Early Morning View

The peace that comes from moments like this never seems to last long enough. I need more of them.

Aw, Yeah ...

A couple of years ago, I started listening to big band stations available on the internet, reigniting my love of the musical genre most associated with crooners, old time swing and jazz greats, and early 20th century radio and movies. I usually listen in on Pandora, which gives me a heavy dose of Sinatra, Dorsey, Crosby, Satchmo, and "(fill in the blank) & His Orchestra". I find big band remarkably easy to work to when I need to get into the zone at my day job. It also tends to improve my mood.

Every now and then, though, I just have to lean back and marvel at the pure musical talent on display. As a former clarinetist, I have a strong affinity for pieces featuring Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. Today, I just had to lean back and marvel at a more contemporary artist by the name of Eddie Daniels, in his rendition of "Sing, Sing, Sing". Below is an extended version that kept me in a toe-tappin', head-noddin' trance for about 7 minutes.


All I can say is "Aw, yeah …" Mm mm mm.

Deterring Dilution

Every now and then, I come across an article or a post that bruises my ego in a manner that seems uniquely designed to puncture whatever inflated notion I have of myself as a man. Or at least, the standard that I hold in my mind of what a man should be able to do. I've touched on this topic before, in a post reflecting on the aims of education and honest know-how. Today, a simple post asking "Do you change your own oil?" plunged me into a cistern of doubt about the example I set and whether I am doing enough to provide my boys with the essential skills they will need when at last they are on their own. From the post:

My generation might be the last generation of such men. The generalist has since given way to the specialist. I had a student at the time whose dad was a highly paid hydrologist. To hear it from his son the dad apparently didn't know the business end of a pitchfork from the handle. During parent-teacher days I started to make the acquaintance of the generation of men just behind me. When I suggested home projects they could do with their sons, I usually got a comment that dad simply lacked the requisite skill, not to mention the tools. Apparently, the under fifty crowd is more prone to call a tradesman than to pick up a hammer.

I can see this at work in my own family, across three generations. My dad worked in a garage as a teenager, and through all of my growing-up years, he did almost all of the major fix-it work and maintenance on our car. While I would watch and occasionally assist, it generally wasn't enough to fully develop the skills - in the manner that working in a garage as a mechanic would afford. That said, by the time I left for college, my skills were proficient enough to handle oil and filter changes, spark plugs, timing and a handful of other maintenance requirements on my car. I would do this well after college and into married life, but somewhere along the way I, too, turned the general maintenance over to someone else. Part of it had to do with the regulations involving fluid disposal - when service centers started charging me for disposing oil, I guess I just quit bothering. What can I pass on to my boys? Well, they know how to change a tire, even though they have only done it once. Deepening my chagrin is the knowledge that at their age, I could take apart and reassemble my bike with ease. I haven't even managed to replace their bikes from the storm yet, much less showed them what they need in order to maintain them. It's on my list, like so many other things, and yet the weeks flow by ever so quickly. If I can't pass on basic bike maintenance, I have no hope of passing down basic car maintenance.

I've been wrestling with this lately, as I look at several of the issues we have with the new house that by right, I could make the builder come and correct. Yet part of me rejects the thought of calling the builder out to correct minor mistakes or issues, because frankly I should be able to fix them myself. I'm 42 years old, and there are so many things I just don't know how to do. And yet this is not an excuse for not learning how to do them, or passing that knowledge down to my sons. But I need to be intentional - intentional about learning "manual" skills (in whatever discipline they may be) and involving my children in the learning. And maybe pass on a life lesson or two in the process.

Of course, it all comes back to time and opportunity. That is, I need to make time and create the opportunity. I do spend a fair amount of time with my boys. But our time together should be about more than just entertainment. It should also include equipping. Sigh. I have work to do. In so many ways and in so many areas. But I suspect that the effort alone will be worthwhile.

Four Miles

"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." So said (purportedly) author Jack London. Having struggled recently to gin up any interest in writing, or rather, finding a subject that holds enough interest for me, I find myself wading into the kelp-filled waters of stagnancy. It is quite remarkable, really, for the only one remotely upset about this is me, and I'm not all that disturbed. For too long the browser has been my window to the world, and current events being what they are, I am compelled to retreat to another window offering a new view.

About six weeks ago, I decided to start running. I bought the shoes, the special socks and a GPS watch. In that time, I have logged over 26 miles across ten separate runs. This past Saturday, I hit a new milestone: 4.01 miles in 59:34 minutes. I can now run full quarter-mile stretches with walking breathers in between, and hit a personal best of just under 41 minutes on a 5K stretch. I even signed up for my first "official" race, just a few weeks away.

For most of my training, I have limited myself to the use of a quarter-mile track, mostly because the roads where I live just aren't that safe for running (no shoulders). But I'm finding it tiresome, this merry-go-round routine.

I got a late start Saturday morning, so by the time I arrived at the park, the walkers were out in force on the track. I decided then and there that it was time to shake things up a little. It was time to go after inspiration with a club.

People say that running clears the mind. So far, this has not been my experience. Rather, I simply find my thoughts redirected to my surroundings, the "pain" of the exercise, and the various mini-goals and landmarks that define the transitions between running and walking. I took my warm-up lap around the track, and then let loose across the parking lot, up the road and around the bend, down and around by the public pool, back up the road and around the bend and back to the track for another lap. I found myself stimulated by the simple act of spontaneously deciding to go "that way." So I did it again, but this time took off across the soccer field, back down by the pool, up to the road and then along the fence by the road until I found myself back above the track again. Another lap or two, followed by a cool-down turn, and before I knew it I had gone 4 miles and was feeling surprisingly well. I marveled at the feel of the different surfaces beneath my feet, the unrelenting asphalt, the crunch of gravel, the silence of the dew-drenched grass. I was less enamored by the squish in my toes, an all too obvious consequence of running through wet grass in breathable shoes, but even that sensation did nothing but heighten the experience of the run.

I don't believe I've yet reached the fabled "runner's high," but without question, breaking out of the merry-go-round routine was refreshing. Jack London was on to something. The run may not have cleared my mind, but perhaps it may have helped clear my vision.