100 Great Books

Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers. ~Charles W. Eliot.

Historian Will Durant says a person should read books that will do the most to make us educated men. He suggested 100 books that, when read just 7 hours a week, will make a scholar and philosopher out of you in just 4 years. Like the day I read Seth's blog and was challenged to write a blog a day, I find myself again being challenged by a person of intellect to better my mind, and hopefully, put into practice those learnings to make me a better man. I have obtained a list of books listed as "The World's 100 Greatest Books" and will weave them into the tapestry that is my regular reading.

Scanning the list of 100, I find that I have already read 5 of them (The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, Moby Dick by Herman Melville, Call of the Wild by Jack London, The Prince by Machiavelli, and The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin). I read these many years ago but can't say that I read them at a time when my intellect was developed by life's experiences to such a sufficient state that I was able to grasp the lessons hidden in the pages of these books. That being the case, it is not out of the realm of reason that I will read these again.

Coincidentally, I had started Dracula by Bram Stoker, one of the 100 on the list, prior to deciding to work my way through the classics. This original Dracula story is a bit predictable because the vampire genre is ripe with books these days and, I don't believe, there is an adult America alive that has not been exposed at some point to the story of Dracula. Still, I am enjoying the book as much for the story as for the style of the author's rendering with language which is reminiscent of late 1800s England. Did I say coincidence? Well, I don't believe in coincidences so it seems that, before I decided to read the 100 greatest books, the list had chosen that I read it. The first book on the list, the book I will start after completing Dracula, is the Illiad by Homer, a book that, taken with the Odyssey are considered, by many, to be the greatest books ever written. I must say, I think the list is a little suspect in it's contents. There are no books from Eastern writers. It focuses solely on writings from the West.

I will not put aside my regular reading, rather will supplement it with the classics. My regular reading covers topics dear to my heart such as Leadership Development which, when put into immediate practice, improves my ability to serve the people with whom I work and to serve those people I encounter in daily life. I will continue to read the autobiographies of great men and women like Winston Churchill and Mother Theresa as these give me the courage to face life issues with aplomb. If Churchill can bring England through the nightmare of the German Blitzkrieg into the light of world peace and Mother Theresa can selflessly serve the poorest of the poor in India, then I can face the challenges in my life that pale in comparison to the obstacles they had to overcome. There are books I will read because I want to let the prose or poetry written by author's outside of my cultural context such as "Soccer in Sun and Shadow" by Eduardo Galeano because they help expose me to views I cannot get from my own people. There are books I will read solely for the entertainment value such as the Jason Bourne series. I will read books because the beauty of the prose captures my imagination and paints images in colors I would never have imagined on my own. I will read historical fiction such as "When the Emperor Was Divine" by Julie Otsuka so the tragedies beset by man upon man are not lost in the shadows of time.

I will continue to read for as long as I have the ability because books help broaden my too narrow understanding of the world in which I live.

The Magic of Books

You are the same today as you’ll be in five years except for two things, the books you read and the people you meet. ~Charlie 'Tremendous' Jones

I have read 100s of books over the 50 years of my life. Many of the books I read were required for me to get through school, most of my books are nonfiction to expand my understanding of the world I inhabit or to gain insight from another's experiences and some for pure escapism entertainment. Many of the books have intrigued me, some entertained me, and some were complete drivel. Often, I have a few books active at any time.

There are only two books of the 100s I've read that have had a profound impact on my life. The first of these, the second most influential book I've encountered, I discovered in my early 20s. (The other and most influential book was under my nose most of my life but would not become my most loved book until my 30s.)

I was browsing through books in the nature section and happened upon a book by Edward Abbey titled "Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness". It is an account of Abbey's seasons as a park ranger in Arches National Monument (now a National Park) near Moab, Utah.

I still have my original paperback copy. (I have since bought two other revisions differing only in binding and drawn pictures.) The pages of my original are yellowed by time and my pencil written notes too faded to clearly read. I had a habit back then of writing the page numbers in the back of the book of passages or turns of word that I thought eloquent or a thought so profound I wanted a quick way back to that point for rereading. In this original copy, I am able to read, with difficulty, some of the page numbers I had marked. Among my favorites is:

Love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth, the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need - if only we had the eyes to see.

This book opened up a new world to me. The writing stirred in me a desire to explore Southern Utah, to spend time in the still, quiet, stark land of myriad rock formations. His writing made Southern Utah an obsession which, at first sight, became a love affair. He gifted to me a way of thinking about the earth, the wilderness, and our duty to protect the wild tracts of undeveloped land. Abbey was a radical in terms of his views on protection of wilderness and advocated monkey wrenching to protect this earth that bore us and sustains us. His thoughts with their radical overtone touched a chord within me and gave voice to feelings I had harbored for some time, beliefs that I did not feel safe exposing to my fellow man.

Books have a power to touch our hearts and minds with greater intensity than do movies. Who among us, having read a book made into a movie, is ever satisfied with the movie? It is impossible to distill the magic of a book, which explores in complex intricacies and takes may hours to read, into a 90 minute film and not lose the vast majority of the ideas not to mention the substance of the work. I believe it's because written word is more powerful at instilling ideas and images into our subconscious which then connects with us on a deeper level than do movies despite the expense that the images require to produce.

Books are magical. They give life to words uttered centuries before making readily available to us the voices of long deceased people. They also allow us to catch a glimpse of great minds and to think thoughts we may never have thought on our own.

I feel sorry for those who don't take the time to read books. They have the words of some of the most intelligent people to walk the earth yet choose to not drink in their brilliance.

I am the person I am today, in part, because I have available to me the written works of Aristotle, Dante, King David, Michael Angelo, Paul, Sun Tzu, Edward Abbey, and countless others, and have taken the time to open my mind and let their ideas flow over my consciousness.

My Message

My life is my message. - Mahatma Gandhi mantra

I like to think I am a knight in shining armor, a man of integrity in a society desperately needing to experience integrity, a beacon of light shining in a world that needs hope, a world that wants to believe not all are selfish and self-centered, a world longing for someone that is caring, a world in search of at least one person to protect the widowed, hold the orphan, give a helping hand to the mistreated, share a kind word with the down trodden. This is the character I want to believe, need to believe exists at the core of my being and defines the person I am. But, deep down in those places I don't want to believe exist, I wonder, am I fooling myself, lying to myself, deceiving myself? So, I ask...

When you see my behaviors, what do you hear?
When you hear my actions scream my character, what do you see?
Does your eye set upon a loving individual or, yet, another a man that loves only himself?
Does your ear hear someone that values those he encounters or takes others for granted?
Do you see shining armor or armor tarnished by minor character flaws or a rusted bucket eaten away by character flaws that are acidic to my fellow man?
Does my heart shine a beacon of light in a world devoid of character, or does my heart melt into the black oblivion of uncaring humanity?
Are the words I speak congruent with the actions you see?

The things I do when I think no one is looking, not the words that flow honey sweet  from my lips, are an accurate reflection of my heart, reveal the man behind the mask, is, whether I like it or not, the message my life speaks.

The Tale of Peter Rabbit....Revisited

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” ~ Hunter S. Thompson

The Adventure Begins

Do you know the story of Peter Rabbit? It's a children's story about a Rabbit named Peter. Peter's mother warned him and his sisters that he should not leave their yard under the fir tree and, at all costs, to avoid going into Mr. McGregor's garden. When his mother leaves for shopping, Peter ignores his mother's warnings and does just what he was told not to. (He's obviously a strong willed child.) While in Mr. McGregor's garden Peter feasts on tasty vegetables. He eats so many of the tasty vegetables that he gets sick to his stomach. Soon he is seen by Mr. McGregor, the man that caught Peter's father and made him into a rabbit pie, and the chase is on.

Most of the rest of the tale is about Peter running from Mr. McGregor and, in the process, loses his jacket and his shoes. Eventually, after many close calls with Mr. McGregor, Peter escapes the garden and gets home safely though he is exhausted and still feeling sick. Mrs. Rabbit puts him to bed without dinner and his sisters, who have been compliant bunnies, enjoy a nice dinner of bread, milk, and blackberries.

The moral of the story is one of compliance. Do what you are told so you avoid possible dire consequences, oh, and you might get the same old meal you have eaten a hundred times previous. And to this I say, what a crock! This is a horrid tale to foist upon our growing children.

Yes, the "good" little girls complied with their mother's wishes and, yes, they had a tasty dinner as a reward but, I ask you, at what cost? I say that dinner cost their very souls and I don't think any dinner, no matter how terrific, is worth the cost of a soul. The world those compliant girls inhabit is still only as big as their home under the fir-tree. They have but a narrow view of a humongous world. And their experiences in the world has, thus far, only prepared them for cooking, shopping, cleaning, and making babies. Is that the life experiences we desire for our daughters? For any of our children? I sure hope not for if it is, I feel sorry for any children that must suffer under your parentage!

Looking more closely at the narrative and you may notice that the girls play a bit part in the story at the beginning and the end. The majority of the story, the meat of the story is about Peter. Why? Because Peter's life is interesting. The story revolves around the twists and turns of Peter's wondrous, though hairy, adventure! And isn't that what we all want? A life worthy of a written story, a life worth viewing on the big screen, a life story that can dazzle our grandchildren?

Unlike his sisters, Peter actually has a life, has an adventurous life complete with exploration and discovery and blood pumping adventure. Compared to Peter's wildly exciting life, the girls' are mind-numbingly boring. Are the girls' lives the life any of us wish upon our kids? Are the girls' lives one we hope for ourselves?

Peter had the opportunity to explore a strange land. Peter had the opportunity to experience first hand a different culture with a very different way of living. Peter had the opportunity to feast upon exotic foods. Peter had the opportunity to walk barefoot through a garden. Peter had the opportunity to play hide and seek where the outcome actually meant more than just being discovered. Peter had the opportunity to taste fear. Peter had the opportunity to face death and live to tell the tale. Peter had an adventure that we are reading about over 100 years after it was first penned.

In the end, Peter went to bed without dinner. He was exhausted, played out, missing his shoes and coat, and he was a little sick. All in all, this is a very small price to pay for an adventure. I am sure before Peter closed his eyes he was already planning his next escapade. I am willing to bet as Peter fell asleep he had a huge grin on his furry little face because he knew first hand how very exciting life can be if we have the courage to explore beyond the tiny little plot to which we were born.

One Month Down...Eleven To Go.....

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. ~Anais Nin

Just over a month ago, I took up a challenge by Seth Godin to write a daily blog. At first, I was worried that I would not have something to write every day. Or, if I wrote every day that my writing would be worthy of someone's, anyone's time. I have found over the past month that a lack of topics is not an issue. On the contrary, I have dreamed up more topics that I want to explore through writing than I have the time to write. I keep these topics in a notebook which I use to capture topics as they bubble to the surface of my consciousness. I find myself looking forward to writing every day. My only regret is that, after I spill my thoughts onto paper, an alphabet soup of fragmented phrases and incoherent ideas and drivel, I lack sufficient time to artfully arrange them into a kaleidoscope of sentences that make sense, entertain, and instigate thought. Luckily, I have 11 more months of writing to achieve my personal goal of a blog a day for 365 days.

Challenge of Being First

Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life... as by the obstacles which he has overcome while trying to succeed. ~Booker T. Washington

I have encountered many people that think it's easy being first, believe that the first get everything, that the first have rose petals strewn before them as they make their way through life, that the first are coddled and favored. I find it rather ironic that the people who make this claim are not a first born child.

There is a concept in psychology called Tabula Rasa which, in simplest form, is that a child is born with a mind that is a blank slate and that everything they become is determined by experience. In regards to personality, the concept is that we are born without a personality and develop our individuality thru experience. Those that follow this field of thought are on the nurture side of the nurture versus nature debate. I believe in more of a hybrid approach. I believe we are born with certain innate character traits that are developed more fully through our experiences in life.

Most of the first born children I know are of the strong willed ilk. We have a strong need for self-determination, to walk a path in life of our own choosing. We tend to choose the path less traveled. Why? Because we want to - to prove we can. I believe God created us that way because we must scythe our way thru life blazing trails for those siblings that benefit from the path we create. He made us strong willed because we need to break ground. We strong willed ones can do great things in life if our will is properly channeled.

I believe we are strong willed because we have to grow our parents as much as they help us to grow. A new parent does not have experience in child rearing. They may have book knowledge or they may have seen others raise children and think that these have prepared them for kids of their own. But, as any parent knows, the best laid plans for child rearing go out the window when confronted with an actual child. So, the first born must have the will to help the parents become parents. The biggest clashes come about when a parent who is a first born must guide his own first born.

My first born was extremely strong willed, a characteristic that was evident from the time she was able to crawl. She exercised this will frequently which served to make her will stronger for a strong will reacts to use in the same way a muscle reacts to repeated weight lifting. It grows stronger. I had the ability to predict the choices she would make in a conflict something her mom never could do. I understood her because we were cut from the same cloth. I understood that it was more important for her to win a battle even if it meant losing the war. I understood because I had made the same choices many times in my life. She and I had a connection via our wills that few would could fathom.

As she grew, I watched her choices become increasingly troublesome. In her teens, I watched her make choices that I knew would cause her long term pain, choices that I was powerless to change. As much as I tried to coach her to make better choices, I knew she would always walk her own path and would only learn through her own experiences. I watched her have a child at 17 years old. I watched her make choices that would lead to her being thrown out of my home just a few months before her 19th birthday. I watched her live from place to place and, sometimes, have to sleep in her car with her child because there was no home open to her. I watched all this and my heart broke because I knew the only person that could help her was herself.

After being out for a couple of years, she asked if she could come home and go to college. I knew once she set her mind on going to school her strong will would enable her to complete the task no matter what challenges arose. However, I put into place a plan to help guide her in the right direction. I would help her raise her child as long as she stayed in school. Funny thing is, helping her to raise her child paid out many more dividends to me than the time I invested. My grandson and I are now the best of friends.

My first born graduated college. She had two interviews after college and both made her an offer for a job. She is now a High School Spanish teacher. Her strong will helped her to complete college while simultaneously raising her child and playing college soccer. I believe she would have been much less likely to graduate had she not been born with her strong will.

I am proud of her and proud to say she learned to channel her will into making effective decisions. I would like to think I helped her come to this point but I'm not sure that is true for a first born typically has to come to growth of their own accord. I wish, in my life, that I had learned to channel my strong will as quickly as she has. If I had, I am sure I would have experienced much less pain in my life.

Necessary Endings

Every end is a new beginning ~Proverb Quotes

The end was 19 years in the making. It was impossible to fathom in the beginning when the first acts of the script were being played out that the end was approaching, approaching at an exceedingly rapid rate, that the end would be reached seemingly moments after it began. As the script evolved the acts took many unexpected twists and implausible turns with the final act containing the cruelest of fates. The end came unexpectedly with the actor unprepared for the abruptness at which the play finished, stunned when her playing career ended in a preseason training session of her Senior year at college, crushed that the final season which she had prepared for her entire life, ended before it began.

I spent the better part of 20 years a stage hand, a director, a choreographer, a spectator, a counselor in the unfolding saga that was her soccer career. I was present for Act 1 when she first ran onto the playing field, a pigeon toed 4 year old with unkempt hair wearing an oversized blue jersey that was the signature of the Park District soccer teams. Not much talent but a big smile of joy as she ran up and down the field and, occasionally, twirled ballerina style at random moments during the game.

I was there at the final scene, her Senior Game, where she had ceremonial involvement. She walked onto the field sporting the same grin, the ear to ear grin, she wore when she first ran onto the field in Act 1, the grin she wore every time she stepped onto the playing field. In agreement with the other team, at the kickoff, her teammate played the ball forward she walked gingerly to the ball and took her final college touch, a pass to the opponent who promptly kicked the ball out of play so she could sub out. She then took the long walk, the final walk, the curtain closing walk from midfield to the bench into the arms of her teammates. I wept.

I wept not only for the tragedy that played out before my eyes. I also wept because this was a painful end to a phase in my own life. This was my last child to play soccer on a competitive, school team. I had few more joyous experiences than watching my kids excel at soccer. Her walk off the field was also a painful ending for me.

Endings are a necessary part of life. If things do not end our lives will be so cluttered that we cannot start something new. We will be too bogged down to recognize the next opportunity, an opportunity that may surpass all our currently held expectations. As the gardener prunes the rose bush so it produces better buds so we must let go of any regrets we have at endings allowing us to embrace the next opportunity, step into a whole new world.

Some endings we must initiate ourselves while others are thrust upon us. Because we never know when a chapter in our life will end, we must exist in each moment as if it's our last, play each game with the vigor and intensity we would if we knew it was to be our swan song, our legacy. In this way, when an unexpected ending does occur, we can walk off the field knowing that no matter what happens, we gave it our all.

The Golden Boy

The dictionary is the only place that success comes before work. Hard work is the price we must pay for success. I think you can accomplish anything if you're willing to pay the price. ~ Vince Lombardi 

I don't know exactly when the transition occurred. It was sometime after High School, sometime after the dream of a career in the Marines which, was delayed by numerous broken bones in three separate incidents, faded into oblivion. The best I can figure, his state of being mostly 'unmotivated', except for playing sports and twiddling the controls of video games, with his employment at a local retail store where he is known as The Golden Boy.

I must say, it came as a surprise that he had a work ethic that was so strong it earned him the moniker of Golden Boy. Not that I didn't think he had it in him. When he was young, he worked very hard at playing soccer. He never skipped drills or slacked off during practice. He was so motivated to work hard that he became annoyed when any of his teammates didn't put in 100% effort in practice or games. In big part because of his and his teams work ethic, they placed second in youth soccer in the state of Illinois as 11 & 12 year olds.

He finds his Golden Boy status at work rather strange because all he does is 'what he is supposed to do when he is supposed to do it'. I felt good hearing this because this is a quality I have tried to grow in him all his life. I was also disturbed that this basic aspect of functioning in society is no longer a core characteristic of our youth. It seems the Golden Boy is an anomaly amongst the other youth working at his store who miss days and don't put in sustained effort.

Today's youth don't understand that hard work brings its own rewards, is valued by society, and is the key factor to success in life. Their parents have done them a grave disservice by babying them. These parents were more concerned that their kids had everything and were their child's friend instead of doing the hard parenting work to prepare them for life by setting the expectations that they need to work hard at all their endeavors and letting them suffer the consequences when they took the easy way out by not doing the difficult work. The odd thing is that the parents had to work hard to get where they are today. Why would they cheat their children of such an important life lesson?

The Golden Boy has already received a couple employee of the month awards from his employer. One day I discussed his newly found work ethos. I asked why he doesn't work hard at home, why he doesn't try to win a child of the month award for work around the house, especially the basement/dungeon where he spends most of his time in his comfy chair surrounded by empty food bowls playing video games, he simply stated, "You can't fire me" and laughed. He then became serious and told me that he is finally putting into action the lessons I tried to instill in him during his formative years and is working hard, that society is now benefiting from those hard learned lessons.

For a number of years, I was a parent that worried about my son's future, that he would never have any motivation other than sports and his video games. Now I have confidence that he will succeed in life. As a parent, it's rewarding to know that I have been able to impart upon the Golden Boy the necessary tools to make a Golden Future that does not include laboring for the Golden Arches.

Sub 1000

Without goals, and plans to reach them, you are like a ship that has set sail with no destination. ~Fitzhugh Dodson


The target for the past two years was a 1000 miles. 1000 miles on black, rubber hoops of both the skinny and fat variety, rolling over dirt, rock, and pavement, wind in my face, sun and shadow accompanying me for hours on end, my mind lost in thought mile after precious mile.

In the first year, I tracked my progress in an Excel spreadsheet complete with macros to summate the data and create a progress graph (yes, I do have some geeky tendencies so can tell you I averaged 13.3 miles per ride). I engaged in a weight training program three days a week to supplement my physical conditioning and to ensure I had the necessary muscle strength to help prevent injury, increase power in my pedal stroke, and tune my body for mountain bike races. In the end, my mileage target was exceeded. I had a vision, a plan to achieve that vision, and surpassed the target two months prior to my target date. As a side effect, I dropped a couple of pants sizes to the smallest I have worn in quite a few years and felt very fit.

My second year started out strong. A few February days mountain biking in sunny Arizona during the frigid Chicago winter both jump started my miles count and stoked my hunger to be outdoors on a bicycle. I love the remote outdoors and find exploring the wilderness from the seat of a bicycle the ideal way for me to traipse through terra incognita. I used to be a backpacker and had an intimate association with all things wild and wonderful. My knees are no longer happy after long walks carrying a 40lb backpack so cycling has become my preferred mode of backcountry exploration.

This year, I purchased a brand new carbon fiber bike to replace my ancient aluminum road bike. My work friends were all road bikers and we had a goal, a loosely set goal to ride together every weekend. Road biking is much easier than mountain biking so our plan to ride 30-50 miles every weekend along with my own rides would allow me to surpass my 1000 miles by midsummer. For a number of reasons, some valid others not, we never actually rode for two consecutive weekends. By late summer, I was behind my plan by over 100 miles.

I was not too worried by the deficit because I had a century ride coming up and would easily close the gap. And the gap did close. After that ride, the deficit was down to a mere 9.9 miles from my plan for September and 134.9 miles overall. Well, this is now mid October and I have not been on my bike since the century ride in September and I do not foresee achieving a second 1000 mile year. My gym attendance is also down for the past three months to almost nil. The fitness level I achieved last year is a blip on the horizon for I have gone up one pant size in the past year.

There are a number of 'reasons' for missing my target but, as my sister says, "excuses are the nails in the coffin of failure", so I see no reason to even list them because they are just excuses. Still, it is good to analyze the core reasons as to why I chose to allow excuses to keep me off my bikes.

I think a big difference in the two years is that, in year one, the miles were supplementary to my desire to improve in my mountain bike racing ability. They weren't just miles, they were steps on the journey to improve my ability, primarily my ability to develop an endurance core that would allow me to climb those hills that typically defeated me when racing. This year, I was enjoying the hills, killing the ascents so much so that I felt reached the pinnacle of my training and no longer needed to improve to excel in my races. I also became complacent. Because it's so much easier to accrue miles with a road bike than a mountain bike I never really worried about being behind schedule.

I am frustrated that I did not achieve but don't feel so bad at falling short. After all, 865.1 miles in a Chicago year is not bad for a 50 year old. So lessons learned. Next year is another year and a renewed desire to pedal myself into fitness and, who know, perhaps I will ride more than 1000 miles next year.

The Culture Dance

No culture can live if it attempts to be exclusive. ~ Mohandas Gandhi

I was recently asked by a workmate to help address a problem with a team she leads. This tight knit team has, for the past few years, been required to work with another team, which is difficult enough. The team is remotely located which adds to the challenge because the teams cannot see each other on a regular basis making forming a bond an activity which takes concerted effort, effort that is not see as very important to either team. The challenge is compounded because the teams are based in two very different cultures.

Why was I chosen to help? According to my workmate, I am a "guru in intercultural communication." This comment made me smile. A few years prior, when my team piloted offshore development for my company, we undertook cultural training to work with people in India. As the 8 hour training course progressed, and we learned of the nuances of Eastern and Western culture, it was very evident that I had a strong propensity to act in ways that were Western. Strong may not adequately describe my behaviors. On the continuums that described the behaviors, I was at the very far end of the spectrum of those behaviors ascribed to Westerners and my team saw me as the single biggest risk to the project succeeding. Their plan was to keep another workmate by my side during all interactions with our Indian colleagues to act as a buffer and to perform damage control whenever I opened my mouth and stupidity oozed out. This workmate was one of those people that were worried that I would cause an international rift.

Just the opposite happened. I was able to work very effectively within the Indian culture. Through my training and reading, I was able to meet my Indian teammates. I am happy to say that, despite the project ending a few years ago, I have made some very good friends in India. People that I miss because my company has not sent me back to India in quite some time.

Since that time, I have been lucky enough to work with teams based in Switzerland and Italy. I was given cultural training for all the countries with whom I have worked. My experience and my openness to trying to understand the people from other countries has given me a measure of understanding of other cultures.  However, I am by no means a guru, just a person fascinated with people. And this fascination is something I happily share with others.

The role my workmate has asked me to fulfill, is to help her local team understand strategies to more effectively work within this intercultural context. My job is to ensure the teams can effectively dance together.

In Vino Veritas

Wine gives a man nothing... it only puts in motion what had been locked up in frost. - Samuel Johnson

For most of my life, I would not go near wine. This behavior was based on an encounter I had with MD2020 in my youth that left me with, literally, a foul taste in my mouth. MD2020, also known as Mad Dog 2020, is a cheap wine and typically associated with the homeless and indigents. (I am not homeless but some might say I'm an indigent, however, that's a topic for a future blog.)

Fast Forward 20 years. One of my workmates is a wine connoisseur and hosts a couple of wine parties every year. He invited me and I declined telling him that I didn't like wine. At that time, I was a long term Mountain Dew-aholic, a very sweet highly caffeinated beverage. He knew this and told me that he could find me a wine that would appeal to my sweet tooth. This is how I met Riesling, a sweet white wine in a blue bottle served cold. Riesling and I became friends at first taste. The first bottle of wine I ever purchased for myself was a Riesling.

The same workmate and I went on a business trip to Germany and Italy a year or so later. While in Italy, he set the hook he had baited with the Riesling and started feeding me Italian wines, good Italian wines. Every restaurant we visited, he chose another type of red wine and I found myself enjoying them immensely.

After the Italian leg, the second leg, of the trip, I took a third leg while he went home to the US. This part of the trip found me in India. I stayed in a classy hotel that featured many wine varietals. I had no one to choose wine for me, so I had to decide of my own accord which wine I would drink. Not knowing anything about wine selection, I decided to try all 8 of the wine by the glass items on the dinner menu one glass at a time. To my dismay, I found out that some wines are not very tasty. I called him and cursed him. I used to think that all wine was bad and now I knew that some wine was bad and some good and some really good. This set me upon a multi-year quest to find wines that both taste good and are not too expensive....it's a losing battle for my wallet.

I don't know about the nuances of wine and have no ideas what wine compliments what dish. To me color is red or not red. Legs are what you walk on to pick up the bottle in the store. All wine smells like wine. A bouquet is something you buy the hot girl you want to get to know better (or intimately). And during the tasting, I can't tell the attack from the evolution from the finish. When I drink wine, all I know is that it either tastes good or it doesn't.


Wine is a socially acceptable social lubricant. It has an alcohol content much lower than whiskey (my previous drink of choice) so more can imbibed before one gets tipsy.  I find the lower intoxication encountered under wine helps a conversation flow with more eloquence than the babble encountered when drinking the same volume of whiskey which would make one stupid drunk.

So how does wine equate with truth?

Too much lubricant and one will have the same ill effects as drinking lots of any alcohol. The trick is to lubricate at an appropriate level where in inhibitions slowly melt away, almost imperceptible to the person drinking wine. With inhibitions being eroded, a person is more likely to let down their guard, stop hiding behind the mask they wear when trying to manage their image to the outside world. With our defenses down, we show more of who we really are. give others a rare peak into our inner thoughts and ideas. During that time we show our true selves. So, "wine brings out truth" which is another translation of In Vino Veritas.

Bicycles

Bicycle bicycle bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride it where I like

- Queen

As a youth, the extent of my world was pretty much defined by the distance I could pedal. Kids in my day lived lives that revolved around their bicycles. Our bikes were all made of steel. There were no light weight aluminum frames and carbon fiber was not even a glimmer in the eye of the scientists. We rode single speed Huffys and Murrays with banana seats, ape hanger handlebars, and sissy bars. And we didn't ride always ride them alone. If a buddy did not have his bike, he sat on the back of the banana seat or on the handlebars. In some cases, we rode three to a bicycle.

We were skilled riders for those days. We would ride wheelies around the block, no handed riding was very common, and a friend used to ride his bike backward. We were all Evil Knevil want to be's that used the bikes for jumping off a ramps and flying through the air. I remember one day in the local prairie when we had this tiny little wooden ramp perched on a railroad tie. We were trying to see who could land the furthest from the jump. I won but not in the expected way because it was my body that landed a distance beyond my bike. I came off the hill and was pedaling as hard as I could. I missed the ramp resulting in my body flying head over heels (2.5 flips I am told) and landing on my head. I didn't jump anymore that day.

Schwinn Continental

As we grew older, around 8th grade, our bikes grew more sophisticated. Speed bikes were growing in popularity, 3-speed, 5-speed, 10-speed. I had a blue 5-speed (my parents didn't think 10-speeds were necessary.)  A number of my friends received the Schwinn Continental for 8th grade graduation. It was a pricey bike that my family could not afford. These multi-speed bikes were our transportation of much of our High School years.

Fast forward to parenthood. My kids all had bikes and rode them when they were young. When they were getting near 8th grade, bikes were no longer cool so they didn't ride. I found this to be sad. Part of the problem with the kids not riding was that we, as parents, would drive them wherever they wanted to go. Come High School, friends had cars so the kids always seemed to have someone to drive them where they wanted to go.

Moab Mountain Biking

In my 20s, I rode to rehab my knee following ACL repair surgery. I had a low end aluminum, Fuji road bike. A bike that is still part of my stable of bikes. In my 30s, I purchased a Trek mountain bike. I purchased a mountain bike for the comfort and, I admit, to relive some of my youth when my friends and I road off road quite frequently. I also made a trip to the mountain biking mecca known as Moab Utah. In my 40s, my grids were growing and I had a bit more free time so I purchased a higher quality mountain bike with full suspension and began racing. My race results have been a mixed bag with my best ever being a 2nd place finish. I also took a return trip to Moab/Fruita to ride more rugged terrain then to the warm climate of Arizona a few months for some winter time, off road riding. I turned 50 this year and rewarded myself with a carbon fiber road bike which is easily the best bike I've ever owned and a joy to ride. I have my eye on a couple of other bikes that may someday grace my stable, a 29er mountain bike and a single speed road bike for cruising around the city.

Cycling is now one of my top hobbies. I still ride my mountain bike alone and enjoy that it gives me alone time to contemplate my thoughts in wooded locales. I ride my road bike with work friends and enjoy the camaraderie of the group ride. I completed my first ever century ride (100 miles) in September and look forward to more such rides in the future.

What started off as a means of simple transportation in my youth has become a passion of mine as I age. I plan to keep riding for many years to come.

Improving The World

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world. - Anne Frank

When my kids were younger, I used to ask them how they made the world a better place. I wanted to instill in them a sense that they had not only a duty but also the ability to make this world a better place by their day to day actions. It was important to me that they understand that they had the power to make things better, to improve the day for at least one other human being. This ability to make the world a better place one person at a time is a power we all possess. It doesn't take much effort.....a kind word, a helping hand, listening to someone that needs an ear....but this tiny effort has the power to change lives for the better.

Unfortunately, it is a power we don't always put into use. Sometimes, when they came home, they would turn the tables and ask me how I made the world a better place. Usually, I had an example but not always. When I did not, they called me out and let me know I was not fulfilling my duty to my fellow man. I appreciated that they kept me on my toes and, to this day, I consider on a daily basis - on most days -  what I have done to improve the life of my fellow man. My answer to myself is not always what I want to hear and frequently I am saddened that I was focused inward and missed the opportunity to bring a measure of joy to another's life. I am definitely moving in the positive direction but not as quickly as I would like. More often than I like to admit to myself, my selfishness gets in the way of me being the person I desire to be.

What have you done to make the world a better place today? 

10 Hours in a Climate Controlled Box

A happy family is but an earlier heaven. - George Bernard Shaw

When you are on the road for an extended period, there is a lot of time to muse. During the 10 hour car drive home from Tennessee, the outside temp dropped from 73 degrees to an Autumnal 55 reminding me that I lived in a Northern climate and that snow would soon be blanketing those of us living in Chicago. Hopefully, there will not be as much snow as we had last year. Unfortunately, the prognosticators are calling for a whiter winter than 2011.

Some find the change of seasons joyful with each change demarking the important stages of the year - Spring flowers and budding trees, Summer beaches and barbecues, Fall crispness and colors, Winter snow and holidays, changing again to the awakening that is Spring. I am not one of them. I would be most happy if every day was in the 70s and sunny. For me, winter with the short days, with darkness when I arrive at the office and when I leave for home, the bitter cold, and the snow is a dreaded season to endure, a season of the year that is endured rather than enjoyed, a season that if for me rather depressing.

I would love to move to a warmer climate but the move would bring about a change even more depressing than the arctic like days of January and February. That change would take me far from those I cherish most in my life for they (we) all have deep roots in the Chicago area that, if severed, would result in much sadness on many branches of our growing family tree (one of my cousins had his 10th child, still unnamed, on the day of this writing). For my entire immediate family (Mom, Siblings, Children, Grandkids, Nieces, Nephews) and most of my extended family (Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, Cousins kids) live in the greater Chicagoland area and we are a very close knit bunch.

The entire clan gets together at least twice a year. We gather on 4th July at my Mom's as we have for 30ish years and at the Feast of the Epiphany in January a relatively new event to replace those long ago Christmas Eve's at Grandmas. The January has been dubbed the Cousin's Christmas and is a time we use to celebrate our living family members and to honor those who have already passed. We reminisce about our youth, talk of events over the last year, and share dreams of the future. We are a raucous bunch that is quick to share in a hearty laugh or to share in tears from heart wrenching loss. We have no black sheep only cherished family members where all are as close as brothers and sisters.


They say home is where the heart is. Well my heart is definitely with all my loved ones in Chicago so this is where my home will be for as long as blood flows through my heart.

Tennessee Road Trip Part Anim (6) - The End?

You got to be careful if you don't know where you're going, because you might not get there. - Yogi Berra

I have now completed the long road trip home (10 hours and 600 miles) from Tennessee. All in all, the car added about 1600 miles to the speedometer in 5 days. It was an enchanting escapade to the South that gave me time to both relax and engage in vigorous activities which also enhanced the feeling of being relaxed. I will go back to work tomorrow with renewed vigor. The only thing I would do different regarding the trip would be to rent a motorcycle for at least one day.

I saw hundreds of motorcyclists on this trip riding cruisers, sport bikes, touring bikes, and dual purpose bikes. Though the bikes were of many different variety and design and color scheme, all the riders had one thing in common, they all wore smiles that stretched as long as the roads themselves. The Smokey's and Blue Ridge Parkway are a motorcyclists heaven with twisty, turny roads where multiple, consecutive bends are as common place as the unparalleled scenery at the apex of every curve. Watching the riders flying on the snaky roads invoked in me a visceral desire to dump my car and join my flock of like-minded brethren and soar on the mountain roads from the green depths of the canyons to the crystal blue skies.

Riding two wheels is an aspect of my life that, in part, defines who I am. I love the freedom of being on two wheels, the wind blowing in my face, the smells constantly changing, the temperature changes with elevation or sun and shadow, the skill required to navigate roads where straight seems to be a glitch between turns, and, I must admit, I enjoy the feelings that are invoked by the inherent risk of riding on two wheels in a four wheeled world. It's much the same feeling as one gets walking in Grizzly Bear country. The senses become more attuned, the reflexes tight like a spring when there is the very real possibility of danger (death?) lurking around every corner. 

I can't help feeling that I have some unfinished business with the Smoky Mountains. Perhaps I will return next year on my motorcycle. What I thought was the end of my trip appears to be just the beginning of a journey.

Tennessee Road Trip Part Lima (5)

It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful. It has the beauty of loneliness of pain: of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature and everlasting beauty of monotony. ~ Benjamin Britten

Music is love in search of a word. ~ Sidney Lanier

River Crossing

Mountain Leaves

I was going to write today about a hike in the woods and the large animal that crashed through the trees and caught my ear but evaded my sight. Based on the ruttings in the soft earth, I believe it was a wild pig but I cannot say that with any certainty. Or I was going to write about the myriad glorious colors that seemed to pop out of the earth whenever I took my eye of the road and glanced at the mountains. Or I was going to write about the otter that came bounding down the river and passed just a few feet beneath the rickety bridge on which I was standing. Was it in search of prey or just prancing about enjoying the gorgeous sunny day. Or I was going to write about the twisty 80 mile ride along the Blue Ridge Parkway with many tunnels and many more steep dropoffs where every bend in the road had an overlook of the stunning mountain scenery. Or about the log I traversed which hung suspended over a river that had more rocks to divert the water than open space for the water to flow causing the water to boil and tumble and rumble. Or about the lady that pushed a stroller down the main streets of Gatlinburg which contained not a child but 3 small dogs. Or about the man that carried his tiny dog in a pouch on the front of his chest like a papoose worn in front instead of on the back. Or how I viewed every trail I walked the past three days in terms of its suitability for a mountain bike of how I looked for lines I could ride for maximum speed and efficiency of how I tried to determine the best techniques for navigating the rock obstacles. I could write of these and many other thoughts that flitted across my consciousness but all would pale when compared to the serendipitous event that touched my soul for nearly two hours.

On a whim, I stopped at the Oconaluftee Visitor Center on my way out of the Smoky Mountain National Park. I really don't know why I stopped. I had already been to two of the other visitor centers and did not need any souvenirs other than the one I had already purchased for my grandson. I poked around the store, viewed the exhibits and was ready to leave when I noticed a gathering out on the side porch. I poked my head out the door and heard music.

This was not just any music, this was mountain music, blue grass music, hillbilly music, original music of these United States born of the people that were one with the land. Music of a people that for a couple hundred years had graced these mountains before they were forced off the land that was to become the National Park. There were a bunch of musicians seated in a circle, sort of, playing guitars, fiddles, a banjo, a bass, mandolins and some harp like instrument I had never before seen. The woman coordinating the activity went musician by musician calling upon them to play a tune of their choosing. Once the person started, the rest of the group joined in for a jamming jam session. Frequently, the person initiating the song would also sing. One blonde women with a wonderful voice crafted beautiful vocals.

Mountain Music Jam

The musicians were some regulars and others who had heard of the event and joined in. Most were in their 50s/60s but two were kids, possibly in their teens. How wonderful that these kids had a chance to jam with their elders and continue a legacy that began in the 1700s. An older gentleman wearing a hat indicating he was a veteran of WWII and Korea arrived shortly after the group had started. He had a very long left pinkie finger nail which he did not appear to use for his playing. I think he was probably the oldest musician in attendance yet he bounded in like a kid with an enthusiasm that was rooted in the music and evident for all to see. He carried both a fiddle and a mandolin. On this occasion, he played only the mandolin.

I was entranced at the event so much so that I was running behind my own self imposed schedule. The pull of the music was such that I could not force myself to leave the intimate gathering. I was listening to music that sprung from these mountains over the course of some 200 years, music that was formed by the people that eked a living out of the mountain soil. This was music that defined the heart and soul of a people. It was at its core, the essence of a very hearty people. 

Though I knew just two of the songs, an Irish melody I had heard in a movie and a spiritual, each drew me in completely and I found my toes and hands tapping to the rhythms as though their very essence ran through my blood, was a component of my genetic makeup, a strand in the DNA that defines who I am.

I soaked in this music and felt it touch my soul. I could not have imagined a more perfect way to end my stay at Smoky Mountain National Park.

Tennessee Road Trip Part Apat (4)

The grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls. ~ John Muir

Moon from Newfound Gap

I did something today that I have not done in many years, probably not since my late 20s . I left my hotel early in search of a sunrise. When camping in the Western US in my late 20s, this was a morning ritual - wake before the birds, crawl out of my sleeping bag, emerge from the tent into the brisk morning air, jump in the car, and search for a vantage point to view the rising sun and, hopefully, capture it's essence on film. A sunrise can only be captured in essence. Its grandeur cannot be confined to film or, these days, digital media.

I was rushing Clingman's Dome, the highest point in the Smokys, today for what I thought was an optimal vantage point and was about 15 minutes behind schedule. Those 15 minutes may seem short but they are the difference in seeing the sun peak above the horizon and missing the orange glow that signals the sun is awakening. At Newfound Gap, 20 miles from my destination, there were a host of people with cameras watching the horizon waiting for the sunrise. I hurriedly pulled over and joined them.

Sunrise from Newfound Gap

My current camera is a point and shoot with limited functionality compared to the SLR film cameras I used to use. Its inability to effectively frame and set exposure settings is frustrating. I decided at that moment that my next Christmas gift to myself will be a modern digital SLR. For now, I would have to make do with the camera in my hand.

The sun rose in splendor. The clouds on the horizon both bounded and reflected the orange glow. I snapped pic after pic in the hopes that one, just one, would do justice to the beauty before my eyes. I underexposed, overexposed, framed tight, framed wide, changed vantage points and, in total, shot about 30 photos of the rising sun. Many of them were pleasing to the eye and many of them were a disappointment but that's the nature of photography. I was also able to capture one photo of the moon. The moon in the 'smoke' of the mountains took on an eerie feel.

After the sun rose, I jumped back into the car and went the rest of the way to Clingman's Dome. The smoke was so thick there that visibility was minimal. Had I made it there for sunrise, I would have seen nothing. And I would have froze because the temperature and the fierce wind at the elevation were brutal.

Appalachian trail head at Newfound Gap

Other events today, included seeing a significant amount of red berry infested bear scat, two bear cubs high in a tree feasting on red berries, a snake which elicited a scream and a scramble up a slope, relaxing beside a couple of rock strewn streams where the rushing water created natural music, and a nice hike along 1.7 miles of the Appalachian trail which provided stunning views of the mountain range. I have long had a dream of hiking the entire 2,181 miles of the trail but don't think I will ever turn that dream into reality.

The event that made the biggest impression on me today was being there when the sun, clothed in red splendor made its daily appearance.

Tennessee Road Trip Part Tatlo (3)

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. - Edward Abbey

Entered the park before sun up today in the rain and drove to Cades Cove. Thankfully, there were few people on the road so the 24 miles to Cades went fairly quickly.  The ride in the Cades grew gradually more busy as people drove in. Many never left their cars just looked at the scenery from the safety of their mechanical boxes. I felt especially sorry for those people because you simply can't encounter the outdoors from indoors. The traffic was very heavy on the way out. Almost all the people driving painfully slow could not find the courtesy to go in to the pullouts to let other cars pass. I guess they couldn't read the signs posted in the park to do such a thing.

During the drive in, the first light peeked in and slowly gave form to the trees, animals, mountains, and the to the low hanging clouds that looked like smoke which gives this lovely National Park it's name - The Great Smoky Mountains. As the light grew in intensity the shades of grey gradually took on muted color then burst into abundant color, myriads of colors from deep reds to shocking yellows. The mist in the air ensured the colors were rich and saturated and pleasing to the eyes.




This land which hosts the greatest numbers of tree species of anywhere in the US or Europe also has the greatest variety of autumn color I have ever seen in one location. I was awestruck at the beauty that never seemed to end.

This is not a land of just color and mountains. It is also a land rich in history. A number of old structures are still on hand in the National Park. Homes built by hand in the 1800s still stand as a monument to those that created a living space in the wilderness.

Churches also built by hand were in the Cove. I went into each one, stood behind the pulpit, sat in the pews. I wondered, how many people were touched by the Hand of God in these little churches.

With each of the three churches, there was also an associated cemetery. I looked at the grave stones reading many of the inscriptions. I was shocked at the number of stones dedicated to children many of whom where born and died on the same day. It gave me a shock reminder at the difficulty of living in the 'olden' days. I was saddened by the deaths of those I never met who never had their chance to make a mark in this world. And I was very glad for modern medicine which has ensured my children survived past the day or weeks of their births.

Perhaps the highlight of the day was a 5 mile round trip walk to Abrams falls. The weather was overcast and a bit drizzly. Perfect for hiking. The hike included four significant climbs in each direction. During the 3 hours, the weather was schizophrenic changing from drizzle to bright sunshine and back again a good half dozen times. I quit taking the rain coat off and on and decided to leave it in my backpack. For most of the hike, the river was a companion. The singing river, the trickling river, the surging river, the whispering river.

As the falls loomed close, the river began to talk in loud notes, guttural tones demanding the attention of the ears. Bird song was no longer evident just the roar of the falls. The air around the river smelled fresh and clean. The power of the falls was intense. How much more power did these falls evoke in Spring snow melt. It must be at least double the surging water that was here today. Oh how I would love to see the water crashing over the rocks with double the intensity. Would the noise be so loud that I could not hear myself think? Would the pool be too deep to approach the thunderous churning of the water?


On the way out, I took time to contemplate the grandeur of these mountains. To let the sights and sounds wash over me unfettered and sweep my mind away to careen down the river, bounce over the rocks, swirl in the eddies, caress the legs of the wading birds and filter through the gills of the trout eventually to be sucked up into the clouds and deposited like rain back to my consciousness. Oh what an adventure it must be to live to the rhythms of nature free of the fetters that bind our bodies to our jobs and our minds to making a living.

For now, I do have responsibilities that require me to make a living but someday I will be free of these duties, free to let my wanderlust  take over for travel and time to contemplate wild places for weeks on end instead of a mere days here and there. Until that day comes, I will do all in my power to carve out these brief sojourns, to commune with nature and create memories that will sustain my soul.

Tennessee Road Trip Part Dalawa (2)

Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road. - Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Drove from before sun up until after sun down today. Thirteen hours on the road....the worst of it, the only real bad part, was at the very end in Pigeon Forge, an awful tourist town reminding me of the Dells only much bigger. The stop lights were timed such that you were stuck at everyone and forced to view the "attractions", awful creations for as far as the eye could see. But that is the end...let's start at the beginning.

We started out at 6 am from Chicago. It felt great to be on the road again after so many years. Open air, open skies, watching the miles roll by and the landscape change. Fall colors were evident but not in peak mode. Outside of Lafayette, IN, a windmill farm with windmills turned as far as the eye could see. They each had three massive slow moving blades that, together, looked like Mercedes Benz emblems minus the ring. I expected to see Don Quixote facing down the winged beasts.

Passing into Ohio, the first road sign of note said "loud music is $100 fine". I think that is an idiotic use of tax dollars. So what if cars have loud music. They are moving so you only have to heard the thumping bass for a few seconds. Why must governments continually post laws against victim less activities? Let the fools face the natural consequences of their folly and blow out their ear drums

Somewhere, the landscape changed from flatlands, to rolling hills, to mountains. The mountains are beautiful, especially to us flatlanders, who must suffer the boring landscape of the Midwest. It was good being back in the mountains after so many years away. I longed to jump out of the car and hike amongst the trees to the many peaks. Satisfying that desire must wait one more day.

The saddest part of the scenery had to be the people. The average weight per person seemed to grow the father south we went. We ate in London KY and everyone working in the restaurant would likely be in the obese category. Outside of London was Manchester. Looked for both Arsene Wegner and Sir Alex (or their look alikes) but neither was in their namesake towns. Not sure the people in these little towns would have any idea who these icons of English soccer are. Then, I am sure I would not recognize many of the names of their basketball icons either.

The ride seemed to fly. It was made better by listening to audio books. We both enjoyed most of the series "The Greatest Minds & Ideas of All Time" which discussed the greatest thinkers, poets, and dates. The author had a poetic way which intrigued us both because we share a common love of words.

After about 340 miles, I gave up the driving duties. I wanted to view some of the sights. Was I being unfair? Possibly, because her time as passenger and free viewing was in the flatlands while mine was in the mountains. (I have been told it will be reversed on the way home.)

The hotel is near the end South end of the Pigeon Forge strip. A five mile roadway which is an affront to the sensibilities of man. The juxtaposition of this place with the majestic mountains reminds me of the oddest sight we saw on the drive. In Kentucky, we saw a giant cross perhaps 3 stories high on property adjacent to a XXX adult shop. The road was setup such that anyone driving up to the adult shop had the cross of God standing tall and peering judgement down upon them.

The restaurants within walking distance of the hotel are a collection of the most unhealthy, fat loaded, fast food restaurants imaginable. It's no wonder the people of this country are some of the most overweight in the world. Tomorrow, it's into the Smoky's. The hotel clerk says the colors are peaking. I need the hike to work off the Kentucky Fried Chicken I stuffed down for dinner.