Cutting The Cord

Cutting The Cord 

By John R. Greenwood 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

“Do you have a jackknife on you?” 

“Is it sharp?” 

The answer was seldom yes and yes. 

I sure do miss those days…

Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About

Like I Don't Have Enough To Worry About

By John R. Greenwood

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. 

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.  

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. 

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. 

Stop signs are a given, yet they are the most ignored signs. They should replace the word with a pair of dice. 

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.

 "One Way" signs are the most accurate and timely. In 2023 we all believe there is only one way: "Our Way." 

The "Weight Limit 4 Tons" signs at both ends of my road are nagging reminders to skip the pastry and grab an apple. 

Speed Bumps Ahead
Front Page News…

Do teenagers even do that anymore? 

LOL!
The last time anyone went around
this corner at 15 M.P.H. they were on a horse.

.

The sign may be a bit tired, but the message is not.

As I came through the gate of my own backyard 

I was greeted by the best signs of all. 

Thanks Mrs. G. 

A Strong Foundation

A Strong Foundation
By John R. Greenwood

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.

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.

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.

Thank you, the 1960s and Greenfield Center, NY.

Relax? 

By John R. Greenwood 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

Sleep tight, America…

Simple?

Simple? 

By John R. Greenwood 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Then again...

Before 

After 

Gifting Art

Gifting Art 

By John R. Greenwood 

Art savoring his gift, brings a wide smile to the artist 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.  

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.

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. 

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."

Art's Coffee Truck 

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

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

By John R. Greenwood 

I want to share a father/son moment that took place in 1968. I was thirteen and had saved enough money for a new bicycle. I bought my Raleigh Rodeo 3+2 at Globe Supply(presently Soave Faire) on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. It was a stingray bike styled like the muscle cars of that era. It had a Hurst-like, 3-speed shifter on the frame in front of the seat. Next to it was a smaller shift knob, which gave you two more pedaling speeds. It was gold in color and my pride and joy. I parked it on its kickstand every night in the garage. Saturday mornings, while dad washed our International Scout, I would wash my Raleigh next to him.

My father instilled the importance of taking care of your things. The better the care, the longer they will last. I came up short a few times because I remember being on the receiving end of "That Look" after I misplaced or broke one of his tools. Parents hope that if a child buys something with their own money, they will take better care of it. Hope is just that. The chances of your child having the conscientious-trait is a crapshoot. Some get it; some don't. Most kids fall somewhere in between. I probably leaned more to the caring side because I feared "That Look" worse than a kick in the shins. 

In the 1960s, it was popular to ride your friends on the handlebars. They would rest their feet precariously on the small bit of threaded axle sticking out from the front tire. The other option was to let your legs swing free, which was much more difficult for both rider and the one pedaling the bike. It was also an excellent way to get run over by a car. My father was adamant that I do not try this with my bike or with anyone else's. I was a compliant son, and I was also much too afraid of my father to break that rule—that is until Glen came along. Glen was older, bigger, and wanted to get from point A to point B one day. He insisted that I provide a taxi service from the Greenfield General store to his friend Tom's house at the bottom of Cemetery Hill about a quarter-mile away. Glen was the Eddy Haskell of our neighborhood. He was an instigator and possessed a larger than life personality. He was the type of kid that could get you in trouble quicker than a wink, but at the same time, his presence helped you remember those events with overwhelming fondness. On this particular summer day in 1968, everything above fell into place.

Because Glen was too big to ride on my handlebars, he strong-armed me into the role of hood ornament. Boys at thirteen are about as coordinated as a giraffe on skates, and I was no exception. A few hundred feet up the road, my sneakers slipped off the axle bolts, and my toes got caught in the spokes. Glen, the Raleigh Rodeo, and I went ass over tea kettle. When the dust settled, a friendship and a brand new bike were in a bit of a pickle. I remember having to push my bike a mile back to my house, the whole time thinking about how mad my father was going to be. He would be upset about the bike, but even more so because I disobeyed him. The front wheel was a bent mess. The spokes had a pretzel quality to them. 

What do I do? 

You do what any red-blooded thirteen-year-old would do—cover it up! This virtual cover-up included an old blanket. Like a reprieve from the governor, it would buy me time to devise a brilliant scheme. The words "brilliant scheme" and "teenager" mix like oil and water. It did take a couple of days for my father to decipher why I was walking the mile up the road to the village versus riding my brand new $70 bike. Fathers are more observant than we think. My teenage sons learned this factoid about the same time their father did. 

"Why is there a blanket over your bicycle?"

Here's where you begin to weigh your options heavily. I didn't have enough time to concoct a viable lie. Even if I had (my wife will confirm this), I'm a terrible liar—especially if she or my father are involved. It was time to plead for mercy. 

"Um, I, I, well, uh, I messed up." (add tears here) 

Here's where parenthood takes a moment of silence. It's a silence that doesn't pay dividends until your grown children recognize the honesty you instilled in them. In my case, it took a couple of days and an eagle-eyed father to bring it to the surface, but it proved that honesty is the best policy no matter what the outcome. 

The following Saturday, dad loaded my Raleigh Rodeo, with the crumpled front wheel, into the back of our Scout. The two of us took it down to Globe Supply and dropped it off for repair. A week later, after putting several miles on my Converse, we returned to pick it up. I'm not sure who paid the bill, but my parental guts tell me it was the man whose "look" is all I ever needed. It was all that was necessary. 

Stories like this filled my teens and my life. 

Man, I miss my father. 

Making Stuff

Making Stuff

By John  R. Greenwood

The last several weeks have been a strain on everyone. I'd like to express my gratitude and admiration to those whose job puts them on the front lines of the war on COVID-19. I'm fortunate and have little to complain about in comparison. My first priority is in the next room safe and sound. Although spurts of fear and uncertainty have caused some tears and a nightmare or two, my wife and I are trying to remain positive and productive. In that light, I've been spending some time making stuff. This week I made some stuff so I could make more stuff. 

My garage is only large enough for a Toyota, a motorcycle, a bicycle, and a vast assortment of yard tools. A cellar is not the ideal place to build stuff. I'm much happier building stuff out in the fresh air. Not only can I hear the birds, but the view better. It's also easier to clean up the sawdust. For the last forty-plus years, all my building projects have been squeezed in between work and other responsibilities. Now that I have more time to spend on projects, my impatience is more manageable, and the quality of my circular saw cuts are vastly improved. 

I started the week building a work table. I added casters for mobility. I didn't use any specific set of plans, although I did watch hours and hours of workbench building videos on YouTube. I'm not sure if that made the end result any better, but it did kill a lot of time. Watching DIY videos on YouTube also makes your morning coffee taste better. It's a scientific fact.The table came out better than expected. It also used up some scrap material that had been lying around. It's a good thing I added casters because the table weighs more than a Buick. When the weather warms up, I'll add some stain. 

The second project I'd wanted to do is to build a new set of saw horses. I made a set for my son for Christmas. I experimented with a simpler version for those. Although they looked great and were much easier to make, I'm not sure they will hold up as well. For the one pictured here, I dug out an old set of plans I'd used before. This version takes a little longer to make but will last longer. I'd probably still be using the originals if I'd maintained them better. I used pressure-treated lumber and exterior grade fasteners on my new set. If I take better care of them, they should outlast me. I'm planning to repaint my garage this summer. These puppies are strong enough to use for scaffolding. 

Three new pieces will help make my other building projects more enjoyable this summer. Having heavy-duty, portable work surfaces makes any DIY project go smoother. If we're going to be yard-bound this spring, we might as well be building, fixing, cleaning, or improving something while we're at it. 

For all of you who still have to drive a truck, tend to the ill or injured, keep retail afloat, protect us from fire and crime, I can't thank you enough. To stay engaged, I will try to post here more often. I will do my best to keep it light and entertaining. We get enough drama with the morning news to last all day. The best advice I can give right now is to keep moving. Building stuff is a good start. 

Be safe out there. 

Be sure to wear your safety glasses, earplugs, face mask, sunscreen, gloves, steel-toed boots, and hardhat. Don't forget to wash your hands, eat your vegetables, take your vitamins, and drink your juice. Be sure to get plenty of rest. Always warm up and stretch before any strenuous activity. 

Most importantly, "Have Fun!" 


See you on election day! 

This is one of the pair I made as a Christmas gift.
I used a technique called Shou Sugi Ban to finish it 

Jetson's To The Flintstone's

Jetson's To The Flintstone's
By John R. Greenwood

We've gone from the Jetson's to the Flintstone's in just a few weeks. Life as we have grown accustom, has come to a screeching halt. It was like watching Fred bury his heels in the dirt to avoid t-boning a runaway Brontosaurus. Our lives have gone from sixty to zero overnight. We may have turned the clocks ahead to save daylight, but our lives have been rolled back to save lives. And it's just the beginning. The severity of our predicament came abruptly, and put our Charmin' lives in the outhouse. 

I have always tried to flaunt my optimism. Some might argue that point, but I do my best to lean more Anne Lamott than Denis Leary. That theory was tested the other day when I exercised my social distancing skills by going for a walk down my road. I wrote about that walk in the previous post. My walk turned into a road adoption, and instead of my glass being half full, I came home 45 minutes later with an overflowing bag of empty liquor bottles and a diminished view of my fellow man. I found myself in a pessimistic pickle. 

Jump ahead two days. After reading dozens of stories about people pulling up bootstraps and grabbing tigers by the tail, I decided to see a doctor. I didn't need to make an appointment. I have a physician friend who makes house calls. All it takes to see her is a mouse-click and her expertise will come to your doorstep. Her name is Jen and you can find her blog Pound of Prevention here. I first met Jen as a member of a writing group. We were a small group of like-minded, beginning writers with hopes of learning more about the craft of sharing our thoughts with the rest of the world. Our group turned into something much more than that. It became an oasis of support and positivity. The residual effect has lasted for years and continues today. The piece she had posted was titled "Containing Coronavirus (Fears)." Who better to explain the current situation than a practicing physician with a compassionate heart. She did just that. Her thoughts were personal. Her advice comes from the soul of a physician/mother/wife/citizen/friend/writer. Her opinions and guidance have been mirrored by many across the internet. On the flip-side, there is no shortage of negative, judgmental, and whining commentary. I'm trying to avoid those as much as the virus itself. The best advice I heard came from the governor. He said it's vital that in all this turmoil, we stay, "productive." That can come in many forms and interpretations. That's the point, what's best for you may not be best for me. Find a comfort zone. Know there is light at the end, but we need the support of each other along the way. 

My goal is to stay positive and productive. Ranting about a littered roadside today is neither. I don't want to be Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men, I'm more comfortable in Fred Roger's shoes. I was going to delete my trash-rant post from the other day. But on second thought, I think I'll keep it there as a reminder—a sort of Turning Point of the American Revolution of Attitude and Productivity. 

Take a minute to visit the doctor on her website. She gives sound advice. 

Oh, one last thought! 

Who do you think was happier, George Jetson in Orbit City, working at Spacely Space Sprockets? Or, Fred living in Bedrock, working at the Slate Rock and Gravel Company? 

I'll give you a clue.

 "Yabba Dabba..."

Why "Raining Iguanas"

Why "Raining Iguanas" 

By John R. Greenwood

A recent 2020 cold snap in South Florida has resulted in several news articles
regarding the lizard phenomenon called raining iguanas. It also initiated a slew of messages from friends of this blog of the same name. Since there may be new visitors here I thought it would be good to write a fresh explanation and also repost a link to the first piece I wrote about how the name “Raining Iguanas” became the title of my blog. Having never visited Florida in my life and with little affection for lizards, in general, it makes sharing this story even more interesting. The vision of iguanas raining down comes from their inability to survive in frigid temperatures. Because they reside in trees where they can absorb the warmth of the sun when that sun disappears and the mercury drops to the low 30’s they lose their grip and drop to the ground. If the sun and warmer temperatures don’t come quickly enough, the iguanas die. Conversely, if the sun and temperature rise, so do the iguanas. 

I adopted that phenomenon as a metaphor for my life several years ago after my parents had both passed away, and several years of caregiving were now in my rearview mirror. The realization that my life had just made a drastic turn weighed heavily on my ability to function. Job and family obligations would change by default. Grieving and breathing were now intertwined in a confusing cocktail. It was twelve years ago that I sat at my dining room table and read a random article about ashen colored lizards being warmed back to life by the simple rays of the sun when something clicked. It was a crossroad moment where you must make a life-changing decision to take one path or another. Do I choose to mope and feel sorry for myself? Or, do I celebrate the life that my parents provided me and leap forward. I chose the latter. My parents weren’t perfect but they always wanted what was best for me. I was fortunate to have grown up in a rural environment where hard work and solid friendships provided a foundation for what would be a fulfilling and rewarding life. On that day where I connected with the idea of a second wind and a renewed outlook on my life, the name “Raining Iguanas” was born. The name stands for revival and survival. It stands for stepping out and stepping up. It stands for glasses half full and embracing the best life has to offer. It understands there are days when the temperature hovers near freezing and things appear bleak, but it is the “raining iguana’ mantra that there is always something better just around the corner that fuels this author. When you hear “raining iguanas,” think of a new foal circling the field kicking its back legs high and galloping for all he’s worth. Picture a grey-haired retiree neck-deep in local history uncovering old stories that yearn for the light of day. There are days when the chore of mowing the lawn needs a boost of “RI” (Raining Iguana). These are the days when the focus becomes the smell of fresh-cut grass and the memory it evokes. That memory might be the time you caught hell from dad because the lawn wasn't done when he got home, or the day you mowed over a nest of ground bees and had to run for dear life, it’s a gift worth saving and replaying in the years that follow. 

From the day the Raining Iguanas Blog was conceived I have embraced all that is supportive of the positive and accepting of the negative. The knowledge that there is no perfect answer has become clear during the iguana years. Friends and family of differing opinions and varying solutions seem destined to collide. My choice is to weigh with action, not words. “RI” is not about confrontation its about contemplation. You choose your path—I’ll choose mine—no judgment necessary. 

If any of this makes sense, then you will enjoy the ride. If it doesn’t today, it might tomorrow when your hair and tolerance of intolerant people thins. Sometimes you are better off letting the sun warm you back to life in any way you can. That ashen grey look is unbecoming and deadly. 

Here are two links to posts I wrote explaining the name of my blog "Raining Iguanas." 
Click Here: What's in a name"
Click Here: The Name?


Here is another link. This one is to the very first post of this blog. It's a poem I wrote before I had the courage to start this blog and begin sharing my stories with the outside world. 
Click Here: Post Number One: Raining Iguanas Poem

Here’s to the best of days—past, present, and future. 

Raining Iguanas