“Why? Why? Why?…”

BANG!

I thought I’d been shot.

My wife came running and was startled to find me flat on my back, expecting the chalk police to arrive any second to outline my perimeter on the hot blacktop and wrap our house with yellow ‘crime scene’ tape.

“What happened”, she asked, with a bit of worry in her voice.

“I misread the ‘psi’ on the tire and over inflated the damn thing, it blew itself to smithereens”. Sometimes, I impress myself with how quickly I can answer her deposition-like questions, but she saw right through me this time, as I tried to misplace the blame on the tire, itself.

wheelbarrow 1

‘How could you be so careless (you nincompoop)’? Wow, that hurt more than the ‘shot’.

She didn’t actually call me a nincompoop, but after decades of marriage, a husband knows his better half’s thoughts. Her eyes spoke ‘Nincompoop’‘.

However, it seemed a good time to employ a favorite troubleshooting tool of quality control personnel, the ‘5 Why’. State the issue, then ask a series of ‘why’ questions that lead to the root cause. Let’s try it…

My wheelbarrow tire blew apart. Why?

I over inflated it. Why?

I misread the psi number on the sidewall. Why?

I didn’t look at it carefully. Why?

Because I’m an old guy with bony knees and if I get down on the ground to look closely, then I may not get up again. Why?

It’s Life!

There, it works, doesn’t it. I seemed to have discovered the irrefutable and undeniable root cause of the tire explosion and deafening sound, Life, and I’m not sure there’s a ‘corrective action’. More ‘Whys’ might help, but Life is very challenging. Agree?

Fortunately, no injuries were sustained other than a momentary loss of senses, a temporary deafness and total embarrassment.

Have you ever crossed paths with ‘carelessness’? A friend cut a live electrical wire at home with nary a tickle. A brother-in-law used an electric hedge clipper to trim fingernails and only suffered 32 stitches. ‘Lady Luck’ was on their side this time. Or a Guardian Angel!

Unlike cats, we have 1 Life, so let’s be careful with it, not careless. And if you are the latter, try asking yourself, ‘Why?’. Ask it as many times as necessary to find the root cause of your ‘nincompoopness’. And, yes, while she may not say it, you’ll know she’s thinking it. Just look at her eyes…the ones that have been watching your faux pas for years.

Steve
July 2018
srbottch.com

To husbands, everywhere. Be careful!

The Garden and The Gardener

Gardening is in full swing now so I thought I’d repost this personal story from a couple of years ago. I hope you enjoy it.

S'amusing

“It’s summertime and the livin’ is easy…”, lyricized the song writer George Gershwin. He must not have been a gardener.

Up and down our Meadowbrook streets, summer gardens are coming into full bloom and it’s not because the gardeners are taking it easy. Soiled fingernails, calloused knees and aching muscles are testimony to the truism that gardeners love getting down and dirty.

My wife is a passionate gardener, one of many in our floral neighborhood. She does her part to make our parcel of land attractive, adding plants to every corner and contour where grass doesn’t grow, enhancing the beauty of our surroundings.

Fanciful colors dot our landscape: passionate pinks, plum purples, baby blues, ravenous reds and a potpourri of whites. Whimsical names like quick fire, limelight, pink diamonds, twist and shout and pinky winky, fill the pages of her ‘green thumb’ notebook.

From spring to fall, there is constant…

View original post 246 more words

The Planting

The tall Norway maple provided welcome shade onto our ‘hill’ garden, where we were preparing a spot for yet another hydrangea, the thirtieth, or so, in this corner of our backyard.

fLOWERS 4

Myself, I’m a reluctant gardener, so much so that I dare even call myself a gardener. However, my wife is passionate about her plants, so I help and we work the land together, she a bonafide ‘green thumb’ and me, just a ‘plain’ thumb. Quite honestly, I enjoy our hydrangea gardens. A walk among the changing flora of our mature gardens is a relaxing respite at day’s end.

The planting process is simple for our gardens: select the plant, choose a location, decide on composition (positioning), and, finally, dig the hole . All important decisions are made by my wife, the real gardener, my role comes in at the end, I’m the digger. There is no mental stress in digging, just physical, hence, the welcome cover of shade from the hot sun.

Excavating our soil is no easy task, though, it’s clay, dense and heavy, once used in the local manufacturing of bricks*. To complicate the dig, the spot we refer to as ‘the hill’ once was occupied by a tall silver maple tree. It’s only a ‘hill’ because the thick, woody roots of that tree are still there, like a subterranean maze, pushing up the ground. They criss-cross beneath the soil, challenging me to find a spot for the perfect hole. It’s a trial and error process, but I find one.

The hole must be deep and wide enough to accept an ample amount of cow manure, making a healthy bed, and the roots of the plant must be relieved, or untangled, before planting to allow them to grow freely, not be strangled. My wife cuts them with a garden knife, around the perimeter and bottom.

The plant is placed in the hole, manure is packed around it and some fine mulch (leaf is our favorite) laid atop. A good watering follows and continues for days to assure a good start.

If we’ve done it right, then we wait and our patience will be rewarded with beautiful flowers that have made the hydrangea a favorite of gardeners, reluctant gardeners, too. With such fancy names as Pinky Winky, Quick Fire, Twist n Shout, the colorful petals, from soft white to blushing pinks and blues, adorn our yard from summer to fall.

Gardeners love their hobby. My wife glows. Me? I find the benefit of gardening is teaching me patience, learning to wait for beautiful results…and then to enjoy some much needed therapy with a walk among the plants.

FLOWERS 5

Steve
Srbottch.Com
June ‘18

To my wife, a green thumb gardener

* http://www.historicbrighton.org/BrightonBrick/yards.html

The Bar Chronicles: #17, A ‘PSA’, The Asian ‘Jumping Worm’

Seese

A warm stretch of May days, summer like, goosed the ‘bar chroniclers’ to find our way to Caverly’s Irish Pub. We seem to be stuck on Caverly’s, but how can you beat $20 for 5 beers? Add the intimate bar with its colorful array of taps, friendly patrons, the worn hardwoods and oversized chalkboard beer menu, and Caverly’s is as comfortable as any watering hole we’ve patronized on ‘bar nights’.

Bar TAps

The sidewalk tables were taken by heavily pierced bikers, with their black leather chaps and vests and a potpourri of busy tattoos covering any exposed skin. In contrast, wedding bands and silver fillings was the extent of our body metal, no pierced ears or tattoos, at least none visible. Our belts, the only leather we showed, were functional, holding back the 34s, 36s, maybe a 38. A couple of beers tonight would bloat us enough to test those straps and push the limits of the numbers.

We posted inside, at our favorite table, a wobbly one with a napkin shim. Following the customary toast to good health and good fortune, the gabfest began. The clinking of glasses was like the gates swinging open at a horse race, we were off and running with an evening of books, biology and beer.

Normally, while our ‘beer clutch’ is not a book review club, we occasionally refer to them to support our discussions or show off our intellect. Tonight, we hit the trifecta with ‘The Great Halifax Explosion’, ‘Beneath the Metropolis’ and ‘The Winner’, another Baldacci thriller. But the best read & reference was a newsletter about the invasive, Asian ‘jumping worm’.

‘Disturb a jumping worm and it’s like a nightcrawler on steroids: It violently writhes on the forest floor, recalling a snake in a bad horror movie. Try to catch it, a piece of its tail will detach in your hand — still wriggling as you hold it.’ *

Creepiness aside, this invasive invader goes against all positive thoughts we have about earthworms as great aerators of our garden soil, and good bait for adventures at ‘the ol’ fishing hole’. These summertime squirmers are underground giants, up to eight inches long, that render the ground void of nutrients for any type of plant growth with their piranha like foraging.

I’ll be watching our gardens, as you should yours, for telltale signs of these monsters. If our ferns flop, the sedum sag or hydrangeas halt, I’ll call the ‘authorities’ to report the invasion, a government bureaucrat who knows about snakes and worms, and they do.

When our refills were finished, we cautiously walked to the car with an eye to the ground for anything that jumps. Some fascinating conversation tonight, but, worms aside, the real takeaway was, once again, the friendship and comradery among a few senior neighbors…with the help of a cold beer, or two.

Steve
May 2018
S’amusing @ Srbottch.Com

*https://blog.nature.org/science/2016/10/31/jumping-worm-the-creepy-damaging-invasive-you-dont-know/

The Bar Chronicles: #16, ‘Beer By The Numbers’

Bar Night 2

Bar Night #16, and our first of 2018. When ‘old’ friends get together after a long hiatus, a seat at the table with a frothy beer in hand is a good way to reacquaint and kick start our ‘bar nights’.

Once again, Caverly’s Irish Pub is our choice of watering holes, and why not? It has a good variety of beer at fair prices and a proper atmosphere, including a ‘house dog’. Navigating the parking lot potholes was the only impediment to the pub’s front door. Not uncommon following an overbearing winter in western New York.

House Dog

Our usual table was full tonight and the bar was noisy, with patrons in a festive mood for a chilly mid week night. We convened in the back room, a wise move for four sets of Senior ears. Here, we could spin tales, and more importantly , hear them, away from the constant humdrum and boisterous dart games in the forward quarters.

We settled in, clinked our glasses…’here, here’… and commenced with our wit and wisdom. After the usual potpourri of small talk, we somehow melded into a ‘deep’ conversation of airplanes, rockets and mathematics, dropping names of icons; Robert Goddard, Wernher von Braun and Fibonacci**. No, not Liberace, Fibonacci.

The mathematician among us took the lead and enthusiastically, neigh, excitedly guided the conversation into sequences, ratios and solutions, a Fibonacci fanatic. The pilot at the table, a technocrat of sorts, listened attentively with approving smiles and nods. He got it. The one tool & die maker nodded, as well, but with eyes closed, as though resting. And the salesperson, while feigning understanding, did what all good sales pros do, found some way to ask a topical question to keep the conversation going. The answer was irrelevant, but the continuity was critical.

0-1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21-34-and so on…

Do you see the number pattern, the ‘sequence’? The next day, I dug into the Internet to learn more about Fibonacci and his Sequence. I absorbed enough to hone some math skills and learn a trick, or two, to share at our next ‘bar night’. Curious? Research it yourself, Google ‘Fibonacci’. .

“The Fibonacci Sequence is a set of numbers that starts with a one or zero, followed by a one, and proceeds based on the rule that each number (called a Fibonacci number) is equal to the sum of the two preceding numbers.” (definition from ‘WhatIs.com)

The wonderful part of ‘bar night’ is that we never know the direction of our conversation, but it always seems to lead us home with a belly full of gratification and a little beer from an evening well spent with friends. And, importantly, we learn from each other.

As for the beers, when we were young men we certainly would have climbed a few rungs on Fibonacci’s Sequence, but tonight, as mature gentlemen, we stopped at step 2, or one apiece.

Group Photo

Fibonacci, himself, would have been underwhelmed.

Steve
5/4/2018
srbottch.com

**Fibonacci was considered to be the most talented Western mathematician of the Middle Ages’ (Wikipedia)

To Moish, a S’amusing follower and math professor. Wish you had been here. I’m sure you would have enjoyed the conversation.

I Should Have Stopped…***

“I’d whip that ‘cannonball’ down the lane and watch the pins explode like they were thunderstruck. It was noisy and it was fast”

Candlepin-bowling

Unless you lived in or visited the New England region, then you probably haven’t experienced ‘candlepin bowling’. It was game for all ages to enjoy, even a young, skinny kid like me could have fun with bowling down candlepins, and I did, lots of it.

The game was unique to the northeast region and into Canada. A bowler had three chances to knock down ten tall, tapered wooden ‘pins’ with a four or five inch ball that you cradled in the palm of your hand, then rocketed it down the oiled hardwood. The knocked down pins, deadwood they were called, were left where they lay to be used to deflect and knock down other standing pins on the second and third roll, before a new group of pins was reset.

New England ingenuity has given much to the world that improved the quality of life. or just made it more fun. From earmuffs* to snow shovels*, ballpoint pens* to disposable razors*, basketball* to wooden golf tees*, and the indispensable microwave oven*, to name a few. Yankee know-how also brought us this game of ‘candlepin bowling’. While other inventions spread worldwide, candlepin bowling’s popularity was never too far beyond the border of these six northeast states.

The balls were solid, no holes. Youngsters didn’t need big muscles to lift them but strength certainly helped propel them down the lane. The pins were fifteen inches tall, or so, and symmetrical. The good bowlers could whip that sphere down the lane with a ferocity that would make your head spin, and the pins would scatter every which way. Strikes were rare and the recreational bowler generally scored under a hundred for a game, ten frames, but the better bowlers were above a hundred.

There may be a few candlepin ‘houses’ left, but as Ten Pin’ bowling took hold in New England, the ‘small’ game began to fade. It was a bigger thrill to get more strikes, more spares and more scoring with the bigger ball and fatter pins and more bowlers flocked to the new game.

While driving through a Massachusetts town a few years ago, I passed a candlepin bowling house. Instantly, it was the late fifties, early sixties and I could hear the balls whizzing and the candlepins ‘flying’ . I should have stopped to roll a game, but I had a schedule to meet. Nevertheless, the moment recalled for me wonderful memories of bowling the small ball and tall pins in my home town of Worcester, the birthplace of candlepin bowling**.

Like the giant brick mills that lined the New England waterways, candlepin bowling faded into obscurity except for a few die-hard centers. Nowadays, it’s part of a New Englander’s nostalgia.

The circus is gone. Baseball, arguably, is no longer the National Pastime and fewer folks attend church on Sunday. Change happens…

I should have stopped…

Steve
srbottch.com
Feb 2018

* New England Today, Living – Yankee Magazine Jan 22, 2018
** Wikepedia

*** revised 2/8/18

The Bar Chronicles: #15, “Was It Something We Said”?

Bar Night 2

As we slip-slide our way into winter, the fluctuations are remarkable. The thermometer toggles between mild and frigid, then back to mild, then frigid, while the only constant is the early darkness.

By evening, the streetlights guide us to ‘The Back Nine’, a sports bar in Pittsford, NY. The fare is a bit high but the atmosphere is classy, and we fit the bill with our khakis, pullover sweaters and ‘Curious George’ sweatshirt (2 of 3 isn’t bad). We opted for the quiet air of the backroom where our own conversation was audible… and our fashions were not a distraction.

Unbeknownst to us, as we clinked our glasses and huddled in conversation, The Back Nine would be closing within days of this evening’s beer fest, if one beer qualifies as a ‘fest’. It’s a disappointment, we enjoyed our two visits here, on ‘Bar Night’, and looked forward to returning, upscaling our outings a bit.

There are many reasons why an establishment shutters its doors, but a watering hole in a classy town, closing? A bit of a surprise and made me think, ‘was it something we said’?

The closing certainly wasn’t due to rowdiness, we’re a docile group and any swaying or tippiness was a result of our age and equilibrium, not too many drinks. Was it our overheard conversations that intimidated patrons and discouraged them from returning? The mention of the world’s ant population outweighing humans, or insects dying at alarming rates or mollusks having eyes, may have been inappropriate for a crowd looking for something less cerebral on their ‘bar night’?

Soaring property assessments and declining school performances maybe was too staid for the ears of the common bar fly. Did we discuss the genius of Churchill and Aristotle too loudly for a drinking crowd?

The problem for bars that accept small bands of Seniors is that we don’t drink much, we talk too loud and our topics are extrapolated from editorial pages of the NYT or WSJ, instead of the Sporting News or NASCAR weekly. We may be haughty and tend to bloviate. We are polite to a fault but can be pompous…and we wear curious clothing. We are Seniors, you know.

It’s about time for another gathering. We’ll go back to our favorite ‘dive’, where every spot is loud and the patrons don’t care what we say, the crappy music is too loud to hear anything, and a dog walks among us. The cheap beer will guarantee the doors will always swing wide…

…a Curious George sweatshirt will be a welcome attraction!

“Education is the best provision for old age” Aristotle

Steve
Srbottch.com
Jan 2018

Let’s Face It…You Can’t Fight Gravity

My audiologist laughed, maybe scoffed is a better term, when I boasted that I was writing a story titled, ‘My Ears Are Getting Bigger, But My Hearing Is Getting Worse’.

“You may get a few chuckles”, he commented, “but you’d be technically incorrect. Our ears actually stop growing at age six.”

“It’s probably gravity that’s making your ears look bigger, unless you wear heavy ear fashions”, he snickered. “I suggest you change the word ‘bigger’ to ‘longer’.”

Gravity, huh? It started me thinking, is it the same gravity that caused my six pack abs to drop and cover my belt? Have the bags under my eyes settled there because of gravity? What about the sides of my mouth turning down in a constant frown? Gravity? I used to blame my mother’s side of the family for that look. .

So many other areas of the human body change over time and gravity must be the catalyst there, as well. How else can we explain drooping shoulders, double chins and sagging fannies? The inch of height I lost must have gone into my feet because they’re wider and flatter. Gravity, again!

Given enough time, I’ll be measured as one foot high x three feet wide. And it’s happening fast. One day you can stretch like a rubber band, and the next you’re locked up tighter than a rusty nut.

You add Move Free to your daily supplements to help your joints, and suppositories to actually help you ‘move free’.

When did it all change? When did we cross that imaginary line of tight skin, standing tall, get up and go, to drooping, stooping and pooping? It’s time to fight back.

so, pull on those loose fitting sweats, tie up your laces, if you can still reach them, and kick that transistor radio into high volume. Don’t worry about damaging your hearing, it’s probably shot, anyway, and get moving to the rhythm of an upbeat tempo.

You may not draw that loose skin back to a tight place, a doctor can do that. But, I bet you’ll feel better and look better, at least in your own eyes, if they’re any good.

Let’s face it, this body, longer ears and all, has served us well. Take care of it and have fun moving.

Steve
srbottch.com
January 2018

To Sir Issac Newton who gave us an ‘understanding’ of gravity

The Crossing Guard Chronicles: “How Much Wood Could A Woodchuck Chuck…?”

PAVAROTTI

“Who was Pavarotti?”

I thought I had them stumped. But stumping wasn’t the end game. The objective was twofold: strengthen our daily dialogue, the fun part; and stimulate their thinking skills, the learning part of our relationship. .

As for Pavarotti, the surprise answer came from a confident high schooler on a unicycle who steadied himself, as best one can on a unicycle, and delivered it with certainty. “Not only was Pavarotti a famous Italian opera singer”, he opined, “but he was a tenor”. I was impressed.

Crossing Guard Patch I’m a crossing guard for a suburban school district in western New York State. Every school morning and afternoon, I have a minute or so to interact with groups of kids ages twelve to eighteen years, while waiting for their signal lights to change. I try to make the wait meaningful.

“What is the formula for converting Fahrenheit to Celsius?”

Recent mornings been have been cold, bitter cold, the perfect environment to challenge them with this question. And the answer came fast. “(F-32) /1.8”. These kids are good.

It’s become apparent that they almost expect something each day, a quiz, a fact, a general question. An approaching airplane provokes a simple discussion. An unusual sunrise or an odd cloud formation gets us talking and imagining. It’s all about the dialogue.

“Who was Francis Scott Key and what did he write on this day (Sept 14) in 1815?”

“What direction are we facing while waiting to cross? Forward doesn’t count!”

“January is named after the 2 headed Roman god Janus.”

“Why did Frosty the Snowman tell the kids not to cry?”

“How many centimeters in an inch, millimeters?”

For the most part, kids haven’t changed over the years. The younger boys are still immature, they run, yell and ask nonsensical questions. And boys and girls still hold hands. But there are some noticeable changes. Pink, purple or blue hair is common with today’s girls, and even with some boys. The huge backpacks have replaced gym bags for carrying books. And, nearly everyone is connected via cell phones.

However, kids are still kids. If I can make them smile or laugh as they start their school day, then ‘mission accomplished’. And it all starts with a greeting…and, maybe a new question…

“Good morning, kids. Have a great day!”

woodchuck

“Oh, By the way, how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

To my surprise, they had answers. We’re learning from each other.

Steve
srbottch.com
Jan 2018

Dedicated to a wonderful teacher I’ve been fortunate to know, Jennie, and her cadre of lucky students.

Hidden Treasures

Treasures 4 score card

There it was, buried in a cardboard box from a house move several years ago, an old scorecard. But not just any scorecard, here was the scorecard that told a hole by hole story of the best nine holes of my golfing adventures, a poignant reminder of a ‘special moment’.

Life is that way, isn’t it? Along the way, you acquire reminders of the ‘road’ you’ve traveled: a trophy, a plaque, a token or charm of some sort, maybe a photograph or special book, hidden treasures among our bric-a-brac, often of little or no value, except to you.

Over time, these treasures found their way to drawers, closets, or boxes, out of sight and mind, seemingly disappearing within the fabric of your house, until, quite unexpectedly, you come across one that makes you pause and reflect on a certain time in your life.

Army hat

My old army hat rests ‘at ease’ on a filing cabinet. An occasional glimpse stirs memories of a brief period (it seemed forever) as a young man when I had ‘nothin to say about nothin’, just do as ordered. Challenges were met, obstacles were overcome, I did things I didn’t think I could do. It all comes back.

Treasures 2 Ring

A ring with a few sparkly chips ‘hides’ in my stocking drawer and I feel it when rummaging for a matching pair. It reminds me of some career successes, wins and losses, and the camaraderie with associates who supported my efforts. And while it will never be worn again, it moves me to look back at my career with contentment and satisfaction.

Lure

The wooden fishing lure that hangs by its treble hook near my workbench opens a floodgate of images of time spent with my dad, fishing at ‘the Cape’, and learning about life. He was always teaching, often by example. It’s difficult to let go of ‘treasures’ he gave me, nor would I.

Old photos are some of the best ‘treasure’ finds. We hold them and vividly recall details of where we were, who we were and what we did. If we close our eyes for a moment, we’re there. Photos help tie our life segments together, connecting us to our past. We mustn’t lose that bridge.

Someday, our children will chance upon their copy of our Christmas holiday songs, recorded when they were youngsters. I know they’ll laugh aloud when they hear the singing, arguing, the joy and the love. Briefly, they’ll return to a special family time, remember us fondly and be joyful. What a treasured moment, never to be lost.

I wonder, what’s in your ‘treasure chest’?

To ‘treasure hunters’, one and all…