Vacations - Part 1

Nancy and I recently returned from our latest trip south. This one like so many others covered a fair amount of ground, both geographically and people-wise. In other words we greeted the morning sun from a number of exciting locales and spent good times with a diverse collection of old friends.

Part of this trip was introducing a new traveler to our favorite Disney haunts. That would be five-month old Lena Elizabeth, the lovely recent addition to the family of daughter Cathy and son-in-law Matt. Here's the chronically happy Lena packaged for just about anything from a theme park visit to a moon shot. Kids come with more (and better) stuff these days.

But before we take this ride through recent memories, and document Lena's first encounter with The Mouse, let's reflect on the whole idea of "vacation".  My Merriam-Webster first defines vacation as "a respite or a time of respite from something". Thanks, Noah. Helpful.

I guess that definition can work for normal people. People with jobs and a responsibility for being useful. But as a retiree, I take a slightly different view. I feel my whole life is now a respite. So my working definition of "vacation" is that time when I am away from home but have taken enough stuff with me so that I can sustain the cushy existence to which I have become accustomed.

Luckily, I have found that this can be accomplished with a little planning and a mid-sized or larger cross-over vehicle. Also, a pleasant, multi-talented and accommodating caregiver traveling companion helps. Despite my personality foibles, I still have one.

So let's get this party started. Nancy and I arose on March 8th, a Friday, loaded up the Traverse with slightly more than we would ever need, and pulled out of the drive. On board we had a few extra items to ease the travel burden of those that would be flying down to meet us later in the month.

Our Day 1 plan was to roll, pitch and yaw our way down the washboard that is I-75 between Detroit and Toledo. Then, after tiptoeing through Buckeye speed traps, enjoy some fond memories as we buzzed the western border of Cincinnati (the place we first met).

From there, we would meander through bluegrass country and the western foothills of the Appalachians to a most stylish B&B in Spencer, Tennessee. That would be the home of our good friends Jan and Miguel. You might remember this secluded venue from an earlier trip (shot taken one morning as we attempted an early getaway; something about an unpaid bar bill).

Our Day 1 plan came off without a hitch. We had a delightful evening with our mountain retreat hosts. They got us liquored up, gave us a tour of the latest improvements to their private paradise (including a new guest room in process) and then stuffed us full of excellent cuisine. The usual. We were a little too lubed that night to drag out the camera, but here's a shot of us with these great friends from the last time we enjoyed their hospitality. They still look just like this.

Our Day 2 plan also worked out well. That was a descent from the mountains into Chattanooga followed by a sprint through Georgia to our second favorite state.

We arrived safe and sound at my mother's place in Zephyrhills in time for a delayed happy hour and a late supper. And, our last couple of nights in my grandmother's old bed. More on that shortly.

We hung out with Mom on Sunday and Monday, did a little shopping and cruised around in her new Terrain. Here's a shot of Mom with her new ride. No flies on Dolores.

On Tuesday, Nancy and I headed south to the Fort Myers area for a lunch with some old IRS friends. Here's a shot of this little reunion crowd.

From left to right is Debbie Schmidt of Fort Lauderdale and her husband Buddy, yours truly with bride Nancy, and Paul Bischoff who winters in Ft. Myers with his better half Connie. The Bischoffs' northern home is in Minnesota.

We had a great time catching up. Paul and I are long since retired. Debbie is still fighting what we refer to as the "tax wars". But most of the discussion was about our kids, current activities and future fun. Need to do more of that sort of thing.

After lunch Nancy and I continued on to South Seas Resort on Captiva Island for a couple of nights with our friends the Dyles and the Wyatts. We spent our island time sitting in the sun, dipping in the pool, eating, drinking, and in the evening watching a movie or two. We also worked in a round of golf on the resort executive course.

True, we do this sort of thing on a pretty regular basis. But equally true is that it never gets old. Here's a timeless shot of the active members of what we call the Burk-Dyatt Vacation Club. That would be left to right moi, Robyn, Jim, Nancy, David and Mary.

On Thursday, Day 7 of the trip, we returned to Mom's for what became the great bed caper. Remember a little earlier when I mentioned my grandmother's old bed? It was a full double that was installed in my parents' second bedroom almost 20 years ago after serving for a number of years in my grandmother's home. In other words, it was tired.

In recent years we had added a memory foam topper to give this ancient warrior a little more life. But the bottom line is that its claim to comfort had rung hollow for a very long time. I made an idle comment along these lines within earshot of my mother during my last visit in January, and noted that it might be time for an upgrade. She took that suggestion to heart.

A couple of weeks after we returned home from the January trip, my mother announced during our daily call that we should plan to spend some time on our next visit shopping for a new bed for the guest room. Turns out she meant it.

The day after we had arrived back in Zephyrhills (that was the previous Sunday) we went shopping. Before we finished we (read Mom) had purchased a new queen mattress and platform (formally referred to as a boxed spring) as well as a suitable headboard.

That meant that on Friday the 15th, Day 8 of the trip, we had to rise early, dismantle and remove the old bed, and assemble the new headboard and frame in anticipation of the happy delivery. Well it wasn't quite that easy.

As is our way, we were as frugal as we could be in this adventure. After price-shopping and obtaining a good deal on the mattress and platform, we thought we could save a little more money by first looking for a headboard at one of the local habitat/thrift stores. After all, it's very "Florida" to appreciate and celebrate the "golden" years. Even for furniture.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should fess up here that one of my favorite pastimes is to cruise thrift shops and second hand stores for what I would describe as hidden treasures. Stuff that for some reason a previous owner had cast aside while still in its prime.

Okay, maybe just a little past its prime. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say "to the trained eye, still possessing a measure of useful life - at a bargain price". You get the idea. At least it gets me out of the house for a little exercise. It beats mall walking.

Anyway, suffice it to say we found a formerly owned headboard that would meet our needs. So with a little move planning and a modicum of groaning, we worried the new queen-sized headboard down the narrow hall of my mother's home, around the corner and into place.

Then with a handful of right-sized bolts, washers and nuts procured from my father's shed, which contains a lifetime supply of such odds and ends, I was able to properly attach the headboard to the new bed frame. Here's a shot of me in my usual work position, completing my final task in this endeavor.

A couple of hours later, two highly-trained and physically fit women (think roller-derby queens) arrived in a big truck with our new bed. I did provide a couple pointers to these ladies on how to navigate the narrow hallway and the 90 degree turn, having sorted that out with the removal of the old bed. But they did the heavy lifting. And voila! The new bed was a reality. Here's a shot of our delightful and much appreciated new resting place at Mom's, complete with new bedding procured for the occasion.

Having now field tested this welcome addition to the family for a few nights, I can say with confidence that the project was a huge success.

On Saturday the 16th, I awoke thinking that there was only one task remaining on my Zephyrhills to-do list. That was to procure a noodle floatie for grandson Ian. But before I could quaff my second cup of coffee, Mom had come up with another problem. She needed a new chair.

Now my mother's history with living room chairs is long and filled with disappointment. She goes through them fairly quickly. Some turned out to be too big. Others too small. Some didn't wear very well, and others just seem to lose their appeal. The important thing to note is that when Mom says she needs a new chair, she means now.

Okay. I know the drill. There is one particular furniture store that my mother has used over the years. And despite the failure of past chair purchases from this store, it is still held in high esteem. Go figure.

So before lunch we headed out to Dade City for more shopping. I will save the details of this outing for a future post on my mother's many chair adventures. But I would like to report that a new chair was procured, carefully loaded into the Terrain, brought home and installed in my mother's living room before mid-afternoon. Again, no flies on the proprietor of 3420 Carnation Lane.

To consummate this quick but successful transition, the old chair had to be disposed of. Unlike several past displaced chairs, there was no place else in my mother's house to put it nor was there a relative (child, grandchild) in need of an extra chair. That meant an opportunity for me to visit one of my favorite places.

Those of you who are regular readers of this blog will remember some past posts in which I describe the joy of removing unwanted articles from one's life by tossing them over a concrete ledge into the gaping maw of a monster dumpster 15' below. Escorting Mom's discarded lounger to its doom was just as much fun as I remembered. (For a full exploration of heady times at the Pasco County Solid Waste Facility, see my Jan-Feb 2015 post).

As I came down emotionally from my chair disposal high, I remembered about the noodle. Grandson Ian would be needing such a device to navigate the pool at Disney. And I was just the guy to perform this task. For those of you not familiar with my history and prowess with noodles, I offer this documentary evidence.

In this shot from 2012 I am demonstrating for my other grandson Cyrus the inverted-chest-clutch position. Note that Cyrus at this point was still in the upright-death-grip training mode. He has since progressed nicely.

To complete this assignment we went off to Walmart where I snagged these beauties - one for the new noodler and one for the lucky dad, or grandpa, depending on the duty roster.

With my Zephyrhills chores complete, Nancy and I packed up for the next day's drive over to Disney to meet up with the Kuhlmans. And that's where we will pickup the story in my next post.

Till then.
Grosse Pointe Charles

The Holidays Part 3 - Splash Down (the Do Over)

My first edition of this post became corrupted somehow. Fonts and line spacing wouldn't behave. Probably because of something I said. So for the record here is a corruption free version of the post, with just one or two minor edits. Sorry for the breakdown in QA.
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In this post I will share the balance of my experiences with that period of the year we call "The Holidays". In the first post of the series The Launch I dealt with Thanksgiving and the buildup to it. The second post The Gauntlet covered those busy weeks between Thanksgiving and lights out on Christmas Eve. We pick things up here with Christmas morning.

In my dotage I have to say that I seldom need an alarm clock. Regardless of when I hit the sack, my body starts rebooting around 8:00 am. It takes about an hour for those systems that still work to come fully on line. Focusing the brain on the nuances and plot twists of a Perry Mason episode can help those neurons defrost and start firing.

When forced by circumstance to arise earlier than normal - mostly when traveling - I initially operate in what I would describe as "safe mode", until about 8:00. During this period I have limited functionality. I can dress, drink coffee, sit in a car (but not the driver's seat) and communicate in short, standard responses like "okay", "that's nice" and "yes I have my wallet and planner".

Christmas morning is a little different. In the early days of our family when young children were involved, the day started around 7:00. Of course, the kids had been awake and building up a charge well before that. Fortunately, I was younger with fresher batteries and could shift through the gears from park to neutral to low fairly quickly (low is my normal cruising gear). That was enough for me to put on my robe and slippers, shuffle down the stairs, pour a cup of coffee and take a seat before incurring a delay of game penalty.

The idea for Nancy and me then, as well as now, was to make this unique few hours of the year last for as long as possible. After the many hours of decorating, planning, cleaning, hosting, shopping and wrapping, not to mention cooking and baking, this was the payoff. The sense of urgency was gone. Time to make time stand still.

The kids, however, were operating on a different dynamic. We were usually able to freeze the proceedings long enough to capture the traditional shot of the kids sitting in front of the gift-adorned Christmas tree. Here are a couple of examples. First of the girls in 1989.

And another from 1992 with big brother Ted joining in.

All I can say is awww.

Of course, then the frenzy began. I seldom got to play Santa. Too slow. I would describe the nature of Christmas morning in the Burk household as a sort of temporal rift. Those of you familiar with the physics of Star Trek certainly know this term.

In this case what actually happened was that time was unfolding at different rates in two places in close proximity, creating a tear in the fabric of space-time. The kids were ripping the wrappings from one gift after another as fast as they could, while Nancy and I - a short distance away - were doing our best to draw out and savor every giggle and other expression of joy for as long as possible.

As the morning unfolded and the rift slowly closed, normal time was restored revealing the resulting rubble. The living room was typically strewn with new stuff - shiny toys, stylish items of clothing, exciting music and books, and other welcome treasures.

As such, one had to be careful while navigating across the room to the kitchen to secure another cup of coffee or holiday treat, as much of the Christmas booty was buried under piles of shredded paper, crushed boxes, stocking candy wrappers and the occasional item of discarded sleepwear. But as normal house tidiness protocols were suspended on Christmas Day, no fines were levied nor behaviors criticized. Although I did my best to contain the maelstrom to the living room.

One other tradition should be noted. One of the fun things for Nancy and me each Christmas was to watch for presents that seem to really hit the mark. It would often be what we thought of as the "big present", something that might be a little more pricey or especially desired by the recipient. But not always. Sometimes it was a simple thing that had surprising appeal.

One of the more memorable of these unforeseen moments was a Christmas where Santa had stuffed a Sudoku puzzle book in each of the kids' stockings. Sudoku was fairly new at the time. The kids - pretty much all numbers people - were mesmerized. They spent most of Christmas afternoon engrossed in one puzzle after another, as shown below.

Not sure what was going on with Ted's eyes here. Perhaps he was temporarily overcome by an unusually insightful Sudoku move.

While Christmas mornings were dedicated to celebration with the immediate family, the afternoons involved getting together with the parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. This meant that we had to break away from the euphoria, clean up, and either tidy up the house and prepare food or pile into the car and brave whatever weather was at hand. I remember a number of cold and snowy white-knuckle drives on Christmas Day, especially when we had our diesel Oldsmobile. It didn't like cold weather.

But whether we hosted or traveled, these gatherings with family members some of whom we didn't see very often were always worth it. We shared memories of past events, caught up on all the family news (this was way before social media), and renewed relationships.

As I noted in The Gauntlet, during the late 90s and early 2000s our family would journey to Florida over Christmas to spend time with my parents (who wintered in the sun in those days). We would stay through the new year to visit friends and often cruise Disney theme parks.

However, whether we traveled south or rode out Christmas in the Pointes, it was always a high energy week. Outings, bowl games, comfort food, late nights, way to much sugar - it was grand. But totally exhausting.

So when January 2nd rolled around, I was always grateful. Sometimes I would be cruising home from Florida in one of our big vans, with kids sleeping the week off in the back. More often I would be stumbling down the stairs to the living room and for the first time in days actually surveying the damage. Either way, I knew that what remained of the festival I've called "The Holidays" was the cleanup. The only thing to do in such situations was to suck it up, switch to auxiliary power, and go to it.

That post-holiday ritual is still the same today. First up is putting our new acquisitions away and tossing out those unfortunate wrapping materials sacrificed for the occasion. This part normally isn't so bad.  It's fun re-examining those new friends that were greeted in such a rush on Christmas morning, and ushering them carefully to their new quarters. Although it can be a little unsettling when this involves adjustments to a well-established storage system. In such cases, I've found that an extended session of Canadian whiskey yoga can get you over the hump.

Then comes the de-decorating. The good news for me here is that the de-decorating team doesn't trust me to pack all of those delicate articles safely in their containers anymore than they trusted me to hang or install them around the house in the first place (as confessed in The Launch). Proving once again that there can be a little solace in ineptitude. So I don't enter the fray until everything is packed up. Then I get to reprise my skycap role and stow those precious parcels away.

Now remember my comments in The Gauntlet about the good old days when our decorations were stored upstairs. Just read that passage in reverse and you'll have the story. Haul the boxes and bags upstairs, ease down on my septuagenarian knees, crawl into the attic and carefully stuff everything back into place. All the while dodging obstacles a la Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade (you remember the cave of the crescent moon).

The epiphany of relocating our Christmas decorations storage to a downstairs closet a couple of years ago is even more appreciated during the endgame. Since with my deteriorating relationship with gravity, up is trickier than down.

Prior to the advent of on-line shopping, snugging the decorations away for the season signified the end of the post-holiday recovery ordeal. But no longer. Now there's another chapter - the garage. That's where for weeks I've been stashing all the cardboard boxes and Styrofoam packing materials from the steady stream of UPS and Fed Ex deliveries.

It's great when your on-line purchases magically arrive at your front door. And it's not too much of a nuisance when you have to remove all that material to the garage during the height of the buying and wrapping frenzy, to get it out of the way. But all that is temporary. Eventually there's a bill to pay.

In my case I have a two-car garage that has been converted to a one-car garage with a cardboard storage area. And during the binge-buying it's a tight fit. So the night before the first trash day of the new year I grab my trusty utility knife and call out the enemy.

I slash and rip and fold and stomp my foes into submission. The reformatted cardboard I jam into my 60 gallon recycle bin. The Styrofoam is not recyclable in my area and must be further crushed and broken up so it will fit into the smaller trash barrel.

There is some risk. If you're not careful, a hidden staple or two may take a swipe at you, occasionally drawing blood. But like the carving battle on Thanksgiving Day (see The Launch), with a little concentration and proper footwork one should prevail. After all, as with the turkey your opponent is dead.

The bad news is that overpowering the cardboard and Styrofoam once is seldom enough. There's way too much to fit into one stuffing of the bins. The last two years it's taken me three trash days to get rid of it all and declare victory.

But the end does come, once you've wheeled that last tubful of Christmas shipping and wrapping debris to the curb. "Splashdown" at last. Time to pause and reflect.

You prepare a fresh cup of coffee or hot cocoa and retire to your favorite recliner. As you settle deep into the chair, you look back on the fun parts of the last six weeks. In a dreamlike state you relive the uplifting times with family and friends, the satisfaction of successful gifting, the pleasure of those delicious holiday desserts.

The endorphins do their thing, and you enjoy a gentle rush. And thanks to human self-preservation instincts, the burdensome and annoying parts of "The Holidays" start to fade from memory. Genius.

Eventually you come down. You smile to yourself as you realize that the stress bred by holiday activity has oozed out of your body and dissipated into the atmosphere. And you take some comfort from the fact that it's more than 300 days before the cycle starts again.

Then the mail comes. You get up and walk over to collect the newly delivered items from the foyer. As you pick up the bulging envelope that is your December VISA bill, you peek out the window and see the six inches of new snow that has fallen in your 100' driveway. As an old departed friend used to say, "It's always something".

Until next time,
Grosse Pointe Charles

The Holidays Part 2 - The Gauntlet

When we left off on this journey, we were sleeping off a month of anticipation that ended with a day of satiation. The high expectations we had worked toward and nurtured for weeks finally bloomed with another fine Thanksgiving celebration. It was grand. 

But as we struggled for consciousness the next morning, we slowly remembered that Thanksgiving was only the opening act. The main attraction was about to take the stage. 

I call this second phase of "The Holidays" the gauntlet. I'm talking about the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, up until the time you put out the milk and cookies Christmas Eve. Indeed, this month-long encounter with tradition can test the best of us. Our only hope is that the generous dose of goodwill we loaded up on through turkey-day gluttony will carry us until Santa arrives.

Okay. Maybe it's not quite that bad. But during this period of roughly four weeks a lot comes at you at a pretty good clip. For me it starts early on what we now refer to as Black Friday. I'm not talking about fist fights in department stores over this year's hot toy. No, what I'm referring to is for me really black-and-blue Friday. The day we put away Thanksgiving and get out Christmas.

The first order of business is to return all the items moved for the big dinner back to their usual spots. I've tried the "spoonful of sugar" thing. It doesn't work on furniture. So it's back to tugging and lugging and Ibuprofen. Including a carefully navigated descent down the basement stairs doing the two-step with the super-sized table leaf.

It's when all that's done and I've plopped down into an easy chair for a breather that I begin to hear it. The faint, rustling sound of wreaths and ornaments and synthetic pine trees straining against cardboard confinement, trying to breakout. Somehow they know it's time. Is it the drop in temperature? The low humidity? Or the smell of turkey leftovers being nuked? I've never figured out how they know, but they do. 

For most of the 30 plus years we have lived in our Vernier home, answering this cry for freedom was truly an ordeal. It involved trudging up and down stairs to retrieve the complainants from our attic crawlspace, accessible only through a small hidden door in our upstairs hallway. This out-of-the-way location seemed perfect 11 months of the year. It did its job dutifully, keeping things secure while leaving more convenient storage areas available for important stuff (like back-up VCRs, slide carousal overflow, or my extensive matchbook collection).

To keep peace with members of the family who were hot to decorate, I would climb the stairs, get down on all fours, and crack open the attic door. Now in attack position, I would cautiously crawl inside and one-by-one haul out the various boxes and bags of Christmas paraphernalia and stack them in the upstairs hallway. 

As there wasn't enough room for me to turn around in the attic, I had to crawl forward and backward several times to complete the withdrawal. And with the narrow opening, low ceiling and unfinished pine board floor, I usually managed a few head bumps, finger scrapes, knee bruises and the occasional splinter in the process. Once everything was out in the hall, I in my wounded state would carry/drag these rascals down the stairs to the staging area in the living room, doing my best not to get blood on the carpet.

Fortunately for me, once the inventory was delivered the A-team took over. I was excused. It was established years ago that my greatest value to the Christmas decorating mission was as skycap. It was okay with me as I was then free to seek the medical supplies (band aids, ice packs, tweezers) I needed to fully recover from my ordeal. Once I was propped up somewhere out of the way to recuperate, the others gleefully went about unpacking, assembling, hanging and otherwise deploying their holiday treasures. 

I did have the additional task of re-stowing the now idle containers until they were needed again. But empty, they were no match for me. I admit to a smug grin on my face as I wrestled these lightweights back up the stairs, shoved them into their cold attic refuge (no insulation) and turned out the light. With only one or two additional head bumps.

Now, I did say all of this happened for most of the past 30 years. About three years ago I had an epiphany. As empty nesters, Nancy and I had converted the girls' bedrooms to guest rooms. In the case of our downstairs guest room, one with ample closet space as it at one time was the master bedroom. It dawned on me that this space might be put to better use.

I grabbed my tape measure and started comparing the size of my Christmas problem with the capacity of the potential solution. I concluded that with a wee bit of planning and repackaging, all that stuff would fit nicely into one of the two available guest room closets. And it does. The new Christmas decorations storage facility is only about ten feet from where it all gets delivered and unpacked. And at the same height above sea level. No more stairs. This was a joyous discovery which still makes me smile when this task comes around each year. 

Outwitting the Christmas decorations was nice, but there were and still are more hurdles to clear before escaping the holiday gauntlet. Like gifting.

When we think of gifting, what comes to mind? It's the expression of joy that seizes the face of someone who just received the perfect present. Right? Sure. But let's back up a little bit. How does that happen?

How about this theory. All year long you are on the lookout for just the right item for each individual on your gifting list. And every so often you find one of these items. You buy it. Wrap it. And tuck it away in your secret hiding place until it's time to deliver it or put it under the appropriate tree to be found. Is that the way it works where you live?

Well, here in my world it's a little different. It starts like this. The wounds from your decorating encounter are nearly healed. You've regained the use of your hands and you're paging through your day planner to see what you've missed. And wham! You realize the number of days until Christmas is lower than the outside temperature. Time to boogie.

In the old days, this meant a steady stream of trips to crowded malls and specialty shops, all of whom were short on staff and none of whom had adequate parking for the holiday crush. Also, it usually snowed or sleeted from the time you left your driveway until you returned with armfuls of goodies to sneak into a private area for further processing. At least that's the way I remember it.

For a few years after we acquired Wiser Times, Nancy and I mitigated the gifting challenge by packing the procurement work into a "fun" weekend at the cottage. We would leave on a Friday morning in early December and shop our way up I-75, making stops at Great Lakes Crossing (the huge designer mall northwest of Pontiac) and Fashion Square (the mall between Saginaw and Bay City). 

We would have lunch on the road and arrive at Wiser Times just in time for a stiff drink and a light supper. We would head off to bed feeling we had made good progress on our gifting quest, and happy to be up at the lake enjoying its winter beauty and solitude. 

On Saturday morning we would inventory our booty from the trip up and take note of remaining needs. We would then traipse around small shops in Oscoda and Tawas looking to fill out our list. The Ben Franklin in Tawas was (and still is) a favorite stop as it's full of local flavor - Michigan-made trinkets and souvenirs. Shopping there always reminded us of our old Canadian cottage days when we would frequent a similar store in Forest, Ontario, known as Stedman's. This local outing - half shopping half a cruise down memory lane - usually resulted in a few more gift needs being checked off our list.

Then on Sunday we dug in. We took note of the (hopefully) few gift needs remaining. We then carefully plotted our course home to include whatever additional stops were needed to complete the mission. This sometimes included venues along the way, like the Bay City Mall (where we had often shopped in earlier years when my parents still lived in the area) or stores closer to home. We would arrive back in The Pointes by early evening, pretty beat but with the lion's share if not all of our holiday shopping done.

Those were the old days. Today it's different. The change began on one of those Wiser Times trips. One Saturday it had snowed a bunch overnight. Rather than drag out the snowblower and battle our way up the drive to the highway for some local shopping, we decided to see what we could find online. And discovered the modern miracle that has fed the online shopping revolution. Free shipping! 

We sat at the big table overlooking the lake with dueling laptops searching various sites (but mostly Amazon) and pretty much completed our list. Still in our pajamas, robes and slippers. Christmas shopping was changed forever. 

We still usually make a December trip up north to check on the cottage and enjoy the peace and quiet of the lake. And we occasionally do slip down to Ben Franklin's or the Tawas chocolatier for finishing touches and stocking stuffers. But our Christmas shopping (like most of America it seems) now consists of a couple of extended computer sessions in our family room at home. No crowds. No weather. No lugging purchases in and out of the car. Just a pot of coffee and a lot of keyboarding.

True, our online habit has alleviated a lot of the stressful side of Christmas gifting. But it has created a new monster to contend with. Cardboard. Mountains of cardboard. And its little monster toady Styrofoam. There'll be more about these nemeses in my next post, as they really work their terror as the endgame of the holiday season unfolds. But for now, just know there's a little unfinished business there.

Of course, the final chapter on gifting is wrapping. This can also be stressful. Unless you have a mature case of OCD. Wrapping is where it's at for the holidays as far as I'm concerned. A wide variety of paper, an array of boxes of various sizes, double-sided tape, the occasional ribbon or bow. What could be more fun. Or relaxing. Yes, I am in counseling.

When I get too puffed up over my wrapping prowess, I remember what an old friend told me once about wrapping before tape. They used straight pins to hold the paper in place. Straight pins. Wow. I tried it once, way back when I first heard this. Kept getting blood on the paper. Humbling.

Now let me say that everything that happens during the "gauntlet" isn't filled with stress. There's a lot of fun. Like Christmas parties, office luncheons, classic holiday movies, eggnog, Christmas cookies, and cruises down Lakeshore Drive to see the gaudiest light displays since National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. All good.

I'm just saying the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas is pretty much non-stop. Full of both gotta-do-it and wanna-do-it activities with very little down time to recharge. The batteries can get pretty low. Low enough that when you finally do trudge off to bed Christmas Eve, you're ready to move on. Here's a shot of that "ready" moment at our house from a few years ago, when the kids (and the skycap) were younger, and the attic storage and mall shopping wars were in their prime.
.

And one from a couple years ago. New venue (about only six feet from the new storage site). 

Still pretty inviting.

When I was a kid, I didn't sleep very well on Christmas Eve. I was too pumped and happy about what lay ahead with the rising sun.

As an adult, I sleep really well on Christmas Eve, exhausted but happy about what now lay behind me - the gauntlet. It's a good place to be. Of course, the sun still comes up on Christmas morning. And that story will be told in my closing post on "The Holidays".
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One note should be added here. The gauntlet was a little more elaborate during our "Christmas in Florida" years, roughly from 2002 to 2012. Those years involved all I've discussed so far plus a major road trip to be with my parents on the big day. We would then close out the trip with a few days at a Disney Resort or down on Captiva Island with our friends Robyn and Dave and their kids. 

The challenge of Christmas away from home with kids, of course, was assuring them that Santa would find us on Christmas Eve. That meant Santa's helpers had to pack all the Christmas gifts,  without being noticed, in with the luggage, golf clubs, in-flight entertainment supplies, and the usual assortment of stuffed animals (can't go to Disney without Mickey, Pluto, and the gang). Fortunately, during those years we had a series of full size conversion vans (the full story of our life as van travelers was chronicled a few years ago in a series of posts starting with Vans Part 1 - The Tiara Years). 

I'm happy to report that because of the big vans, along with a little distraction, some appliance-sized cardboard boxes and few large plastic bags, we were able to preserve the magic. It usually looked something like this just before we pulled out of our drive. 

Until next time.
Grosse Pointe Charles   

The Holidays Part 1 - The Launch (aka Thanksgiving)

Since the fourth week of November I (like many of you) have been immersed in that life sustaining/life threatening luge ride known to most as "The Holidays". A couple of weeks ago I was flushed out of the end of the tube and was finally able to ease the death grip I had on my sled just enough to peer over my toes. My surroundings were no longer flying by quite so quickly, so it occurred to me that it was time to capture this annual ritual - such an important part of my and many others' personal history - for posterity. So here goes.

There are many meanings assigned to and derived from this unique time of year - religious beliefs, family relationships, community responsibilities. And a host of special activities spawned by less lofty concerns - out-decorating the neighbors, having your favorite college team make it to the right bowl game, navigating the year-end retail frenzy. You get the picture.

We each have a general sense of what this time of year means to us. Giving, receiving, socializing, and we can't forget eating. We know we look forward to it with certain expectations and are usually quite content to see it all end. But our awareness of the events that make up this whirlwind journey and how they affect us during the ride seems less clear. At least to me. It's from this perspective that I thought it would be fun to share. Just what is it that brings us from euphoric anticipation Thanksgiving Eve to an equally euphoric relief the day after New Year's?

In this first post we'll start at the beginning with what I will call the launching pad - Thanksgiving. Yes, I know. Christmas decorations are now sometimes appearing in stores just after Labor Day. But I refuse to expand the holiday season past its already demanding five or six weeks. Call me old fashioned or just a cranky, aging baby boomer.

Like many other bait-and-switch situations, "The Holidays" initially suck you in with an offer of food. Not just food, but the finest dinner of the year where it's alright culturally to gorge yourself to the point of immobility. Indeed, you're considered a wimp and a buzz killer if you don't have seconds of each of the six or seven dishes offered plus at least two types of dessert. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's rewind a few days and see how this trap is cleverly laid.

It starts the morning after Halloween. We're a little hungry upon rising still feeling the effects of last night's sugar high crash. Then, as we're packing away our costumes and cleaning up the candy wrappers, we stumble across the pumpkin on the front porch. We think "hmm, maybe we could eat this." The plot is hatched. While we seldom actually eat the pumpkin, the taste buds have been set on a path that can only end at one place. That would be the traditional Thanksgiving Day whipped-cream-adorned pumpkin pie.

And to keep you thinking about it, the lead up to the big day provides plenty of reminders. There's pumpkin flavored shakes at your favorite fast food spot, pumpkin spice coffee creamers, pumpkin bread side dishes, and the cruelest temptation of all - pumpkin pancakes down at the local breakfast eatery. Talk about a conspiracy.

In truth, succumbing to this conspiracy isn't that painful in the beginning. We cruise through early November sampling the bait here and there, gradually getting in the mood, and even anticipating the day. I mean, what's not to like? Parade floats, football, feasting and socializing, right? Can't wait! Then about two weeks out, reality sets in. You remember that you're hosting.

By now, you're hosed. While you were musing about the benefits of the big day, your spouse along with your kids and in-laws have been making plans. Lots of plans. And many involve you doing things that are not on your bucket list (like dusting or polishing almost everything you own) or things that you are only marginally skilled at (like a knife fight with a large, angry bird). But as I said, you're hosed.

So you smile, put your toys away (so you won't have to dust them), and in my case report for cleaning and de-cluttering duty. In my younger (read more limber) days all I needed to run the Thanksgiving prep chore gauntlet was a little attitude. However since achieving senior status, I've learned to rely more on chemical aids, and not just those provided by certain distilleries. Fortunately, there's something for everything that might ail you. Low energy, stiff joints, sore muscles, fuzzy vision- no problem. Take a little of this, a little of that, and you're back wielding your Pledge and Glass Plus with aplomb.

In the interest of full disclosure, l must admit to one silver lining in my Thanksgiving chore regime. My Bride handles just about everything involving the food, both shopping and cooking. I tried to cook once. I quickly learned that it involved sharp instruments and small power appliances. Also following well-established recipes. None of these things are, shall we say, in my wheelhouse. Inept is too weak a term to describe my performance, but this is a family blog. Suffice it to say, my kitchen privileges have since been restricted to the microwave and the dishwasher. Whenever possible with another adult in the house.

I had a slightly better go at the unholy task of pre-Thanksgiving shopping, but due to predictable hormonal handicaps I again delivered less than satisfactory performance. It's not good when you come back two hours late with only half the items on your list and most of the coupons you were sent with still in your pocket (marketing is complicated - who knew). And my unfamiliarity with the "take a number" system at the meat and bakery counters caused me (and others) all sorts of grief. The bottom line is that I was informed that aside from emergency situations my supermarket services would no longer be needed. I am still allowed to buy beer.

Of course, there are several other non-food related Thanksgiving prep tasks assigned to me in addition to my cleaning duties. These will vary depending on the number of guests we are expecting, the weather, and/or the chef's mood. But they almost always involve carrying heavy items up and down stairs or bundling up and heading outdoors to service the grounds.

There are the everyday, ergonomically-friendly chairs to swap out for the straight-back dining chairs (it would be a breach of tradition to be overly comfortable at a formal dinner). Dragging the 40 pound 16" x 78" table leaf up the stairs from the furnace room, wrestling it into place, and then worrying the now elongated table into proper position. Also, there are a few other chairs and side tables to shuffle to new locations around the house to make room for the expanded dining area. And when needed, clearing the drive and sidewalk of any inconsiderate snow-ice-sleet that could threaten the safe arrival of our guests.

Having navigated this prelude of demanding tasks, one should be able to limp off to bed on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing that all obstacles had been vanquished and that the fun would begin with the rising sun. "In your dreams" I think is the common expression. I have found that despite the most thorough preparations, Thanksgiving Day can present its own challenges. Let's take it from the top.

The day begins innocently enough. The double-dose of Ibuprofen you took at bedtime has done its work. You're able to get out of bed with only the usual creaks and winces. As you descend the stairs for that first cup of coffee, you are embraced by the enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen (as the turkey master has been up for hours and has the bird well on its way).

Through the morning you sit by your lovely gas log fire, watch parades, complete your morning day planner activity, and contemplate the dinner. By noon you have managed to shave and get dressed in your finest casual garb (in our family the coat and tie tradition for holiday dinners went out long ago). Guests are due any minute, just in time to catch the kickoff of what undoubtedly will be another exciting victory for our beloved Lions. Right.

As guests arrive, everyone settles in. The game begins. We enjoy light appetizers and libations as we watch the Lions commit their first turnover. All the while qualified individuals are prepping various food dishes and setting the table with fine china and silver (for most of these family heirlooms, this is only their second day out of the cabinet all year - there was the cleaning thing earlier in the week).

Things are going smoothly. Then, as the game enters the fourth quarter, the moment I've been dreading occurs. From the kitchen I hear, "Honey, the turkey's done." That means the bird has been removed from the oven and cooled enough to be prepared for the table. Oh boy.

I rise from my cushy recliner and report to the arena. I am about to face two tests of my manhood. The first is the ritual of lifting the 23 pound turkey from its roasting pan on the stove onto the carving board a short distance away on the counter. Sounds easy right? If done correctly, it is. But remember my reputation with sharp objects. However, I'm ready. I've rehearsed the whole thing in my sleep for the last few nights, and am confident real life will go a little bit better than the dreams. I pick up the two carving forks that have been laid out for the operation, one in each hand, and approach the bird.

Drawing on my years of experience with this harrowing task, I focus in on the midpoints on each side of this unfortunate victim and insert the forks the full three inch length of the tines. And with only a modicum of hesitation, I gently lift everyone's main course gently up over the lip of the roaster and, balancing the prize deftly, move it the 18 inches required to the board. It's done. I've survived the most exciting 2.5 seconds in dining. And avoided the shame and ridicule that accompanies a sloppy, grease-splashing, counter-soiling botched turkey transfer. I'm safe. Ah, but only for the moment.

Impressed with my performance, my Bride excuses me for a few moments so I can gather myself for the task that remains. After a few peaceful moments, and a visit to the cocktail bar, I re-approach my opponent.   

Now, it would seem that I would have the advantage, right? The bird has been beheaded, stuffed and roasted for hours at hundreds of degrees. It has also been laid out on a spiked piece of wood and further immobilized with the steel, spiked locking arm bolted to the carving board. Of its own accord it cannot move. It's harmless. Or so it would appear.

I on the other hand am unfettered, free to move about in my fancy shirt and party shoes. I'm also now armed with a 12" carving knife and not one but two large forks (one to hold my prey as I parry and another to remove my booty to a serving tray). As a final precaution, I've steeled my nerves with a wee bit of liquid courage. So what's to worry about?

I go about my business methodically, cutting away the drumsticks and wings, trimming the dark meat away from the bone. I move on to the breast, lifting away neatly sliced portions of white meat. The process continues until about half the bird's offerings have been pared away and fashioned into a handsome platter of poultry fit for the exquisite table that has been set.

Yeah. Right. That's my story. But in truth it was all a blur. And the turkey put up quite a fight. What I remember is standing before the turkey hoping not to get any grease on my shoes or anything else for that matter. Then, dazzled by the bright lights over the counter, I began. I have a vague notion of flailing with my instruments in all directions, grasping and pulling at elusive pieces of avian anatomy, thrusting my blade over and over into the slippery innards of my resistant prey, and as able dropping the product of my efforts onto the serving tray. It was sort of dream like.

Eventually, I sensed the fog lifting. My weary arms slowly relaxed, and my head cleared. I found myself standing in the same place physically, but obviously time had passed. In front of me was what was left of the bird. It wasn't pretty. On the tray next to the carving board was a generous pile of turkey meat. I then realized the battle was over. I had defeated my stubborn foe and again survived this barbaric ritual without (at least knowingly) embarrassing myself. A faint smile of relief eased onto my face. I looked up and calmly announced that dinner was ready. After composing myself I joined the others at the table.

From that point on, life was grand. The dinner was delicious, and plentiful. We had a fine crowd of 10. Well, eleven really. But month-old Lena didn't eat that much. Here's a photo of this year's Thanksgiving day gathering.

From left to right are daughter Christine, Nancy's brother Dave, Dave's sons Mathew and Brian, Dave's bride Barbara, son-in-law Mathew, grandson Ian, daughter Cathy holding newborn granddaughter Lena, my bride Nancy and yours truly.

After dinner I faced the final challenge of the day - the dishes. Owing to my lack of food prep contributions, I am always happy to captain the cleanup team. Nancy and Barbara cleared and packaged the leftovers, of which there were many. I overcame my fears of handling fine china (there have been one or two mishaps in the past) and unleashed a flurry of rinsing, stacking, loading, unloading, more rinsing, stacking, loading, etc. It came to the usual two and a half dishwasher loads plus hand washing and drying of certain delicate or over-sized items. It was an admirable display if I do say so myself.
 
As dinner was served in late afternoon, the afterglow continued on into early evening. Eventually the sated, happy crowd said their goodbyes, gave hugs and departed. It was a rare event having the four adult cousins together for a holiday. A nice reunion for these kids who have spent so much time together in the past at the family cottage in Canada.

With the house quiet and the essential cleanup completed, Nancy and I were left to recover with a nightcap and a nap during a family favorite holiday movie. Daughter Christine stayed on to join us for this closing act.

We finally headed off to bed just before midnight, having enjoyed ourselves immensely. With the long list of prep and day-of tasks long forgotten, buried deep beneath yet another fond family memory. Plus, a refrigerator full of food to graze on through the extended weekend (I think there was a second helping of pumpkin pie late that very night, to get the whole leftover thing started).

Of course, it wouldn't be until the next day that the full realization of what the passing of Thanksgiving and the "launch" of the holiday season really meant. But that brings us to Part 2 of "The Holidays", and my next post.

Till, then.
Grosse Pointe Charles

NFTL RDate 76.23

I haven't revisited past posts in a long time with a "Notes from the Lab" offering. It's time I did so. Much has happened since my last such post on RDate 48.16, 48 months and 16 days into retirement. Let's take a look back on a few items now that I am 76 months and 23 days passed gainful employment.

Chores (7/29/12, Last Updated 7/24/16) - When I last moaned about my (not so) burdensome household duties, I went off a little on dusting and a lot on deck lights. I'm happy to report that I have made improvements on both fronts.

Regarding the dusting, I pretty much don't do it anymore. A little over a year ago we hired a service that has worked out fine. For a reasonable sum a couple of much younger and way less whiny (than I) professionals show up every other Wednesday and shine the place up just swell. I need to do more of this kind of thing.

The only down side is that the hired guns don't do the lab (known in most households as the basement). The reason is that there's just too much stuff down here to deal with. I'm guessing with the movies, music, books, games and collectibles on the shelves, there are two to three thousand items in the way. Besides, who wants strangers handling those rare treasures like my Creature from the Black Lagoon videos or my very first bag phone.

So I'm reduced to dragging out my trusty dusting materials every once in a while to keep the place serviceable. But in truth, I don't mind this tolerable vestige of my old ordeal. Tidying up my subterranean sanctum, and in the process reacquainting myself with so many old friends, is a comforting stroll down Memory Lane, the place I most like to be.

On the deck light front I've had a recent breakthrough. In one of my exploratory journeys into the Amazon cyber jungle, I discovered some sturdier, fairly inexpensive replacement bulbs that fit my old outdoor strings. So discreetly but steadily I am installing them in lieu of the flimsy creatures that have caused me so much consternation over the years. Ladders and a splash of liniment are still occasionally involved. But overall, I think I've turned the tide in the epic deck lights struggle.

A mid-note here. Right about the time I completed this section of the post a string of deck lights on our garage decided not to work. I think they hacked into my blog and saw what I was saying (if you recall from an earlier post, I'm fairly convinced the little buggers have wifi). The problem turned out to be a tiny fuse in the plug end of a light cord that JUST  HAPPENED to blow. Not my first fuse episode, however. So after some gnashing of teeth and a little tweezer work, we were back on line. But I'm getting the sense that the war may drag on a bit longer.  

Music Night (8/6/12, Last Updated 7/2/16) - This now 27 years old movable music party is still going strong. Our latest collection, #135, was created earlier this month at Jim and Mary Wyatt's. The topic was Laugh While You Can, selected by host, charter member and head of our digital mastering team Jim Wyatt.

For the last few years one of our Music Night activities has been converting to digital format the first 60 of our collections. These were originally recorded "live" on tape during the music parties, a tricky proposition if you've ever attempted it. As cassette players started disappearing from home and auto entertainment systems, we decided to preserve the fruits of our labors by transferring these earlier collections to CD.

By the end of this month we will have completed the project through our 40th collection. Our hope is to finish this race against time before CD players also fade away and everyone is just streaming their music. A futile effort, you might say, but that hasn't dampened our spirits. Your talking to a guy with three laser disks players, four VCRs, four cassette decks and a Walkman still in operation. What?

One of our recently remastered collections was #37 Children, originally created in 1997. In the packaging for this collection we took the opportunity to celebrate the children of Music Night members who have participated in Music Night themselves. Recognize any of these happy faces?

They are from left to right and top to bottom Christine Burk, Josh Bauer, Taryn (Dyle) Kim, Justin Reinhart, Josh and Sarah Rouan, Scott Dyle, Tommy Crandall Fair, Marie Wyatt, Kevin Bauer, Cathy (Burk) Kuhlman, Jimmy Wyatt and Miranda Reinhart.

For good measure, the packaging also featured the children of children who have participated in Music Night. At the time the collection was assembled there were three. From left to right below are Ian Kuhlman (son of Cathy and husband Matt), Evie Rouan (daughter of Josh and wife Katie), and Toby Kim (son of Taryn and husband Sam).

Adding to this impressive trio just this last week was Cathy and Matt's second bundle of joy, Lena Elizabeth, shown here at one day old with a very happy grandmother.

Suffice it to say that the future of Music Night is in good (albeit tiny) hands.

Labor Day Renewal (9/10/12, First Update) - In my original post on this subject, written shortly after my retirement, I talked about how more life-altering changes occur with Labor Day than actually happen on January 1st. At least in my life. This had to do with changing weather, the start of the new school year, and for many of us a new Federal fiscal year. And I wondered aloud how my foray into this fall renewal would go now that neither school activities nor employment were major forces in my life.

I'm happy to report in this my seventh Labor Day season since retirement that although my daily routine has eased considerably, my annual calendar still looks much the same, including September. I think this is because the world around us is still driven by school activities, seasonal weather adjustments and fixed government and business cycles. And Nancy and I are doing our best to fit in.

I think another factor contributing to this "sameness" is that after 38 years of a fairly structured family calendar, we've not found a lot of reasons to change. We're still trying to have all the fun to which we have become accustomed. I'm talking about multiple trips to Florida each year, time at our cottage, visits to Chicago and Toronto to see family and friends, and periodic golf and music gatherings here in town and up north to keep up with our wide social circle. It takes a lot of planning to maintain that schedule, and that planning still seems to hit its peak after Labor Day, when the holiday and Florida seasons loom large on the horizon.

Of course, nothing lasts forever. And though our calendar hasn't slowed much, we are beginning to. We have no special immunity from the usual ailments and challenges that come with aging. So some things take a little longer than they used to (like waking up :-). We make a few more trips to the pharmacy (with longer lists). And we have made several new friends in the medical community (those "ologists" I so often mention). But our annual cycle including a little renewal this time of year, is still largely intact. So far so good.

Reading (10/2/12, Last Updated 3/25/15) - As I have noted in the past, as readers go I'm somewhat of a plodder. I read regularly but not particularly fast, nor am I prone to marathon sessions. I'm always impressed with the rate at which some of my closest friends digest reading material. You know the type. They're more than avid readers. They are reading superheroes, plowing through books in a single bound sitting faster than a speeding bullet Blue Ray. I'm more the Clark Kent type (maybe even Jimmy Olson).

I approach reading the same way I approach music and movies. Just as (or maybe a little more) apt to repeat an experience than to seek out a new one. New ones are fine, mind you. And an important part of growth. But I'm consistently fascinated by how much I get out of a second or even third viewing of a well-crafted movie, or repeat reading of a good book. That's sort of a new experience, too, right? Picking up things you missed the first time around, that alter your thinking about the story, or in the case of non-fiction the subject of the work?

Since my last update on reading three years ago, I've managed to get through an interesting mix of material. In one extended effort to rekindle my understanding of how certain epic stories were altered in their transition to the silver screen, I reread a number of classic works (classic IMHO). This binge included Lonesome Dove, the seven Harry Potter novels, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The War of the Worlds, Frankenstein and The Island of Dr. Moreau.

I enjoyed reacquainting myself with the original story lines in each of these works, and the details - sometimes significant - that didn't make it into the movies. (One note here - despite the classic status of the 1953 Gene Barry Version of War of the Worlds, the recent Spielberg/Cruise remake sticks much closer to the original Wells' novel, if you substitute New England for a not-so-jolly old England).

Staying a little longer in the world of fantasy, I completed a first read of the five Game of Thrones books and finally managed to wade through the now eight books in Stephen King's Dark Tower series (including Wind Through the Keyhole). It was all fun, and now I can carry on more intelligent conversations with my kids.

I also got around to my inventory of Stephen King works that had somehow escaped my attention. I can now proudly (or foolishly, depending on your point of view) claim to have read all of his fiction, including the Bachman books. This final push included the second and third books of the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, Finders Keepers and End of Watch. I recommend them both, which have less mystery than the first book in the series and a little more classic King eeriness. And extremely likable offbeat charters.

Another interesting King experiment I pulled off the shelf was Desperation and The Regulators. There is much discussed on the Internet about what King did with these two related novels, if you want the details. But in a nutshell he wrote these two stories using most of the same characters, but in two different settings and times, and with different good guys and bad guys. Or something like that. I'm pretty sure these two books will be queued up for a second reading to make sure I really understood what he was doing here.

I've had several other good reads this year, including a Kindle-binge into some older works. I'm a late comer to Kindle and have used it primarily as a travel aid during some unscheduled trips south. But I'll save that discussion for a subsequent post.

Let me close out this section with one more recommendation. I just completed a reread (first read like 50 years ago) of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. The edition I have includes Brave New World Revisited, a non-fiction analysis of his 1932 novel that Huxley wrote in 1958. The analysis has some pretty wild descriptions of what the future might hold if responsible leadership fails and/or education is ignored. Many of his predictions read like today's news headlines. If you're not familiar with this work, I recommend it. Especially Chapter IV "Propaganda in a Democratic Society", Chapter V "Propaganda in a Dictatorship", and Chapter VI "The Arts of Selling". Huxley had quite a crystal ball. And some of what he says is scarier than any Stephen King novel.

So in retrospect, I guess I'm not doing too bad for a plodder.

Baseball (10/12/12, Last Updated 3/25/15) - I hate to even go here. What a crummy season this was for our beloved Tigers all the way around. First of all, there was the team. Enough said. Except for noting the fist fight between the announcers, which got them both fired. Give me a break.

Then there was my lousy support. I went to one game. It was a night game last April. They lost. I froze my knickers off and even left early, which I hardly ever do.

And finally, there was a completely unacceptable disappearance of the lunch club/baseball outings. Pathetic. Total day planner failure. An embarrassing breakdown in my duties as a fan and lunch bard. Ah blem masef.

However, I promise to do better next season. Can't speak for the team, but they could hardly be worse. So you lunch clubbers, don't be discouraged. Be on the lookout for a return to fun next season. And to get the future off on the right foot, I offer this humble pledge:

Despite this horrible season,

For hope, there is a reason.

When next w'hear "play ball"

Together we all

Should gather, for times a-pleasin'!

Enough catching up for now. 

Till my next post.

Grosse Pointe Charles 

Coast to Coast

A few weeks ago while I was making my most recent 18-hour plus return drive home from Florida, it occurred to me that some might think my behavior odd. Why would anyone choose to torture him or herself by spending so many solo hours in a row battling the risks and challenges of a modern freeway? Especially a person with a predilection for leisure (read lazy) and considerable control over his time (read emphatically retired).

In my mind the answer is simple and obvious. Solo marathon drives are fun. Or at least they can be if you do it right. But I realize that this opinion may not be widely held. In my IRS Quality Officer days, I often used a technique called "force field analysis" to think through and understand an issue. Let's see if I can use this tool to bring you around to my way of thinking.

The process starts by defining a desired state. Then you identify forces supporting the desired state and those opposing it. Finally you look for ways to strengthen supporting forces and overcome opposing forces, increasing the likelihood of achieving your desired state.

Okay. If you are still reading this post, thanks. I know analysis can hurt and is often just not that interesting. This episode won't be much different. So I'm not offended if you've already returned to surfing Facebook or playing Candy Crush or have re-immersed yourself in an advanced color Sudoku puzzle. I understand completely. But for the hopelessly curious, I'll continue.

First, let's define our desired state. For this exercise I've chosen "Driving alone on a limited access expressway for 18 hours in a row is fun". The wording here is important. Note that I'm making no attempt to make a case for extended driving where crazies can come at you from any direction or a situation in which you have to manage personality quirks other than your own. I'm talkin' flying solo with minimal external hazards. Think Jimmy Stewart as Charles Lindbergh in The Spirit of St. Louis, but with less water.

To further clarify, I'm talking about driving from the lower red circle in the map shot below, up the pink path all the way to the upper red circle.

While for the most part staring out the window at this.

Now that we have defined our desired state, let's identify some supporting forces. As I have spent much time exploring this issue (mostly behind the wheel at warp speed), I could generate a long list. But to not press your patience (I know, too late), I will limit the number of forces to four:

S-1. You get to spend a long time in a sitting position.

S-2. You can listen to the music, radio talk show or audio book of your choice for hours at a time. 

S-3. You can avoid the cost and discomfort of a night in a budget hotel.

S-4. You can avoid the hassle of airports (like erroneously self-tagging your luggage to Greenland, or tap-dancing with TSA over the unusual personal items in your carry-on bag, or squeezing your svelte self into a modern-day aircraft microseat, for starters).

Okay, these supporting forces may be a little lame. Except for the last one. But before we get into it, lets identify an equal number of opposing forces:

O-1. A long ride can be boring.

O-2. A long ride can be tiring.

O-3. A long ride takes a long time, burning up hours you could spend on more fruitful tasks. 

O-4. Your vehicle seat might not be that comfortable, leading to back pain, leg cramps, even phlebitis (yikes).

Yeah, these might be a little lame, too. But what can I say. These are the weighty issues that drive my retirement existence. So let's press on.

Part one of the next step is to examine and try to enhance the supporting forces. Easy-peasy.

S-1. You get to spend a long time in a sitting position. What's to enhance? Sitting's where it's at. You are much safer than in other positions. No stumbling over abandoned dog bones or stubbing toes on concealed sofa legs. No sudden lightheadedness from reaching down to clean up dog droppings during those "healthy" fresh air walks. And very little chance of the muscle strain so common to household activities like unloading the dishwasher or pushing a vacuum cleaner around. As Ross Perot would say, "case closed."

S-2. You can listen to the music, radio talk show or audio book of your choice for hours at a time. Also, very hard to make better. In previous times, this took a little planning. Browsing one's music library, selecting and packing favorite CDs. Maybe a trip to the library to check out an audio book on some exciting topic (like the history of the Fertile Crescent). Carefully placing these materials in your vehicle within arms reach for easy grabbing and loading while in flight. For example, here's a shot of my magic box for the current trip.

You'll note that I have two audio books - one fiction, one non-fiction (to accommodate varying levels of attention), a few CDs from my oft-mentioned Music Night group (for when attention totally dissolves and you slip into that unconscious "what state am I in" zone), my camera (just in case I see something new), and a bag of snack bars (to avoid unnecessary stops in the mountains - think Deliverance).

But I do admit there is less need to plan these days. Now you just slap your smart phone (which contains all of this material and streaming connectivity to boot) into its cradle mount and fire up the Bluetooth link. Here's a shot of my modest concession to travel electronics (from bottom to top my iPod, smart phone, blue-tooth driven dash display and hard wire to the out-of-frame GPS). What? I do keep my eyes on the road. Mostly.

You'll also note in this shot the obligatory bottomless cup of coffee backed up by a heavily-caffeinated soft drink. Those go without saying.

S-3. You can avoid the cost and discomfort of a night in a budget hotel. You could also accomplish this by flying, but then you would run smack dab into the next supporting force.

S-4. You can avoid the hassle of airports. As you may have gleaned from my parenthetical above, I strongly dislike flying and will go to great lengths to avoid it. So this is a powerful supporting force for me. I didn't always feel this way. I traveled by air tons in my work life and enjoyed it very much. But with the airline industry's shift away from customer comfort (just how little leg room can we get away with), the burdens of heightened security (take it off, buddy), and what I feel has been a decline in traveler prowess (carry-ons the size of a Mini Cooper), who needs it.  

Whew. After writing all this down, I'm getting the feeling these supporting forces aren't so lame after all. But let's finish the exercise. What about those troublesome opposing forces?

O-1. A long ride can be boring. Sounds like a personal problem. Especially for extraverts (in Jungian parlance). They prefer company. For introverts like myself, being alone is a gift. An opportunity to explore one's inner world and commune with favorite music, memories, authors and (dare I say it) political extremists. 

Yes, if truth be told, I'm actually an introvert. For you Myers-Briggs enthusiasts, my MBTI type is INTJ. That means that while I do place a high value on spending time with people, my brain is hard-wired to recharge in private - likely why I enjoy writing this blog so much. But back to our problem people, the extraverts. 

My suggestion for the extraverts is to practice "aloneness". This could be long walks by yourself in deserted places (daytime of course), playing golf onesomes, sitting on an abandoned beach staring at the horizon for as long as possible (my personal favorite), or extended smart phone sessions listening to favorite music but not swiping past your home screen. No Facebooking, texting, tweeting or messaging of any kind. Just earphones and icons. 

Of course there are other ways to practice being alone. The main thing is to spend a little time getting used to the absence of others before you attempt a marathon drive. Otherwise you're going to drive the fast food servers and gas station convenience store clerks nuts, trying to get a human contact fix.

O-2. A long ride can be tiring. This is especially true if you are a nervous, aggressive or just plain reluctant driver. In other words, for you to have a fighting chance of enjoying an extended drive you have to have a relaxed driving style (you become one with the road) and not have the road rage gene (you're good at sharing).

But the most important thing is that you actually like being behind the wheel. You believe that every ride is an opportunity for new and exhilarating experiences. Even old, familiar routes offer opportunities to see what's changed or maybe what you missed the last time. You think of the drive like you were whooshed into a video game (a la Tron) where the steering wheel is your joystick and the programmers have buried fascinating Easter eggs where only advanced players can find them. In other words for you, sitting back in your virtual flying machine and pushing the thrusters to full impulse is a rush. Okay. Back to Earth.

Here's the deal. If you don't think you have these prerequisites, cut yourself some slack and get an airline miles card. If you think you do, I have a couple of suggestions for addressing the fatigue issue. One, don't drive through the night. The magic length of 18 hours is key, and not just because it's the minimum amount of time to get from Tampa to Detroit. It's also the longest amount of same-day time you can generate by leaving at a time not too crazy to get up - 5:00 am - and arriving before circadian influences overpower you into sleep - 12:00 midnight (yes, that's really 19 hours; I need the extra hour in the morning to dress, eat and sufficiently suppress those same circadian forces that prefer that I sleep in until 9:00 am. It's a personal problem).

Tip two is to get a good night's sleep before the 5:00 am get up. This may seem obvious, but going to bed at 9:00 or 10:00 pm the night before - to get at least seven or eight hours of sleep - can be tricky. If you're typically an early crasher, no problem. This is probably your normal bed time. But if you're a night owl, you need a plan. My best suggestion is to get into bed with a TV (or tablet capable of streaming) and tune in to the On Demand option of one of the oldie stations, like MeTV. A few minutes into a rerun of Matlock or Diagnosis Murder and you'll be out like a light. Or if you're a reader, crack any volume of Churchill's six part history of World War II. Go directly to the appendices (Churchill's personal memos and other papers). Your brain will shut down in the first paragraph.

O-3. A long ride can take a long time, burning up hours you could spend on more fruitful tasks. This one's easy. Well easy for me. As a rule, I avoid fruitful tasks. So a long solo drive keeps me out of range of any that might try to sneak up on me. At least until I get home.

For you reliable pillar-of-the-community types, think of it this way. Everybody needs downtime. You may be more useful and productive after an extended and definitely non-productive drive during which your poor, overtaxed sense of responsibility has a chance to recharge. Also, your constituency may appreciate you more having experienced a little deprivation. If you think I'm just blowing smoke here, you have my respect. And my sympathies. You've got it bad.

O-4. Your vehicle seat might not be that comfortable, leading to back pain, leg cramps, even phlebitis. To last 18 hours in the same seat is a challenge no matter where it is. Fortunately, auto (and in my case truck) seats are somewhat adjustable. So the first thing to try is fiddling with the seat positions - seat up/down and/or forward/backward, backrest up/down, and for slightly upscale vehicles the lumbar adjustment. If you're still concerned about in-flight comfort, I suggest adding a few urgent care centers or truck stop/massage parlors along your route as GPS via points.

The important thing is to at all times keep at least one hand free to search your snack bag for emergency foodstuffs and/or to adjust your array of electronic devices to just the right stimulus. Nothing numbs your awareness of physical discomfort like a two-pound bag of Chex Mix or singing along at the top of your lungs to a 20-song Petula Clark set. I also recommend traveling in cruise control so you can shift your leg and arm positions frequently without erratic vehicle movement (except for those rare occurrences when you need to search the vehicle floor for a water bottle cap or half-eaten snack bar that has tumbled out of your grasp at 75 miles per hour; I hate when that happens).

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Okay. This was my best shot at recruiting you into my little piece of road-trip paradise. If you're buying any of this, I hope you have opportunities to field test my advice in the near future. If you're not, uh....read it again. Maybe after a couple of cocktails. It might make more sense.

Also, in the interest of full (or at least near-full) disclosure, I feel compelled to share a couple more factors that have influenced my views on extended solo driving. The first is that, due to my sister's illness, I have had the use of an extra vehicle the last few years (the oft-mentioned trusty, tried and true Toyota Tacoma). This has enabled me to drive at my own schedule and pace and avoid dreaded commercial transportation (airlines, taxis, rental cars) when required to travel on short notice.

The second factor is that due to home-front commitments my bride has not been able to join me on many of my short-notice, semi-urgent trips to Florida. This means that I was often faced with driving home on my own. And wanting to get back home - my favorite place to be - I was well-motivated to keep on truckin' (sorry) until I got there.

And finally, I can't close without coming clean that the only drive I enjoy more than an extended solo stint is one with my bride at my side. Aside from her pleasant company, Nancy likes to drive and is often behind the wheel more than half of the time on our planned road trips. That allows me to stare out the window and lose myself in the passing countryside even more, and play with my electronic toys without those aforementioned erratic swerves across the median while groping for the next disk of an audio book.

So there it is. I'm outed. Fact is, my solo extended drives have usually occurred because there was no one around to go with me. But I still say those drives can be a ball if you do it right.

Epilogue

I started this post a few weeks ago, after I had completed what I thought might be my last marathon solo drive from my mother's home in Florida to Vernier East (the nickname we gave our Grosse Pointe digs years ago when Nancy's dad lived at Vernier West - a condo down the street). But before I could break away from my summer laze on the shores of Lake Huron and finish the story, I found myself again programming the GPS for Zephyrhills. Mom was facing a new health challenge and needed some help. So ten days ago I speed-packed my essential gear, saddled my trusty Tacoma, and hit the trail.

Given my relatively late departure that day (noonish), I didn't try to make the trip in one session, or coast to coast as it's known in our family. Rather, about midnight I stopped for a few hours of poor sleep (strange bed, hard mattress, weird carpet) in a Hampton just north of Atlanta. A 7:00 am departure the next morning put me at Mom's by mid-afternoon. I found her a little better than expected and very happy to have company. After a few days of TLC, a new drug or two, and a trip to an eye specialist, Mom is now on the mend. So I'm aiming the white Toyota north tomorrow.

It will not be a coast to coast trip, as it looks like my departure window will open up mid-afternoon after a late morning commitment, and I am too anxious to return home to wait another 15 hours to leave. But it will still be 18-19 hours on the road within about a 26 hour period.

And as we will be back to a one car family in October, it looks like my solo marathon drive career will actually be over as I pull into the driveway early Tuesday evening (with one car, Nancy and I both go or I fly). So I'm looking at this drive as sort of my farewell tour. The end of an era. Here's a final shot of me and my own personal "Hidalgo" (that famous long-distance champion horse from the movies).

I may have a tee shirt made.

Grosse Pointe Charles