Winter 2019-2020, with exception of an early foot of snow, has been benign. It think it is because I am prepared for winter in ways I’ve never been prepared before.

My little SUV, a silver AWD Dodge Journey has the very best snow tires on the market. I keep the gas tank full…just in case…and I carry a new set of tire chains in the back. I have extra gloves, a space blanket, a real blanket, about two dozen hand-warmers, water, food bars, a cell phone charger, a tow strap, jumper cables, and a basic set of tools. And that’s just for running around town.

I am also the proud owner of a new electric snow blower that works pretty well at clearing sidewalks and decks. Parking areas take a little longer than I had hoped, but it still gets the job done…as long as you don’t freeze out first.

After last winter’s three feet or so of snow, I knew I had to have a roof rake for pulling snow off the roof before it melted and formed nasty ice dams. (So far…1-21-2020…I haven’t needed it.)

I own a brand new pair of snow pac boots which sit proudly inside the back door while a new snow shovel leans against the side of my house ready for use.  The snow shovel saw limited service during that early storm I mentioned, but the snow boots have yet to walk outside.

I keep wondering what this winter would have been like…so far…if I had not prepared for it. Could have been a real bugger. I’m thinking, however, my preparation guaranteed a mild winter. It may be like washing your car to guarantee a rain storm.

New boots, new snow shovel, new roof rake, new snow blower and no snow. I might be on to something. Now, about next winter, I’m thinking new snow pants, new parka, new snowmobile…or maybe a winter in Mesquite, Nevada.

Rod

After the first few months of dorm life, the excitement of being in college and the silly antics of college freshmen simply wore off. (I never understood why it was fun to put a flat can of lighter fluid on the floor just under the outer edge of my room door, step on it to squirt of line of liquid into my room…and then light it. I was pretty startled the first time to see a line of fire racing across the floor of my room. It quickly burned out, thank goodness. And I could never see the fun in setting off the fire alarm in the wee hours of the morning. (I do confess to antics of my own, and to a couple of noisy parties in my room, but I managed to study enough to keep from being kicked out for lack of academic prowess. And I never set anyone’s room on fire.)

By Spring Term, there were a lot of empty rooms in my building because the worst offenders had flunked out or been kicked out of school, one of whom was sent away when he managed to set the curtains of someone’s room on fire with the “old lighter fluid” trick. And the door was locked. And there wasn’t anyone in the room to stomp the fire out. And fire department was called…because the door was locked. And the dorm mother let the fire department guys in so they could squirt a fire extinguisher all over the room.

So, by Spring Quarter I could actually experience an hour of quiet in which to study. Nevertheless, my buddy Dave and I had enough of dorm life and decided to move off campus. And we did. We ate our meals at the cafeteria because they were already paid for, but we spent our evenings in our very own private space…private except for an occasional quiet Friday night gathering.

We did get called to the office of the Dean of Students to be informed we could NOT move out of the dorm, but the Dean was mollified when we pointed out we had already paid our dorm fees and were eating in the cafeteria. I decided later it wasn’t a question of the college looking out for us. It was a question of money.

The phenomenon of empty dorm rooms also held sway for small apartments near campus. Some students ran out of money, some flunked out, and a few actually graduated. We looked at several small apartments before renting one. In our search, we found the interior rooms in most of the apartments were painted pink. Pink is supposed to be a soft color…a pastel, but somehow the pink we saw was harsh, and it glared at us and almost dared us to be critical.

It took me a while, but I finally figured it out. Pink isn’t a common choice of color…and in those days paint came ready mixed in cans. None of that computer formula mixing jazz existed. You bought your color right off the shelf. And pink wasn’t a favorite of most homeowners. So the stock of gallon cans of pink paint grew and grew until the store put it on sale. Then the landlords moved in and bought it…at a cheap price. I can’t help but think the landlords banded together and bought all of it each time it was on sale.

After a few months of living in a pink apartment, I never considered pink for any room in any of the apartments or homes I lived in for the next sixty years. Nope. None of that Landlord Pink for me, thank you. (Although one of our daughters did paint her room a “soft” pink. I think I asked her to never leave her door open.)

Rod

A little nonsense…or another way to amuse myself.

Years ago I read a small book about color. I don’t know why now. Maybe because I was nibbling at the idea of being an artist. (That was before I discovered…or at least before my art teacher discovered…I was a little color blind.) How I remember the author’s name after more than sixty years is a mystery, but remember I do. The author was Faber Birren.

He proposed the notion of treating the mentally ill by placing patients in rooms painted in calm colors…pastels and cool blues and greens. (At the time I thought it was interesting, but I was more attracted to the notion I could tell what a female companion was thinking by the color of her dress.)

I’ll explain in a minute why, but I recently went looking for his book. I didn’t have much hope it would still be in print, but by gollies, there it was on Amazon, sporting a bright, new cover. It’s a fresh edition, titled “Color Psychology and Color Therapy.” (Since Mister Birren died in 1980, and since Amazon shows a 2010 copyright, I imagine someone is looking out for him.)

Why, you might ask, go looking for an obscure work by an obscure author? It’s all because of my black baseball cap, the one with “Cabela’s” above the visor. It’s solid black.

Normally, I get a lot of smiles and friendly nods…and little kids in shopping carts snare me with their eyes and then bless me with a smile. But that’s when I wear the white baseball cap with Clock Tower logo over the visor. On days when I wear the black cap, I’ve noticed a decided drop in smiles and friendly nods…and one little kid even ignored me altogether.

I’m not ready to declare a definitive answer because there just isn’t enough data, but now if I’m going out, I have to decide on the black cap or the white cap. I’ll try to identify all the variables…sunshine…day of week…how close to a holiday…morning or evening…and keep a “White Cap, Black Cap ” log. I’m pretty sure I know which cap is friendly, but I’ll try to keep an open mind.

All I need is a public space…like a Fred Meyer or a Wal Mart. Maybe I’ll make a circuit around the outer edge of the store with the white cap on and then switch t0 black and make another circuit…to see if the color makes any difference in cordiality.

Of course, I could try wearing my white Tiger Woods golfing cap and see if that makes a difference. If anyone wants to join me in this nonsense, to help me test the notion people might react to different colored caps, let me know what you discover.

Rod

P.S. Birren wasn’t apparently much interest in the color white. Black he thought to be ominous. Maybe.

Recently, as I packed for a two night stay in a cabin at Diamond Lake, I was struck by the realization that it was taking a lot more time to pack than it used to. There are just a heck of a lot more items to take along.

Pill minder: check. Hearing aid batteries: check. Cell phone charger and cell phone: check. Credit card: check. Toothbrush and toothpaste: check. Extra socks: check.  Camera: check. Binoculars: check. Polaroid glasses: check. Zinc oxide: check. And so it went. It all filled two carry-all bags. I piled those in the back seat, along with two extra jackets…just in case…and a sleeping bag…also, just in case.

By the time I loaded my  fishing gear, the back of my pickup was a clutter of road-trip tool boxes, extra water, a cooler (full of snack bars), an axe, a bucket and a shovel. I was so intent on not forgetting anything, I nearly left my fishing pole sitting on the bench in my garage. And that reminded me to check for my fishing license.

My three fishing partners agreed we would eat our meals at the lodge restaurant, so planning for food was unnecessary. That’s why all four of us each brought an extra cooler with coffee, creamer, cookies, bananas, and assorted snacks. Sort of a “just in case” array…most of which we took back home when the trip was over. (I think we could have easily fed ourselves for several days from the coolers.)

It was enough to trigger memories of my childhood, and to take me back to a simpler time. Often in summer, when I finished my Saturday chores, I’d stuff some dried prunes in the pocket of my jacket, along with a twist of salt in waxed paper, grab a handful of matches, strap on my hunting knife, grab my .22 and a box of shells, and then head for the hills in behind the house…all in about five minutes. Simple, efficient, fast. No clutter whatsoever.

Now, I worry if I forget to take my cell phone with me to the grocery store in my nifty SUV. Progress? Probably. I know my boots are better now than the moccasins I once made…and which gave out on me about five miles back in the hills. But that’s a story for another time.

Rod

I don’t think I’m unique when I confess I spent some time as a young man asking why I was here, what was I here to do…looking for the answer to the big question: What is the meaning of life?

All I can say for certain is I didn’t find the meaning of life in religion, or in beer, or in the baser pursuits. I’ll confess I have as yet to find a satisfactory definition, and I envy those who find meaning in religion. But, I’ll also confess the big question didn’t seem to matter so much after my children were born. I knew then what my job was: to nurture, to protect and to love my family. For a time that seemed enough.

My questions about the meaning of life didn’t really emerge again until after my children were grown. For a time, when they began to bring me grandchildren, I set the big question on the back burner again. But as my grandchildren mature and have children of their own, my “job” becomes less and less necessary, and I find I’m back again searching for the meaning of life again.

I buy books with catchy titles like “Chasing Mystery,” or “Man’s Search for Meaning,” or “The Lost Years of Jesus.” Good books written by people who might just have caught a glimpse of the answer to the big question, but who can’t really explain their insights to me. I read and ponder and still come up dry.

I don’t despair, because a lot of people brighter than I am have spent a lot more time in the same search. But if forced into a corner by logic and by intuition, I finally confess I believe the meaning of life is defined by how we choose to lead our lives. Who we marry, gives meaning to our lives. How we choose to deal with adversity and loss gives meaning to our lives. How we deal with success and failure gives meaning to our lives. How we love others also gives meaning to our lives. And what we value gives meaning to our lives.

One man who glimpsed the meaning of life is Viktor E. Frankl, a concentration camp survivor. He was a bright man who’s last edition of his story of life in a concentration camp is called, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” It’s not about the horrors of concentration camps, but how some people rose above the squalor and degradation. It’s available on Amazon at a reasonable price. If you are among those still chasing an answer to big question, you might find his book very useful. In the meantime, if you already have the answer to the big question, I’d love to hear from you.

In God We Trust

Rod

Until my old friend Randal Kelley died, I hadn’t realized just how important it was to me that he remain among the living. Friends from my sophomore year of college, we let geography and occupations and just plain old life see to the business of infrequent face-to-face visits. Christmas cards and phone calls kept the candle of our friendship alive…after a fashion.

But we always knew, or at least believed, we would get together again…one of these day. And then I got the sad phone call from his wife Penny. I’m not kicking myself for not making the trip to Port Townsend, but I’ll miss the notion I could visit with Randal again…one of these days.

Sometimes when I’m alone…and no one can hear…I talk to old friends long dead as if they are still living, and as if they can hear me. (What if they can? Wouldn’t that be a hoot!)

Based on memories of early times, I might stare at my tackle box and say, “Well, Benny, what should I use to catch one of these Diamond Lake rainbows?” (We had a great trip there years ago. Caught lots of fish trolling flies.) Or I’ll look in Dad’s old tool box and say, “Well, Dad, let’s see if you have the right size socket for this job.” (And the right one is usually there.)

I don’t know if there is a moral to the story, but I do know old friends and memories of old friends are one of my psychic life rafts. Now, if those who yet survive just didn’t live so far away…

No, that won’t do. It’s time to make the rounds again this year. Shoot, I might even get on a plane if it’s necessary in order to see old friends…before we run out of time…one of these days.

Rod