Manual Labor

At the age of 12 I learned in dramatic fashion the difference between the brake and the clutch.  My grandfather asked me to help him feed his cattle.   He sat on the trailer throwing hay bales off while I drove the tractor. There were no tires on the trailer wheels. When I depressed the clutch on the left, the tractor stopped in the soft pasture just as quickly as when I used the brake on the right. So I thought they were about the same and only used the clutch to stop.  That worked well until we started down a hill. I depressed the clutch expecting it all to stop, but it just kept going faster. Too late to use the brake, and just before plowing through a fence, I turned abruptly to the left dumping my grandfather and most of the hay against the fence. I apologized profusely. He got up and said he was ok. Later when I asked him about it, he said "I was stove up a bit." Grandfathers are like that.

I have taught a number of people how to drive a car with a  straight shift.  It has cost me a lot of time, a little gas, and quite a bit of  mileage off several sets of tires.

Driving a "stick" or manual transmission is tricky until you get the hang of it. Then it's, well, automatic.  Anyone who has driven a stick shift for any length of time no longer has to think about what he's doing. It becomes a natural as breathing.

At first though,  it's fairly difficult to master the art.  It's all about applying the clutch, the brake and the throttle. They each have to be employed in the right measure at the precise moment or the car won't go.  It's not enough to just let out the clutch. If you don't have enough throttle the car will die. If you have too much throttle, you're going to burn the tires.  Either way doesn't work. If you happen to be on an incline, then it becomes more problematic. Now you have to hold the car with the brake until you release the clutch. This process involves moving the right foot from the brake to the throttle at the same time you're releasing the clutch. If you do it wrong, you'll stall, burn the tires,  or roll into the car behind you.  You need to become fairly adept with a stick before you attempt starting on a hill,

The five speed is the most common manual transmission. The gears are first through fifth. First is "low gear" and fifth is "high gear."  Depressing the clutch in any gear disengages the clutch plate  just as if the car is in neutral. You start idling with the clutch depressed in first gear. When you release the clutch  you start rolling in  first gear. Then you press the clutch and shift to second.  When exactly do you do that?  When it's time to.  You go by the sound of the engine and the feel of the car. You could refer to the tachometer, but that's really not necessary. Then you shift to third, to fourth and to fifth.  But you don't have to shift up and down in that order. As you approach a stop while in fifth gear, you'll depress the clutch and shift back to first.  If you're cruising in fifth and need immediate acceleration, you might shift back to third for the extra pep. Then up to fourth and fifth. The transmission doesn't care which gear you're in. But if you shift from high to too low,  you're going to put yourself in the dashboard, because the low gear can't keep up with the speed of the car. This is also not too good for the transmission.  Over time using the correct gear becomes second nature.

I think I move in five speeds as well. When the alarm rings I'm in neutral. After my head clears, I'm in first. Second gets me to the shower. After my shower I'm in third. By the time I get to work I'm in fourth.  By ten or so, after the coffee kicks in, I'm mostly in high gear for the rest of the day.  I then downshift and upshift as situations require.

I don't remember who taught me to drive a stick. It was probably my father since the first manual transmission I drove was one of his dump trucks.  It was a four speed with a split shift.  The split shift splits  each gear by moving the rear differential.  Using some fancy footwork, involving double clutching between gears, I turned the truck into an eight speed.  My first car, a 1950 Chevy Deluxe, had three gears on the column. What made it particularly tricky is if I came to a complete stop with the car in third gear, then it was stuck in third gear. I then had to start the car moving  in third gear. This involved much rpm and a very slow start. On a hill, this was almost impossible to do. I didn't make that mistake many times before I bumped it out of third before I stopped.

I haven't owned a car with a stick in several years.  But today I jumped in a five speed F-150 and it was just like riding a bicycle. My hands and feet knew exactly what to do with little or no conscious effort on my part. It reminded me how much I enjoy driving a vehicle with a manual transmission.

Now to be able to "get it in high gear" as soon as the clock alarms.

Good Night and Good Luck

Sometimes you don't know a chapter of your life had closed until years later.  You look back and realize that it was the last time you saw them alive or at least the last time you saw them.  Or you realize that you've never been back there and probably won't go back there. It was the last time you ever saw that place. And usually you realize all these things much too late to do anything about it.

This was not such an occasion. We knew that we were closing the book on West Lafayette, Indiana. After having an intimate relationship with the town for over eight years, yesterday we said goodbye.  To some extent it was good riddance,  But  how can we say that when so much of our lives have been wrapped up in that place?  For two people born and raised in Alabama and who have lived in Georgia for 36 years, who would have thought we would spend so much time in West Lafayette, Indiana? How did it even get on our map?

And unless our seven year old granddaughter attends Purdue University and we're alive to see it, I can't think of a single reason we would ever go back there.

Being there yesterday was very important. It was extraordinary!  It was important to us and to a lot of people. It was a once in a lifetime occasion for many. We wouldn't have missed it for the world. But that was yesterday. Today, one day later, there's  nothing there that we care to see or care to do. All the people we have loved there have moved on.

And we move on.

A benediction:  May God bless all of our comings and goings in West Lafayette, Indiana.  May You water the seeds of love and affection that we scattered there over these years. May they bloom and grow and feed the multitudes who remain, as we share our love in other places. Thank you for blessing all of our hellos and now we ask You to bless our goodbye.  Amen.

The Gift of Honeysuckle

Yesterday afternoon I smelled it before I saw it.  It was the pervasive and unmistakable fragrance of honeysuckle. There are certain sights, sounds and aromas that trigger in me a mixture of joy and of pain. Honeysuckle is one of those fragrances.

There are 20 species of honeysuckle native to North America. But since I don't know one from another, it's all just honeysuckle to me.  Medical professionals have found a myriad of medicinal uses for the plant including treatment for digestive disorders all the way to help with diabetes.

The first morning I started out to sell books door-to-door the summer of 1971, I smelled honeysuckle. I used honeysuckle as a sort of talisman. But instead of believing the vine was endowed with any magical powers, I thought it was endowed with spiritual powers.  I mentally referenced the Bible verse, "I am the vine and you are the branches" and accepted the honeysuckle as a symbol of God's presence. Every morning I tore off about a foot of the vine and put it in my sales kit. Every time I opened the kit I could smell it and I invoked the presence of God.

The honeysuckle is a mixed bag for me.  I certainly enjoy the fragrance that pervades my back yard. And I enjoy plucking a flower, biting off the green tag and sucking the nectar from the flower.  It tastes like summers at my grandmother's house. Her country farmhouse yard and the surrounding woods were filled with honeysuckle vines.  Anywhere there were shrubs and bushes there was honeysuckle.

So then what's wrong with honeysuckle?  Why do I have mixed feelings? Nothing's wrong with honeysuckle. It's the fragrance of heaven and the nectar of the gods.  But the fragrance makes me homesick.  I'm not only homesick for Granny's farm outside of Enterprise, Alabama, but I channel that homesick kid selling family Bibles in Kentucky.  I simultaneously am very proud of him and very sad for him as well.  That seventeen year old Alabama boy was as mixed up as anyone could be. And he was mostly alone a long way from home. I know all too well that he had problems honeysuckle couldn't fix.   But it made him feel better, so for that I am very grateful.

And to this day honeysuckle still represents for me the presence of God. Just the fact that it's there fills me with happiness. It's not like I planted it or watered it or tended it in any way. And yet it remembers to grow every summer with absolutely no effort from me. It's a gift.  As I pluck a flower and suck the nectar, such as now,  I am still  reminded that I am grafted into the vine. That lonely mixed up kid did a good thing from which I still benefit.  I am aware that my life is a part of something much bigger than I am.  I am filled with an awareness of the Mystery that pervades my sight and  my senses.

In the scheme of things, it's the joy of honeysuckle that supersedes the  pain.  I'll always miss my grandmother and will always hurt for that salesman in Kentucky, but I welcome the honeysuckle to my yard year after year. Some things that hurt, hurt good.

For some people the bread and the wine works best, I'll take honeysuckle any day.

On Getting Unstuck

This morning I nearly got stuck in a crawl space under a large cabin.  The homeowners were home so my life was never in danger. But explain that to my adrenaline system. The owners would have missed me eventually and would have found a way to help me I'm sure.  But still I was in a very tight and very uncomfortable situation.

I was in the very back corner of a rather large crawl space when it happened. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but the deeper I go into a crawl space the more claustrophobic I get.  It's just the further I crawl the more plumbing, duct work and other obstructions there are between me and the crawl door. I keep a mental inventory about what's behind me.  I was as far back as I could get.  My only light, of course, was my flashlight.

I was on my stomach at this point. To continue my inspection of the space, it looked like I was going to be able to crawl under some duct work.  However, I had to crawl over some plumbing to get there. The plumbing was too low to crawl under it so I had to go over it. The plumbing and the duct work were only about three feet apart.  I managed to get one leg over the plumbing and then hoist the other one over without tearing something up.  Now I was in an extremely tight squeeze between the plumbing and the duct work.  It was not somewhere I wanted to stay very long.

I laid back down and started crawling under the duct work. I realized too late  that it was too low for me to crawl under.  There was no way I could get under it without getting stuck.There was no room for me to turn around and I didn't see how I could crawl backwards over the plumbing that was very difficult to navigate going forward.  At least not without damaging the house. There was duct work in front of me as well. So I was stuck.  Or at least it felt like I was.

Panic started creeping up my spine and my breathing became very labored. I had been in many tight places, but never anything like this.  I had no point of reference for my dilemma.  Knowing that panic would not serve me well, I knew that I had to calm down.  I got very still and slowed my breathing.  I just breathed in and out slowly getting my whits about me.  After I got my breathing more under control, I took my flashlight and assessed my situation.  I confirmed that I couldn't go under the duct work and that there was no good way to go back over the plumbing.  Then I noticed that the large duct work in front of me was of the flexible variety.  It was almost on the ground,  but it was flexible. That appeared to be the only way out.

I wasn't too happy crawling under something that low to the ground, but I didn't feel like I had another option. Staying where I was certainly wasn't an option. I pushed my head under the duct and pushing with my toes I pushed my shoulders through, my back through and then I was clear.

Yes there are lessons to be learned about navigating  crawl spaces, but I think there are life lessons to be learned as well.

On getting unstuck--physically and emotionally:
1.Sit still--just stop moving. Stop doing anything. Just be completely still.
2.Slow your breathing--Take slow, deep breaths. Don't take fast deep breaths or you could hyperventilate.  Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. That's it. Slowly.
3. Assess your situation--Take an inventory of your options. Eliminate as many as possible.
4. Decide your best option--Of all the options available, choose one.
5. Move in that direction--Now is when you move. Important: notice you have not moved until now. So go.

Most of us never venture into a crawl space, but all of us get stuck from time to time.  Getting stuck is easy. Getting unstuck takes some effort.

How the West Was Won (Part 2)

"As long as there are men, there will be war."  Albert Einstein

Like most kids during the sixties, I played a lot of "cowboys and Indians".  Sometimes I played with my brother and sometimes I played with my friends.  We used sticks or just our fingers as our pistols and rifles. By the time we got old enough to own BB guns, we had lost interest in the game. Probably just as well.

While playing cowboys and Indians,  I preferred, like any red-blooded Caucasian citizen of the United States of America, to be the cowboy. I wanted to be the "good guy." But since somebody had to be the Indian, I took my necessary turns as the "red man."

In my history courses through my secondary education, the American story was always told through the eyes of the colonists and the American frontiersmen.  From the beginning of the American story, the Indians, "the savages," needed to be tamed or eradicated. We appreciated what the Wampanoag did for the colonists that first Thanksgiving, but within a few years we went to war with them and wiped most of them out. Each year on Thanksgiving Day,  the Wampanoag observe a national day of mourning at Plymouth Rock.

As the early Americans began to spread west, "the Indian" was a huge problem. Again, the history I was taught was from the perspective of the pioneers and not from the natives.

Back in the summer of 1985,  I spent a week on a Navajo reservation in Farmington, New Mexico.  I got bitten by the "Indian bug" in a big way. I immediately became a student of all things American Indian. Through my readings about Indian warfare, culture and religion, I was introduced to a Lakota Sioux medicine man called Black Elk. From there I read volumes about the Lakota Sioux. I devoured books about Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Dull Knife, Red Cloud and others. The more I read, the more I sided with the Indians against the Cavalry.  Given a choice between being a cowboy or an Indian, I was now an Indian every time. You know, "a good guy."

There were a multitude of atrocities on both sides. The most notable - from the perspective of the Indians - was the massacre at Wounded Knee on the morning of December 29th, 1890.  The Indians did their share of merciless killings as well. But the Wounded Knee massacre will always be a testimony to the malicious nature of men, even men in uniform.

Again, the Indians were also horrible.  Many of them didn't just kill the pioneers, settlers and the soldiers, they tortured them in unthinkable ways and left their mutilated bodies for the animals and birds to finish off.  The more pain and suffering that they inflicted, the more glory in battle, I have learned that the Comanche and the Sioux were particularly heartless. Their brutality staggers the imagination of what humans can do to other humans.

It has been an eye opening experience for me to learn that  my beloved Lakota Sioux were ruthless killers. What I've learned is that the Indians were scalping each other for centuries before they were scalping the white man. Counting coup was a right of passage for any young warrior.  A goal of any warrior was for his tribe to dance and sing songs about his bravery.  Long before the Indians were stealing the soldier's horses, they were stealing horses from each other. The Lakota Sioux claimed that Wakan Tanka had given them the Black Hills. The truth is that the region had been inhabited for centuries by the Arikara, Cheyenne, Crow, Kiowa and Pawnee. The Sioux drove the Pawnee from their homes and claimed the "sacred hills" for themselves. Seems that Wakan Tanka had a little help.

So does that mean that the U.S. Cavalry was justified in  what they did at Wounded Knee?  That they had every right to surround women, children and old men with Hotchkiss machine guns and cut them down in cold blood while they were running and screaming in terror?  Following the directive from Washington of General Philip Sheridan that "the only good Indian is a dead Indian, the soldiers of the US Cavalry chased the survivors through the snow-covered woods  shooting as many women and children as possible covering the white snow with crimson.  They bashed the babies' heads open with their rifle butts. God bless America!

So then who are the good guys,  the cowboys or the Indians?  Depends on which cowboy and which Indian.  Kit Carson was a good guy.  Black Elk, a holy man, was a good guy.  Lewis and Clark were good guys. Crazy Horse was a decorated warrior, but for me he's a good guy. Bill Cody was a good guy. Sitting Bull, another great Sioux warrior,  was a good guy.  Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone were good guys. Who was the good guy,  Cain or Abel? They were both good guys.  But both of them had one very bad day.

Human beings are capable of near divine acts of love and kindness.  Human beings are capable of doing unthinkable atrocities to one another. My brother and I didn't need BB guns.  From the beginning of time sticks and stones have been breaking bones. It's what men do.

How the West Was Won

My brother and I are planning a trip in the fall.  For several years we have taken an excursion, usually in the fall, to various destinations.  Two years ago he gave me one of the most intriguing challenges of my life. He said, "I'm ready to take a trip with you.  Only I don't want to know where we're going or what we're going to be doing.  I want you to plan the whole trip. You just tell me where to show up and I'll meet you there."  He then gave me the amount of money he was willing to spend, pointed to a map of the United States and cut me loose.

At first I liked the idea. I thought it would be great fun to put together such a trip for the two of us. I wouldn't even need any of his input!  I could plan to my heart's content.  However, very early in the process, I realized that I had a huge problem.  On a trip, any trip, I'm a "go with the flow" type of person - a team player. I tend to yield to the wishes of the group  (of two or more).  So now at every turn while planning this dream trip for my brother, I couldn't run any ideas by him.  The deeper into the planning, the more pronounced this problem became for me.  Hundreds of times I just needed to know his preferences on a few simple things.

But I kept the faith and pressed toward the mark. I knew from the beginning that  the trip would involve the north rim of the Grand Canyon.  He and I had explored the south rim on a previous trip and both of us wanted to see the north rim.  But with the amount of time and money he gave me to spend,  I knew we could see much more than the Grand Canyon.

After weeks of planning, after considering and scrapping several different destinations, the trip included exploring the Grand  Canyon, Zion Canyon and Bryce Canyon.  And because we flew in and out of there, the trip included a night in Las Vegas.  Really, that's the only reason we stayed there!

Since I am directionally  challenged,  I put several redundant systems in place for getting around. AAA sent me spiral bound Trip-tic maps that included turn-by-turn directions to and from each waypoint.  They  also provided road maps of Nevada, Utah and Arizona.  To top it  off they sent me sight-seeing guides for each of the three states. We would also have a GPS but I read not to put all our trust in a GPS.  I even read a story of a woman traveling alone in Arizona whose GPS led her astray. She ran out of gas, out of water and died.  I didn't want either of us to die on a trip that I had planned. But not to worry. I had professionally bound driving directions and state maps. We were in great shape.

After about eight months of planning the week of the trip finally arrived.  I was excited but I I kept feeling like I had forgotten something. I checked the confirmation on all the lodging. I checked all the boarding passes. I checked the reservations for various activities I had planned.  I did all this several times that week. The night before the trip I decided that we were good to go.   My brother spent the night at our house, and at 4:00 am the next morning, we boarded a shuttle van and headed to the Atlanta airport.  I still couldn't shake a very uneasy feeling.

About twenty miles down the road in a powerful flash of realization,  I saw a stack of things on my den bookshelf.  The stack included our AAA Trip-tics and the state maps.  No doubt about it, I had left all of it at home.  If we had been in our car we could have turned around, but we were in a van full of other people who had  places to go and people to see. They all had planes to catch in Atlanta.  I sat in a silent stupor for a few minutes and then said, "Uh, we've got a problem."  "Yeah, what's that?"  "I left all the maps at the house." (pause)  "Tell me you're kidding."  "No, I'm not kidding. I left everything at the house." (longer pause)  "What are we going to do?"  "Just give me a minute."

I sat perfectly still with a sharp dread crawling up my spine.  I saw our rental car on the side of the road and our water supply dwindling to the last few drops. "Here you take it." "No you take it" "Well, ok.".  So I just sat and wondered what to do.

The further down the road we traveled, the more dread I felt.  I had no idea what we were going to do. Having the maps overnighted wasn't an option because that day we would be driving from Nevada, through Utah to Arizona.Then with the same flash of insight that told me I had forgotten the maps, it  occurred to me what to do.  "My wife can email those directions to me and then of course we can buy maps."  Blood started flowing through my heart again and I felt a renewed sense of excitement for the trip.

And my wife did just that.  She typed every single turn around three canyons in three states into an email and sent it to me. We found maps in the Las Vegas airport. The trip was on!

Covering several hundred miles in twelve days we never missed a turn.  We never ran out of gas. We never ran out of water. And we never died.  And that's a good thing.

We are headed west again in the fall on a bird watching excursion to the coastal cities of the great state of Texas.  Since my brother chose the destination, I asked him to plan the trip.  He said, "I'd rather you plan it." "Ok, I'll be glad to-- with your help."

I don't have all the details in place, but the trip is taking shape.  This year I may forget my underwear and my credit cards, but I'll have the maps.

A Brilliant Madness--May is Mental Health Month

          Madness
Lurks around the edges of my mind,
          Watching, waiting
     For me to let my guard down
           So it can invade
              Or perhaps...
     Madness will creep in
  Under the cover of my denial.
I close my eyes and try to wish it away.
         But I'm no genie.
My genies are pink and yellow and green and white.
   And they must escape their bottles often.
        Or madness moves in and stays.

         Ruth White, May 19,2005

Everybody gets down from time to time and this emotional state can drag on for days.  But depression is different. Depression doesn't just last for days, it lasts weeks and months. Depression goes far beyond feeling bad. Someone who is depressed has no hope. He can't remember a time when he didn't feel this way, and feels as if he will always feel this way. Many people who suffer from serious depression commit suicide. Others just live with it and suffer in silence. Some - the lucky ones - get help.

Before help found me in 1992, I had spent much of my life depressed. I had experienced episodes of mania since my teenage years, but most of my memories are of the depressed state.   In the hospital for the month of June in 1992,  I was asked to trace my "mood history."  What I remembered and the graph I drew was mostly below the line, but there were spikes of mania along the way.  Then came 1991 and 1992 when it became painfully clear that something was terribly wrong. On  Thursday June 11th, 1992,  I woke up to find myself in a hospital bed.  I was still fully clothed and was soaking wet, I  had no idea where I was or how I got there. An even bigger question was why I was there. Several days later, after my head cleared, I remembered why I was wet when I woke up. Two weeks later I found out why I was there.

After  an eight month run of mostly mania,  my hospital psychiatrist gave me a name for my pain, manic-depression or the bipolar illness.

It took me quite a long time to accept that I was "mentally ill."  I had earned an associates degree,  a bachelor's and master's degree. I was married with a child. I was a successful financial advisor with a major financial services company, managing several million dollars for my clients. I had never had one serious complaint. I had been the music director of several different churches. I was loved and respected by many people. Being "mentally ill" was not in my vocabulary.

What I've learned over this past twenty three years is that I am in very good company. There are many famous people,  both living and dead,  who are believed to have suffered with manic-depression.   Most of them were/are highly intelligent and creative people.  Carrie Fisher (Princess Leah), Vincent van Gogh, Virginia Wolf,  Sinead O'Conner, Robin Williams, Patty Duke, Ted Turner, Ralph Waldo Emerson,  to name a few. It is commonly accepted that George Frederic Handel composed Messiah during a a manic episode.  He completed the entire body of work in just twenty one days. You don't sleep much during a manic episode, so he had nothing better to do.

Most people who suffer from manic-depression try to dull their pain with alcohol or drugs, or both. I had never done that. One reason it took my medical advisors so long to diagnose my illness is because I had never "self-medicated." In many cases,  the symptoms and issues with addiction and substance abuse lead to the diagnosis of the mental illness instead of the other way around.  When they asked me about my addictions, I told them I didn't have any. And they just looked at me in disbelief.  I had used music and reading to deal with my distress. I listened to hours and hours of serious music.  I read volumes of philosophy and self-help. I read most of Joseph Campbell's books and several about him.  I read Jung, Buber, Dyer and so many others. For several years until it went out of print, I read every issue of Omni magazine from cover to cover.  I found great comfort in the fact that I was such an insignificant dot in the universe.  I still do.  Another reason I did not indulge in chemicals is because of the boundaries that were a part of the fabric of my personality. I can be very critical of my strict Southern Baptist upbringing, but I had no experience with these drugs and never had a desire to start using them.

I have also learned that being "mentally ill" is not much different than any other affliction. Instead of something going wrong with my heart or kidneys, something is wrong with my brain and nervous system. There is medicine available for all of it. One difference though is that my illness is genetic, it's built into my DNA. I was born with the bipolar disorder and will die with it.  You can treat the symptoms of manic-depression, but there is no cure.

During Mental Health Month educate yourself about mental illness.  I have read many books about manic-depression and learned much about my illness. A few of the books that have helped me the most are Depression: The Mood Disease by Francis Mondimore, A Brilliant Madness by Patty Duke, and Touched with Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison,  If you want to get inside the head of the mentally ill, read  God Head, a novel by Scott Zwiren. It will be the most difficult book you have ever read. But you will understand the mind of one who is mentally ill so much better. I certainly didn't have  to read the book to know, but I read it anyway. Misery loves company.

Mental health is a significant part of anyone's psycho-soma .  But for those of us who are mentally ill it can be life and death. I'm no genie, I take my pills twice a day every day. I have no desire to be manic or depressed. I may be stupid from time to time, but I'm not crazy.