my frozen

I listen to a lot of Sports Talk Radio.  Among the most common themes of fans is to call in and debate who the top five or ten all time players are in a given sport.  In baseball, Babe Ruth universally comes out on top.  Then there are the Willie Mays vs Mickey Mantle camps and Hank Aaron vs Ted Williams followers.

In basketball there is more debate right from the start.  Jordan or LeBron?  Wilt Chamberlain or Bill Russell?

And sometimes we look at our own lives and try to pick the best days of our lives.  Sometimes I think it’s redundant…superfluous perhaps.  You know…’my wedding day’…’the birth of my daughter/son’.

I’ve been fortunate to have some completely wonderful days.  I suppose I could go to many days and nights at the beach when young.  Many zany college moments.  My first kiss.  First time I was waved home.

And they are all up there…definitely near the top. 

More in the forefront of my mind though are some seemingly simple days.  Vying for number one is a day in high school when I used my God given speed to catch up with a ball and snare a game winning touchdown while simultaneously tip toeing both feet in bounds.

And though I think I’ve spoken about it before in this forum, seeing the joy in my daughter’s eyes when she finally completed a lap around the block as I followed behind her, without touching her bicycle seat, is a top five moment for sure.

Recently I took a week off to head down to Ocean City, Maryland with my 13-year old son.  It is a very simple destination.  It’s not Hawaii, Paris or the Amalfi Coast.

What I felt though…for me…is that it is not where I am that matters.  It’s where I am in life.

Fav bud has grown into a place that balances maturity and kid at heart almost in complete harmony.  I’m good at trying to hang there.  We played the arcades, the go karts, hydro-biked around the bay, chilled on boogie boards, watched crazy cop shows, Animal Planet and of course scored at Pokémon Go.  We found a great rib place, a great pizza place (with live music), cool sunglasses, tee shirts and had many laughs…especially when I was wiped out at the bottom of the tri-level ramp on the go kart track.

Obviously I am a small cog in the wheel of all these tied together lives and all the lives that swirl around me.  I can’t even comprehend holding back maybe becoming a grandfather, or seeing my daughter achieve her boldest dreams, or my son experience using his talents to the max.  And I dare not tempt the Gods that I would be capable of picking a moment in time to surrender as number one or that I know better the Rhythm of Life and Love.

Knowing all this though…and grateful that I can still wake up and push through a very humid 5 mile run…shaded by the tall oaks along the Cathedrals and large homes that surround me…I would be tempted to pick now.

As I surely cannot predict the future I don’t know if my life will get better or worse….I might be in Babe Ruth territory without knowing it though…and it’s all a very simple life…and I just thought to say…maybe.

© 2016 Christopher’s Views

power of life or love?

When your own driveway or garage is not in the home-sweet-home deal that you shook hands on in NY, parking after midnight involves a long walk from the curb.  Last night mine was 3 blocks. 

Layers, a long coat, scarf, hat and gloves kept all but my face and ears bearably warm for the 1000 feet of pacing to my front door in 100-year-old record breaking cold temps.  I kept my head down to keep the strong winds from offering a free ride to my cap and flagging me with a 15-yard penalty.  My left hand pinched the outer lapels of my coat tightly together and my right hand, gloved and all, doubled up in the right pocket for extra warmth.

On the way I thought about the birds, the cats, the squirrels and raccoons that I knew were silently huddled up somewhere nearby, living in the elements and without radiators or hot water.  I wanted to spin and tip my cap to them, but I was too tucked in to allow for any alteration.  I steadfastly approached my foyer as if it were Nirvana.  And once inside, I voiced many words of thanks even though there was no one else there to listen.

Daybreak continued with shivering mercury and on my way to visit my mother I passed by two unique trees that have also been a marvel to me…but for months already.

I have not found it common to spot large bee nests anywhere in NY.  Yet six blocks from each other and over the same stretch of road, two large bee nests cling to limbs, survive minus 20-degree wind chills and blizzards in matter of fact, business as usual fashion, less than 2 miles from my paradise.  Beyond cap tipping, I would have to classify their designers as world class architects.

Upon my destination, the background info is that my mother is 93 and in failing physical and mental health.  She doesn’t eat much, doesn’t sleep much and doesn’t move much.  But she can still make me laugh. She has a very dry sense of comedy and pokes fun at her surroundings, circumstances and thoughts of death.  She asked me to remind her how my father died.  I told her that Dad had a golf ball size tumor right next to his carotid artery and he was 91.  Her dead pan reply was, ‘oh yeah right…I thought he was going to lick that’.

My mother obviously expects survival through hardship, where as I tend to marvel at it.

On this famous 14^th day of February I wonder about the power that keeps us all moving through our hardships and toward our Promised land.

I wish I knew what it is that powers the birds, the cats, the squirrels and raccoons.  Surely that would be a power to harness.

For me, love among others and love of life are the motivators.  Hoping for some more special days.  Like days that allowed for letting go of my daughter’s bicycle seat and seeing her ride for the first time.  Or days allowing to see my son blow out his candles and appear happier and more content than I.

And power to the days when we can reach out our hand and someone else grabs it in love. 

Happy Valentine’s Day to all.

 

 

© 2016 Christopher’s Views

blizzardry

On my way home from work late Thursday night I stopped at the local supermarket, bread and bananas were already wiped clean from the store shelves.  During my 3pm coffee stop at 7 Eleven on Friday I miraculously came across the one last Pepperidge Farm Cinnamon loaf that fav bud likes (see bottom right in fridge).  Combine that accomplishment with 3 half gallon containers of milk to ward off any throwback reminder to the powdered milk my mother served during the famous 1969 milk trucks can’t deliver through unplowed streets crisis and I feel whole.

 

At 6pm yesterday, as I was readying to leave my office, the forecast was for 12 to 18 inches of snow for much of the NYC area.  Feeding my no food left behind anxiety I made another stop to the supermarket as my distress level increases if I have to ration my fruit and cereal portions.

Around noon today as the blizzard conditions began to kick up a notch I walked the ¼ mile to Stop and Shop.  This time I had a craving for liverwurst and blueberry pie—plus I validated my trek by picking up a large jug of the calcium chloride blend of Ice Melt.  Stumbling over snow mounds on the way back caused me to cross paths with a genuine rain, snow, sleet or hail postal carrier.  I was very impressed.  He was very soggy and it made me think about how low tech it is to be delivering mail in 2016.

High tech doesn’t always mean wonderful though.  As I shook the snow off my NY Jets hat and placed my boots by the front door, the TV that I left on featured a team of meteorologists explaining all the snow bands that would now drop 30 inches of winter white across much of the area.  I love how they never talk about what their predictions were less than 24 hours ago.  Instead they contort their bodies over the radar screen and wrap hands counter clockwise over Manhattan detailing how the storm pivots back westerly to keep it from moving away and thus steadily pounds the region with precipitation. 
 
All has not been lost though.  I’ve kept myself occupied with catching up on laundry, fixing the hanging lamp I accidentally damaged a few days ago, and I completed a Swiffer tour of my place and then vacuumed. 

With all this extra time afforded by Mother Nature and the travel ban on our roads I tested my brain to see if I could remember the password to the dashboard of my once in a blue moon post upon a blog page.

Certainly there is much to reflect on: movies, books, sports, politics.

I saw The Big Short.  I enjoyed it mostly for the attempt at a quasi-documentary/drama style of presentation.  In the end though the story is pretty simple.  A small group of opportunists masquerading as prognosticators kept themselves afloat in the shark infested waters surrounding Wall Street during the run up to the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis.  The opportunists won big (Powerball type big).  Lehman Brothers filed bankruptcy.  Bear Stearns melted down into the hands of J.P. Morgan Chase & Co. in whiplash time.  And the U.S. Government came to the rescue so that only a large minority of people had to walk away from their homes or file for loan modification plans.

Star Wars was different for me.  Fav bud and his friend loved it…5 star like.  I thought it was an okay trip down memory lane…not much else.  I did enjoy seeing the Millennium Falcon fly again.

I’m rooting for the Broncos over the Patriots and the Cardinals over the Panthers.  I don’t think either one of my teams will win though and my bigger than powdered milk fear is that Tom Brady and the Patriots will win it all again on Super Bowl Sunday.

Global warming is not the biggest threat to the world.  The apex of dysfunction in American politics and the dismal field of 2016 Presidential candidate hopefuls is scarier to me.  If Michael Bloomberg, billionaire philanthropist and former Mayor of NYC, decides to run as an Independent I will cast my vote for him.  I’m not sure who he would take more votes away from whether it be Trump, Sanders or Clinton but I would have to vote my conscious for who I think would be the best person to step up.

Tomorrow will be dedicated to shovels, sleds and downhill runs.

Stay safe and warm.  Peace.

…..And just realizing I’ve had 101 blue moons.

© 2016 Christopher’s Views 

‘Pope Day’ NYC

For the past few months of summer I have been wearing thin socks to work each day to help keep my feet cool inside the sturdy black shoes I choose to wear unchanging on hot summer days.  On this second day of autumn I went with the thicker cushioned socks even though I knew the temps would make it into the 80s. 

St Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC is at 50^th St and 5^th Ave.  I had a morning business meeting at 44^th St and 5^th Ave.  Penn Station is at 34^th St and 8^th Ave.  I figured correctly that the fastest above ground mode of transportation once exiting the train tracks would be the sidewalk.  And so I walked. 

Seemingly, every active police officer was on duty today.  Every intersection had two cops.  Every sidewalk had two cops.  Subway entrances--two cops.  Open areas, two cops and three national guards.  Dunkin Donuts—Sergeant.  Starbucks—Captain.  Black Escalades abound.

And a bit different was the mood of the city.  People walked rather slowly.  I was more concerned about being relaxed in my pace than being late.  It was day one of ‘Pope Day’.  Why worry…just be…on this fair weather Papal visit day.

My meeting was over by mid lunchtime and I had a 1:38 train to catch.  Throngs of other New Yorkers were making their way for an early exit as well-not wanting to get stuck in traffic hell-hopefully the Pontiff would understand.

Settling in after some Chinese take-out I watched the whole Vespers ceremony live on TV from the comfort of my futon.

As you all know from my writings I am not religious, though I am spiritual. 

I admired the ease and comfortable personality of Pope Francis.  I ignored the obvious that most of the readers were literate but couldn’t read aloud---no flavor or emotion in their spoken words.  I liked the apologies by His Excellency.  I had no particular issue with his homily.  I had no feeling that it would do much to cure the world’s ills either. 

I enjoyed the music.  My attention wasn’t diverted as the Pope spoke in Spanish and the overlay was English, as I understand very little Spanish.

There are only a couple of days each year when the masses act in accord and peacefully.  Christmas and Thanksgiving are among those days.

‘Pope Day’, when it’s Pope Francis (Francis of the people day), is a day when the masses rest, and like Christmas—people think before doing.

I like when large crowds of people can get together in peace. 

I look forward to my run tomorrow morning.  I will pass by my local Cathedral and pray, even though I don’t belong.

I will feel that the world is sometimes as it is supposed to be and I’ll wipe the tears from my eyes.

© 2015 Christopher’s Views 
 

 

 

everyday wonder

Generally not a sky watcher, though making an exception tonight.

Over lunch yesterday a friend and I were discussing how some things in life are just flat out complicated, like calculus, taxes and figure skate scoring.

Much of our existence though falls into the 'simple, not easy' category.

Birth, parenting, love.  Goodbyes, diets, exercise.

Tonight's sky made me think there exists a third category.  Simple, complicated and wondrous. How else could I describe a big bang, producing more stars than imaginable, more light than can ever be seen, more synchronization than calculable, beginnings and endings in perfect harmony...and supporting all life along the way.

(C) 2015 Christopher's Views 

Looking ahead…and all around

The only deviation in my diet the past couple of days has been about how much butter I spread on my toast at each replicated meal…the Gatorade and tea remain unchangeable.

Perhaps I picked up a bug at the petting zoo, in the overly tepid hotel swimming pool, or from the Porta Potty (glad I uploaded the gross snow pic instead?) at the base of the tubing park visited last weekend with fav bud.

Of course…there is always the random chance of shaking the wrong hand.

And so, as I dream of jelly, and I attempt to erase memories of ‘sloppy’ the pig and a pool full of people that probably used the unkempt johns just before making their grand splash, I challenge myself to delete reminders of the winter hardships as well.

The shovel remains in my CR-V, but my back is feeling better.  The pot holes still multiply, but I’ve only had one flat tire.  I have enough shoe polish and stain lifter left to keep the corrosive rock salt at bay.

I moved from hating scarves to making one my friend. 

I learned how to bond with my son under 5 layers of clothing.

Then forced indoors, I gleefully smoked the fav 12 year old at an arcade racing game and was equally delighted when he handily brought me down playing chess on the rebound.

Yes, the winter was daunting.  Too long.  Too difficult.  Too cold.  Too windy.  Too immobilizing.

As March approaches, I will be hoping for a speedy transition of seasons.  And I know I won’t be alone in wishing for early cherry blossoms.

Before whispering into any night skies though, I need to make sure that I don’t delete the reminder about how challenges at our doorstep can sometimes beat a path to beauty in our own backyards.

© 2015 Christopher’s Views

And as Leonard Nimoy would add, “live long and prosper”.

the calendar’s hullabaloo

Sunday, January 4^th 2015, and firmly positioned on the testing grounds for New Year’s resolutions.  This morning’s rain and fog in New York convinced me to head to the treadmills at the gym instead of the hills at the park.  I was a bit surprised that the attendance there was sparse.  Usually it is difficult to get both a locker and my first choice of apparatus in January with all the newly inspired members revving up their regimens and commitments.

But today I got my customary locker and had pick of the best machines.  The faces around me were all regular’s…like a typical weekend morning.

I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.  For the good, I am not a fan of big crowds.  For the bad, maybe it means a lot of folks are at the pharmacy getting flu medicines filled. 

It’s not my thing to make a New Year’s resolution, but I do like the typical vows that I hear.  Promises to eat healthy, exercise, lose weight, quit smoking, join a book club, join a writing group, write a play, write a book, learn to dance, learn to swim, take up yoga, run a marathon, pray, meditate, go back to school, change careers, ask for a raise, clear out clutter, pay off debt, reduce stress, work on anger, slow down, start dating, skydive and take a vacation.

I’m sure there are some people who make New Year’s resolutions and successfully see them through to fulfillment.  They are probably the people who possess strong will power.

But most of the time when I hear people tell me of their success stories for changes in their lives it does not involve the calendar and most commonly involves the power of positive thinking, putting faith in God, or 'letting go and letting God', visualizing the future or writing down goals.

Resolutions aside, I try to move about my life as best I can with positive thoughts and faith.  Where faith is concerned I do not have an unwavering faith that God will always bring forth what I desire or that I will avoid pain and suffering.  It is more along the lines that I have faith I will be able to find comfort and happiness wherever I wind up. 

Mainly though, the New Year reminds me of the tricky parallel between life and time.  And that while there is often plenty of time for us to achieve our aspirations in life, time can likewise move us by in the click of a finger. 

I have a friend who recites mantras to me almost daily.  One of her favorites is ‘stay in your lane’.  She repeatedly texts and says the phrase as if honking and gesturing at me from behind.  For me, it is a reminder not to get sidetracked by others anger, regret, jealousy, judgment, hate or other malice.

Staying in my lane doesn’t mean I cannot stop, pause or even change directions. 

It just means that the path I choose ought to be plied with happiness, love, friendship and opportunity.

Otherwise, I am just on a bumpy ride with no idea when time is up. 

© 2015 Christopher’s Views

Just breathing

Among the most difficult of all of life’s tasks, is to be in a relationship and yet to feel all alone.

After three decades together, my wife and I separated a couple of months ago, having fallen into that lonely place.

Battling through all the turmoil of emotions, lifestyle changes and financial considerations I have been managing day to day living okay. 

Staying in the day…that is the hard part.  I am not a person who likes to sit around.  I prefer to move around.  I work through most of my most pressing issues by going for a long run.  I am thoughtful, but I do not like to obsess.  I like to think up all the sides of a problem, decide on the best course of action…and then act…move on in essence.

As I am finding out, this long stretch of holiday season and merriment poses a barrier for anyone trying to work past such difficulties.

Add to that, my birthday was a few days ago. 

I thought (thoughtfully) that maybe dinner and a movie would move me on in the right direction. 

But, with that prospect not on the horizon, I spent yesterday realizing that only time will move me on in the right direction and no matter how fast I run I cannot outrun the present and into the future.

It took me all day, all night and until this morning to understand that.

I started off, of course, by moving.  This time in my car.  Driving aimlessly, as if sitting in front of a TV, but yet on the road.

At the end of my drive, I ended up in a dangerous place…a casino.  I played poker for about an hour.  Luckily for me, numbers unfold pretty rapidly in my head.  So even though I was still mostly aimless, I backed away from the table down only ten dollars when I accepted that this is a losing proposition all around. 

Clearer in my head, but without any real clarity, I drove home.  And at midnight, feeling too tired to think of waking early for my long Sunday morning run I was somehow compelled to search online for something quieter.

I came across yoga.  I had never once before stepped inside a yoga studio in my whole life.  The website I looked at mentioned slowing down our bodies to find a better place.  Thinking that maybe an opposite notion would be worth a try, I set my alarm to make it to the 8am session. 

I will say this gently….when I run…I make every noise known to man as I try to grunt and push my way through from pain to gain.

Yoga is not conducive to that method by a long stretch…or lunge…as I have come to know. 

For an hour and a half I followed along with an instructor and class and didn’t hear myself even breathe.  But I could feel my breath in all parts of my body.

I had slowed down enough for that to happen.  Slowed down to feel better, rather than ran to feel better.

Certainly, I will still run…but I will go back for more yoga as well.  Perhaps improving my balance.

And though I may still want to leap frog into another year and another place overnight, wiping the slate of loneliness clean, I have another tool to use…slow down today and look forward to tomorrow.

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

silence of the chairs

Points of reference over dates are my indicators.  Sample sized sunscreen becomes more appealing at checkout.

Worn down to acceptance, the flip flops are removed from the wiffle ball locker.  An end to sports camp pick-ups appears in sight.

Peace needs to be made with bananas again and so the affair with blueberries and peaches fizzles out.

Polo shirts are intermittently donned when confronted by a draw full of faded tees.

TV’s allure overtakes citronella candles on the patio. And baseball is eclipsed by football.

Grilled chicken becomes tasteless and a temporary inability to ingest iced tea ensues.

The running trail to the schoolyard is rediscovered and the road to the beach seems distant.

Writing in the basement may top reading by sunset and pouring over a schedule may keep a wine glass empty.

Unraveling the hose seems like a chore.

And the stage is set when four X’d out tennis balls have crossed my path on the workbench.

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

summer reading*

Given that a passion for writing is often linked with a zeal for reading I need to put up an asterisk.  I am not an avid reader of books and never have been. 

That’s not to say that when I do read, however, that I don’t read with passion.   

But for a long time, and for no specific reason other than time management, most of the books I’ve read have come off the shelves designated for sports or comedy. And nearly all the rest of my reading has revolved around essays and self help.

This past Christmas, I received a New York Times Bestseller as a gift.  No sports, no comedy and well…everything that’s good is self help I suppose…right? 

So there it was before me: ‘Wild’ by Cheryl Strayed.  An inspiring memoir unfolded amid a solo long distance hike up the Pacific Crest Trail.  Ironically put in my lap by my fully citified daughter.   

Following the pattern that change often happens so slowly over time that it can’t be discerned, the sports and humor genres were safe in their thrones.  Weeks went by and I didn’t even crack the cover. 

Then on one of those bitter and snowy nights of this thankfully elapsed winter I picked up WILD and found a warm and quiet spot in my basement seated at the end of my futon and nearby a portable heater.  I read the first five chapters and was completely engaged in the style and substance of her writing.

Unfortunately none of the other snowstorms helped me with my time management and WILD sat tranquil on top of a nesting table at the other end of the futon, dog-eared at page seventy five until this weekend.

No mini vacation was in the plans for this Memorial Day.  And I was annoyed with myself that I didn’t go back to finish a book that I didn’t want to put down in the first place.

Once I finally picked it up again, resting it was difficult.  In between washing my car, playing wiffle ball with fav bud and a trip to the Bronx Zoo I obsessively read through the remaining 240 pages of this transformative human adventure. 

Almost always as my mind was taken along this journey pulsating with fear, pain, grief, hunger, and loneliness I was feeling the faith, strength, happiness, contentment and love that Cheryl Strayed so perfectly sewed together.  Most enjoyable is that her forceful hike through the wilderness and her experiences on and off the trail avoid and go far beyond common catch phrases of change and inspiration and instead are hard, honest, simple and real recognitions.

I cannot imagine anyone reading this story while not rooting for Cheryl and amidst the heartache not also rooting for life well lived.

If you are searching for pages that are compelling, pivotal and moving while you place your toes in the sand this summer I would highly recommend picking up a copy of WILD, by Cheryl Strayed.

…And if any of you have summer reading recommendations…please don’t be shy.

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

green, grey and approaching Earth Day

Plastic bags, bags, bags: they are everywhere.

Last Friday, on my way home from work, a rogue bag kite flew out from the wooded area along the Cross Island Pkwy and got caught in my front grille.  The bristling noise interrupted an attention grabbing-War of the Roses bit-on KTU. (sorry to those unfamiliar and from distant places)

Once untangled from the nose of my CRV the circulating winds may well have carried the fugitive bag toward Little Neck Bay and caused distress for a swan or an egret.

Weekend getaway frustration involves more than just dodging potholes.  I wondered if the event was triggered by the negligent disposal of another driver, or the untidy garbage collection of a nearby resident.

I grumbled above the radio, “Damn bags!”  Then I thought, “Damn dilemma”.

I tried to speculate if I could go Costco style on everything I purchase and lug each item, for all eternity, back home by transferring one or two at a time from cart to car and car to house. “Doubtful”, I muttered. “I’d snap, surely”, is the confirmed reply I issued to self.

Then my brain cramped a little more as I realized that I needed that flying bag kite back so I could clean the cat litter box later that night.  And my neighbor needs two to clean up after her dog.

I began thinking about Mayor de Blasio and the recently proposed NYC plan to subject plastic and paper bags to 10 cent penalties. 

As I approached the LIE merge, it dawned on me that I’ve also been missing out on the 5 cent per bag credit for packing with reusable’s that’s offered at my supermarket.

“Am I crazy?” I wondered aloud.  I really fell down on that one.  It’s better than coupons.  I can by a bushel of reusable bags, pack just a couple of items in each at checkout and walk away with about three bucks each time I shop.

But then between my ears I heard a voice say “maybe that’s the wrong spirit”.  We need to help the environment.  That’s the plan.  Yes, help the environment. 

Still driving along, and feeling fuzzy about the details, I had to put on hold any attempt at figuring out the dog poop with the bare hands quandary.  It’s just too complicated even with hands free technology.  But with a determination for openness I tried to presume that the research is done.  Right?  All this must have been carefully figured out to address the major culprit-those damn flimsy, omnipresent, flying high over ball fields and City and Town Halls everywhere-bag kites. 

Now with the sharp turn of my exit near I wanted to make a decision and so I declared “What the heck, I’ll try it, first thing in the morning I will go out and buy a bunch of those reusable bags”.

I guess there will be varieties and choices to make. 

Do I choose cotton, canvass or polypropylene bags?  Do I look for bags made in the USA?  Or maybe since I’m new to this I should just stick with the cheapest products.  Yes, that makes sense; browse the section made in China or elsewhere around the globe.  The bags smartly produced on much more raw material and energy.  The well traveled bags demanding enormous fossil fuel consumption on their trek back from Asia.  The colorful, stylish bags made without any trepidation of lead blends in the paints and dyes.

The bags that I will vow never to leave at home, or in the other car, or with my son at his Little League practice.  The magical bags that will avoid contamination by spills and bacteria and muck and mud and that will live on in the trunk of my car for perpetuity. 

The liberating reusable’s that I promise to monitor and cherish with honor and full disclosure.  The esteemed bags upon which I solemnly swear to not accept credit for when hauling home cardboard and hard plastic packaged vitamin supplements or thick plastic detergent bottles.  And conversely, I pledge to speak up when the gentlemen next to me buying pineapples in his kite bag at the express line is penalized.

Finally now, I reached home.  Radio off.  No more thinking or research.  Just action. 

But then, with keys in hand, as I tripped on my winter weary and organic lawn a different vision and vow came to mind.

An environmental vow that is void of vagueness.  A vow that has clarity and that doesn’t involve a lot of math, variables and time charts in order to pick the slightly lesser of two evils.

It goes like this. I will care about our aquifers and waterways.  I will care about our wildlife and cancer risks and will not use even one ounce of chemicals and pesticides between my picket fences as we move headlong into landscaping season.

It is a simple vow that requires no substitutes.  Grass already knows how to grow without chemicals.  It’s been happening for millions of years.

I closed the door behind me and thought, bags, bags, bags: we need to conserve and contain them. 

Water, water, water: we need to love and respect it. 

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

clicking on preview

 

When we close out this day in New York we will still have a few more weeks of cold and stormy weather to work through.  But the tantalizing glimpse of the future offered through sunny skies and temps well into the fifties this weekend felt as pleasurable as a first step in the sand at a favorite beach.

 

Like a lesson in antonyms, crocuses peeked through the soil across the street from giant mounds of mold laden and debris peppered snow.  And skaters, cyclists and joggers moved freely on trails and paths leading away from parking lots featuring still stranded cars.

 

The heavy weight of three, four, five or maybe even six wintry mix events has been lifted off of us.   ‘Ice dams’ will soon be a phrase I can forget I ever heard.

 

My shoulder is feeling better from the break in shoveling and I believe I won’t have to see the orthopedist after all.

 

Bystanders and traffic can coexist with tall buildings while no longer fearing large falling chunks of ice.  Streets are suddenly wider again and if I forget to fold over my side view mirror it’s no longer synonymous with a scheduled trip to the auto body shop.   

 

The tilting patios are beginning to level. 

 

Maybe….just maybe…I will consider driving on the Bronx River Potholeway again. 

 

I can think of a time when I will open my heating bill without first shuttering.  As a good sign, I have forgotten about the portable heater that helped keep the plumbing at the rear end of the house from freezing. 

 

And the self diagnosed frostbite on my cheek was just redness.

 

So too as I feel the seasons hardships slip away I will miss the snow forts and snowball fights with fav bud.  I’m glad as well for the sleigh riding trips.  And thankful, yes I’m even grateful, for occasionally being outside and in harmony with the quiet peacefulness of fresh fallen snow.

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

greetings from the basement

It is the wallpaper on my phone.

I check on it before I leave for work in the morning and before I go to sleep at night.
I make sure it always has enough water, though I help guard against bloating.
I give it plenty of exercise but avoid overworking it.
I provide for regular check-ups.
I listen to it carefully.  I am grateful to have it. 
I touch it, talk to it, admire it, cherish it and rely on it.
At 43 years old I may soon have to assist it into retirement.
Until then, I am one with it.  As I fend off winter’s austerity to enjoy the beauty.

Everyone—please meet my boiler.

© 2014 Christopher’s Views

hoping to God

After a stretch of time, when commitments in my business and personal life keep me away from posting I sometimes feel like catching up by integrating various topics into one piece.

A few days ago I was pondering how I might be able to roll Duck Dynasty, winter weather anxiety and Christmas into one viewpoint.

Then on Friday morning I walked upon a scene that eerily resembled a sad memory from thirty five years ago involving a lunch hour tragedy, a diesel truck and a young woman.

On this day it was mid-morning.  I had just dropped off my son, a ten year old fifth grader, at his school and I was driving on my way to a business appointment in Queens.  The destination was Northern Blvd in Woodside, to be exact, for those of you who are familiar with NYC.  As I exited the ramp from the Brooklyn-Queens Expwy several police cars and caution cones were in place and traffic was being re-directed.  There was no obvious sign of trouble and at first I thought that this might be part of a systematic shut down of ramps and roadways by the NYPD, which is routinely done when a dignitary is escorted through the city. 

I was directed to the right when I actually needed to go straight and so I chose to keep going right for a few avenues so I could get clear of all the snarled traffic.  Then I looped left and back across Northern Blvd to a metered parking spot on a side street within a couple of blocks of my meeting place.

As I gathered my materials and headed for the office building I was immediately struck by the vast silence.  I turned the corner onto the Boulevard and tip-toed along a city block that was entirely squared off by a police line except for a small path of sidewalk.  A large tractor-trailer truck sat dormant on the asphalt pavement.  There were a few dozen police officers, some crossing guards, many local residents, business owners and a news crew present.  But most notably there was stillness. 

Remembering back to college and a similar scene in lower Manhattan during a coffee break when I worked at Barnes & Noble I did not need to ask anyone what happened. 

But before being admitted into my meeting on the second floor of the company two blocks away I asked the receptionist if she knew exactly what had happened.  A young boy, a third grader, was run over and killed as he was heading to school.  “I feel bad for everyone”, she said.  Speechless and knowing this was the last day of school before the Christmas break I nodded and thought how sometimes I wish we could just turn back time.

After the appointment I had to walk back past the same route.  It looked as if everyone had been stopped in time for the entire hour and no one had moved. Few words were being spoken.  On the periphery, by a 7 Eleven, I could see some folks using hand gestures to explain where the vehicle came from and how the dreadful accident occurred.  The truck’s bulky engine, cab and container were shrouded in yellow tape and it loomed ghostly and mummified in the center of the street.

I was thinking about how it is typically challenging enough to sense and feel the wonder and beauty of the world amid all the dangers and heartache that abound.  Gut wrenching events like these would seem to move the challenging to the impossible for the families involved.

This is the season of joy and merriment.  But it’s a man-made season.  The seasons of life and nature work beyond our control and don’t always allow for concurrence. 

In times of despair some people turn closer toward faith.  Others turn full steam away from conviction.

The longing for a higher power is clearly understandable, especially in the face of the incomprehensible.  And the dismissal of any possibility of a Godly being is equally understood. 

In my speechlessness, as I looked around, I can only reflect upon the two thoughts in my head.  Eight year old boys go directly to heaven and I hope to God that it exists.

© 2013 Christopher’s Views

hitting my stride instead

Before the sanitation collectors toss the lids off my garbage pails in the early morning and ahead of the New York Times delivery person’s schedule for hurling all the news that’s fit to print midway beneath the rear axle of my car I am usually fast afoot and running a route towards the high school track a mile and a half away.  A few loops around and several on the weekends helps me to clear my head and provide prep for the day to come.

It’s therapeutic for me and is akin to being in a special place.  But lately I have encountered a high frequency of negative interference during these runs. 

For as dangerous as using handheld phones or texting while driving may be, the crack of dawn hours are full of the worst drivers known to man.  Perhaps they assume that no one else is on the road as they blow through STOP signs as I approach the intersections.  Evidently their spouses, friends and children run chronically late for the morning trains, in that I have nearly been run over on two occasions recently while driver and passenger alike focus only on the station 500 yards forward as they vie for the shortcut to the platform and seemingly pretend to miss me by feet instead of inches.

My grandmother used to have an apt expression.  Racing to their graves, she would say, racing to their graves.  And wise as that was, the flip side that focuses on me, is what instinctively and gladly took over causing me to comply with a simple hands held wide apart gesture and mouthing, “Are you kidding me”, instead of punching the rear window of the latest car to screech around a FULL STOP sign and ignore my existence. 

Confirmed to me instantaneously is why I am out there in the first place.  I’m out there for pleasure, for peace and a little bit of paradise each day.

Just like many of us I’m fighting the stress of a long day, traffic snarls, building back up my 401k, emotional scars, grief, finding the right babysitter, weaning off sugar and carbs, caretaking, and societal group depression as I marvel at the incompetence of government.  (PS…why couldn’t the NSA just take a few extra minutes and set up HealthCare.gov?).  We probably could have signed up for health insurance faster if we accessed it through Angela Merkel’s cell phone.

So yes…I understand the world is a stressful environment.

But as miles and minutes gave way to seconds my frosty nose met the warm air of freshly brewing coffee as I habitually entered the luncheonette at the end of my run so I could chug down a water and pick up my customary lottery ticket.

And so, as the scents flowed, I sneezed.  And four regulars harmoniously rang out…”God Bless”. 

Politeness and awareness aren’t totally withered away I thought. 

Maybe the Thanksgiving and holiday season will polish it up and dust it off a bit…well…perhaps. 

In either case I will keep on attending to my daily morning paradise, regardless of the obstacles.  And if my lottery ticket ever scores I will stick to the same route.  But I will be temporarily relocated to Nirvana.

© 2013 Christopher’s Views