser" victory. A longtime coworker from the other end of building happened to be heading in the same direction as I was. We were walking side by side, me with my new svelte swagger, when my (ex)friend reached over and patted my stomach and said, "Puttin' on a little weight there, aren't ya bud?" My lottery win day just got a punch in the kisser. I just smiled my big loser smile, walked away and said, "There's always tomorrow." 

Ten more pounds shouldn't be too hard for a loser like me...

Silent Night

Silent Night 

By John R. Greenwood

When men you are responsible for hit a health speed-bump you have to practice what you preach and help fill the void. When you’ve spent 40 years working in every aspect the milk business has to offer, you understand there will be missed holidays. When you’ve been married for 42 years your wife knows what you are about to tell her by the look on your face. Unfortunately the magic wand you use to fix everyone’s problems doesn’t always work when you need it most. That was the case this Christmas. 

My Christmas morning would begin at 1am and include a tractor and a trailer. I would spend the day picking up milk from dairy farms in two counties. Because my time driving the eighteen wheeler is rare, the hardest part for me is backing the trailer into the milk receiving bay. It’s tight and challenging. I’m much better preaching about safe following distances than I am backing up a tractor and trailer. Don’t judge me. 

The optimist in me knows there are advantages of working Christmas morning. There would be front row parking at the plant and no line at the coffee machine. Solitude would be plentiful and welcome.  

By 1:45am I had my equipment pre-tripped, my milk sample cooler filled with ice and I was headed out to my first farm. It was eerily quiet as I pulled out of the plant and on to the highway. I hadn’t passed one car on my way to work and there were none in sight now. As I rumbled through the streets of Saratoga Springs I was able to savor the smorgasbord of red, white, and green Christmas lights. Some were blinking, some glowed bright against the black of night. I had visions of children with their pillows tucked up under their heads, smiling in their sleep,  dreaming of remote-controlled drones, and electronic talking kittens. I imagined pockets of exhausted parents still wrapping and assembling toys, sipping something hot or cold, and sneaking one of Santa’s cookies. With empty streets and minus the distraction of any traffic it was like watching a Christmas movie without sound, screen-less and vivid. My pulse slowed and my heart filled. My breathing smoothed and all my aches and pains disappeared. I felt like I’d received a precious gift, a priceless gift. Suddenly having to work on Christmas turned from regret to gratitude. I felt grateful for my family, my job, and my life. The radio was off but the words to “Silent Night” were filling the cab of my truck. All was calm, all was bright. 

To say I was at ease would be putting it mildly. It was much more than that. Throughout the night  memories of Christmas’ past began streaming through my head. Those earliest Christmas mornings when the excitement is so high you felt as though you might burst with joy. The feeling you got when you peeled back the wrapping paper covered with chubby snowmen and saw they had been hiding the slot car set you never thought Santa would bring. The warmness you felt later that night when you put on the new flannel pajamas your grandparents gave you. At the time you smiled politely and said thank you but quickly set them aside and began digging for something larger and heavier. Once you hit the jackpot. Santa brought a gift so big he had to lean it against the wall with a big ribbon, its steel runners impatiently waiting for a trip to the nearest snow crusted hill. I never remember a bad Christmas as a child. I thank all the Santa’s in my life for that. I was fortunate as a child. I’m fortunate as an adult. Six decades of Christmas memories swirled around and around my head as I went from farm to farm that day. I felt a flood of gratitude for everything life had placed in front of me. Having to work on Christmas Day was not a burden for me it was a gift. 

It was a long day. It was a good day. Traveling the backroads of rural New York on Christmas Day is something that sticks to your ribs. I felt like I was driving through one of those vintage Christmas cards. One with a scene of a farmhouse on a hillside covered with fresh snow. The big red barn off to the side with a yellow glow coming from the windows. Out back in the field cows are huddled together like a football team. A flock of procrastinating geese can be seen cresting the trees in search of a soft cornfield. The family dog standing firm, like a statue barking a friendly tune, letting you know there’s no need to be worried he’s just glad to have someone to talk to. The neighborhood kids gathered on Bacon Hill filling the toboggan one by one, arms wrapped tightly around one another, the way the world should be. It begins to snow in my Christmas card. Big cotton ball flakes begin floating down like fall leaves. My truck sees a snow coated road ahead and it surges with glee knowing it will be the first to make fresh tracks through an empty valley. Presents surround me this beautiful Christmas morning. My family is back at home but in my head visions of them warm me like the embers of a wood stove. 

I know there is much sadness and pain during the holiday season. Not everyone is blessed with bounty. I do not let that thought pass. I embrace my own good fortune while at the same time actively pray for the relief of others.  

When you finish this piece and speed off, remember to take a moment to appreciate everything around you. Whether its family, health, work, or a new pair of socks, if you're here to experience it, you owe it to yourself to stop and reflect on it. I did this Christmas. At each farm I visited I paused for a second, took in the scenery and silence, took in a deep breath, and thanked the person who’s birthday this was for and for all I’d been blessed with.  

Time to go home. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year…

John

Hold On A Second

Hold On A Second

By John R. Greenwood

Hold on a second, where do you think you're going? I was just getting into June when August arrived and blew through the front door. I haven't enjoyed anything but work this summer. Once again May showed up unexpectedly and the next thing you know it's Labor Day and the kids are buying up all the three-ring binders. It doesn't seem fair. I don't think  I've enjoyed a summer since I was a teenager chasing around my life guard (Mrs. G.) girlfriend. SPAC concerts and long walks home after the movies were plentiful. 

Back to my present day missed summer fun. 

I worked hard this summer. I mean I really worked . Injuries and a lack of testosterone in today's males left us as understaffed as a McDonalds at noon. I'm really sick of listening to people in their 20's and 30's complain about sore anything. Since I peaked at 40 I've been told I have arthritis, degenerative disc disease, scoliosis, among other things. I'm now 61 and every morning I get up and creak down the hall gaining momentum and equilibrium as I go. In his new book Roughneck Grace, author Michael Perry compares his morning ritual to a: "wincing stick insect disentangling itself from a flannel cocoon and shuffling off puffy-eyed to the bathroom." 

Somehow at the end of the day I'm still functioning and earning a living without any prescription medications. I know things could sour in an instant and I take nothing for granted. I feel it's important to keep attached to the world. Working for the same company for decades creates a long list of familiar people. People who know who you are and where you live. You've watched their children go from a nursery school to a college. Yesterday you were handing them a coloring book when their father came in to pick up his check. Now they bring them along to take my Defensive Driving Course. You don't walk away from that day to day closeness easily. I like my personal quiet time, but I also embrace the fact that my life has been blessed with hundreds of hard working, generous, and caring people. Why would I want to give that up just so I didn't have to set my alarm anymore? 

What I've discovered about myself these last few months is that I have enjoyed a really good life. I think more of us than we like to admit have, but judging by the whining and complaining I hear, there is a large majority that feel our happiness is the responsibility of others. I could understand if it was the people who are struggling the most that were complaining but it's not. It's the ones who have jobs, and homes, and two cars in the driveway that's seem to feel they deserve more. Happiness and contentment are up to the individual. I feel fortunate to have what I have but I've also worked very hard for it. The mistakes and miscalculations I made were my fault not yours. 

Now it's almost four months after I began writing this and I've muscled through another couple physical setbacks. I'm feeling better today and hoping this is the beginning of another hike up the mountain. Life does that to you. One minute you're having a nightmare, the next minute you're doing a happy dance. It's learning to enjoy the entire package that's the trick. Being here to enjoy it at all should be enough for us, but as you can see by clicking on the remote any time night or day we usually aren't. More, more, more is the world I see. 

Rather than wallow in self pity for having neglected my blog for months I guess it's time to get back up on that sway-back and get busy. I've learned that life won't wait for me, it's leaving with or without me. 

I want to thank Michael Perry and his new book "Roughneck Grace" for winding me up once again. His writing style and stories have been a go-to place for me since I discovered them many years ago. This latest book is a collection of brief essays from his Sunday Wisconsin State Journal column, "Roughneck Grace." I have been using the book as a pre-work relaxation exercise. I do my 5am body workout in the cellar. Forty-five minutes later I emerge with the vigor of a young man.  Then I make a cup of hot coffee, grab my book, turn my reading light on next to the couch and enjoy the best part of my day. Reading Mike's essays is like sitting down with a fresh package of Oreos. You open them knowing the first ones out will be the freshest. You bite off half an Oreo and then stuff the rest right in behind it. Seconds later there's already a few missing. I have to treat this book like I do the Oreos. It's a challenge to pace myself. I sip my coffee read an essay, pause, enjoy, sip, read, enjoy, repeat. You want to stretch out the next 30 minutes to make it feel like an hour. You know the day will be filled with two truck problems, an injured driver, and three delivery mistakes so this relaxation fix needs to hold up for awhile. You could could sit there and eat all the Oreos in one sitting but how will you cope with next week's staff meeting if you finish the book in on Wednesday this week. Six decades gives you lots of practice perfecting this relaxation routine. Ration the Oreos and the essays with care and enjoy them fully. For all you forty-year old kids out there I'm trying to save you some time with a little helpful advice: read, pause, enjoy, sip, read, enjoy, repeat.

"Honey, do we have any more Oreos?"