tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40228976926971963072024-03-06T22:34:12.111-05:00Raining IguanasRaining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.comBlogger660125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-16526459398562831012024-01-07T14:20:00.004-05:002024-01-07T14:22:53.468-05:00Cutting The Cord <br /><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Cutting The Cord </b></span></div><div>By John R. Greenwood </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQoDxKrXNnoAbGZrC0W_jZve101fjNYN15khomMphYfIfn91UmHCPVHFmhoKqZCtNkDgiVLx_7htYmWkSUVtckD2422_0Sm3PQBpETTvAxyZzPwbeITQROTE_Hq1sFOrJSv4alXcHlQnOuik9dxS_NrxR2hLL-QQhYsPpx1Bk2eUW_pJmeziI9eHsacU/s4032/IMG_7223.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQoDxKrXNnoAbGZrC0W_jZve101fjNYN15khomMphYfIfn91UmHCPVHFmhoKqZCtNkDgiVLx_7htYmWkSUVtckD2422_0Sm3PQBpETTvAxyZzPwbeITQROTE_Hq1sFOrJSv4alXcHlQnOuik9dxS_NrxR2hLL-QQhYsPpx1Bk2eUW_pJmeziI9eHsacU/w300-h400/IMG_7223.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Do you have a jackknife on you?” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Is it sharp?” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The answer was seldom yes and yes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I sure do miss those days…</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-12367309872998146212023-07-09T21:04:00.002-04:002023-07-09T21:07:43.393-04:00Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About</b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnBhbsfHisSyL3JyBKLuQTLkggJvJqBIPjktjCPYKaT7dOKn2HrKfzKgFqPCLfApQAjJAsPamtMTC8_c85Yb4yRGidAQMb4QypjZ4tVg42iuZ1s0ABF_q98kMpFkKVsyY4OjFEjXv_WZVwPiMX4e96LjaFsL8H_oE1PBOtliECpf1_p6Z7lkWYdTTz3o/s4032/C0FBD0D5-CAFE-44AD-AA12-11BDCA214144.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnBhbsfHisSyL3JyBKLuQTLkggJvJqBIPjktjCPYKaT7dOKn2HrKfzKgFqPCLfApQAjJAsPamtMTC8_c85Yb4yRGidAQMb4QypjZ4tVg42iuZ1s0ABF_q98kMpFkKVsyY4OjFEjXv_WZVwPiMX4e96LjaFsL8H_oE1PBOtliECpf1_p6Z7lkWYdTTz3o/w480-h640/C0FBD0D5-CAFE-44AD-AA12-11BDCA214144.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Just when you thought it was safe to go outside, another warning appears. Low coolant in your radiator, low air in your tires, and low-flying planes in your backyard all add up to a life filled with warning signs. The problem is no one pays attention. I should say no one cares. Every day is like a game of roulette. I even started to write Russian roulette, but any word that surfaces a vision of crazy Vladimir makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">How do we navigate a world filled with landmines of warnings and fear while maintaining some semblance of normalcy? You have to walk a tightrope of common sense without falling prey to agoraphobia. It's real, and it's spreading like a Canadian wildfire. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Personally, I take a lot of deep breaths and steps back, always searching for a "happy" medium to keep me informed, safe, and mentally prepared for the next snare. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This morning's walk was the perfect testing ground for my observations. I enjoy the solitude of an early morning walk. You get to enjoy the sounds and sightings of songbirds and munching rabbits versus the squealing tires of Ricky Bobby or the rumbling exhaust of Whistling Diesel. The sign triggering this piece was the Low Flying Planes warning up the road. Honestly, the sign is a comfort. Fortunately, we have a large tract of farmland visible from my house. It has a seldom-used runway for small planes, a large pond, a hayfield, and a horse pasture. The multigenerational property is well-maintained and a gift to the neighborhood. The sign was itself a sign to open my eyes to more signs. It didn't take more than a stone's throw to be overwhelmed with warnings on metal posts. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO8pBwivCKB8Xk1m-_cR1h1b-3l4c8HS4QABjz8pZK9dVJPbW8oqxaMKDHpaQ1LodHmCuKS1gokH69P9TaXgA2C1X9e8rHqwzOaZAQMlWKNvX9g03VJDgJ8tGgE1CIwgO5Y7NOwz_xoosXZXavu5FQQDBzjQ4H8VMy-E1CeTmPN9k_5qLPAJZ8uK4r1s/s4032/5E69AAF1-2E15-4946-B65D-1C2A05C6EFD0.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO8pBwivCKB8Xk1m-_cR1h1b-3l4c8HS4QABjz8pZK9dVJPbW8oqxaMKDHpaQ1LodHmCuKS1gokH69P9TaXgA2C1X9e8rHqwzOaZAQMlWKNvX9g03VJDgJ8tGgE1CIwgO5Y7NOwz_xoosXZXavu5FQQDBzjQ4H8VMy-E1CeTmPN9k_5qLPAJZ8uK4r1s/w300-h400/5E69AAF1-2E15-4946-B65D-1C2A05C6EFD0.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;">Stop signs are a given, yet they are the most ignored signs. They should replace the word with a pair of dice. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3DLVJ16dEAl6p3P4mLR5oe9RIhq2ZIsAbPmJHX94BVBiwXEDpjaPfmAA-xfu__9ydkj90VGcQbxIQcXP2f0dDQ0TEg6LMjMSYfMyCvygSpbTSnV9SlHBDemJfsWfgSTi-qDpsKJyMc9K_HsrFKcOSz8q__bHhednwpCGFm_91SrEyTxCUcwc507LGHM/s4032/448581A4-47BF-49D1-9F16-8F0FED95BC83.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3DLVJ16dEAl6p3P4mLR5oe9RIhq2ZIsAbPmJHX94BVBiwXEDpjaPfmAA-xfu__9ydkj90VGcQbxIQcXP2f0dDQ0TEg6LMjMSYfMyCvygSpbTSnV9SlHBDemJfsWfgSTi-qDpsKJyMc9K_HsrFKcOSz8q__bHhednwpCGFm_91SrEyTxCUcwc507LGHM/s320/448581A4-47BF-49D1-9F16-8F0FED95BC83.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;">Unless you want a shotgun in your face, they can take down "No Soliciting" signs. Nobody in their right mind knocks on a stranger's door these days. The only dog in our house goes in a bun; no clean up required.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwFrC6x9IXuOQSQaOPYw6uHeoBZeboX0hjoLyRyLFR-RacX4zyvow3-dBWst6xvFt1vqSzd29sEXNN9T-qBlpBetoaJxYalYGm8aB9QffSQMAePZ1_K8gP2OHhwbg2aa0CGllGwJ9puhBm5dBL-hF9cKqb4gk8xuIdUK-MG8jKxo4Rw8NKOcFG5-TRTI/s4032/14F884FA-C6ED-4880-80D4-D72C8944F271.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwFrC6x9IXuOQSQaOPYw6uHeoBZeboX0hjoLyRyLFR-RacX4zyvow3-dBWst6xvFt1vqSzd29sEXNN9T-qBlpBetoaJxYalYGm8aB9QffSQMAePZ1_K8gP2OHhwbg2aa0CGllGwJ9puhBm5dBL-hF9cKqb4gk8xuIdUK-MG8jKxo4Rw8NKOcFG5-TRTI/s320/14F884FA-C6ED-4880-80D4-D72C8944F271.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;"> "One Way" signs are the most accurate and timely. In 2023 we all believe there is only one way: "Our Way." </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2n9htG4pK_eTNbyxBt6LV-cT2yosEli0yPsUY2n2lxyODKG3u0GaX7_O3HRBL5VjdpiR3-ql2-8CP_iXLXVfXugmcqXlfiXzDWTV3AMtkqHvrc7O9Fza3XLZ04lGogkPe5rf3Dz-4QgAe0lsuwlB0aTWSDCpB-I83cNEr6MiPdfOYQmM2cq20j_P_gw/s4032/03263C3C-10B9-4134-8B75-0A09078D62F3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2n9htG4pK_eTNbyxBt6LV-cT2yosEli0yPsUY2n2lxyODKG3u0GaX7_O3HRBL5VjdpiR3-ql2-8CP_iXLXVfXugmcqXlfiXzDWTV3AMtkqHvrc7O9Fza3XLZ04lGogkPe5rf3Dz-4QgAe0lsuwlB0aTWSDCpB-I83cNEr6MiPdfOYQmM2cq20j_P_gw/s320/03263C3C-10B9-4134-8B75-0A09078D62F3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The "Weight Limit 4 Tons" signs at both ends of my road are nagging reminders to skip the pastry and grab an apple. <br /></span><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1ET_s5TGFouiEaDpncxyFburunN_RaGojyEXFZd9nCyxI5OIyQ2XgfAGPpURBjPDvG-_EUbwayLZ2xlKw9P8NX8SP_IhBms3pS4xdkW63h0w_TUpiNGttISq7_94bKV7eK8xFDHZNiyOqwVyFHZDX8yKe68ptW_z7g8epma0YokwbIPwLr1IdEBD9Y8/s4032/29DD52A0-5625-4E82-A54F-861A68BCFB05.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1ET_s5TGFouiEaDpncxyFburunN_RaGojyEXFZd9nCyxI5OIyQ2XgfAGPpURBjPDvG-_EUbwayLZ2xlKw9P8NX8SP_IhBms3pS4xdkW63h0w_TUpiNGttISq7_94bKV7eK8xFDHZNiyOqwVyFHZDX8yKe68ptW_z7g8epma0YokwbIPwLr1IdEBD9Y8/s320/29DD52A0-5625-4E82-A54F-861A68BCFB05.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Speed Bumps Ahead<br />Front Page News…<br /></span><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugGqboarLfc5g9c6J1x2Gl6La1vt3NFMFLiGn7ySYe5_SLfZVM-L_jiapm1nqQk4sO_vimNIBaJhLADbvlNMxT5VopT9K_PBQgm2gQFdfi_BZrWHnvReFLQknOV43s4ddQX9QkugEofXb-NGju5SaBXuiAl0mHAUJihFXew87n31gA7YmZO96BaDCypk/s4032/45E0C848-2624-40EC-BF0A-2E046E3BA96F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugGqboarLfc5g9c6J1x2Gl6La1vt3NFMFLiGn7ySYe5_SLfZVM-L_jiapm1nqQk4sO_vimNIBaJhLADbvlNMxT5VopT9K_PBQgm2gQFdfi_BZrWHnvReFLQknOV43s4ddQX9QkugEofXb-NGju5SaBXuiAl0mHAUJihFXew87n31gA7YmZO96BaDCypk/s320/45E0C848-2624-40EC-BF0A-2E046E3BA96F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Do teenagers even do that anymore? </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaNGIx8oRd_dSd-6Xl-RDQrnxgZF2wWFfw-3BOLlZxUiwtDeB5nVJBu9LpR-MFBUxCusp4NbtXWXhAw1uXo_xbuJo9HlYhzFCysF_aKTVFAWah4j0tamItAKjAN_T4t90yIeOeaP0qIHLCRme0H7D4sUwuxST_gxgEsEtf5PSPWjdaQfkHcgQU_Fp_ng/s4032/04AB5C6F-DE06-4DE8-B35A-4C709AF93934.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaNGIx8oRd_dSd-6Xl-RDQrnxgZF2wWFfw-3BOLlZxUiwtDeB5nVJBu9LpR-MFBUxCusp4NbtXWXhAw1uXo_xbuJo9HlYhzFCysF_aKTVFAWah4j0tamItAKjAN_T4t90yIeOeaP0qIHLCRme0H7D4sUwuxST_gxgEsEtf5PSPWjdaQfkHcgQU_Fp_ng/s320/04AB5C6F-DE06-4DE8-B35A-4C709AF93934.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">LOL!<br />The last time anyone went around <br />this corner at 15 M.P.H. they were on a horse.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>.<br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuUzdcU-K9n8vzr73TE--ZPUEsZcYon3QrqF7UGLozyvxvuXvdKKGlWTR4oPa6vn1o64wDNKAkRjqxW6zFDBBzxyrqe7bYdU_zs8Mf8bzNzr1x26LbSgYWzLyjSmrZnsPZVsl4oHi98-hNv9Z3XsAzK2MJHfui4mHBNR-cylh2iIvO1zm7XdrPYyQSms/s1615/44A41C9E-855C-4778-AB3C-81B9E5442060.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1615" data-original-width="1158" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuUzdcU-K9n8vzr73TE--ZPUEsZcYon3QrqF7UGLozyvxvuXvdKKGlWTR4oPa6vn1o64wDNKAkRjqxW6zFDBBzxyrqe7bYdU_zs8Mf8bzNzr1x26LbSgYWzLyjSmrZnsPZVsl4oHi98-hNv9Z3XsAzK2MJHfui4mHBNR-cylh2iIvO1zm7XdrPYyQSms/s320/44A41C9E-855C-4778-AB3C-81B9E5442060.jpeg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The sign may be a bit tired, but the message is not.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkr1RoRsJNeMRakuoykuUJxOd5CO4bfgdE4Kk1o9_6AKSyaE5cFe9oOP8m54lZEaYmpwQK5h_ib-b0qf6y_zk5VlW6FJDPJryvmgmLipGsDuUDb7GtpyHsqWPplb7QL1sAGDhRd2Ub_2k2hffvNOFG7yJ2tJIpx93BqGFgho8N97b-NT_o6d_ppasao0/s4032/99C6C5E4-2FB7-48C2-BCAD-A253F8A67881.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkr1RoRsJNeMRakuoykuUJxOd5CO4bfgdE4Kk1o9_6AKSyaE5cFe9oOP8m54lZEaYmpwQK5h_ib-b0qf6y_zk5VlW6FJDPJryvmgmLipGsDuUDb7GtpyHsqWPplb7QL1sAGDhRd2Ub_2k2hffvNOFG7yJ2tJIpx93BqGFgho8N97b-NT_o6d_ppasao0/s320/99C6C5E4-2FB7-48C2-BCAD-A253F8A67881.jpeg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskJQ_2V4UKSGMU-pTrUa6EmiKeUy_XOG-uBpTM3lc4342enWBrMoI12VMYKTZ-j-krxGa09tAed-Kay5n7u4FltVcxPFqrGBl4YoL1an_QWWJTgTSYeG0jEm_Bc9jq_9S5JNJTNFJiMuKBG6OuFnaRwxZk-K8P2b8RhcK0cr2k5RvWSlFeQXf_ZHjXDQ/s4032/60CAE311-C885-48F5-8F81-9B5ABA4A1230.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskJQ_2V4UKSGMU-pTrUa6EmiKeUy_XOG-uBpTM3lc4342enWBrMoI12VMYKTZ-j-krxGa09tAed-Kay5n7u4FltVcxPFqrGBl4YoL1an_QWWJTgTSYeG0jEm_Bc9jq_9S5JNJTNFJiMuKBG6OuFnaRwxZk-K8P2b8RhcK0cr2k5RvWSlFeQXf_ZHjXDQ/s320/60CAE311-C885-48F5-8F81-9B5ABA4A1230.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As I came through the gate of my own backyard </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I was greeted by the best signs of all. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Thanks Mrs. G. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-15762800079164855232023-07-07T09:04:00.000-04:002023-07-07T09:04:25.106-04:00When Is It Time? <p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsFVBb0fA3QbC7z9FbRPC-Klp8_j_o6yH4IV3CghWOwE5USQE3wmUZtlrfvqqC3iU2CA6zlSXDeNjjErjENA0PPtnzU4zHoyYij-q2d0Qqd1xX9FpW0O-ejLG1foWi-mZoV8fcdi-gplGmMw4IfC0z2CtfmQim7A9X_uovexeAfoT5pbGShlLwjSzmZg/s4032/46C6D0E4-12B0-4FEA-893A-69E50B6C20ED.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsFVBb0fA3QbC7z9FbRPC-Klp8_j_o6yH4IV3CghWOwE5USQE3wmUZtlrfvqqC3iU2CA6zlSXDeNjjErjENA0PPtnzU4zHoyYij-q2d0Qqd1xX9FpW0O-ejLG1foWi-mZoV8fcdi-gplGmMw4IfC0z2CtfmQim7A9X_uovexeAfoT5pbGShlLwjSzmZg/w300-h400/46C6D0E4-12B0-4FEA-893A-69E50B6C20ED.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>When Is It Time? </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When is it time to part ways with things that have served us well? This pair of sketchy Sketchers is a perfect example. I have a closet full of shoes, boots, and sneakers to choose from every morning when I head out the backdoor, but one pair of shoes always seems to end up on my feet. Like a favorite hoodie or pair of Levi's, we sometimes develop a relationship with items that give us comfort. I've been slipping my feet into these tired old shoes since I retired a few years ago. I've said my goodbyes more than once, only to retrieve them from the abyss with an apology and another day's worth of yard work. It's a split between wearability and respect for something that has never let me down. This premise includes everything from pickup trucks and lawnmowers to slippers and work gloves. For me, it's more than being frugal and squeezing the last bang out of a buck; it's about giving inanimate objects their due. It's hard to turn your back on something that has held up their end of the bargain. Many can relate to this simple story of a beaten-up pair of leather shoes. It extends to our interpretation of the world and how we live our lives. Taking the time to appreciate the little things around us doesn't cost a thing. In fact, it's a habit that pays big dividends in the Bank of Karma. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My sketchy Sketchers are safe for now. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We both have work to do. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-86403717351744737612023-05-01T09:14:00.002-04:002023-05-01T09:17:11.276-04:00Waiting For Agnes <p style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEPyEtbrF9H-ePH4zFQdMiUKAFLNBitjp3qUcU56iFzgqS7HaIk4ocjbYMnsntmDiaZA2t1jIYJvEb8CoSiBu0fDrpo8_hXdyDjah1hLtMUR_dugde2MOHm8laes4lgp8CvN4TLjqAGKDiP_2xHrfNKs8o8OevwDi_CzbAfTcut9C7yR6rqjcSVY-/s4032/8B8E01EB-93CF-4A1C-A930-731BF1365A65.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEPyEtbrF9H-ePH4zFQdMiUKAFLNBitjp3qUcU56iFzgqS7HaIk4ocjbYMnsntmDiaZA2t1jIYJvEb8CoSiBu0fDrpo8_hXdyDjah1hLtMUR_dugde2MOHm8laes4lgp8CvN4TLjqAGKDiP_2xHrfNKs8o8OevwDi_CzbAfTcut9C7yR6rqjcSVY-/w480-h640/8B8E01EB-93CF-4A1C-A930-731BF1365A65.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Waiting For Agnes </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">a pound of ground beef she says</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’ll only be a minute</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">who’s she kidding</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">its been twenty</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">in dog minutes</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">no less </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">wag more </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">bark less </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">she says</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">naw on a bone</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">watch the squirrels </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’ll be right back </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">she says</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">all you do is growl</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">these days</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">we never romp anymore</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I miss you nipping </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">at my ear</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">she says</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">the puppies are grown</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">they’re on their own</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">the backyard’s empty</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">we could dig deep holes </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">and howl till </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">the neighbors </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">come home</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">she says</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">with all my training </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">you’d think </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I would have</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> learned by now</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">she’s right </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I think I’ll go inside</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">fetch her the biggest </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">box of Milk-Bone’s</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">and a new pink collar</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">one with sparkles</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">our puppy-love </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">has endured </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">fleas</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">cat scratches</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">porcupine quills</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">and kennel cough</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">forty-nine years in June</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">human years</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">doggone good years</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">pee-on-the-rug-happy years</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">dog</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I love that bitch </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-23352288281473150162023-04-29T15:43:00.000-04:002023-04-29T15:43:03.577-04:00I've Gotta Split <br /><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>I’ve Gotta Split </b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwVH7oMZRcnGkOVPeZWVTXTLzPOfq7rdZEWx1Ghq6GAqDHWBF1rY45uwsmf2rpPa768bN_w_iKhL3bPVHOg4gkjIR0MlgrbilOfhtkVIxLqrJbD3wLNWWJCAeATPHAGhaUweYNXbIJH7kdZyrPXrhDfDDY7snL8YZuu5EwgT3bGVlx2lXcKx0iaBV/s4032/21C80ECF-7458-41E8-B0F4-231397C1936F_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwVH7oMZRcnGkOVPeZWVTXTLzPOfq7rdZEWx1Ghq6GAqDHWBF1rY45uwsmf2rpPa768bN_w_iKhL3bPVHOg4gkjIR0MlgrbilOfhtkVIxLqrJbD3wLNWWJCAeATPHAGhaUweYNXbIJH7kdZyrPXrhDfDDY7snL8YZuu5EwgT3bGVlx2lXcKx0iaBV/w640-h480/21C80ECF-7458-41E8-B0F4-231397C1936F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“I’ve gotta split” has a different connotation for me in 2023 than in the 1960s. In the 60s, it meant you had to leave. In April 2023, it means attempting something I’ve never done before. <br /><br />We recently had two large maple trees in our yard taken down. Although they still had a little life left in them, they’d both become safety concerns. I called our old high school friend Tom at Tom Mullens Tree Service. Domiciled just a few miles away, Tom’s business is as local as they come. Within days the maples were down and sliced into big old rounds. The larger limbs were cut into manageable-length logs that could be cut up later. <br /><br />We don’t burn firewood ourselves, but I have a friend who uses it to supplement his home heating. The pain of losing two trees was eased by knowing it was going to a good home where it “wood” be loved and appreciated. <br /><br />With the help of my neighbor Jose and his son Harper, we were able to manhandle the heaviest rounds, move them from my front yard to the backyard, and line them up along the edge of my driveway. There they would await back-recuperation and warmer weather. Because the rounds were much too heavy to lift onto my pickup, I now had to figure out how to load them or reduce them to a size that made them easier to handle. <br /><br />This is where my “Bucket List” comes into play. Mine is a little different than the more traditional list. Rather than one that includes traveling to foreign countries, visiting the Grand Canyon, or parachuting from an airplane, mine has things like rebuilding a carburetor, tiling a bathroom, and splitting firewood. I recently admitted to my friend and firewood aficionado, Chris Leske, that I’d never split firewood. His eyes widened, and his response instantly bumped splitting firewood from #7 to #1 on my average-man bucket list. <br /><br /><br />I soon learned that all wood is not created equal and that those rounds in my yard were actually granite slabs carved to look like maple. If you’re planning to cut your wood-splitting teeth you may as well start with the densest material known to man. Anything I attempt to split after this wedge-resilient beast will be like slicing a cheese round with a hatchet. Why not start at the top and work your way downhill. <br /><br />My maiden voyage splitting wood at the age of 67.75 was both exhilarating and rewarding. I improved with each swing. My confidence and country boy street cred inched up a notch, and with each popped hunk of maple-rock, my smile widened. My back was not that impressed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Epilogue: <br />You’ll never know if you don’t try. If you succeed, it encourages you to move on to another challenge, another <strike>mountain</strike> hill to climb. My bucket list remains fluid. I just purchased a 30-year-old chainsaw that supposedly “ran when parked.” Amazon promised me a new carb kit in the mail today. I might just cross off another bucket lister by my birthday! <br /><br />Thanks for stopping by.<br /><br />Now, I've gotta split. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwP4NVFaJPT6KwI3-qYUoxtMNK4w4cr2LuHbrvgxivp7upqeB__xd4oa61_2kbXOy5-48Swt1dSQHrDJbItEZfT0OYtFyE1mceiAJHPJCzRw7Vgmf-S_0kE0fZKg4ZYaPqT_5oqFCd7HE5RZbmscmjPSEvMeN7gYdr985jzIhUGSXMJqchDSfVc4XP/s4032/3A2C51BC-C334-41A6-B9B5-AFC65C6439C5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwP4NVFaJPT6KwI3-qYUoxtMNK4w4cr2LuHbrvgxivp7upqeB__xd4oa61_2kbXOy5-48Swt1dSQHrDJbItEZfT0OYtFyE1mceiAJHPJCzRw7Vgmf-S_0kE0fZKg4ZYaPqT_5oqFCd7HE5RZbmscmjPSEvMeN7gYdr985jzIhUGSXMJqchDSfVc4XP/w480-h640/3A2C51BC-C334-41A6-B9B5-AFC65C6439C5.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-_vRg0JswUo7A91e7qWU5_VIlaDmWl2G_mIqL53f7T4qo1fpHYh2Np9REGKGbzV-syZ-9UyJfLTOtyGormzxzm88NJhXoIw_ZdIYQn5Yi-xdXBpgxPIeRk80PxfT9SsN6EEn4dtnirjGOCUynZApfByUZ17oAbpTxUdnCHeDKD8mM8S3Ujx9yxmA/s4032/IMG_5676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-_vRg0JswUo7A91e7qWU5_VIlaDmWl2G_mIqL53f7T4qo1fpHYh2Np9REGKGbzV-syZ-9UyJfLTOtyGormzxzm88NJhXoIw_ZdIYQn5Yi-xdXBpgxPIeRk80PxfT9SsN6EEn4dtnirjGOCUynZApfByUZ17oAbpTxUdnCHeDKD8mM8S3Ujx9yxmA/w640-h480/IMG_5676.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-72810436665871629642023-04-26T11:50:00.000-04:002023-04-26T11:50:19.981-04:00First Mow<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">First Mow</span></b><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood<br /></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1TdZI1xC_IafA9YXPmcpKaqWmoCrgnEWB7FGRH8J9XyW-c2t9WVOZ01VMsYZg_gx8IQqc2NyO6c06W78KHl0lovLhGhPGXwgxBXtuX6sM_iEVUQCI9EEikySkCEST8zEO_5PFlDWQ46z3xO3ey3Z_RR7swxABGN_sXk_3E6QUNuADSPRldpOMk1k/s3648/2603F579-C013-41CF-9039-235CE61CB276.jpeg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1TdZI1xC_IafA9YXPmcpKaqWmoCrgnEWB7FGRH8J9XyW-c2t9WVOZ01VMsYZg_gx8IQqc2NyO6c06W78KHl0lovLhGhPGXwgxBXtuX6sM_iEVUQCI9EEikySkCEST8zEO_5PFlDWQ46z3xO3ey3Z_RR7swxABGN_sXk_3E6QUNuADSPRldpOMk1k/w400-h300/2603F579-C013-41CF-9039-235CE61CB276.jpeg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-11311454185540696992023-04-23T14:32:00.003-04:002023-04-23T14:34:30.702-04:00A Strong Foundation <br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">A Strong Foundation </b><br />By John R. Greenwood <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HlHaVIRCPgT9qLTMv4fvI5gNmMenNc6Klaqu84nm3qU4lEFe231G1jsSt5nw96JsVgOQoXJFu_JPe4Z-EMMnHU5uidcHtf6oKICNVZL6577pqwSkivwA71yT9YWcgPweMYywwZRxsqvgWAy0jh-_1ZzPm1p6ZJgt4eQjoozLkUYWUnt16tGssiQc/s4032/IMG_5658.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HlHaVIRCPgT9qLTMv4fvI5gNmMenNc6Klaqu84nm3qU4lEFe231G1jsSt5nw96JsVgOQoXJFu_JPe4Z-EMMnHU5uidcHtf6oKICNVZL6577pqwSkivwA71yT9YWcgPweMYywwZRxsqvgWAy0jh-_1ZzPm1p6ZJgt4eQjoozLkUYWUnt16tGssiQc/w640-h480/IMG_5658.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>The photo above may appear average and unremarkable. Still, as I knelt there this April morning, the view reminded me of my personal foundation. Growing up in a small country village surrounded by a supportive community proved to be one of the most valuable contributions to my life. Whenever I begin to dissect what true happiness is, I inevitably return to my roots. Not simply family roots but those of my youth in general. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">There isn't a day when I don't refer back to a face or story from my early life. Grade school classmates, backyard adventures, scout meetings, tree climbing, hay fort building, and visions of the old swimming hole all surface. When it's quiet with no outside distractions, I can visualize the endless list of people who strengthened my foundation. The obvious are parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and my dear sister. Then the surnames of the childhood families that added mortar to that foundation flow like water: Shay, Dake, Atwell, Davis, Gibbons, Cornell, Baldwin, Frasier, Hodges, O'Donnell, Rumpf, Panton, Lindahl, Bootier, Levo, Orisesk, Barney, Brown, Wheatley, Allen, Claydon, Gordon, Cote, Kahl, Sherman, Hall, Sesselman, Kostka, Bowen, Cline, Schwartz, Hurd, Smero, Koptula, Homiak, Pasmik, and Jones, all just a fraction of the mountainous collection of contributors to my life. I could fill pages with the names of people who've positively influenced me. Every day I channel an event or lesson I've experienced. Even the painful or uncomfortable ones have meaning and purpose in some remote way. How lucky I've been to have lived in the time and places that I have. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I saw that when I stood up and looked at my freshly painted foundation. Those names began popping into my head, inspiring me to write them down. As I write this, the gentle rain falling outside has given me a moment to ponder each name and attach a memory. It's an activity that I practice often and one that gives me immense pleasure. I know many people spend their lives searching for happiness via material things. Although a new car, exotic vacation, or motorboat can bring you short-term joy, the list of names above could only be obtained by growing up where stone foundations can still be found today. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you, the 1960s and Greenfield Center, NY. </span></span><br /><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-59940069148066734612023-04-19T22:20:00.000-04:002023-04-19T22:20:31.560-04:00<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Relax? </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2ah18fSLDvL1Ux7ptcRjWZpUx6E5bN6zncHC9IYAvh9izCFr1P3BEZ5nRDv8Zke50gTAsTgw9SyO-9Rs93LeU5uX_cyVJSxIanT6k_n0nP04hBeygELX_PhHbQvv0FgWKkqj5JyVUZ-Jlg95Xs9NMua06HCdAwlSkm_R65PTmQm_0mgXnDkgdNcz/s4032/A4DBAFAA-4988-4772-BF9D-C07DBF93AC8D_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2ah18fSLDvL1Ux7ptcRjWZpUx6E5bN6zncHC9IYAvh9izCFr1P3BEZ5nRDv8Zke50gTAsTgw9SyO-9Rs93LeU5uX_cyVJSxIanT6k_n0nP04hBeygELX_PhHbQvv0FgWKkqj5JyVUZ-Jlg95Xs9NMua06HCdAwlSkm_R65PTmQm_0mgXnDkgdNcz/s320/A4DBAFAA-4988-4772-BF9D-C07DBF93AC8D_1_201_a.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">You'd think it would be easy to relax after retirement, but there's a snag—the world has gone insane. Its wake has left me nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room filled with chocolate-laced grandchildren in rocking chairs. I get the same feeling I did when I was little, and my parents would have a good old-fashioned, no holds barred. All you wanted to do was bury your head under a pillow and wait for the smoke to clear. I find myself looking for a pillow a lot these days. Not one of those scrap-filled, overpriced ones the Pillow-Kook hawks, but one heavy enough to drown out the vitriol overrunning our daily lives. I worry I may never experience peace and quiet again. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We should have done a better job for the generations filling in behind us. We label them as lazy and entitled, but we are the ones who sat back and let things slip away. We promised to clean up after ourselves and failed. We are the ones responsible for leaving the house in shambles.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I try to keep optimism at full volume, but the noise outside my 1/4 acre drowns it out. It doesn't stop me, but it slows it to a crawl. Even as I write this, I feel I'm leaning into negativity. It's spring, and the birds and greening grass are usually enough to put a little bounce in my step, but lately, all it takes are the words "BREAKING NEWS" to knock my feet out from under me. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Writing is good exorcise, and early morning walks are good exercise. Put them together, and you have a recipe for relaxing. After using both tools today, I feel physically at ease, but I think I'll proceed with caution. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I'm sure someone, somewhere, will have a problem with something today and feel the only way to solve it is with violence. As much as I'd like to keep a pillow handy, the vision of the Pillow-Kook makes me think I'd be better off with a weighted blanket. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Sleep tight, America…</span></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-8140819085614704912023-04-19T12:00:00.000-04:002023-04-19T12:00:39.387-04:00Daily Dose <br /><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Daily Dose</b></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R.Greenwood<br /> </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioj-tPka8M5Yzkl-7c5kQGa_W_kAOxxN3HWWvT0Uunpb4bdhGk5xAktfkgBxAujEuxN6ILbvU9Rfzy8yLIOYRzt6Pn0WOPa25hgmaUh24I4Db0P74kQal_iEHjxRhBo04jT82lN2XTPR_9ia2JFMBMO_6m5-6r62UEID8vL3A8xAtJXuEWldbWo6Z2/s4032/70308246172__14213A2B-A442-40CC-A752-758361CF89AF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioj-tPka8M5Yzkl-7c5kQGa_W_kAOxxN3HWWvT0Uunpb4bdhGk5xAktfkgBxAujEuxN6ILbvU9Rfzy8yLIOYRzt6Pn0WOPa25hgmaUh24I4Db0P74kQal_iEHjxRhBo04jT82lN2XTPR_9ia2JFMBMO_6m5-6r62UEID8vL3A8xAtJXuEWldbWo6Z2/w300-h400/70308246172__14213A2B-A442-40CC-A752-758361CF89AF.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">After a five-month writing drought, it felt good to hit the “Publish” button. The writing hiatus was a result of general neglect and lack of interest. Although I continued contributing to Simply Saratoga Magazine and an occasional piece to the Town of Greenfield Historical Society Newsletter, those events were scant and scattered. My recent writing has been reduced to emails, letters, and Facebook posts. A short face-to-face with my original writing mentor was a kick in the shin. It forced me to revisit my retirement dream of having more time to flex my creative writing.</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">After a short but important visit to Bedlam Farm (see previous post), I was reminded of the “use it or lose it” phrase related to writing. In the same way, the non-use of a weakened body part can render specific muscles useless, failure to exercise your writing skills can leave you lost and uninspired. That’s precisely where I wandered off to.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Jon Katz, who has spent his life paying bills with the help of a keyboard, suggested I re-engage my writing routine by jotting down and sharing short journal entries much like the post you’re reading here. It’s another toe-dipping way to re-enter the world of sharing via pad and pen(cil).<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The posts may not flow like junk mail, they may drip in at a pace more in tune with the weekly supermarket promo, but they will come.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Maybe…</span><p></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-17777507270042443432023-04-12T21:46:00.008-04:002023-04-12T21:50:49.355-04:00Hopalong Katzidy<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Hopalong Katzidy</b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR4Vw9i9owgpvobgXIjl-5r7AsyzjPq-PkMnofu_UFeUfUnoPPeh5KhQzCOkhB1L-uN6TbxQIEXkOvIoz6XDXmIoy4EaIUN6jJBFcMVRYrd53TIBMwpIRQr4Raw75F_RfPxeBTfwMWtHYnsf09fnYmj2BFFGNSG4GXxgU5UZMjrM16oG9YqIjIRq9/s2727/IMG_5608.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2727" data-original-width="2045" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR4Vw9i9owgpvobgXIjl-5r7AsyzjPq-PkMnofu_UFeUfUnoPPeh5KhQzCOkhB1L-uN6TbxQIEXkOvIoz6XDXmIoy4EaIUN6jJBFcMVRYrd53TIBMwpIRQr4Raw75F_RfPxeBTfwMWtHYnsf09fnYmj2BFFGNSG4GXxgU5UZMjrM16oG9YqIjIRq9/w480-h640/IMG_5608.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.bedlamfarm.com">Bedlam Farm </a></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Author Clarence E. Mulford’s 1904 fictional cowboy hero Hopalong Cassidy was rude, dangerous, and rough-talking. My real-life writer hero Hopalong Katzidy is polite and gentle as a lamb. He’s more like the 1940s television version portrayed by actor William Boyd. That Hopalong drank sarsaparilla and never shot first. Cassidy’s one-legged hop was the result of being shot in the leg during a gunfight. My Katzidy’s hop was a scripted attempt to improve his quality of life by removing a disagreeable big toe. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When I read that my friend and writing mentor, author Jon Katz had made the difficult decision to have the big toe on his left foot amputated, I reached out to him. I knew he would not make a life altering decision without weighing all options and risks. My opinion would not be necessary but my support would be a given. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">A day or two after Jon wrote about his plans publicly, I offered my help on the day of his surgery. My only role was to meet Jon and his wife Maria at his home and assist in getting him out of the car, in the house, and into his overstuffed chair. Rather than a well choreographed ballet-like maneuver our version was more “Weekend At Bernie’s.” Still groggy from the anesthesia our patient was surprisingly giddy and even chatty. As I write this several hours later I’m quite certain the pain and seriousness has now sunk in. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">So why after months of blog silence did I choose my friends traumatic surgery as an impetus to put pen to paper? </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Its like a 5th Grade teacher pointing her finger at a ten-year-old boy and asking the question, “Why would you do that?” </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Because Jon told me to!” </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My mentor, my nagging writing-group leader, my friend, my hero, my Hopalong Katzidy is a persuasive nudge. He hadn’t been in his big-boy chair more than 30 seconds before he was asking why I wasn’t writing more? Excuses only provoke him to hurl them back at you like a true friend should. Jon smothers excuses like a wet blanket on a trash fire. Jonnie Nine-Toes was not going to allow Johnnie Nine-Fingers to head back to Saratoga County without promising to hit the keyboard when he gets there. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Jon’s support for my writing began with our Hubbard Hall Writing Group over a decade ago. His influence and that experience will last me a lifetime. As a connoisseur of larger than life characters that have crossed my path, Jon Katz is King of the Hill. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This piece was written about him, for him with nothing but sincere admiration and respect. I wish him a speedy recovery so we can fulfill our mutual promise to spend an afternoon sitting in the backyard at <a href="https://www.bedlamfarm.com">Bedlam Farm</a>, swapping stories about the good old days when we had all of our pieces and parts. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This one’s for you Hopalong. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Peace,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">John (with an H) </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.bedlamfarm.com">Click here to visit Bedlam Farm</a></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHbYl_R_zY8m8VgyiuNM4DDIehr6jpxt1oDpmqhtRf6RCdwKuK1mALuw9jvp9Jwzvi0q26VOB7FK1QbqN6nX22pHX24H6u4nxIym7sj1_mP91Rue5XU7wsg2DWMoJPHZgbkLfqD3FsW95ydhNALJ7goov6Od5yOpAs1EXkWQ74x8IAH8kAl_VdKLN/s1055/IMG_5595.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="1055" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHbYl_R_zY8m8VgyiuNM4DDIehr6jpxt1oDpmqhtRf6RCdwKuK1mALuw9jvp9Jwzvi0q26VOB7FK1QbqN6nX22pHX24H6u4nxIym7sj1_mP91Rue5XU7wsg2DWMoJPHZgbkLfqD3FsW95ydhNALJ7goov6Od5yOpAs1EXkWQ74x8IAH8kAl_VdKLN/w640-h508/IMG_5595.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-86185318654453371652022-11-09T11:20:00.002-05:002022-11-09T11:26:27.313-05:00Simple? <p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Simple? </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha77i1vx2igQsXnLsNRLb0mjhTf9b6Ez6J0gKDr4n58MNjCyRA4FnUp0qslNGAM6R8NHLbePDntkPbfp_9XWTdyfbhPgkH_mPmC70VObWdW0n8gdhsLY9Lz3clBqvzUWr-lbWj_vjrlQ1uDLoLkhHH0tDmtp_rv5PfJ7EMwfRj3aevH-NDZBq4ay-0/s4032/IMG_4704.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha77i1vx2igQsXnLsNRLb0mjhTf9b6Ez6J0gKDr4n58MNjCyRA4FnUp0qslNGAM6R8NHLbePDntkPbfp_9XWTdyfbhPgkH_mPmC70VObWdW0n8gdhsLY9Lz3clBqvzUWr-lbWj_vjrlQ1uDLoLkhHH0tDmtp_rv5PfJ7EMwfRj3aevH-NDZBq4ay-0/w300-h400/IMG_4704.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">It sounded simple enough. Retire from the daily grind of being a transportation manager and enjoy the easy life. No more sick drivers, broken trucks, or damaged products to cover, fix, or replace. I'd have 24 hours a day to sit at my desk and write. Well, things haven't worked out as planned. Yes, I enjoy life and all the benefits retirement has afforded me, but the easy part was a myth. The one thing I wasn't prepared for was the world deciding to turn upside down. Anger and discord between my fellow citizens have replaced the stress and strain of accident prevention and timely product deliveries. Nothing quells the desire to write about a simple home improvement project or anecdote about a rambunctious grandchild quicker than reading about a crazed lunatic bombing innocent people just for the hell of it. <br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;">What I've come to realize over the last three years is that life is only as good as you perceive it to be. You can choose doom and gloom or embrace dry feet and a cool breeze. Letting the daily news soak into your skin is unhealthy and will give you a headache. Mulching maple leaves or changing the oil in my truck have become my new happy places. <br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;">I still get up before the sun does. Enjoying that first cup of coffee has remained my favorite chunk of the day. I sip it slowly while watching Youtube videos of "Mustie1" reviving an old Volkswagon Bug, Jimmy "Diresta" forging a bowie knife from a leaf spring, or Jim Baird on an eleven-day adventure running the Bonnet Plume River through the Yukon wilderness. Living vicariously through the lives of others sometimes dampens the excitement of my own self-anointed achievements, like installing a new motion light on the garage. The point is we all have our own ladder-height successes. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The "simple" fact is decisions on what to do and when, what to do and for who, and what to do and how have muddled my once perceived life of leisure into a daily sorting of priorities and head-scratches. Writing has taken a backseat to almost everything in my field of vision. As I write this, my mind is in a dozen different places. I'm trying to decide whether to keep tapping keys or snap close the laptop, throw my jeans on and snatch up that leaf that just floated by the window. Years of living by the hands of a clock are hard to shake. Mrs. G. is struggling with the same dilemma. When you spend your entire adult life with guardrails and wake-up alarms, it's hard to adjust to having choices on which road to take. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I'm not complaining; I'm blessed to have options. Retirement automatically places you in direct contact with people experiencing the same emotions and facing the same weighted concerns. Grandparents subbing as occasional daycare or transportation providers is a common theme, as well as being a qualified volunteer for any number of competing organizations. Choosing who and how often you can avail yourself can be more difficult than sorting through sixty years of memorabilia trying to decide what to keep and what to send packing. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">One activity has brought my wife and me some unexpected satisfaction after retiring. We both purchased Ancestry subscriptions and immediately began researching our family histories. We've found ourselves spending a lot of time in cemeteries. Because we've remained within a six-mile radius of where we were both born and raised, we are fortunate to have most of our previous generations interred close by. Along with locating the sites of long-forgotten relatives, we began the process of cleaning, restoring, and maintaining the gravestones of several of them. This pastime led us to dozens of unexpected discoveries within both families. It also became a therapeutic and rewarding way to honor our past. We follow the National Cemetery Administration protocol for cleaning government-furnished headstones and markers. You'd think spending time in cemeteries as you enter your AARP years would be unhealthy or depressing, but it has morphed into the opposite. Along with paying homage to family and friends no longer with us, it helps strengthen your appreciation for being alive to do it. The calm and quiet are just an added bonus. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I think it's time to end this long overdue post and go snatch up those few leaves that fell during the days it took to finish it. The temperature has dropped, and Thanksgiving is fast approaching. Soon the roar of snowblowers will replace the whining of leaf blowers, and there will be more time for writing. <br /><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then again...</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ADEPsAuswVzGzT4Rzy6wBOP5OnHRFbeMalh2YeIXYoe386sbzSoYfl207l3t1JCttcngY-Hw3Yqvlw5erd8t7B8WDHaa7Va3IiMku6CB-eeMo88ghorrJrOKHjIEcbw47msMl-Bw9qKNCkQrZVUeKnzPPBMfozjonbLuKUiLi9kMhJHs6rMI5_wZ/s640/IMG_3298.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ADEPsAuswVzGzT4Rzy6wBOP5OnHRFbeMalh2YeIXYoe386sbzSoYfl207l3t1JCttcngY-Hw3Yqvlw5erd8t7B8WDHaa7Va3IiMku6CB-eeMo88ghorrJrOKHjIEcbw47msMl-Bw9qKNCkQrZVUeKnzPPBMfozjonbLuKUiLi9kMhJHs6rMI5_wZ/w300-h400/IMG_3298.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Before </b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFuBKj2YlKD-eDvF9vY1X6hYMaHH751Xm84ubzq5oLyJh8wkkr8ggP7nMb272kRuHejX7D0taxe9Po66fe0UlFfYjxlmWeCdIa-N8HI0D9HZNt1ihI1X3FKbH95nZkVpiJtoe3aJtP7nh6kV2vlTYTXxIz17omIvzdwot-nNFu3jh12HA1rUZP_Khi/s2436/03BE52CB-1C93-4994-AC93-EEC4B6CCB730_1_102_o.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2436" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFuBKj2YlKD-eDvF9vY1X6hYMaHH751Xm84ubzq5oLyJh8wkkr8ggP7nMb272kRuHejX7D0taxe9Po66fe0UlFfYjxlmWeCdIa-N8HI0D9HZNt1ihI1X3FKbH95nZkVpiJtoe3aJtP7nh6kV2vlTYTXxIz17omIvzdwot-nNFu3jh12HA1rUZP_Khi/w185-h400/03BE52CB-1C93-4994-AC93-EEC4B6CCB730_1_102_o.jpeg" width="185" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">After </span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-51428189324511706172022-04-12T21:02:00.000-04:002022-04-12T21:02:39.740-04:00Gifting Art <p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Gifting Art </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKQ0yHNSIcBAUCHFGLucshoS-lHK7RHkaMzztEGqEkFlrZbOVBv5yezfkBlCIMhs0FX6dP04kSaRS-QvIxOWozIA60lBCBfCYD76D9njBi1x-gKGJrxSxR74_Aa0gQudTFL12KB0k_6I-q2agap8FfdXn_a1bXzpNHY5mPS48V69DW4rUnC3WAsGU/s4032/02117DE9-51FB-4929-ADEE-538A550E78B6_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKQ0yHNSIcBAUCHFGLucshoS-lHK7RHkaMzztEGqEkFlrZbOVBv5yezfkBlCIMhs0FX6dP04kSaRS-QvIxOWozIA60lBCBfCYD76D9njBi1x-gKGJrxSxR74_Aa0gQudTFL12KB0k_6I-q2agap8FfdXn_a1bXzpNHY5mPS48V69DW4rUnC3WAsGU/w480-h640/02117DE9-51FB-4929-ADEE-538A550E78B6_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br />Art savoring his gift, brings a wide smile to the artist </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In my last post, I wrote about a painting I received as a gift from artist Chris Leske. It was a painting of my past life delivering dairy products in the city of Saratoga Springs. It was a ten-year span that made me rich. Not monetarily rich, but rich in the friends, stories, and experiences I amassed in the decade of the 80s. I now enjoy looking at that painting every day and seeing those years through a beautiful 8x10 window. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">That gift was doubled today when I witnessed another friend receive his own painting from Chris. Along with my milk deliveries, Chris had equally fond memories of a coffee truck that pulled up in front of the Manle Auto Parts store every weekday morning. Manle's (now Scallions) was located on the corner next to The Parting Glass, where Chris worked. Art Bullet and his red truck with the stainless cap would circle the city, stopping wherever a group of workers could be found. Manle Auto Parts was locally owned and predated all the auto part chains of today. It was a daily ritual to see a large group gathered around Art's truck, getting their morning coffee and donuts. Chris recently captured that image in a beautiful watercolor painting. From the minute he rediscovered Art via Facebook, he had a vision of that truck parked on the corner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">You got more than something to eat and drink when Art showed up. He was a stand-up act that came right to your door Monday through Friday. In a pre-politically correct era, you were sure to be entertained by the coffee-truck comedian with a devilish grin and a dirty joke or three. It was his signature and his success. You didn't have to be hungry to look forward to hearing that unmistakable horn coming up Lake Avenue. You'd show up for the raucous laughter surrounding the truck for the next ten minutes. With money to make, a schedule to keep, and another twenty stops to get to, Art would pull down the hinged sides and take off down the road. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Art bought dairy products from me throughout those ten years, so I was speechless when Chris showed me the painting he'd done of the coffee truck. When he said he wanted to surprise Art with it, I knew I had to be there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We all texted back and forth about getting together for some laughs and a cup of coffee. It took a week to coordinate a time and place to meet. We decided on a nearby Stewart's. Chris and I rode together while Art showed up on time as expected. Within minutes laughs were flying out of the corner booth like fireworks. There were almost forty years between those laughs, but they hadn't changed one iota. What followed was a three-way ping-pong of stories, jokes, and do-you-remembers. We roared when someone mentioned we'd become those same old men we used to kid about sitting in the Stewart's booth for hours.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Eventually, we ran out of steam, and Chris pulled out the painting. He'd posted a photo of the artwork on Facebook previously, so Art had seen it, but he had no idea he was about to be its owner. When Chris handed it to him, he froze like I did the week before. You could see those 80s running through his head like a runaway train. The three of us sat there in silence, soaking up the moment. The picture of the three of us wouldn't have made a great cover for a Hallmark Card, but the emotions associated with it could have sold millions. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This piece attempted to put into words the impact an act of kindness can have on someone. It was a gesture that couldn't be measured with any machine or gauge. It was an act straight from a generous heart brought to life with a paintbrush and fond memories. A perfect example of life being better through the gift of "Art."</span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVh4uK141xf91-mE157HlyozRBHGsYHFxJVZQpkzhv9gl1p-vC_gx3CroKkFNZcoRq3mNklViyLichxLH6GA40KUZwQAGC3NsosiqS7fNodyBZlxAzVLSCS_t6-p1DjJrLX2gr5TWADTmQXMqiZEh1FAwa4oMIJ9GKIxKke5jLYf43nHEKo_qvIcW/s2923/E6955027-DAF1-4980-A4F2-6E2191538F5B.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2300" data-original-width="2923" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVh4uK141xf91-mE157HlyozRBHGsYHFxJVZQpkzhv9gl1p-vC_gx3CroKkFNZcoRq3mNklViyLichxLH6GA40KUZwQAGC3NsosiqS7fNodyBZlxAzVLSCS_t6-p1DjJrLX2gr5TWADTmQXMqiZEh1FAwa4oMIJ9GKIxKke5jLYf43nHEKo_qvIcW/w640-h504/E6955027-DAF1-4980-A4F2-6E2191538F5B.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br />Art's Coffee Truck </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-41903102319708274982022-03-31T11:13:00.001-04:002022-04-01T08:35:49.128-04:00Caught Off Guard <p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Caught Off Guard </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">B</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">y John R. Greenwood </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQaCcQpeGqrXjt6Hx0mHPIAXYwrX1tq3ueBjUjxUk_FFnepa74FWPyZIdDzrYORXx1ik3miGAwKdkJSJt-2df7EFnO2VCiPCcmT3xK8ZyORBtaxnvHV41r6yNCcfpFpIlhJT7kElR8Weez7kC-PRrYRMoho3_0hWiI2nxQ4MNSXbceJKzG2sawhvS/s2048/654CE613-6C7A-49F9-B688-51BD37D494E6_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1622" data-original-width="2048" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQaCcQpeGqrXjt6Hx0mHPIAXYwrX1tq3ueBjUjxUk_FFnepa74FWPyZIdDzrYORXx1ik3miGAwKdkJSJt-2df7EFnO2VCiPCcmT3xK8ZyORBtaxnvHV41r6yNCcfpFpIlhJT7kElR8Weez7kC-PRrYRMoho3_0hWiI2nxQ4MNSXbceJKzG2sawhvS/w640-h506/654CE613-6C7A-49F9-B688-51BD37D494E6_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Hey Johnny, I got something I want you to have.” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">That was the text message I received on a random Tuesday afternoon. It was from my friend Chris Leske. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Minutes later, we sit down for a quick cup of coffee in the maroon booth at the corner Stewart’s. Chris and I had been collaborating on a magazine article that would be a snapshot of his life as a musician, cook, and artist. It came out days earlier in the <a href="https://issuu.com/saratogapublishing/docs/simply_spring_2022_issuu/92">Simply Saratoga Spring 2022 Edition</a>. I wanted others to see what makes Chris and his story worth reviving and sharing. Read it, and you’ll better understand the connection we shared and the time lapse between then and now. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">With two fresh coffees and another ten minutes of story swapping, neither of us could wait another minute. I’d been staring at the parcel wrapped in brown paper lying on the table between us. I’m far from Sherlock Holmes, I’m more of a Get Smart tripping on the clues type, but even I knew the package in front of me was a painting. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Well, go ahead, open it!” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As I peeled off the masking tape and pulled back the paper, I had the same look as Ralphie Parker opening his Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Wow” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I was overwhelmed and speechless. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I was looking at ten years of my life rolled into one not-so-simple watercolor, all of it passing before my eyes like a Rolodex of scenes. Instantly, I envisioned those early morning milk deliveries to <a href="https://rainingiguanas.blogspot.com/2016/12/my-uncle-billy-moment.html">Lou’s/Comptons, Shirley’s, and the Spa City Diner; the long dark hall leading into the cellar of Lillians, and the steep decrepit stairs under the Tin & Lint; my Friday afternoon finale at the Parting Glass, Madame Jumel’s, Hatties, Mother Goldsmith, and Caffe Lena.</a> It was a flood of warmth and nostalgia, a flash of joy, and a tinge of regret that it didn’t last longer. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This was more than the gift of a painting; it was an artist’s look into my heart and soul. Our conversations and recollections over the last few months had manifested themselves into Chris's paintbrush and creative eye. It was his way of thanking me for my writing, while all I wanted was to convey how grateful I was for him opening up his artistic mind to me. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">For me and many, these are the snippets of life that make the dark days worth muscling through. It can be hard to wrestle away the negatives, but when that sun comes out, boy it feels good. It takes a unique eye to decipher the needs of others and then place them on a piece of canvas or in a musical note, and many of the people in my life have that skill-set. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Banjo Man Chris “Lee” Leske is one of them, and I want to thank him for the gift that will keep on giving. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0M8G74XLL9o6GKnJLD5N5AvPUlaZCrJG4VkQQOtqsvQi7S0lXSv7ucqb65UCxmkz2_s7iuy8611DpocUwRkpahlGffHEWETFzDIBRf5zZ4nkCAACNZ4HeWMcXamMxrDS9Nc-X7sfZGYNnUmylBHooUwyQJSfBqdFxKo2LC3j7NMkTbQj1sLih6u9A/s1638/8F7B3CD2-C4B9-4E78-A056-DFB68F9D4777_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1638" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0M8G74XLL9o6GKnJLD5N5AvPUlaZCrJG4VkQQOtqsvQi7S0lXSv7ucqb65UCxmkz2_s7iuy8611DpocUwRkpahlGffHEWETFzDIBRf5zZ4nkCAACNZ4HeWMcXamMxrDS9Nc-X7sfZGYNnUmylBHooUwyQJSfBqdFxKo2LC3j7NMkTbQj1sLih6u9A/w640-h416/8F7B3CD2-C4B9-4E78-A056-DFB68F9D4777_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />My "Clem" painted Price's Dairy truck loading at the <br />dock of the now extinct Saratoga Dairy on Excelsior Ave. <br /><br />Photo is from Bill Barton's <br /><b>Facts and Tidbits of Saratoga's Dairy Industry From <br />Early 1800's To 1988 <br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_________________________</div><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Painting </b></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">colors are secondary </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">to the story shared</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the gift, a painting </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">wrapped in brown paper</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">years stacked neatly </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in a old red milk crate </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">revived in an instant</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the hours, the work, the friends</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">an artist’s gratitude </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">overwhelms the receiver</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">memories framed and hung </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in reverence </span></p><div style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></div></span><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-80900306704229132722022-02-26T08:59:00.000-05:002022-02-26T08:59:57.283-05:00Did He Really Say That?<span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">Did He Really Say That? </b><br />By John R. Greenwood <br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_Ph9XwY9BqCGB2MxOGRl6L3il5aRTIKuM44AIs75PMKgpHKhmkuvhG4lZn4ORXNOIzjbwSCjk_dLfka4v5xK_lplfXQRshvz27dnOydM7ViM8vTkaS2p83ceQ5DPOdVQpCbW0IwKPCI_eVpcjNotVtEaO81NwAs-dXiT4kaPnGxzD4YYX1LWV7B6P=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_Ph9XwY9BqCGB2MxOGRl6L3il5aRTIKuM44AIs75PMKgpHKhmkuvhG4lZn4ORXNOIzjbwSCjk_dLfka4v5xK_lplfXQRshvz27dnOydM7ViM8vTkaS2p83ceQ5DPOdVQpCbW0IwKPCI_eVpcjNotVtEaO81NwAs-dXiT4kaPnGxzD4YYX1LWV7B6P=w420-h337" width="420" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">On Father’s Day 1979, my wife gave me a small 5x7 Hallmark plaque with a photograph of a man and a boy fishing off the end of a dock. The inscription in the bottom right-hand corner read: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“Try not to become a man of success but rather a man of value.” —Albert Einstein </div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">My sons were only one and four at the time, and I’d just taken a huge leap of faith by purchasing Price’s Dairy from Victor Price. My wife and I were in our early twenties with little money and even less business experience. Basically, it was the Price’s Dairy name, a milk route, and a few old trucks. We had nothing to lose. The next ten years were the hardest and most rewarding years of my life. I amassed a lifetime of friends and memories in one decade, and although it was heartbreaking to see it end, I never regretted one day of it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The little wooden Hallmark plaque graced my desk throughout the Price’s Dairy years. When I went to work for Stewart’s and earned a management position in the Hauling Office, the plaque came with me. It would remain on my desk until I retired in 2019. It’s in front of me right now as I write this. Although the quote has been my mantra and roadmap whenever I sought the answer to life’s meaning, I always wondered whether Albert Einstein was really the source. <br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigVg2GefvLC4CVDIk2vETQVwQbt5PIVWXXIi4leQkzTdFRZzSqx_MMt5gpP9_r3wfoP2tLXHI6yS4mrG8gM-3Cup-WH_jOIbz5icM1mBadsqQwxbTuwC2nCW3XoJI27LqfVt29jP_x3S8tJdTaeQ_FXWAJD3NP0T6GfVNEMhwhgRlae4lZVEJzGK93=s3786" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3786" data-original-width="2767" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigVg2GefvLC4CVDIk2vETQVwQbt5PIVWXXIi4leQkzTdFRZzSqx_MMt5gpP9_r3wfoP2tLXHI6yS4mrG8gM-3Cup-WH_jOIbz5icM1mBadsqQwxbTuwC2nCW3XoJI27LqfVt29jP_x3S8tJdTaeQ_FXWAJD3NP0T6GfVNEMhwhgRlae4lZVEJzGK93=w268-h366" width="268" /></a>Several weeks ago, I was looking for something to write. I’d been neglecting this blog, and it deserved a little nourishment. I set out to prove or disprove whether or not my buddy Al was as proficient with his prose as he was in his calculations. Where do I start? Google has yet to let me down—this was no exception. When I typed in the quote and asked whether or not Albert Einstein was indeed responsible, Google directed me to a May 2, 1955 issue of Life Magazine, which contained an article titled “Death of a Genius.” The article appeared one month after Einstein’s death and a month before I was born. Now all I needed was to find the quote. Thanks to the power of the internet and Google, I could page through the entire issue. In the process, I was able to locate it. One of Life’s editors, William Miller, his son Pat, a Harvard freshman at the time, and Professor William Hermanns, a friend of Einstein’s from Germany, visited Einstein some months before his death. During the visit, the four men discussed the importance of staying curious. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7Arj7gV4ibKrveHfDr6dMCsjD3RAvJbs1795W7g2Bz0D4y6dacaCvQHw20QHC2cWDdwQ3HDEXl0ocLWn2NuKR4hznN7S-HR3SGaToElslG5MFxQ9RuhH0lyJdulVqAfd4bSiPicULX2EMsvJhAhwFeoRFoe7Jy5JEbHsUzzH4WDF8aAqJFjSOmSC2=s3893" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2546" data-original-width="3893" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7Arj7gV4ibKrveHfDr6dMCsjD3RAvJbs1795W7g2Bz0D4y6dacaCvQHw20QHC2cWDdwQ3HDEXl0ocLWn2NuKR4hznN7S-HR3SGaToElslG5MFxQ9RuhH0lyJdulVqAfd4bSiPicULX2EMsvJhAhwFeoRFoe7Jy5JEbHsUzzH4WDF8aAqJFjSOmSC2=w400-h261" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Einstein explained, “Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day. Never lose a holy curiosity. Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value. He is considered successful in our day who gets more out of life than he puts in. But a man of value will give more than he receives.” </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgySZqEdNqqzuPlvYFzE6InOsaXdiGoilyljye03KPTLZ_QLeYfYyaaG1RIZ80ZwCOc61tK-vkO4uk870z0oOXMkBGUop-rUV4BAGb03e5rjoNSn-nkxJRkgZ7ck7DJdRVskxm82YfvbGFIDaMDuDmeHgmOJNlNb5EHlOPyp2EuWmcb_sIo0Pu-1jLu=s2850" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2850" data-original-width="2444" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgySZqEdNqqzuPlvYFzE6InOsaXdiGoilyljye03KPTLZ_QLeYfYyaaG1RIZ80ZwCOc61tK-vkO4uk870z0oOXMkBGUop-rUV4BAGb03e5rjoNSn-nkxJRkgZ7ck7DJdRVskxm82YfvbGFIDaMDuDmeHgmOJNlNb5EHlOPyp2EuWmcb_sIo0Pu-1jLu=w303-h400" width="303" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Finding the roots and context of my mantra for the last forty years helped me understand its significance. As a man constantly searching for signs to guide me, this felt like confirmation that maybe I’d been on the right road all along. <br /><br />Thanks to Zubal Books of Cleveland, Ohio, I now have an original issue of that May 2, 1955, Life Magazine, and I couldn’t be happier. <br /><br /> Life’s simple pleasures. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ93em07gqQY7-VbdaiHAGPzpLPIs_b2MZAskNigeDhPcSTpjNgrPJUmBjZ7wA0VmToHcttzqOuoCRvyMTIUwSaBgM3R6Dm_nO5epnEzNLa0aXeNwTGltGCrg-oTNac4NOxl9JOFbr9-oeGS6o11flTD_XztW5XBF1CFMC7IdWsv0RGl0zd17-mUDJ=s4032" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ93em07gqQY7-VbdaiHAGPzpLPIs_b2MZAskNigeDhPcSTpjNgrPJUmBjZ7wA0VmToHcttzqOuoCRvyMTIUwSaBgM3R6Dm_nO5epnEzNLa0aXeNwTGltGCrg-oTNac4NOxl9JOFbr9-oeGS6o11flTD_XztW5XBF1CFMC7IdWsv0RGl0zd17-mUDJ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Einstein's Desk </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-7122120322016060592022-01-02T09:33:00.000-05:002022-01-02T09:33:12.412-05:00Anti-Aging Medicine <div><br /><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">Anti-aging Medicine</b><br />By John R. Greenwood<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFRTjp2P0VoF1YUAbGjUizt_uniKv_bfQTRO7AVzquX_BsUnjvkrnK5h8WIa0Oe7loRAzGHGJ8oKcO8cR-qY8P4BEVYezS402TIJgnrBlD6q3uxB32NnHwYWOy3KCnQXXNQnpLEuRSyRQ68R9nD3BJ6Trr3Kp9Rk9ei8p0Mp7-F1t1rgAVuji1y2tV=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFRTjp2P0VoF1YUAbGjUizt_uniKv_bfQTRO7AVzquX_BsUnjvkrnK5h8WIa0Oe7loRAzGHGJ8oKcO8cR-qY8P4BEVYezS402TIJgnrBlD6q3uxB32NnHwYWOy3KCnQXXNQnpLEuRSyRQ68R9nD3BJ6Trr3Kp9Rk9ei8p0Mp7-F1t1rgAVuji1y2tV=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Simply open your phone, and you're flooded with advice on how to look and feel younger. I'm starting to think that my phone is the main reason I'm on a fast track to aging. One thing that does keep my mind from rusting is maintaining a sense of humor. Eating well and exercise is crucial to staying fit physically, but in my opinion, keeping your laughter tank topped off is the key to enjoying the ride. When it comes to placing all your eggs in the exercise basket, comedian Ron White explains it best. He once talked about a man in Florida who tied himself to a tree ahead of an impending hurricane. At 53, the man felt he was in good enough shape to withstand hurricane-force winds. Ron questioned the man's thought process by explaining it this way, "It's not THAT the wind is blowing, it's WHAT the wind is blowing. If you get hit with a Volvo, it doesn't really matter how many sit-ups you did that morning."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">There is no one size fits all answer to fighting the aging process. No one gets out alive. I hope to go as far as possible with a smile on my face and compassion in my heart. As I headed out on my latest bottle release mission, Mrs. G. simply shook her head and said, "Be careful." Knowing I run a little off-balance, she says it multiple times a day. To see her husband of 47 years leaving the house to place a quote-laden bottle in some random location probably has her questioning her life choices.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">If memory serves me correctly (it rarely does) this is bottle #10 to be released into the wild. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDpotjyCL6S1MJFACWGaUXMIPEfGLRPTSr0osnR6noVQwxUU5bTvR26wT3ROcsHgEKi_i2Kj8xan8Bd9E33nSBGVZlyiBpKYKO_wD6SSbS3nktpaqbpkfbuG9S41Ze9vGObfvlMc-ags/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="936" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDpotjyCL6S1MJFACWGaUXMIPEfGLRPTSr0osnR6noVQwxUU5bTvR26wT3ROcsHgEKi_i2Kj8xan8Bd9E33nSBGVZlyiBpKYKO_wD6SSbS3nktpaqbpkfbuG9S41Ze9vGObfvlMc-ags/" width="301" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></span></div>"Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone." - Jeff Fiebig</b></i></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Every paycheck of mine since 1974 has relied on a company whose bottom line was based on ice cream. I have witnessed parents, grandparents, teens, toddlers, and even a Labrador or two, lose a scoop off the cone. I've seen it from Saratoga to Plattsburgh, Watertown to Newburgh. The faces that follow those tragic drops could bring tears to the most hardened soul. It's not the cost. It's the immediate blow to the taste buds. It's the hard-brake to the happiness engine that makes losing a scoop to the parking lot such a downer. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">On the opposite side of Bottle#10 is a truth that we can ALL finally agree on.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"In a dream, you are never eighty" - Anne Sexton</span></b></i></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">As I read the quote aloud, I realized I hadn’t considered the ninety-year-olds out there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Now that my bottle deposits have surpassed double digits, I'm not sure I'll continue this random act of insanity. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But if I do, you'll be the first to know.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy New Year!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">RI </span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnKSC85J4iyLA2Qa_hob6cf5nr5VbxGt8du-QNlBIPOoffQnXqmB2JRTiN_x7G0tqCfYVKMrK4WbBCZXI0QsqjihhglinxUSzsMfgEKsN5vG7OOUUvblnyw_XjgyFtbN-tPLqCvKzt48/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="554" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnKSC85J4iyLA2Qa_hob6cf5nr5VbxGt8du-QNlBIPOoffQnXqmB2JRTiN_x7G0tqCfYVKMrK4WbBCZXI0QsqjihhglinxUSzsMfgEKsN5vG7OOUUvblnyw_XjgyFtbN-tPLqCvKzt48/w640-h450/IMG_3050.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /></div></div><br /><br /></div></div> Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-36693099470246683012021-12-28T19:15:00.001-05:002022-01-02T09:34:42.857-05:00Of Course I Talk To Myself<p> </p><p><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Of Course I Talk To Myself </span></b></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEic9etxW8ABHFRnM7GA9L2YuHsMJ7MbvP4wpeAcRsCm-4gZD1R2HInTRGF5z8nA9UryvlHmRgOS8Mmf7xJH9PFVVnSpVTpwsA3Ll3GnbZEk3fnaa2zqHfKJiZB7_9ijaDFhxMJag5c3XjnaxejrLxk4A2NM4vW2ygEzRd1W-ii3CUonUs0KGF8bdV4t=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEic9etxW8ABHFRnM7GA9L2YuHsMJ7MbvP4wpeAcRsCm-4gZD1R2HInTRGF5z8nA9UryvlHmRgOS8Mmf7xJH9PFVVnSpVTpwsA3Ll3GnbZEk3fnaa2zqHfKJiZB7_9ijaDFhxMJag5c3XjnaxejrLxk4A2NM4vW2ygEzRd1W-ii3CUonUs0KGF8bdV4t=w300-h382" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It’s been three years since I released a quote emblazoned bottle back into the wild. I began my <a href="http://rainingiguanas.blogspot.com/2018/01/released-into-wild.html">‘bottle release program’</a> in February 2018. I believe this evenings release will be #9. I’m only aware of the whereabouts of one or two of the eight that I set free three years ago. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“Of course I talk to myself. I like a good speaker, and I appreciate an intelligent audience.” </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>— Dorothy Parker </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I stole the quote above from the blog of artist Austin Kleon. I felt Kleon’s own book title <a href="https://austinkleon.com/steal/">“Steal Like An Artist,”</a> gave me guilt-free permission to use Dorothy’s great quote for my own personal entertainment. I highly recommend you sign up for Austin’s weekly newsletter. They show up every Friday like clockwork and I have yet to receive one that didn’t lead me to a gold mine. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE0r16nnzXFyfsMabuJkvbGXXitO2H2ATiWNbL756Si6blabxRznQrXLCHllKZaMLJ9VBosso-i8nweZcPu04RDL_Z7iEBH8C2VYEMl3o8SAtaqOqUrm3GnoOI1p5gEr3Vhm8mImWuCqLUGob_KcpX_Sa-VeI42U1hZlZxc7gJL80bAgnHeed2yjgx=s4032" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE0r16nnzXFyfsMabuJkvbGXXitO2H2ATiWNbL756Si6blabxRznQrXLCHllKZaMLJ9VBosso-i8nweZcPu04RDL_Z7iEBH8C2VYEMl3o8SAtaqOqUrm3GnoOI1p5gEr3Vhm8mImWuCqLUGob_KcpX_Sa-VeI42U1hZlZxc7gJL80bAgnHeed2yjgx=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’m not sure what the impetus was that reignited the three-year-old <a href="https://rainingiguanas.blogspot.com/2018/02/release-points.html">bottle release program.</a> I do remember having a lot of fun doing it; especially the day I got a message from a friend of mine who lived in Clifton Park. She’d seen the photo of the bottle when I released it and recognized the location. I’m not sure where she was at the time but she later told me she was ecstatic to discover it was still perched stoically in it’s temporary home in Congress Park when she got there. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">One of my releases had to be replaced. It met an early demise when it was knocked off a table at Caffe Lena. I delivered a replica to friend Joe Deuel, who promised to “have and to hold till death do us part.”</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6f3w_Di_fg_KoDD-zL8oji-Xq0LjuY-y5t1yYHzwP9gbC8zzQzrOp6VV_86BBlFAcnCvm5FbuWHyvIjH_XW4fVKmJJnNOHxBkKGSMmSKFityxpBJSNII4cSJBv30PsifA58hcxdv24ov_geu0XaWipdNRbdG30brGXkmHrviKxEqeXNVsqp-6AUv8=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6f3w_Di_fg_KoDD-zL8oji-Xq0LjuY-y5t1yYHzwP9gbC8zzQzrOp6VV_86BBlFAcnCvm5FbuWHyvIjH_XW4fVKmJJnNOHxBkKGSMmSKFityxpBJSNII4cSJBv30PsifA58hcxdv24ov_geu0XaWipdNRbdG30brGXkmHrviKxEqeXNVsqp-6AUv8=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>If you’re new here and I’ve peaked your curiosity you will find a label on my blog titled “Bottle Stories.” There are a handful of similar posts related to this random act of insignificance. For some crazy reason in today’s world this somehow seems like a good way to stay sane. Or, maybe it’s proof of the opposite. Either way, a bottle will hopefully find a new loving home tonight. If you’re the lucky one, get in touch, I like to know the kids are safe and being well cared for. <br /><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">Happy hunting! </span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">RI </div><div style="text-align: center;">December 28, 2021</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-35236341649057794712021-12-25T07:44:00.003-05:002021-12-25T07:45:15.820-05:00<span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Bury The Skunk </span></b><br />By John R. Greenwood </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig8OI0PLsxnFO18qrW-yHRstdDG9Lovxb8PeNlTKQEjk69tEp52TdKfLEXWLQ2di6fS023ofoKT7t_tqqaKDZE3CLNd-vyZbCWv3nHdbaNXz5wKOSwgr6dJU85qoAHZhjqyIP3rKC0MdeEyZsxHuUN4DzC0zmHDsHcOVl010pNkphWaZfTch6IhXNm=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig8OI0PLsxnFO18qrW-yHRstdDG9Lovxb8PeNlTKQEjk69tEp52TdKfLEXWLQ2di6fS023ofoKT7t_tqqaKDZE3CLNd-vyZbCWv3nHdbaNXz5wKOSwgr6dJU85qoAHZhjqyIP3rKC0MdeEyZsxHuUN4DzC0zmHDsHcOVl010pNkphWaZfTch6IhXNm=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Bury the skunk is not a title you’d normally attach to a nostalgic Christmas story, but then again, normal is a word that doesn’t seem to fit anything these days. Using Christmas story to describe it is also a stretch. A better explanation is that I found this little note just a few days before Christmas 2021. I was straightening up my tool bench when I opened an old tobacco tin filled with my father’s memorabilia. The note above was folded in half and tucked in the bottom. As I unfolded it I was reminded of the day I found it under my windshield wiper at work. I had probably just returned from a twelve hour day delivering a tractor trailer full of Stewart’s product somewhere in the far reaches of New York State. I was in my forties and probably looking like they say, “rode hard and put away wet.” Dad’s health was not great at the time. He could still drive and mow the lawn on his John Deere riding mower, but digging a hole to bury a deceased yard-skunk was not something he could manage. By this point in his life he’d realized some tasks were best left to his dutiful son. By this point in my life, I’d realized it wasn’t worth questioning dad’s requests, you simply nodded and complied. That roof over my head for the first eighteen years didn’t pay for itself. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />I don’t remember the details of the skunks demise or the funeral proceedings, but I do remember why I saved this little scrap of paper. I saved it for moments like this. Those little pauses in life where you reflect on all the tiny scraps that combined to make a life worth living. The simple joys, the tearful losses, the cherished memories that weaved a giant patchwork quilt bursting with good people and laughter. The pauses you hold dear to your heart. The ‘bury the skunk’ notes and the Pharaoh Lake fishing trips. I miss my parents. I even miss the not-so-great times that were mixed in the middle. Those are the ones that help you embrace the isn’t-life-grand moments. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />I’ve been a lucky man. My Christmas shows up 24/7/365 in all shapes and sizes. As I placed dad’s little note back in the bottom of the tobacco tin I realized that sometimes burying a skunk can smell like a bed of roses. <br /><br />Merry Christmas.<br />May your 2022 be filled with notes of joy! </span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-54195593081113024552021-11-18T08:08:00.005-05:002021-11-19T05:38:07.348-05:00My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories<br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories </b><br />By John R. Greenwood <br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwOTFZty5Ez6jycsDt-zXbgsPO5OUe63r85MxfgcTBdoh7gb34NG7ufu0yzuDOVTFH9q8WeMcmGS6KkV05FgonQWD2OCzwzyHJrz0fvWV4NAQM6Pz0fAcGJJnIg55zh4fHrbg9-6P9oLA/s2048/IMG_2724.heic" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwOTFZty5Ez6jycsDt-zXbgsPO5OUe63r85MxfgcTBdoh7gb34NG7ufu0yzuDOVTFH9q8WeMcmGS6KkV05FgonQWD2OCzwzyHJrz0fvWV4NAQM6Pz0fAcGJJnIg55zh4fHrbg9-6P9oLA/w640-h498/IMG_2724.heic" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: start;">Jean Tafler as Margaret Hamilton enjoying a resounding standing ovation </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">This is not meant to be a theater review of John Ahlin's mono-drama My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories. Its purpose is to emphasize the joy you can find when you venture off the edge of your comfort zone. Attending a play is not foreign to me, but it's not something I levitate to naturally. When it comes to buying tickets to a public performance, I'm much more apt to purchase tickets to a musician or author's event. A friend of mine who masterfully played the part of Lennie in <a href="https://rainingiguanas.blogspot.com/2014/05/of-mice-and-men.html">Hubbard Hall's 2014 production Of Mice and Men</a> highly recommended I purchase tickets to this latest one-woman play. When it comes to witnessing outstanding theater performances at Hubbard Hall, my record stands at two for two in the win column. In both cases, I am indebted to Chris Barlow of Sandgate VT.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I would like to commend Hubbard Hall on their handling of this beautiful play in times of Covid. They took every precaution possible to ensure the safety and comfort level of everyone involved. By prioritizing safety over numbers, my wife and I were able to experience a Tony Award-worthy performance by an extraordinarily talented Jean Tafler. My wife has been a fan of The Wizard of Oz ever since it first aired on color television. She has been a fan of Margaret Hamilton's just as long. Due to that long-standing fandom, she was quick to table a little covid-phobia and accept my invitation to attend the sixth and last showing of the play at Hubbard Hall. Fortunately, I acted quickly enough to secure tickets to that final matinee. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">We were treated to an exceptional afternoon of theater in its finest attire. Jean Tafler gave a Broadway performance on Main Street with grace, humor, and professionalism. My wife and I are a hometown-average couple who enjoy life's simplest pleasures. It might be sipping coffee in our backyard or peeling a couple Slim Jims on a country ride. Let's say we are happiest when surrounded by things that calm us and keep us grounded to the earth. Although we were both looking forward to an entertaining play, we were awestruck at the acting ability and engagement we got from this talented actress. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I want to express how important it is to approach life with open eyes and mind. Thinking about what I would have missed had I been a rusty old curmudgeon and placed an afternoon of NFL above a Sunday Matinee at the theater makes me cringe. More importantly, both of us would have been shortchanged in the game of life. These little unearthed treasures are crucial to our mental health. For me, they keep me peering around corners, not in fear but in anticipation of the next great discovery. I've been blessed with plenty of what's good in the world, and I've never taken one speck of it for granted. It has taken a lifetime to hone the ability to appreciate whatever it is and place it on the "Life is Good" bookcase. The same bookcase I refer back to in times of doubt or despair. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Day after day, I witness people of my hair color whimpering and whining about the government, gas prices, or rain in the forecast. I'm guilty on occasion but what I don't do is park my pickup there. It only takes the turn of a page to find an opposing vantage point. One where you can witness the sun highlighting the leaves on that giant maple in your yard or the rain quenching your thirsty lawn. These are the times I'm reminded that life is precious and if you can't change something, why dwell on it. Stir that lemonade and move on. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Such was the case as I sat next to my wife of 47 years and soaked in an actor living out her passion full throttle. What a gift it was to see a room full of like-minded people fully engaged in watching Jean transform herself into Margaret Hamilton. She thoroughly convinced everyone in the room that we were face to face with Margaret herself. She made me want to hug every witch I knew and buy them a new broom. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't write this to be dramatic about a play and its star; I did it to express my love of curiosity and what it has placed at my door. I remember being petrified of department store Santas as a child. I loved the old guy, but when offered the opportunity to sit on his lap and look him in the eye, I became overwhelmed with fear. I now have a four-year-old grandson who sported his little Santa outfit all summer. That's when Santa sits on your lap and melts your heart. Talk about Santa handing out gifts! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, you missed the opportunity to see this play locally. I don't know where it will travel to next, but I do know there will always be another play, concert, presentation, class, course, hike, Zoom, fundraiser somewhere tomorrow, next week, or next month. Don't think; act. Don't walk; run. Don't press pause; press play. Whatever you do, don't hesitate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Take Thanksgiving seriously this year. It's a good time to forget why you don't like the person next door today and remember why you liked them five years ago. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you once again, Hubbard Hall—for everything… </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Yours truly, </span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Raining Iguanas </span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-38237009702266472612021-09-29T18:26:00.004-04:002021-09-30T13:11:28.602-04:00RIP Brookside Dairy <div class="separator"></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">RIP Brookside Dairy </b><br />John R. Greenwood <br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMFZ5fvz1G69eDU81F6IGB3WoKKd99XmAXkJ57XtZcLchncxL6fhhsVZnKEMzVG6zHwzvHNCDDAtH9STfhnatx7YYpzXlEHfWVa7q_wLce0wOz_QkatkXV2Vs3UbtbatmfsMRj_SEfoM/s2048/CC87610F-A3F8-402B-979B-1FE391DD536B_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMFZ5fvz1G69eDU81F6IGB3WoKKd99XmAXkJ57XtZcLchncxL6fhhsVZnKEMzVG6zHwzvHNCDDAtH9STfhnatx7YYpzXlEHfWVa7q_wLce0wOz_QkatkXV2Vs3UbtbatmfsMRj_SEfoM/w640-h480/CC87610F-A3F8-402B-979B-1FE391DD536B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Hall's Brookside Dairy<br />Wilton Rd.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I lost a dear friend today, and I'm having a hard time with it. A few days ago I was told the remaining buildings on the old Brookside Dairy property would be torn down. Praying they were mistaken, I drove by the farm on my way to a Greenfield Historical Society Event. The Brookside property had been cordoned off with caution tape and there were two demolition dumpsters sitting next to the main house. Personally, I think crime tape would have been a better choice. It was Saturday morning, and no one I spoke with knew anything about what was happening at the old farm. </span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3i6zJ8K1uThW9yZlYPjzb6oGAq0KaITxACF2JMBBJGwqDUitKZ368OhfDCAvFag_KICYL-8jvvSRx0ipdzItA5chG2vza75h1kNIZb5Rf3ws2iavKfMwiH_apVLaIF4VyKRI0DcFKhf0/s2048/IMG_2465.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3i6zJ8K1uThW9yZlYPjzb6oGAq0KaITxACF2JMBBJGwqDUitKZ368OhfDCAvFag_KICYL-8jvvSRx0ipdzItA5chG2vza75h1kNIZb5Rf3ws2iavKfMwiH_apVLaIF4VyKRI0DcFKhf0/w480-h640/IMG_2465.heic" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Jump ahead three days. I received a text message that Captain John St. John's 1789 home was no longer standing and that it was on its way to the landfill. Ironically, there is a drawing of that same home on the cover of a long-forgotten 1970s publication titled "Greenfield Heritage Resource Inventory." On page #3 of that Heritage Resource Inventory, under a section titled, "AN EVALUATION OF WHAT THERE IS IN THE TOWN," is the following paragraph under HISTORIC RESOURCES:</span><br /><br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: large;">A detailed analysis of the history of the area and its architectural record is given in chapter one. Some forty structures were felt to have historical significance, and the report isolates each one, shows its importance, and urges a general program for preservation and enhancement of these areas. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloVz7hzOvTqWjXy-t5pQth4B0-xBXDNqoQHJZTJuA27yeSbokL2QizW6uQ5fGDkR5QA_R54WuAdVhKWLW0VIOkyJOamho5iIM1LRyAXeJ21jaF_FwIsmqlCSl4nRWh7Mz74CaaCfE_8k/s2048/IMG_2464.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloVz7hzOvTqWjXy-t5pQth4B0-xBXDNqoQHJZTJuA27yeSbokL2QizW6uQ5fGDkR5QA_R54WuAdVhKWLW0VIOkyJOamho5iIM1LRyAXeJ21jaF_FwIsmqlCSl4nRWh7Mz74CaaCfE_8k/w640-h480/IMG_2464.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Guess which structure is now a pile of dust—yes, #9. The Captain St. John house was in the top ten! </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank goodness they designated the Greenfield Town Hall #1. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8FTlcI0n8qrxDfFjMQcJLAqfBPxaf8d-Yfri9kivReGBiYs5Bhq4mCRKrhp8xaU_9LjhN6BdxOuO6dmFBuFV3vmZGwimohnon320-ZpsMugC_kbpIvOl_-89EuKCz2EPMCfSOhHQ4iI/s2048/IMG_2466.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8FTlcI0n8qrxDfFjMQcJLAqfBPxaf8d-Yfri9kivReGBiYs5Bhq4mCRKrhp8xaU_9LjhN6BdxOuO6dmFBuFV3vmZGwimohnon320-ZpsMugC_kbpIvOl_-89EuKCz2EPMCfSOhHQ4iI/w640-h480/IMG_2466.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Enlarged photo of Heritage Resource Inventory book cover</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div> <div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JyY0n-xJIcqtMPG_XkA0e-ocmsZGy4IPJhXZvVLI1S-9xY69x2CKmftL1Q8pzdaKeav2aCeAiehBWogXhrmg3BMZtoiOP-48F7N9Orj0xaHZiTSBOuWvfI6_jSM2kqqSo6y0HlyYz2k/s2048/IMG_2460.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JyY0n-xJIcqtMPG_XkA0e-ocmsZGy4IPJhXZvVLI1S-9xY69x2CKmftL1Q8pzdaKeav2aCeAiehBWogXhrmg3BMZtoiOP-48F7N9Orj0xaHZiTSBOuWvfI6_jSM2kqqSo6y0HlyYz2k/w640-h480/IMG_2460.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Captain John St. John Home <br />later became Harold L. Hall's Brookside Dairy </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoAua9zy2n-gLhFNe-RhMbhWHitvVrFluGCkUH6_KfPySDd-PQjNWAcCnd0eqc-_-YD0ME-OASnQVTm1PmGhC0kpjW-XbqyJfOinfq04-ooHmc78BuYYg4z7DYAy7_dW7xvykyNv1bNg/s2048/IMG_2461.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoAua9zy2n-gLhFNe-RhMbhWHitvVrFluGCkUH6_KfPySDd-PQjNWAcCnd0eqc-_-YD0ME-OASnQVTm1PmGhC0kpjW-XbqyJfOinfq04-ooHmc78BuYYg4z7DYAy7_dW7xvykyNv1bNg/w640-h480/IMG_2461.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Description on Page #51 <br />Greenfield Heritage Resource Inventory </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Excuse my anger; it manifests itself when someone hurts or threatens someone close to me. Brookside Dairy was not a part of my family, but it played a significant role in who I became. Brookside Dairy taught me work ethic when I was still in single digits. It's where I learned how to build a hay fort and friendships. It set a foundation for a career in the milk business, which put a roof over my head and fed my family. It nurtured my lifelong leaning to the positive side of the road and my passion for saving and sharing stories of good times. It fueled my love of history and tightened my grip on nostalgia. Most of all, I learned the lesson of compassion. In the 1990s, <a href="https://digitalarchive.sspl.org/exhibits/show/scohp/bm2">Harold L. Hall shared an oral history </a>of his life. You can find it on the Saratoga County Historical Center's website. He shared one story that stuck with me. He tells of a day in the farm's early years when he was sick with the flu and could barely move. He was in the barn milking when one of his immigrant neighbors came in the barn and saw how sick he was. He told Harold to go in the house and that he'd be right back. When he returned, he had others with him, and they proceeded to finish the milking and other chores. Harold seemed to pause in quiet reflection as he told the story.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> I'm told that mold and vandalism riddled the buildings on the property and that the cost to save them would have been in the millions. That may or may not be true but what hurts the most is knowing that the people responsible will never experience the way I felt when I saw those two dumpsters. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cLRlBYjkCAUYtCcOSrVQoI1Ko9HyeWx0VICAdROLS8wXiuU14JcEoN6fZLbw72QaA1QguSWm2nfW7laAm3mglbS0T-Er-vAnspOKWB2v0yavwsPKEkhW0zOxvhfGTMlT34lk_Hn3GJk/s2048/IMG_2487.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cLRlBYjkCAUYtCcOSrVQoI1Ko9HyeWx0VICAdROLS8wXiuU14JcEoN6fZLbw72QaA1QguSWm2nfW7laAm3mglbS0T-Er-vAnspOKWB2v0yavwsPKEkhW0zOxvhfGTMlT34lk_Hn3GJk/w640-h480/IMG_2487.HEIC" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">DOD 9/27/2021</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HLiBlFTU82PR3EHq9ZE7eGPebgvt9Q_PaVPhXgcs5LcnTreB1Jp53xi0DrnJeD1p3C7Ubm510TkM9Jq6DrzYjEdCgQt2koSGE34Oiy3nLXk85RLFozCOOGiNnUchNNna3j9Uz3VbMmg/s2048/IMG_2485.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HLiBlFTU82PR3EHq9ZE7eGPebgvt9Q_PaVPhXgcs5LcnTreB1Jp53xi0DrnJeD1p3C7Ubm510TkM9Jq6DrzYjEdCgQt2koSGE34Oiy3nLXk85RLFozCOOGiNnUchNNna3j9Uz3VbMmg/w480-h640/IMG_2485.HEIC" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At least we have a book cover to hold on to...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The Greenfield Historical Society's Chatfield Museum in the Odd Fellows Hall in Middle Grove is #24 on the Heritage Resource Historic Structure List. If you see a dumpster there tomorrow, call 911. </span><br /><br /><br /> <br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1r9UP8_xR7aiEIsfKi5dZ1EFdkp3mYe18yyGnfcRn1z9TgAeZ85aT4ma2p6t5ap7yF5fuRvqLJkqmsHDZLaONhgEHyelFo0gPy6HdpkmFprZaPTKP_EQHuidU9L_Ux1-sD9qGUo7yM8/s2048/IMG_2462.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1535" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1r9UP8_xR7aiEIsfKi5dZ1EFdkp3mYe18yyGnfcRn1z9TgAeZ85aT4ma2p6t5ap7yF5fuRvqLJkqmsHDZLaONhgEHyelFo0gPy6HdpkmFprZaPTKP_EQHuidU9L_Ux1-sD9qGUo7yM8/w480-h640/IMG_2462.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">In sharp contrast, I would like to raise to hero status, those who do pay the high price of saving historic structures. One such hero is Michael Blaauboer. Michael is responsible for preserving the Brill Mansion in Wilton from the same fate as the St. John House. With the encouragement and vision of his step-mom Joanne, he took an equally deteriorating property and turned it into something Wilton residents can be very proud of. I had the same panic the day I saw dumpsters poised just outside the doors of the Brill Mansion, locally known as Pepper's Turkey Farm. My fear turned to joy when Wilton Town Historian Karen James told me the home was going to be spared. I salute you, Michael, and everyone involved in preserving the fond memories of so many. I wish you lifelong success. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYBfqBV1GFf0z-c7gVt9bBnMW5U2cmKoBYOZFF5OKg-oE2yIGBODE59DRv5ZoiiFFwVjwpgJw5P4pYAlcL-bZkIfARCRjpXCTy4FHO-fj_2otl2nQl3YIs5eaw0Qg0m82rgHkNlQ_HAU/s2048/IMG_0639+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYBfqBV1GFf0z-c7gVt9bBnMW5U2cmKoBYOZFF5OKg-oE2yIGBODE59DRv5ZoiiFFwVjwpgJw5P4pYAlcL-bZkIfARCRjpXCTy4FHO-fj_2otl2nQl3YIs5eaw0Qg0m82rgHkNlQ_HAU/w640-h480/IMG_0639+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brill Mansion two page rendering in The History of Saratoga Co. 1609-1878 </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql9bmelcfA34hWQ5-EKfJtg8O2g2kDbC1_ViYZjpmgO4ElMo87Gknbb_kqv1AwK4XODMbFfL2M9SQdnOO_LRQW6bPHoVbQHsdT4C1Xb559NmyeyXcculCzDUr5XXTIglHS0zS_bppZ7I/s2048/IMG_9861.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql9bmelcfA34hWQ5-EKfJtg8O2g2kDbC1_ViYZjpmgO4ElMo87Gknbb_kqv1AwK4XODMbFfL2M9SQdnOO_LRQW6bPHoVbQHsdT4C1Xb559NmyeyXcculCzDUr5XXTIglHS0zS_bppZ7I/w640-h480/IMG_9861.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Brill Mansion <br />March 2020</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9s6cFwk0w0ECRfWC0YRvlUJjwyhM3l1XFgAGGQKFPpU3QAtlZGRi9l4Gi9ER_RBgK_1TmH8MXJ5VAZsp9SuWrKvAlnaskdeX4xiO-BIqQkp-3DUgNOC9taq8p0-vtsTvkChEfwULDB7c/s2048/IMG_0503.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9s6cFwk0w0ECRfWC0YRvlUJjwyhM3l1XFgAGGQKFPpU3QAtlZGRi9l4Gi9ER_RBgK_1TmH8MXJ5VAZsp9SuWrKvAlnaskdeX4xiO-BIqQkp-3DUgNOC9taq8p0-vtsTvkChEfwULDB7c/w640-h480/IMG_0503.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Brill Mansion </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">July 2020</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQilgtP_wSEujHjovTXXEyLZ9HNlWKQaHxSh4JzAR_RH8tLPInWkn2LDXC0tFNn1VGB-uM9KjlW2dWzSXHbdPgrVSqCrQ7gsSEgU5r49OxmvlOlOXnuGwmcGSKOJEzYX7dGXlDzwjmvk/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQilgtP_wSEujHjovTXXEyLZ9HNlWKQaHxSh4JzAR_RH8tLPInWkn2LDXC0tFNn1VGB-uM9KjlW2dWzSXHbdPgrVSqCrQ7gsSEgU5r49OxmvlOlOXnuGwmcGSKOJEzYX7dGXlDzwjmvk/w640-h480/IMG_2468.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Brill Mansion <br />9/29/21</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_xebkvyqEgYo_Y4LJBdN5EUu3Rh9uws3y9wqOu-zW955WbqSnZCMky9WdDhfASxy6zimh957WMdgjG3R63ZWbK3hgWn8MdbhBXdIMLf_ujdpgLi5wRdCjiEH1_kHG_JR1nDHXAnt1Tk/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_xebkvyqEgYo_Y4LJBdN5EUu3Rh9uws3y9wqOu-zW955WbqSnZCMky9WdDhfASxy6zimh957WMdgjG3R63ZWbK3hgWn8MdbhBXdIMLf_ujdpgLi5wRdCjiEH1_kHG_JR1nDHXAnt1Tk/w640-h480/IMG_2467.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Brill Mansion 9/29/21</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQB0FD-e4VVvVo6MSPlghOBTt3BVcG_Ok5u7exidsObw-T8Co3x1OLEUw9IULtsJlnLA9VXGlC-n5MgN4KkHTFdbmxNbmtKNpdwOhCwcSzQKkpRBVgOTEr-fSh-ocOjjSJWGKhR8yB1Zk/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQB0FD-e4VVvVo6MSPlghOBTt3BVcG_Ok5u7exidsObw-T8Co3x1OLEUw9IULtsJlnLA9VXGlC-n5MgN4KkHTFdbmxNbmtKNpdwOhCwcSzQKkpRBVgOTEr-fSh-ocOjjSJWGKhR8yB1Zk/w640-h480/IMG_2469.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Brill Mansion 9/29/21<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-19295688220957289242021-06-13T22:19:00.004-04:002021-06-14T04:56:02.454-04:00Destruction Contractor<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Destruction Contractor</b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-gPYLThqTQim4mSh2EmJc6-Ucr4IZpB1GwWvWJEDYTSPi_iy333pVhZ1nh7i55yJLdbILHJDwvmQDNpMrvpknzyPYGxBK0NJ0dxNuq6UyDHpw7B_IS9t3m97lx00Vy3DYwKrntTpoQ4/s2048/IMG_1895.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-gPYLThqTQim4mSh2EmJc6-Ucr4IZpB1GwWvWJEDYTSPi_iy333pVhZ1nh7i55yJLdbILHJDwvmQDNpMrvpknzyPYGxBK0NJ0dxNuq6UyDHpw7B_IS9t3m97lx00Vy3DYwKrntTpoQ4/w400-h213/IMG_1895.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’m on to my next home improvement project. It has slowly risen to the top of my original retirement to-do list. We have an exterior door on the east side of the house, leading to a small pressure-treated deck. That door is seldom used, so the deck does not get a lot of attention. I built it many years ago, years before YouTube, and long before acquiring the battery-operated-tool-arsenal, I have at my disposal today. Back then, I relied on Family Handyman Magazine, DIY books purchased at mall bookstores, and my years of experience as dad’s tool-gopher. Our two boys were as small as the budget, so I worked with what I had. Electrician taped lead cords, hammers with loose handles, and buckets of old bent nails were the norm. Despite the condition of my tools, the deck performed as designed, and in all honesty, was still rock solid. The reason for the overhaul is one of aesthetics and ease of maintenance. The look and easy care of the composite I used on the front porch in 2019 persuaded me to tackle his smaller and less complicated little brother. </span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The high price and scarcity of lumber nudged me to buy the materials in early spring when I saw it and a month before the summer deck surge kicked in. Big Orange’s rack of composite boards was full one day, so I did what any red-blooded American DIY’er would do—I emptied it. Now the time has come to use it. Before I do, I had to take off the old pressure-treated boards. When I built this deck, I had no idea what 5/4 decking boards were. All I knew about was 2x6’s, so that’s what I bought. That’s why the deck is still as solid as it is.<br /><br />Another thing I didn’t know pre-YouTube was that painting wet pressure-treated wood doesn’t work well. To be more precise, it doesn’t work at all unless it’s dry as a scone and has more primer than a 1980 F-150. My knowledge and skill level have not always paired well with my ambition. This deck was a prime example. <br /><br />With the material on-premises, the lawn mowed, and weeds whacked, I began the destruction of ‘my’ deck. I say, ‘my’ deck because most of my remodeling projects have been on someone else’s work. We’ve lived here so long now that I’m starting to revisit projects I did 15-20 years ago. I was vividly aware of that when I went to pull off the first 2x6. I’d nailed that puppy with enough galvanized 16d’s to build Fort Northern Pines. I really didn’t want to unleash the reciprocating saw right off the bat. I was hoping to remove the 2x6’s without doing any damage to the stringers underneath. As long as they were still in good shape, I would be putting the new composite decking on them. I would remove the nails from the 2x6’s in hopes they could be repurposed. One board in, and I realized it was time for Big Hammer and Big Pry. A few hours and a sore back later, I had the “deck cleared.” I had all the nails pulled and the boards stacked. The Daddy Longlegs would have to find temporary quarters until the new decking was installed, and the chipmunks from hell had one less place to hide. <br /><br />There is no point to this story other than sharing that I am much better suited to destruct than I am to construct. I feel more confident in my ability to take things apart than I do in my skills to put them together. One saving grace has been the addition of YouTube to my repertoire. The other is having an iPhone and Google in my tool belt. <br /><br />If I don’t see something shiny in the next week or so, I will do my best to share an update on this latest project. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Like the warranty on my work, there are no guarantees. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">* </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Disclaimer - Yeah, yeah, I ran the stringers the wrong way in 1989. It's going to stay that way. I choose to be different...</i><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-70274421785982601852021-06-04T09:15:00.002-04:002021-06-04T09:19:17.467-04:00I'm No Wheelbarrow Mechanic<div class="separator"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">I’m No Wheelbarrow Mechanic</b><br />By John R. Greenwood<br /><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5G7jSFv92PRkqRXZaObVGh5G-FrFCBfroMP4kPKnimSziE4Pe8KBxUjNQpo31aabomqbd0YrTCo6BkDlQelkgs8NYBen8OYLERiAL6i6MC3jS5VNrCJnPtBcunQnaG4L369na1cgUuQ/s2048/IMG_1804.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5G7jSFv92PRkqRXZaObVGh5G-FrFCBfroMP4kPKnimSziE4Pe8KBxUjNQpo31aabomqbd0YrTCo6BkDlQelkgs8NYBen8OYLERiAL6i6MC3jS5VNrCJnPtBcunQnaG4L369na1cgUuQ/w363-h319/IMG_1804.HEIC" width="363" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m no wheelbarrow mechanic. Although I am capable of fixing all sorts of things around my house, the probability that it's done correctly runs around 38%. Today’s wheelbarrow revival was no exception. Also, I’m not known for my ROI when it comes to repair versus replace either. To further that point, today’s wheelbarrow rebirth would be a great example to use in a course titled, Homeowner #101, Episode #1, <i>Take your time</i>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">To be clear, this particular wheelbarrow is not my go-to means of transporting yard debris around my property. The mover of choice is the Cadillac of dirt haulers; my indestructible Rubbermaid Commercial 7.5 cu. ft. Plastic Yard Cart. It was the best $150 investment I ever made. Buy one, and it will be yours too. Today’s fixer-upper is a 4 cu. ft. Craftsman that I purchased from an old store you may remember called Sears. I paid $39 over 15 years ago. You can buy the very same wheelbarrow from Lowes today with the name BlueHawk on the side and the cost—you guessed it, $39.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I like having the ‘4cuber’ for small jobs like planting a shrub. Mrs. G likes the nimble little guy for moving a flat of petunias from the backyard to the front yard. (By the way—why is backyard one word and front yard two?) Let’s just say if you own more than a half-acre, you can never have enough dirt movers leaning against the side of the garage. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">So…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">When the tire on the ‘4cuber’ kept going flat, I decided to replace the tube. Like all my repairs go, they never have the size, shape, or model I need when I need it. This repair adventure was rolling down the same path. Instead of replacing just the tube, I forked out $30 for a new wheel with the tire already mounted. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Easy peasy, right? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Well, yes and no. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The first time I loaded the ‘4cuber’ with the spanking new $30 wheel/tire combo, one of the handles crumbled like a milk-soaked cookie and left my feather-lite load in a heap in the middle of the side-yard. (side-yard requires a hyphen. Geez, even our yards can't agree on anything?) The plot thickens. Do I replace one of the handles? Do I buy a new ‘4cuber’? Do I really need a ‘4Cuber’? What will I do with a brand new wheel/tire combo that doesn’t fit anything else I own? Is anyone on Facebook Market Place going to pay full price for a lightly, slightly, barely used wheel/tire combo? Don’t answer that one. A closer look reveals that the remaining handle looks worse than the one that actually broke. Now my head hurts. I summon my inner adult and decide to buy two new handles and paint the barrow portion of the ‘4cuber.’ She’ll be like a brand new $39 ‘4cuber’ and last another 15 years! How much can two replacement handles possibly cost—$18 apiece plus tax and mileage, to be exact. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0GJYB6_E9yDYM8LVrriTy52ifsVbf5db7NYAPjO16tYIGs7Ch4I1B12cpEfCs7hNRa27utyTE7VhtmruH1UvMAARtfDZzX36PBO5PkA-xYN9RlvdKgtTA1V2VakeolA38nh-irZSev8/s2048/IMG_1806.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0GJYB6_E9yDYM8LVrriTy52ifsVbf5db7NYAPjO16tYIGs7Ch4I1B12cpEfCs7hNRa27utyTE7VhtmruH1UvMAARtfDZzX36PBO5PkA-xYN9RlvdKgtTA1V2VakeolA38nh-irZSev8/w300-h400/IMG_1806.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Here’s where the intelligence portion of the story really kicks in. How hard can it be to replace two wheelbarrow handles? For anyone with a better than 38% repair accuracy, it’s probably not hard. To a “How hard can it be knucklehead,” it was obviously over my pay grade. As I drilled the last four holes through the handles to attach them to the barrow, I realized that the handles I thought were square were actually rectangular. I had drilled the holes through the wrong sides. It wasn’t a life-altering mistake, but it did have me standing in the middle of my garage, LOL’ing myself. It also makes you look at the ‘4cuber’ with your head slightly askew like a curious canine. You know there’s something not quite right, but you just can’t put your paw on it. It reminded me of when I upcycled a few old boards and four porch railing posts into a “chic” side-table. That table was in my living room for a year or two before realizing I had installed one of the legs upside down and opposite the other three. I remember the day I sold that table to an unknowing garage-sale’r. I often wondered if she ever caught my construction snafu. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The moral of the story is this. Don’t take life too seriously. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Most importantly, don’t spend $66 repairing a 15-year-old $39 ‘4cuber’. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">But, if you do, enjoy the ride…</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasDtfRTEnAQ9fGZ8ItfDvw5sVsC6zZNS83FmH6fGqMorUYyKyRNG5Ljxnw-bUK13Gz-pQhbCWAEtCHAmOYnPQwckFSwjBSWTRIuHGDT88pfQa4qC46joboHBaCu-wkPKFF1Uf4_qgV3Y/s2048/IMG_1807.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasDtfRTEnAQ9fGZ8ItfDvw5sVsC6zZNS83FmH6fGqMorUYyKyRNG5Ljxnw-bUK13Gz-pQhbCWAEtCHAmOYnPQwckFSwjBSWTRIuHGDT88pfQa4qC46joboHBaCu-wkPKFF1Uf4_qgV3Y/w640-h480/IMG_1807.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">'4 Cuber' Before Paint</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLdn3oNXYSS2nCn3H6y7mlmSYy6SOChS0I5rjjcNR3zCodQ5_6n4MhSswsLHaj5DcEAEd-JqO3cY1NADlkMRn2WZ9Kqu2hxbUa_PCPtUj0NDU6vqXyemF0H9_tpnaojNmLAN21NtKLVQ/s2048/IMG_1808.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLdn3oNXYSS2nCn3H6y7mlmSYy6SOChS0I5rjjcNR3zCodQ5_6n4MhSswsLHaj5DcEAEd-JqO3cY1NADlkMRn2WZ9Kqu2hxbUa_PCPtUj0NDU6vqXyemF0H9_tpnaojNmLAN21NtKLVQ/w640-h480/IMG_1808.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">'4 Cuber' After Paint</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdjJH7EnRjOhCt8IXxljfqjXMhJqCBQNFilg_jQ031MxL7C2S94lIemRzj6pu735HWGBIrH8pino-hjvKWWfIfKz3Bxgw0PNU4JEsszDXeuf2fOMe-AlF0cyUH76lLMqSFc9gqEaS5tQ/s2048/IMG_1809.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdjJH7EnRjOhCt8IXxljfqjXMhJqCBQNFilg_jQ031MxL7C2S94lIemRzj6pu735HWGBIrH8pino-hjvKWWfIfKz3Bxgw0PNU4JEsszDXeuf2fOMe-AlF0cyUH76lLMqSFc9gqEaS5tQ/w480-h640/IMG_1809.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">'7.5 Cuber' </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large;">Best Yard Implement In The Arsenal</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTp4CewL4clO0GO1WUXFmYjmuS3ljvSnV2z1mSxeB3iXxC9i0mt07Z7pgbH2fi5odP6lt63qUO8YssuUltBIRk8Dj3E6aHRctL6EVZw-plvbwtk17Ak4dxq4XaotmnVpqzS82LAB4624/s2048/IMG_1810.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTp4CewL4clO0GO1WUXFmYjmuS3ljvSnV2z1mSxeB3iXxC9i0mt07Z7pgbH2fi5odP6lt63qUO8YssuUltBIRk8Dj3E6aHRctL6EVZw-plvbwtk17Ak4dxq4XaotmnVpqzS82LAB4624/w640-h480/IMG_1810.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">"6 Cuber'</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">2018 Dumpster Rescue</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">($38 Wheel/Tire Added)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-15883680564488555322021-04-12T23:06:00.003-04:002021-04-13T08:38:48.425-04:00<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Peaceful Persistence: A Book Review </b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-W2-8XhSvym58QbagXIFaISXCJIqwJe2UMTvaWKtrM7MnP1ei6s0lSetJLxJAd9nrCDZ47ErAWZlMI09okMuqvEOG3Z3JpOAFbiAM19HvS2hkl4wLrSoG_zIWmmoy8DwpbUAksvmJ84/s2048/1DA73905-FDF8-4544-A5A1-7DEFBDC1FE1A_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1816" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-W2-8XhSvym58QbagXIFaISXCJIqwJe2UMTvaWKtrM7MnP1ei6s0lSetJLxJAd9nrCDZ47ErAWZlMI09okMuqvEOG3Z3JpOAFbiAM19HvS2hkl4wLrSoG_zIWmmoy8DwpbUAksvmJ84/w355-h400/1DA73905-FDF8-4544-A5A1-7DEFBDC1FE1A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="355" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This is more of a Thank You Letter than it is a book review. It's also more about the author and his influence on me, than it is his latest collection of essays titled, Peaceful Persistence. I first discovered Michael Perry when I stumbled upon a book called <b>Population 485</b>: <i>Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time.</i> That was over ten years ago. I’d plucked it from a table of random paperbacks just inside the door of our local Barnes & Noble. To say it changed my life wouldn’t be a stretch. To say it enhanced my life in the following decade would be more accurate. The cover of <b>Population 485 </b>pictured a man walking down a country road. There was a barn and an old maple in the distance. The visual grabbed my arm while the description of the books theme rang familiar. For the price of a turkey sub and chips, the purchase of that book continues to pay life-altering dividends. That may sound melodramatic but I’m being truthful. It wasn’t just the parallel stories or characters in the book that resonated, it was the journey he took writing and publishing it. His early years were spent wrestling with being strong and gentle, brave and cautious, hunter and gatherer. In the end he carved a path that kept his values intact and his passion for writing true to his upbringing. I embraced the common thread that keeps me here at my desk today pecking away at a keyboard. More importantly his story allowed me the courage to wear my heart on my sleeve and do it without reservation or fear of what someone thinks or says. If someone can inspire you through their words or actions, it's a gift that keeps on giving. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEytDXix0G5vXBvwiw3FiTm5OcRqQoSYLEU2d315v_R7aAWwcBboz45HjAxjSqlzJtmVRPD-SU8ljwgXHuXQLA7lBwSjjJg4Hlf3R4DTeH-knP1ToeQwkN8jB8j71w0wmhpKF6GfKjTgQ/s2048/6D489E10-4673-467D-ACAC-6C1B64545CA3.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEytDXix0G5vXBvwiw3FiTm5OcRqQoSYLEU2d315v_R7aAWwcBboz45HjAxjSqlzJtmVRPD-SU8ljwgXHuXQLA7lBwSjjJg4Hlf3R4DTeH-knP1ToeQwkN8jB8j71w0wmhpKF6GfKjTgQ/s320/6D489E10-4673-467D-ACAC-6C1B64545CA3.heic" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Peaceful Persistence, </i>takes Michael Perry’s short, hand-picked newspaper columns, and puts them in a collection that basically wraps my life in a blanket of affirmation. It’s a compass-reading that confirms I didn’t wander off the trail and that treating people with compassion and understanding is the ultimate path to a full life. Somewhere along the way you realize the world is bigger than you thought and it’s not revolving around you. You begin to look for signs telling you what purpose you serve. I began to feel it was best to live with compassion and understanding and not fill my head with mistrust and anger toward anything or anyone who presented a conflicting opinion. I’m in this over sixty years now and that path is proving to be a bigger challenge than expected. <i>Peaceful Persistence,</i> reassures me that I’m not alone in wanting to hang my hat on optimism and the simpler joys of life. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Peaceful Persistence showed up in the mail just as Covid-19 was kicking us shin high on a daily basis. It provided assurance that peace would indeed return to the valley. It’s short two-page vignettes of life through the eyes of a writer/father/artist/husband/human realigned my outlook better than my cataract surgery. The tone of the book is to take longer looks at simpler things. What does it take to make you truly happy? I find comfort in the knowledge that my ability to savor everyday tasks around my home and property is shared by others. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Every morning my willpower is limp and I find myself scrolling through the news like everyone else. I’ve tried to banish this habit with limited success. It’s like leaning into a fast ball. I just grabbed my phone to list a few examples: </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Former NFL player kills 5 in South Carolina, then himself.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Pa. Woman Was Stabbed When She Showed Up to Buy Fridge on Facebook Market Place</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Popular Diets That May Cause Damage to Your Kidneys.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Hazardous spill in Florida highlights environmental threat decades in the making. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I won’t even begin to list the political headlines for fear of bursting into flames and igniting a wildfire. My inability to ignore the train wreck that plates itself on my phone everyday is the greatest threat to my well-being, yet I slurp it up like a thirsty dog. When I do come to my senses with a snort of smelling salts I can’t wait to find a quiet corner to hide in. Once I have my bearings I come out swinging and scouring the day for something positive. Most days those optimist-bits are within reach. It might be the sight of a goldfinch clinging to a bag of thistle outside my window or that first sip of morning coffee. How we measure happiness is how we value life. It’s also how we survive intact and craving more. It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes a lifetime to enjoy a lifetime. It’s an experience cocktail. You mix all the good things, bad things, mediocre days and celebratory days, births and deaths, memories and memorials, and you stir them briskly, pour them over ice and gulp them down like glass of Citrucel. A few hours later you're revived and ready to take on the next Vehicle Warranty phone call. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Peaceful Persistence reminds you, chapter by chapter, the importance of appreciating the day-to-day. It’s not a self-help book its a self-awareness book. There’s the chapter tilted <i>Montaigne and Mercy. </i>In it Perry tries to explain the irony of reading Montaigne’s works from the 1500s while sitting in a deer stand dosed in buck lure. His efforts to navigate between worlds of flannel shirts and tweed jackets is one that not only appeals to me, it defines me. A chapter or two later called Barnyard Ballet was a precise reflection of my own cloddishness. He takes the simple act of climbing over a short section of fence surrounding the chicken coop and regurgitates it into a word ballet. Not only does his word choice capture the scene with humor and grace he takes a similar ice ballet of mine from a few months ago and replays it in 4G right before my eyes. I vividly remember stepping backward to capture the full beauty of my wife’s outdoor Christmas lanterns only to go one step too far under the dripping eves. The glossy ice beneath my feet placed me horizontal in a NY second and when I regained consciousness my first move was to kneel there in the wet laughing at what would have easily made AFV’s Top Ten. Lucky to be alive and destined to need a helmet to take the trash out I relish the life I’ve been afforded. How happy can we be? Does your freshly detailed Mercedes make you happier than me and my dusty Tundra squatted low with compost? I think not. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Whether you read one of Michael Perry’s books or not, you’d be wise to follow his lead and my advice. Be true to the person in the mirror. Savor the small stuff don’t sweat it. Take inventory on a daily basis. Peaceful Persistence is full of two-page examples of what gratitude looks like and how to recognize it when you see it, hear it, taste it, feel it, or smell it. Based on the other reading options on your iPhone you can’t go wrong. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Thanks Mike, you mak(d)e my day(s). </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">J.R.G aka Raining Iguanas </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-90561087307369024162021-03-21T19:22:00.003-04:002021-03-21T19:22:39.349-04:00<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>The Dealership</b></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhd-cPcl-YrDJYVYCdVOpd5VyIFcHLqgCkBSOlyxcF3LKgBdUeD0zV_vIaXw0bCGl8DZQ8RkGAIYBj5xJpVV_ynYtYogMdofYZjOzGnjJD8J1ZkICLHFLVRaY5UNr55MMCnmtwi1K9h0/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhd-cPcl-YrDJYVYCdVOpd5VyIFcHLqgCkBSOlyxcF3LKgBdUeD0zV_vIaXw0bCGl8DZQ8RkGAIYBj5xJpVV_ynYtYogMdofYZjOzGnjJD8J1ZkICLHFLVRaY5UNr55MMCnmtwi1K9h0/w372-h300/IMG_1501.jpeg" width="372" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Tail Light"</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">It's no surprise that the online appointment at my local car dealership never reached its intended destination. I would have been more surprised if it had. The young woman at the Service Counter assured me it wasn't a problem. She said there'd been two no-shows anyway, so they would get me in asap. Her voice sounded sincere, but after decades of repair nightmares, my gray-haired skepticism kept me on alert. I've resigned myself to treating any positive experiences as unexpected gifts. Based on my previous post about refreshing my personal page to positivity, I will keep my word and edit this post accordingly. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">First of all, I have no reason to complain. After years of questionable decisions and limited resources, Mrs. G. and I now own two reliable vehicles. They both have low miles for their age, indicating a lack of car payments with a dash of crossed fingers. They are the two most reliable things on four wheels that have ever parked in our driveway. We consider ourselves extremely fortunate in the transportation department. Even after its long winter slumber, my seventeen-year-old motorcycle with 60k miles started without hesitation. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I've owned dozens of motorized vehicles in my life. The first was a Lil' Indian minibike with a 3.5hp Briggs & Stratton. It was serviced by the ten-year-old who rode it. I treated it like it treated me—with pure joy. I've tried to recreate the experience of that first taste of freedom for the last half-century. I conclude that the goal is unattainable as a full head of hair and 34 waist Levi's. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Now back to the dealership. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This place is as clean as Urgent Care up the road, and everyone is as pleasant as a Holiday Inn receptionist. That's when I wait for the proverbial hammer to drop. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">"Your tires are riddled with road fungus. We can treat them with tire antibiotics for $49.95 per tire. Plus tax."</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">"I'm sorry for the wait, but we don't carry the rare viscosity oil your car requires, so we had to order it on eBay. It will be here next month. Do you want to make that appointment now or do it online at your convenience?" </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">"Did you know there's a recall on the brake pads we installed last year? They say they may burst in flames and fail without warning. Did you want us to take care of that for you? We have an opening in 2022." </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">None of these scenarios played out this morning. I'm only two hours in for my, maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't a scheduled appointment, and I'm still in the "positive lane." I'm starving and have a headache, but I remain smiling under my masked facade. I'm praying that if I'm out of here by noon, I'll be okay. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Another waiting room resident just received her doctor's report. The service rep informed her that her car would be done shortly. She and her two preschoolers were glad to hear the news. Have you ever waited more than an hour with two little ones with no toys and a Deadliest Catch Marathon locked in on TV? She handled the information that even though her tires were still legal, she should consider new ones before the next snowflake hit the ground. No worries, she's told they have a 12-month promotion on tires. Buy three for an inflated price, get the fourth free! If she takes the bait and gets reeled in, I'm confident she'll end up paying for new valve stems. There I go again, drifting over into the opposing lane. This positive reboot may take some time. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It's the next day, and I'm putting the final touches on this sarcastic slice of reality. In the end, the service on my vehicle was executed without incident, and the bill was fair. They didn't try to upsell me any additional services, and I was home in time for lunch. Whether it's an oil change, tire rotation, or battery replacement, I always feel like I'm involved in high-stakes gambling. I'd label this trip a break-even one. In my book, that rings positive. Tomorrow I head down the Northway for a doctor's appointment. Let's hope that routine maintenance has the same outcome. Doctor visits, another nail biting evaluation that puts us at the mercy of others. After a year of playing Russian roulette with a virus, we could all use some good news. With shot #1 one in my arm and #2 a week away, this spring is shaping up better than the last and just enough to keep me thumbs-up happy. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Peace. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-73097749811992259552021-03-18T11:36:00.000-04:002021-03-18T11:36:29.229-04:00A Shot In The Arm <span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">A Shot In The Arm</b><br />By John R. Greenwood </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3AX2mEM4C184DvnagXpvMjnANVkU2WxwqCKQZuDAtp_x3kMQ2QbTMVVU_fCbhf5RgRmTyIk9IhlyM2piYDCUQYAqwYfJclsOjGmE8rWijCMuTZqa-UHMm4eidPN7-SF3DOJHjydYdtE/w400-h300/IMG_1494.jpeg" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>A Shot In The Arm</i></span></span></div>felt like the appropriate title for a story about writing after hitting the pause button for a while. This is my first post for 2021 and I’m about to head to CVS for my first dose of the Covid-19 vaccine. I’m hoping it will be the shot that will prolong the inevitable dirt-nap and the shot that will refresh my outlook on the future. Simply put, I’m exhausted from the daily discourse that has coated my brain with negativity and despair. I’ve tried to climb out of the ditch, but every time I start to whistle again, a wave of political poison places a boot heel on my forehead and knocks me back in the hole. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve become zombie-like in my daily routine. The difficulty putting pen to paper has been a lack of caring. I’ve reverted to child-like selfishness that melts when I see others struggling but re-ignites when someone scrapes their opinions onto my plate. Reading the xenophobic refuse that people share on social media makes my head hurt, and my heart cringe. It’s unnecessary and consuming. It devours my ability to function in a positive light for more than a day. Even as I plunk down these ramblings, I feel a sense of pissing in the wind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">There is good news out there, but you have to mine it like gold. It’s always buried beneath a pile of scare tactics, warnings and conspiracy theories. There’s a never-ending army of naysayers waiting to trounce on every uplifting sprout. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">From here on out, I’m going to focus on the positive—the ability that used to come to me naturally. These days I have to use a pair of jumper cables to get me started. Thankfully spring is headed our way. Mowing is better than snow-blowing. Tee-shirts and shorts beat out puffy parkas and neck gaiters any day. Releasing the lawn furniture from the basement is just a few weeks away. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I haven’t been completely stagnant. Indoor projects continue to commandeer my time. Sprinkle in an occasional appointment or a visit to the grocery store, and winter has scooted along like an aluminum saucer on crusted snow, but the stress of the outside world has taken a toll on my desire to sing. I’m fighting it like a Tiger comeback, but it’s not going to be easy. There’s a lot of pain out there, and it’s hard to move ahead without looking back. In the past, a day in the woods with the sun shining on my face would do the trick. Spring 2021 may take something extra. Maybe a combination of a motorcycle ride around the lake, a bike ride around the neighborhood, and an old-fashioned pickup-run to the transfer station will do it. The key is not to wave the white flag. Keep swinging. Keep swatting away those pesky gnats of negativity. Keep telling yourself you’ve been through worse and always exited the other side. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">This shot in the arm needs a little more than before. Pandemic and politics are no match for the human spirit. At least that’s what I keep telling that voice on my shoulder. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Shot #2 is scheduled for the end of the month. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Look out, April, here I come! </span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /><br /> <br /></span><br /></div></div></div>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022897692697196307.post-1521120435335498582020-11-20T07:54:00.002-05:002020-11-20T20:40:17.265-05:00The Obituary of Leaf Rake<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lDJYlehq18zzj0IlpBhkJoBXGdpGkrCwP2nTKiQahgfuvvr0Ioz5fDEsCuyyiQnVWnminQ99GEZvCnULFQ98RMOuWOHIhT7mOT4hgZNAXI3OytVyw0rcWmOOkXFD439HsDKLX-LMQ40/s2048/6FDDBD72-8F64-4AA6-97A5-7ECA5C8A32B9_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1490" data-original-width="2048" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lDJYlehq18zzj0IlpBhkJoBXGdpGkrCwP2nTKiQahgfuvvr0Ioz5fDEsCuyyiQnVWnminQ99GEZvCnULFQ98RMOuWOHIhT7mOT4hgZNAXI3OytVyw0rcWmOOkXFD439HsDKLX-LMQ40/w640-h492/6FDDBD72-8F64-4AA6-97A5-7ECA5C8A32B9_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The Obituary of Leaf Rake </span></b></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By John R. Greenwood</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Leaf Rake </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">October 25,1100 B.C. — November 19, 2020</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Saratoga Springs, NY</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">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."</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">"Most of all be proud of all those mountainous leaf piles of autumn you two made." </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">"The Blower Boys can’t do that now, can they?"</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">RIP Leaf Rake </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Raining Iguanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15461327421951949725noreply@blogger.com3