Of Course I Talk To Myself

 

Of Course I Talk To Myself 

By John R. Greenwood

It’s been three years since I released a quote emblazoned bottle back into the wild. I began my ‘bottle release program’ 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. 

“Of course I talk to myself. I like a good speaker, and I appreciate an intelligent audience.” 

— Dorothy Parker 

I stole the quote above from the blog of artist Austin Kleon. I felt Kleon’s own book title “Steal Like An Artist,” 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. 

I’m not sure what the impetus was that reignited the three-year-old bottle release program. 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. 

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.”

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.

Happy hunting! 

RI 

December 28, 2021

Bury The Skunk
By John R. Greenwood 

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. 

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.

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.

Merry Christmas.
May your 2022 be filled with notes of joy!

My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories

My Witch: The Margaret Hamilton Stories
By John R. Greenwood

Jean Tafler as Margaret Hamilton enjoying a resounding standing ovation 

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 Hubbard Hall's 2014 production Of Mice and Men 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Thank you once again, Hubbard Hall—for everything…


Yours truly, 

Raining Iguanas

RIP Brookside Dairy

RIP Brookside Dairy
John R. Greenwood

Hall's Brookside Dairy
Wilton Rd.

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.

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:



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. 

Guess which structure is now a pile of dust—yes, #9. The Captain St. John house was in the top ten! 

Thank goodness they designated the Greenfield Town Hall #1.

Enlarged photo of Heritage Resource Inventory book cover

Captain John St. John Home 
later became Harold L. Hall's Brookside Dairy 

Description on Page #51 
Greenfield Heritage Resource Inventory 

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, Harold L. Hall shared an oral history 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.

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. 

DOD 9/27/2021

At least we have a book cover to hold on to...

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.

Destruction Contractor

Destruction Contractor

 By John R. Greenwood

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Like the warranty on my work, there are no guarantees. 

* 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'm No Wheelbarrow Mechanic

I’m No Wheelbarrow Mechanic
By John R. Greenwood

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, Take your time.

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.

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.

So…

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.

Easy peasy, right?

Well, yes and no.

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. 

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.

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’.

But, if you do, enjoy the ride…

'4 Cuber' Before Paint

'4 Cuber' After Paint

'7.5 Cuber' 

Best Yard Implement In The Arsenal

"6 Cuber'

2018 Dumpster Rescue

($38 Wheel/Tire Added)

Peaceful Persistence: A Book Review 

By John R. Greenwood 

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 Population 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time. 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 Population 485 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. 

Peaceful Persistence, 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. Peaceful Persistence, reassures me that I’m not alone in wanting to hang my hat on optimism and the simpler joys of life. 

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. 

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: 

Former NFL player kills 5 in South Carolina, then himself.

Pa. Woman Was Stabbed When She Showed Up to Buy Fridge on Facebook Market Place

Popular Diets That May Cause Damage to Your Kidneys.

Hazardous spill in Florida highlights environmental threat decades in the making. 

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.  

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 Montaigne and Mercy. 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. 

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. 

Thanks Mike, you mak(d)e my day(s). 

J.R.G aka Raining Iguanas 

The Dealership

By John R. Greenwood 

"Tail Light"

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. 

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. 

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. 

Now back to the dealership. 

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. 

"Your tires are riddled with road fungus. We can treat them with tire antibiotics for $49.95 per tire. Plus tax."

"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?" 

"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." 

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. 

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. 

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.  

Peace. 

A Shot In The Arm

A Shot In The Arm
By John R. Greenwood 

A Shot In The Arm

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Shot #2 is scheduled for the end of the month.

Look out, April, here I come!