Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
-
exhilarating
Imagine a jog on a quiet trail that wanders through the forest. Nothing but gentle breezes and sunlight filtering through the trees. All you can hear are birds in the distance. Your own little slice of heaven. Except you’re not breathing very well. In fact, you’re gasping for air as you run, trying to establish any kind of rhythm and focus, and wondering where the enjoyment is in all of this. But at some point further down the path a page turns. Your breathing relaxes and you’re moving easier. You can focus and you’re feeling good. What just happened? You found your “second wind”! And the sensation is nothing short of exhilarating.
I found my second wind on a recent run. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment it kicks in, but it’s similar to driving as you shift from a low gear to a higher one. Everything feels smoother and more efficient. In this instance I intended to run several miles but after the first couple of minutes I wanted to quit. I couldn’t get my breath and I wasn’t getting any satisfaction out of it. It’s like I wasn’t in the mood to be there at all. Yet I was familiar enough with the trail to know I was coming to an easier stretch – some downhills and flats, and a scenic tour of the pines. I figured the least I could do was to complete that portion before I started walking. Next thing I knew, I was even further down the trail and running with ease. My pace and breathing were controlled and comfortable. So I completed my run without ever stopping. There you have it: second wind.
When I run, I like to lose myself in thought because the creative juices seem to flow better. So it was somewhere out on the trail when I realized second wind applies to other aspects of life. A year or so ago I left a job I held for over fifteen years. Initially I was not comfortable losing the routine of the daily grind. The meetings and conference calls and people just vanished. There was an unsettling feeling of no longer running the rat race. There was the constant question of “what’s going on out there in the world?” as I kept myself busy at home. But eventually I found a comfort level with my new routine – several smaller commitments instead of a single all-consuming one. I became at ease with my new circumstances. Second wind.
This is not an advice column, but second wind may hint at a healthier outlook on life. Push through the “first wind” of a given situation, especially when the going is tough and uncomfortable. Give yourself the chance to get to the chapter where the pace and the rhythm and the conditions are favorable. Once you hit that second wind, life suddenly feels exhilarating.
-
eccentric
Our neighbor to the north is what is politely referred to as an eccentric. He is that guy you probably see in your own neighborhood now and then: an older gent who tends to stay to himself, with a bizarre sense of fashion, and the uniquely long, wispy, wild gray hair that completes the picture of a silver-screen creeper. I can’t help but stare every time I see him ambling about.
Our eccentric is home all the time but he’s not someone for the neighborhood watch. You would know this just by looking at his property. In addition to his adobe-style house – which looks like it was helicoptered in and dropped amidst the horse properties of the area – he has several outbuildings remaining from an old ranch that once commanded hundreds of acres. Collectively the buildings made for a quaint Colorado postcard when you looked out my window. Then creeper tore them all down, leaving only a large silo and an old wooden livestock loading ramp.
In the ten years we’ve lived here, we’ve only run into Mr. Crazy a handful of times. Most of those encounters reinforced the idea that he’s missing a few marbles. On one occasion, his cows escaped his property (run cows, run for your lives!) and he called my wife demanding she get on a horse and go after them. On another occasion I called the fire department on him, because he started a huge blaze inside the silo burning God-knows-what. (Weed? I don’t remember but maybe that’s because I got high). On yet another occasion – in a doctor’s office of all places – psycho showed up minutes after we did to see the same doctor. Stalker. I was quietly hoping the doctor would check him into a round room and give him a bag of marshmallows to play with. But alas, there he was back on his property the very next day.
Our latest encounter with loony – an experience that cements our neighbor’s status as out-to-lunch – involves our mailbox. It’s an innocent-looking picture, isn’t it? Boxes sitting quietly on a modest stand waiting patiently for their daily fill from USPS. In fact, the boxes are sitting on a brand new stand in a brand new location. They used to live on a stand further to the north – on screwball’s property.
Here’s the quick story. In mid-December, just in time to boost my holiday cheer, I received a notice from dingbat. The notice told me the stand underneath the mailboxes belonged to him, and he was taking it down because he decided to move his own mailbox to the other end of his property. So for the rest of us – my other two neighbors and I – we needed to find a new stand and relocate our mailboxes. Get er’ done in two weeks or the mailboxes would be left sitting on the ground. Unless, madman was quick to add, we’d each kick in $50. Then he’d leave the stand in place. $50? Heck, I can get a year’s worth of a P.O. box for less than that.
Anyway, I conferred with my neighbors and just for kicks we decided to… do nothing. No response to our notices and no $50. The ol’ wait and see. Well, wacko didn’t disappoint. Each of us received another notice just before New Year’s telling us “time was running out!” Well Happy New Year, old man; we still didn’t do anything.
Okay, so here’s the one part of the story where bats-in-his-belfry gets a little pat on the back (not a real one, mind you). The final notice we received – shortly after January 1 – was an official document from the USPS Postmaster telling us we had one week to relocate our boxes. Needless to say, end of story and see photo above.
One final oddity about Mr. Crazy. He hand-writes his notices in illegible #2 pencil scrawled on yellow pad. Most people would create a Word document and print it, or write a single note and then copy it. Weirdo wrote every one of his notices by hand. Who does that? What really goes on in that house over there?
If you’re concerned my lack-of-marbles neighbor will read this, I’ve probably made his day since he seems to enjoy pestering those who live nearby. I can just picture him over their behind the curtains of his out-of-place adobe, reading my blog and doing a jig while he cackles and throws Cheetos at his computer. Yeah, yeah – have your fun pal – we’re still not moving. Just don’t ask me to borrow a cup of sugar.
-
penchant
This week I attended a conference at my alma mater; the University of Notre Dame. The days were busy with leadership sessions, guest speakers, and networking, but there was ample time to walk the campus and experience the sights of times gone by. It is a place where pride, sentiment, and fondness combine to where I am unquestionably drawn to it. In a word, I have a penchant for Notre Dame.
What is immediately apparent about Notre Dame these days is its physical expansion. The entire campus of my undergraduate experience – now thirty years ago – is surrounded by new buildings, longer quads, and grander athletic facilities. As a whole it is breathtakingly impressive, even for those who have visited many times before. But when I cross the proverbial threshold from the new to the old; from the present to the past, to arrive in the sub-campus of my day, there comes a sense of calm and familiarity that can only come from experiences that leave a permanent imprint.
My walking tour took me past my academic and social haunts. I passed several buildings where I experienced the triumphs and tragedies of the classroom. I passed several dorms – including my own – where the memories of friends and roommates and dates and parties came back to me as if yesterday. It was easy to get wrapped up in the blanket of yesteryear.
Students were everywhere during my walk. I was delighted to see some of the same habits and activities. Frisbee on the quad. Boyfriend/girlfriend walking hand-in-hand. Dozens of undergraduates desperate for the spring sunshine relaxing in shorts and t-shirts. In that moment I wanted to be one of them again.
I captured my walk with a lot of photos. Every turn – whether for beauty or nostalgia – had me pausing and clicking. It was as if I was trying to capture the essence of my past and trap it inside of my phone. Which I realized, in hindsight, was simply not possible.
Notre Dame has some very special places. There are two lakes in the middle of campus with quiet walking paths around them. There is the Grotto – perhaps the most special of those places – where one can light a candle and say a prayer in the shadow of Notre Dame’s cathedral: the Basilica of Sacred Heart. And there are dozens of corners where you disappear behind a building or down a walkway, and suddenly realize you are alone in the peace and quiet of the moment.
I walked past one of the lakes for several minutes trying to recapture the moments and voices of my years. I sat at the Grotto trying to summon the spirits of such a significant time in my life. Even at the bookstore – where Notre Dame’s name or logo is imprinted on everything imaginable, I wandered the aisles in search of… in search of… I’m not sure what. Did I really believe I could purchase my memories in a shirt? Or a book? Or a photo?
Thirty years can change a place forever. New buildings, new students, and the personality of a new generation dissolve the images of what once was. And so, as I completed my journey down memory lane, I realized that what I sought, I already had with me. My years at Notre Dame; my experience that was like no other, rests proudly and permanently in my memories. No photograph or keepsake or paragraph will ever do it justice.
-
chagrin
A year or so ago I left my Kindle e-reader in an airplane seat pocket when I deplaned. Those seat pockets contain just a few things – an in-flight magazine, a plastic card that describes safety features, and the timeless airsickness bag. So there’s plenty of room to lose an e-reader in there. Does that sound like an excuse? Well imagine my utter frustration and disappointment – my chagrin – when I did it AGAIN this past weekend. Same drill. I stowed my Kindle in the seat pocket along with some magazines before takeoff. I did all of my reading in-flight. And then in my haste to deplane, I took the magazines and left the Kindle.
There’s an interesting dance you do when you realize you’ve left something on an airplane. It typically begins when you’re unpacking your bags. You take out the clothes and bathroom stuff and then you get down to the little things. About that time you start to wonder when a particular item will surface. Laptop – check. iPod – check. Kindle – oh no, not again. You double-check (okay, you triple-check) your suitcase and your carry-on. You tear your car apart to make sure it didn’t slip between the seats on the way home. And then after you’ve bounced around the bedroom cursing at the walls, you resign yourself to the fact that your Kindle is now in the hands of Delta Airlines. Or one of its enterprising employees.
Delta has a promising process to claim “lost articles”. You go on-line and fill out an official-looking form. You describe the lost article to prove it’s yours. And then you wait. And wait. After three days I got an email reply. It started positively enough. “Dear Mr. Wilson: The search continues… “. But the paragraphs that followed are collectively referred to as “form letter”. It was painfully obvious Delta was not going to drop everything to unearth my Kindle.
My theory on the current whereabouts of my Kindle has two endings. In one, a Delta “cleaner” finds my Kindle and pockets it; or gifts it to his/her child; or stocks the nice little black market he/she has going on the side. In the other, Delta doesn’t have enough employees to clean the seat pockets after every trip so my Kindle just continues on to the next destination. To the person who got my seat after me, I say “you’re welcome”.
Here’s a great invention inspired by my Kindle-down experience. It’s a wireless “leash”: a band that goes around your wrist with a removable Velcro button that can be attached to small personal items (i.e. Kindles). When the wrist band and the Velcro button are far enough apart, the band beeps and you realize something is not right. Not bad, huh?
In my defense for having abandoned my Kindle twice, a laptop is too big for the seat pocket so at least a portion would be visible. iPods and mobile phones are too small to risk putting in the seat pocket and forgetting about. But a Kindle? The perfect size. Small enough and flat enough to disappear into seat pocket oblivion.
This story will have an ending, happy or not. Remember, according to Delta, “the search continues”…
-
insentient
My 2002 “Red Rock Pearl” Acura has been my faithful companion for the last thirteen years. She’s racked up an impressive 285,000 miles on Colorado’s streets and highways. She’s weathered the extremes of winter blizzards, the instability of our roads (potholes! washboard!), and the novice driving skills of my formerly teenage kids. Through it all she’s given me safe passage with a minimum of maintenance and repairs.
Back in 2002 when I purchased her new, the salesman claimed she would go 400,000 miles. More than a decade later I’m inclined to agree. When I take her in for service and see the newer models, I’m reminded there are still plenty of miles left in her tank.
When you’ve been with a car this long you tend to forgive the little things. Like, the stereo holds six CD’s but at some point the mechanism jammed and now they’re all stuck inside my dashboard. Or the GPS system has mapping which is slowly dating itself because it pulls from a DVD instead of a wireless network. Or the gold accents I added when she was new that have long since fallen off the body. Hail damage and a run-in with a pasture fence (driver to remain nameless) have left her less than “cosmetically pleasing”.
Recently my wife and I have been talking about getting a new car. A newer-model Acura or perhaps another make. Either way, a replacement for the old girl. And to be honest, I don’t think “she” is happy about it.
Let’s address this “she” thing, shall we? Somewhere in her early years my kids decided my car was a girl. They named her “Roxanne”. Forget the blow to my masculinity; giving inanimate objects names and personalities is just weird. Cars have no feelings. They are insentient. Or are they?
Lately I’ve noticed the little things:
- At random the gear shift sticks on “P” and you have to jam it with a pen to get it to “D”.
- The little light in the glove box goes on and off, even when the door is closed.
- The air conditioner makes a nasty screechy mechanical noise when it comes to life. It only gives you cold air when it feels like it.
- Adjusting the stereo volume or tuning radio stations is an adventure. Whether you use the buttons on the steering wheel or the knob on the dashboard, you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s better to just drive in silence.
- The rear cargo hatch doesn’t cooperate. When it’s really cold the door freezes shut. When it’s mildly cold the door doesn’t stay in the “up” position by itself.
None of these inconveniences compromises my safety or demands an immediate fix. Instead, it’s as if “Roxy” is finding ways to discreetly disagree with the new car discussion. I guess I can’t blame her – she’s been delivering me safely from Point A to Point B for almost a quarter of my lifetime.
Hold the phone. Did I actually just consider my car’s point of view?
About Me
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
Follow Me On
Subscribe To My Newsletter
Subscribe for new travel stories and exclusive content.
