It’s mid-April, which in Wisconsin means it’s 36 in the morning at 70 in the later afternoon. That’s April. Oh, and two weeks ago today I was snowshoeing in ten inches of fresh, heavy snow just to tire out Dog 4.0.
Not many people I know are in a position to get two new boats in a little over a month, let alone helping to build one of said boats. I fullt admit my privilege in owning a canoe shop. There has to be at least a few benefits, and I guess this is one of them.
Two canoes, both alike in dignity, near fair Lake Wingra where we lay our scene.
One of Fifteen
This first is a Swift Dragonfly. I’ve wanted a Dragonfly since I first paddled one in 1989. They were out of the price range of a grad student, and I was more of a whitewater kayak guy then, but this canoe was special.
Several builders made them sporadically over the years, first Curtis, then Colden, and now Swift obtained the mold from Colden. I first saw it at Canoecopia on March 10. I recognized the shape from across the hall and had to find the story from Bill. Yes, he had the mold, and he was building 15 in a limited edition. I grabbed the first one. Only took me a third of a century.
I walked out into the water and set her down. I put one leg in, steadied myself with a paddle, and quickly slid my other foot under the seat and settled in quickly. It was like climbing on a headstrong horse: the first few seconds are the hardest, and once in, you get locked in.
Yahara River and Tick Reserve
This boat is special. It weighs literally half of the original Curtis-build boat, but new tech and materials has made these boats stronger and lighter. It is definitely a paddler’s boat: it’s roundish and rolls over to the gunwale easily. But that roundness (and a 26″ waterline) makes her fast; the fastest 14.5 footer I’ve ever paddled. Add a good bit of rocker and you have a great downriver boat.
After the initial jaunt around the lake, I took her to Badfish Creek, a log-strewn corkscrew that flows into the Lower Yahara, which runs into the Rock River. If I kept going I’d hit the Mississippi. If I wanted to paddle to New Orleans, I could start the trip a mile from my house.
She handled beautifully. Fast, maneuverable, and pleasantly rounded. I don’t like that feeling of paddling a dock. It takes a little more proprioception to paddle a boat like this, but it’s worth putting the time in.
So that one gets added to the quiver. She probably won’t be my every day boat (when you own a dozen or so canoes, that’s not a revelation), but I know a few rivers waiting for her.
The One Of A Kind
A few weeks ago I took a trip up to Northstar Canoes to spend some time with my friends who work there and to build a one-of-a-kind boat. I have this problem to solve.
Said problem.
Lucy is my best dog friend, and in the top ten of all my friends. I love paddling with her, but she doesn’t fit in any solo I own. The compromise isn’t a good one, since the wood canvas canoe I often use to paddle with her is 80 pounds. I can get it up on my shoulders and up on the truck consistently…except I am concerned that the one in 25 times I do it, my old back goes snick and I am laid up for three weeks on cyclobenzaprine and ice, and I am not allowed to take ibuprofen for two more years because it counteracts some of my heart meds. Not gonna chance it.
So the other solution is to build a custom canoe, so because I have special privileges and I asked nicely, Bear and Ted and Charlie allowed me to come up and turn a nice, small 16-foot tandem into a solo.
It wasn’t that hard: just built the hull, but when it gets to the time to place seats (well, seat) and yokes and thwarts, etc. Tony and I poked and prodded, and finally got Charlie’s structural blessing.
We ended up leaving a 5′ space in front of the yoke, and I moved the seat forward so that with Lucy in the boat, it would be balanced and trim.
I should same something about this boat. The Pearl is a sweet little 16 footer that was designed by Charlie to fit a performance profile we hammered out together. I won’t say I had a hand it its design, but I will admit to putting the spurs to Northstar to build it. It will normally be a tandem canoe with a decent capacity, or a solo that can carry 100 pounds of Newfie/Pyrenees muscle, bone, and fluff.
BUT you don’t have to have a giant fur factory to enjoy a Pearl. Good for just paddling around. Since it’s symmetrical you can paddle it backwards with a kid in the stern seat and it’ll trim perfectly. I would highly recommend one for a lightweight mess around or light tripper.
Oh yeah: Mine weighs 35.8 pounds. That will save my back until I pass it along to my son.
Charlie shot this. I am in my very happy place and she ain’t even wet yet.
The hull is designed to paddle flat, but I can paddle it over to the side a little like the Canadians do. Because of that sweet little bubble of flair, she sits just so and doesn’t move.
It was a little chilly and windy.
I didn’t push it since the wind was pushing me around, but according to Photoshop’s angle indicator, she leaned over to ten degrees easily. My guess is I’ll probably run 12-14% heel.
All in all, I think it’s a huge win for Lucy and me. If I put it on the ground she jumps in and looks at me like I’m daft for having it on the grass.
Just got a new Redleaf Designs cover. Lucy approved.
Well, it has been a strange autumn. Firstborn was home from the Brooklyn for Thanksgiving, which is always a treat. Great food, better company.
We usually paddle over the Christmas break, but it was nice out, and last year we got skunked by unseasonably cold weather. I had the Island Falls WIlderness 16 in the garage, so it was either that or two solos, and we weren’t sure about water levels. So it was a go. The Sugar River is close and easily shuttleable.
This canoe was designed for shallow New England rivers with its flat bottom and high floatability (if that’s a word) so other than its weight, she’s a great choice for shallow. Add her shellac bottom and you have a perfect choice. Shellac is sacrificial: you take off a chunk, you add more.
The water was a bit low, but it was manageable and a beautiful day to be on the water. When we got home it was getting close to dinner, so I left it on the truck.
The canoe was still on the truck the Wednesday after Thanksgiving. That’s when I received a little kick in the pants from the Universe.
It was 7:05 am, and I was 30 minutes into a stationary bike workout when I felt a little off. I stopped my workout and told Steph I didn’t feel well, but it was probably just stress. I took a brief shower and the pain was worse, so I told her “let’s go to the ER, I don’t think this is going away.”
By the time I got to the ER (Stephanie running a red light and driving like a Formula One driver) it was very painful. I was wheeled to admissions as the tech hooked up some leads and got the EKG going, and after three seconds he said “Go, you’re having a heart attack right now!”
I was then that everything went fast. At least six or seven EMTs, nurses, a cardiologist and a few other techs took to poking, prodding, shaving, sticking, shoving pills under my tongue, and applying electrodes all over my body (including the big ones in case things stop working. I remember the ECG tech saying “got it – LED” and things went even faster. I was unaware of what happened after that. The contrast dye was injected at 7:46, and the stent was in by 8:04. I woke up on the way to the recovery room as if nothing happened.
What I didn’t know until Google was that an LAD is a particularly nasty blockage. Your left anterior descending artery supplies your left ventricle with most of its blood supply.
Oh yeah. 100% blockage in the LAD is often called the widowmaker, an appellation created by a particularly insensitive cardiologist. Survival rate is not high, about 12% if it happens outside the hospital, and 20% if it happens inside the hospital.
Well, I guess someone has to be the one in five, he says flippantly.
The cardiologist, the nurse practitioner, RNs and cardiology techs were unanimous in their opinion: I am lucky to be alive, due to a rapid response time, good health (I was working out when it happened), relatively good diet (cheese is going to be curtailed in the future), having a good BMI, and a few other assorted lifestyle choices (no smoking or drinking).
The surreality of it is pretty weird. I felt great within a few hours of the procedure and could have walked home. That was not going to happen. Because the medical staff are way smarter than me.
Well, here we are almost a month later, and I feel fine. I am exercising under the direction of a cardiology rehab nurse and doing everything as perfect as I can. There is no permanent damage, and I should be able to do pretty much whatever I choose to do after six months or so.
The next day Steph and a talk. Well, it was more than a talk. It was a discussion. What I didn’t know as I was being wheeled into the cath lab for my stent, a nurse stopped and said “Do you want to kiss your husband?” Steph said of course, and kissed me on the top of my head.
It was after that when we both realized that the nurse did that…because they weren’t sure I was going to make it out of the cath lab with my heart still beating. That’s when it hit me.
Now, I am not having the “Are you prepared to meet God?” mindset. I have no fear of achieving room temperature, and I’m good with my relationship with Deity. There’s nothing I’m doing in my life that I would stop doing out of fear.
What I did have as thought while I was on the table in the ER is that this is bloody inconvenient for my wife. I can’t imagine how much more inconvenient it would have been if I had joined the choir celestial. That’s the thing: when you’re dead, it’s not a problem for you. It’s the ones you leave behind to clean up the mess that concerns most people.
We own a business, and are part owners in another one. We own commercial properties. I am active in all of these. I would not be active in all of these if the LAD had its way.
Anyway…I’m alive. I’m relieved. I can continue to do the things I am doing to get better. I can make changes. I already did make changes.
First: work. I am not a workaholic, but I do enjoy it. Steph and Firstborn say it’s more about boundaries: I do not have to be available (i.e., on my phone) 20/7 to staff, customers, or anyone else. I made the lame excuse that “Well, if I answer that phone now, that’s one less call I have to take the next day.” True, but a red herring. So I’m setting the phone down and letting things go a little.
Second: vacation. It’s a little known fact that owners have the worst bosses in the world. There’s a strong pull between taking time off and leaving your baby, even if you have a dozen very competent babysitters. Owners don’t know this, but we’re really not that important. You can tell because you can have a heart attack and you get texts like “We got this, it’s all good” and “Don’t worry, we’re on it.“
So in 2023, I’m taking a week off a month. I worked hard, it’s about time I enjoyed some of the fruits of my labor.
N.B.: The texts say “We,” not “I.” The team is on it.
Third: stress. I generally think I handle stress well. I certainly have had enough building a new building. But I certainly don’t do as much self-care as I need. Meditation, prayer, yoga, etc., are things I enjoy, and are good for my mind. My acupuncturist Dan said “You are like water and fire. On the surface you are calm as glass, but inside you are fire.”
I need more water, less fire.
Luckily, my infarction was a shot across the bow and not a broadside. I still have work to do here, and more importantly, I have more play to do here.
I have ground squirrel traps set in the backyard around Stephanie’s garden as they like to eat her veggies, and the fencing and marigolds weren’t holding them off.
Checking the traps, I found one empty, one with a small rodent, and one with a beautiful bullfrog, caught by the lip. Not dead, but. clearly terminal if it can’t figure out a way to eat.
I picked it up and for some reason, started to weep. I couldn’t explain it, I just felt like I had been kicked in the chest by a mule.
I put the frog under my shack in the backyard. In thinking about it, I realized the reason I felt so sad was that I took a life that was totally innocent and had no reason to die. A dead ground squirrel who is devouring our garden is one thing; a creature that was just minding its own business and hopping along the side of the house is another thing altogether. The frog did nothing.
Collateral damage when an innocent person is harmed by the careless actions of others. I don’t care if it’s a bullet or a bean bag or teargas or a mouse trap. The frog was at the right place, behind the ferns, eating slugs; but the wrong time (after I had set out a trap).
Black people walk around carrying the wrong time with them every day by just existing. They start half in the wrong place. I see red lights in the rear view mirror, I get a little gripped. My Black friends see red lights and get a surge of adrenalin and wonder of they’re going to get through the next fifteen minutes.
Just something to think about while hopping around.
About ten years ago I planned to take a trip to Sicily, all my myself, with two cameras a terabyte of cards, and a dozen rolls of 120 Ilford Delta 400. I wanted a week to just wander around a place I loved but hadn’t been to since 1983.
Instead, my very smart wife suggested I pull Ian out of school for a week and take him with me. He would “homeschool” while with me, and would give presentations to his history class, Latin class, English class, etc. The only teacher who objected was the Chemistry teacher, who is known for being a real dick.
I kept a small journal and hadn’t really looked at it that much. I decided that if I didn’t transcribe it, it would disappear. So I got out the little notebook and started squinting at my writing. Here it is, unedited.
Giorno Primo (Day One)
Colpiti da fusorario. Ian particularly bad — the boy needs his sleep! But we did okay: we found a B&B in Monreale run by Santino and his wife Elvira and family. Very kind people. Santino is a teacher of culinary arts (pastry making) at a culinary school in Palermo. We did a lot of walking around and Ian had his first gelato and his first cioccolato caldo. And a great pizza from Pizzeria Mizzica. And his first day of total confusion.
First Contact, Fruttivendola, Monreale.
One thing that struck me — a lot less Sicilian is spoken. I heard very few people speaking it in public, and a few phrases from open windows. Still a soft “C” (Sishilia instead of Sicilia) and I do the same by habit. I guess I’m a southerner at heart.
Giorno Secondo (Day Two)
Alzato alle otto. Good breakfast and a nice chat with Santino. He liked the idea of Rutabaga, it made him laugh.
We drove into Palermo — it’s worse than Napoli. One way is a suggestion, not a rule. I found it fairly easy to navigate — just drive like it’s L.A. but more aggressively and you’re fine. Took a wrong turn and ended up in Mercato Ballarò. Huge mistake, total gridlock, but an adventure.
We found the chapel. After I stopped correcting the Anziano’s grammar (it hurt my ears) I felt pretty good. Still, I was arrogant with them and I see I still have some work to do there. I met one person who knew a bunch of people I knew, but only saw one person I recognized. The ward was large by Italian standards and it was nice.
After church Ian was bonking, so I bought him his first cannolo. He loved it.
We then decided to drive to Trapani and Erice. Erice was great — a Sicilian version of Spello or Montepulciano. It’s just like Erice. It’s the sort of place that would cost a fortune to stay there in the summer. We stayed as late as possible, but I didn’t want to navigate the road down the mountain in total darkness. Sort of like the Amalfi Coast roads.
Tonight we’re staying in a B&B in called La Ciambina. La Ciambina was the first neighborhood built in Monreale to house the workers for the construction of the cathedral. It still retains its medieval character (no cars, narrow streets). Tomorrow: more Palermo. The Duomo in Palermo was closed when we arrived today.
Terzo Giorni (Day Three)
A long day. Up early and drove to Palermo. Insane traffic. Stephanie would have had at least 28 strokes. We had a few minor “kisses” which is why you get comprehensive insurance in Italy. Mirror banging is a common thing. All fun…but for a day. We parked near the Duomo in a sketchy parking lot and gave a guy 2 Euro to “help us park.” More likely to keep our car from getting keyed if we didn’t pay him. Sketchy is all relative, and besides — comprehensive insurance. I’m sure it will have a few more love taps on it than when we got it.
We walked the “sketchy” market (Vucciria) and bought a few umbrellas just in time for it to start raining (when the price doubles). We got some clementines (a Euro for a kilo) and a few apples (30 cents each).
We also had a gastronomical stretch. I heard a guy bellowing in Sicilian “tripa tripa!” and we got one. I made Ian take a bite and that was plenty. I had a bite and we pitched it. It was not a good one. Not all tripe is created equal.
Walked to the Duomo again. Bought socks for Ian. 5 Euro for six pair, only because the seller was so entertaining. The Duomo was good. Frederick II really outdid himself – lovely tomb. Also found Gualtiero Offamiglia (Walter of the Mill), and imported Englishman archbishop when no one trusted anyone within the city. He oversaw the additions to the cathedral. Ian seemed to enjoy the crypt.
At that point we had decided enough big city, so we drove to Piana degli Albanesi, a lovely little town — but a ghost town. Then Ian slept while I drove to Agrigento via Ercolano Minoa. Great Phonecian and Spartan ruins, and a nice theater. The Valle dei Templi was amazing. Took lots of pictures, then drove to Sciacca. We’ll explore that tomorrow morning, then to Trapani, Marsala, etc. Shorter days. I can’t keep driving like this…it’s tiring to be “on” all the time. Addomani.
Giorno Quarto (Day Four)
Found a great B&B in Sciacca – Locanda del Castello. 75 Euro a night and lovely (would cost more than double that in Tuscany). I let Ian sleep in a little (9:30) and we explored Sciacca. A lovely little city. We spent about 100 Euro at a ceramics shop. Calogero gave us a mini tour and told us how he makes all his ceramics. We drove from Sciacca towards Trapani but we took a detour to Cefalu’ because the museum in Trapani was closed. Nice to skip Palermo. Cefalu’ is even nicer than Sciacca, and I really like Sciacca. The setting is amazing. A huge stone hill behind the town is a lovely backdrop for the cathedral (another Roger II work that matches Monreale). We went to an old museum that some baron donated. Had an Antonello da Messina portrait, the only Sicilian renaissance painter of any note. Magnificent.
We stayed in a swank hotel on the water (not to be repeated — 110 Euro). Had pasta at the ristorante “La Brace.” Ian actually ate a mushroom.
Giorno Quinto (Day Five)
Got up early and went for a walk while Ian slept in. He left our toothpaste in Sciacca so I went out in search of a farmicia. Got toothpaste, etc., and since I was shaggy I found a barber and had a shave.
We discussed the Eluana case, a woman who was left in a persistent vegetative state after a car accident 17 years previous. The parents wanted to keep her alive indefinitely. Her husband wanted her to pass because he felt that was her will. He was also engaged and couldn’t marry until she was legally dead. A lot of right-winger right to life people and the Catholic church threw a lot of weight behind her case, but ultimately the court sided with her and her husband, and she was taken off tube feeding and died four days later. The barber was pretty pragmatic, “I mean, a tree is alive, but it doesn’t think. I think she’s like a tree. Alive but not really human.”
We drove to Messina and I was disappointed. It’s pretty ugly as an Italian city goes, since it was 90% levelled in 1908 by a 7.1 earthquake and a 35-foot tsunami a little later. Over 80,000 people died in minutes, since the quake happened early in the morning while the citizens were asleep. What the earthquake didn’t hit, American and British bombers did during World War II. The result is largely new construction, a lot of it ugly.
It has grown a lot since I was a missionary, so I couldn’t find the remote road to my old apartment, so instead we drove to the Straits (Torre Faro) and Ian picked up some pieces of sea glass, reenacted Scylla and Charibdis, and we skedaddled to Taormina, which was okay (touristy), and we headed for Nicolosi, a small town at the base of Etna. Cool. B&B Delle Tre Fontane.
On the way to Nicolosi, we took a drive through the mountains — amazing. You’d think you had gone back in time. We passed through 10 to 12 villages separated by roads that were more like footpaths, with cut outs where you could honk-and-pray. Stephanie would have had a stroke every thirty seconds. We were surrounded by orange, lemon, and olive trees in ancient terraces shored up with volcanic stone walls.
Sicily is more than huge crumbling ruins and cathedrals; there is Nature here, and plenty of it if you get off the beaten path. If I had a million Euro I’d by one of these abandoned stone houses and bring it back to life. Of course, there are always earthquakes, but that hasn’t stopped these people. Good Buddhists, practicing impermanence without knowing it.
We pulled over to one of the terraces and I climbed down a very rickety ladder to get some shots of the beautiful terraces. Hats off to the men and women who took the time to do this work. Thank you!
Day Six (Sisto Giorno)
We stayed up too late watching the Italian version of American Idol (Factor X) and it was amazingly bad. The contestants were fine, but the judges are caricatures of ours. Silly stuff.
Etna remains obscured by clouds.And no lava. Plus it snowed on us. Peccato.
Catania was, overall, disappointing. Noisy and dirty, but without the benefits of Palermo. That said, we missed out on St. Agata’s feast day. There was a lot of prep, and people were selling giant candles (ceri) that the faithful carry on the walk through town. We some some of the giant candelore that get carried like floats through the streets, each representing a guild. We saw the plumber and hardware store candelora. If I had been alone, I might have stayed just to shoot pictures.
I did stop by the mission office at Corso Sicilia 48, but it was long gone, the mission having closed years before, I think 2010 or so.
So we took off for Siracusa. We spent several lovely hours there. First we went to the Greek Theater and the Neopolis. It was very cool and huge. Ian loved it. We walked in Ortygia, the small island that is the oldest part of the city. Fantastic streets and scenes, and saw the Temple of Athena that was converted into the Cathedral. I hope the pictures turn out. I really like Siracusa.
We then drove to Ragusa as the light was failing too bad. I did take a few shots of Ragusa Ibla, a world UNESCO site. If I had another day I’d just stay there and take pictures. The people here have great faces. I bought Ian a new coat. He had been cold a lot and I wanted to get him something special. The price was 210 Euro and the sweet old guy marked it down to 124 Euro. He said I was lucky – that his sixteen year old doesn’t like to be around him anymore. He said some really sweet things to Ian.
We were going to go to Enna but decided to go to Piazza Armenia instead. Ian’s idea. We would see the famous Roman mosaics, including the famous bikini twins, proving that the French have been taking credit for inventing the bikini for way too long. 🙂
Then we’ll head off to Palermo to find a hotel close to the airport.
Day Seven (Giorno Settimo)
A wonderful day with my son — very adventurous. I got up early and took a walk around Piazza Armenia. Grabbed some cioccolato at a bar and carried it back to Ian. B&B Mazzini was nice, but Spartan. We drove down to the Roman Villa: a true palace with over 11,000 square feet of mosaics — and they were closed! Bummed. So we drove to Morgantina, an old city in the middle of nowhere. A older gentleman named Valerio offered to show us all the ruins (there really wasn’t a guide) for 30 Euro. Steep but it helped a little old man, and he showed us some Phoenician ruins, explained how things were discovered, who built an illegal house on the site (mafioso, he says), etc.
Anyway, we drove a few kilometers outside a small city (Raddusa) that would get us to the Autostrada. Closed by a mudslide. 30 km outside our way and no signs or nothing! We cut back on a backroad and made it to the A-19. 50km later they closed the A19 for SNOW! For 90 minutes we sat there. Wimps. 2 inches.
We finally made it to Palermo and retraced our steps to Monreale. I thought I had left an Ibex sweater at one of the B&Bs. Nope. I had not. We decided to stay at Santino and Elvira’s place again and we bought them pizza for dinner. It was only 30 minutes to the airport at 4:30 AM. So now we sleep.
The next morning we got to the airport to discover that the booking agent screwed up our flights when we had to rebook in Chicago after finding out that Airone (an Italian airline) went bankrupt. Alitalia was taking all their flights, so when we had to change everything over in Chicago, the furboni screwed up our departure dates. We figured out a way to get home, but it was Palermo to Rome to Paris to DC to Chicago.
All in all, a wonderful trip. It was going to be a solo trip, but Stephanie convinced me to take Ian. I am SO glad she did.
The white van pulled into my shop, dripping with gear, looking like someone was living in it. There were bikes strapped on the back, but the right-wing bumper stickers and giant NRA emblem were clearly visible. No big deal, it happens all the time at the shop. I can’t agree with everyone, and wouldn’t want to.
A white-haired gentleman with a grey mop of hair and a between three and ten days of beard emerged and walked to the door. I greeted him as I always greet customers.
“I wanna buy a kayak. I’ve been waiting for three years and I’m going to get one.”
So I did what I always do, I took him through the same Q&A to get things narrowed down and give options. He asked a lot of questions about what boat would be best for different rivers and lakes, including ones out west. “I’m traveling for a year, I want to see everything.” I looked for a wedding ring and saw one, but I didn’t see his wife anywhere. I asked him what his wife thought about his walkabout.
He chuckled. “She’s totally cool with this. She told me to do this right before she died.” I asked how long ago it was. He said told me it had been about three months, and he finally felt like he was ready to go.
I looked him in the eye and said “I’m so sorry.” Then I just reached out and hugged him. He patted my back and whispered “Thank you.”
We continued going through the whole process; assessing his rack needs (turns out he wanted two boats, one for flatwater and one for whitewater), and getting him all geared up. As he opened his car door, I saw a huge revolver (later identified as a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum) and I just smiled and said “I see you’re a Clint Eastwood fan.” He laughed, pulled it out right there in the parking lot, cracked open the cylinder and dumped the shells into his hand and handed it to me. Three pounds, not a light pistol.
I have no particular hatred for guns, really, except I think they’re too readily available and need to be more closely regulated, and as much as is possible, keeping them away from children, with trigger locks. I feel much like author and humorist Michael Perry, who said that a gun is a like a pitchfork; just a tool to gather venison in the fall. But go into his house in the middle of the night, you can guess which tool he would grab.
It felt weird standing in the parking lot with a Make My Day sidearm. I admired it for its craftsmanship and handed it back.
He wrying hiked up his trouser leg to reveal a Glock 26 (the baby one) strapped to his ankle. This guy was ready for the Zombie Apocalypse. He didn’t take it out.
As we finished up, I just looked at this sweet old widower, left alone and ready to do a trip of a lifetime, after three years of caring for his wife of over 40 years. He was tired, and looked it. He was ready for some rest.
I shook his hand again, smiled, and embraced him a second time. “Save travels, she’ll be with you.” He said “I know, and thanks again.” I watched him drive away with his new toys, heading for somewhere in the Northwest.
This man and I probably have significant differences in our political ideologies. I own a firearm and again, have no issues owning one, but I can’t stand the NRA and their rhetoric of fear. Most gun owners I know feel the same way. I lean leftish, he leads rightish.
But when I embraced him, none of that political b.s. mattered. It was just two men, one comforting the other. I can’t imagine nor do I ever want to imagine losing my wife; it would probably destroy me. But I saw hope in a man who could lose his wife and hit the road, finding himself again, grieving, biking, and now, paddling, guns and all.
Put aside your petty differences, please. Love each other, because we’re all we got.
Two weeks ago I was visiting my favorite special ed teacher and redhead in Brooklyn. We were driving to get dinner on the BQE, and as I was about to cross over the East River into Manhattan, I saw a large billboard. Because this was New York and traffic was heavy, I did not take a picture of it, but someone did and put it on Twitter.
When I saw that sign, I thought of Bill.
Yesterday was the funeral of a dear friend, Bill Kaplan. I had planned on attending, but the night before I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was to do something else to honor him instead.
Bill and I frequently talked about mitzvot (little kindnesses). In the Jewish tradition, a mitzvah is one strand of thread that holds the world together. Added up, they mean a lot. I could argue they mean everything. It doesn’t have to be a big deal; in fact, I would say that if it is a big deal, it’s not a mitzvah.
A minyan is not a little yellow guy from Despicable Me. It’s a group of ten men who are needed to achieve quorum for certain religious ceremonies.
So yesterday, instead of attending a funeral, I became a minyan of one. I decided to do ten mitzvot to honor my friend Bill. Being a practical man, I figured he’d rather I do this anyway. Because above all, Bill was kind and generous.
1. The first thing I did was call a friend I haven’t talked to in a long time. We talked for 45 minutes, and although it was a “business call,” we spent 10 minutes on businesses and 35 minutes on fly fishing, family news, and just catching up. I told him about my mitzvah quest. He said, “Well, I feel great! This counts as your first one!”
2,3, and 4. I went to Colectivo Coffee to sit at my computer for a while and do a little work. I paid for my hot chocolate, then left a $20 with instructions to the cashier to pay for everyone else’s stuff until the $20 was gone. She smiled and said that was really sweet. I said “It’s for Bill.” I sat a discreet distance away and enjoyed the feeling of watching someone feel unexpectedly loved by a stranger.
5. As I was leaving the coffee shop, a woman was sitting in the sunshine by the gas fireplace. She was wearing a knit cap with a flower on the side. Since my wife is a knitter, I notice all things that look like they might be hand-made. I asked her if she made her hat, and she smiled, and said no, that she had purchased it at “the co-op” on the east side. I said “Well, even if you didn’t make it, it’s lovely.” She smiled again, shrugged, and said “Thanks.” No big deal, but her day was better because of it, I think.
6,7, and 8. Stephanie made cookies for me to take to the neighbors. We took them to our next door neighbors on each side, the folks across the street, and I tried to take them down the block to some other friends who weren’t home. I saw the light on across the street at the home of an older couple I hadn’t seen in a while. That’s not uncommon as they are frail and tend to stay in all winter.
The door opened and there stood their son. His parents had moved into assisted living over the winter after a bad fall. We talked about his parents for fifteen minutes or so, I got their details and he said he was on his way over and would deliver the cookies for me.
Mrs. Jones taught my son piano lessons when he was a young man. She was a big part of his life, and I’m glad they’re safe. Yes, they took a piano with them to assisted living.
The cookies were a good mitzvah, but talking to a son still struggling with dealing with getting a house in order was a bigger one. He said he was having a hard time going through pictures and papers, and that once in a while he’d open something and just start tearing up. He told me that it was completely unpredictable; it just happened.
9. I bought an actual physical note card and wrote an actual hand-written note to a friend I haven’t seen in a while. Facebook thumbs-ups are fine, but you can’t hold a pixel. It felt good to buy it and to write it.
10. I don’t think I got to ten. I’ll do that one today.
So the thing that I kept thinking all day was this: “Why did I have to wait for someone to die to get me to think about mitzvot?” Shouldn’t we just do this all the time anyway? Yes, by all means make Brooklyn kinder, but why stop there? Why don’t we all make the world kinder? All of us, irrespective of religious tradition (or none at all)?
Pick up the tab. Let someone pick up the tab. Say thank you and mean it. Hold a door open for someone. Let someone hold the door for you. Smile and wave to someone in a crosswalk. Leave a 25% tip. Pick up some litter. Notice the poor. Notice the rich. Send a notecard. Thank your letter carrier. Be thankful for the people who are invisible that make your life easier. Notice someone’s humanity.
Notice someone’s humanity. That just came out of my fingers. Just now.
I look back at the mitzvot I did, and every single one of them had that in common. The phone call, the free coffee, the cute hat, perched on a lovely face, the cookies, the conversation, the note card…all said the same thing:
You are a human being, and I noticed that you exist.
I’m glad you’re here on earth at the same time I am.
Bill, thank you for your example to me. I will keep the mitzvot train moving along the tracks. I will automatically smile at Volvo drivers, thinking about how you loved Volvos. I will smile at crossing guards.
I have a receding hairline. Actually, it’s in full retreat. I’m balding, so I chose to finish the job Mother Nature and testosterone have started. When I travel, I often use it as an excuse to get a hot shave from a real live barber.
Finding one has become more difficult as time passes, but in larger metro areas, finding a traditional barber shop with the red and white-striped pole and a couple of chairs (three max), with old guys manspreading on chairs against the wall, waiting for a sucker like me to walk in.
Said barbershop should smell vaguely medicinal, with whiffs of talc, aftershave, blue Barbicide with a bunch of combs in the jar, and something astringent. If it’s one in a sub street level shop, accessible by a few stairs down, it might have a slight musty basement smell, which is fine. Visually, look for calendars, usually a few years old, and pictures of grandchildren tacked around the mirror. The license on the wall is faded and aged, in a simple frame, hanging from picture wire. It has expired, probably, and the renewals are in a stack of mail in the back closet.
The barber himself, well, that depends on your locale. Sometimes they’re immigrants, in one case from Mosul, Iraq. Ibrahim was a wizard with a razor and given that he cut his teeth on middle-eastern hair that grows as thick as tree trunks, my wispy peach fuzz was no challenge. But in many cases, it’s an octogenarian, a man twenty years past retirement who would be dead in a week if you made him stop working.
When I arrived in Manhattan to visit my firstborn, I was already a day scruffy, and I use safety razors so traveling with blades is somewhat problematic, so when I arrived I started looking online to find a barber, I was overwhelmed with choices. Because this is Manhattan.
40 or so barber shops popped up below 125th Street, many in Midtown and the Financial District. Most of them clustered in the south end of the island, where there is more discretionary income (financial dudes, real estate tycoons, and movie stars). One place even bragged that George Clooney was a client, as well as a list of other manly men. A shave was $30, a haircut was $70 or more. Out of my price range, even if I wanted a place that gave me a shot of whiskey or a PBR before my salon treatment. A hundred clams for a shave, even if it does keep going for a while?
I wasn’t about to take the subway 40 minutes each way for a hot shave, so I started a little more selective Google search. Lo and behold, I find a place that isn’t on Yelp, has one comment on Google, and is four blocks away in East Harlem.
I think Claudio is a Democrat. Not sure why.
I love East Harlem. Downtown is cool and hip and all that, and the restaurants are great, the people beautiful, and the parks green and spacious. But it’s almost like being on a movie set. I love Greenwich Village, but I couldn’t live there. It’s as if Disneyland made its own Main Street USA but more swanky and avant garde.
Yeah. This is East Harlem.
East Harlem has families there. Mostly Hispanics, mostly from the Dominican Republic, and the rest a mixture of other minorities, except here they’re not minorities; I am. No supermarkets, just bodegas and fruit stands. No restaurant chains to speak of (except for the ubiquitous McD’s), but lots of little taquerias and bakeries. The streets and not spotless; in fact, there is a significant amount of micro-trash, waiting for a storefront operator to sweep it into the curb and scoop it up into the trash. Bags of trash are piled up here and there, but for the most part, I like it that way.
Yes, there are homeless people, but no more than any other place I saw in Manhattan. Yes, the storefronts are locked down tight with impenetrable doors and padlocks the size of hamburger buns. Yes, there is crime and inner city problems, but I walked around without blinking. I was treated with respect if not deference, which just made me uncomfortable. I handed out a little food here and there to the homeless folks I met, and it was graciously received with a God bless you, man.
But at the end of the day, I don’t know that it’s any more dangerous than any other place in a large metro area. I’m not setting my laptop on a bench and going to get a Coke from the machine, mind you, but I wouldn’t do that in downtown Madison.
But as usual, I digress.
Located on 116th Street between 1st and 2nd avenues, Claudio’s is as old-school as it gets. It was half a mile walk from my daughter’s apartment, which in New York is a short hop. In most places we’d hop in the car, sadly, but it was a nice morning so it was a welcome diversion. It was early Memorial Day morning. I passed a few folks walking their dogs, but that was it.
I peeked in the door and saw no one, but an older guy standing outside the door indicated that Claudio was in. Three steps down and I saw him, feet up, reading the paper.
I knew from the internet that Claudio was Italian, from Salerno, near Naples, so I greeted him in Italian. He ignored that and said “What do you want?” Not in a rude way, but he wanted to get to the point. I told him I needed a shave, beard and scalp. “Sit down here,” he said. I complied.
Then suddenly he started addressing me in Italian. In fact, he used voi, a strange and anachronistic honorific, used by older Italians, often to their parish priest or someone like that. I don’t know if he was pulling my leg or just super-polite. After a few minutes I decided he was just being super-polite. He was too sweet to be mean-spirited.
We did the usual chit-chat, me being more careful when his straight edge razor was hovering over my Adam’s apple. He started with the typical Italian fatalism surrounding the presidential election. “We are on the edge of a knife, he said, and things could go very badly.” He’s right there.
A local dude with a thick Brooklyn accent came in and asked if he could put up a political sign. “No.”
“Aw, c’mon, we’re neighbors.”
“I no nothing about the neighbor, capisci? No Powell.” He pointed a poster of retiring Congressman Rangel. “He have my back. No Powell.”
“Well, sir, I hope we can change your mind.”
Claudio made a sound familiar to people who have lived in Italy. It’s a cross between ‘meh’ and ‘nah,’ but more nasal. It means “I’m done with this conversation.”
Back to work. He was just finishing behind my ears when pretty boy came with his Powell poster. He never looked up.
He rubbed my scalp with some weird tonic, then stuff that stung a little, then talcum powder. Seriously, I looked like a mime. He must have seen my expression and dabbed away, muttering Maybe I put a little too much, eh?
It had rained earlier that morning. “Ah yes, boom boom and a lotta rain.” I asked him if clients stayed away during rainstorms. He smiled and said “Good! I have enough of the clients. My health is good. I have enough money. Why I need more client? I want to go home at two, I go home.”
Frankie (see in the picture) came in and they exchanged greetings. Frankie was a regular.
“Hey Frankie, you remember Johnny, come in here a lot, since he a boy? You know, him, yes?”
Frankie indicated that yes, he knew Johnny.
“He dead. He die at fifty, his brother, he die at forty-eight, his dad, he die before he sixty. They all sick in that family.”
Frankie said something about bad genes. Claudio said, “I don’t know nothing about the genes, but they all sick, and now they all dead.”
I went to stand up and he said “aspett…” which means “wait a sec…” He grabbed a pair of small scissors, grabbed my nose and lifted the end skyward and started snipping nose hairs. It tickled and I stifled a sneeze.
“Ecco,” he said.
I pulled out my wallet. “Quanto devo, signore?”
“Lessee, for the shave, seven…for the head, ten. So seventeen.” I handed him a twenty and said thanks, and I would be back again the next time I visited my daughter. “Arrivederci.”
He grunted a reply, I waved to Frankie who smiled back, and took off.
Two minutes later I was back. Forgot my glasses. Arrivaderci. Grunt.
Two minutes later I was back again.
“Why you come back? You forget something else?”
“No, I wanted a picture of you, for my daughter. The one who lived in Milano by your sister.”
“Sure! Go ahead. Frankie, it’s okay he take the picture, okay? Frankie gave his consent.
“Adesso parto per l’ultima volta.”
He grunted, turned back to Frankie’s haircut and said “I see you next time.”
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover
I like dead languages. I like sick and almost comatose languages too (Sicilian), but let’s stick with Latin. Because Latin is awesome.
Sometimes for yucks I read the Latin Vulgate. I am weird, I get it. The reason I like it is because it jars the brain, especially since it’s not my native language1. I have to look hard at things, because I have to grab the dictionary a few times every verse.
What I like about Latin is that it’s precise. Texans get this, because you isn’t the same thing as y’all which isn’t the same thing as all y’all. In English, we get you, and you alone.
So here I am, reading Corinthians and I run across this awesome verse.
Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana fidelis autem Deus qui non patietur vos temptari super id quod potestis sed faciet cum temptatione etiam proventum ut possitis sustinere.
Or in the King’s English (literally):
There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that which ye are able; but with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
So big deal. Yes, it is a big deal.
This is a scripture that I used to dislike. Maybe I hated it, I dunno. It was one of those chestnuts thrown out when a person is having a tough time with a problem, or struggling with a demon of some sort. It was thrown at people with addiction problems, which usually made them feel like garbage because obviously they weren’t able to have the faith to overcome their demon.
In short, it was a scripture that pious people used to attempt to make people feel simultaneous better and worse. Usually worse.
The modern translation of this verse is “There’s nothing God will ask you to do that you can’t, and if you can’t do it, you’re defective. Unlike me. I got this.”
This is why I love Latin. Here’s a rough translation:
…but God is faithful, who will not suffer all y’all to be tempted above that which all y’all are able; but with the temptation also make a way to escape, that all y’all may be able to bear it.
In short, it’s all about all y’all. We are all in this together. Individually, we’re not able to bear everything that is thrown at us. Together, as a group, a church, a community, we are.
The word religion gets a bad rap, because it is tied to the crazies. Ignore that. Religion is (wait for it) comes from the Latin word for binding together again. It comes from the same root word as ligament; something that connects things, and align, to make things fit together in some sort of order.
Religion should be about binding ourselves together to allow us to achieve a common goal; for Christians, it’s coming to know and emulate Jesus. For Buddhists, to bring the sangha (community) together toward enlightenment, together. With a few exceptions, religions are the manifestation of a philosophy, that together we can do better than we can apart, so long as we show up to the game to love and support, not to judge.
After church today, I find myself thinking about the people who are struggling with problems that they can’t solve themselves. That would be, let’s see…everyone. We’re all struggling in one way or another, and I think it’s time to get rid of the judgement and just help bind ourselves together.
So give up your judgment to Judge Judy, she’s paid to do it. We few, we happy few, let’s just support all y’all.
I love pictures, and a great image is definitely worth a thousand words. That said, I listen a lot to old radio shows and podcasts, plus audio books and other forms that make me create images in my mind. I wanted to see if I could take you along with me on a river trip.
There are technical difficulties, for sure, and I’m just figuring out sound editing. But take a listen. I hope you can feel what it feels like on my River.
. Here’s a rough translation: