Friday, April 30, 2010

It Was a Dark and Stormy Morning

Facebook is my grown-up playground where, in the comfort of my home, I meet friends old and new to share information, tell stories about our lives, and generally have a good time.  These encounters are, by turn, fun, interesting, and sad; sometimes maddening; often poignant; and on many occasions have made me roar with laughter.

Today I am here to share with you, dear listener, one of my very favorite Facebook experiences.  My dear friend Matthew posted a single, simple sentence that elicited a string of exchanges among him, his friend Bill, and me that I believe is worthy of the Bulwer-Lytton award for worst fiction.

It was a dark and stormy morning.

The count stepped from the shadows of the dripping jacaranda bush and softly scratched at the window. “Lucie, let me in,” he murmured. “It’s dark and stormy out here, and I’m workin’ up a powerful thirst ...”

Lucie knew better than to respond. Letting him in would mean tea and sympathy—and not the fun kind, either. That man would drink cup after cup of tea and would spend the better part of the morning enumerating in minute detail all the wrongs the world had inflicted upon him. Then he would make a sloppy, fumbling pass at her, mistaking her boredom for interest.  No, she would not be a guest at that pity party again.  Slowly, slowly she pulled the curtains shut thinking, “I really must trim the jacaranda once this rain lets up.”

The first twitch of the curtains gave the count hope, but no. He was staring through the misted pane at the wrong side of the gingham print. “English Breakfast!” he cursed under his breath. He thought of the hot life-giving liquid, of her deft handling of pot and cup, and of the way she had silently mopped up beneath his feet when he had become overly excited telling one of his anecdotes about the drainage of the back pasture.  Only she understood.  She would listen with head in hand, her eyes shifting now and then to the kitchen clock.  She would wordlessly refill his cup and fetch crumpets from the toaster.  The thought of her crumpets nearly unmanned him.  “Lucie,” he choked.  Was this self-pity?  Well what if it was?  If Lucie was denying her sympathy he would go DIY.  “Come, Bruno,” he called peremptorily.  The count’s pet tapir reluctantly detached himself from his snack and fell in step, stems from the jacaranda leaves protruding from his expressive snout.

The count had scarcely turned away from the now gingham-framed window when the skies opened, thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and water drops the size of English Breakfast tea bags lashed his face. He only had time to wonder why the rolling thunder preceded the lightning flash before he was as waterlogged as one of Noah’s friends who never made it into the ark.  He glanced back at the jacaranda bush.  He considered taking shelter there again, as he had so many mornings, and evenings, and even noon times and high tea.  He had shed many tears under that bush.  But then Bruno caught his eye, and something in the tapir’s glance gave him strength.  “I will never seek solace beneath those bright purple flowers again,” he said.  “Farewell, Lucie.  May your charms be loosed on better men.” He set his face toward the road and forced his legs to move.  Bruno sighed, shook the water from his coat, and slogged after him.

The jacaranda bush never blossomed so beautifully again, for having kept the count company under its branches those many hours, Bruno’s final leaving was the end of his leavings.

Key: Matthew Bell—Bill Svelmoe—Elizabeth Van Jacob

Broadcast by Elizabeth Van Jacob on April 30, 2010 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Arts & Entertainment • Customs & Rituals • Media & Technology • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, April 23, 2010

The New Wheel

It sure was nice to roll the bicycle out of the garage and pump a little extra air into the tires and head off for the first ride of the year. I heard one or two lawnmowers buzzing, and the tulips were nodding extravagantly in so many front yards, and the dogwoods were blooming—what, maybe a month ahead of time? Spring on a bicycle in the Midwest, that’s just great. I even started riding to work again.

But then the rear tire went flat and I was out of business. Just as well, I thought—I’d take the thing to the nearest bike shop for an end-of-winter tune-up, a new tube, and I’d be back on the road. They said I could pick up the bike in a week and a half. A week and a half? Well, we have to adapt to the schedule of the experts who serve us, don’t we?

But on pickup day the shop called to say that there was a problem. When the mechanic took the rear wheel off to work on the flat tire, the gearshift mechanism fell to pieces on the floor. It couldn’t be fixed; a replacement wheel was $200.

Needless to say, I was suspicious. I brought in a flat tire, and now I needed a whole new wheel? I drove over to the shop. The mechanic showed me the parts that had fallen off the hub and he pointed out that there was no way to reattach them. He had carefully checked the manufacturer’s website; he had spoken to the bike shop that specialized in this brand. So he repeated the bad news: I needed a new wheel. What did I know? He was the expert.

But I still didn’t see how we leaped from flat tire to broken gearshift, so I asked: Which of these parts is the broken one? How does the thing ordinarily attach to the hub? His answer wasn’t clear. He was the expert, but he couldn’t help me understand how the thing worked. As with so many of our encounters with experts, it looked like I simply had to take his word for it. But I wasn’t quite persuaded; something wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he show me clearly how it was supposed to work? So I packed up the bike and headed across town to the shop where I bought it a couple of years ago. That mechanic took one look and said, Yeah, those are hard to work on.  He fiddled with the pieces for a bit and tried to recall the precise steps that would turn this loose jumble of parts into a locked unit that would attach itself to the hub.  After a couple of minutes he had it, though, and he handed the bike back over to me. Out in the parking lot, everything worked fine—gears shifting, the spring air blowing past me and taking my unhappiness with it. The bike was fixed, no charge. No $200 replacement wheel either.

It would be easy to stay angry at the mechanic who failed to make the fix, but it was a pretty challenging little mechanism, I could see. But the episode remains a clue about expertise. Most of us work jobs where other people depend on our expertise, and our judgments and advice can make quite an impact on their lives. Even if we’re good at our work, occasionally we get out to the edge of our knowledge where we might not know much more than the people we’re supposed to serve. That’s where we have to be extra careful. When we are operating as experts, it turns out, we need to understand not only what we know, but also what we don’t know. How about that?

Now who’s up for a bike ride?

Broadcast by Ken Smith on April 23, 2010 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Nature & Outdoors • Sports & Recreation • Work • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, April 16, 2010

Taking Risks

“Safety first,” preached my Girl Scout leader. More than once. Zoned out from her warnings, my thought was, “For heaven’s sakes, safety probably is important, but let’s just get on with the adventure! We’re going to the woods; we’re going to fish, we’re going to do things with knives; we’re going to build fires!” All that she was doing was postponing those thrills with her boring, pedantic “always cut away from yourself” warnings.

Runaway Toyotas and other news stories have brought these ancient “safety first” thoughts back to the forefront of my memory bank. Where do we draw the line between being safe and being so smothered with “safety first” that we fail to experience any joy from life?

Remember when you were a kid and you coasted down a hill on your bike with the big, fat tires and you heard the wind whistle past your ears and felt it cool your sweaty little body? It was exciting; it felt good, and all these years later, you still remember that thrill, don’t you? Do you think that you would have that same memory if you had been helmeted and swathed in elbow and kneepads? Where is that line between safety and joy-kill?

You look around you at children— maybe some of them in your family who you love more than your life—and you want them protected, but wouldn’t it be nice for them if they could have some spontaneous fun, that same coasting-down-the-hill thrill? The time spent slathering on sunscreen and suiting-up for bike-riding may take longer than their 10-second-attention-spans will spend on the actual ride. Did “safety first” kill the thrill?

Anna Quindlen’s latest novel, Every Last One, deals with the issues of keeping our children safe and, to use her phrase, “the randomness of tragedy.” Life has no guarantees and no matter how much we prepare, we cannot control everything. It’s a tricky call: that place between care and careless.

Before Augusten Burroughs overlaid it with neurosis, “running with scissors” had an appealing edge about it. Sure, it might not have been the safest thing—safer though if you ran with the pointy-ends away from you—but it was forbidden, and thrilling and joyful. I revel in it still by occasionally wearing my sweatshirt with the imprinted “Runs With Scissors” slogan. That freedom which arises from casting aside “safety first,” even for just a moment, causes laughter.

That same spirit of weighing the odds and deciding to take the risk—thousands are not dying daily from running-with-scissors injuries; hundreds are not even “putting their eyes out”—allows me to continue to drive a Toyota. The risk, or the perceived risk, seems to be miniscule; the odds appear hugely in my favor. Just get in, put on the seatbelt and enjoy the ride: maybe with a tiny, previously unfelt, thrill at this new possibility. How will I react if my Toyota decides to become a “runaway?” Will my skill-level be worthy of its mettle? Exciting thoughts. My one small nod to the hue-and-cry has been to consider a front bumper sticker cautioning others, “Get out of the way! This car is out of control!”

Can we rationally expect life to contain no risks? Life where, from the moment we begin breathing the pollen-laden air, we encounter risk. Risk seems inherent with life. I know a man who makes his living doing “risk management” for companies. Sensible enough: manage or minimize risk; don’t eliminate it. Minimize it too much and we may not have lives. In Cowboy in the Jungle, Jimmy Buffett sings, “I don’t want to swim in a roped off sea.” In a more free-spirited phase of this nation, folks said, “Only when great risks are taken, are great gains made.”

Now, maybe I didn’t stick a fishing hook into myself, cut off my digits or torch myself in the campfire because I subconsciously absorbed the “safety first” lecture of my mother, the aforementioned leader of my Girl Scout troop, or maybe the odds were just in my favor.  Maybe/probably, the odds mostly are in of our favor everyday and we’re just trying to over-control. Let go. Just for the thrill of it, sometimes take a little risk; a great gain could result.

Broadcast by Jeanette Saddler Taylor on April 16, 2010 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Health • Permalink • Printer Friendly
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April Lidinsky -- More essays by April

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Ken Smith -- The New Wheel / More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- Taking Risks / More essays by Jeanette

Heather Curlee Novak -- Wisdom / More essays by Heather

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