Mother Opened The Door

Mother Opened The Door
By John R. Greenwood

Mother opened the door and let me back in the house today. I felt like she'd abandoned me. I know she has a job to do. She can't kowtow to every special request for a sunny Fourth Of July or snowy Christmas Eve. She doesn't work on commission or by the hour--she operates on mother's instinct. Just when we think she going to go soft on us she shifts gears and hits us with an Arctic winter. No amount of planning can out guess the queen of deception. 

I'd almost given up hope of ever seeing that snow pile disappear from the foundation of the house. But, maybe out of pity, or maybe lack of refrigeration the old girl let the sun come out to play with us and turned everyone's cold frown upside down. Maybe she did do it on purpose? We get spoiled easily and have a tendency to take our mothers for granted. This might have been a subtle way of reminding us how much of an impact a mother can have on us. 

I am certain of one thing; how much I needed a leaf rake in my hand instead of a snow shovel. Oh, it won't take long for us to start complaining about high humidity and tall grass, but personally, I will tread lightly. 

I felt so much better today. I saw moving water instead of frozen water. Birds were singing instead of stuffing their beaks with sunflower seeds. Squirrels had a chance to chat with each other about Jordan Spieth winning the Masters instead of worrying about filling the pantry with acorns. I could hear the little boys across the street pretending to be superheroes instead of cringing to the sound of a behemoth snowplow scraping the blacktop and sending slush flying into the side of my mailbox. 

It was a good day, a spring Sunday brimming with optimism and a light wind of better temps ahead. 

Maybe better times too? 

The Not So Great Escape

The Not So Great Escape 
By John R. Greenwood

It was April 11th, and I hadn't been for real walk since Thanksgiving. 

Getting out of the house Saturday morning wasn't a, "Let me think about it", it was a "Where's my sneakers and camera, I'll be back later," moment. 

It wasn't like I needed to go on five mile wilderness trek but it needed to include trees and some open space. Walking up the road would probably suffice but I was hoping for something one degree removed from the outside world. Moreau Lake is only a short drive away but I needed something smaller in scale than 'state park' so I chose 'town park'. Gavin Park is my town park. Not only is it less than a mile away it's a beauty and it includes a one mile long stone-dust walking path around its entire perimeter. The path is wide and surrounded by large pine, maple, and oak trees. We are lucky to have such a gem in our neighborhood. I grabbed my camera and headed out the backdoor. 

I parked at the end of one of the lots near the walking path and off I went. I hadn't walked fifty feet when I encountered another obstacle left by old man winter. It was a hefty size tree that had fallen across the path. I could have easily walked around the obstacle and continued on my way but that would have been too easy. It's in my nature to read something into everything I encounter and this was no exception. 

I looked at that dead tree as a challenge to my path into the future and not just a simple detour to my walk. I set down my camera and grabbed the tree by the arm and began shoving him out of the way. We wrestled like a couple of ten year old boys in the backyard. I pinned him to the edge of the path, gave him a last-second boot in the branches, wiped my hands together and continued on my way. My pace picked up, along with my spirits. I was headed in the right direction--for a minute. 

As I approached the 1/4 mile sign on the edge of the path I thought I heard voices. I didn't pay much attention--I thought it might be somebody working on the other side of the park. I kept right on walking. Then I heard a man yell, "Heeyy!!" I stopped and turned around to find a man in a brown Carhartt and baseball cap running across the fields in my direction. I walked back toward him, obviously I must have broken some regulation or park etiquette. He stopped about ten feet in front of me, bent over, put both of his hands on his knees and tried to spit out the words,"Park's Closed." He looked like I should have--although I'd only walked to where we were, he'd come across the field like Leland and Youngblood on an episode of Dog The Bounty Hunter. I threw my hands in the air and whispered to myself, "Don't Shoot". 

"What's up?" I asked, even though I heard him the first time. 

His gasps had eased off. "Park's Closed" he said. It was much clearer this time. 

My eyes crossed a little. "I'm just walking around the perimeter." 

He explained that the park director had instructed him not to let anyone on the grounds until they'd done their spring safety check. He said the park would be open on Tuesday. He explained that there were places in the back of the park along the tree-line where the snow had just melted and the water was still ankle deep. He seemed relieved that I didn't fight back with that "I'm a tax paying resident and I have a right to be here" argument. He was just doing his job and I simply needed some fresh air. There was more of that around somewhere. 

He thanked me for understanding and repeated, "We'll be open Tuesday" one more time. 

I smiled to myself and shuffled back to my truck in slow motion, taking one parting shot of the, "All Fields Closed Today" sign as I headed home to the smell of bacon. 

Grow

Grow 

By John R. Greenwood

The little boy grows within, his mind filled with wonder and excitement at each tic of the clock. He begins the day searching behind, beneath, and above. He asks for simple nourishment—from crackers to hugs—the height of happiness always a room away. With a gentle inquisitiveness he runs through his days unaware of the cracked world around him. He points and sings songs of happiness when no one is watching. Life is wide open and waiting for his arrival. Colors are bright as day and the nights are filled to the brim with stars to wish upon. No compass needed on this journey—north and south are just words he hears. Lessons last a lifetime and take as long to learn--results may vary. The little boy in the mirror looks familiar. As the grandfather sees his reflection staring back he realizes school is never over. 
There’s always one more class to take--always time to grow.  

Alarm Clock

Alarm Clock 

By John R. Greenwood

Embrace or despise--which word best describes the relationship you have with your alarm clock?

Strangely this was the first thought I had today when I awoke practicing my morning ritual of, "Swat and Roll". Swat and Roll, that endless game of "to snooze or not to snooze", can torture you for up to an hour on days where the prognosis is poor and the weather is bleak.

I have possessed many versions of man's worst or second best friend. My earliest and fondest memory of an alarm clock was called mom. Her soft voice, forehead kiss, and gentle shake are long gone but warmly cherished. If we could invent a modern day version of those grade-school starts to our day we would be a much happier and less violent society today. 

My second recollection of alarm clock life came with high school and hangovers. Those were the years when I began fine tuning my alarm clock wrestling skills. High school brought a different attitude to the start of the day than grade school. Lack of test preparation and the habit of homework neglect brought a gnawing nauseousness to the break of day (that's if you were conscious enough to set your alarm before pillow flopping). The drinking age was eighteen when I was in high school and with a two year head start (fake ID) there were many unflattering nights where too many pitchers of draft beer or cheap back-seat wine overcame good judgment. On those headache encrusted mornings the alarm clock turned into a bedside monster; ugly and ominous. 

In the 70's alarm clocks were hi-tech and had phosphorescent painted digital numbers whose magic glow lasted deep into the night. Their fading glow a fitting tribute to my cloudy teens and short jaunt into adulthood. 

Married a week after my nineteenth birthday alarm clocks insisted on becoming an integral part of my life. Whether it was set at 10pm for an 11-7 night shift at the Saratoga Dairy in the 70's or at 4am as it remains today it is the last face I see at night and the first one I see in the morning. It's an annoying pest who never shuts up and a beloved friend that has placed a paycheck in my hand for four decades. My latest nightstand necessity is a beauty and possesses a quality I've come to embrace. It has the ability to project the time on the ceiling in large bright red numbers. It will wake you with the soothing sounds of songbirds or crashing waves, and will remind you endlessly, yet politely, that you're a slacker and a slouch. 

The point of this story is bigger than a Big Ben clock face, it's about the joy and pain of getting up for work everyday. Work is life for most Americans. Family is top dog but food and shelter are the priorities of those you love, so for all but a privileged few, getting up for work is something we all face. If you think it's hard getting up at 4am to start your day try sorting out a summer sleep schedule when your shift starts at 11pm and you have two boys, ages one and three. I was lucky if I slept more than four hours. It wasn't uncommon to go multiple days with zero sleep. No alarm clock works at that point--I could sleep on a step ladder. 

I think alarm clocks are one of the most under appreciated devices we own. They're treated as though they have no feelings. Here they are day after day getting you to work or play on time, yet we feel free to strike them, curse at them, and blame them every time we disagree with what they're trying to tell us. How many times have we heard someone use the excuse, "My alarm didn't go off." Seldom do we say, "My alarm clock did everything it could to get me to work on time but I chose to ignore it for an hour and thought it would sound better if I blamed it for my inability to get out of bed".    

The only true way to have a good relationship with your alarm clock is to get plenty of rest but when was the last time that happened? Our busy lifestyles insure that the alarm clocks reputation will remain a foe and not a friend for most. I'd like to change that mindset by reminding everyone that without our alarm clocks we would be late for work everyday. And if we're late, we'll either be short on hours; have to stay later; or eventually be fired. On top of that the kids will miss the bus and nobody wants that. 

We think life would be better without alarm clocks but I disagree, I think life would be a mess. Imagine the chaos. I vote we institute "National Alarm Clock Appreciation Day". For maximum affect it would have to be a Monday because getting up on the last day of the week doesn't carry the same degree of difficulty as the first. I know patting a tormentor on the back goes against the grain of expectation but in this case I believe it's deserved. It is at least unarguably earned. 

Let's do the right thing and acknowledge the staunch resolve alarm clocks possess. They accept their role responsibly knowing with it comes shouts of disdain and disrespect. So, tonight as I place the final touches on this tribute to a daily trooper I will set my alarm clock with renewed admiration. I think I might even add a half an hour and set it for 4:30am. I think we'd both enjoy a few minutes of extra solitude tomorrow, we've both earned it.  

Life Between "CBS Sunday Mornings"

Life Between “CBS Sunday Mornings”

By John R. Greenwood

It’s Sunday morning once again, it’s cold out and the staff of the Weather Channel sound like Red Bull infused pre-game analysts at the Super Bowl. 

There’s another winter storm sweeping the east coast and I’m sitting on the couch with a laptop nestled appropriately.

This winter has been the real deal. It’s like the winters I remember as a kid; the ones where you prayed for a snow day, cleared the dining room table and got the Monopoly Game out.

Life is different now than it was when I was a young man and the kids were small. They’re grown men now with families and responsibilities of their own. It’s Mrs. G and me now, no pets, less have-to’s, more me-dom. Life from Sunday to Sunday tastes different than it did in the 80’s and 90’s. Sometimes you pine for the hectic old days, sometimes you savor the quiet of being a ‘mature’ adult. This winter has emphasized the joy of the latter.

In 40 years of making a living your priorities change from day to day. I don’t want to live a responsibility-lite life. Having been instilled with a rock-solid work ethic as a young man it has become a part of who I am. Work ethic is important to me, my wife, my sons, and to those I’m fortunate to work beside. As an aging man I crave relevancy in a youth-orientated world. I admire those who work long after the need to has passed. 

This piece was initiated by listening to the hype and circumstance of an impending winter storm and double-digit below zero temperatures. I found myself crawling in to hibernation mode and enjoying the fact that it was semi-possible to pull off. My home was warm and safe. Our refrigerator was well stocked and my wife was in her cook for twenty, eat for one frame of mind. I dialed in my selfish self and planned my Sunday couch agenda. I hadn’t been writing, posting, or caring in many weeks. I found myself feeling guilty about not feeling guilty. I was enjoying life as a slug and a slump. I was happy and looking for a reason not to be. I was confused about life and expectations. I wanted to write but I didn’t want to think about what to write about. I wanted to relax without my mind mocking my sluggishness. Suddenly I realized that we’re never happy. We don’t know how to be because we’re never sure of the definition. Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment; is what the dictionary calls it. There is no mention of money or success. 

It’s 8:55am on Sunday. The last 168 hours have been filled with snow storms, ice dams, a leaky roof, and subzero temperatures. I look forward to spring yet I relish the feeling that living within the grip of winter places on us. The difference between winters past and present are really a matter of the mind. I must admit that I’ve enjoyed other winters much more than the one we’re battling now but I must also admit I’ve come to appreciate watching it from the window more this winter than any other I can remember.  

It’s 9am, CBS Sunday Morning is about to begin, and I have a fresh cup of hot coffee; maybe Webster needs to rethink that definition?