GROWING APPLES

I briefly dated a woman whose family owned an apple orchard. I’d like to say she was the apple of my eye, but alas we parted company. Obviously I wasn’t the apple in her dumpling either because she peeled back from contacting me, too. I guess the Master Baker just mixed us up together in the pie of life but ultimately we ended up in different slices.

She told me an amusing anecdote though. During the Vietnam War, her brother applied for a draft deferment. Deferments for farming families were legitimate. America still needed food to feed its citizens at home.

A civil servant at the Draft Board asked why he wanted a deferment. He said his family needed him to help work the farm. She asked what they farmed and was puzzled when he told her they grew apples. She lowered her glasses, squinted her eyes, and then asked, “Why don’t you just buy them at the store like other people?”

Duh!

A somewhat similar scenario happened today. I enthusiastically told a coworker I made some hummus from scratch yesterday and baked my own pita bread. Squinting his eyes, he asked, “Why didn’t you just go the store and buy it?”

Okay, so maybe making homemade hummus and baking my own pita bread is not as crucial to the American food supply as farming apples, but the question still seemed obtuse. It was similar to the comment I received when eating a piece of baklava at a restaurant and wondering aloud, “I wonder how you make phyllo dough?”

My dining companion stated in a matter-of-fact way, “You buy it at the store.”

Well, of course you can buy it at the store! But, I wanted to know how to make it.

Just having something is fine, but it’s human nature to explore. I mean why did Admiral Byrd go to the South Pole? If all he wanted was to frolic around in ice and snow, he could have hitch-hiked to Canada!

It’s not just enjoying an event through the experience of someone else, we all like to discover for ourselves. It’s what makes toddlers risk falling flat on their faces in order to take those first unsteady steps. Humans love to discover and conquer new things.

I didn’t just want to simply smear hummus on pita. I wanted to feel the dough in my fingers as I shaped the flat loaves. I craved the aroma of fresh garlic intoxicating me as I ground it up with chick peas in my food processor. I yearned for the excitement of effort. I let it taunt my desire as I worked feverishly toward the culmination — savoring the pungent dip spread across the firm, smooth surface of a freshly baked pita.

I came. I conqured. I ate! The experience was in the journey, not the destination.

I just searched online for a recipe to make phyllo dough. I think buying it at the store is definitely easier, but what’s the challenge in that? Perhaps the next item on my list of conquests is making my own phyllo dough.

Hey, maybe I’ll buy some apples . . . No wait, I’ll grow my own apples and then bake a pie topped with homemade phyllo dough.

TEA PARTY

Two hundred years before my birth the colonies were still under British control. About two hundred years before that, Galileo was born. Neither of those historical events really seems that long ago. But think about all the changes occurring in your life in just the past year. Multiply that change by two hundred. Wow! Now, multiply the change by four hundred. Double wow!

When we speak of history, especially if we’ve done any in-depth reading of certain time periods, we develop a familiarity with it. We romanticize it, seeing parallels within our current lives which extend that familiarity to intimacy. We believe we actually “know” those periods and the major figures within them. But, of course, we don’t — that is, discounting any clear recollection of past life memories when our former incarnations were truly there.

We conveniently ignore all the changes occurring over the centuries between the earlier time period and our lifetime, and then latch onto some similarity that strikes us significantly. Hence, we go beyond believing and accept as fact we “know” that earlier historical time.

Certainly there are similarities. There is no doubt, since similarities between people, as well as time periods, outweigh differences. However, the differences between time periods influence the responses made to similar circumstances. A response made in an earlier time might not be appropriate for now, regardless of how familiar the romanticized nostalgia feels.

For example, consider two mothers who have sick children. One mother and child lived a few centuries ago and the other pair lives today. A mother today shares in the same worry and agony at her child’s suffering as did the mother of centuries ago. She no doubt has an intimate understanding of the earlier mother’s fear. However, their responses are different. The mother from centuries ago administered blood letting to release ill humors from her child. Would today’s mother do that?

Again, think back to your life a year ago. Did anything recently happen similar to an event from then? Are all the factors still equal, calling for an exact duplication of your response? Or have conditions changed to the extent that a replay of your previous action would lead to disastrous results? Yet, how often do we ignore the change in conditions and replicate our earlier response, based on habit, laziness, or stubbornness? If you’re anything like me, probably more often than you care to admit.

Change occurs constantly. Despite our most valiant efforts to thwart it or our refusal to acknowledge it, change still occurs. We can sometimes delay it. We may have a hand in shaping it. But, we cannot stop it. The best we can do is accept it and develop new strategies to resolve recurring situations surrounded by new circumstances. We may use our hard earned experience to pluck nuggets of useful elements from yesterday’s decisions, but we reinforce them with today’s tools.

Two hundred years before my birth the colonies were still under British control. Today we live under different control. In Boston a “tea party” led to significant changes. Will following the same course really work effectively?

ASS

I have an ass. I may be biased, but I think it’s a fine ass. I love my ass!

My ass is over half a century old and been with me my whole life. With good fortune, it will follow me to my grave. We are inseparable and I take my ass with me everywhere I go.

When I was younger, my ass was little. As I grew, it got bigger. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a big ass. It doesn’t stick out like a caboose or wide enough you need a lunar rover to traverse its girth. When I bend over I don’t suffer unsightly butt-crack. My ass is proportional to my size and my size is in the normal ranks of the BMI (Body Mass Index) at 23.1. So, my ass has grown since infancy and its maturity keeps pace with reason.

We are a team and support each other. My ass serves me well by offering a cushion when I sit, a portal to dispose wastes, and a shapely curve that keeps my pants from sliding down. It’s even a topic of conversation, as some women comment I have a nice ass. I like hearing that.

There was also a man who made the same comment, but my reaction was diametrically opposed to what I feel when women offer that opinion. It’s true the context in delivering words is just as important, or maybe more so, than the words themselves.

I watch my ass. So, we enjoy a symbiotic relationship. I try to eat healthy, so as not to pile mounds of fat onto it. I regularly perform yoga and exercise to maintain my tight ass characteristic.

After I eat, particularly when I enjoy any dish chock full of beans, my ass treats me to an impromptu symphony. However, I’ve noticed other people turn their noses up at the tunes it toots out. Appreciation is a matter of personal taste.

Over Christmas I tend to overeat and my bulging butt fits too snug in my pants. My ass tells me it’s time to either regain control or learn to live life as a fat boy. It also instigates its own ornery idiosyncrasies, like hemorrhoids. When they flare up, I feed my ass some suppositories for a few days until its swollen persona shrinks. The hemorrhoids never completely go away, but they’re manageable. It’s funny how in life there are always maintenance activities required and complications that threaten the harmony of any situation.

Of course, there are other times when my ass suffers agony through no fault of its own; like if I get the flu or when I pig out on hot salsa. My poor ass has absolutely nothing to do with bringing on these disasters, but yet it bears the brunt of their violent eruptions. When that happens, my ass hangs on for dear life until the intensity subsides. Everything feels pain due to actions occurring beyond its control.

I love my ass. It’s one of many things between my head and toes I’m grateful for.

KUDZU

Trees are ubiquitous. They physically represent the concept of growth. Trees serve as a great metaphor because they grow in every direction.

Trees grow upward, stretching toward the heavens. Their trunks bear most of the weight. Trees taking the time to increase their girth in proportion to their height provide a sturdy frame upon which to rise.

As they grow tall, they branch out sideways as far as their multiple “arms” will reach. Given the opportunity, their limbs extend outward to one another or anything residing close to them. They touch and coexist with whatever is beside them, as if embracing neighbors.

Tree roots grow downward. They slowly twist and turn as they burrow through the earth, creating a foundation strong enough to weather most of the turbulent storms Mother Nature unleashes.

When they’re damaged, even dismembered, trees recover and continue growing. Each year they produce seeds, cleverly partnering with wind and animals to perpetuate themselves by propagating new offspring in different locations. Their persistent resolve is a tribute to the power of the life force itself.

Many other flowering plants sprout, bloom, and die all within a single season. Trees grow slowly and exist for a long time. They generally outlast, sometimes by decades and even centuries, the hardier perennial flowers which span a few years.

One fast growing plant that threatens trees is kudzu. Native to Japan, kudzu arrived in the United States less than two hundred years ago. It’s a vine that shoots rapidly, invading the surrounding flora at relatively break-neck speed.

Kudzu grows tendrils in any direction it finds opportunity. These tendrils attach themselves to other plants, walls of buildings, and climb up the bark of trees. As they cling, gaining further territory, they wrap themselves around tree limbs. Climbing higher and higher, the tendrils’ grasp restricts the growth of tree branches. Left unhindered the tendrils increase in thickness and strength to the point they pull tree limbs down.

Cutting these large tendrils releases kudzu’s immediate hold. The tree gains some respite as it recovers and continues its growth. But, insidious new tendrils grow to replace them. Their threadlike thinness makes them almost invisible to see until they grow thicker and again present a clear danger.

It’s virtually impossible to eliminate kudzu. Digging up the root ball effectively removes that plant’s ability to spread its harm, but new plants spring from other root balls and resume the battle. It’s as if all individual kudzu vines constitute a single network. They are extensions of the same core reality existing solely to destroy harmony.

Fear is like kudzu. Fear starts as thin wisps wrapping around us. As it gains strength, its pull restricts our growth. The vines multiply and thicken, pulling us down, threatening to smother us by sheer volume.

We can prune back fear, giving ourselves room to recover. But, it’s a constant struggle. Fear is ever-present. Its insidious fingers constantly reach and restrict our harmony. We cannot eradicate fear, but by persistence we can cut off each vine when we see it.

Fear is to humans as kudzu is to trees.

RECYCLED CANDLES

Hello, my name is Dave and I recycle candles.

Hello, Dave.

I burn candles at dinner parties, like when I invite people over for Thanksgiving and other special events. I also burn them while I do yoga and during meditation. Since I don’t burn them continuously day and night, they last a while. But, by doing both yoga and meditation on a regular basis, I go through a fair amount of candles.

I didn’t start out recycling candles. I just tossed the ends away after they burned too short to light anymore. I was wasteful and I’m ashamed. I started to recover, one candle at a time.

I had an idea of reusing the ends and making new candles. Like most ideas, it was vague at first. It started as a seed of awareness which took root and sprouted. I only half-heartedly pursued it. I never told anyone and kept it hidden. It was my little secret.

Instead of pitching them in the trash, I stored the unused ends in a bag. When that bag became full, I dumped them into a larger bag. I stored it on an empty shelf in my meditation room. Then, I started a second bag, followed by a third.

When the shelf filled, I decided it was time to quit thinking about it and commit myself to action. It embarrassed me admitting I didn’t how to proceed, but I read about it and gave some thought of how to achieve success. Then I actually made the first step.

I purchased a roll of wick from the local craft store. Returning home I placed several candle ends into an electric rice maker until I could fit no more. I switched it on and slowly the solid ends melted into a pool.

The bits of partially burned wicks embedded in the candle ends fell to the bottom of the pan. Using a slotted spoon, I scooped them up and threw them out. Specks of burned wick too small for the slotted spoon to capture lined the bottom of the pan. As the ends melted down, I added more which also melted. I scooped out their unused wicks, too. I continued until the pan was full.

Lining up old half-pint canning jars left over from making salsa, I poured molten wax into each one using a ladle. The ladling motion churned the specks of burned candle wick. Some of it ended up in the jars. Instead of viewing it with disdain as unsightly flotsam, their presence displays the progress I’ve made on my road to recovery.

Cutting the roll of new wick into appropriate lengths, I knotted the ends and dropped one into each jar. I taped the upper end onto wooden skewers I’d snapped into pieces long enough to rest crossways atop the jars. The submerged wick curled a bit, but remained fairly centered. The candles will burn sufficiently well.

As they cooled, the center of each candle shrank, leaving a crater in the middle. Using a hand-held propane torch I keep in the garage, I melted the outer walls of the candles. The wax filled in the craters and made the candle tops level.

From what was previously discarded waste, I breathed life into it, infusing it with renewed purpose. I now have a set of candles to burn.

Hello, my name is Dave and I recycle candles.

TENNIS ANYONE?

Tennis is a popular game here. While I personally do not play, I can understand why it’s popular. Due to our mild winter climate it’s possible to play all year long.

To me, tennis is a monotonous sport. One player hits a ball and the other tries hitting it back. When one person misses or it goes out of bounds, the other player scores a point. The whole game consists of a series of strokes where each player hits the ball and tries returning it. The game goes back and forth, forth and back. That’s it. Nothing more.

Games can be short if one player simply dominates or a player screws up shot after shot. Then again, games can go on for a long time; seemingly ad infinitum if both successfully return the ball over and over and over again.

There is excitement if one or both players make spectacular shots. But, most of the game bounces from one side to the other hypnotically. In a way, the action sort of resembles watching a horizontal yoyo looping from left to right, then right to left, on and on.

To add another layer of skill, the ball must clear a low net on each pass. And, the space on which the playing surface resides is limited. A tennis court has lines of demarcation clearly showing what is in and out of bounds. Without the keen eye of a referee, it can be challenging to maintain absolute assurance neither player violates these lines. Of course, even referees make mistakes. There are no absolutes.

Mostly, I imagine, they stick to the rules, but occasionally there are infractions. Sometimes the offending party admits it, sometimes not. Sometimes the guilty party gets caught, but not always. Players just muddle through as best they can with the conditions they have to work with.

Tennis has a specialized scoring system. The first point scores at 15. The second point scores at 30. The third at 40 and the last point is simply called “game.” Hence, there are four points, unless there’s a tie at 40-40, or “40 all” as they say. A tie at that point is “deuce” and the only way a player can win the game is by scoring two consecutive points.

I’m sure there’s a reason they don’t count points 1, 2, 3, and 4, but I don’t know what it is. It seems every game complicates its scoring with specialized nomenclature and you can’t play effectively if you don’t know the vocabulary. If a player has no points, they don’t have zero, they have “love.” Perhaps it’s a reference to the Beatles song “All You Need Is Love.” I guess if you have no points, you still have love. Anything beyond “love” is a bonus!

Hey! Tennis is lot like life. Tedium defines much of life with occasional bursts of excitement. Most people play fairly, but falter from time to time, sometimes intentionally. Occasionally they fess up, but at other times they slide by, unless caught. Life, like tennis, proceeds smoothly when played with integrity.

Life is a popular game here. I play all year around, regardless of the climate.

SALT OF THE EARTH

I have a bottle of Himalayan salt at home. The label describes how Himalayan salt contains all the essential minerals vital to optimum health. It warns that other salts lack these minerals and extols the superiority of this import from the Himalayas, as if it were the salt of the earth! Er, well, okay, I guess it is the salt of the earth. But hey, salt is salt. Right?

Why is Himalayan salt better than salt from somewhere else, like say, Detroit?

I grew up in Detroit hearing of the salt caverns right beneath the city streets. As a child I was fascinated to think there were hundreds of miles of tunnels zigzagging under the entire metro area. My child’s imagination ran rampant with images of miners digging deep into the earth and excavating this essential mineral. They created catacombs stretching across vast distances. Undoubtedly they occasionally disturbed ancient monsters from their centuries long, darkness induced hibernation. Great battles took place after waking the slumbering behemoths. The beasts used their iron clad tentacles equipped with razor sharp claws attempting to wrest control and climb to the surface. In my youthful eyes, these warrior miners were thankless heroes protecting humanity miles below the surface.

Well, it turns out the mines only extend under a section of southwest Detroit and into a couple neighboring suburbs. In addition, the environment is too inhospitable even for insects and vermin, let alone terrifying monsters. So, it’s not like there was a subterranean jungle thriving under my feet. Still, it’s exciting to know the tunnels burrow down about a quarter mile underground where people actually work.

The mines in Detroit mostly produce rock salt, melting the snow and ice accumulating on northern roads during the winter. At one time, however, the food industry used it. So, why is it inferior to Himalayan salt?

I imagine there’s some kind of purity issue which makes Himalayan salt more desirable. But, there must be methods to purify salt. Then, of course, there are those vitally essential minerals the Himalayan salt P.R. folks make such a “to do” about. Okay, I admit there may be some trace minerals more abundant in one location of the world over another, but does that make it vastly superior?

The main ingredient is salt, whether it comes from the Himalayas or Detroit, and humans need salt to stay alive. I imagine Detroit salt is just as potent at providing the necessary requirements to live. Maybe it’s only the mystique of the Himalayas that makes its salt highly prized. Unless you live in Asia, the Himalayas are very far away and they have an exotic aura to those of us separated from them by an ocean or two. Even just saying the word “Himalaya” conjures up mysterious images of Tibetan Buddhists swirling around in brightly colored robes performing sacred and secret rituals, as well as world class explorers risking life and limb to reach the mountain’s summit. Strip away the romantic images and all you have left is salt.

This whole “my salt is better than your salt” smacks of the “us against them” bane cursing humanity. “Our natural spring water is better than your municipal tap water.” “Our neighborhood is better than yours.” “My dad can beat up your dad.” Ugh!

Salt is salt. Use it to spice your food and dissolve in your neti pot. Spice up your life with tolerance and gratitude. You don’t have to import that from the Himalayas.

CHANGE

As we get older we want larger printed words, but smaller meals. We find our tolerance for cold weather diminishes, but our tolerance of other people grows larger. We also find we take longer to do things we hastily zipped through before.

Everything changes.

My first job was cleaning up in a butcher shop. I was about 15 when I started. By the time I graduated high school I was learning how to cut meat. At that time, I couldn’t imagine a meal without meat. Now, I often prepare vegetarian meals at home or order them in restaurants. I still eat meat, but it’s no longer a requisite item. If you tried telling me my eating habits would change so much, I’d have laughed. But, over the years my tastes gradually changed.

Change is subtle.

After my butchering days I dabbled in sales and then retail management. After that I went back to college, earning a bachelor’s degree in statistics. Having entered into a profession, I assumed my days of study were essentially done. However, after a few years I began working on my master’s degree. A few years after obtaining that degree, I began a program of study and became ordained as an interfaith minister. A couple years ago I started acting, which involves both study and practice. Who knows what will interest me next.

Change is constant.

My statistics career began in the Detroit area where I worked in the automotive industry. I grew up in Detroit. I hoped to some day move out of Metropolitan Detroit and go north, but I never intended to leave Michigan. Then things turned sour in the automotive industry. I lost my job and almost immediately found another job which seemed ideal, except for one condition. To accept the job I left my home, my friends, and my family to move to North Carolina.

Change is sometimes drastic.

There were certainly challenges in re-establishing myself in a new community. However, in ten years of living in North Carolina I’ve developed new interests and made new friends. Opportunities to sample an array of different experiences abound. I’ve grown in ways I never imagined.

Change brings growth.

Some of my experiences allow me to soar on the winds of success. I bask in warm updrafts while gliding unabated. The exhilaration of success fuels my enthusiasm and pushes me forward to accept new challenges and take greater risks.

Change is exciting.

Other experiences bring me crashing down onto the jagged rocks of failure where I lie torn, bruised, and bloodied. In my time of recovery I realize everything does not always work out as I desire or expect. I become grateful for all the blessings which grace me and I accept the reality that loss also occurs.

Change is humbling.

Failures offer the gift of understanding. Their lessons strengthen my resolve. I develop strategies to overcome adversity, leading me onward to greater success.

Change is a gift.

I was a child when I became aware enough to realize I was somehow different than the environment in which I exist. Now I’m a man, fully aware I am separate from my environment but yet still connected. My interactions within it set up cause and effect situations that open up new pathways on my journey.

Everything changes.

LEMONS

They grow navel oranges. Why don’t they grow navel lemons? Doesn’t that seem backwards? Lemon seeds are far more repugnant than orange seeds.

Oranges are generally squeezed for juice or eaten whole. When making juice, a strainer easily catches the seeds, making their disposal simple. When eating an orange, it’s easy to extract any seeds using your teeth and spit them out. At least guys spit them out. Ladies may prefer daintily depositing them into a napkin. Either way, removing the seeds is not difficult.

On the other hand, a major purpose for lemons is as a garnish for drinks, like iced tea. Servers at restaurants slide lemon slices onto the rims of glasses. People preferring the tart flavor can twist the lemon juice into their tea and drink heartily.

The problem is most lemon slices contain at least one and often several seeds. These nefarious seeds sink to the bottom, like mines lurking at the bottom of a sea. They’re often sucked up through straws and swallowed. The only warning drinkers get is a slight rolling sensation across the tongue before a seed washes down their gullets.

Even without using a straw, seeds pose problems. That last swallow in a near empty glass is usually chock-full of seeds. Not taking that last swallow still doesn’t eliminate the threat because the act of slicing lemons furthers exacerbates this issue. Whole seeds get cut in half or into smaller fragments which float. People swallow them too when guzzling straight from the glass.

About the only real solution is painstakingly picking the seeds out before squeezing the lemon slices. However, this is messy. Little bits of lemon pulp stick to fingers like glue and wet fingers smell like you polished wood furniture all day with lemon oil. Trying to wipe your hands on napkins is fruitless. The pulp just smears and spreads. It then clings to the table, your fingers, clothing, beards, cheeks, or whatever you touch. God forbid you touch your eyes!

The best way to remove lemon bits is go straight to the rest room holding your hands out in front of you, like a surgeon walking into the operating room. Won’t that make quite an impression on a first date! Then, wash before you do anything else in the rest room, or you take the chance of transferring lemon juice and pulp to other unmentionable body parts. Failing to wash first may make that first date even more precarious if it goes well and you end up together later that night in an intimate setting.

Many things seem backward. We have children when we’re young, but it’s generally after we’re older that we’re wise enough to raise them well. I mean we’re just maturing ourselves while raising our kids. Look at the patience grandparents exhibit which wasn’t in their command when their own kids were younger.

Retirement is another backwards thing. People usually retire after working thirty or forty years. By then, they’re too old to enjoy many of the activities they held such passion for a few decades earlier.

Whatever the problems, this life is what we have. We find ways to cope. They aren’t always pretty or convenient, but we manage to do the best we can with what we have to work with.

Navel oranges and seeded lemons seem backward. Maybe if I turn around and view them from another perspective everything will look right.

BIRTHDAYS AND CONEYS

My mom died. My dad died, too. That was twenty-five and twenty-four years ago, respectively. I’m over the shock of it, but there are still holes in my heart which will never fill.

I know everyone’s experience differs, but parents are about the only people who truly love us unconditionally. When they’re gone, we lose our oldest and staunchest allies.

I grieved for a long time, but I no longer lament. If I lamented now, it would just rekindle my grief. That doesn’t mean I try to purge them from my memory. I still think of them regularly and miss them a lot.

I don’t dread when the anniversaries of their deaths approach. In fact, I don’t even remember the exact dates of their death. I know they both died in October, one year apart, but the exact days elude me. Rather than lamenting their deaths, I shift my focus to their births. Each year on their respective birthdays, I celebrate! Brandi, my daughter, celebrates with me.

On my dad’s birthday we go out for chili dogs, or coney islands as they’re called in Detroit where I grew up. Why do we get coneys? That was the meal I shared with my father on his last birthday before he died.

On that birthday I dropped in unannounced. Mom had died the year before and I wanted to make sure dad didn’t celebrate his birthday alone. When he opened the door I said, “C’mon old man, we’re going out for your birthday!” I’ll never forget the smile that brightened his face.

He asked, “Where do you want to go?” I suggested a restaurant, but less than enthusiastically he muttered, “Oh, way out there?”

The restaurant was on 18 Mile Road and Van Dyke in Sterling Heights, Michigan. My dad lived on 15 Mile Road and Van Dyke. His reluctance to drive three miles surprised me. Then, with widening eyes and a rising crescendo in his voice, he countered, “There’s a coney joint just down the street.”

Getting it, I asked, “Do you want coneys?” He nodded vigorously and a bright smile lit up his face again. We went for coneys and chili fries. It’s been tradition ever since.

When mom’s birthday rolls around we follow no such detailed tradition, but we generally go out and quietly sing happy birthday at our table. One year, after overhearing us, the wait staff rushed over with a hot fudge sundae and sang their usual birthday jingle. They all seemed a bit uneasy when we explained, but they were still gracious. Actually, since hot fudge sundaes were mom’s favorite, it all worked out for the best. Brandi and I polished off the sundae and thanked mom, who probably winked as she looked down on us.

Every situation, no matter how tragic or sad it feels, can be turned around by approaching it from a different perspective. Embracing the positive beats wallowing in the negative every time.

Mom and dad both died and I miss them terribly. Celebrating the anniversary of their births keeps my appreciation alive and well for all the gifts they gave me.