Answering the world's most puzzling question

For hundreds or maybe thousands of years philosophers and the world's great thinkers have attempted to find the elusive answers to the important questions of the time. What is the meaning of life? If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it really make a sound? What is the sound made by one hand clapping? Does Santa Claus really fly from rooftop to rooftop or does he merely drop gifts from about twenty thousand feet? Is there life after a Republican takeover of the Presidency? THat one I am not sure about.

Lest I run a fowl of forgetting, the most important question of all might just be......”Why did the chicken cross the road?” For centuries, the world, from the very young to the very old, have sought to find the answer to this puzzling question.

Not being a chicken, I decided to go directly to the source. Approaching Henrietta with great caution I asked the question. “Why?” Her response was a flapping of feathers and a “buk, buk, buk”. But not understanding chicken, I decided to seek the answer elsewhere.

A quick survey at the local grocery store got some strange looks but great answers. Now one would expect the usual responses. But then, there was the occasional 'who cares' or 'none of your business.' People can be so rude. It was just a very simple question! Don't get your tail feathers all twisted.

I think chickens have been very misunderstood. Like... it was the chicken's fault for the outbreak of salmonella poisoning in the Midwest several years ago? Sounds more like a problem created by people in a hurry to make a profit rather than a chicken laying a bad egg. Now if you are expecting a joke here, I am going to disappoint you. What happened was serious and many people could have died. Human error? 

Chickens have become the brunt of many jokes and I don't understand why. What other animal can have it's head cut off and still be able to run around for several minutes? Sound a bit like the Congress Washington sometimes!!

Why would we call our best friends 'chicken' if they refused to take a dare or drink at an underage party or a puff on the joint and then get into a car.. Sounds pretty smart to me.

Poor Chicken Little. All she could do was run around shouting that the sky was falling. Did anyone actually believe her? Remember. The story was written to teach a lesson in 'courage'.  Is anyone listening or just running around with their heads cut off because of the 2016 election resukts?

Like other animals, a chicken can be very loyal to its owner and often becomes the family pets. It recognizes your voice and may greet you at the door each morning. And then on some unsuspecting day...whack with a hatchet and in a few short hours Henrietta appears on the serving platter at the dinner table. No one can eat her though. Who could possibly eat the family pet. My suggestion?. Don't give the chicken a name. Poor Henrietta.

Chickens don't fly very well. I am assuming at one time they were very skilled in the art of flying, but over time they lost the ability to soar with the eagles. I can picture it now,.. five eagles in formation lead by.... a chicken. Makes for an interesting image!

So....back to the original question. Why did the chicken cross the road? Perhaps it was to prove that if you need a new challenge and a fresh place to start, crossing the road may be the place to begin! (But before crossing the street, even if you are a chicken,be sure to look both ways, )

Does spelling count?

         When I waz a kid, I skipt skool a lot and nevr learnd to rite or spell good. (Actually, I learned how to spell the word ‘good’ because it rhymed with shood.)  I usually skipt on Mondays and Fridays. On Mondays, the teacher assined the new list of spelling words to studee for the week and on Friday, we had the test. But I was usually abcent. The other kidz made fun of me and the more fun they made, the more I skipt.

          Sometimes when I was in skool, the teacher would tell us we had to rite  something. The little blond hair girl who sat in front of me would always raise her hand and ask, “Does spelling count?” The other kidz would laff and I would slide down in my chair trying to hide under my desk.

         One day someone said to me, “Do not worry if you can not spell well. Someday there will be a machine that will correct all of your spelling mistakes. The machine will be called a computer and it will have something called spell check.”

          “Wow,” I said and decided at that point that I would just drop out and wait for this new machine. It was two hard to learn to spell and the other kidz just made fun of me anyhow.

           Time passed and I grew older. That person who told me about spell check was right. The computer, with spell check, did correct my spelling errors although I think the machine was sometimes overwhelmed even by my mistakes. But I began to realize that how I spelled, spoke and wrote was as important as how I dressed or combed my hair. I began to understand why the kids made fun of me. They thought I was stupid. But I really wasn’t.

          This is not necessarily a true story, although spelling was difficult for me. But the feelings and emotions expressed are felt by many who struggle with poor spelling and are made fun of in school.

          Does spelling count? You bet it does! How you speak, write and spell tells just as much about you as what you wear or where you live. Misspellings on a resume, job application or cover letter will not go unnoticed and can mean the difference between getting an interview or not.

           The other day I received a letter in the mail. Although it was a form letter and had been mailed to many others including me explaining some changes in an insurance policy, it contained two very obvious spelling errors. Does spelling count?  You bet it does! What happened to the spell check?

          What really concerns me is the shift to texting. Shortened phrases and abbreviations are rapidly taking the place of complete sentences and correct spelling. Can you imagine texting a cover letter for a job application?

          Don’t get me wrong. I am still  not the perfect 'speller'. Learning to spell words correctly is difficult for many. It takes time and practice. No shortcuts here. It requires study, study and more study.

          Now, if only I had only spent more time in school on Mondays and Fridays, perhaps I would know how to add and subtract better too.

After some time away, I am slowly working my way back to...500 words all the time..... and will begin posting again on a regular basis after the first of the year. I hope you will join me.
Thanks

Do these jeans make my butt look big?

 I have decided that if, for some strange reason, every pair of jeans in the country and the world were to disappear, there would be 'a lot' of people walking around “butt naked.” I came to this conclusion as I sat in the parking lot at the local grocery store, motor running to keep warm,  waiting for my wife as she pick up a couple of items for dinner  (like all the other retired folks).

   It was late afternoon, bitterly cold and the store was very busy as people rushed home from work. As I watched them race in and out of the store ( it was cold!) I realized that almost all were wearing some form or degree of 'jeans.' Many pairs were old and tattered. Some were new. Christmas gifts I might assume. Even gentlemen with shirts and ties were wearing 'jeans'. No black or gray slacks here. But the sneakers??? Not sure about that!

   The story goes that the term 'jeans' comes from the word 'Genoa' and referred to a cloth that came from Italy. Originality it was used to make pants for sailors, being a thick blend of linen and wool. The problem with linen was that it needed to be pressed in order to look neat. And you know the Navy.

   Years later jeans were being produced in England and were made primarily of wool. And the year? It was the 1700's. Later, a new fabric was introduced, denim, and the rest is history.

   By the late 19^th century America got into the 'jeans' business and the most well-know maker was a gentleman by the name of Levi Strauss. Along with Jacob Davis they would change the industry forever. (It was Davis' invention of the metal rivets to keep the pockets from ripping  off.)

 ' Jeans' hit the beginning of their everlasting popularity by the 1950's . New companies emerged on the scene and as usual, the movie industry played a major role in their success as the "rebels" on the big screen all wore jeans as a statement of "rebellion."  James Dean ring a bell?

   I can remember my fist pair of 'jeans'; dark denim blue and stiff as a board. But I could only wear them around the house, never in public, according to my mother and definitely not to school.

   'Jeans' were made for the 60's and 70's and the hippy movement. They were to become the symbol of individuality and an independent spirit as they took on new shapes and designs.  And by 1970, the dark blue had given way to the new look of “washed-out” and 'well worn'. Bet you can still find pairs of  'jeans' buried at Woodstock.

   From the early 1980's to the present day, 'jeans have continued to expand their roll into high fashion and design. There are very few who do not have at least one pair of jeans as a major part of the wardrobe whether they be designer or regular, distressed or destroyed, ultra low or pencil thin.

   I have several pairs of 'jeans', now that I am retired. I have a “dress pair” to wear with a nice shirt and sport coat, several pair that I wear when working around the house and mowing the lawn, one pair with the mandatory tears and worn out knee and one pair spotted with paint. ( I personally like the shirt, sport coat and 'jean' look with boat mocs.)

   The future of “jeans” looks sound and secure, regardless of "how big your butt is." And besides, if 'jeans' were, to all of a sudden to disappear from the face of the earth, I am not sure how pretty a sight  would be!! Could give  new meaning to the term " ugly butt naked!"

The cold within

    Every once and a while a book, article or poem crosses my path and attracts my attention. What I have come to appreciate since becoming part of the journalistic world is how difficult it sometimes can be to put thoughts down on paper and have them make sense to the reader. I know what I want to say, but the challenge becomes selecting the words so others understand my thoughts. It is easy to come up with words. Our vocabulary has too many of them. It is more difficult to choose the ones that express the emotion and passion I wish to share.

   I have come to admire those writers who make the art of writing seem so effortless. Whether it is a news story or one of these crazy columns, it has sharpened my writing skills and given me a new understanding of how difficult it can be to express oneself in written words.

   I am always on the lookout for something that causes me to pause, ponder the message and challenge my thinking. It is somewhat of an test for my personal grounding and values.

   Several years ago I came across a poem. I had all but forgotten about it until I found packed away in a folder with some meaningless piece of paper as I cleaned and straighten up the garage. So much for my appreciation of literature, right?

   As I read it again for the first time in many years, I was struck by its message, simple, yet a revelation about people and human behavior. A cold chill ran up and down my spine ,along with that “aha” moment, as I thought about the sticks of wood that I often hold in my hand.

   I do not remember how the poem came into my possession or anything about the writer other than his name. I believe I was told it was written by a high school student.  Whether that is true or not, I don't know. But regardless of his age, the message is insightful and packed with some powerful life lessons.

   So for your reading pleasure..............

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold,

Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.

Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,

For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way, saw one not from his church,

And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch,

Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich.

The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,

And how to keep what he had earned from lazy\, shiftless poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,

For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,

Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin,

They didn't die from the cold outside, they died from the the cold within.

Jay Patrick Kinney

It's off to the races

                                         

It usually begins around 7:30 on a Saturday morning

   We live in what one might classify as a residential area. There are lots of homes in the neighborhood. Most people take pride in their homes and one way of showing that pride is by keeping the lawns mowed and Saturday morning seems to be the morning of choice to mow. By 8 AM the air is filled with the sounds of lawn mowers. I am not talking talking about just two or three, but more like 10 or 11 and a quick spin through the neighborhood confirms just how busy everyone is.

   It may sound strange, but I enjoy cutting the grass. No, I don't cut a design of the Boston Red Sox in my front yard to annoy my 'Yankee fan' neighbor and I probably don't have the best looking grass to begin with. Sure, I'll throw a bit of seed around each Spring, but I am not big on fertilizers and other chemicals, especially with a dog.    But after the dandelions are gone and the mowing is complete, it is one of those activities where you can look back and say... OMG, I missed a spot with the lawnmower! Where did I put the weed-whacker?

   In the early Spring there are some folks in the neighborhood who seem to have weekly visits from the lawn care folks, posting their little warning signs about staying off the grass because of all the chemicals they just added. A representative from the company will often knock on my door and politely ask if I wish to engage in their services for a mere $100 each week, They assure me that I can have the best looking lawn in the neighborhood. Does it really look that bad?

   Truth is I am a mulcher. I have a lawn mower that cuts and mulches at the same time, returning the fresh cuttings back to the earth where they will eventually replenish the soil with their “rich nutrients” and, of course, all those last remaining dandelion parts and pieces. It's never to early to get ready for next year's crop.

   For those of you who know my lawn, it is not always the easiest to “manicure”. I do have a riding lawnmower that pretty much takes care of the front yard and leaves a pattern of nice even stripes across the front of the house, 'kinda' like the look of the outfield at Fenway.

   But the back yard is a much different story and when I get ready to work in the yard, I need to allow for at least a couple of hours, which includes weed-whacking around the many hostas and all the trees. We live somewhat in the woods.

   As the lawn and garden season approached this year, despite the mild winter, I decided to finally have the mower serviced. It had been a while and it was time to replace the blades that have hit their share of rocks and tree roots over the past couple years. It is not the easiest lawn to mow.

   But with the new blades, a new spark plug and fresh oil, the lawn looks pretty good so far and I am sure almost everyone in the neighborhood is commenting, saying that I have finally cut my lawn.

   Seriously. I do like to mow the lawn, to get outside and enjoy the sun and warm weather and work in the garden. To date we have had some nice early Spring days, but lately the warmer weather seems to be staying away. (This past winter really spoiled us! It was so mild.)

   One more thing. Our yard is more that just 'somewhat green' grass. I already mentioned the hostas, more than 100. But we have some beautiful gardens too. It would take a bit of time to describe the amount of time and work that goes into the gardens. So, I will let a picture or two speak those thousand words. Kudos to my wife.

   So if you happen to be riding through Pittsfield sometime soon, just turn left on to Birchwood Terrace and enjoy the view.