Tuesday afternoon was our department's Holiday Luncheon at a fine restaurant in the city. I had the butternut squash ravioli in creamed chive sauce with cranberries and walnuts. Very Good! At lunch, one of my bosses asked about my commute in - it being so odd that I was late. When I got to the part about that ride to Metro, the entire table became silent. The guy who sits in the cube across from mine said, "Oh my God. Stranger Danger!" I had to ask for clarity. "Stranger Danger! It's from elementary school. You don't get in a car with strangers. Are you crazy?" I said, "She was alone", but that just made it worse. That's when the questions started:
Were you hitchhiking? No.
She just stopped and picked you up? Yes.
And she drove you all the way to Metro? Yes.
Was she good looking? Uh ... well ... yeah, she was.
Did she have a nice car? Yes.
And you've never met her before? No, but she sees me at the bus stop all the time.
Have you ever done this before? No.
Was she married? No , she was divorced. (Hmmm ...)
Did she have a good job? Yes
Did you get her number? No.
Did she tell you where she lived? Uh ... well ... yeah, she did.
Do you think your wife is setting you up? No.
It became a running joke for the rest of the day. I was surprised at how much I knew about this total stranger. And I wondered how much information I'd divulged about myself on that ride. Forty minutes is a long time. I know she was just a nice person who put herself at risk by helping someone in need. I could have lied at lunch and said I caught the 8:10am bus, but I didn't; so I guess I deserved the good natured ribbing. After all, it is an odd story.
As we left the office that evening, someone asked, "Would you do it again?" I gave a blank look. "If she comes by the bus stop tomorrow, will you get in her car?"
On Wednesday, I wore a little more clothing, the 7:20am bus was only five minutes late, and I didn't see my new friend. Life is back to normal.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
A Cold Day
Ever since I exchanged my hotel job in town for a corporate job in the city, I've been dreading this day: The day I would have to take the bus and train to work in the freezing cold. On Tuesday morning, I wore wool trousers and a coat over my jacket, a scarf and two pairs of gloves. It was in the low 20's, with gusty winds, and an inch of snow on the ground; but it's only a ten minute walk to the bus stop. I thought I was prepared ... but I wasn't even close.
The 7:20am bus never showed. At 7: 30am I started pacing around to keep warm. It would be ten more minutes until the next bus arrived. My fingers and toes started to get cold and my face was freezing; but the 7:40am bus didn't show either. I waited another ten minutes, but at 7:50am there was still no bus in sight. I'd been outside for forty minutes, the wind was cutting right through my pants, and I could feel my core body temperature dropping. I had to do something! I considered going back home and starting over; instead I decided to walk to the country store about a half mile up the road. I could warm up in the store, get a hot cup of coffee, and catch the bus at the stop out front.
I walked along the shoulder past cars sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as far as the eye could see. Once in a while they would move a little ... but not very much. I heard someone call out, "Hey, do you need a ride?" I turned to see a woman in a late model sedan driving up along side. I tried to say "No", but my face was so cold that what came out was, "Umm ... a ... Of course, that would be wonderful, I think I'm slowly freezing to death." I asked if she could drop me at the country store; she said she'd be happy to drop me at Metro since it was on her way to work - and since she was already late, a few extra minutes wouldn't really matter.
When you ride the bus or train, you don't talk to people. It's rude. There are even signs warning that unwanted conversation with passengers is a basis for being ejected; but when you ride in someone's car, you can't really avoid conversation. And she didn't have her radio on, so conversation was kinda' necessary. We spent the next forty minutes together in traffic; and it should have been awkward ... but it wasn't. It was more like two friends who hadn't seen each other in years catching up on each others' lives. At Metro, I thanked her for her kindness and ran to catch the train. What a strange morning. By the time I arrived at the office, it was past 9:00am. It had taken almost two hours to go twenty miles. Wednesday morning looks like it will be even worse. I wonder if I'll survive the winter?
The 7:20am bus never showed. At 7: 30am I started pacing around to keep warm. It would be ten more minutes until the next bus arrived. My fingers and toes started to get cold and my face was freezing; but the 7:40am bus didn't show either. I waited another ten minutes, but at 7:50am there was still no bus in sight. I'd been outside for forty minutes, the wind was cutting right through my pants, and I could feel my core body temperature dropping. I had to do something! I considered going back home and starting over; instead I decided to walk to the country store about a half mile up the road. I could warm up in the store, get a hot cup of coffee, and catch the bus at the stop out front.
I walked along the shoulder past cars sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as far as the eye could see. Once in a while they would move a little ... but not very much. I heard someone call out, "Hey, do you need a ride?" I turned to see a woman in a late model sedan driving up along side. I tried to say "No", but my face was so cold that what came out was, "Umm ... a ... Of course, that would be wonderful, I think I'm slowly freezing to death." I asked if she could drop me at the country store; she said she'd be happy to drop me at Metro since it was on her way to work - and since she was already late, a few extra minutes wouldn't really matter.
When you ride the bus or train, you don't talk to people. It's rude. There are even signs warning that unwanted conversation with passengers is a basis for being ejected; but when you ride in someone's car, you can't really avoid conversation. And she didn't have her radio on, so conversation was kinda' necessary. We spent the next forty minutes together in traffic; and it should have been awkward ... but it wasn't. It was more like two friends who hadn't seen each other in years catching up on each others' lives. At Metro, I thanked her for her kindness and ran to catch the train. What a strange morning. By the time I arrived at the office, it was past 9:00am. It had taken almost two hours to go twenty miles. Wednesday morning looks like it will be even worse. I wonder if I'll survive the winter?
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Mile Post 100
It's hard to believe, but this is my 100th blog entry. To commemorate the event, I'm posting an entry from my personal journal. It's a glimpse of how this all got started. But before I do that, I want to say "Thanks" to Suzanne of "At Home with the Farmer's Wife" for providing the creative spark. Each life touching so many others. It really is a wonderful life.
It's Sunday: July 5th, 2009 - 10:25 PM
I had my first exposure to the blogosphere today. What a strange world we live in. Millions? of writers working tirelessly to produce material read by a total of ten or twenty people ... and all for free? The internet continues to redefine the world as we know it. The newspaper industry is collapsing: everyone gets news from the internet and no one wants to pay. Has the reporter gone the way of the buggy whip maker?
I went "online" to search for Zen Macrobiotics; but before I ran that search, I remembered someone at the hotel saying I showed some signs of Asperger's Syndrome. I ran a search for "Asburgers Symdrome" (Yeah, that's how I spelled it ... Symdrome) on Yahoo, and the top search result was a blog called "At Home with the Farmer's Wife". It had nothing to do with Asperger's, but it did have a lot of cool homesteading stuff; and lot's of links to other blogs with cool homesteading kind of stuff ... and ... well ... it just goes on & on forever. Not really forever in a literal sense, but forever in a personal sense for sure. Millions of people writing blog entries every day - from "Alfredo is hungry this morning" to a discourse on how following the creek by your house can take you anywhere you want to go. The former a sad commentary as to what a writer thinks his readers will find of value; the latter a provoking narrative of the interconnectedness of life strangely reminiscent of that book about the little wooden canoe - "Paddles to the Sea".
The internet is like an uncontrollable thought that constantly leads somewhere else ... and burns up life/hours as if they were free. I never got around to searching for ... what was it? ... oh yeah ... I remember now ... Zen Macrobiotics. It's become damn near impossible to control the content. I found a discussion on one blog about raising chickens, and another discussion on another blog about whether blogging and writing a journal are one and the same. For some people "Yes", for others "No". Those who do both, fell into both camps - some used the different media for different purposes, others found themselves duplicating their entries in both media. I have to envy them and all their spare time. How can anyone have enough time to do both? I can barely find enough time to jot a few thoughts in here. I can't imagine having time to keep a blog ... or anyone else wasting time reading the entries.
How did all this come about? Where is it all leading? Where is the shared experience that makes us a nation? We just seem to get more & more fragmented: a whole nation of individuals. If I write a blog about working at a hotel and repairing trolleys and being a Realtor and fixing cars and gardening and fishing and building model railroads and doing all the other things I love like painting and writing and taking pictures and playing in the band and reading good books (but not fiction) ... would anybody care but me?
I've tried putting up a website but I don't have time to answer e-mails let alone develop web content that would really matter. And yet, there is a strange attraction to the vicarious aspect of a blog. Vanity, egotism ... I'm trying to remember the word that describes someone who considers his own insignificant life so important that others would want to know that "Alfredo is hungry this morning", but the word escapes me ... and Sharon ... and a dictionary ... and two thesauruses. Maybe I should just go run a search on the internet. If I could only stay focused long enough to find the word, I could write it here for no one to read. Sad really, very sad.
... And that is how Scarred Bark began!
It's Sunday: July 5th, 2009 - 10:25 PM
I had my first exposure to the blogosphere today. What a strange world we live in. Millions? of writers working tirelessly to produce material read by a total of ten or twenty people ... and all for free? The internet continues to redefine the world as we know it. The newspaper industry is collapsing: everyone gets news from the internet and no one wants to pay. Has the reporter gone the way of the buggy whip maker?
I went "online" to search for Zen Macrobiotics; but before I ran that search, I remembered someone at the hotel saying I showed some signs of Asperger's Syndrome. I ran a search for "Asburgers Symdrome" (Yeah, that's how I spelled it ... Symdrome) on Yahoo, and the top search result was a blog called "At Home with the Farmer's Wife". It had nothing to do with Asperger's, but it did have a lot of cool homesteading stuff; and lot's of links to other blogs with cool homesteading kind of stuff ... and ... well ... it just goes on & on forever. Not really forever in a literal sense, but forever in a personal sense for sure. Millions of people writing blog entries every day - from "Alfredo is hungry this morning" to a discourse on how following the creek by your house can take you anywhere you want to go. The former a sad commentary as to what a writer thinks his readers will find of value; the latter a provoking narrative of the interconnectedness of life strangely reminiscent of that book about the little wooden canoe - "Paddles to the Sea".
The internet is like an uncontrollable thought that constantly leads somewhere else ... and burns up life/hours as if they were free. I never got around to searching for ... what was it? ... oh yeah ... I remember now ... Zen Macrobiotics. It's become damn near impossible to control the content. I found a discussion on one blog about raising chickens, and another discussion on another blog about whether blogging and writing a journal are one and the same. For some people "Yes", for others "No". Those who do both, fell into both camps - some used the different media for different purposes, others found themselves duplicating their entries in both media. I have to envy them and all their spare time. How can anyone have enough time to do both? I can barely find enough time to jot a few thoughts in here. I can't imagine having time to keep a blog ... or anyone else wasting time reading the entries.
How did all this come about? Where is it all leading? Where is the shared experience that makes us a nation? We just seem to get more & more fragmented: a whole nation of individuals. If I write a blog about working at a hotel and repairing trolleys and being a Realtor and fixing cars and gardening and fishing and building model railroads and doing all the other things I love like painting and writing and taking pictures and playing in the band and reading good books (but not fiction) ... would anybody care but me?
I've tried putting up a website but I don't have time to answer e-mails let alone develop web content that would really matter. And yet, there is a strange attraction to the vicarious aspect of a blog. Vanity, egotism ... I'm trying to remember the word that describes someone who considers his own insignificant life so important that others would want to know that "Alfredo is hungry this morning", but the word escapes me ... and Sharon ... and a dictionary ... and two thesauruses. Maybe I should just go run a search on the internet. If I could only stay focused long enough to find the word, I could write it here for no one to read. Sad really, very sad.
... And that is how Scarred Bark began!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day
My wall calendar lists today as "Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day (US) First of Muharram". Funny how the calendar makers think it's important to note that Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day is a "US" thing, but they don't see a need to footnote First of Muharram - like we should already know what that means. I checked the major news today: Wiki-Leaks founder Julian Assange is arrested for failing to wear a condom while engaging in a one night stand. Not "On Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day Wiki-Leaks founder Julian Assange is arrested for failing to wear a condom while engaging in a one night stand." Is that even a crime?
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Notes from the Lost World - Part 3
I haven't been able to access my e-mail account all day. At first, I figured my e-mail service was having a system problem. I decided to wait until later in the day to see if the problem resolved itself, but it didn't. After the 100th attempt to log in, I noticed that my password was missing a character. It's not obvious when a password is missing a character because they are all asterisks, and there are so many of them that you don't really notice when one is gone. So I very carefully typed in my password again and found out that the "number eight" key was not working. Why would it stop? Shift-Eight didn't work either, so I couldn't type any asterisks either. And not just in my web browser, that key didn't work in Word or anything else. Strange.
I tried rebooting to no avail. I needed to check my e-mail, so I went to a web page and copied a "number eight" from somewhere and pasted it into my password in the appropriate place. Access! The really weird part is - now that I've successfully logged into my e-mail account once - the 8 key is working again! 8888888888. See what I mean? Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'till it's gone.
I tried rebooting to no avail. I needed to check my e-mail, so I went to a web page and copied a "number eight" from somewhere and pasted it into my password in the appropriate place. Access! The really weird part is - now that I've successfully logged into my e-mail account once - the 8 key is working again! 8888888888. See what I mean? Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'till it's gone.
Shiny Shoes
I played in the Alexandria Christmas Walk yesterday with the MacMillan-Birtles Memorial Pipe Band. It was a chilly day marching around in my kilt. I haven't played this parade in many years. I gave it up when the city stopped paying bands to perform. The whole affair is now a fund raiser for some charity I'm unfamiliar with. I'm sure it's a worthwhile charity; but the pipe band is a non-profit organization, and we depend on paid performances to survive. There are all kinds of expenses in running a band: uniforms, instruments, practice locations, entry fees ... Why go out in the freezing cold to do a free parade to fund someone else's organization when we have our own outfit to run?
We have about fifty members in the band, but only thirteen showed up for the parade - about a 25% participation rate. The streets of Old Town were lined with spectators, and the band played well enough considering the challenges of the weather; but thirteen members does not a pipe band make. I'm not sure how many players are needed, but I know thirteen is not enough. Maybe twelve pipers piping and eleven drummers drumming would be a decent band for a parade. I don't think we need any Lords-a-Leaping, but maybe some Ladies Dancing would be nice.
It was a long day. I left home at 8:00am and returned home at 8:00pm - that's twelve hours on the road. From the parade, we went to the Fish Market, Pat Troy's, and Murphy's ... to do some more free performing. No one even offered to buy us a beer. How times have changed. In the old days, you could crawl from one pub to the next, play a few tunes, and drink for free. Alas, no more! At least I got to play my drum as loud as I wanted, and see some old friends.
When I got home, I polished my shoes. I do that after every show now. I think it's because of a piper named Derek who used to play in our band. He was a Citadel guy. Spit and polish was part of his life, and he often complained about my untidy shoes. I saw him at a funeral last year, and ever since then I've been polishing my shoes. It's a small thing, but small things add up. When I polish my shoes, I have time to think about the day - what went well, what didn't, what I would change for the next show. In this day of modern technology, there was a video of the band on the web before I even got home! That's how I know thirteen players is just not enough. When I'm done polishing my shoes, I pack them in my uniform bag. It's comforting to know they are there, cleaned and shined, and waiting for the next show.
We have about fifty members in the band, but only thirteen showed up for the parade - about a 25% participation rate. The streets of Old Town were lined with spectators, and the band played well enough considering the challenges of the weather; but thirteen members does not a pipe band make. I'm not sure how many players are needed, but I know thirteen is not enough. Maybe twelve pipers piping and eleven drummers drumming would be a decent band for a parade. I don't think we need any Lords-a-Leaping, but maybe some Ladies Dancing would be nice.
It was a long day. I left home at 8:00am and returned home at 8:00pm - that's twelve hours on the road. From the parade, we went to the Fish Market, Pat Troy's, and Murphy's ... to do some more free performing. No one even offered to buy us a beer. How times have changed. In the old days, you could crawl from one pub to the next, play a few tunes, and drink for free. Alas, no more! At least I got to play my drum as loud as I wanted, and see some old friends.
When I got home, I polished my shoes. I do that after every show now. I think it's because of a piper named Derek who used to play in our band. He was a Citadel guy. Spit and polish was part of his life, and he often complained about my untidy shoes. I saw him at a funeral last year, and ever since then I've been polishing my shoes. It's a small thing, but small things add up. When I polish my shoes, I have time to think about the day - what went well, what didn't, what I would change for the next show. In this day of modern technology, there was a video of the band on the web before I even got home! That's how I know thirteen players is just not enough. When I'm done polishing my shoes, I pack them in my uniform bag. It's comforting to know they are there, cleaned and shined, and waiting for the next show.
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