I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing

I found all was not right with the world during a recent trip to Costco: Pepsi has replaced Coke in the food court.

What other American invention is as omnipresent as ice-cold cola? In bottle, can or glass, cola is found from coast to coast, served at diners and the White House. Others have come and gone since druggist Angelo Mariani invented the cola in 1863, but two giants among soda exist today in the US: Coke and Pepsi.

The battle of the beverage behemoths continues. Both are over a century old. Both want your cash. Both have an avid following.

What's the attraction? The fizz, the flavor, the corn syrup? A few years of working in product development for the food industry put me right off corn syrup, so I only drink the diet version. Every sip of Diet Coke is a delight. I am a Coke customer for life. Pepsi in any form is just...yucky.

Coca-Cola is the most recognized brand in the world. Coke brings to mind what is best about the American way of life: first girl-boy parties, dates and shy kisses; war-weary soldiers getting letters from home; a rusted sign creaking in the wind outside the local restaurant. Plus it can be used to relieve the sting from jelly fish and remove rust spots from chrome car bumpers.

It's Coca-Cola Chicken and Coca-Cola Cake in the South for a reason...Pepsi just doesn't cut it. For many, it symbolizes the magic of childhood and kindles the memories of family gatherings, football games and school dances.

For me, Coca-Cola is still the real thing. I now drink water with my Costco hot dog, missing that red and white wave patterned cup overflowing with an abundance of taste.

A Hard Day's Night

A circadian rhythm is a roughly 24-hour cycle in the biochemical, physiological, or behavioral processes of living entities, including plants, animals, fungi...practically every living thing on the globe.

I tried to interrupt my rhythm today, or yesterday depending on how you look at it. One of our 3rd shift employees recently left and I needed to be at work around 1:00 am to perform some skilled tasks. I left work early during the day and did my best to tire myself out by digging a 12 inch deep by 15 foot long trench and constructing a 15 foot by 3 foot planter (more on the trench and planter at a later date). Despite feeling tired and a bit achy, it really didn't help me to get to sleep when I headed for bed at 6:00 pm. I drifted in and out of sleep for a while, watched a bit of television and eventually fell asleep sometime after 8:00 pm.

I awoke to a ringing telephone and a 30 minute warning. Bed hair not withstanding, I looked and felt okay. I started the test at 2:00 am. Within 30 minutes I was reminded of those "baby daze" when waking up several times during the night for the care and feeding of an infant would render me nauseous and unable to think clearly. Fortunately a large glass of water took care of my malaise and I was up and running at something near full speed.

For many, this shift is their normal work time. Waiters, waitresses, cooks, bakers, the voices on the radio, security guards, cleaning services, hospital workers, taxi cab drivers...the list is long.

There is a new and growing nocturnal work force lurking in the neon glow. The graveyard or the third-shift, once predominantly populated by blue-collar workers, is now also filling its ranks with energy brokers, computer programmers, and financial advisers. Think of those who answer our phone calls on the other side of the world. Relatively high wages and the opportunity to be part of an upscale, globalized work environment draw many in the Far East to the call center industry.

Shift differentials, fewer meetings, less traffic, fewer people to compete with for promotions...there are many good reasons for working the night shift. I prefer to sleep during the night, but that's just me.

The balance of the night passed without issue. I completed the testing and eventually headed home. Now at 5:45 am, when I need to be going to sleep, I am very much awake, having arrived at the time of day I typically wake up. I see a power nap or two in my immediate future.

Mull Of Kintyre

Ask five different people why sounds appear to carry further at night and you'll likely get five different answers. Air temperature, humidity, lack of visual acuity in the dark leads to better hearing capability, air density...the list goes on.

The speed of sound is one of the physical constants we count on. Sound level decreases at a rate proportional to the inverse square of the distance from the sound source. Let's say you're listening to the radio. If you double the distance between you and the radio, the sound will be one-quarter as loud as it was before you moved. Whether or not you could hear it during the day, the sound from your refrigerator was still there. At night it has less to compete with in terms of background noise. Sounds that are drowned out during the day are much clearer at night.

Fewer cars passing by, less airplane traffic, kids no longer playing outside...all these and many more result in a quieter neighborhood. As I was reading in bed the other night, the silence was interrupted three times.

First was the squawking of seagulls as they passed over our house. Barely noticeable to most of our neighbors, seagulls are still a novelty for us. It has been nearly twenty years since we lived in a place with more than a small handful of seagulls, so listening to them is still a treat.

Second was the deep whistle of a train, followed by the low rumble of the engines and dozens of cars. The tracks hug the coastline in this area, reminding me of the many times I rode the Coast Starlight between Davis and Santa Barbara, sleeping and waking over and over as the train started and stopped, looking out into the ever-shifting view of dark skies and clusters of stars.

Third was a lone bagpipe. This was the sound that actually got me out of bed to open the bathroom window and listen closer. The piper serenaded the neighborhood with the sounds of the highlands for about fifteen or so minutes. I wish whomever it was had gone on longer, but it was a wonderful concert despite its brevity. I have yet to find the piper or hear from them again. Fortunately I won't be without live bagpipe music for long, as the 50th Annual Bellingham Scottish Highland Games is coming soon.

The Scottish Great Highland Bagpipe and Irish uilleann pipes have the greatest international visibility, but bagpipes of many different types come from different regions throughout Europe, Northern Africa, the Persian Gulf, and the area of the Caucasus Mountains. All produce an unusual sound, one that is impossible to ignore.

I can not explain my attraction to the drone and skirl of the bagpipe, as I know they are not for everyone. I may not know why, but I don't question that to me, the pipes, the pipes they are a calling.

Return To Sender

Letters are intrinsically dramatic. Were you expecting one? Who is it from? What are they writing about? In this day and age of electronic mail, how often do you get letters?

I received two envelopes earlier this week. Both arrived on the same day. Both were canceled on the same day, albeit it in different cites. And both contained hooey.

That's right, hooey. Babble, balderdash, baloney, drivel, garbage, gibberish, hogwash, horse-feathers, piffle, poppycock, rubbish, tomfoolery. Call it what you will, it was hooey.

One envelope contained a money making opportunity that was not a chain letter. The author (unknown, of course) guaranteed it was not in violation of the US Postal Code. In fact, they stated it several times. And had a letter from a lawyer (no name, of course) indicating it is legal. And it was seen on Oprah and 20/20, so it must be true, right?

The second envelope contained a letter from my ex-employer, the mail-order company Harry & David, explaining they would "not rest until we once again feed you, and your soul". It was signed by the new Chairman, CEO and Chief Happiness Officer. Oh puleeze. Perhaps they should try purging their mailing list of all the ex-employees that were laid-off over the last 18 months before sending a form letter that supposedly speaks to your soul.

E-mail, telephones, fast food...so much instant gratification. Letters are planned and organized, hold your attention and provide the uninterrupted privacy so many of us long for. I was ready to respect the time and effort put into both only to have my hopes dashed not once but twice in the same day.

Rose Tint My World

Cindy and I have owned four different houses over the course of the last 21 years. Each was our home for a period of time. I like to think they were better for us living in them, but you'd have to ask the houses about that.

The things we do to our homes are a kind of calling card left behind for those who are still to come. The improvements, the alterations, the color of the walls, the cut of the trim...they all say, “we were here.” There has been one constant in the many calling cards we left for the next inhabitants of the houses we owned: roses.

The rose is almost as old as history itself, with fossil evidence indicating it is over 35 million years old. Across the centuries, roses have been symbols of love, beauty, war and politics. For me, they are a tie to my maternal grandfather. He came to the United States from Italy in 1920 and began working as a gardener, which he did until his death in 1972. As a child, I recall visiting the estate he worked on in Montecito, CA. Filled with trees and plants of every kind, it was the perfect place for a kid to run and play.

The Rose Garden at Mission Santa Barbara is filled with a myriad color of roses. It is where I first saw David Austin Roses, planted near a stone wall which is a remnant of the Mission era. Introduced in 1969 by hybridizing already existing hybrids with old world species of typically English roses, David Austin built the foundation for an ever expanding collection of roses never seen before. Appealing forms of older species combined with the hardiness of modern hybrids produce a masterpiece of artfully arranged petals.

Who could have predicted one day I would work for Jackson & Perkins, one of the premier rose growing companies in the world? Or that one day David Austin himself would visit J&P in Medford and I would get the opportunity to meet him?

New job, new city, new home, and this house is no exception: there are seven calling cards in the yard, and five of them are from David Austin.

Biblical parables have their mustards, Johnny Appleseed spread his trail over the country, and Jack planted magical beans to find a beanstalk the next morning. We plant roses.

Into The West

We live between The Two Towers.

Disclaimer: We don't live in Middle Earth. And the towers aren't really towers, they are chimneys. They are structures that are taller than they are wide, built to take advantage of their height, at one time venting hot flue gases or smoke to the outside atmosphere. To me, they are towers.

The chimneys are remnants of days gone by. One is at the mostly-derelict Tilbury Cement Plant, formerly the Olympic Portland Cement Company. The plant is now quiet except for the constant squawks from the swarms of resident seagulls and the occasional screech of metal from dismantling equipment. The original facility was built in 1913, so the smokestack is a well-known landmark in the area.

The other is a remnant of the sugar beet processing plant. In 1925, the Utah and Idaho Sugar Company (U & I) bought the property and constructed a sugar beet processing plant at the site. The chimney was part of the drying process turning beet juice into sugar. The Oeser Company has operated a pressure wood treating facility on this site since 1942, producing mostly telephone poles. Decades of using creosote and pentachlorophenol (PCP) has led to this 26-acre property becoming an EPA Superfund site.

As readers of The Lord of the Rings know, any pair from the set of five towers in the story could fit the title: the tower of Cirith Ungol, Orthanc, Minas Tirith, Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul. A note at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring and Tolkien's final illustration of the towers gives the pair as Minas Morgul and Orthanc. Tolkien later indicates the two are Orthanc and the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but felt such an identification was misleading due to the opposition between Barad-dûr and Minas Tirith.

In my mind (and many others, I am sure), the two towers are Barad-dûr in Mordor and Orthanc in Isengard.

The wood-treating facility and the toxic waste surrounding it may not be as evil as Barad-dûr, built by Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, but it's close enough. And while the cement plant smokestack was not built during the end of Second Age by the Númenóreans of Gondor, it is a reasonable Orthanc. This means we are located approximately in East Emnet, a wide grassy plain just west of the Falls of Rauros on the river Anduin.

It's not middle earth, and it's not journey's end, but it's home.

Year Of The Cat

Animal behaviorists say that when cats bring mice, birds or whatever they capture into your home, it is meant as a compliment.

After all, we give them dried cat food, so they must think things are tough and want to help out.

Our cats have always seen fit to bring us gifts. Recently it has been a bevy of shrews, both dead and alive. April is smack dab in the middle of the breeding season for these shirt-tail cousins to moles, so the availability is apparently pretty good.

It would almost be okay if they always left the offerings where we can find them. At least then they could get a decent burial (okay, a toss out in the empty field). Unfortunately they end up under the sofa or the bed, which means they typically are not seen before they are smelled. Trust me, it's not what you want to smell first thing in the morning when you're looking for the coffee in the pantry.

Shrews are new to our list of feline offerings. In Oregon, we were graced with gophers, mice and many a bird. And, just once, a koi.

That's right. A koi.

We found it on the laundry room floor, proudly displayed by Spot, a black and white tabby. The koi was about half a big as she was. What made it all the more impressive was she had taken it from a neighbor's koi pond which was down the block and across the street. How she managed to bring it all the way home, fully intact, was beyond me.

Spot was the cat who never met a person she didn’t like and could always be counted on warming a lap, even when you didn’t want her to. We picked her out of a batch of kittens at a shelter, the only one with a tail that was crooked at the end; we thought she was the runt of the litter, not enough room in the womb for her siblings and her tail. Many years later, I showed a picture of Spot to a colleague of mine; she had taken a kitten with a crooked tail from a litter of all crooked tail cats at the same shelter sometime before Spot picked us out.

We had to put Spot down last year as her kidneys had failed. While other cats have lived in our household, none spend as much time on a lap getting pets as Spot did. You could always count on Spot to spend the day with you in bed when you were sick. For me, that was always especially comforting.

When our present cats bring in small tokens for us, I typically thank them and ask if they have ever heard of Spot and the koi. As they say, give a cat a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a cat to fish and he will depopulate your neighbor's very expensive koi pond.

Hello, Goodbye

I honestly don't remember what started me on the Beatles path. Much of it came from a friend of mine who put me on the road to wanting more than just what the radio played. He was the biggest Beatles fan I had known to date and it must have worn off on me.

I was born in 1961, so I was just a child at the height of Beatlemania. I have vague memories of snippets from the radio, but nothing concrete. A driver's license allowed me to go to record stores on my time. A lack of funds directed my spending to the used record stores, where albums could be had for a buck or two.

Years ago it was easier to accumulate a record collection because, well, there were records. I remember dragging out my turntable to listen to an album and my then 8 year old daughter asking what that was. Like many people, my music today is all digitized and I carry around thousands of songs in my pocket. Very different from the days of big beautiful black discs that we played once to record on a cassette tape and then jealously protected from heat and dust, savoring the beauty of the artwork on the album cover and the unmistakable sound of soft static and often a persistent, regular, soft click.

As the years passed, I found himself seeking out original records wherever I could find them. It was a constant work in progress and one which was enjoyable...learning something I may not have known, trying to avoid counterfeits, digging through estate sale boxes, flea markets and swap meets.

Collecting was put on hold behind family, home and career. I always thought once things settled down I would allow myself to answer the siren call of Beatles collecting.

Life, as they say, has a way of getting in the way of living. January 2009 brought unemployment and the worry of making the mortgage payment. It was finally time to sell the Beatles records. The response was less than I hoped, but times were tough. The majority sold before we packed up and moved to another state. The balance would eventually be listed and sold, with the final sale on April 03, 2010.

Like many people, I have found having something is never as enjoyable as sharing it with others. While I miss the thrill of the chase in collecting the Fab Four, I am pleased others have taken up the same challenge and was happy to be a part of their hunt for the big score.

The Rain, The Park & Other Things

Is this Heaven? No, it's the Bellingham Farmers Market.

Located on Railroad Avenue at Chestnut Street is one of the largest farmers markets in the Emerald State. The permanent Market Square includes a covered structure built from steel recycled (of course!) from a local bridge. The market runs April through December. A great place to shop for fresh, local food, local arts and crafts, flowers and plants, and food vendors.

When did I become such a fan of Farmer's Markets? Things like this kinda sneak up on you. The one in Medford (OR) was nice, and the one in Santa Barbara (CA) is always a treat. But here...strolling in short sleeves on a perfect afternoon, being part of the community...it's different.

"I could have sworn it was Heaven. Is there a Heaven?"
"Oh yeah. It's the place where dreams come true. Maybe this is Heaven."

Ich bin ein Bellinghamster.

As Time Goes By

Ever find yourself standing in the kitchen and I ask yourself "What the heck did I come in here after?" The same thing had happened to my computer a while ago. It was running a disk utility, one of those things you’re supposed to do to keep your PC in tip-top shape. I set it to work and went about my business, returning an hour or so later, confident it would be finished by then. A repetitive clacking, much like the sound of a 12-gauge shot gun, came from the hard drive. When I looked at the screen, it was bright blue with white letters: "OS not found".

That sick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you realize something very bad has happened began to creep up on me. I reboot the computer. It starts up, and I try to allay my fears. Everything is okay, I tell myself. Suddenly the Windows splash screen is replaced by a bright blue screen with white letters. “OS not found". (clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack).

I'm disgusted and frustrated and livid and about a dozen other emotions all at the same time. It can’t remember what it was looking for, and now I'm the only one that remembers any of that stuff on the computer, and I only recall fragmented bits and little pieces. What was that file named? Do I have the original at work or here at home? All those genealogy files…will I ever be able to prove I’d related to the deposed King of Italy again? All those e-mails, and now I don't know how to reach any of those people; addresses for everyone I know (in the electronic Biblical sense, anyway), missing in action. Bright blue screen, white letters…"OS not found". (clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack).

I intended to back-up the drive lots of times…but you know how that goes. This can’t happen to me, I tell myself. I’m good to the computer, I remind myself. I run the disk utilities on a regular basis. I treat it gently and kindly. Bright blue screen, white letters…"OS not found". (clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack).

I drag myself out of my fits of depression. I am determined not to go down without a fight. I find some kid that knows how to program a VCR and fixes computers just for fun. The Kid is a master at diagnosing and treating the dysfunctional PC. "Did you back up recently?" he asks. Right. If I had, I'd be sitting at home with the new drive I installed, laughing at the old one and saving it for the shooting range. The Kid knows it, I know it. "You'll be better about backing up now, huh?" says The Kid. I consider telling him not to become a doctor because he lacks a good bedside manner, but I remember he holds all my files in the palms of his hands. I remind myself that a still mouth makes a wise head and remain quiet. I am humbled and powerless in front of this 19 year old.

He works with speed and precision. The Kid slaves my hard drive onto another computer. The hard drive works perfectly fine for him. I look on in shock. The Kid moves his nimble fingers, finds the files I can’t live without, and begins to copy them onto a CD. Then it happens…(clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack). Undaunted, he reboots and tries again…(clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack).

The Kid waits a few minutes and tries again…this time it responds. He quickly selects a few files and rapidly drags them on to his hard drive to save them for the nether-reaches of this magnetic albatross that hangs about my neck. One, two, three files…(clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack). The sound sickens me.

The Kid fiddles more and more with the drive…another few files are saved before the nauseating sound comes once again to haunt me, like the Ghost of Backups Past…(clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack).

He thinks for a while, and then he describes a potential remedy…a sharp blow may fix the problem. He tells me how he would take my hard drive out to the sidewalk where he would drop it from a height of precisely 7/8 of an inch. Why 7/8 of an inch, I ask. He tells me that he has determined that this is the optimal height for this type of treatment. I wonder how many years and hard drives he has spent proving his theory.

“The downside is that this either works or it doesn’t,” says The Kid. And if it doesn’t? The Kid shakes his head. We have an understanding; this may clear up the problem…or render the drive silent forever. I choose to pass on this technique, hoping for some modern miracle instead of leaving the fate of my files up to a concrete sidewalk. I can’t take the pressure anymore and leave the Kid to engage whatever other desperate measures he sees fit.

That night passed slowly. I tried to lose myself in a novel, but to no avail. I finally drift off into a fitful sleep, night-sweats quickening my heart. I dream about giant bookworms, consuming every piece of paper I have ever owned. I try to stop their advance but it is useless. One of them picks me up and drops me to the sidewalk. I awaken with a start. Dawn breaks through the window shades. I wonder if it’s too early to call The Kid to check his progress.

I stop by The Kid’s house later that day. He is gone, but his mother is there. The Kid has left the hard drive and a CD-ROM for me, with a note that says he got some of the files, but not all of them. The click and drag process was taking too long, and he needed to pack to get back to college. I tried telling his mother that college was a waste of time and money, and that look at me, I didn’t use anything I learned in college on a regular basis and I was just…a loser with a broken hard drive. She smiled the smile that tells me others have traveled this way before, expounding on the marvels of non-traditional education in an attempt to gain a few more hours work out of The Kid on their dying computers. I picked up my things and left quietly, wondering if she backs up her files.

I’m down, but not out. I search the Internet and find numerous companies that specialize in data retrieval from crapped out hard drives. They paint pleasant enough pictures on their websites. Yes, this is hard work, they explain, but it is possible to retrieve your lost data. I have been given hope…there is light at the end of the tunnel. Just fill out these simple forms and they’ll get right back to me. They ask straight forward questions…size of the drive, what happened when it failed, how much money I have in mutual funds, stuff like that. I fill out the forms and wait, hopeful that there is life after hard drive failure.

And then they respond. “This is a tedious, time consuming job,” they state. “You may only get 30% of what you want back,” they explain. “Send us the hard drive and we can provide a better estimate,” they claim. The estimates start at $500 and head towards something just shy of the current national debt. One company wants $100 just to evaluate it; no guarantees or work done at all besides to open it and look under the hood. If they could recover data the cost would be $800 for the first 10 files and $10 per file thereafter up to a maximum of $2500.

I decide that living without the past will be painful but not worth selling internal organs for. I wondered if Elizabeth Kübler-Ross has written an updated version of her pioneering book "On Death and Dying" to include loosing one’s hard drive and that portion of the memories they so trustingly gave to their computer. I’m still in the denial stage at this point, but I’m trying to work through it as best as I can.

My financial spreadsheets, stories I’ve written, ideas I never acted on, song lyrics I liked, photos from last year's vacation, and the only copy of Betty’s Grandma's secret cookie recipe. Priceless and irreplaceable things of beauty in digital form, lost forever. My Internet bookmarks…all of them, even the ones that have been long dead and led me to 404 file Not Found. I’ll never get to go there again.

The irony of it all hits me. I will never really know what my computer's senility cost me – because, much like walking into the kitchen and wondering why I went in there, I can't remember all the things that are on my hard drive.

Save yourselves. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Hug your children. Hold your loved ones close to your heart. Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer. And spend some time backing up your hard drive.

Cadillac Ranch

Many of us have that special attraction to a specific car…the car we learned to drive in, the car we first purchased on our own, the car used at graduation or the first date or the one driven away from the wedding reception with cans tied to it.

Yes, I still have a longing for a 1965 Chevrolet El Camino (my first car). The 1966 Ford Mustang I owned after that will always live on in my memories, as will the string of automobiles my wife and I have driven together since our marriage.

But my favorite car...well, that would be on a track in Disneyland.

The Disneyland Autopia cars put this wide-eyed 6 year old in the driver's seat for the first time and I’ve never looked back. While the cars have changed and the roadways have been reconfigured since opening day in 1955, the Autopia driving experience remains, giving many future drivers their first experience behind the steering wheel. A trip to Disneyland isn’t complete without a spin on the cars of my youth, re-capturing America's fascination with the latest transportation innovation of the mid-20th century, the "freeway”.

I’ll admit that driving on real freeways isn't always what I call fun. Ah, for the days when I could sit back, relax and let the Autopia car do most of the driving…

Life In A Northern Town

We live just south of the 49 parallel North. What does that really mean? In short, we live closer to the North Pole than the equator. According to a good read, approximately 13 million Americans live north of the 45th parallel – or 4% of our population; that number jumps to 600 million, or 10% of the world's population.

1,270 miles. That's how long the section of the U.S./Canadian border is which is formed by the 49th parallel. A 20-foot wide clear-cut demarcates the line along with 912 survey markers, two of which are shown at the left, dividing Blaine Washington from Surrey British Columbia. As the world's longest straight international boundary, this section of the border runs from the Lake of the Woods (Minnesota/Manitoba) to the waters of the Pacific (Washington/British Columbia).

We're still short our official ID that would allow us to return from a visit to Oh Canada, so for now we gaze upon the land north of the 49th parallel from across the border.

Second Hand News

Daylight was fading. I had been sitting there for what felt like hours.

Earlier in the day I was waiting in line for coffee in this same shop. I often wonder if I’m really here for the coffee or just to watch the people as they come and go. Each tells a story in the way the hold themselves, what they say (or don’t say), what they order. Today was no exception, as the room was filled with the various characters that make up the city.

As I approached the counter I continued my usual sweeping of the crowd: the businessman answering e-mails on his phone; the middle aged woman whose hair was a color that did not exist in nature; three tween-agers who never stopped giggling.

And you. Scarlet ribbon in your hair, at an outside table, flipping through a newspaper. I could feel the corners of my mouth starting to bend as a smile formed on my face. It was a sad smile, but still a smile.

You were good for me. We had fun together. I truly loved you. But you didn’t love me, and we parted.

I turned to look at you again, just in time to see my replacement join you at the table for two. You looked at him like I looked at you, and I knew he was good for you, that you had fun together, and that you truly loved him.

And then you were gone. And all that was left was an empty table with a used newspaper. Second hand news, easily replaced tomorrow by another edition.

The lights of the city began to pierce the twilight. It was time for me to leave.

Sometimes In Winter

The end to a sunny day. Pink, purple, orange and blue fill the sky as the sun begins to set. Food cooked outdoors. I stand at the ready, long fork in hand. From the gas grill comes the aroma of chicken, filling the air, along with my breath, because it's February and it's darn cold.

Ah yes, the perils of grilling in winter.

The rain had disappeared for a couple of days. The sun shined brightly and it was time to get outside and fix some vitamin D. We shopped, had lunch at a Hawaiian restaurant and absorbed some rays through the car windows. The afternoon moved on, the flame was lit and the chicken placed on the grill. And then I waited.

And waited. And waited some more.

What is an adequate supply of BTUs in the middle of summer was barely able to meet the demands of a Bellingham winter day. Sure, you can get the outside nicely done, but the inside...that's another matter. Have you ever tried to butterfly cut a chicken breast? Not an easy task.

Patience is a virtue, and eventually the chicken was done (to the proper internal temperature, of course). Baked beans, hot bread, baked potatoes, salad and grilled chicken. A little bit of summer on a plate.

No Time at All

Forty-nine. Half a century minus one. Where did the time go? Will Rogers said that "half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save." Rushing through each day, looking for tomorrow...seems like a poor way to live a life. Rather than look for tomorrow, let's take a peek at yesterday. Think about people who were your current age when you were born. Those who were 49 in 1961 lived through:

• the sinking of the Titanic
• WWI
• the Great Depression
• Albert Einstein presenting the Theory of General Relativity
• Prohibition and the repeal of Prohibition
• the formal creation of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
• the Scopes Monkey Trial
• The Jazz Singer debuting as first talking film
• the introduction of Mickey Mouse
• construction of the Hoover Dam and the Golden Gate Bridge
• the discovery of Pluto
• WWII
• the first use of Penicillin to successfully to treat a patient
• the creation of the State of Israel
• the Korean War
• Jonas Salk announcing the development of a vaccine for polio
• the opening of Disneyland
• the USSR launching Sputnik to officially begin the Space Race.

Heck, just consider the changes in technology they saw: electricity, telephones, automobiles, airplanes, machine guns and tanks, nuclear bombs...the list goes on. We're no slackers in that department either, as personal computers, cell phones, video players, DVDs, mp3s and color television are just a few of the what seems like a gazillion items to come along in the last 49 years. The minutes and hours in a day are constant and stay the same, and yet there are days when it feels time goes by so quickly and there are not enough hours in the day. I have learned the real issue is not that time went faster, but how the time was spent.

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

Gnocchi di sugo. It may not roll off the tongue of the average American, but as a second-generation Italian-American, it does off mine.

Plus, it sounds better than potato dumplings and meat sauce.

Gnocchi di sugo is a traditional Northern Italian dish. While pasta and savoury doughs are staples in the south, the main dishes of the north revolve around rice, polenta (corn meal), and gnocchi. Gnocchi may also be eaten as as a first course, or placed in goulash-type casseroles and stews (particularly in north-east regions which border on Austria and Hungary).

The word gnocchi means "lumps", which is a good descriptor for how they look. It has been a traditional Italian pasta type since Roman times. Gnocchi can be made from semolina, ordinary wheat flour, potato, bread crumbs, or similar ingredients. While the potato was not introduced to Europe until the 16th century, it is the main ingredient in my grandmother's recipe.

For me, the true test of an Italian Restaurant is: do they serve gnocchi? Some do, but not many. And if so, how do they stack up against Nonna Jennie's version? That answer is almost always the same: not even close.

A kitchen full of women, piles of potatoes, tables covered with white cloth towels and dusted with flour. Making gnocchi was always a group activity at my Nonna's house, as it is not an easy job. It takes as long to prepare (and consume) as Thanksgiving dinner, so it is not for the faint of heart.

My grandmother taught Cindy how to make the gnocchi, and taught me how to make the sugo. I don't know if it was her plan or not, but neither of us know the exact recipe for the other half. For years at Harry & David, no one person knew the entire recipe for Fruitcake Confection, and the entire recipe was kept in a vault. Cindy and I don't lock away the recipes from each other, but rather we choose to continue the dance my grandmother set in motion: one of us leads the slow ballet of the sugo, the other leads the tarantella of the gnocchi.

Celluloid Heroes

I start the projector. Dust fills my nostrils as the reels move for the first time in who knows how long. I feed the film into the small slot, almost without thinking. It has been decades since I last threaded a projector, but it seems as if it were mere days instead of years. The film goes down and around, past a blinding projector bulb and out again onto a spool freely spinning at the back. I am mesmerized by the smell of the warm projector and the hypnotic clicking of the film as it passes over the sprockets of the movie projector.

Around the room, colored lights flicker and chase each other across the make-shift screen. The film shudders and shakes as uneven splices pass over the sprockets, but still the film moves along, from reel to reel. Images of people I used to know or resemble, showing life from a certain viewpoint with no pretense of objectivity. No synthesized drama, only the reality of the time, simply proudly completely presented.

The people on the screen do act like we did in everyday life. They act is if the camera is there, rather than act to deny its existence, egotistical and haphazard. An essential record of our past, they are among the most authoritative documentation of times gone by, the times in between the drama, where life is simply lived.

I see images from the past. It seems hard to believe that I was ever that young, with no or little idea of what was coming in life. But it’s not the future we’re looking at…it’s the past, warm and fuzzy, good memories and laughter. Maybe not at all as we remember it, but here it is, in celluloid, preserved for more years than I care to remember.

And then it ends. A white fuzzy rectangle of light appears. Dust and cat hair pass over the rectangle or stubbornly cling to the edge of the light. Clack clack clack clack clack clack. The plastic reel, full of memories, continues to roll as the end of the film flaps against it.

May we reflect upon the past with a clarity of vision that only age and wisdom can provide.

Come Saturday Morning

Saturday mornings are, of course, time well spent, regardless of how you use the time. Once upon a time I went places on Saturday with my Dad, and then with my wife Cindy, and then with our daughter Laura. My Dad is 1200 miles away, so I don't get many opportunities to spend a Saturday with him, Cindy prefers to sleep in, and Laura is bit old to go anywhere with me hand-in-hand (she saves that now for her boyfriend, Bryan).

Saturday morning now means time alone, enjoying the sunrise, writing, and often listening to The Vinyl Cafe, an hour-long radio variety show hosted by Stuart McLean. Sometimes the podcast isn't the whole show, but I'll take what I can get. Ironically, I could listen to the entire show on Jefferson Public Radio while we lived in Medford OR, but now that we are a scant 20 miles from Canada, I can't find it on the radio. Fortunately the podcast means I can listen to the show at my leisure, which usually means jammies, coffee and the occasional purring cat.

Stuart's melodic voice can make anyone feel good and listen attentively. I rank it right up there with Jimmy Stewart, Richard Burton, Orson Welles and Garrison Keillor. Each can grab your attention and drop you smack dab in the middle of the story they are telling, making you feel as if you are part of the tale.

In case you haven't figured it out, I am a fan of radio shows. I remember listening to the CBS Radio Mystery Theater on KNX 1070 radio from Los Angeles, it's 50,000 watt clear-channel signal blazing across the airwaves and reaching places like June Lake in the Sierra, where at the end of a day of fishing, we would sit around the campfire and listen to sounds of a creaking door and E.G. Marshall inviting us join in the night's adventure.

A ravenous reader, radio theater helped feed my imagination, adding sounds and voices to the stories wound inside my head. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a movie as much as anyone. There are times, and I find them more often than before in my life, where I appreciate less visual bombardment and more thought-creating audio. Radio has the power to excite the imagination and involve the audience in the creative process, as we get to decide the design of the creaking door, the color of the speeding bus or the features of the main character.

Time for another cup of coffee.

Grand Old Ivy

There are no fewer than fifteen early morning festivals held across the US and Canada on February 2, held to watch groundhogs emerge from their burrows and somehow predict the weather. In 2009, six predicted an early spring, while the other nine indicated six more weeks of winter. For the groundhog, it's not an exact science.

When Punxsutawney Phil crawled out of his burrow in 2009, he predicted winter was staying around a while. I was laid off from my job a few weeks earlier, and the thought of winter hanging about for a while longer was not helping me feel any better about things. Fortunately, by the time spring really arrived as it consistently does on the vernal equinox, I was about to accept a new job.

This year, I don't need a groundhog to tell me spring is coming, and whether it takes six weeks to show up or not is truly inconsequential. Spring will come. Alexander Pope's poem, An Essay on Man, written in 1733, includes the now famous and oft-quoted line:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

Hey, you gotta have faith. Spring will arrive. Flowers will bloom. The grass will grow. The birds will sing. Things will get better.