Are you part of "the Recovery"?

Back when I was in college, I worked at a gas station. it was a decent job. i sold gas, snacks and bait. Sure it smelled a little fishy, but it paid and it gave me plenty of time in the afternoons and evenings to study a bit on the clock. 

One day a guy came in asking if he could park a truck in the side lot for a bit. He was a furniture distributor from High Point, NC. For those of you who do not know, High Point is a furniture Mecca. I'm not saying that people pray facing there, but there is an awful lot of top quality furniture made there. Folks in North Carolina tell tales of factory-direct deals and how lucky they are to live so close to the source.

Being a savvy guy, I saw an opportunity when this fellow showed up. Now I was neither rolling in money, nor looking for furniture at the time, but I still looked over the selection of furniture up in the back of that truck. it was stacked to the ceiling with couches and chairs, ottomans and tables. All of it was covered in plastic and smelled like a new car. Wow was it clean.

All of you can remember being in college. That first apartment was either furnished by mommy and daddy, or it was picked up a piece at a time off of the side of the road. Think back and we all can remember smelling the couch before calling our friend with the truck. Is that cat pee? Is it smoke? Will the ride in the back of the truck take care of it and "air" it out sufficiently? Still we would haul it home and drench it with Febreeze before throwing a sheet over it and calling it ours.

Not this time, I thought. The cornucopia of furniture I was staring up at in the back of that unmarked box truck was all new. It was exhilarating to think that I might also be able to buy (gasp) my first **NEW** piece for furniture and that I might at the same time be able to take advantage of those great NC deals.

So I did it. I selected a chair. A blue recliner was hefted down to me in the parking lot. I checked it over to verify the feel of the fabric and that no one had ever sat in it before. It was still covered in plastic and amazing to me. The money came out and changed hands. the gas station customers were backing up and complaining that the pumps were not working, but that did not matter. I was busy.

I half-stuffed the prize into the opened trunk of the sedan I was driving at the time and tied the trunklid shut. My responsibilities at the station hit me like a ton of bricks and I finished my shift in a more responsible manner. I never noticed when the truck left or whether it evaporated into a could of mist. It was not until the close of business that I remembered the chair still covered in plastic hanging out of the trunk of my car like some soft and cushy spoiler. I stole directly home and lugged it indoors.

The moment I bumped through the doorway, I hollered out to my (then) girlfriend to come and see my prize. Sharing in my excitement, we finally pulled the plastic off the chair and arranged it in front of the TV in a prime location. My longtime friend, a second-hand vinyl Barcalounger covered in an old blanket was stuffed into a corner; instantly forgotten. Then I sat down and kicked back.

Now let me tell you, friends, that I had made a mistake. I didn't know it until that moment, but I had made an awful mistake. They say "live and learn" and it is true. I learned something valuable that day, something we all should know. So today, I will impart the (costly) lesson I learned on you. Ready?

NEVER BUY A CHAIR WITHOUT SITTING IN IT.

Throughout the process of buying that chair I had never sat on it. I had checked the fabric, turned it upside down to ensure that real wood was used in its construction. I smelled it and made sure that it rocked and all, but I never sat down. It was the most uncomfortable chair ever. it was four or five inches too narrow, and there was a decidedly firm spot at the back of your knees where the padding was compressed. It did recline, but there was no options between laying down and sitting up. The arms were beautifully covered in blue velor, but they also were so square that you could set a beer down on them without threat of it spilling. It was just like somebody had covered a "This End Up" chair in fabric and made it recline. Hard and angular, but built to last.

I sat in that chair every night, too stubborn to admit that it was uncomfortable. But after a time, it was backed into a corner and the 30 year-old Barcalounger was brought back out. Even the cat did not sit in it, despite it being in an afternoon sunbeam. It was an epic Fail. One that I sought never to make again.

Years later my then girlfriend now wearing a ring, and I went around to reputable furniture stores looking for a dining room table for our new house. We were decidedly NOT going to buy off of the back of a truck. I also was NOT going to buy anything without sitting in it first. But we also were not rolling in the money either, so we still were looking for good deals.

After lots of driving and lots of walking and lots of sitting down in chairs, we found a set that we both liked and that we could afford. It fit the room well. It looked both formal and comfortable. It had two leaves and six chairs, so it could expand to accommodate guests and host reasonably sized dinner parties. It was wonderful, clean and new.

And it served us well for the past eight or nine years. But we have recently outgrown it and have been seating teenagers at the kids' play table on a regular basis. We needed a new one, a bigger one. So we looked at our finances, found that we were still poor, but through the miracle of debt consolidation, we could afford a new table and some other home improvements for only $20 extra a month.We were back in business!

Over the years we had picked out a supplier of heirloom-quality furniture nearby. It is an antique dealer who loans space to a furniture builder. We had actually picked out the size, the features, and the chairs in our "dream plan" years earlier, and this was our chance. We went, recently, to pull the trigger and realize our dream.

http://www.smugglersnotchantiques.com

Now with 2 kids in tow we drove an hour to the store and compelled the owner to his post early on a Sunday morning. He was probably hoping to get back in front of the fire after the "browsers" left, but was pleasantly surprised when we declared that we were there to buy instead. We placed our order, priced it, and haggled little over the details. It wasn't until the credit card came out that he made a comment that still sticks with me.

"Oh, so you are part of the recovery, eh?" he said, looking me right in the eye. "I guess so," I replied, not thinking of what he really meant by that. It was later that i thought back to it. There have been all sorts of economic displeasantries recently. I myself have been through the ringer job-wise. This fellow immediately  brought it all into perspective. Here he was, standing in the middle of his large *heated barn on a cold spring morning in Vermont surrounded by *thousands of dollars worth of furniture and antiques. The business was not new, and neither was he, being otherwise retired. But he was doing what all sorts of other folks are also doing. Treading water, paying the bills, and hoping that the buyers would once again come in through the door.

And there we were. A family of four ready to spend some money. As the boy ran cars across the merchandise, and the little girl danced to Taylor Swift songs piped through mommy's IPhone, we went to task and probably made his week's profits that day. What is more, we set the chair builders to work as well ordering ten. We were doing it for ourselves, but in the process we helped our community get back on its feet, even if just a bit.

Now we are not sitting pretty. If Congress can not come up with a spending plan, my wife will be furloughed without pay beginning just next week. I am now a builder and also selling wood flooring, but neither of those careers is exactly lucrative, and both depend largely on others. But thankfully, money is still cheap and for those of us with good credit, it is still available. We decided to pay an extra $240 a year (over the next million years) and put a whole series of folks in the local community to work. For that antiques dealer we were part of the country's "solution" to this economic downturn.

For us, we are looking forward to the new table. And for those of you still interested, I sat in those chairs years earlier. I did not need to do it again. And you don't hit your knees on the table legs when you sit at it either.

Eat your Heart Out, Bradbury

We all read it back in High School. Farenheit 451, the blissful future all schoolkids looked forward to. The day when books no longer existed. No more reading forced upon us by work-crazed teachers who simply did not understand how much time we spent on our hair, or mastering that new trick shot on the basketball court. Back then, we equated reading with work. More specifically, work we did not want to do.

Since our high school days, reading has taken a whole different place in our lives. Now, we read to pass the time, to get a little time to ourselves, and escape. "Don't talk to Mom, she is in the middle of a book," Dad might say to a pleading child one Saturday afternoon, "What can I help you with?"

In adulthood, reading has also become a way to say something. It has become common practice for coaches like Duke's Mike Krzyzewski and Lakers Coach Phil Jackson to give out books before each season. These mentors-of-men often hand out the tomes as a way to teach others a valuable lesson. Even if the book was forgotten on the shelf for years, the day it was read, the lesson would still be just as true. The coaches found that they could impart life lessons through books, which have the unique ability to still stay just as fresh years later.

The thing is, that books do just that. they don't expire, and they don't wilt with age. They are just as good to read after ten or twenty years as they were when they were printed. It is great for books, but not so great for booksellers. There was a time in this country when there was a busy newsstand / bookstore in every town. As the car spread us out, bookstores consolidated into larger stores, spaced farther apart. Gone then was the neighborhood bookstore. As shopping malls popped up across the country, many of the independent bookstores were driven out of business by chains in climate-controlled shopping centers. Fifteen years ago, the  really big chains came through. Borders and Barnes and Noble sprouted up across the country and dealt a further blow to small booksellers with sledge hammer grace.

Still, somehow, small booksellers persevered. Singe stores, or small regional chains still eked out a niche in the shrinking market by adding coffee shops and really getting to know their local customer's interests. Some only dealt in used books, leaving the bestsellers for the big chains with their heavily discounted prices. Others became more like local historians, bringing together local authors, and regional histories with avid readers. It was a good thing, until the internet and Amazon came along.

In the past five or ten years, many local, independent booksellers finally threw in the towel when the internet giant Amazon.com came around. Amazon, dealing with publishers to get the best prices on books anywhere, could undercut all others, and what's more, they had literally everything ever published. Even with shipping, they had your book to you in two days, and there was no more going to three shops on a Saturday to find the book you could not live without. Lives were made easier and all was well, but for the independent bookstores.

Now there is an even more foreboding future for the little guys in the book business. It really began in earnest last year around the holidays. With proprietary names like Kindle and Nook, the e-book has come in to the market swinging. Even now, the ads are all over the radio, working hard to make e-book readers the "Tickle-Me Elmo" for adult readers everywhere.

They have their merits. E-books sell the works for less than the paper copies can go for. You don't have to drive anywhere to get them. If you want to practice your French or Spanish, you can literally flip a switch and there you go. Plus, you have free books made available through Project Gutenberg, and they are search-able. That is, if you just needed to know, you could download the complete works of William Shakespeare and then search out for keywords to find that the three witches were in Macbeth; Act IV, Scene 1.

But where will it leave the stalwart independent booksellers who have not succumbed to the onslaught of competition in the newly global book game? Some are calling it the digital dilemma. Where will the paper guys be left in an age where internet competition can undercut them by as much as 50% instantly, from the couch. They have been valued members of the community for decades. They have built up a loyal customer base, but lets be honest, the face behind the counter is only friendly in this day and age. There might not be much need for them in the future.

The transition will not be as enthusiastic as in Bradbury's novel. Kids may not be left with such trivia as the precise burning point of paper when the last paper book is removed from store shelves. But the end result might be just the same. It could be the end of the line for books. Whittled down from a neighborhood hot-spot, to a file; whizzing through cyberspace in a nanosecond. In Bradbury's story, learning was the enemy. Independent thought went against the rules, and reading was the harbinger of critical thought. In this 21st Century reality, some sixty years after the original hit the marketplace, critical thought abounds. Reading is no longer the enemy, but the book still is.

Back in High School, some friends of mine and I went out to an unpopulated barrier island on spring break. A bad gale blew in and stranded us. We had to burn a school copy of Lord of the Flies to keep warm that night. I thought it was strangely poetic. Perhaps when I am ready to buy my next e-book it should be Fahrenheit 451.

Not a Hunter

Way back in High School, they beat into your brain just how important time management really is in life. To give you an idea, I usually find the time to contribute to this fine body of work during naptime for my two-year old. I need to be quiet, can't leave the house, and writing fit in well.

Recently, though, I have been working on an old house, renovating it (leaving little time for writing). I am in the midst of mudding and taping the sheetrock, which just takes time. If you have not done it before, you should be aware that each coat of joint compound goes on finicky, and you can't really touch it until it is completely dry. The drying process should in theory take 24 hours, but in all practicality, it is taking longer. I still keep busy while the mud is drying because it is a big house, but honestly, there is no rushing it. Come back too soon and it crumbles under the weight of your tool.

As I have been working, such a monotonous job (lacking in measurements, squaring, planning, and other brain occupiers) has left me time to get to know all of the new radio stations, catch back up with all of today's big hits, and let old songs remind me of past times in my own life. It has been nice going back down memory lane. I have thought of trying to contact a few people I have grown apart from, but who has time for that?

The extra time has also let me think ahead.This weekend, there is a big Jeep club meeting and the (probably) last ride of the wheeling season. I have really been looking forward to both. The Vermont Jeep Association plans to elect me as their president, which is an honor, but the run afterwards has really been on my mind.

Every hour, on the hour they talk about the weather on the radio, more during drive time. On nice days, it goes by un-noticed. These days, for me, I am all ears. There is a coastal low moving up towards Vermont, and they are using the "N" word a lot. (Nor-Easter for the flatlanders out there). The Nor-Easter is great for skiers and snowmobilers, a churning winter storm that could potentially drop 2-4 feet of snow on the Green Mountain state. For me, however, looking forward to the last ride of the season in my open-topped old Jeep, I cringe at the thought of spending all day out in the woods, wet and cold. That doesn't mean I won't go, it just means that I will need to combine ski clothes with a fisherman's hat to make the day comfortable. Ugh. I probably will put the bikini top on for the day ( I haven't any other).

There is practically no chance of me not going. I have permission from the wife to leave her stranded with both kids all day. Such an opportunity is not to be overlooked. If the ride is cancelled due to high water or excessive trail wear, I would understand, but probably still spend the day wrenching. I have found the motor and transmission for some future Hot Rod project, but have been unable to find the time to pull it out of the motorhome it grew up in. I could work on that on Sunday, but I will probably have the kids with me, and so lifting a 351 and c-6 overhead and into the back of the truck is probably not the best family activity. The kids would definitely come home greasy and make for more laundry. Besides, it is supposed to rain.

A plumber I have been working with has been looking forward to deer season. For him, he gets a week pass from his wife, and is off to New York to find the big bucks. Apparently, the Vermont program of passing on spikehorn bucks has not netted the final trophies yet. So he goes away for a week with his brother and a few friends to persue a few extra (antler) points.

It is his yearly trip, a sign of the seasons, if you will. Kudos to him for finding the time. For me, there is always work to be done, or wheeling, or pulling an engine, or watching the kids, or fishing, or football, or...  Thank God I am not a hunter too.

Why is the grass greener?

Harvest time is beginning in Vermont.
Berry crops have been showing up in advertisements on the shoulder of the roads for the past month. The lettuce and beans in my own family garden plot have officially passed, and I am left with the kale my wife planted (and I won't cook), a bumper crop of basil, and the dreams my overflowing pumpkin plants now inspire.

Farmer's markets are in full swing, and a regular town event. If you ever want to see and be seen, dedicate a night and go down to the farmer's market for dinner. Eating your way through the various stands of raw and prepared foods is an awesome task, but somehow, eating more than a mouthful at a time before stopping to chat with a neighbor is the biggest challenge.

The question that prompted this week's post (after a well-deserved vacation south for this writer) was overheard being said by a non-gardener. "I wanted ____ and I thought I said it way back when, but we don't have any ___ now. I guess they didn't like my suggestion."

A children's story my daughter owns came instantly to mind. it is about a little industrious chicken who lives with a lazy dog, gabby goose, and a vain cat. Each of her roommates allows the chicken to cook and clean for the household without lifting a finger to help. When she finds wheat kernels along the road in springtime, she plants them and tends them by herself hearing only the chorus of "Not I" from her roommates when she asks for help.

Our unnamed non-gardener fits that bill to a tee.  "Not I" said he when the seeds were started indoors."Not I" said he when the garden needed weeding. Now, as the vegetables come in, he enjoys local cucumbers and the rest, but he still finds the time to look over the fence and wonder aloud why there are no pumpkins growing in his garden this year.

Well, in good taste or not, I should relate the rest of the little chicken's story. She weeded, then she cut and thrashed the wheat. She carried it to the Miller and brought back home the flour. She was the one to bake the loaf of bread in the fall, and it was she alone that ate it in a house full of the smell of fresh bread. The lesson my daughter takes away from the story is to lend a hand when asked.

For me, I think the message is to keep your mouth shut if you don't plan on helping out along the way.

The last time I was down in the farmer's market, I overheard someone comment on the high price produce was fetching as compared to the supermarket down the street. Growing it is not an easy task. Time and energy are valuable commodities. If you are willing to invest in it, a pumpkin can be had for the cost of a seed. Otherwise, just pay what the farmer is asking for it.

Busy Busy Busy

Summer is here, and the time is right, but why on earth do we do it to ourselves? We literally get so excited with the warm weather that we try to fit it all in.

Lots of folks get so caught up in the longer days and welcoming heat, that they run themselves ragged. Up in the morning, they run out for coffee, then back home for breakfast and to read the paper, before gathering the family up for a bike ride, or trip to the lake catching lunch on the run somewhere in between. Then it is off to dinner and a movie. It is manic, but it is summer, right?

Wouldn't it be better if we treated an average weekend like we do vacation? I'm not talking about a 'bicycle trek across Russia' vacation, I am talking about a 'sit by the pool' vacation. For our family, when we go on vacation, we plan a few activities over the course of a week, but we also schedule a lot of inactive down time too. That is what recharges our batteries the best, a little good for nothing time wasting and enjoying the moment.

So why do we feel the need to fill every moment with another activity, another something to run across town to? If the key to relaxation is actually relaxing, why not relax? When the heat is on outside, why not sit in front of a fan and act like it was a tropical breeze? Sure, you would need to use your imagination, and the kids would surely start complaining after a few minutes, but then a beautiful thing would happen (I hope). They would begin entertaining themselves. They would all of a sudden get up the gumption to drag out the hose and water the yard as they jump through the sprinkler. Sure they would drag grass into the house on wet feet, but we are relaxing. As soon as it dries, we can sweep it up.

Its summer, the heat costs you nothing, and if you have ever torn a muscle or been to a physical therapist you know, heat relaxes. So, give in and get with the relaxing. Let yourself.

Summer in the Springtime

Spring is here in Vermont, but it sure does feel like summer. Temperatures in the 90s do a lot to get folks outside and enjoying the Vermont landscape.

A trip to get creemees after dinner really drove the point home. Of course, we were not the only ones with that plan in mind. I decided to drive the (recently through rehab) Willys Jeep down with the family in tow. Driving with the top off really was the only way to stay comfortable int he car without AC.

I wasn't the only one with that idea either. In the village, while we were struggling to catch ice cream drips before they hit my son's shirt, we witnessed one of the better things that comes back with the warm weather.

It seems like everywhere we looked, we saw motorcycles, convertibles, and classic cars out enjoying the warm weather. I talked for a few minutes with a fellow who had just bought his wife's uncle's 1970 Cutlass Supreme. It was a beautiful orange convertible with a 350 and like-original whitewalls. It still purred through its untouched mufflers; none of the growl I would have added to turn heads in town.

The car was a sight. It had white leather upholstery and brown carpet on the lower half of the doors. The owner had it out to take the kids to the creemee stand, just like us.

This time of year really makes living through the long, cold winter worthwhile. Vermonters can enjoy the outdoors, although slathered in bug spray to ward off the black flies, once again. We come out to plant our gardens. Some of us come out again to re-plant out gardens which were killed by the late snowfall last month. We come out to recreate, perhaps bringing a picnic to the park. We come out to swim, though the water is still a bit cold for my tastes. Most of all, we come out to be with those we love. Adding the summer cars to the mix just makes it that much better.

Paper or Plastic? Neither

When is it going to happen here? When will we do something about our environment, and our cities' aesthetics?

This blight takes the form of innocent-enough plastic conveniences. If you bother to notice, you can see discarded plastic grocery shopping bags all over the place. Especially this time of year, after the snow cover melts and before the leaves come back and conceal the tangled blemishes in their branches, discarded plastic bags seem to be everywhere.

The problem is perhaps worse in urban areas, where the wind can help the lightweight trash escape from uncovered dumpsters behind apartments and shopping centers. A scene from American Beauty, parodied in popular culture by The Family Guy and on YouTube, tries to bring the problem a silver lining, but even artistry ultimately fails to put a good spin on the problem.


Vermont has a history of strong environmentalism, and has not been afraid to seek out its own direction when it comes to the best thing for its people. Vermonters enacted bottle deposits when the containers became a problem on the roadsides. We enacted Civil Union legislation to meet a need there as well. These shopping bags wind up in creeks and ditches, in treetops and on fences looking ugly and causing an environmental problem. We shouldn't just wait for Green Up Day to address the infestation. 

Today though, larger cities, like our nation's capital, which face larger problems that come with larger populations are on the forefront addressing this problem, not us. We seem to have bigger fish to fry. It seems as though the Vermont legislature is working on fishing licenses and city charter changes this year instead.I suppose they are important as well.

So it is left to us, the people. We need to make an effort. We need to tell our neighbors to make the change. We need to take a stand, however quiet or refined, and say through actions and deeds that we do not need  disposable bags any more. They may be easy, but they take a toll as well.


So what is the answer? We recycle. We reuse. There are lots of ways to do it. There are websites that will show you how to turn extra pillowcases and t-shirts into shopping bags. You can buy the reusable variety from the market, or from web retailers.

The question then becomes one of design and aesthetics. It is nice to show your individuality with the bags you carry. Recycling your old Duran Duran shirt would do that. You also should look at convenience and carrying ability as well.

Talking to others about the issue, the consensus seems to be that the bags should be small and convenient to carry, whether folding up to place in the shopping cart is enough, or stuffing together into a small pocket. They should be large enough to carry three cereal boxes. They should have wide enough handles to carry the weight of milk jugs. They should be washable after handling your meat, and many like the variety that can stand up on their own for easy loading and unloading.

Changing our habits is always a difficult thing to do. Whether we are quitting smoking, or adjusting our route to work because of construction, the change has to be a conscious one. This instance is no different. This is a call to reject the status quo. Say it out loud when you are confronted with the old "Paper or plastic?" question. Tell the clerk that you have brought your own. Tell them "neither". But please remember to bring your own bags with you when you go shopping, and keep the rest out of the trees and creeks of the Green Mountain State.

Modern Life or the Old Ways

Technology is wonderful, except when it isn't. Modern mechanisms have been making our lives a little bit better since the invention of the spoon. Little pieces of insight and creative thinking cradle us in convenience.We surround ourselves with them and show them off to our friends. "Look at my phone!" or "The game is on the Plasma."

In a book I just read, the villain tried to detonate atomic bombs all around the globe, not to bring about nuclear holocaust, but to send out an electromagnetic pulse that would render useless anything with a transistor or circuit board. "Dear God," the President commented, "That would be far more savage than nuclear war." Maybe it would be. But that is only because we as humans living in the 21st century continue to fight for technology every day.

We fight for technology without knowing it. We say that going "paperless" is being environmentally conscious. We also notice that it will save us money on paper and printing costs. It is good, and good for us too. But what has come of the hand scrawled Thank You note Emily Post still recommends we write? Now, we are so tempted by e-mail and Facebook posts, that people actually need to be prodded a bit to take up a pen and paper the old way. Ridiculous.

There is even a growing market in Vermont for landowners to have their forests logged by ancient means. They call it responsible forestry, touting how it can repair damaged land. No, the lumberjack isn't going back to the hand saw or axe, but they are using teams of draft animals rather than giant tractors to haul the wood out. It is really quite inspiring to watch, take my word for it. Engine noise and exhaust fumes are replaced by heavy breathing and footsteps. The only down side is the view driving the team. Who really wants to stare at the rump of a horse all day?

That reminds me of a great Vermont story I heard from my in-laws a few years back. A fellow was out moose hunting on the last day of the season. He was miles from a road and shot a big bull moose. The animal weighed more than a thousand pounds. Being the last day of the season, he had to weigh it in by sundown or face a fine. He drove a 2wd Toyota pick up that stood no chance of traversing the muddy forests, and appealed to a farmer nearby for use of his tractor. The farmer said no, but offered instead his team of oxen. Those who watched it that day, and those who retold the story afterward still speak in awe of the sight of that team hauling the muddy moose out of the woods that day. They go on to laugh at the memory of ten big farm boys picking up and setting that muddy moose in the bed of the tiny Toyota pickup as well; feet sticking out one way, the antlers over the other side.

There was no need for technology that day. The old method was even better suited to the task. Those oxen left no ruts in the soft forest ground. They burned no fossil fuels (though they did release methane gas, I'm sure). They did the job the old way, and made a real impression on a lot of people because of it. Just like that hand-written Thank You note does.

So why did I mention it? Well, we are in the midst of March Madness. For the uninitiated, that means picking teams and filling out those college basketball brackets. Personally, college basketball is the one sport I do follow. I am too busy Jeeping all summer to follow baseball. Football is only good in the playoffs. College basketball gets me in from the garage at the muddy end of March. It is fun to make your picks and see how far off you really are from what really happens. Up until this year, I filled out my picks on paper. I have managed office pools, and spent hours in front of the television with a highlighter figuring out who was ahead.

This year, I tried to us technology to make my life easier. I usually embrace new technology. I have the patience to tinker my way through most of it. Not this time. Managing the brackets has always been a practice that focuses on the playing ability of the teams. This time it turned itself into a computer nightmare. It all started so easily. Click on a link here, follow instructions there. It turned into a four hour process taking up two computers and three separate e-mail accounts to see if it worked. And it didn't. Ugh!

Technology truly can be a wonderful thing. Unless you are the President staring down a threat to transistors everywhere, technology really can be a blessing. But when things don't work right, boy can it go wrong. Nobody ever had a problem with a prototype spoon that affected people the same way computers can. Nobody ever spent four hours online trying to get a piece of paper to work. With the advent of the Kindle, and IPad threatening to overtake books and newspapers, we need to remember that.  The old ways are sometimes better. Whether through Thank You notes, or teams of draft animals, the old ways still can bring people together at a personal level. It is better than struggling to overcome the emotional distance that an e-mail creates.

Perhaps the emotional distance can be a good thing as well. As it is, nobody at CBS Sports knows what I was really thinking when I tried to fill out my brackets online.

Bring It On!

Rain, Rain, go Away.
It has been a wet weekend here in Vermont. The rain coming off of a warm coastal storm drenched southern New England. Then it drifted north and hit us too, though less severely. It did, however manage to melt most all of the snow left in the backyard. With  the snow gone, I made a few discoveries.

I discovered about a dozen lost dog toys. Tennis balls, and squeaky toys lost throughout the winter. It was like Christmas morning for my lab. There were lots of "other things" left behind by the dog over the course of the winter as well. (I'm not looking forward to collecting those presents from under the tree, though.)

I also discovered all of the little gardening projects that I didn't finish last fall. No magical gnomes came to finish them over the winter, though I keep hoping. The flower gardens that I abandoned at the first snowfall still need work. The dead tree branches blown down by winter storms are still there. The blanket of white erased them for a while, but they never really left. We have the normal mole activity beneath the snowpack that I will need to rake out, but we also have a few areas that the frost decided to push and pull on.

Ground frost is a powerful thing. You won't find it everywhere. There are lots of areas in the northeast that are free from ground frost. Perhaps they have better drainage. Perhaps they clear more of the snow. Whatever causes it, ground frost is a formidable force her in Vermont. We even named our basketball team after it.

Ice is strong enough to expand in the dirt and send sections of earth skyward. Under the pavement of your favorite by-way, frost heaves can make a Sunday drive seem like a motorcross event. One particular spot makes my Chevy jump and change lanes if I drive more than 25 mph across it. Don't ask what it does to my Jeep. That thing is meant for low gear only.

This year, the frost found a few spots in my back yard. It sent a patch of dirt under my grill up about four inches, then it turned an adjacent piece into a shallow pond. I stepped on the paving stones next to the wallow trying to circumnavigate the new landscaping feature, and they shot into the muck like a slip-and-slide. I managed to keep my pants clean that time, but I am steering clear just in case. I was really looking forward to grilling as soon as the rain stopped, but I don't want to pull on the muck boots to do it. I guess those Omaha Steaks will stay frozen a while longer.

Besides the dog's excitement, there has been some good to come of the melt this weekend's rain has brought. In a few choice spots where southern exposure or the warm wind graces it, I can see little green points emerging from the dirt. Our day lilies are alive. Amidst all of the chores, the mud, trash, and dog toys that were found beneath the snow, a glimmer of hope was found too. Those few shoots have really given me hope that spring will one day come. Hope that my son will be able to walk off of the deck without needing a change of clothes. Hope that the dirt will actually drain. Hope that warmer weather will actually let us use our lawn again.

My wife and I have been talking about what marks the first day of spring with my four-year-old. I said the first robin. They are waiting for the first spring flower. We have already found the first bug of the year, and whatever comes next: bird, bud, or black fly; I am glad to see it.

Spring Cleaning

Why can't I ever seem to throw anything away?

Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.

I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).

I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.

Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.

Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?

Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.

Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.

Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.

Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two. 
I am a junk collector, after all.

Being a Vermonter

You know, it really does take a special sort of person to live in Vermont. I'm not talking about the wherewithal to live through the seven-month winters or black flies, either. It is one thing to forgo pizza delivery and corner markets voluntarily in the move, (The latter is here of course, but that corner might be a ten minute drive away) it is another to embody the real spirit of Vermont.

Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.

For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.

Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.

Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.

I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.

Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.

Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.

I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.

This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away.  Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.

It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?

Mud Season / The Trouble with Mud

Flatlanders, that is people who don't live in Vermont... uh, or people who moved to Vermont at some point in their lifetime, might not know much about the many seasons of the Green mountain State.

We have the four regular ones, and then we have a series of less publicized, yet highly important sub-seasons that mark life here.

For instance, between fall's colors (full of white license plates on the highways), and winter's white blanket, (we will take a look at the seasons of winter at some other point) we have stick season (when all of the hardwood trees in the state look like sticks).

Right now, due to a series of unseasonably warm days, The Green mountain State is quickly advancing towards Mud Season. Well, at least in the unpaved reaches, we are. Burlington never really sees Mud Season. The Frost is leaving the ground, and as it melts, all of the ice crystals turn to soup. Cars and trucks steer for themselves across the soggy, rutted byways. Chidrens' shoes are converted from insulated to waterproof, and they are kept strictly by the door if possible.

"Never mind that hat, Jimmy," mom might call out, "it'll be warm today." (42 degrees is warm after winter here)

A warm southerly wind really adds to the trouble with mud when it melts the rain soaked snowpack even faster than the sun's bright rays. That breeze can send a torrent of melt water down the hills. It will face challenges of still-frozen culverts, and ditches full of ice, then escape from the lowlands across your lawn. Formerly firm grass turns to a sponge waiting for the first toddler's knee, or dog foot to soak. If that runoff meets soil, barren of greenery, it waits for the slightest traffic to escape gravity's constraints and move indoors  attached to even the smallest heel, or dragging pant hem (damn my short legs).

Indoors, the soil smears into the cracks between the dry floorboards, across linoleum, or stains carpets. (This is one of many times that I am happy we do not have North Carolina's red clay). Every time the lab comes back inside from barking at the neighbors, my house (and poor sofa) looks like wreck again.A friend of mine just takes up the area rugs and refuses to wash the floor more than once a week. There is wisdom in that.

It is Mud Season, after all.

The rest of the state is muddy, perhaps I can embrace it in my home as well.