February 27, 2014

Open Till 8

Open Till 8 
By John R. Greenwood

I've been re-reading Randy Pausch's, "The Last Lecture." If you're not familiar with it I will let Google fill you in. This short little piece is about something he wrote about that seemed simple but it really made me stop and think. He's just been told he has just a few months to live and he thinks of his visits to Disney. Now, I've never been there myself, Storytown was always more than adequate for me, but his observation was about the response the staff is supposed to give when they are asked, "What time does the park close?" Randy remembered someone telling him they are supposed to answer, "The park is open until 8pm." That is such a slight variation with such long reaching meaning that it made me stop and think about it for quite awhile. I couldn't help thinking how differently people look at life. Some days it is hard to see the horizon but there are some mornings when I can't help but be elated to be here at all. It's easy to dig a hole but what good does it do? Life is a fairly simple activity. How much happier can someone be? The richest man in the world has bigger worries. When you boil this journey down to the syrup it's really about functioning day to day in a frame of mind that promotes wanting to do it again tomorrow. You want to have enough gumption to care about what you accomplished but not so much stress about it that it follows you to bed. It can be boring and it can be a canon blast. Being comfortable enough to enjoy it either way takes some practice. The photo above seemed to portray optimism to me. It might portray unattainable heights to others. It might even say that to me later today but for now I feel like I'm in the plus column and I'm not sure why. Let's just run with it for now. How late are you open? 

February 18, 2014

Used Truck

Used Truck
By John R. Greenwood



I'm in my hidden lunch spot thinking about what to write about when it dawns on me that I have a trunk full of stories about my days as a milkman. From 1979-1989 I was the owner operator of a Price's Dairy. Price's Dairy was not a farm nor a dairy it was a milk dealership. I bought my milk from Saratoga Dairy (Stewart's) and delivered it to institutions, restaurants and small Mom and Pop grocery stores around the Saratoga area. At the time I was a young father with a growing family and no capital, so the chance of me owning anything but old tired trucks was a pipe dream. All but one of the trucks I acquired with the business were over a decade old. The pride of the fleet was already six years old and the refrigeration unit on it was marginal at best. One day I was driving by the (now leveled) Ellsworth Ice Cream plant and noticed they had an old green and white *Chevy box truck sitting in the parking lot with a for sale sign on it. It was a beater to them but a real truck in my eyes. Since I sometimes purchased ice cream novelties from them I pulled into the plant and headed inside to inquire about the truck. The price was a firm $1500. Being young and impetuous I jumped at the opportunity to own a real truck and made an offer. I didn't have the full amount so I asked if they would take half in cash and the rest by the end of the month. With some hesitation and a handshake a deal was struck. I couldn't wait to put her to work. I quickly realized why it was for sale. The body was rotting underneath so it tilted back and sagged to one side, kind of like an old farmer with his John Deere hat askew. That didn't bother me a bit. As long it passed inspection I would be happy. Getting old trucks inspected is another story. Back then for $20 bucks you could get an inspection sticker for a wheelbarrow.

So, now I have my truck on the road and I head home where I will plug in the cooling system. The trucks back then didn't have their own diesel powered motors like today. Back then the trucks had what were called cold-plates. They were these giant wall or ceiling mounted plates that would frost up like a wet beer mug. They were huge metal blocks of ice that could last all day if you kept the truck doors closed and didn't let the humidity in. That's not an easy task in July. Now, there's a couple of problems with my lack of homework buying this truck. Number one it was an ice cream truck meant to deliver frozen ice cream not cold milk. There was no way to adjust these plates. They frozen solid and they worked perfectly, but I couldn't leave product on the truck overnight or it would be solid by 5am. I would have to unload the truck each night and reload it all in the morning. Because I spent the day climbing in and out of the truck, and because I had so many stops close to each other, the truck wouldn't have time to freeze the product during my deliveries. It worked out okay until the plates started to melt. That's when they would drip like a March downpour. I would be drenched with perspiration from the July heat and would have to get in that cold truck with ice water dripping down my neck all day long. It was a torturous to say the least. I blew $1500 I couldn't afford, I had to make it work.

Problem #2 almost sunk the Price's Dairy ship. All my other trucks were 110 volt single phase systems. Because this trucks freezer unit was built to freeze product it had to be a heavier duty unit, therefore it ran on a 220 volt three-phase system. I kept all my trucks in my yard a few miles out of town. I didn't have three-phase power on a residential site. Three-phase is used mostly in commercial applications. I didn't even know what it was before I bought the truck. Again my naivety was only overcome by my drive to put food on the table. I was in what you would call, "a pickle". I went to the Saratoga Dairy plant manager and explained my plight. We worked out a deal and they provided a spot for me to plug my truck in at a pole next to the plant. I would start my day there by grabbing the truck in the morning. I loaded my milk at the loading dock just a few feet away. It worked out for a year or so, then the old girl started to leak and burn more oil than a '65 Rambler. I remember the day I put a for sale sign on her windshield. It was a nice sunny day and my wife and I were just getting ready to take the boys for a ride. A young man, a little younger than me at the time, pulled in the driveway. He was looking for a truck to put a dump body on. His father was in the excavating business and the kid wanted to start out on his own. He had cash in his hand and the same look I did when I bought the truck from the Ellsworth's the summer before. I ran that truck for a year and I sold it for $1000. You can't lease a truck for a week for $500 bucks now. I guess I did alright after all. 



*The photo of the truck above is not the truck written about here. 

February 15, 2014

Emerge


Emerge 
By John R. Greenwood


Emerge from your winter slump, spring is near. It’s parked just outside the city limits waiting for the roads to clear. When it does show up in front of the house, run full speed across the threshold and down the steps. Fling open it's doors, grab the sun, and take it for a ride. 

On the way to the mountains fill your pockets with greenery and your head with song.

 Forgive the cold, it was only doing its job.

It meant no harm. 

What the snow will leave behind are brimming ponds and budding trees, flower blooms and frenzied fish. Full fields of swaying grass and pudgy worms will flourish in the summer snow now flowing toward the sea. 

Mother Nature, her thirst quenched, will work her magic and place one more season in the books. All her bounty working in unison to sift the spirit and replenish the soul. 

All will be well again.

And we will yearn for autumn leaf and Santa Claus   

February 14, 2014

The Joy Of Complaining

The Joy Of Complaining
By John R. Greenwood

Here is a tale of woe I felt needed to be told. Since everyone from Atlanta, Georgia to Watertown, New York has at least one tale of woe to tell this winter I thought it might be fun to express my thoughts on the subject of snow removal. I, like most men love to bitch about snow removal and all the problems that come with the white stuff. We hold our backs and whine every time we come in from snow-blowing, snowplowing, or old fashioned shoveling. 


We always add a little more to it than is necessary. We knock the snow off our boots with a little more intensity just to make the snow sound deeper than it really is. We huff and sigh, making sure our wives are within listening distance. We cock our ear to the side, listening, hoping to elicit a sympathetic sentence or two about how cold or tired we must be. If we're lucky there might even be a fresh cup of coffee or hot chocolate waiting at the kitchen table. Let's just say, whenever there is more than three inches of snow, we like to, "Play it up a little". Now my male counterparts will be angry at me for sharing this long kept secret but I'm all about honesty, it comes with the name John. I have no choice but to tell the truth and the truth is, we love it. We love playing in the snow. We can't get away with making snowmen after the age of thirteen so we have to resort to snow-removal to get our winter playtime in. As much as we wince at any snow predictions that exceed 6"-8"-- it's all just an act. We get an adrenaline rush when were hear anything nearing a foot or more. 


No matter how bundled up we get or how loud we whimper--we are little boys inside and we can't wait to step out the back door into the white depths of a winter storm. Anything above the knee adds credence to our stories about what we encountered while we were, "digging out". I have added some photos to this piece as proof to how much we love the fight between man and snow. Every snowbank we create with a shovel, plow, or Toro is another snowman or snow-fort from our past. Although advanced age and achy bones make it a little easier to fake snow-regrets, deep down beneath the hooded sweatshirt and wool hat lies an old man in boys clothes. A childhood joy of snowball fights with the kids next door lives just under the surface of each one of us. So to all you guys out there who are ready to add a bucket-loader full of embellishment to your storm woes, I just let the cat out of the bag, I couldn't keep silent any longer. It's all that Fox News talk about political transparency that has me a little skittish about complaining anymore. I guess I felt it was time to come clean. 

February 12, 2014

Gift

Gift 
By John R. Greenwood


A coworker handed me this gift of an October 1945 copy of Country Gentleman this morning. Country Gentleman billed itself as "America's Foremost Rural Magazine." He had purchased the contents of an abandoned rental unit and he found this in one of the boxes. He knew I enjoyed old books so he asked if I'd like the magazine. I was thrilled with the gift and I assured him I could assemble a blog post from it's pages. In the process I could spread the joy of the vintage periodical with others. 





The magazine was in remarkable condition for something ten years older than me. I leafed through the fragile pages with care. The advertisements were the perfect compliment to my blog. They seemed to possess a certain simplicity. What I found most interesting was how many things advertised as, world changing discoveries in 1945, remain as, world changing discoveries in 2014. I'm sure the readers back then never realized how long lasting many of the items built in 1945 would be. Many, like the Wolverine boots above have withstood the test of time. 

I don't like being pigeon-holed as nostalgic or someone who lives in the past because quite frankly I embrace the energy of this generation and today's technology. It is the technology of today that allows me the freedom to post my work and share it all over the world. Someone on the other side of the Atlantic could be reading Raining Iguanas right this very minute. What I enjoy is the feeling I get when someone gets excited about helping you along with your dream. 

Don't you enjoy giving someone something you know they weren't expecting, and seeing the surprise on their face when they realize you were the only one paying attention. Unexpected gifts received at 6am on a Monday morning have special meaning I can assure you. This one caught me off guard and as I thumbed through it I realized it's not the love of the good old days that keeps bringing me back in time, it's the pace. No one takes the time to listen to what the other person is saying anymore. We are too busy listening to ourselves. 

We are consumed with "Look at me!" and we ignore "What's new with you?" We never really take the time to pay attention to the answer. We are already thinking of our "more interesting" reply. I'm as guilty as the next guy. I try to pay attention, but I think I could do a much better job. I think we all could. What my coworker gave me today was more than a vintage magazine. He handed me a slice of respect and friendship. He brought back the good old days by reviving the fellowship that neighbors used to share with each other. He was handing me the gift of, "sharing." I am thankful for his gesture and I will do my best to pay it forward. If you agree with my thoughts on the subject you might find great pleasure in surprising someone you know with an unexpected gift. You might just get more in return than you bargained for. 

Thanks for your gift Mr. Gas Driver 







February 10, 2014

Monday Morning Parking Lot

Monday Morning Parking Lot
By John R. Greenwood

I place my pickup in park and take a long breath. The weekend has ended and the new work week has begun. I have many work weeks in my past, about 2000 of them, forty years worth. I embraced every one the same way; with the work ethic my father and grandfather instilled in me. Whether it was raking fall leaves for a neighbor or washing windows during summer vacations, they taught me to take pride in the job I was given. They emphasized honesty and integrity while doing it. They assured me that work was more than a paycheck, it was also putting your best foot forward. Today as I took a moment to reflect on the scene above I realized how important their advice was. Imagine approaching the end of your career and not having given it your all? I still have many years of work left in me. Work has defined a large portion of my life. I find that as rewarding as any Hall-of-Fame acknowledgement. Having the knowledge that no employer ever worried for one minute whether or not I was going to show up for work, tastes pretty good to me. All the money in the world can't buy personal fulfillment. There are still many Monday morning parking lot moments for me to absorb, but for some reason today's seemed particularly engaging. Maybe it was the way the floodlights illuminated the fresh snow . Maybe it was my heart telling me to enjoy these Mondays while I can. Either way, tomorrow is Tuesday and I will be there on time, with my sleeves rolled up. 

February 09, 2014

Where Will This Take Me?

Where Will This Take Me?
By John R. Greenwood

For some reason I always need a photograph to start my writing. It's like priming a stubborn engine with a spritz of ether. The other day I was drawn to the Hudson River in Thurman where this photograph was taken. I have been overcome by the need to embrace the river of my youth. The Hudson solidified my love of water and the shores that ran it's length. To this day I find no greater joy than rolling into a well worn and vacant pull-off along the Hudson and savoring the moment. My father initiated this ritual when as a young boy he would take the long way from Greenfield Center to Glens Falls via Spier Falls and the Hudson River. When I became an adult, years of long work days and few vacations limited those opportunities. Today I feel compelled to recapture those riverbank moments that acted like a calming salve for my soul. The timing of my yearning coincides with loss of the Hudson's greatest friend Pete Seeger. Naive to the entire scope of Mr. Seeger's contributions I now find myself playing catch-up. I have been researching many things about the river and its history. My heart aches to see the dredging equipment tearing up the internal organs of my friend. I have resolved myself to the fact that this was necessary. It may take multiple generations for this majestic body of water to return to the once vibrant river it once was but in the end it was the right thing to do. Let's hope our knowledge and experience insure that something like this never happens again. For now I have work to do. I have a 1960's book stirring up my curiosity, a river begging for company, and a motorcycle and camera itching for spring. I can't wait, can you? 

February 08, 2014

A River Calling




A River Calling
By John R. Greenwood

seduced by a river’s quiet demeanor 
a rusty span connects me to the past
too anxious to wait for spring 
the draw carries me upriver to the north
there is a story here 
swirling in the water below
I am sure of it
the tale yet to be told 
of a connection 
between one man’s dream fulfilled
this man’s journey freshly sown

Stay tuned...

February 07, 2014

Exit #39

Exit #39
By John R. Greenwood


The main reason for titling this post Exit #39 is because I thought it would create enough interest to draw in any readers who have an Exit #39 in their zip code. If you read yesterday's post, "Time Out" you know that I had hoped to begin a daily ritual of writing during my lunch break. That would have been illegal today because I was on the NYS Thruway. We left Saratoga Springs for Syracuse early this morning to pick up a new milk truck from the TriTank Corp.  TriTank is located just off Exit #39 of the NYS Thruway. We utilized their expertise to swap a tank from one of our old trucks to a brand truck and chassis. The only photo I took today is the one above. I was the lucky one who got to drive it home. There is only one thing better than that new car smell; that new truck smell. Today was a welcome break in the week. I got to see beautiful snow covered views of the Mohawk Valley from the seat of a brand new Western Star, and get paid for it.

The point of this piece is to emphasize the importance of finding joy in your daily journey. You might find it picking up a truck at Exit #39 of the Thruway. You might find it at Cumberland Head, Plattsburgh, Exit #39 of the Northway. You might just find it at the end of your driveway. 

February 06, 2014

Time Out

Time Out
By John R. Greenwood




I tried a new lunch time activity today. I found a quiet out of the way room buried in the middle of the distribution plant where I work. I brought my IPad to work and when everyone else had finished their lunch and returned to the office I grabbed my lunch, my IPad, a cold milk, and I headed off to that spot where I hoped to enjoy thirty minutes of solitude. My plan was to spend the time doing just what I am right here--writing. My hope is that the self-imposed time out will help to recharge my battery and at the same time give me the opportunity to stretch my writing muscles. I have now been here for a solid six minutes and no one has found me. When and if they do I may have to pull up stakes and head off deeper into the abyss of pallets and storage spaces to find more secluded refuge. For now these few minutes of seclusion are bordering on the same teenage high you experienced the first time you're allowed to take the family car to the store by yourself. As I say that, I hear footsteps headed toward me. Ten minutes was quite a long time to sit undiscovered in the middle of a busy warehouse. I'm actually surprised it lasted that long. As I turn to see who it is behind me I am excited to see it is someone from my childhood. A coworker a few years younger but who rode my bus, attended the same school, and whose brother was a classmate who graduated high school with me. I did not deem his presence an interruption, I did see it as an opportunity to secure one more reader to my blog.  He asked what I was doing as I knew he would. I corralled him like a used car salesmen corrals a first time car buyer. When he asked what I was writing about I told him. I explained that I was writing about finding quiet in the middle of the day. He smiled and apologized. I told him it was okay. If there was one person in the place who might understand, it would be the one person in the place who'd known me for over fifty years. After I shoved a business card with my blog address in his hand he thanked me and promised to leave me alone. For some crazy reason his short visit opened a floodgate of nostalgia about the small country town we both grew up in. When we talked for those short few minutes I was transported back in time. Back to a time when quiet was common and friendship tested the sands of time.  

February 02, 2014

Salem Art Works Saturday

Salem Art Works Saturday
By John Greenwood



This is my third invitation to visit Salem Art Works or SAW as it is known locally. Two of those invitations came from portraitist Emile Klein. On my first visit in 2010 Emile invited me to write a bio for his "You're US" project. I embraced the opportunity to be a contributing author. My visit Saturday was to listen to the audio portions of his latest interviews. I also met Emile's collaborator, audio artist Jeff Emtman and couldn't help but be inspired by the excitement both artists showed for the future of the "You're US" project. Connections like this keep my creative juices flowing and my mind moving forward. At the end of the presentation I asked permission to walk the grounds of SAW for some photographic stimulation. There certainly is plenty of it there. Below are some of those photographs. I may add more writing to this post along the way but for now enjoy the photos. I hope they open your imagination in the same way they did mine.