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..."

Trash Talk

Trash Talk 

By John R. Greenwood 

It’s the second day of Spring 2020 and I needed to un-Covid-19 myself. The stress of the last few weeks had grabbed me by the throat and threatened to choke me. Whenever this happens I go running to my mother. Mother Nature has taken the place of mom’s attentive ear. Because mom is now busy tending to dad high above, she sometimes delegates her co-mother to fill in when she knows fresh air and the smell of pine needles is what I need most. So like a good son, I grabbed a hoodie and headed out the backdoor. A walk up the road is always a good starting point. I was just fifty feet from the end of my driveway when I spotted two empty beer cans, a soggy cigarette pack, and McDonald’s soda cup. I turned in my tracks and went back to the garage to grab a large shopping bag to collect road trash in. It was one of those gigantic plastic ones with handles. I thought it would be easier to carry than a trash bag and it would hold plenty. Wrong! I was still close enough to hit my garage with a rock and the bag was already half full. I figured if I did end up filling it I would leave it and pick it up on the return trip. My relaxing hike turned uglier the further I went. By the time I got to a grove of pines halfway down my road I was looking at dozens and dozens of single serve plastic wine bottles strewn as far as I could see. You can read my fall 2018 rant about this issue here: I'll Drive You To Drink

My relaxing walk had turned Covid-like. The vision of someone winging their drinking problem out the window and on to the roadside cranked me up like a BJ’s shopper watching someone buy (2) 32-Pack’s of Charmin during a pandemic. 

WTF! 

I regained my composure and filled my liquor-bag to the brim. By now I was drenched in perspiration and wine fumes, so instead of continuing my walk, I turned around and headed home. I’d gotten my exercise even if Mother Nature ended up getting the better end of the deal. She was a little cleaner. I burned a few calories, more by anger than effort, but in the end I did feel better that my walk wasn’t in vain. I’m sure the wine sommelier that knocks down these bottles of swill has no moral conscience and would consider me the problem with the world. Although my anger will probably fall on deaf ears, I needed to get this off my chest. There’s probably two or three more bags of trash to pick up around my 1.5 mile block. I will attempt another walk tomorrow. Maybe by the time Covid-19 is a fading memory my drunk friend will loose their license and have to start drinking at home. 

Rant over. 

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

Six Month Checkup

Six Month Checkup 

By John R. Greenwood

 Owl Pen Books
 June 2019

It went by like a freight train. Unbelievably, it’s been six months since Elvis left the building. My prox card remains untouched in the small basket where I toss my car keys. No more working weekends and holidays. If my phone rings now its the trash company letting me know they’re running a day late. My impact on the world has shrunk considerably and so has the weight that perched upon my shoulders for so many years. It’s a feeling of relief that peaks every morning as I sip my coffee. The ability to maintain an early morning workout schedule adds as much mental benefit as it does physical. A full night's sleep is now a normal event, not a rare occurrence. No more 2:00am phone calls from sick or injured drivers to wrestle with. I’m not complaining, I had a rewarding career filled with honest, hardworking people who relished the journey just like me. I’m simply sharing my thoughts from the inside out. 

It has not been a feet-on-the-coffee-table retirement though. I have accomplished more around my house in the last six months than I did in the last six years. From large projects like painting the house to small nagging ones like replacing a shut-off valve on an outdoor faucet, I’ve been busier and happier than ever. Although my dreams of spending hours pecking away at the keyboard have dwindled, my contributions to the Simply Saratoga Magazine have continued on a regular basis. I remain forever grateful for their generosity in publishing my work. 

The contacts and connections that I’ve made over the last six months is a long list. I’ve joined multiple organizations and made many new friends. Research into the company that made my retirement possible has been a large part of the last six months. I discovered photos of myself from the 1960s I never knew existed; documentation of the life-long relationship with the company that I worked for. The question of travel is always the first sentence you hear when mentioning your recent retirement. I respond the same every time. “Not yet,” is my go-to reply. I’m quite content exploring the nooks and crannies within earshot of my home. The area where I live is blanketed with parks, museums, bookstores, wildlife preserves, rivers, and lakes. I can spend a day or an hour enjoying nature in every form and never move the needle on my gas gauge or pull a dollar from my wallet. This is the reason I worked long hours and holidays. It’s cashing in without breaking a sweat and it feels great. 

The downside of my retirement has been the news and the politics that have infiltrated it. It’s hard to escape. It has affected the way I look at the world. My positivity is tested daily. Watching the divide within my country has burdened me, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Having spent my life as a fairly non-partisan person, I find myself in constant turmoil. To see the anger and disdain for people who look and sound different from what we see in the mirror leaves me shaking my head in disbelief. This is not the world I imagined for my grandchildren. I yearn for the days when acceptance for people with opposing views returns, and children and education take priority over individual gain. 

I’m going to do my best to shake 2020 like a dog toy and give it all I have. I have writing and remodeling projects lined up like pickets on a fence. I have a couple belt sizes to re-lose again this spring—my exercise routine not robust enough to overcome my latest snack routine. I will end this first post of the New Year with photographs documenting the last six months. With any luck and fewer promises, I can knock off a few more blog posts than I did in 2019. 

Happy New Year! 

Peaking After 60

Peaking After 60

By John R. Greenwood

One of my favorite quotes is, "Life Begins Outside Your Comfort Zone." Living outside your comfort zone can be invigorating, but it can also cause you bodily harm when it comes to painting the peak of your house from the far reaches of an extension ladder. Surprisingly, I'm not as brave as I used to be. Well, to be honest, I was never all that brave—especially when it came to working high above the earth. Yes, I've worked from scaffolding and extension ladders before, but I'm not as nimble as I used to be. Let's just say I could never be mistaken for, "Jack, be nimble, Jack, be quick." One thing I have been known for is; being careful. My job as a driver supervisor for thirty years was teaching and preaching safe driving and working practices. That penchant for safety exposed itself during my house painting project when I moved from the back of my one-story ranch to the peak on the gable end of the house. The peak of a one-story house is two stories above the ground and a substantial fall for a man with 60-year-old parts. I was using a borrowed 20' extension ladder which at full extension delivered me and my paintbrush to their lofty destination. My dilemma was the weight rating of this particular ladder. It was a hair shy of the reading on our bathroom scale. It's a challenge to paint while holding a paintbrush in one hand, white-knuckling the rungs of an aluminum ladder with the other, and praying to the DIY Gods all at the same time. My heart said, man-up, my head said shut up and listen. Listen to the voice on your shoulder, yelling at you to commandeer a sturdier ladder. I'd spent years telling hundreds of drivers in my Safe Driving Courses to listen to that little voice on their shoulder. When that little shoulder-voice whispers to you to get out of the truck and take a second look before you back up—you listen to it! In the case of the sketchy extension ladder, that little voice was screaming at me to do something different. A two-minute call to Trax Equipment Rental on Circular St. Saratoga and $25 provided peace of mind and a taller, beefier ladder. My confidence and safety were in much better hands.

I have decades of DIY stumbles and scars to prove my skills as a homeowner are less than professional. Still, my desire to DIY is always full throttle. Balancing ability, want, and safety has plagued man for centuries. Not unlike our willingness to ask for directions is our unwillingness to ask for help or look for time-consuming alternatives when faced with a seemingly simple task. The words, "I can build it cheaper," sends chills up Mrs. G's spine. She's spent 45 years paying for my adventures at "cheaper." It's a story we're all familiar with. In my defense, when I had the time and energy, I didn't always have the funds. Now that I'm a tad more fluid, my energy level usually finds itself at half charge. 

In the end, my peak-painting adventure was successful and even rewarding. Now I'm ready to move around to the front of the house where step ladders rule and fear is limited to a stray wasp attack. 

House-painting may seem boring to you, but for this creaky grandfather, its become my Mt. Marcy. Maybe, I'll tackle that next summer? It would be a piece of cake after this.