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. 

Daily Dose

Daily Dose
By John R.Greenwood

After a five-month writing drought, it felt good to hit the “Publish” button. The writing hiatus was a result of general neglect and lack of interest. Although I continued contributing to Simply Saratoga Magazine and an occasional piece to the Town of Greenfield Historical Society Newsletter, those events were scant and scattered. My recent writing has been reduced to emails, letters, and Facebook posts. A short face-to-face with my original writing mentor was a kick in the shin. It forced me to revisit my retirement dream of having more time to flex my creative writing.

After a short but important visit to Bedlam Farm (see previous post), I was reminded of the “use it or lose it” phrase related to writing. In the same way, the non-use of a weakened body part can render specific muscles useless, failure to exercise your writing skills can leave you lost and uninspired. That’s precisely where I wandered off to.

Jon Katz, who has spent his life paying bills with the help of a keyboard, suggested I re-engage my writing routine by jotting down and sharing short journal entries much like the post you’re reading here. It’s another toe-dipping way to re-enter the world of sharing via pad and pen(cil).

The posts may not flow like junk mail, they may drip in at a pace more in tune with the weekly supermarket promo, but they will come.

Maybe…

Did He Really Say That?

Did He Really Say That?
By John R. Greenwood

On Father’s Day 1979, my wife gave me a small 5x7 Hallmark plaque with a photograph of a man and a boy fishing off the end of a dock. The inscription in the bottom right-hand corner read: 

“Try not to become a man of success but rather a man of value.” —Albert Einstein 

My sons were only one and four at the time, and I’d just taken a huge leap of faith by purchasing Price’s Dairy from Victor Price. My wife and I were in our early twenties with little money and even less business experience. Basically, it was the Price’s Dairy name, a milk route, and a few old trucks. We had nothing to lose. The next ten years were the hardest and most rewarding years of my life. I amassed a lifetime of friends and memories in one decade, and although it was heartbreaking to see it end, I never regretted one day of it. 

The little wooden Hallmark plaque graced my desk throughout the Price’s Dairy years. When I went to work for Stewart’s and earned a management position in the Hauling Office, the plaque came with me. It would remain on my desk until I retired in 2019. It’s in front of me right now as I write this. Although the quote has been my mantra and roadmap whenever I sought the answer to life’s meaning, I always wondered whether Albert Einstein was really the source.

Several weeks ago, I was looking for something to write. I’d been neglecting this blog, and it deserved a little nourishment. I set out to prove or disprove whether or not my buddy Al was as proficient with his prose as he was in his calculations. Where do I start? Google has yet to let me down—this was no exception. When I typed in the quote and asked whether or not Albert Einstein was indeed responsible, Google directed me to a May 2, 1955 issue of Life Magazine, which contained an article titled “Death of a Genius.” The article appeared one month after Einstein’s death and a month before I was born. Now all I needed was to find the quote. Thanks to the power of the internet and Google, I could page through the entire issue. In the process, I was able to locate it. One of Life’s editors, William Miller, his son Pat, a Harvard freshman at the time, and Professor William Hermanns, a friend of Einstein’s from Germany, visited Einstein some months before his death. During the visit, the four men discussed the importance of staying curious. 

Einstein explained, “Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day. Never lose a holy curiosity. Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value. He is considered successful in our day who gets more out of life than he puts in. But a man of value will give more than he receives.” 

Finding the roots and context of my mantra for the last forty years helped me understand its significance. As a man constantly searching for signs to guide me, this felt like confirmation that maybe I’d been on the right road all along.

Thanks to Zubal Books of Cleveland, Ohio, I now have an original issue of that May 2, 1955, Life Magazine, and I couldn’t be happier.

                                 Life’s simple pleasures.

Einstein's Desk 

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch 
By John R. Greenwood

New switch on the lower left

This bandsaw is the first power tool my father taught me how to use. He used a lot of different tools to make a living, but when he was in his own garage/workshop, he enjoyed this *1945 Delta/Milwaukee 14 inch bandsaw. I was around ten when he first let me flip the switch and go solo. My father was firm when teaching me the dos and don'ts of anything with death or injury potential. Whether he was giving me instructions on the handling of a 30/30 Winchester or a 1940s bandsaw, I knew when he meant business. The word 'firm' may not be strong enough to describe dad's safety speeches. 



My first lessons on the Delta consisted of dad reaching over my shoulders and guiding my kid-hands with his heavily callused, blue-collar hands. Two fingers on his left hand held deep scars from a saw accident he'd had before I was born. He admitted that they were the result of carelessness. The apple didn't fall far because, in my early twenties, I earned the nickname, "Nine Fingers." We'll table that story for another episode. At first, I was only allowed to use the saw when dad was in the shop. My first build was probably a birdhouse. Once I proved I could be "fairly" responsible in the shop, I was shown where the key was, and as long as I asked, I could use it without supervision. I really enjoyed those quiet times building things. I loved using the bench vise and all the different hand tools. 

My father owned every tool imaginable. He also built a wall of shelves filled with Gerber Baby Food jars. The ones with the metal half-twist lids. Each jar was neatly marked and filled with every size nut, bolt, or screw ever made. If you needed it, it was there—somewhere. It wasn't a fancy shop, but it was functional.

Made in Milwaukee USA

With a year of retirement under my belt, I now have more time to tackle home improvement projects that have been neglected for years. Having the ability to visit places like Home Depot or my local hardware store during the week is a DIY'er's dream. Weekend visits are worse than Walmart on Black Friday. Now that Mrs. G. and I are at the tail end of our big projects, we have time to take on a few of those on the way, way, way back-burner. Today as I was rummaging around the cellar, I walked by dad's beloved bandsaw sitting neglected and cobweb-covered. I could hear my father preaching to me about taking care of my tools. It struck a chord. I decided to clean up the 75 year-old and take her for a spin.

I took my $30 Sears handcart and pulled the 300lb cast iron saw up out of the cellar, one cement step at a time. I'm not sure how I did it alone, but something tells me I wasn't. The old girl looked great in the June sunlight, but she needed a little sprucing up. She hadn't been out on a date in decades, so I grabbed a whiskbroom and some 3-In-One oil and got to work. The lead cord seemed okay, so I plugged her in. When I first flipped the switch, there was nothing but silence. I gave the belt a few turns by hand and wiggled the switch again. Suddenly like Rip Van Winkle (Goggle it kids) waking from his slumber, the electric motor began to moan and groan back to life. Another few hand-spins of the belt and the old Delta was singing once more. The sound of that old motor and spinning saw blade brought me back to dad's shop and the 1960s in an instant. The smell of pine sawdust, and that old musty shop filled the air. Best of all, I could hear my father breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe the kid finally gets it? It took a lifetime to grasp the impact of his lessons, but they all came flooding back like a tsunami. Cleaning up dad's old bandsaw had become a Father's Day gift I wasn't expecting. 

 

Work Light with old GE Bulb 

Once I had the saw cleaned up, it was time to try it out. I found an old piece of trim and flipped on the switch—nothing. I wiggled it a little, and as it snapped back to life, I suddenly remembered something. It had always been bad. It was 1968, and I could hear my father as clear as day saying, "I have to fix that switch someday." Well, dad, it's June 2020, today's the day! I ran back into the cellar and found a new one. It took less than five minutes to take something off a fifty-year to-do list. I'm sure I could detect a smile on the Delta/Milwaukee when I flipped her on this time. I'm guessing dad was smiling down too. It felt so good I even replaced the lead to the work light dad had mounted on the saw years ago.

Time to make a new key rack

I did leave the vintage socket and 60W GE light bulb intact as a reminder of days gone by. Bringing that 1945 saw back to life gave me more than good memories; it gave me the inspiration to tackle more long-overdue projects. I think the first one will be to use an old wooden pattern I saved from dad's shop. It's the cutout of a large key. You add hooks to it to hang your various keys on. My parents had one hanging in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Dad had all the hooks marked with those plastic Label-Maker labels you made one letter, one squeeze at a time. The hook I remember most clearly was the one labeled "Shop." 

Happy Father's Day! 

Love,
John 


* Founded in 1919, DELTA Power Equipment Corporation is still in existance and making bandsaws. The 2020 version of this saw is not all that different than the 1945 version I own. I was able to verify the year of manufacture by calling Delta Machinery's 1-800 number with the serial number. I was surprised to learn it was 10 years older than I thought. 

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

Owl Pen Books

Owl Pen Books

By John R. Greenwood

What is beautiful, yet covered in dirt?
"Riddle Road"

Day three of

retirement found me rumbling down an old dirt road in my pickup. The sign said Riddle Road—it’s across the river in Washington County, and it brought me to used-book-nirvana.

Owl Pen Books is a therapeutic blanket of knowledge and history, wrapped in old books and musty air, all encased in barn-red buildings, draped in a canopy of century-old maples, and surrounded by moss-covered stonewalls— a virtual, “Book Heaven.” I knew it was out there somewhere, and my heart knew it had to be a special place. I was not disappointed. I regret that it took me so long to get there. My search for yet another copy of Jack Lewis’ 1960s book “The Hudson River,” was what finally brought me there. An internet search in December revealed Owl Pen Books possessed a copy among its 100,000 plus book inventory. 

Edie's Checkout Counter

The problem with my discovery was, it was the dead of winter, and the Owl Pen Book Barns are closed until mud season. As much as I wanted another copy of my all time favorite book, I wanted to buy it in person, not via UPS. An email request to hold the book was as easy as pie, and the kind voice of owner Edie Brown assured me the book would still be here whenever I was able to make my pilgrimage. Talk about worth the wait. 

The mother of all book stores...

When you head to Riddle Road this summer, be sure to use your GPS or a map from the early 1900s because this treasure is buried deep. I’ve read some other online reviews of columnists who have written about their visit to Owl Pen. They all, including this piece, focus a large part of their observation on how much joy they derived just getting there. Even a well-traveled adventurer should plan to stop at the Greenwich or Argyle Stewart’s for a handful of Slim Jim’s and a few cold bottles of Saratoga Water as back up, on the off chance you end up in Hartford. Either way, you will pass through some of the most calming farm vistas known to man. 

Real. Live. Classics.

When the friendly voice on my Garmin signaled my destination was just yards away, I saw a sign that said, “Owl Pen Parking” and it was pointing to a small field surrounded by fresh-leaved trees full of chirping birds. There was one lone Prius parked randomly between the invisible lines of a make-believe parking lot. There was no paved walk just a worn dirt path leading to the main chicken-coop/book-barn. This place has history. Born in 1960 by Barbara Probst, and now run by Edie Brown and Hank Howard. Owl Pen oozes a sense of nostalgia and what-will-I-find-next-mystery. I was on a bit of a time crunch, so today’s visit was more exploratory than full day campout so when it came to cruising the shelves I barely scratched the surface. What I can relay is how this place made me feel. It wasn’t just shelves of books; it was a like a Thoreau retreat. There is peaceful calm that permeates the entire property. The never-ending rain of this spring had everything growing a deep green and to its full potential. If I hadn’t retired just a few days earlier, I would have asked for a job application. 

No Need To Knock

I can’t wait to return to Owl Pen on my motorcycle. This time I will pack a lunch, a fresh camera battery, and a pad and pen. I won’t need my Garmin or a watch, and I will be smiling when I get there. I will be book happy when I leave. 

When you go, be sure to tell Edie that Raining Iguanas sent you, My hope is; she smiles in return. 

If you aren't grabbing your keys yet, wait until you see the rest of these scenes from Owl Pen Books 

This is my Disney. 

"Can I wrap this to go?"

"View with a room" 

"Help Fight TV--Buy a Book" - Owl Pen Books

Where it all started

"Wood you miss this shot?"

"The End"

A Book Review And More

A Book Review And More

By John R. Greenwood

Since I began this blog I've written several pieces about favorite books and authors and how I've been inspired and energized by them. 

Today I'd like to share a story about a special book and its author. The story encapsulates all the positive connections I've made since I began sharing my work publicly. The book is titled, "Mark On Paper." The author's name is Elana Mark. In Elana's words the book is,"A Memoir in Poems, Prose, Pencil & Painting. In my words the book is a gift. A gift is something given to someone without expectation of anything in return. I had the honor of reading this memoir as a manuscript before it was published in book form. I knew by the first few pages that what I was reading was something precious and real. The author is not a distant figure living in New York City or San Francisco, Chicago, or London. Elana lives in nearby Cambridge, NY and even though we've only met once for a short visit, I feel comfortable and honored calling her a friend. The reason I call this book a gift is because I feel the author shared her story and bared her soul, not for monetary wealth but for another more important reason; she wanted to free herself of, and at the same time embrace her past. She isn't trying to right any wrongs or add glamor to the everyday. I believe she shares her story to solidify her belief that life is full of goodness and that in order to enjoy its full potential you must experience soggy days and shivering nights. She found strength and love in the form of a son with his own individuality. She took the bond they shared and magnified it one-thousand fold into a love of herself and everyone who so much as crossed her path.

How do I know all this from one short impromptu visit? 

A poster Elana had displayed in her home

I know it because goodness and compassion emanate from her like an August sunrise. I witnessed it first hand the day I pulled up in front of her home/gallery/studio. In the fall of 2015 my wife and I had been visiting various artists on the Cambridge Valley Fine Art Tour. We got a late start and had to call it a day before getting to Elana's home/gallery. You see, Elana is not only a wonderful author, but she is an extraordinary artist who peaked my interest with her beautiful online paintings of weathered barns and paint peeling farmhouses. There were several I'd seen online that I couldn't wait to see in person. It took until the following summer before I'd be back in the area with enough free time to make a cold call to her back door. I parked on the street and approached the house with some reservation. I was a complete stranger at this point and I didn't want to frighten or intrude on anyone. At first I knocked quietly. I could hear someone inside because the screen door was open. I knocked again. A women suddenly appeared in the kitchen. She said hello and came over to the door. I gave her my name and as simply and as politely as I could I explained why I was standing at her back door. I must have appeared harmless because she welcomed me in without any visible hesitation. I knew at that moment that I'd done the right thing by not driving by the house and waiting for, "another day." Within minutes we were sharing stories, experiences, and mutual acquaintances. Elana gladly gave me a tour of her home and all her paintings. She had them beautifully displayed throughout. Like a basket of fresh puppies; with each wall I found a new favorite I wanted to take home. After we'd shared several minutes of conversation a younger man came down the stairs and stood in the doorway. He gave me a quick once over, and said something about his television. Without skipping a beat Elana introduced her son Jeffery to me. He politely said hello, repeated some directions to his mother and headed back up the stairs. I assessed Jeffery's individuality without the need for explanation. When you read Elana's book, you will understand just how special and dear Jeffery is to his mother and in all honesty, to the world. I will never forget our meeting and I will forever embrace the connection he enjoys with his loving mother.  

After we each shared bits and pieces of our personal and professional backgrounds we agreed that we would try to stay in contact via Facebook and email. I assured Elana that I was interested in buying one of her paintings but I needed to be sure of which one and that I would be in touch. As I prepared to leave, Elana said she had something she wanted to share. She ran upstairs and returned with a manuscript of a book. I had briefly described my blog Raining Iguanas and my love of writing and memoir. She handed her manuscript to me and said, "I'd like you to read this, I'm in the process of getting it published and I thought you might like to read it." I was stunned to think after one short visit someone felt that comfortable with me that they would share something so precious and personal. I could not wait to get home and begin reading it. When I did get home it only took a few pages to know what a true gift that manuscript and that day had become.  

Jump ahead a few months and I see a painting on Elana's Facebook page that I recognize immediately. It was a side view of Bedlam Farm and I knew I had to have it. I made it clear in the FB comments it that I was interested. A few days later we struck a deal. I know you won't believe me but it's true, I've been so busy that I have yet to pick up my treasure. In fact  Elana's book came out, I had it delivered and read, and I have still not made the 45 minute trip to get my painting. I think subconsciously I've been stalling to prolong the enjoyment of another visit. 

That was the, "and more" part of the story. 

Now my review of Elana'a memoir. 

If you enjoy memoir, artistry, poetry, prose, inspirational and emotional writing from deep within a kind hearted soul, you will savor this personal collection of tears, laughter, and goodness. Elana's story leaves nothing behind. She puts everything on the table in front of you allowing you think about how you might handle the same peaks and valleys. It has visual pieces of the authors dreams and nightmares intertwined within it. Using her own drawings throughout the book added depth and texture to her words. For me it was like adding flowers to the dining room table. The meal simply tasted better with them there. Her personality and compassion are vivid and energetic. She is the type of person you want rooting for you and your cause. Her honesty and clarity about her son Jeffery were inspirational and admirable. My belief is that Elana's view of the world parallel the feelings she has for her son. We all have a glitch, and that's what makes this planet such an interesting place. It's up to all of us to nourish each other's differences, not to try to mold them into something common and predictable. Reading "Mark On Paper," you will see that the author sorted that out at a very early age. Elana appears to have made optimism and acceptance her mantra. I don't think you could read her book and derive anything but. 

I wish everyone would read this book. The world might improve its attitude toward each other by a few percentage points. I didn't share any particulars of the book because I think they are best experienced for the first time by the reader but there is one small vignette that envelopes the tone of Elana's book. It's about Jeffery and it makes me smile just thinking about it. 

Here is an excerpt from the book:

Training Wheels

It's Saturday. I am putting the training wheels on Jeffery's new bike. He has just realized what I am doing. He does not want the training wheels. "Big bike!," he says. He isn't happy at all about those little wheels. He tries to take them away. Finally I give up. I put the wheels in the back of the car. His dad puts the bikes on the bike rack and we drive to the local school parking lot. I figure that when he finds out how hard it is to balance, he will let us put the wheels on the bike.

We arrive at the parking lot and take Jeffery's bike off the rack. While we are taking our bikes off the rack, Jeffery jumps on his bike and takes off full speed across the parking lot. I can't believe it! Some things are so difficult for Jeffery to learn. I wasn't expecting this! I sit right down on the ground and cry. Seeing me, Jeffery pedals back as fast as he can. His dad has to grab the bike. Jeffery doesn't yet know how to stop! He jumps off and runs to me.

Then he puts his arms around me and says,"Don't cry, Mommy. You can learn how, too."  

This book is real. The emotion in it is real. The people in it are real. I find myself looking at others differently after reading Elana's story. I see more when I look at strangers. I listen closer too. Everyone carries baggage whether they're leaving for Europe or going to the market. It's important for us as humans to take the time to understand how fragile our existence is and to be more accepting of the stranger in line in front of us. We are all out there searching for the same things in life. Mostly we want to be loved and appreciated by someone. To get there you must share of yourself. 

This book does that.

Like I said at the beginning, it's a gift...

This sign on the mantel of Elana's fireplace says it best.
Thank you for reminding us!