What to have for dinner?  Hmmm?

Fast food?  Barbeque?  Indian?  Pizza?  Casual dining ?  (This is a term which refers to restaurants like Applebee’s, Chili’s or TGI Friday’s.  In reality, it sounds kind of like staying home and having left-overs.)

Hey, that’s an idea.  Let’s cook at home tonight!  You heat up the oven and grab the sauté pan and I will get online and order dinner!  For next week sometime.  But we’ll do it at home.  Ourselves.  So it will be fresh.  Sort of.  But it sure sounds good, doesn’t it?

What I’m talking about is ordering our meals on the internet so they can be delivered next week, say, Tuesday – and then WE have to cook them.  This keeps us from having to go through the tremendously stressful task of deciding what to have for dinner next week Tuesday.  I do understand that in today’s society we are increasingly inundated by family demands.  The kids have ballet recitals, soccer practice, play dates, violin stringing rehearsals, basketball recitals and any number of useless appointments to keep them from being, you know, kids.  We, as adults, are busy with work, kids, chasing after the kids, paying the housekeeper to clean up after the kids, being a single Dad, a single Mom or dealing with a relationship.  Worse yet, being a NOT single Mom or Dad and dealing with another relationship…good luck with that!  In addition, with the universal use of email and cell phones, we are working any time of the day!  We need the stress relief.  We need the help.  We need…, well, we need to quit coming up with excuses and do stuff for ourselves!!!!!!!

HOW did we GET here?

Not you and I; I know how we got here.  I couldn’t find anything on television, so I sat down and wrote this and apparently you are in a really B-O-R-I-N-G meeting and are reading it…because you have poor wi-fi reception and couldn’t download those cat videos from Youtube.

Now, so you know where my perspective is based, I am an older male (it’s okay, I came by it honestly) living in the Midwest/West.  I no longer have to worry directly about the kids, I’m too used to not being single and I’m WAY too lazy to deal with an outside relationship.  While that places me outside the marketing demographic for this type of business, it maps my progress through the demographic.  What that experience has taught me is…Damn!  I don’t care how many channels you have, take the time to stop at the grocery store, for God’s sake!

I know what you are saying, and my advice to you is, keep it to a whisper or your boss will know you’re sitting in that meeting but not paying attention!  Anyway, your stand is that, aside from being old and not knowing anything, I am not familiar with the hectic urban lifestyle.  I don’t know anything about life in the stressful business world of today and I probably ride my pony right by the corner mercantile on my way home from my job at the Scrooge & Marley Counting House.  (Don’t laugh; many people have a view of the “hinterlands” that is not much different from that.)

First of all, that was a different guy and, according to Dickens, he didn’t have a pony.  Secondly, every one of my friends and acquaintances from the city tell me how wonderful it is to be able to get whatever you want any time of the day on any corner – unless you live in the suburbs, and that’s not my fault – and you’re telling me you can’t take the time to go to the store!  I get that the lines are a bit longer, but you could maybe buy enough for a few days or a week.  If not, maybe you could invest in one of those ice-box-refrigerator-things.

All kidding aside (no, not really), there are a growing number of businesses nationally advertising their complete meal delivery service…without the cooking part included.  This business plan is predicated on the assumption that you, the consumer, are a lazy…um…person.  Oh, sure.  They don’t SAY that!  They tell you how easy it is.  How much time it saves.  How it allows you to try so many different types of cuisine or how it helps you learn to cook better.

Okay, you want to learn to be a better cook?  Do you have the internet?  Of course you do; you were going to order dinner there.  Well, punch in the word “recipe”.  You don’t even have to spell it correctly.  What did you find?  LOT’S of stuff, right?  You want vegetarian recipe’s?  Type that in.  Are you interested in gluten-free meals?  If you don’t have celiac’s desease, quit looking for problems where there aren’t any…but go ahead and put that in there.

What did you find?  You found that you don’t know where to begin because there are so many, THAT’S what you found!  You want to learn to cook better, grab one of these recipe’s.  Not sure about your skill in reading that complicated kitchen code?  Look for recipe’s for the beginning cook.  As far as having the right product, no matter which one you choose, they always start with a list of required ingredients.  Amazing, right?

If you still feel the need to order something, get online and order an archaic tomb called a “cookbook.”  Your mother might have one, but she’s probably still using it because, let’s face it, some of us “older people” aren’t so handy with technology…but at least we know how to cook in a non-pretentious way.

Here’s an idea.  Go to one of those meal delivery websites and set up a once or twice a week delivery. Go ahead; I’ll wait.

Done?  Okay, now two other nights a week I want you to pick an interesting recipe’ and do it yourself.  That’s right, have a friendly competition with those fine entrepreneurs at whichever delivery service you choose.  I think you will be pleasantly surprised at your ability and at your available time.  No, you won’t have any more time than you did before, but you will likely find you won’t have any less, either.  In addition, you will have saved a few bucks and find a new skill.

Still think you’re just too busy?  I suggest you follow this plan until you’re comfortable with cooking…  And then start your OWN meal delivery business, build it into a thriving brand and sell it.  Then you’ll have time and money to have your meals delivered with a chef.

          At one time, outdoor sports were essential – or rather, some of what are now considered sports were once essential – or maybe it was essential to play a sport…  Anyway, some of the things we do today as sports or for enjoyment were necessary parts of everyday life in the past.  As an example, it was, for some cultures, a part of life to hunt for food.  Hunting, with rifle or bow and arrow or even a spear, was a job; a way to survive, to pay off your credit card or make next months utility payment.  Many a person who today would be an avid hunter found it difficult to get out of the recliner, grab the old spear and head for the woods for a day of wooly mammoth hunting.  Today things have changed.  Today it’s illegal to hunt wooly mammoths because, if they were not extinct, they would likely be on the endangered species list due to our encroachment upon their habitat, thereby handicapping large numbers of them by breaking their ankles while smashing our Prius’s into them at high speeds as they try to cross our nation’s highways.

          Many more of our outdoor leisure activities were anything but leisurely.  Fishing was much the same as hunting since food was a necessity.  People couldn’t go to the marketplace to buy fresh fish.  This was largely because there was no refrigeration and after a couple of hours in the hot sun you no longer had fresh fish, not to mention you couldn’t even get close to the place because of the smell.  Work or not, it was definitely preferable to catch your own fish.

          Camping, too, was not considered camping as much as it was considered, well, just living.  While a dank (writers’ digression:  I love this word, which I believe to be a combination of the words damp and rank…maybe some dark in there, too.  It’s not pleasant, but it certainly is descriptive, don’t you think?)  cave or an elaborate lean-to would have made a wonderful home for the average Cro-Magnon, it is somewhat below today’s’ real-estate expectations…unless, of course, it has a view.

          One of the more recent developments in the history of mankind, and the subject of today’s essay, is the art of horseback riding.  This pastime is pursued by people all over the world.  A very few, mostly in Montana and west Texas, still ride horseback to make their jobs easier.

          Some people use horseback riding as a competition in the form of horse racing.  This sport began thousands of years ago.  I believe it was initiated by an early French tribe called the “Jacquies”, a people very small in stature.  They lived on a little island in the river Seine and raised very large horses.  For sport, they would challenge to run their horses against each other (the horses, that is), and then race around the island on the beach.  Passers-by on the shores of the river would bet dried fish or cheese or even goats while drinking wine and mead and viewing the festivities.  While we have traded the island beach for a horse track, this sport has remained the same to this day…except today they can bet fresh fish.

          One group of thrill-seeking, extreme riders has made another equestrian profession popular.  We call this “rodeo”, which I believe is Spanish for “uninsurable”.  Again, many aspects of rodeo riding were necessary skills at one time.  With the possible exception of the over-talkative, western-babbling rodeo announcer, this sport is the same event it was over 100 years ago.  Also, rodeo, perhaps because it was invented prior to the advent of modern governmental interference, is the only bone-breaking, joint-dislocating, brain-damaging sport which requires no pads, harnesses, helmets or safety wear of any kind.  This may have something to do with the technical difficulty of molding a protective, shock absorbing helmet in the shape of a cowboy hat.

          Most horseback riders take up the hobby to take their minds off of everyday stress, to return to a time when life was much easier – when that ten minute drive to work was an hour walk.  When that computer filing system was a quill and ink well and stacks and stacks of parchment.  When the damn workday was sunup to sunset.  When…  Well, anyway, people no longer need to ride horses for transportation.  The need for faster conveyance of people and freight has made the use of the horse obsolete.  Convenience was also a factor since an automobile or truck may be parked in hot sun or freezing sleet and it doesn’t need to be brushed out and fed after use.  Air conditioning and heat options didn’t hurt the shift to mechanical transportation, either.

          Horseback riding as a leisure activity may bring to mind a western trail ride, an English fox hunt or some other equestrian event.  To the untrained seat like mine, these sound much the same…like getting on, bouncing around and falling off.  There are, however, many different aspects of riding to learn and master.

          One of the first things to learn, once you have horse identification down, is the tack.  English tack would be similar to:

“Excuse me, sir.  I believe you are progressing quite nicely, though you will surely benefit from a few more lessons and a bit more practice.”

          Western tack is somewhat different, as:

“Hell, greenhorn, if you cain’t quit fallin’ off the horse, you ain’t gonna be able to ride the range with the other cow-doggies.”

          Actually, I guess that would be tact, not tack.  But as you can see, the western style requires much less tact than does the English.

          Knowing the gear necessary is also important.  THIS is what is known as tack.  There are, as previously alluded to, two main styles of riding, each having its respective tack (read:  “gear”)…English and western.  Most tack is common to both schools; as with the saddle it is, in most cases, only the form that differs.

The flat saddle is used in the English style of, uh, equestrianistic endeavor (read:  “horseback riding”).  This saddle gets its name because it’s…well, flat, mostly.  It has virtually no cantle (read:  “back rest”) and no pommel (read:…um “dashboard”).  Riding with this type of saddle is much like sitting on the hood of a highly polished ’76 Chrysler.  Any change in velocity can cause what is known as the “slingshot effect”.  This can indirectly cause injury due to what is known as the “landing effect”.

          The western saddle, on the other hand, is heavier and built more for utility.  It has a higher cantle, a higher pommel, usually with a horn, and rings with rawhide thongs in order to fasten equipment to the saddle – a first aid kit is a good start.  The riding position in the western seat is much more upright than the English, placing the rider in a near standing position.  This position can often make it easier for the novice rider to retain balance.  It also aids in controlling the slingshot effect, which can be devastating in a saddle with a high pommel and horn, particularly for the male rider.

          Whatever the advantages of either saddle, balance, not gear, is what keeps the rider on the horses’ back.  While some people are more “balanced” than others, stability on horseback can only be learned by repeated practice and occasional negative feedback (falling off).

          “Operating” the horse is executed by both natural and artificial aids.  Natural aids include the riders voice.  A well trained horse can know much of what the rider wants by his voice commands.  I should mention that, to the horses in my experience, the statement “EEYAAAAAAAH!”, has the same basic meaning as “There’s an extra fifty in it if you get me to the airport in ten minutes.””  

          Other natural aids to riding can be the use of the reins, the pressure of the heels and legs and the distribution of the riders weight …or the sudden lack thereof.  Most of these aids are especially helpful when riding bareback.  I suggest, however, that when you ride bareback you should use a quality sunblock since repeated, prolonged skin exposure to sunlight can cause some type of ozone damage or something.

          Aids which fall into the artificial category include whips, spurs and riding crops.  My favorite artificial aid is the lead shank.  When the rope of the lead shank is held by an experienced wrangler, my control of the mount can be achieved with relative ignorance.

          We have covered enough material in our discussion of horseback riding to only touch the tip of the pommel horn, so to speak.  This does, however, give you an idea of how complex riding is.  The skills required certainly place this activity in the realm of sports rather than a mere pastime.  Besides, it’s much more gratifying to the ego to explain how you dislocated your shoulder during an actual sport rather than a simple leisure activity.

          Happy trails.

          I drive and old Jeep.  Not one of your CJ models which are fun and practical (in a Jim Bowie sense of practical).  No, I drive an old two-door, mono-color, manual transmission, 1977 AMC Jeep Cherokee – came from the factory with rust already impregnated into key points of the body structure.  You know the ads they have with the price in large numbers, then at the bottom in small print it says, “base sticker price”?  That’s the Jeep I have.

          Oh, I have a few extras such as carpeting, which came out of someone’s’ bathroom, and a cassette player and speakers I bought at Big Al’s Hi-Tech Electronics Emporium and Tackle & Bait Shop.  The Jeep itself uses more than its share of gas, it smells like oil and looks like…well, dirt, mostly.  On the positive side, however, I don’t have to park it at the edge of the parking lot to keep it from getting dinged up and I only have to wash it once a year in the spring.  That’s only because of those nice spring days when you lose all sense of reality and become over-zealous due to the increase in average temperature.  This is a real psychological disease known as Vernal Thermal Psychotic Syndrome…maybe.

          Anyway, my modifications are nothing compared to the changes made by a few power-crazed individuals who overbuild their poor, unsuspecting vehicles with beefed up suspensions and BIG tires.  This is caused by a testosterone-induced disease known as…Male Major Modification Malady, maybe.  It’s not uncommon to see sufferers of this disease driving down main street with a 1963 Chevy C-20 pick-up refitted with a high output 454 aluminum big block engine, Kenworth running gear, custom John Deere magnesium wheels and high speed radial tires with the optional highway tread.  All, of course, in four-wheel drive.  My brother has one of these vehicles, or at least it aspires to be one someday.  His tires can still be purchased as large truck tires rather than space shuttle landing gear.

          These vehicles are quite useful in the salvage business:

“Bob, I need a rear passenger door panel clip from that Studebaker over there behind those Fords.”

                     “No problem, Art.”

                     “Roar, Crash, Smash, Squash.”

For general driving needs, however, these vehicles are far from practical.  As a hunting vehicle they offer up several difficulties due to, uh…girth.  By the time you take one of these pick-ups, add on some oversized, heavy underpinnings, larger drums, bigger wheels and extra large jumbo tires, the truck is visible on low-level radar.  Now, a tall structure with a minimal foundation has a predominant tendency to tip easily (see “Suzuki Samurai”).  To prevent this, the wheels, if they’re not already out there due to necessary structural tolerances, need to be pushed outward a bit…say, two feet on each side.  A vehicle this wide is prone to take out fences whether the gate is open or not – a practice not conducive to good hunter/landowner relations.  If you feel you need not worry about this since you hunt largely on government land, I must warn you that neither the state nor the U.S. Forest Service appreciate the removal of trees for the purpose of widening the right-of-way.  Also, although I don’t personally know too many, I would have to guess that most logging truck drivers, should they come across a pick-up truck on steroids blocking the road by its excessive width, would probably view it as a future hood ornament.

Off road recreation is also very limited, aside from, say, climbing the boulder field at the base of Mt. Rushmore (a recreational activity not condoned by the National Park Service).  Winter recreation is definitely not a good choice.  On snow or ice, the large surface area of the tires coupled with the relatively low body weight of the truck use the laws of physics to create something akin to a motorized toboggan…only with less directional control.

Aquatic recreation may be possible, but is not advised.  My brother tells me of a friend of his with a full-blown mini-truck in this modified class who surmised, through scientific calculation, intense investigation and WTH experimentation that the floatation value of the super-oversized tires would hold his hybrid Mazda afloat in the water.  (WTH experimentation occurs when one looks objectively at all available evidence against the given theory, says “ah, what the Hell!”, and does it anyway.)  I understand the whole thing worked until he climbed back in the box to toss out a fishing line.  Undirected, the vehicle hit the fender of a submerged, over-built Ford F-100 and split open a tire, sinking the whole thing to the bottom of Lake Oahe.

Just driving on the road presents problems, mostly due to wind resistance.  The drag coefficient of these vehicles places them in the same category as a 1976 16×72 Centennial mobile home.  Highway speeds are difficult to maintain for long periods of time because of excess fuel consumption.  A truck of this type covers so much frontal area that you could push fresh air from the Midwest to New York without losing it all.  While this may seem like a positive step for some highly air-polluted cities, a tanker, or even really big balloons, would be much more efficient.

When driving these chariots of extremism in town you need to watch continuously for cats, dogs, subcompact cars and any people under 5’11”.  Tickets are common for taking upwards of three parking places.  Game, Fish and Parks will often require two park entrance stickers and you’ll probably have to camp in the group campsite during peak tourist season.

As you can see, there are few, if any, positive aspects to owning a vehicle like this…except having a bigger, more powerful truck than your neighbor.  I can’t see the benefit to it.  My Jeep may not be the most aesthetically pleasing, fuel efficient, tree climbingest vehicle in town, but it’s paid for it’s definitely good enough for basic transportation…  Although I did get a great deal on an escalator from the Woolworth’s’ auction sale and it might just fit under the door…

Ya’ know, if I jacked this thing way up in the air and put some really big tires on it…!  Aah, WTH!  

          I opened a paper a few weeks ago and found a special section – not on terrorism in the world or violence in the schools or ethnic cleansing (why do they call the murder of an entire group of people “ethnic cleansing”?…it sounds like Norwegian day at the Laundromat.) –   no, this special section of 18 pages was concerned with the opening day of walleye season in Minnesota.

          Now, I was born and raised in a town on the banks of a major reservoir.  Many of my younger days were spent hydrogenating various bait species, often in pursuit of the shore-elusive walleye.  Of course, at that age I didn’t care if I caught a walleye or a bluegill; I was a kid – I just wanted to catch a fish.  As I grew older I was distracted from one prime purpose to another.  Adolescent hormonal changes caused me to troll instead for the beach-bound-bikini-beauty.  I really should have stuck to walleye – I got more bites and they’re easier to get along with.  Young love (read:  “temporary mental lapse”) and then parental responsibilities caused me to further neglect my angling studies.  By the time I rejoined the monofilament community I was way behind.   I was forced to take remedial casting courses and was threatened by Game & Fish with winter school so as not to pose a danger to other anglers and fish of all species.  I finally realized I needed help while rigging up a trolling bottom-bouncer during an evening of shore fishing.  This history has helped me become an angler firmly rooted in below average ability.

          I think the walleye edition is printed for fishermen who are a bit more, um…zealous than I.  These extreme walleye fishermen have a complete science and specific branches of study built from the pastime of fishing for walleye.  There are different techniques of bait casting, jigging, trolling and set fishing.  In addition, there are infinite points involved in fishing structure, fishing different seasons, different times of day, various weather patterns, water types, astronomical effects, zodiac indications, fish mood swings and walleye hair color, to name but a few.  The calendar with the little shaded fish on the good fishing days just doesn’t cut it anymore so put away your bamboo pole and safety pin hook.

          Fish are more sophisticated today in response to the technological pressures placed on them by modern anglers.  A friend of mine who fishes, yet still has time for the hobby of diving (largely brought on by his poor boat operating abilities) became curious about a school of fish always found, by use of his depth finder, in the exact same spot.  While investigating he found a group of decoys floating suspended at a depth of 15 feet.  When he attempted to prove his find to other divers, he found that the fake fish had been moved in response to his discovery.  This is proof that fish are becoming more intelligent – sometimes more intelligent than the fishermen.  It also points to the problem of boat operation while consuming large amounts of alcohol, but we can touch on that at another time.

          This continuing leisure-time attention has spawned (pun intended) the rise of the sportsman’s sportsman, the tournament fisherman.  The average tournament fanatic is an advanced amateur, usually someone in a professional vocation that generates enough income to allow him to pay and exorbitant amount to do something he could do for free any other weekend.  Quite often these tournamenteers travel from tourney to tourney around their region, if not the country, trying to win back their gas money.  Michael Jordan could take up tournament fishing as an acceptable substitute to betting on his golf game.

          The professional, on the other hand, is not so much another breed as he is a mutant of the fanatic…probably an excellent salesman who came up with the idea – “Hey, wouldn’t it be great to do this all the time and get paid for it?”  Most professionals have become connected with some type of informational media, either radio or television broadcasts or magazine and newspaper articles.  Thanks to the single-mindedness of some of the fishermen mentioned earlier, sales of ad time associated with these productions can be quite lucrative.

          It is also this religious fervor toward walleye and other types of fishing that enables these people to produce one of the most powerful narcotics in America today – the television fishing show.  These programs are tied with barbiturates and telecasts of pro golf tournaments as the strongest sleep inducing items that can be taken non-intravenously.  An acquaintance of mine shows them to his elementary age daughters to get them to go to sleep…although care must be taken since an overdose can induce a coma-like state.

          From the cross-section of fishermen we have looked at today I feel it might be a good idea, maybe even necessary, to organize clinics for the treatment of compulsive fishing disorders.  It may be possible to arrange Fishermen’s’ Anonymous meetings on a weekly basis.  Whole support groups would be very helpful:

“Hello, Bob?  It’s Wally.  I hate to bother you at this hour but I…I really want to bait a leech on a lindy rig.”

“Okay Wally.  You make some coffee, alright?  And I’ll be there as soon as I can get dressed.  Just promise me you’ll stay away from your boat until I get there, alright?…alright?”

          This could be a business opportunity if I could get co-payment from the medical insurance community.  With a good salesman to sell the concept I think it could work.

          Maybe I’ll talk to a professional fisherman – I bet he could sell this idea.

A local geological landmark in my area is undergoing a name change.

Now keep in mind, when I say “in my area” I’m not talking about your average urban neighborhood.  What I’m referring to is, oh, maybe a 3 or 4 hundred mile radius.  These are local concerns.  Granted, there’s a lot of space in between but it makes perfect sense if you consider population density.  Let’s compare, for example, the Crown Heights area of New York City.  This is just one neighborhood within the city.  It covers an area of about 1.5 square miles, depending on the source you consult.  For this article, I checked with the lady at the library (SHHHHH!) and some guy hangin’ around outside the Home Depot.  Anyway, where I’m from, 1.5 square miles is about the same as the walk home from the nearest pub.  The walk to the pub is measured in linear miles but, depending on the time spent and the volume of intake, the trip home is better measured in area.  That said, this one neighborhood of NYC contains a population greater than all but the largest city of the state in which I live…and that covers a much larger area than 1.5 square miles.

Where were we?  Oh, yes.

At issue in the effort toward renaming the mountain in question, which could be considered a geological landmark since it’s just kind of sitting there in the way, is the offensive nature of the person for whom the mountain was previously named.  It seems that this person, a general from the Mexican-American War era, was also one of the early military leaders of the Indian wars, and was himself a great Indian fighter.  The real problem, particularly in today’s society, is that he was also a “not-so-great” Indian fighter, as in the fighting of women and children who weren’t fighting in the first place.  These members of early Native American society were not called “Braves.”  I guess, as mentioned, they were called “women and children” and those who aspired to become “Braves” never got the chance.

In an effort to neutralize the awkward discomfort of the modern “political” (which is actually “social”) incorrectness of the name, it was decided the name should change.  Naturally, the problem stems from associating the name with someone who is presently unpopular.  Heck, even some members of the guys’ family wants the name to change.  So…  What do we call it?

Naturally, if the mountain were named after a going business concern which had paid for naming privileges, it would make no difference if they were worthy of the honor.  The only honor necessary is that someone profited from the naming.  Expansion of this practice would make it much easier to decide what to call things.  Just name them after whichever entity ponies up the most bucks:  Exxon Bay, Coca-Cola Canyon, Lake BP or maybe Apple Forest (or possibly iForest).  We have a great deal of experience with that in our “neighborhood.”  Let’s just say that it’s not any easier to hide skeletons in a closet full of money than it is to hide them in a regular closet – it’s just that the skeletons in the money closet don’t look as dead… Or maybe they look like they died of natural causes.

Getting back to point, the problem with sponsored naming is that if sponsorship is dropped, the designation would change and we’d have to learn a lot of new names for things.  Finding your way would be difficult because you know your GPS is never going to be that up-to-date.  Stopping to ask directions wouldn’t likely be much better:

“Hey, my friend…can you direct me to Premier Pond?”

“Premier Pond?  What’s that?”

“You know; it’s that small lake, lots of maple trees and a nice dock off the north end.  They catch all the Perch there…”

“Oh, you mean Dyson Dam.  Used to be Ford Fjord.  They change that again?  Anyway, yeah.  You go west of town till you get to Victoria’s Secret Hill and then…”

“Till I get to WHERE?”

You can see the problems inherent with this type of system and why we have permanent (kind of) names for things.

We could take the randomness and favoritism aspects out of naming things by assigning them numbers or, more scientifically, referring to them by their GPS coordinates.  Aside from being very difficult to remember, the mystique, romanticism and downright usefulness of the name would be severely diminished if not entirely eradicated.  Lover’s Point loses a little in the translation to 43. 5581938 x 96. 7483478.  Actually, I just used that as an example.  Those coordinates will actually take you to the local Buffalo Wild Wings and while the consumption of alcohol may lead to Lover’s Point, the coordinates I have listed will not.  Nor will the eating of buffalo wings.  Just try to look amorous and generate sexual interest while eating sauce-saturated chicken wings with your fingers and you’ll see the source of that determination.

Back to the case in question, I believe one of the frontrunners in the name change is that of a Native American leader and Medicine Man.  I think this is an excellent choice for a name.  It maintains the local, historical reference, it’s familiar, since some other things in the area contain the name and, while we have a great deal of information about the person, we have no evidence that he did anything offensive, generally stupid or foolishly socially incorrect.  Thank God there was no iPhone video available at the time or we might still be looking for a name.  It’s difficult to put a bad spin on the act of taking extra buffalo skins for political favors if the only remaining evidence is a faded painting of the act on a rock somewhere.  That’s not photographic evidence, it’s just hearsay – kind of like this article.  In addition, anything he may or may not have done can be taken as a normal action or attitude in another culture or society – unlike this article.

Another suggestion is the name it was referred to by the Americans who were here before we got here.  I think changing the name to a different language which is used by a tiny percentage of people, regardless of race, gender, color, sexual orientation or whatever someone is offended by today, is a bad idea and a good way to have people resist the change.  This idea is paramount to using a Latin name (a language used nowhere outside Academia, which, by the way, is nowhere near this mountain).  Perhaps we could name the peak using the name and language given it by the tribe who lived here before the tribe who lived here when we got here.  You see where I’m going with this, I’m sure, and because of that I’m not going there.

Now, I don’t know who it was exactly that decided the name should change (you and I both know it was “them” because “they” decide everything!) and, until I read about the effort I was unaware that the mountains’ namesake was unworthy of the honor.  Nor did I care, to be honest.  If “they” had started telling people that the mountain was so named because it was traditionally called that and no one knew why, the nomenclature would probably still be fine.   The name was so far removed from the man that, in modern times, the rock took ownership of it.

“So,” you’re wondering, “why is this topic under a Naturalist’s Corner flag?”

Well, that’s what I’m wondering and I’m the one writing about it.  The basic point really IS the  “ownership” of the name.  It’s a cultural argument.  It’s a personal interest argument.  It may be a political argument.  It can be debated and changed numerous times in the next thousand years but, when it comes down to it, it’s our petty perception problem…

The mountain just doesn’t care.

I have recently observed yet another climatic change.  Oh, not like the dramatic warming or cooling of the global environment.  Just your standard yearly temperature increase due to the coming of spring.  Not that I have really been paying attention to anything but the last home heating bill, which I originally mistook for the fuel statement of the most recent launch of whatever orbital system NASA is using now.  The signals which tip me off to the coming of spring are much more subtle.  Things such as the noticeable reduction in the climb over the snow pile I left in the driveway because it was, after all, already February and sure to melt soon.  Also, in the spring it’s easier to track the kids through the house because the mud melts more slowly than the snow which preceded it.  Finally, a change in the center of balance of the chairs in the kitchen is a foolproof system.  This occurs in most households as the winter coats, which for some reason cannot be placed on a hanging-type device in an actual closet, become stacked so high on the backrests that the chairs assume positions lying around the table at perpendicular angles.

          I have also noted that the fishing habits of a lot of my friends have changed.  The ice is going out and the seasons’ ice fishing is drawing to a close – except for a few individuals who:  a) are extremely cautious, b) are extraordinarily stupid or c) are filled with a desire to swim in large, frigid pools with small doors.  Each year as spring approaches, there is some moron who takes his life in his hands and drives out onto the middle of the lake because the ice at one point seems to be thick enough… or they’re too lazy to walk.  More often than not this is a waste of a person who, while they should have known better, could have been trained.  It’s also a loss of a perfectly good vehicle.  Worse yet is when the person behind the wheel escapes from institutionalization long enough to take someone else with them.  This should be a question on the drivers test in all northern states and Canada:

                                                                                         yes           no

                     Are you an ice fisherman?                           [ ]           [ ]

                     Are you an idiot who doesn’t know any      [ ]           [ ]

                     better than to drive on the ice in March

                     because you’re too damn lazy to walk?

If they answer yes to the first question they should be required to take a free course on ice driving safety.  Should they answer yes to both questions the tester should deny them licensure while staring at them as if they have mayonnaise on their eyebrows. 

          Come this time of year, most of us will move into other fishing venues.  If the ice is out far enough – say 12 feet from shore – some individuals will attempt to fish from the boat.  These are usually the same fellahs who’ve recently lost a vehicle through the ice.  They will normally spend an hour and a half getting the boat in the water around the ice and troll 400 feet of beachfront in 3 ½ feet of water.  This is, of course, a much more active endeavor than standing on the shore pulling in fish like all those other guys. 

          Personally, come ice-out, I like to wander to shore and fish for the really big northern pike.  This change in prey requires a change in fishing style.  My first change in technique is basically to stay awake.  This is not because of the increase in the volume of action or the subtle approach of the northern pike in nibbling your bait.  Mostly it’s because you could wake up and find that a northern in the twenty-pound range ran out your hi-tech line and took your graphite composite rod and $127 bait casting reel for a spin around the bottom of the lake.  Since northerns live, at best, to be the age of small children, as evidenced by the fact that they can’t remember where they found anything, you will never see that particular rod and reel again.

          This leads us very naturally to our next point – anchorage.  No, I’m not referring to fishing in Alaska.  What I’m talking about is the systematic fastenage, if you will, of your rod to some solid, well-set fixture.  A tree works well if available, or possibly the bumper of your vehicle.  Personally, I use a steel carrying tube for my rod.  This doubles as a tool to pound in metal fence posts, which I can use as a rod holder.  It looks stupid, but I haven’t lost a rod and reel in years.  When fishing around a reservoir it’s possible to use a driftwood log.  It’s always hopeful that this will serve a twofold purpose – that is, if it doesn’t keep the fish from pulling your rig into the water, it will at least act as a bobber.  Since most of us are not likely to catch a fish quite that big, I’m guessing you could be fishing a bit too high in the water and you should scan the vicinity for that guy trolling the thin water strip.

          Another major change I make from the usual walleye and perch fishing I do through the ice is a change in line.  Of course all you proficient fishermen will know this and probably change your line quite frequently anyway.  Still, when fishing for an aggressive fish like the northern or muskie it’s surely a good idea to go to a heavier line.  Now, this fish is not nearly as picky as a trout or even a walleye.  Because of this, your line selection need not be particularly specific…actually, ¼ inch nylon rope works pretty well.  The downside of that is the resulting size of the spool.  Even a heavy rope, however, is little protection against the rows of razor sharp teeth carried in the mouth of these aquatic predators (i.e., big, hungry fish).  A few shakes of the head and any line will be sawed clean, allowing the pike to escape with your bait, your treble hook and a really bad case of indigestion.

          For these reasons, the employment of a leader is called for.  If, however, you can’t find a competent leader who is knowledgeable in this type of fishing, you should at least use an 8 to 12 inch spacer on the end of your line, which is harder than the teeth of the fish and thus resistant to abrasion.  This is also a leader and generally a steel one is used to prevent the escape of these game fish.  For set fishing I like to use a 3/16th inch cable.  It’s definitely heavier than needed but I don’t have to replace it very often and it does away with the need for a weight on the end of my line.

          The final note in technique for pike fishing is simple and stems from the fact that these fish are, even as fish go, rather crude.  They have no real style and are more or less the rednecks of the fresh water fish world.  Truth be told, there really is no “technique” to pike fishing once you find out where they are.  My grandfather used to use large nuts for sinkers, homemade treble hooks, braided line and bailing wire for a leader – all on the cheapest rig he could put together.  I always thought it was kind of funny until it occurred to me that Grandpa had caught a number of northern in the mid to upper twenty pound range.  My best in expensive gear in a number of the most productive lakes and rivers is nearly 10 pounds beneath his average.

          My point?  I’ve spent a lot of time reading articles and stories by the most respected fishermen in the world and I have learned a great deal – only to forget the most important lesson about fishing that my grandpa taught me:

          Find yourself a good spot, relax and enjoy yourself.

I’m not much for marking the calendar at every event that occurs in my life.  Life, by its nature, is a continuous series of events and if you celebrate or note EVERY event that affects your course through its entirety, well, as you get older you won’t have time to do anything ELSE.  Still, it has been twenty years since the day my mother-in-law passed away and that, in itself, is worthy of note.

There are a lot of memories that spring to mind at a time like this:  big family events, major holidays, important gatherings.  These aren’t the things that stand out with greatest intensity, however.  The really meaningful memories are the little things.  Moments of everyday life; items which fill out the whole of her character…not Mom standing in a reception line greeting many people, but Mom working in the kitchen with one of her girls.  Not she and her husband sitting on the couch surrounded by kids in one of those posed Christmas shots, but sitting off to the side while her grandchildren open gifts…watching with the joyful eyes only a grandmother can have.  These are the kinds of pictures that come to mind – plucked from a nearly unmanageable wall of remembrances.  The easy smile.  Her walk and her voice and her laugh.  The things she liked and the people she cared for…

Beyond all else, she loved to visit.  While her favorite topic was her grandchildren, in person or on the phone (back then, we used those ancient things that were tethered to the wall), she could talk on any subject.  It was said in jest by someone, and I’m not positive who it was so I won’t mention that it was her husband, that the phone could ring and Mom could answer and be finished in ten minutes – but only if it was a wrong number.  It became standard practice during long distance phone calls to state immediately that you were really busy and couldn’t talk…which would keep the conversation down to a manageable half hour, maybe 45 minutes.  Thinking myself quick and innovative, I would try to come up with unique ways of getting off the phone like, “Gotta’ go!  The baby just threw the cat into the ceiling fan!”  Being a conscientious mother and grandmother, however, she’d just call back shortly to check on the baby or the fan or tell you how to get cat hair off the furniture.  She was probably just worried about our second son, Pierce, who I lovingly referred to as “the Demon Child”.  Still, she always liked him, even then, and was probably afraid I’d hang him from the ceiling fan.  She really had nothing to worry about – while it had occurred to me to try that, chances are good he would have liked it and I’d never have been able to keep him down from the thing.

Like most people who enjoy verbal communication, Mom used many “colloquial” or “informal” conversational phrases that grew into habit over years of use.  Everyone does this to some degree and in many cases it becomes trademark to a persons’ speech.  Sort of like Bruce Willis swearing constantly in his early movies whether the situation called for it or not.  Let’s face it, it must be habit because Bruce really didn’t seem to have a lot to swear about.  He made a lot of money and seemed to be in good health.  He had a beautiful wife, Demi Moore, who also had a lot of money and was in visibly good health.  Maybe he was mad about losing his hair so early, who knows.

Anyway, one of Moms’ favorite phrases was, “That’s the case of…”  She would use this to preface a statement explaining one thing or another, or to present a common sense analogy.  Something like:

“That’s the case of, if they don’t like what you’re wearing they should buy you something else.”

It didn’t matter where she put the phrase.  She was so smooth and fluid with the usage that it always fit right in wherever it was.  I always smiled when she said it and it’s one of the first things I think of now.

Verna hadn’t been ill and she was still quite young, which made her death a terrible shock.  Even so, I should point out in her defense that Mom was never one to take forever doing something.  Once she made up her mind, she was, by God, going to do it.  Of course, getting her to change her mind was about as easy as getting a big, macho, professional sports figure to put on a dress.  Okay, bad example, Dennis Rodman, but you get the idea, anyway.  The need to get her to change her mind didn’t arise often because she was a good and friendly soul.  Regardless of the tough front she would show on occasion, she would give you every opportunity to prove yourself…especially if she liked you.  The only real transgression one could commit was to act in some way against one of her children or grandchildren.  At that point you could just as well take her off your Christmas card list – and I would have advised against opening any suspicious packages, as well.  This sin was nearly unforgivable unless maybe you felt a tremendous amount of remorse and performed some type of painful self-sacrifice such as tying yourself into an uncomfortable chair and watching golf on television until you lapsed into a coma and died of dehydration.  And besides, the fact that such an action could be considered counter-productive on a personal level, I’m not sure it would have changed her mind, anyway.

I was lucky enough never to have to worry about that; Mom liked me…but, please, don’t hold that against her character.  A good friend of hers told me at her service that I had been her “pet”.  While that explains why her daughter still keeps me on a short leash, I was very touched to hear that she appreciated my membership in her family so much that she actually admitted it to others.  My own mother can barely do that without bursting into tears (although, in her defense, she’s my mother, so she’s earned that right).  Of course, Verna and I had several things in common aside from one of her daughters and four of her grandchildren.  She was quick to laugh and would rather find humor in a situation than dwell upon the negative.  Oh, she would mention the negative and she’d never forget the negative, but she wouldn’t dwell on it.  Also, she didn’t have much time for people who took themselves too seriously.  That’s clearly no problem for me since I have difficulty taking the Internal Revenue Service seriously (I don’t need to.  Just try talking to them…they take themselves seriously enough.)

Mom was a simple woman.  She came from common, simple beginnings and, as far as I could tell, she never aspired to be any more than that…probably because she felt that to be other than a “regular person” wasn’t really better.  I know she would have liked to have had a bit more money, but more for the purpose of having fewer bills and a couple less worries than to have more “things”.  She probably would have worn the same kind of clothes and kept the same old but well cared for…pieces of furniture.  (My father-in-law would have expected me to say “husband”, and I thought about it.  She would have chuckled at that.)  I always wanted to buy them a different car, but aside from the fact that I couldn’t afford it, I could never determine what Mom liked.  She didn’t care for the square, angular designs because they looked like “a box”.  The rounded, aerodynamic style wasn’t to her liking because they look like an “upside-down bathtub”.  If she’d had what she really wanted she probably would have opted for a car just like the one she had, only in better shape.  I guess I could live with that, but I never really cared for the vehicle.  It always reminded me of a battleship…except it wasn’t grey, it was a couple feet longer than an actual battleship and had fewer antennas sticking out the top.

In her last few years Mom had begun to acquire an ever-so-slightly bent walk.  I think the main cause of that was her purse, an area where she faced two almost insurmountable problems:  she tried to be prepared for almost every contingency and she was a grandma.  Verna ordinarily carried a black, inexpensive, conservatively styled purse which I believe was made by the personal products division of the Steamer Trunk & Trailer Company.  I could never understand how she could tote the darn thing over extended periods.  But then, she needed to have her wallet and checkbook.  And some Kleenex, of course.  And pictures of the grandkids were a necessity, not to mention numerous pens, pencils, notepaper, envelopes, stamps, coupons, maybe some candy, a small screwdriver and a spare tire for a ’78 Ford.  Not a full size spare, mind you.  Just one of those goofy little fake ones that prompt you to get your original tire repaired because the spare looks so stupid on your car.  Actually, I’m just kidding.  Not about the little spare looking stupid, I mean about Mom having a spare in her purse…BUT, she may have had enough stuff in there to fix one!

These are just a very few of the memories I grasp in this time of reflection.  Innumerable tears have been shed for the loss and many stragglers will follow them over time.  But Moms’ life was nothing to cry about.  She lived the life she had with love in her heart and a smile on her face and, in my own sorrow-evading way, that’s what I like to remember.

Naturally, in the case of a sudden parting such as this there is always a lack of closure; of things that could have been said.  If I had the chance to talk to her, for just a few minutes, I’d tell her how much she is loved and how much she means to us and how much we all miss her…

In her understanding way, Mom would say, “I know, Son…”

And not being able to stop with that, she would smile and say, “But that’s the case of…”

          Personal Electronic Communication.

          These are the buzzwords for the coming decades – whether you capitalize them or not.  Actually, you can hear them buzzing and beeping and whistling and ringing everywhere you go.  The air is filled with assorted frequencies of electromagnetic waves radiating in all directions, missing your spleen by mere microns – some of them even passing through your head!

          This appalling situation can be traced back to two people…Adam and Eve.  No!  Though I guess we can blame pretty much everything on them if we could keep from having a literal and religious argument, that’s a little farther back than I meant to go.  The people I was thinking of were Alexander Graham Bell who, with his assistant Watson (a professional assistant who formerly worked for Sherlock Holmes) invented the telephone, and Marconi, who invented those little elbow noodles and also had something to do with radio…I think.  I believe it was the military that first united these two ideas into wireless communication.  For this reason, early on in this technology you were bombarded by radio waves generated mostly by military messages.  You may have heard these unrefined signals in your head by means of a paranormal phenomenon called, um, bio-electromagnetic reception, a known scientific effect, which I just made up.  It’s possible you mistook these messages for an announcement over the speaker system in one of those big department stores.

“Attention Maj…(garble, garble) systems int…(fuzz, pop) arg lnt ez fangle…over, thank you.”

          While this may be similar to what you heard in your head, the high-tech, state of the art electronic equipment used by the military at that time enabled the trained soldiers receiving the communications to hear, well, pretty much the same jumbled message.  The Signal Corps, however, sent these soldiers through intense screenings, serious testing and in-depth training to enable them to understand these messages.  This training program was so effective that it is employed today by fast food restaurants in teaching their employees to understand orders at the drive-through window.

          Thanks to these and several other technological advancements, such as additional expendable cash, you are today walking around in an atmosphere teeming with Captain Kirk-ular communication on all levels of society.  Calls ranging from top-level, multi-gazillion dollar business dealings to queries on the status of the monthly economic assistance check.  Many people don’t even have telephones, or, as they call them now, “land lines,” at home.  Because of that fact, you can no longer tell your boss you were outside, or you ran to the store or you couldn’t answer his call because you were at a PTA meeting and he can expect you to answer his call at any time of day. 

`Well, thank you very much!

And where can we aim our gratitude?  That would be the mobile or cellular phone, the precursor to the “communicator” used only by the “Federation” on Star Trek because the intergalactic service plan costs so much that only the government can afford the monthly fees.  The word “cellular” is a technical term which means that eventually, through dealer incentives, lower costs and a trained and knowledgeable sales force, even small one celled creatures like amoebas and various other intelligent microscopic organisms will own and operate these communication devices.  Unfortunately the development and mobilization of this area of science has also put wheels on other aspects of personal electronic communication.  The answering machine, for instance, has become a part of the service plans supplied by the cellular service carrier (a small service charge may apply per answered call – or after a base number of calls – or per month – or on any message received from cellular phones in AMC Gremlins – or…).  Yes, through modern technology you can now be out even when you’re not in. 

“I’m sorry, but Bob is at home now.  If you leave your name and number with a brief message, Bob will return your call the next time he’s gone.”

          Of course, you can use this service to screen your mobile calls the same way you used to when you only had a phone at home.  With this system there will soon be phone solicitors calling to sell you tires, lube jobs, new cars or even a better cellular plan…provided you give them the names and license numbers of all the friends and relatives you regularly call.

          Another phone pheature which took to traveling is the ignore idea.  This is more commonly and euphemistically known as the “hold” button.  Either way, you’re still being ignored.  The positive point to this is for the first time while on hold you can have something to do besides stare at a sink full of dirty dishes or look at the pile of paperwork on your desk.  Now you can dodge in and out of traffic at interstate speeds, a phone stuck in your ear with one hand, the other hand on the wheel and the cruise control set fast enough to get you to next week by tomorrow.  Oh, you could use the hands- free speaker phone mode, but the sound quality is somewhat lacking …to the point that no matter what you say, the person on the other end of the connection hears:

                     “bzzzzzt…ould you like fries with that?”

In addition, you can send a written message if you don’t want to actually converse with the people you’re talking to.  This is also a wonderful complementary option to other social networking options such as Facebook, MySpace, LookAtMe and HoldMyBeerAndWatchThis.    I believe it is spelled “d-i-s-t-r-a-c-t-e-d  d-r-i-v-i-n-g” by the insurance and law enforcement communities.

          Perhaps cellular headsets should be more available for motorists who spend a great deal of time on their phones.  This would allow them to place both hands on the wheel while they weave in and out of traffic accidents involving people who dodge in and out of traffic at interstate speeds with one hand…well, you get the idea.  Of course, it is entirely possible that these people fell asleep at the wheel – probably while they were on hold at cellular phone rates waiting for their party to answer, but that’s just a guess.  

          I would like to discuss a serious medical problem rampant in American society today.  A problem which threatens personal injury and property damage nation wide…a problem which afflict otherwise normal, selfish individuals.  I’m talking about the previously undiagnosed disease I call “line blindness.”

          What is this disease?, you ask.  Is it contagious?  Is it deadly?  Are there medical specialists available to treat it at ridiculously high, BMW  lease rate fees?  What, you also ask, are the credentials which allow me to make such an observation?

          In answer to your question, this illness causes the inability to visually distinguish a straight line…particularly in yellow or white.  It is manifested in its primary symptom as an inability to park within the lines painted on the asphalt of any given parking lot or street.  It’s my medical theory that these people are unable to even see these lines.

          Oh, the answers to your other questions are:  No, possibly, you can rest assured there will be after publication of this article and haven’t you asked enough questions?

          You will find the vehicles driven by those stricken with line blindness parked in variations of three different ways, beginning with the “centered” stop.  In this early stage of the disease the person will park in the same orientation as that of the line, but usually placing the line somewhere between the wheels of the vehicle, thereby negating two of the boundaried parking spaces.  This type of “parker” will allow others to park in series with them, provided the others don’t mind humoring the auto-placement disabled person and themselves park over the line.  Those of us who are determined to remain orderly in the face of deviance are required to park across the street at the Piggly-Wiggly lot and walk.

          The next driver exhibits diagonally skewed traits consistent with more advanced cases of the ailment.  In a diagonal parking environment, these people will park diagonally…but from the other direction at a 90 degree angle to the painted line.  This does away with at least two spaces, possible more since you should still leave them room to back out without pushing your vehicle into the middle of the lot.  Of course, if you drive an old beater, as I do, by all means, leave them hemmed in.  This may give them pause to consider their situation and seek professional help.  It is, however, a good idea to take down their license number before you leave your vehicle.

          The third picture of paltry parking is the parallel person.  The driver who exhibits this trait usually does so in a long vehicle, or with a trailer in tow, by parallel parking in an open bank of perpendicular or diagonal spaces.  This eliminates parking spots at a rate directly proportional to the size of the vehicle in question.  In defense of this person, I should point out that there is often no other parking space available for extended length vehicles at, say, McDonald’s, and it’s necessary for these people to park over the lines even if the driver does see them.  The downside is, this forces you to drive all over the neighborhood looking for a place to park while the kids get more and more restless waiting for this one guy to finish his Big Mac and free up the eight parking spots he’s taken and while you’re in a hurry, he’s having a second cup of coffee and you could have just gone to an actual restaurant in the first place.  So while this driver probably isn’t suffering from line blindness, he should get some kind of consideration training or something.  Now, the person who parks in this fashion in, say, a 1972 Pinto is, no doubt, quite spatially challenged…although this particular car can be easily removed by a well placed tap on the rear bumper.

          It has been suggested by other observant scientific types, one being my friend Mike who generated a B minus in his college introduction to science class, that these people are merely lazy.

          “What!?”, I said. This was my exact word, question mark, exclamation point and all.

          Well, Mike hypothesized (scientific word for “guessed”) that these folks, too lazy to walk from the end of the parking lot, yet not wishing their vehicles to become dinged by the doors of an adjacently parked automobile, are parking in odd configurations to keep people from parking next to them.

          “Nay!”, said I, aghast at the prospect…you’ll note that I speak in a colonial American manner when I am aghast.

          Another reason, interjected by our friend Dan, supports the theory that people are parking in this fashion because they simply don’t care about anyone else (Dan is not so much a scientist as he is a pragmatist)…and they’re lazy.

          After serious consideration of the available facts, I have come to the conclusion that while some people are inconsiderate slobs, some are actually suffering from this little known disease.  In order to assist us in identifying these individuals who need help, we would ask those of you who are lazy reprobates…I mean, you who are in a hurry and do not wish to walk great distances, to help us by parking away from other vehicles.  This approach would leave only those afflicted by line blindness parking in these unorthodox manners and would make it simple to whisk them away to institutionalization.

          So please help us deal with this disease before the government becomes involved and mandates all lots of over 50 parking spots to staff line psychologists during normal business hours.  This will do nothing but raise the cost of business and increase the price of coffee faster than a Colombian blizzard.

          Thank you for your attention and support in dealing with line-blindness…and stay in touch for our next medical manifesto when we will address another serious line disease:

          Line dancing. 

This day is a dark, depressing Roman numeral in the outline of my life.  Today, after blood tests, x-rays, cat scans, MRI’s and stress tests – particularly stress tests – I have been diagnosed as the parent of a sixteen-year-old!

Now don’t get me wrong, I knew from the start that he was my son and we’ve been raising him all these years, so that part was no surprise.  The problem stems from the fact that, up to this point, I dealt with the parental issue fairly well because I could recall, vaguely, that I was, at one time, a child.  I could work with the child management issues easily because, after all, I was once a kid and I made it through.  Plainly, it couldn’t be too difficult.  There are, of course, some easy rules that apply – children should go to school, they should be quiet and if there is a chance they are doing something wrong, they probably are.  At least that’s the obscure recollection I seem to have about early youth.  I was comfortable with that.

Now, my son still goes to school and he does quite well.  I assume there are really cute girls in the college prep courses.  He’s hardly ever quiet, however.  Even when he does the teenaged-moody-introspective thing he’s noisy.  The times he is quiet is when the probability of his misbehaving increases – after all, it’s difficult to brew your own whisky or build self-attaching automotive nuclear pipe bombs when the stereo is blasting the current top 40 social degenerate anthems… although, at least it’s not Lawrence Welk.

At first I thought my problems in dealing with his sixteenth birthday had to do with my own aging, but that isn’t really what bothers me.  I already passed the 40 mark and I got up and went to work that day just like any other…at least that’s what people tell me because the memory isn’t as good as it was when I was, say, 39.

All right, so maybe having a 16-year-old is no big deal to you…  Clearly, you have never been the parent of a 16-year-old.  Think back.  Do you remember being 16?  I do.  I remember 16 as a milestone in my life.  I remember the things I did.  I remember the way I saw the world, my life, my family.  I remember what I thought and what I felt.  And that’s where the whole problem lies… I remember!

The deviousness of the youthful mind trying to exert its independence comes first to mind.  Basically, that means I recall periods of being a self-centered little creep.  Not everyone goes through this.  For instance, some of the kids I went to school with were self-centered big jerks.  The primary determination has to do with how popular you are.

Many youth in this age group will use the trust parents have in them as a tool.  They can scheme within this trust to say they are camping out at the lake with the guys when, in fact, they are trying to get by with spending the night at a party with a co-ed group where they do absolutely nothing wrong, not because they don’t want to but because they don’t know how.  This is a common type of deceit among youth moving into young adulthood and is the primary source of the personal belief that they are smarter than their parents are.  Again, this is a self-centered point of view based on the fact that parents have other children and other life issues to deal with in addition to one teenager.  Most kids find this out in adulthood when they become parents and realize that their folks didn’t actually believe they were going to a church youth group meeting at 9:00 PM, but they were much too happy to have the couch and the television set to themselves in peace and quiet to ask any questions.

I also recalled the temptations and difficulties involved with growing into your own person.  The WIWAK Syndrome* notwithstanding, youth still have severe problems to deal with – some new ones and many of the same ones we had as kids: career choices, the opposite sex, drugs, alcohol, smoking and, worst of all, adults who seem to have forgotten their part in the placement of Mr. Schaefbauer’s Volkswagen on top of the retaining wall at the school after wrestling practice… though I should point out that it wasn’t my idea.  At least, not entirely.

Finally, as if recollection of the world at 16 wasn’t bad enough, it didn’t stop there.  Just like an amnesiac in a bad suspense movie like those black and white ones that you see late at night when you’re sick and you slept all day and then you can’t sleep at night so you watch whatever is on because you’re still miserable but wide awake and…  Well, just like that, you remember everything about your childhood.  So not only did I run through all the memories from my teenaged years, I was stampeded by other thoughts.  Such as accidentally burning down the neighbor’s junk pile, which was hollowed out to form a secret fort that no one knew about except the people on the northwest side of town.  Or the one girl I invited to my eighth birthday party thinking none of the other 3^rd grade boys would notice.  Or the times I got in trouble for all those things my brother did.  (I do seem to remember my brother getting in trouble for things I did, but I won’t bring up anything in particular.  His son will turn 16 next year so I’ll let him think of that on his own.)

This last memory engram easily does the most damage to a person’s approach to youth guidance.  It moves the parenting picture from black and white into shades of gray, or maybe pastels, in which everything varies according to the severity of the transgression and the intent behind the action.  It was much easier when each offense resulted in a standard 9 months of being grounded with time off for really good behavior like saintly acts or the drafting of ground-breaking legislation.

After all, when we remember that there are actual reasons for the deeds of children and you once again understand their viewpoint, you realize that the problem is not so much spite or stupidity as it is genetics and upbringing.

NOW do you understand my anxiety?

* The WIWAK Syndrome is a seemingly natural phase in the human condition, which is believed to date back to a prehistoric era of early man.  Cave drawings have been found in north-central Africa which, when finally translated, read, “When I was a kid, we had to skin our own mastodons!… And we were happy to be able to do it, too!”