Posted on March 22, 2005
I read recently that if a person walked one mile a day at a brisk pace and did nothing else differently over the course of a year, he or she would lose ten pounds just like that.
It was the “just like that” that hooked me.
I mean, how long would it take to walk a mile briskly? Maybe the time it takes to fix a meal? Or do a crossword puzzle? Probably not much longer. I could talk myself into this, as I’m always looking for an easy way to lose ten pounds, and this seemed as easy as it gets.
But first, being an analytical sort and having failed at other ways to lose weight, I wondered where the “catch” might be. I decided it lay in not knowing what every day for the next year would be like and that I was committing myself to walk in rain or snow or ten below, on holidays and birthdays, during vacations, and quite possibly when not feeling well. There was no disclaimer about what might constitute an acceptable excuse.
Finally, on March 12, I gave up analysis and jumped in – er, actually stepped – in with both feet. So far it hasn’t been bad, although I’m grateful that I’ll have built up a large number of days before next winter swoops in. Hopefully, the desire to not miss will be strong when the winds bite and the rain pummels. It’s quite possible the desire to purchase a treadmill will become strong too.
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Posted on March 21, 2005
Hyacinths, daffodils, and tulips are all harbingers of spring; but in my yard tulips reign.
A couple years ago, my handyman with the green thumb and I planted approximately 400 tulip bulbs. This means they should have multiplied by now and this Spring they will be as spectacular a display as ever bloomed on our property. I can’t wait.
In between recent snowstorms, I’ve walked our land and checked for signs of my multitudinous tulips. As of early March, I have not been disappointed. Little pointy things tentatively are poking their heads above ground. I give them human characteristics and assume they seek sunlight, like me, and are hoping that the last snow has come and gone, again like me. Those flowers and I are tired of winter’s grip.
Last week, Earl brought me some lovely tulips from the grocery store, which I immediately put in a vase of water. They tantalize me, just as my own budding tulips do, with the notion that spring is within grasp. However, the reality is that my tulips will not bloom until late April or early May, that there are really several weeks left in winter’s grip, and that the pointy sprouting of tulip bulbs is only a teaser.
Spring will come in its own due time, and until then I need to be content with posies from the supermarket.
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Posted on March 20, 2005
My visit to Fargo is over, and I’m sitting in the local airport waiting for a plane to take me to Minneapolis where another, smaller plane will take me to South Bend, Indiana, where Earl will pick me up in his car and drive me home.
I will be spending more time waiting in airports than I’ll spend in actual flight time to get from Fargo to South Bend. And it’s probably because both Fargo and South Bend are what I would call secondary flight paths, those smaller airports that require servicing but which are not the bread and butter of the airline industry. Which means that, where primary airports have multiple flights from one major city to another, secondary airports have only one flight from Point A to Point B.
At the same time, these secondary airports have their advantages. I can either drive two and a half hours to Chicago and pick up a major airline there or I can drive forty-five miles down the road to catch a puddle-jumper which lands in Chicago in less time than I can get there. Either way, I make the connection to the next destination.
But the added advantage to the smaller airport is that security and traffic and tension are all significantly reduced. This isn’t to say that the TSA is lax in smaller airports; rather there are fewer people to process, so the actual processing goes faster even when a TSA employee is more attentive to shoes and belts and underwire bras. Tension is lessened because people actually smile at each other in small towns. It’s reassuring.
So while I sit in Fargo eagerly waiting for my flight I know that the worst is behind me. I’ve passed through security, my luggage was approved, and I only have to wait until we board the plane. After that, it’s just one more connection and I’m home free.
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Posted on March 19, 2005
Fargo, North Dakota, was never on my list of places to visit. I went there only because my son, Kevin, accepted a job and moved there a couple years ago. But the place grows on you.
Now, I’m thinking Earl and I could do a loop of the Great Plains, starting in Fargo to see Kevin but then taking in such better-known sights (or is it sites?) as Mount Rushmore, Wounded Knee, Little Big Horn, Yosemite, and possibly the place where I was born: Boise, Idaho.
I haven’t studied any maps to see if this trip, probably by car, makes geographical sense. Instead I’ve simply lumped several places I’d really love to see and assumed that Fargo would be a great starting off point.
Having been there a few times, it has the proper atmosphere. There is a wonderful museum that offers exhibits about life on the Great Plains. The town itself has a frontier feel, although the old railroad station has been turned into a twenty-first century brew pub. The Fargo Theatre is worth the price of admission, even if you don’t sit through an entire movie.
So maybe the next step is to check out an atlas and make plans. One thing is for certain. It’s definitely a trip to make in the summer time, since Fargo is notoriously cold in winter. I’m assuming the rest of the Great Plains is too.
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Posted on March 18, 2005
It’s become an annual pilgrimage, this trip that my younger son and I make to spend time with my older son wherever he is. We’ve visited him in Illinois, Arizona, and North Dakota. And, considering we usually schedule this get-together for March, Arizona definitely holds the record for the best weather.
But weather never has been a consideration for where Kevin lives; rather he’s bound to academic environments. The University of Illinois, Arizona State University, and now Minnesota State University where he is a professor.
We could meet elsewhere, but Kevin has a house whose only other companion is Harold, a geriatric cat who’s the last remnant of when the three of us lived together years ago. Harold is a definite draw. The room rates accommodate our pocketbooks; and, in many ways, it’s like coming home.
So Keith and I bundle up in our heaviest winter gear and leave our own lives and mates behind for three or four days. We enter Kevin’s world, which includes a myriad of friends who are apt to tag along on various outings, intellectual discussions where we hardly hold our own, and bowling. Yes, bowling.
I don’t recall which son suggested we go bowling the first time, but I mentally rolled my eyes. I once bowled a total of eighteen points for an entire game, so I could see that I would be buying the beer. Nevertheless we headed for the bowling alley.
This year, Kevin has informed us that he’s already scheduled the Bowling for Fargo evening and that some friends are joining us. I’m not surprised, but I’d better bring extra beer money. Ah what we don’t do for our children, even when they are grown up.
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Posted on March 17, 2005
It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m celebrating with my two sons in Fargo, North Dakota. I don’t know how many Irish men and women inhabit Fargo, but today there are a couple more than usual.
I’m half-Irish, which means my sons are one-quarter Irish. It’s not a lot, but it’s still worthy of note.
The Irish were among the first wave of immigrants to come to America in the second half of the nineteenth century. They had an advantage in that they spoke the prevailing language, albeit with an accent. And they were willing to take the most menial of jobs too. In time, they assimilated as Italian, German and other immigrants came through Ellis Island and assumed those menial tasks while the Irish worked themselves up the economic ladder.
Today, if you’re Irish, then St. Patrick’s Day holds special meaning. It’s that time when you march in or come to watch parades, drink Irish beer, and honor your heritage. I suspect you also honor how far your family has come too.
Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day. Some years my celebration has been limited to wearing green in school; other years I’ve been on Chicago street corners cheering until my voice gave way and I had to find a local pub where I could anesthetize my throat. This year, in Fargo, I am mostly enjoying sharing traditions with my children who are more Italian than Irish.
In years to come, I hope they remember this day not only because we remembered St. Patrick but also because we made an effort to celebrate it together.
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Posted on March 16, 2005
Earl and I had a heart-to-heart about our dinner issues, and I am really surprised with the outcome. Surprised and pleased.
“I love sitting down to dinner with you,” Earl said, when I poured out my bucket of woes. “It’s a continuation of our having coffee together in the morning.” (Have I mentioned that he brings me coffee in bed every day, just like the President does for the First Lady?)
“I like to putter with things. I could set the table. Open cans, stir sauces. We could be together,” he said.
I’d never thought of dinner this way, and perhaps it’s because I’m really not much of a cook. Over the years, I’ve come to think of meal preparation as a drudge, the only saving grace being that Earl always does the dishes. I never thought of it as an extension of our morning coffee. But I’m willing to reconsider.
So tonight we prepared dinner as if we were auditioning for a replacement for Julia Child and Jacques Pepin. It wasn’t as fancy as they were, but it was satisfying to have help in the mundane chores of silverware placement and rice boiling. And, when we sat down to eat, there was a sense of accomplishment that we had done it together. We even turned off the television to enjoy our meal more.
And, as we cleared the table, Earl asked: “What time should I show up for kitchen duty tomorrow night?”
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Posted on March 15, 2005
At our house, dinner time is often a disaster. And it isn’t because we have crazy schedules or busy teenagers or even overtime at the office to consider. In fact, I’m not even sure what it is that makes dinner such a hassle.
I try to study the components.
There are two people: Earl and me. One of us likes somewhat healthy meals served later in the evening; the other likes to snack while watching the five o’clock version of “Jeopardy”. One of us is into vegetables; the other hates the sight of them. One of us does this; the other does that. You get the gist.
As I noticed our dinner hour declining over the past couple years, I tried a variety of approaches. Without revealing which partner preferred what, I learned that whatever I tried didn’t work. Neither of us seemed to want to compromise. After all, we were both only children. Instead, each of us has become entrenched in our individual eating habits.
Now I’m beginning to think that dinner isn’t the place or time where we communicate best. With this in mind, maybe Earl and I need to be responsible individually for our evening ingestion of food and relegate the social aspect to some other time of the day. This way, one of us can put a knife in the peanut butter with full glee while the other can steam Brussels sprouts and sprinkle them happily with lemon pepper.
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Posted on March 14, 2005
My interest in piano and piano lessons continues to wane. This past week I managed to practice even less than the week before, accounting for an all time record low. It’s as if the piano is invisible in my living room.
So I told Julia, my piano teacher, about this recent malaise. “I’m still in a slump,” I said, “and I’m not sure what to do about it.” Julia smiled.
“My younger students go through this too,” she said. “And this is the point where parental intervention, or lack of it, makes the difference. If parents agree when their children say they want to quit, then it’s all over. But if the parents hold firm and say the child must continue, the mood usually passes. It does take a couple years though.”
I wasn’t encouraged by her words. I don’t have any parents to prod me, and a couple years is a long time to prod myself. At the same time, I have invested a tremendous amount of time, money, and energy into this endeavor; so giving up seems impractical.
Taking a couple weeks off sounds like a good idea, but there is the danger than two weeks will become five or ten or a half year or forever. I’m not sure I can chance it. So I’ll continue to toss the issue over in my mind and hope that my interest in learning to play piano will reappear on its own accord. Failing that, I may need to become my own parent.
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Posted on March 13, 2005
When I was young, my mother often implemented the Principle of Finishing What You Start. At the dinner table, that meant cleaning my plate. At the library, it meant not returning a half-read book. If I tried out for some extracurricular activity, I had to see it through to the end, even when I learned in the first week that it wasn’t for me. The same principle applied to college courses too, and it probably explains how I got a “D” in metaphysics.
Over the years, I have become a devotee of the Principle of Sampling and Leaving. It first manifested itself in those same areas where my Mother held dear to her principle. Today, sometimes when I eat out, I leave the last morsels of food on my plate or the last sip of beverage in my cup. (Except for cocktails made with Absolut for which I adhere strictly to Mother’s code.)
Not only do I return half-read books to the library, but I also purchase books from various booksellers, read a part, and then relegate them unfinished to some shelf or accommodating friend. And just because I sign up for a class or a course doesn’t mean I’ll be at every session.
It’s not that one principle is better than the other. Certainly, forcing oneself to finish every little thing can build character; but it can also create a rigid personality. Allowing oneself to sample a portion without having to commit to the whole can broaden one’s experiences, but it can also make for a quitter when roadblocks loom.
So a balance between the two principles is what’s really important. In my life, it accounts for many unfinished projects such as the photo album of our recent vacation, the myriad stories that are in partial states of finished-ness in my computer, and the annual task of preparing my taxes for my least favorite uncle.
It also accounts for my finishing my Master’s Degree even though it took me ten years. My Mother would have been proud.
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