Picking up nails

[A repeat from January 8, 2017] When I walk from my house to the train station in the morning, I walk in the street.  Every day.  I like the street.  There’s little traffic and while conscientious folks hoof on the sidewalk with a 48 inch path, I have my own white carpet boulevard – 20 feet wide.  I walk against traffic.  Near the curb.  And as I walk, I keep my eyes peeled.  I’ve found coins, bills, wallets, watches, cell phones, jewelry, a diamond ring (yep).  And nails.

Life for me started in the one room attic of a Chicago bungalow on Byron Street.  Watching for pennies (and nails) in the street was inspired by my parents (see post of August 2, 2012).  So I still pick up the pennies, nickels and dimes.  And I still pick up nails.  Whenever.  Wherever.  On my walk to the train station – or downtown.  Or on vacation.  I stoop over and pick ’em up.  The file cabinet in my office at home sports a few of the more exceptional specimens (including a 9 inch monster).  

Why do I still pick up nails?  Maybe it’s my upbringing (we can’t escape some things).  Maybe it’s the Boy Scout in me.   I don’t want anyone to drive over one of those sharpies and have a (potentially big) problem.  Over the years, I’ve picked up hundreds of nails.  And pitched them in the garbage.  And displayed a few on my file cabinet.    

We are told that small things we do can make a big difference.  I know that everyone who reads these words – does small things.  Big things.  And more.  Picking up nails doesn’t sound like much.  But who knows? 

AED

[A repeat from 12/6/2014] I learned that a good friend of mine — a lawyer — had a heart attack.  He nearly died.   He was standing at the elevator with a bunch of other lawyers.  And he collapsed.  None of the lawyers knew how to use the AED unit parked on the wall — since none had attended their firm-sponsored AED course.  Fortunately a staff person who had taken the firm’s AED course — came out and helped save his life.  

How many of you have taken AED training?  Heimlich training?  CPR?  First aid?  I have discussed this topic in the past but I believe it’s always time for a renewed kick in the caboose. . . . . 

In my post of October 21, 2011, I recounted that the best course I took in college was an intensive year-long program on advanced/Civil Defense first aid training.  It has come in very handy over the years. A few years ago when I looked at the AED sign on the train heading to my office, something clicked.  I oughta figure out what this “AED” thingee is.  So while having lunch at my desk – I logged onto a YouTube video which told the story of the AED (see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfvu5FCQs6o ).  I now have a better idea now of what an AED does.  And how it works.  I would urge those reading this post to spend 4 minutes to learn about the AED.

And while you’re at it, why not learn the Heimlich Maneuver? I’ve done it twice – successfully. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CgtIgSyAiU&feature=kp

A baby choking? See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUSnEpheYkY

How about CPR (“Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation”)? See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUhUiPeEX-8

Heavy bleeding? See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMMfl0wCxHM

Rescue breathing?  See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu9WTPOCxwU  

If you watch all of these videos (if they don’t “link” just paste them in your browser), you will spend about 40 minutes. But it may be the most valuable 40 minutes you ever spend.  Someone – maybe you – will be eternally grateful.

Miles Ahead

[A repeat from September 3, 2015]  Donna and I were driving in Wisconsin with our 3-1/2 year old granddaughter.  We talked.  And talked. . . . .   There’ s a field of corn.” “There’s a field of wheat.” “Those are cherry trees.” “Look at the cows. They’re called Holsteins.”  Some terms we discussed in Spanish.  We went to a petting farm and fed the pigs and goats and cows. Learned about Texas longhorns, Brahma bulls, sunflowers, wells (complete with bucket), we counted bags of corn used to feed the goats and sheep, we looked at wild turkeys, discussed the purpose of silos, and . . . . . and on. And on.  All in one day. . . .

I pondered the fact that our granddaughter at age 3-1/2 is perhaps several miles ahead of disadvantaged kids — who do not have the “hands on” tutelage of parents, grandparents, caregivers and friends. I read an article that said that said that children from middle to upper socio-economic families will hear millions of words more than children born into poverty.  And this abbondanza of words forms a critical base for future learning, performance and advancement.   Add to this that children from middle and upper income families receive hundreds of thousands more affirmations of encouragement and fewer of discouragement (the reverse metric from welfare families).

Betty Hart and Todd Risley penned an incisive book on this vexing  situation:  The Early Catastrophe:  The 30 Million Word Gap by Age 3.   The number of words a child hears in the first few years of life is tied directly to educational achievement.  And is inversely proportional to problems a child may encounter later in life.  The big question is what do we do about it?    

The Turtle in the Tire Track

(A repeat from 2/13/2012; also published in the Quay County Sun – August 3, 2016)   In 1969 I was in Tucumcari, NM. I’ve always been interested in Indian artifacts so I took a drive to “look around.” Outside of town, I took the long road of the Chappell Spade Ranch along the Canadian River. I pulled up to the ranch house where a man was standing. I asked if there was a place one might find Indian artifacts and was told “Mr. Griggs” might help but he was out walking. “Out there” the man pointed. I was driving my 1964 Ford Falcon Sprint – ragtop. Top down. So I headed off into the desert — bouncing along on a two tire track “road.”

After a while, I found Mr. Griggs about 2 miles out walking with a young girl who was on horseback.   I asked about artifacts and he shrugged. “You just have to look.” Big help he was. He asked if I’d drive him back to the ranch – so I said “sure” and he hopped in.

We came to the top of a rise. Below, the two tire track ruts were full of water from rain the night before. He said “you better gun it or we’ll get stuck.” So I did. Whoosh! Down the hill. And then I suddenly jammed on the brakes – skidding and splashing to a stop with water up to my hubcaps. He said “what the. . .” I got out of the car and about 20 feet in front of us a big turtle was cooling himself. In the water. In the tire track. If I’d continued, I would have crushed him. I held up the turtle to show Mr. Griggs. I set the turtle on the side and got back in the car. He stared at me. I looked at him somewhat defensively and said “I didn’t want to kill the turtle.” He nodded and thought a moment “You did the right thing. You want Indian artifacts? Go that way” – he pointed.  

I slushed out of the water and we lurched across the desert in another two tire track “road.” And we stopped, climbed to the top of a butte and he showed me an Indian burial ground. He told me the story of the Anasazis who had lived there. I found some neat things – some of which I took. Today, I have in my office a well-used mano (corn grinding stone) – one of three I found that day along with a metate (the stone on which corn was ground). Every time I walk in my office – and glance at the mano – I think of the turtle in the tire track . . . . and that very special day.

Thanksgiving

In my post of November 11, 2011, I mentioned an occasion when I was asked by a friend “what is your favorite day?”  Quirky question but I thought – and replied “Thanksgiving.”   It’s a long weekend.  Family time.  Great food (stuffing – my favorite).  And this year – the 10 and 1 Detroit Lions on television as usual versus the ill-fated Bears.  And Christmas is on the way.   Christmas??  YIKES!!  So I asked my friend his favorite day.  “December 21st” he responded.  The day of the winter solstice — when the days begin to get longer.  I can relate. . . . .     

Well, it’s another November.   Thirteen years later.  Wow!  The days are often slow.  And arduous.  But the years go quickly.  Faster it seems every year.    

I hope that Thanksgiving is a favorite day for you.  But think of Thanksgiving as more than just a day.  Thanksgiving can inspire an attitude as well.  An every day attitude.  Of gratitude.   For family. Friends. And so much more. My best wishes to you for a wonderful, happy and blessed Thanksgiving weekend.   

Faster horses. Younger women. . . .

I like a few Country Western ballads like “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” “She Thinks my Tractor’s Sexy” “Ladies Love Country Boys” “The Boys Round Here” and “Beer for my Horses” (see August 16, 2024). One of the top 100 songs selected by Western Writers of America debuted in December 1975 — “Faster Horses.” There’s even a Wikipedia article about this number.

The song was written and sung by Tom T. Hall (1936-2021). The premise is that a young poet enters a bar and meets an old cowboy who shares with him “the mysteries of life.” These mysteries of life are fourfold: “faster horses; younger women; older whiskey; and more money.”

Now if one were to ask me what the “mysteries of life” are, I might be inclined to say something like naps, spaghetti carbonara, golf and funny jokes. But I got to thinking about the old cowboy’s advice. Now I gave up “faster horses” when I ended my rodeo career in Estes Park, Colorado, at the age of 12. I like “younger women” very much – and my wife Donna proves it. She is precisely 30 days younger than I am (she just went “Phew“). The “older whiskey” business I gave up 53 years ago. Red wine though? Mmmm. . . . I do enjoy. As to “more money,” I can’t disagree. I don’t think anyone else can either. It does come in handy. . . . .

Check out Tom T. Hall’s explanation of the “mysteries of life.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnvMcX95G20 What are your mysteries of life?

Who may I say is calling?

[A repeat from March 8, 2015] When you place a telephone call and the receptionist says “who may I say is calling,” you give your name.  Right? 

One day years ago, I got this question when I called a close friend.   My eyes narrowed and I responded “this is his parole officer.”   A few weeks later, I identified myself as “his tap dance teacher.”   A few weeks ago, I said “I’m from the Garden Shop and I wanna know – do I dump this load of manure on his driveway or in the front yard.”   

I called my Boy Scout pal Doctor Bill in Lexington, Ky.  “Who’s calling please?”  I said I was putting the new roof on his house.  Well – patients took a back seat for the moment.  He quickly answered and said “WHAT??”   Apparently he’d just asked for a quote on a new roof and was debating the subject.  We all gets the “who’s calling please” business and — maybe it’s just me — one day I decided to be different.  “My name is Marv McClurg from the Reader’s Digest.  I’m calling about his million dollar prize.”  And I hear in the background . . . sir – this man’s calling about your million dollar prize.   

At this point, when I call and say “This is Nelson Snodgrass from the White House,” receptionists will giggle and tell the recipient – always with a smile – “Scott’s on the phone. . . .”

Baseball in Heaven

[An oldie from April 12, 2012] Two very old men lived together.  They loved baseball.  Each morning they would get the newspaper and read the stories about the day’s games.  They studied the box scores, statistics and players.  In the afternoon, they would watch baseball games on television and occasionally go to the games when their team was in town.  In the evening, they’d talk over dinner about the games, the players and statistics.  And each night, they would dream — dream of baseball.

They knew their days were numbered and so they made a pact.  When one of them died, he would do his best to “come back” to let his friend know if there was baseball in heaven. 

One cold gray morning, one old man did not arise.  He had passed away in the night.  He was buried but his friend carried on.  Reading, studying, watching and dreaming about baseball.  

A few weeks later, the old man got up and shuffled into the kitchen.  Who should be sitting at the kitchen table — his old friend!   “My friend!  How I’ve missed you.  How are y. . . . . wait! Is there baseball in heaven?”    The friend smiled — “I have good news and I have bad news for you.” 

Well what’s the good news.  Is there baseball in heaven?”  His friend responded “Is there!  I’m on a team with Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb.  We played yesterday.”  The old man smiled and said “What’s the bad news?” 

His friend looked at him “You’re pitching tomorrow.” 

Deja vu

It’s gotta be fifty years ago. I was driving for the first time on Green Bay Road going north toward Highland Park, Illinois. All was going well until. . . . whoa! I had this weird feeling that I had been there – on this road – among these homes – at some point in the past. I looked around. It was a feeling that I had not experienced before. And since then, every time we drive up that way, the same sensation knocks on my door. And as we drive through – it exits. Why? Who knows. . . .

The term “deja vu” was first used in 1876 by Emile Boirac – a French philosopher. His book L’avenir des Sciences Psychiques offered deja vu as a remembrance of a memory. An experience from the past that prompts a feeling of familiarity in the future.

There are numerous theories on what causes deja vu: neurological anomaly, mental disorders, genetics, mild form of epilepsy, certain drug use and the list goes on.

The good news is that more than two thirds of all people experience deja vu. The experience of deja vu is interestingly more common among those who are younger, have higher education, people who travel, watch films and are able to recall dreams. Up until I began researching for this post, I was under the impression that deja vu was just an occasional sensation. It appears that the comments above may be just the tip of the iceberg. . . . .

So this guy. . . .

[A repeat from September 29, 2021] So this guy goes to the doctor.  He’s nervous and fidgeting.  The doctor says “do you smoke?”   The guy responds “yeah – four packs a day.”  The doctor responds “well, if you don’t quit smoking, you’re going to be dead in five years.”  The guy is wiggling in his chair – he says “But Doc – I’m nervous.  I gotta have something to keep me calm.”  The doctor thought for a moment “why don’t you chew toothpicks?” 

So the guy quit smoking and started chewing toothpicks.  Three boxes of toothpicks a day.  He died five years later.  Dutch elm disease. . . .