When you ask a question and they start their answer with "The truth?!!" you might just be in for a good story.

I don't even remember how to write, you know, with a pen. My muscle memory seems to have forgotten. 

Let your thoughts find their own way

Sometimes I wonder: Does the past matter? Does the future matter? Or does only the present matter?

Does having happy memories or shitty memories really make a difference if the present is the same?

I have to believe that the future does in fact matter. The expectation of a positive future changes the way we frame the present. A negative future does the same.

So how can I delude myself into thinking there is a positive future?

I guess that's heaven.

I keep thinking, how can I make an impact on this world before it's too late?

The Era of the Free Magazine

My mom gets People Magazine every week. She doesn't pay for it, but it continues to arrive by mail nonetheless. In the past I may have thought they made a mistake, but I am quite sure it is deliberate. Having grown accustomed to enjoying their journalism for a year or so, they hope that my mother will happily fork over the subscription price. Let me tell you, that's never going to happen.

If you've never read People, and I assume you haven't because though it's in my house I haven't, it's basically a slightly more civilized celebrity gawking magazine. Lately it seems they're all about the intricacies and infighting of the royal family. Or I guess that's what people want to read about. It's kind of a chicken and the egg situation.

In the most recent edition dated March 2, 2020, (I never understood why they do this) we learn about Princess Kate: "Why she struggled during her pregnancies but loved giving birth." Now I'm no woman, but "loved giving birth"!! Is that a direct quote? Pardon me Kate, I'm sure you love your children (you can see how little I know about this as I'm not sure how many or what sort of children she has) but you didn't love giving birth. I'm sure I would love New Zealand, but I wouldn't love the preceding 23-hour flight. In the sense that it meant she was done being pregnant, maybe she did love giving birth.

I used to get a couple magazines at my house in Monkton; again, unsolicited. One of them was GQ. Gentlemen's Quarterly is a men's fashion and lifestyle magazine. It arrived sealed from the elements in a plastic pouch.  A friend correctly pointed out that there could be no more useless magazine to a resident of Monkton, Vermont. 

But I think these may be more than just attempts to drum up a new batch of loyal customers. The practice also effectively increases circulation, and not only that, (dear advertisers) it brings in a whole new audience. Now you can sell to an entire populous that never even knew they needed your products. That's got to be worth some extra bread. 

How I Write II

I've had a few positive reactions on my "How I write" post, so here's a bit more.

This afternoon a thought came into my head, I opened an email, and typed it up. It was only a few sentences, was straightforward and deliberate. I wrote it, read through it once, and posted it. I didn't feel it needed heavy pondering or that I might have more to say were I to let it marinate. Have thought, record thought, post thought.

It doesn't always work this way. I have lots of ideas listed here and there. And lots of unfinished would-be posts. I wrote two yesterday. 

My intention is to revisit them, read them through and finish my thought. Or decide that it doesn't need finishing. Or decide it isn't what I intended and let it rot in an unfinished folder. That's not to say that I'm 100% satisfied with every post; I'm not.

The longer stories usually take a few sessions. Especially if I don't have a definitive plot line. If I'm telling you what happened moment to moment, and I remember well, those usually flow pretty easily. That Ollie post was written with ease shortly after it happened, a couple of details added later. The skiing story took several days and a bunch of read-throughs to feel like I covered what I wanted. 

Even now I'm thinking, Have I said what I intended? I think so. I'll come back after dinner.

Also, I have a few stories in inventory, to be (probably) posted at a later date. And some that are just for me, or a limited audience, because I wanted to put them on paper.

That's enough; I've made my point.

I feel so effing helpless. I feel like something is eating me from the inside. It's spent years dining on my arms and legs and back and butt and every other damned place. Every joint on my body, wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees, and ankles, is shit. Now it's going after the big one, my hips. I can already feel my leg start to pop out when I roll over in bed. How long will it be before they won't support my weight at all?

It's 2020, why can't I opt out of physical mail delivery? Just about every company offers e-delivery (saving lots of money and trees), when are we going to stop the insanity of constantly filling my recycle bins with useless junk? I should be able to go to the post office tomorrow, ID and mail in hand, give them my email address and say, "Send it all there." Ultimately I think it would make sense for every address to have a corresponding government email address, but that's a ways off. For now, I'd be okay with half measures.

I used to go for long drives when I was feeling antsy or anxious or trapped and had no other outlet. Usually after an hour or so of driving rural back roads, I would be ready to be done and unsure of what I had accomplished. But now that I can't get out and go through the gears, I see the value there. Those drives were an attempt to replicate a run, hike, or bike. It was a scaled back freedom. It was a much needed counterweight to that trapped feeling. Trapped in the house, trapped in my room, trapped in my body.

For the Discerning K-9

I've restrained myself from talking about, let's face it, putting down my parents. Until now. 

We all love our pets, to some they are truly our best friends. Here's what I mean.

My parents have a Brittany Spaniel named Oliver. He's eleven. My dad had never had a dog before.

Today around eleven I'm drinking a cup of coffee and reading a Bill Bryson book (I know, haven't I read them all by now? I haven't) at the kitchen counter when my dad comes in from the other room, Ollie excitedly nipping at his heels. Ollie doesn't follow, he rubs up against his master like a small child whining, "I'm still not close enough!" 

He goes to the fridge and takes out a half-full can of dog food and a single carrot. From the freezer he grabs a bag of peas. I look up from my book, Why does he have a carrot and peas? He grabs a small cutting board from the dish rack, a knife from the drawer. He rinses the carrot and begins slicing.

"Is that for Ollie?" I ask.

He smiles sheepishly, "Yeah." The look is unmistakable: he's sixty-five and still acts like an eight-year-old caught eating out of the half-gallon of ice cream. 

He grabs a plate-bowl from the cabinet, pours in the can, rinses it and adds the water before finishing with a handful each of peas and sliced carrot. Before I continue, this is not a metal dog bowl, of which we have several, but a Bennington Potters glazed number. Also, it’s Wellness brand beef stew, which I must admit makes Campbell's Chunky look like, well, dog food.

He stirs the slurry and slides it into the microwave. I've asked about this before, the response, "How would you like ice cold stew?" To which my mother responds, "He doesn't even taste it." 

A minute or so later he lifts the bowl from the microwave to cool as Ollie tries to climb the counter. I look at my mom. Splattered dog food microwave is all she can think about.

"Are the carrots al dente?" I ask.

"I don't know," and he dips his fingers in and brings one to his mouth.

I hear the crunch, "They're fine." 

"You're not kissing me with that mouth. You better brush your teeth. Gross," my mother chimes in unsolicited.

You'd think I'm done, but finally putting the cherry atop the overkill sundae, he pulls out a meat thermometer and checks its temperature.

I don't know what it was, but apparently, good enough.

Finally, Ollie gets his lunch. 

Twenty-five laps and eight seconds later he lifts a paw, snaps his fingers and says, "Take it away!"

I know you're disappointed, sorry that wasn't meaner.

How I Write

I am continually trying to come up with things to write about. For a bunch of reasons, boredom being one of them. But primarily because I want to record some of my thoughts. I'm getting déjà vu; I've written about this before.

It shouldn't surprise me (or you) that when the ideas run thin, I might look to writing about writing. How many sitcoms have been about making a sitcom? Entire series have been created. And of course there was that period of Seinfeld where they covered everything from the idea for a TV show, to pitching the show, to writing the show, to casting the show, to rehearsing the show, to filming the show, to watching the show, to having the show canceled. I forgot about George negotiating the contract and Jerry's response, "Lemme see if I understand this. In other words, you held out for...less money."

So while I would like to have something more to say, allow me to describe the words you are reading.

All of these words are being written in a new message window in my Gmail. I do this because Google docs, my other go-to, doesn't seem to accommodate the auto-fill function of my on-screen keyboard. Yes, further, I use a mouse and touchscreen keyboard to type. And as you have likely experienced texting, auto-fill is a huge timesaver.

My laptop sits atop a shoebox on the desk to decrease the strain on my neck. Still, it could be higher; I'm a bit hunched over.

I sit in a cherry mission-style dining room chair and try to maintain decent posture, arching my back a bit as I lean forward. Sometimes I sit back and stare blankly, left hand still on the mouse as I consider the next thought. I've meant to buy a desk chair, but I always think I'll be disappointed, and I don't want to roll around on the hardwood.

Often I wear headphones, alternating between music and silence, both of which are less distracting than the sound of a conversation or the TV from the other room. I sit beside a pair of massive windows, taking up most of the south-facing wall. The door is open so I can easily come and go as I please, and at this time of year, to let in heat from the wood stove.

Lastly, resting atop a couple of file cabinets, the desk is in fact a 10x2½ slab of either pine or Nordic cherry. Just kidding, I don't remember what it is.

At 5:25 there’s still daylight. Cheers to that.

Whatever training EMTs and 911 operators receive in crisis management should be taught to all of us. Calm competence is wildly underrated.

I learned a very long time ago, the problem with going out for beers with your friends is coming home to no one. 

On Ski Team

My brother took up cross country skiing in the ninth grade. He had run cross country in the fall and many of his teammates were also skiers. Though he had never skied before, cross country or downhill, he decided to give it a try.

Like running cross country, he loved it. He loved the competition and the force of will. And I think he loved the novelty of it. Skiing was new to us. Our parents didn't ski, our friends in the neighborhood didn't ski. We had only recently learned to ice skate. That is, really learned. Not renting skates at the local rink, but buying them and skating at the neighbor's backyard rink. 

Admittedly I have questions about this story, but I have no one to ask, so we continue.

A year later as fall began to turn to winter, I bought a pair of skate skis at the school's ski swap. They were Rossignols and cost me $30. I’d borrow the rest of the equipment from the school's grab bag of crap. 

Nick and I circled the snow-covered back yard soon after, my first time on snow. We were so excited, a new adventure to begin. 

My first race was at Mount Hor. That's up by Lake Willoughby. It was a 6k course that climbed for about 4k and returned down the mountain the final 2k. It was so effing cold that day.

Have you ever seen a cross country ski uniform? It's basically nylon/spandex from neck to ankle. They are made to accompany high-level exertion. Ski racers don't hang out in their tights, they strip off jackets and pants minutes before race time like a basketball player waiting to check into the game. 

At Mount Hor, that final 2k turns a warm, sweaty body into a painfully cold one. It was only later that I learned of that time-honored remedy: duct taping one's underwear. A tape wind-screen might've been just the remedy on that day. As it happened, immediately after crossing the finish line I followed a teammate's lead, pulled my sweaty hands out of my gloves and immediately stuck them down my pants to reinvigorate my retreating little friend. 

I finished near the end of the pack, that is, almost last. I survived, and soon made my way back to the running bus. 

Over the next few years Nick and I went through a lot together. Early season dry-land training meant running and roller skiing. On the paved cart path at the new golf course, still very much under construction. Down on Community Drive off Kimball. And up Mount Philo. Annual multi-day trips to Lake Placid. Even the Stowe Derby. And of course all of the other daily happenings: taking the van to Catamount, The Range (you're damn right I just capitalized it), Sleepy Hollow, and Bolton Valley. 

We used to roller ski up Mount Philo. If you don't know what roller skis are, well first off you are normal, they are kind of like a longer, heavier, far less agile version of a rollerblade. They have regular ski bindings and hook into regular ski boots and are accompanied by regular ski poles, sometimes with different tips designed to better grip pavement.

The team would "ski" up the paved, car-intended road to the top and walk back down. We would carry our shoes in a backpack, and I guess carry our skis, boots, and poles on the way down. You might think that we could have driven the van up to better facilitate the whole thing, but I think being November/December the park may have been closed or may have closed for the day before we were finished. I think sometimes we had the van.

One time I decided to ski down. Roller skis, (at least the ones we used) have a set brake on each wheel. It's basically a small metal roller that makes contact with the wheel to provide resistance. The danger is that once you are moving, unless you can stop, you can't add or subtract stopping power. 

That feature can make it a bit difficult to descend a "mountain". It's not really a mountain, but rather than getting into that I will merely say that despite a couple of pretty hairy descents and ducking under the entrance gate at speed, I escaped without damage.

We went to Lake Placid for a few days every year during winter break. Most of the team managed to attend; we stayed in a bunkhouse near the Olympic ski trails at Mount Van Hoevenberg. I don't remember what we ate, just the big kitchen where we picked up the chow.

Those trips were always a lot of fun. The coaches treated us like adults, during the training sessions at the mountain, in our free time in the evening, and in the bunkhouse at night. We were given directions like, "Breakfast is at 7," instead of enforcing a bedtime, or, "We'll meet back here at noon for lunch," and letting us explore the mountain on our own. Our coach was a "players' coach", he trusted us and everybody loved him. 

One year the mountain didn't have snow and we drove around looking for some. We found a golf course that was somehow covered (or partially covered) in snow and we were saved. While it wasn't an Olympic network of trails adjacent to the bobsled run, it actually worked out okay, and I think for most of us it was about the trip more than just the skiing. 

The ski team was coed, and while roommates were assigned, the bunkhouse was coed. Fortunately I think most of the parents trusted their sons and daughters and didn't ask too many questions. I don't want to get into it, but there were late night movies in the common room and more than a little room visiting. If I'm not mistaken, a couple of marriages resulted from those trips.

I'm still not quite sure how each day we found the time after school to gather in the locker rooms, drive some place like Bolton Valley (we skied there a lot), and have enough daylight to do much of anything. School let out at 2:43 and sunset is before 4:30 for all of December and before 5 in January. We must've had an hour or so to ski. I guess that's all it really takes. 

Allow me to continue to ramble: I was never a particularly great skier. A few years later when I got more into downhill skiing I thought, This is more my speed. And also, This is so easy. Which it is, but I'll leave that for my future essay: "Why downhill skiing is so easy, and snowboarding is stupid". 

There are a lot of factors beyond the obvious like training and technique that go into running (skiing) your best race. Knowing the course, where to push and where to lay back; knowing yourself and what you can handle; hydrating, eating, getting enough sleep the night before. Level-headed confidence. Have a plan and execute it.

Had most of my races been submitted for grading, I would've received failing marks across the board. I showed up and skied the course. I'm not sure I considered anything more.

I won't get into too much individual race stuff, but I'll mention one memory. We were at Bolton Valley, I think it was states. For those who have been there, the cross country trails and complex are across the parking lot from the lifts. I don't remember anything about the results, who won, how the team fared, or much else. I remember strutting around the inside of the complex, mostly a big multipurpose gym, with my headphones on, Sony Discman at full volume in the pocket of my wind pants. What a jerk.

State Championships 1999

Big happenings coming this week: I'm scheduled to check out a converted minivan with a wheelchair ramp. Before you ask, no I will not be able to drive it. But it will be my first time driving onto my transportation. As it happens there is a company that drives a wheelchair van to your house so that you can become familiar with it's quirks and features to decide what might work best. 

So that'll be my Friday. After which I will most likely be doing some online shopping for something in a price range I can stomach. Before you call me cheap, let me say that were there any fun factor in this purchase, I could better handle the absurd price tag. 

But while I am looking forward to the purchase for the vast functionality improvements it promises, the vehicle itself brings me no joy. There's only so much money I can handle spending on what may as well be a beater.

With the van I will get out more and that is all I can ask.

I got out in the snow today. Not in the snow, but near the snow. 

It's been a very long time since I have spent any significant time outdoors this time of year. I have gone from house to car, and car to wherever, but that's it. The last time I was outdoors in the month of February for more than a few minutes must have been five, six, seven years ago. 

I remember a few hikes and snowshoes in the winter of '10-'11. I remember walking places downtown in the years after that. I think I know the definitive example: in January (I think it was a few days into the new year) of 2014 I was living in a condo in Burlington and my car was towed. I layered up and walked a mile or so on semi-cleared sidewalks to retrieve it. 

I hadn't thought about how long it's been. I decided yesterday that I would try to get out in my power chair and have a look around, enjoy a little sunshine. 

And it worked pretty well. I cruised up the driveway and even made my way a good distance down the road. I wasn't sure how far I might make it, based on the snow and ice and the roughness of the dirt road and cars (trucks) driving by. All that stuff and the sudden appearance of a very cold breeze sent me home where I could bask in the sunny protected driveway a while longer. 

Welp, that was nice, lunch time. 

If interested I've posted a few photos on Instagram @instanatty55

On the cost of living

Some people are going to think this is political (because it seems everything needs to be politicized) but it is not. 

What is the primary cause of a high cost of living? Housing. High property values and high rents. What causes those? Demand. Despite those high taxes in Burlington and Chittenden County (and frankly urban areas across the country) there is still enough demand to keep property values rising. If high taxes were such a negative, housing values would fall. Why is Chittenden County booming while many areas in the state are losing population? Because people want to live there. If you don't, all the better, sell your house at a nice inflated value and move some place cheaper. 

That demand also causes higher prices in all those urban shops and restaurants. Why? Higher rent. But still, despite those ungodly high rents, you won't see any empty storefronts in Burlington. Demand.

Why are so many houses and condos going up in South Burlington? Because they will bring a premium price. Cha-ching for the builder.

And that same Subaru might cost you more at Burlington Subaru than a lot of other dealers across the country. Why? Because they can. Demand.

If the cost of living is high in some locale, it's primarily because people want to live there.

I think I'm just realizing, I won't be able to go anywhere on my own ever again. 

On Crashing

In your teens and twenties you crash at other people's places a lot. Or at least I did. On a couch, on the floor, on a futon, or maybe even in a bed. Sometimes planned, often not.

I find myself, given my reliance on others for transportation, crashing again. Tonight in fact, for the Super Bowl, I'll be staying at a friend's, for which I am thankful. Instead of deciding late at night, after several-too-many beers, this has been planned in advance. It seems everything needs to be planned in advance. 

Of course unlike those times I remember, the accommodations won't be so spartan.