With Time on My Hands

            As the  day came to an end, I became aware that I had some time on my hands. No, really, I had time on my hands. I was putting away my freshly washed socks and as I placed them in the drawer, I realized that in the bottom of the drawer were a number of old watches, maybe  a dozen or more.

         There were two watches that were owned by my grandfather, including a pocket watch and chain. There were several from my father and then there were the ones that I had purchased over the years. Among the collection was the first watch I had ever owned, a Christmas gift from my grandparents, engraved on the back with the year and date. There was a watch from wife with my college alma mater on its face.  

       There were no great finds here in monetary terms, only the value in memories.  Each watch had stopped at a different hour and different minute.

          As I pondered the fate of the collection, I began to think about the concept of time. It is one thing that every person alive in the world has in common. Male, female, black, white or Hispanic, we are truly created equal, at least when it comes to time. Sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour and twenty four hours in a day. It is what we do with that time during a lifetime that makes us different.

          There is the neighbor down the street who appears to be involved in every committee going in town. How does he find the time? So what if he cuts his grass after the sun has gone down while I am trying to watch television, or the soccer mom, taking the kids to practice, then racing home to cook dinner and out to the PTA meeting.

          I remember trying to cram as much into a twenty four hour period as I possibly could. The job and family demanded it, life demanded it, or so I thought. But the second hand continued to tick off the seconds at a consistent, rhythmic pace, the same for everyone on the planet. No person’s second is any longer or shorter than anyone else’s.

           But that is where the similarity ends. While each minute and hour may be the same, it is the total amount of time we spent living that varies. There are many who live well into old age while others die at a young age because of illness or some catastrophic event that cuts short a life. One only needs to read the obituary pages in the local newspaper to see the range of ages at which people lose a life to accident, illness or some other cause.

          As I looked at the watches in my hand, each one had stopped at a different moment and I began to understand that ‘time’is a gift.  I thought about how much time I had wasted. That time wasted was something I would never gain back, no mater how long I lived. It was gone. What I decided at that moment was that I didn’t want to waste any more time again.

        (By the way, I don’t wear a watch any more.)

         

The Cold Within

   Every once and a while a book, article or poem crosses my path and attracts my attention. What I have come to appreciate since becoming part of the journalistic world is how difficult it sometimes can be to put thoughts down on paper and have them make sense to the reader. I know what I want to say, but the challenge becomes selecting the words so others understand my thoughts. It is easy to come up with words. Our vocabulary has too many of them. It is more difficult to choose the ones that express the emotion and passion I wish to share.

   I have come to admire those writers who make the art of writing seem so effortless. Whether it is a news story or one of these crazy columns, it has sharpened my writing skills and given me a new understanding of how difficult it can be to express oneself in written words.

   I am always on the lookout for something that causes me to pause, ponder the message and challenge my thinking. It is somewhat of an test for my personal grounding and values.

   Several years ago I came across a poem. I had all but forgotten about it until I found packed away in a folder with some meaningless piece of paper as I cleaned and straighten up the garage. So much for my appreciation of literature, right?

   As I read it again for the first time in many years, I was struck by its message, simple, yet a revelation about people and human behavior. A cold chill ran up and down my spine ,along with that “aha” moment, as I thought about the sticks of wood that I often hold in my hand.

   I do not remember how the poem came into my possession or anything about the writer other than his name. I believe I was told it was written by a high school student.  Whether that is true or not, I don't know. But regardless of his age, the message is insightful and packed with some powerful life lessons.

   So for your reading pleasure..............

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold,

Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.

Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,

For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way, saw one not from his church,

And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch,

Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich.

The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,

And how to keep what he had earned from lazy\, shiftless poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,

For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,

Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin,

They didn't die from the cold outside, they died from the the cold within.

Jay Patrick Kinney

I wrote this column several months ago at the beginning of the Penn State investigation, so some of it's content will sound dated. But, periodically something will appear on the news regarding this monster and the question I ask is..."why do we keep giving this person the celebrity he does not deserve. Most recently he was labeled a ''prolific writer as he works on his second book, while in jail. He's prolific alright!! Prolific at ruining hundreds of lives!

500 Words

Disgusting, Despicable and Discouraging

I usually try to stay away from this type of column. It is easier to write about humorous or light-hearted topics. But this hasn't been necessarily a light-hearted week. The news has been filled with the evolving story coming out of Penn State University and the child abuse that went undetected. Maybe. Unnoticed. Maybe. But when discovered, unreported without a doubt. The truly sad part of these events are the young children who have lived with the experiences and I suspect fear, caused by an adult, a coach and someone in control.

The actions of the coach involved are truly disgusting at least. As I watched him paraded from location to location in news reports, dressed in suit and tie and smiling for the camera, I wonder what was going on in his sick and damaged mind . What kind of childhood did he experience that caused him do the things he did .Was he able to comprehend the emotional damage he inflicted on his victims. There are no excuses or explanations, although some will try.

But he will get his due, spending a major portion of the remainder of his life in prison, at public expense of course. No more nicely tailored suits now. Everything will be prison orange.

To allow something to remain hidden and buried for so long within the hallowed walls of such a famous institution speaks to what we value. Perhaps it speaks more to what we fear. A storied program, a legendary coach, and thousands of graduates are now scarred by the actions of one very sick individual and the inaction by those around him. How many students walked the campus during those years, unaware of what was occurring in the locker room and shower, where young boys, I suspect, with tears streaming down their faces, failed to understand what was really taking place. If those walking the campus had known, what would they have done?

At some level, it was reassuring that at least some began to put life in a context and understand that there is more to life than a football team and a coach. After the initial reaction of the students, the emotions of many shifted from anger and misunderstanding to one compassion and a better understanding of what really had taken place. The reality of life is that it could have been one of them or worse, their little brother.

Now, here comes the disturbing part. What happened at Penn State, where young children were sexually abused, takes place every day, someplace. It may take place at a local gym, a church, a family bedroom or the back seat of a car. It is one adult, in control, destroying the life and taking away the innocence of a young child, for a few brief minutes of pleasure. Perhaps it is someone establishing, in the child's mind, a new norm of 'acceptable' behavior.

As a school superintendent I remember the evening with such clarity when I received a phone call at home asking that I come to the high school as soon as possible. “There were some things I need to see.”

On a bulletin board, tucked away in the corner of a coach's office but out of general view, were pictures of students in varying degrees of dress and undress. On the floor were letters and notes to and from students, but one in particular caught my attention. The evening resulted in a phone call to the local police, a phone call to the student's parents and eventually a locker search.

What is discouraging and somewhat frightening for me is what we don't know. We are generally realistic in our view of life to know that these types of actions and behaviors occur, but we don't know why. Maybe we are just not willing to learn the real reasons why. It's just not a high priority on most people's radar, until something like this happens.

You Know You’re Getting Older When…

   I know that age is a relative concept, relative on any given day in mind, body and spirit. I used to think that someone was old if they were fifteen years older than I was and someone was young if they were fifteen years younger and really young when they asked if the car had been invented when I was a kid. (Don’t be smart!)

   But as I find myself progressing up the age scale, there are some other signs to remind me that I am not as young as I used to be.

   I don’t race to the door anymore to go into a store. If the door doesn’t open automatically I often find a teenager offering to hold the door for me. Do I look that frail and feeble? But the thought is nice and the offer polite and genuine. (That’s a topic for another column.) What throws me is when they use the word ‘sir’. ”May I help you... sir?” Sir was always relegated to my father or grandfather.

   You may realize that you are getting older when one of your best friends becomes the night light that lights a pathway to the bathroom in the middle of the night. That never used to be a problem. So its one less glass of water before bedtime, but that doesn’t always work either.

   I can remember when the ‘early bird special’ was an early morning sale at Porteous, not dinner served at three o’clock in the afternoon at the local ”all you can eat buffet”. Oh well, the parking lot is too full to stop now anyhow. (Anyone remember Porteous besides me?)

   I still see myself as a product of the 1960’s. What a great generation! The world was a mass of confusion, the music and literature spoke of a counter-culture and rebellion. The Beatles, Mick Jagger’s Rolling Stones and Peter, Paul and Mary were the rage in the music world. It was a generation defined by Woodstock, long hair and drug use. Interesting how some things never seem to change. Is that Mick Jagger being helped to the stage for his next concert?

   The type of the mail being delivered to the house seems to have changed. What used to be advertising for travel and sports equipment has shifted to direct mail prescriptions services and senior citizen assisted living facilities. The highlight of the month is the arrival of the AARP magazine. Who will be on the cover this month? Do I look that old?

   Growing older isn’t all bad though. In fact there are some real pleasures. Grandchildren, sleeping late (after the trip to the bathroom), traveling during the ‘off season’, senior discounts and not wearing a wrist watch are just several of the rewards.

   There is a perspective about life that being older offers. Each generation feels that its problems and issues are new and unique when in reality we have been there before, just with a different twist. It is unfortunate that we can’t learn from our mistakes.

   See how much wiser I am now that I am older?

Looking For a Little Sole

  I have a confession to make. I love shoes. There is no question that I own too many pairs. I would dare say that I may own more shoes than my wife and my daughters, combined.

   I took a very unofficial poll the other day, asking how many pairs of shoes people owned. Few gave me an exact number but most responded by saying “too many.” So what is it with people and shoes?

   The shoe industry, although a dying industry in the U.S., still does a great job of convincing us that we need shoes. Something for every occasion, in multiple colors and now designed to improve our health or at least the shape of our legs and butt.

  First we need an all purpose athletic shoe. Next, a shoe for leisure time and dress. My personal choice here is the boat shoe, even though I do not own a boat. For something a bit more formal, maybe with a blazer, I like the loafer and preference for the Bass Weejun. I can remember a time when you could return the Bass shoe to the factory and get the sole replaced at no charge. Times have changed.

   Not sure of the color to purchase? Then you may want to consider purchasing a cordovan colored pair and a black pair. And to be a bit more stylish, tassels add a nice touch, in cordovan and black of course.

   For the more formal attire, a shoe with laces is a must. Again, something in brown and black may be required.

   Stormy weather often creates a problem, so boots and foul weather footware are an important part of the collections. Here I recommend the LL Bean boot. Not only does it keep your feet dry, but also looks ‘pretty cool’ with a suit and tie. It is hard to give in to tradition, but the LL Bean boot or duck shoe, an offspring, have definitely moved from the woods to the board room with style.

   Sandals are an important part of the shoe collection. It is not so much a statement about foot ware as it is about the change of seasons. A few warm days and we know that summer is on the way.

   From this point on, the purchase of shoes and other foot attire becomes an irrational pleasure. Who can resist shoes on sale or something you already own in several different color. Seriously, how many pairs of tassel loafer does one really need, especially if you can only wear one pair at a time?

   If we were really honest, we would admit that there are probably only several pairs of shoe that we wear on a regular basis and we wear them because they are comfortable.

   My suggestion? Take those shoes that have never been out of the box or are covered with dust and give them to the Salvation Army or Good Will, There are many people who really need a new sole, even if it has a tassel.

Does Spelling Count?

When I waz a kid, I skipt skool a lot and nevr learnd to rite or spell good. (Actually, I learned how to spell the word ‘good’ because it rhymed with shood.) I usually skipt on Mondays and Fridays. On Mondays, the teacher assined the new list of spelling words to studee and on Friday, we had the test. But I was usually abcent. The other kidz made fun of me and the more fun they made, the more I skipt.

Sometimes when I was in skool, the teacher would tell us we had to rite something. The little blond hair girl who sat in front of me would always raise her hand and ask, “Does spelling count?” The other kidz would laff and I would slide down in my chair trying to hide under my desk.

One day someone said to me, “Do not worry if you can not spell well. Someday there will be a machine that will correct all of your spelling mistakes. The machine will be called a computer and it will have spell check.”

“Wow,” I said and decided at that point that I would just drop out and wait for this new machine. It was two hard to learn to spell and the other kidz just made fun of me anyhow.

Time passed and I grew older. That person was right. The computer, with spell check, did correct my spelling errors although I think the machine was sometimes overwhelmed even by my mistakes. But I began to realize that how I spelled, spoke and wrote was as important as how I dressed or combed my hair. I began to understand why the kids made fun of me. They thought I was stupid. But I really wasn’t.

This is not necessarily a true story, although spelling was difficult for me. But the feelings and emotions expressed are felt by many who struggle with poor spelling and are made fun of in school.

Does spelling count? You bet it does! How you speak, write and spell tell just as much about you as what you wear or where you live. Misspellings on a resume, job application or cover letter will not go unnoticed and can mean the difference between getting an interview or not.

The other day I received a letter in the mail. Although it was a form letter and had been mailed to many others including me explaining some changes in an insurance policy, it contained two spelling errors. Does spelling count? What happened to the spell check?

What really concerns me is the shift to texting. Shortened phrases and abbreviations are rapidly taking the place of complete sentences and correct spelling. Can you imagine texting a cover letter for a job application?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not the perfect speller. Learning to spell words correctly is difficult for many. It takes time and practice. No shortcuts here.

Now, if only I had only spent more time in school on Mondays and Fridays, perhaps I would know how to add and subtract too.