Adventures in Adulthood

Thursday, Dec 24, 2009

Merry Freakin' Christmas: I'm Taking Your Stuff, and you Can't Stop Me!

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For the past few weeks, many people at the happy little community college where I work have seen me in the hallway or at meetings or on my knees trying to clear a photocopier paper jam and asked the question I often hear near the end of the fall semester: "Are you going to the party?"

"Maybe," I repeated each time I was asked. I hate to sound like Scroogy McGrinch or Grinchy McScooge, but I just don't always like to go to our work party at this time of year.

They were, of course, referring to our annual holiday party. Up until a decade ago, we called it a "Christmas party," but then we joined the fictional "War on Christmas" and started calling it a "Holiday Party."

There is no actual "War on Christmas," and anyone who thinks there is has simply been victimized by yet another ridiculous and hypocritical conspiracy theory spun by the right-wing media. Bill O'Reilly got this one started a few years ago when he blasted Wal-Mart for having its greeters say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" to customers as they walked in the doors. As he blustered and bloviated, O'Reilly didn't bother to mention that his own website proclaimed "Happy Holidays," but ethical consistency isn't a strength of any right-wing media personality. Blubbering about a phony "War on Christmas" gets them attention and ratings, so they blubber away.

My fellow employees at our happy little community college still vacillate between calling the annual celebration a "Holiday Party" and a "Christmas Party." Most of the people who I work with self-identify as "Christian," but we're not really the evangelical types obsessed with convincing the world to accept a narrow sets of beliefs or burn in hell forever. The Jewish, Muslim, agnostic, and atheist people share pretty much the same live-and-let-live viewpoint. Our Muslim employees, for example, are not seen going from classroom to classroom trying to convert everyone they encounter to Islam. Our Christians don't hit people over the head with the Bible. Our Jewish people don't threaten anyone with a burning menorah. Our atheists don't scream "God is dead!" at the top of their lungs in the middle of a curriculum committee meeting. And our agnostics don't grab people by the collar and beg them to be as unsure as they are.

I would call myself a liberal-secular-spiritual humanist raised in a Christian tradition. That's why I check the "other" box on any form that asks my religion. "Liberal-secular-spiritual humanist raised in a Christian tradition" doesn't fit well on a standardized form. When people say "Christmas Party," I don't get offended or chide them for being insensitive to non-Christians. I just assume they celebrate Christmas. When people say "Holiday Party," I don't criticize them for bowing to supposedly oppressive leftist political correctness. I just assume they're talking about the upcoming holidays, be those holidays Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year's Day, or, for that matter, Humbug Day, National Haiku Poetry Day (both December 21), Festivus (December 23), Thank-You Note Day, National Whiner's Day (both December 26), National Chocolate Day (December 28), Make Up Your Mind Day, No Interruptions Day (both December 31), or Z Day (January 1). Say "Merry Chrismas" or "Happy Holidays"--it's not a big, fat, hairy deal for me.

Anyone who thinks that Christmas is exclusively a Christian holiday simply isn't living in the real world. In which book of the New Testament do we find Santa Claus? (Or as the poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti calls him, "the fat red Christ.") Christmas has long ago been co-opted by the most anti-Christian movement of all: capitalism. Just because the wise men brought gifts to the newborn Jesus, that doesn't mean every chain store in America has to open before dawn on the day after Thanksgiving so that everyone can fight over the latest overpriced piece of mindless electronic equipment and trample the store greeters before they can form the first syllables of whatever holiday greeting they might utter.

Anyone else who thinks capitalism and Christianity are compatible needs to explain why Jesus threw the money-changers out of the temple. (Watch out Wall Street--you're next!) Or they need to explain what Jesus was thinking when he said that it is harder for a wealthy person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. (Is "corporation" one of Dante's circles of hell?) Maybe they just need to be tied up and forced to watch the new Michael Moore documentary, Capitalism: A Love Story. Moore might be a bit hyperbolic here and there, but one aspect of capitalism that he hits dead on is its anti-Christian nature.

So I usually just call it a "Holiday Party." With all those religious and secular holidays going on between semesters, and with Christmas certainly becoming more than the exclusive property of Christians, I just like my language to reflect reality. The word "holiday" seems most in touch with reality to me. But, again, connection with reality isn't really the strong suit of the "War on Christmas" crowd.

It wasn't the "War on Christmas" that made me hesitate when my coworkers asked whether or not I would be going to this year's party. I certainly enjoy the good company, the chance to interact with co-workers without the pressing business of our various jobs weighing us down, the food, the drink, the laughter. I like a good party as much as the next person. And I respect and admire my colleagues who work hard to plan the party. But two words related to our holiday party tradition always make me consider skipping the festivities. Two words make my skin crawl and my chest tighten. Two words make me want to think up any excuse for not joining my coworkers in a celebration of the season.

Those two words are "Yankee Swap"--or, as I call it, "evil, capitalist pig, greedy, jerky, bastard, I'm-taking-your-stuff-and-you-can't-stop-me, merry-freakin'-Christmas."

On the surface, Yankee Swap seems like good fun. Everyone brings a wrapped present, supposedly something valued under a preset amount, say $10. Then everyone at the party is issued a number. To get things started, the first person selects a present, unwraps it, and then holds it aloft for the approving ooohs and aaahs of everyone in attendance. It sounds pleasant up to this point. But then the evil begins.

The second person then gets to either choose another wrapped gift or take the present picked by the first person. If the first gift was something nice but not outstanding (a coffee mug or stationary set, for example), the second person usually selects a new gift. There is more unwrapping, revealing, ooohing, and aaahing. Everyone is happy. But if the first gift is something that everyone covets, watch out!

Over the years, I've seen my most mild-mannered, kind, generous colleagues nearly tear lottery tickets from the hands of their startled coworkers. Secretaries have taken cute puppy photo calendars from history professors. Deans have absconded with Starbucks gift cards cherished by custodians. Best friends have snarled at each other over who would possess a scarf made from some synthetic material so artificial it looked like a flame-retardant mini-blanket. People stop short of shouting, "I'm taking your stuff, and you can't stop me!" but the fire in the eye makes nearly the same statement.

In any other context, this kind of behavior would be appalling. If I walked into a colleague's office, saw a nice stapler on his desk, picked it up, and informed him that it was now mine--well, let's just say I wouldn't be the most popular guy at work.

But at the holiday party, when the next number gets called in Yankee Swap, a chorus of voices can usually be heard calling out exhortations like, "Betty's tree ornament is really nice--take it!" or "Grab Gary's book light! He doesn't even know how to read!" Too many people become rabble-rousers, encouraging the rule-sanctioned theft of other people's gifts as if Christian charity had nothing to do with the holidays, as if the spirit of giving had suddenly been displaced by the spirit of thieving.

Of course, I'm overlooking the fact that the people who have their gifts taken from them then get to select another unwrapped gift. But this seems like cold comfort to those who loved and lost their first gift. They might be going from a new wallet with a $10 bill inside to a dented picture frame bought from the discount scrap heap. Not a good trade. And the whole sense of getting a consolation prize feels like some half-hearted, underfunded welfare program in the aggressively capitalist context of Yankee Swap.

I've actually heard of a version of Yankee Swap with unlimited gift taking. People just sit around in a circle taking each other's gifts until everyone has had a turn to steal from someone else. I think this version is called Fox News Network Yankee Swap because it is simply wrong in every conceivable way.

The worst part of our happy little community college holiday party Yankee Swap game is that we usually have anywhere for thirty to fifty people playing. The cringe-worthy exchanges go on and on, with everyone getting a chance to show their most greedy instincts as well as numerous chances to be the victim of their coworker's greed. If there were only ten or fifteen people involved, at least the ordeal would be over sooner and not drag through the afternoon.

The only version of Yankee Swap that ever works well is "Gag-Gift Yankee Swap." I have no moral objections to someone stealing a two-pound beef stick or a package of bald-head-wipes and sticking someone else with an oven mitt featuring the embroidered face of Mitt Romney.

And I guess our holiday party with Yankee Swap isn't as bad as the experience I had two decades ago when I had just started a new job. I showed up to our office holiday party to discover that the dozen other staff members had bought and wrapped gifts for everyone else--but no one had told the new guy about that part of the office holiday party tradition. I sat there for an hour smiling and accepting the thoughtful gifts from everyone else while repeating lamely, "No one told me … I'll bring in gifts next week."

If gift exchanges have to be part of holiday parities, my favorite activity is "Secret Santa." I love the idea of shopping for someone I wouldn't ordinarily think of getting a gift for--the new math professor, for example, or the purchasing manager I've known for seventeen years but never thought of as more than the well-dressed guy who has helped me fill out financial forms that I couldn't figure out on my own. I enjoy the mission of discovering what these people like, what their interests and passions are. I do my detective work, observing them from a distance, secretly speaking with coworkers who know them well, stopping at stores I might not otherwise enter to find just the right gift within the prescribed price range. If it turns out the new math professor collects movie posters from the 1950s and the purchasing manager is a connoisseur of exotic teas, then I've learned something that can help make them happy, as well as something about the human race in general.

Of course, for anyone who gets me as the target of his or her Secret Santa gift-giving, I'm ridiculously easy--pretty much any book that doesn't have the word "Obama-nation" or that wasn't written by Glenn Beck's army of ghostwriters will do just fine.

Secret Santa is anti-capitalism at its best. The focus is all on giving and not at all on taking. I get so caught up in giving to someone else that I always feel a small jolt of surprise when I remember that someone actually got something for me. In fact, you only know who gave you a gift if the giver tells you. Giving is anathema to free market capitalism. The only holiday activity more socialist that Secret Santa would be just having everyone contribute toward a donation to a local charity (which, by the way, is my absolute favorite holiday giving idea).

If anyone wants to see the difference between Secret Santa and Yankee Swap at its darkly comedic best, just watch the second season holiday episode of the delightful television show The Office. Michael (the clueless but sort of well-meaning boss) tries to enliven the staff holiday party with a last-minute change from Secret Santa to Yankee Swap. What had been a group of kind-hearted folks who got thoughtful gifts directed toward a specific coworker becomes a cut-throat bunch of free-market greed-misers who crave the best toys and didn't care who they have to steal from. Secret Santa turns into a game of "Not-so-Secret Satanic Christmas." One character says of Yankee Swap, "I thought that was called 'Nasty Christmas.'" Another bursts into tears. A third runs from the room mid-swap when her home-made gift is belittled. Holiday happiness gets sucked out of the party like air from the lungs of the drowning. Only fifteen bottles of vodka, inappropriately placed mistletoe, and photocopied butt cheeks can restore the holiday cheer.

When I told my wise coworker Faye about my distaste for Yankee Swap, she said, "But it's not real greed. It's just a chance for people to have fun with a parody of greedy behavior." She may have a point. I don't really believe my coworkers are a bunch of heartless thieves who live to wrest gifts from their friend's desperate grasp. Perhaps Yankee Swap is just a cathartic activity that lets us act out our worst instincts so that we can better focus on our more altruistic motives during the holiday season. That's a nice way of looking at it--but that viewpoint doesn't make it any easier for me to see the hurt face of a colleague who really wanted the hand-painted Christmas necktie that has just been taken from him.

Ultimately, I decided to go to this year's holiday party for our happy little community college. And guess what? I had a great time. People brought toy donations to be distributed by the local police department. I bought a 50-50 lottery ticket and lost, which was fine because the proceeds were donated to charity. The food was so good that I had three helpings, skipped dinner that night, and went to bed still feeling bloated. I hugged close friends, reconnected with people I hadn't seen in a while, had some meaningful conversations, laughed at some great stories, forgot about the pile of work on my desk for one afternoon, and even managed to avoid the one big jerk I can barely stand to be in the same room with. People played Nintendo Wii and sang karaoke, so everyone had a nice chance to loosen up and act a little silly.

This year, though, when Yankee Swap commenced, I was ready. I was positioned near the exit with my coat on the back of my chair. By the time the first greedy act lead to the first disappointed face, I had slipped out the door.

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Posted by John Sheirer at 11:19 AM | MAKE A COMMENT

Friday, Dec 18, 2009

Saying My Name

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A Few Poems from my Book
Saying My Name: Selected Poems, 1982-2002

mister cat
life is too short
to be
so angry
about the new puppy

***

as she cheats
at solitaire
she asks me
if I ever think
about other women

***

thinking about
an argument
a decade ago
I clip a nail
so close it bleeds

***

that exercise machine on television
could change my life
if only the phone
weren’t so far
from this couch

***

thinking of my wife
I accidentally say
I love you
to a stranger’s
answering machine

***

is she flirting
or is it just the way the sun
catches her eyes
that makes me
wish she were?

***

our first date
how charming
that fragment of broccoli
caught in her teeth
all evening

***

after we
make love
better looking people
make love
on television

***

in her personal ad
she seemed so much thinner
but her eyes tell me
that I seemed so much
younger and taller in mine

***

knowing the evening will end
with a handshake
on our third date
she tells me how much
I remind her of her favorite brother

***

They Come Back

Late for class again,
this time half an hour,
the pair of them.
She has big hair,
big enough to hold
three colors, including blue.
He sports greasy ball-cap pulled low
to touch reflective sunglasses
so necessary for night classes.
They wear their uncaring
like a suit of clothes slept in,
wrinkled long before
lying down to bed.

“Did we miss anything important?”
she asks for both of them.
Inside me, a familiar speeding
main-line direct-train rage,
burning through the suburbs--
but quick to derail.
Anger seeps away,
so many world-weary commuters
dragging toward the park-and-ride,
inertia the only force
that brings them home.

“You missed a little,” I say.
“Hang around at the end of class,” I say,
knowing they’ll be gone
when break-time ends,
their seats dying-art-house-theater empty.
And they won’t see semester’s end,
falling from memory
faster than baby food spit to the floor.

I’ll mourn them for a moment.
But my secret is that I know
they will arise, living dead,
in two years, five, eight,
the exact instant of resurrection
unpredictable but certain.

They will be transformed,
ball-cap and big-hair gone
with parents’ fat tuition check,
replaced by tiny lines
around the eyes,
a pound here, pound there,
gray hair or two,
hint of shadow in their smiles,
bad jobs, unplanned-for kids,
remorse for just that half hour late,
for missing something just
a little important again
and again.

###

Special thanks to Edwina Trentham for coordinating the Freshwater Poetry Readings at Asnuntuck Community College, and to Tom Vesci for making the live recording of the event available to me.

Posted by John Sheirer at 10:54 AM | MAKE A COMMENT

Friday, Nov 06, 2009

My Basketball Nicknames from Birth to Age Forty-Five

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Birth: The Next Michael Jordan
Age 1: Poopie Diaper
Age 2: Dribbler
Age 3: Mr. Snappy
Age 4: Tinkler
Age 5: Po (as in he has potential)
Age 6: Chubbs
Age 7: Lumpy
Age 8: Big Train
Age 9: Groan (as in he has finally started groan into his weight)
Age 10: Floppy
Age 11: Skinny Butt
Age 12: Spaghetti Arms
Age 13: Statue (as in hands of stone)
Age 14: Big Hair
Age 15: No-No (as in no, no, please don't shoot the ball)
Age 16: Clunker
Age 17: Johnny Jump-Up
Age 18: Cow (as in he jumps over the moon)
Age 19: Skywalker
Age 20: Air
Age 21: Fly
Age 22: Leper (as in nobody can touch him)
Age 23: White Lightning
Age 24: El Diablo
Age 25: Sprain
Age 26: Sir Limps-a-lot
Age 27: Knee-Be-Gone
Age 28: Sloppy Arthroscopy
Age 29: Long Time (as in no see)
Age 30: Crutch
Age 31: Comeback Kid
Age 32: Rain (as in his jump shot brings rain)
Age 33: Gunner
Age 34: Duct Tape (as in held together by duct tape)
Age 35: Coach
Age 36: Day (as in back in the day, he once could play)
Age 37: Old School
Age 38: Pappy
Age 39: Viagra
Age 40: The Distinguished Gentleman from Connecticut
Age 41: Whitey White Hair
Age 42: Jo-Jo, Jumps-Too Low, Runs-Too-Slow
Age 43: One Room (as in so old school the school only had one room)
Age 44: Frank (as in Frank N. Stein)
Age 45: Florida (as in should retire)

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 6:26 AM | MAKE A COMMENT

Friday, Sep 04, 2009

Wrong Number

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While in graduate school, I paid the bills for a year by working part-time at a weird little fast-food restaurant at the local mall. They specialized in French fries, so the place was called the "French Fry Factory." For uniforms, we wore bright yellow t-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the glowing orange words, "French Fry Factory." (Just for fun, the "o" in "factory" was shaped like a cog.) In the florescent mall lighting, that yellow and orange combination was almost enough to cook the fries by itself.

The place had a small dining area with six tables and an open food-prep area so that anybody walking by could stare at us while we worked. And many people did just that--gawked away as grease slowly sizzled its way into our pores. Back in my tiny grad-school apartment each night, even after an hour-long shower and half a bar of soap, I never felt truly clean. Some days I even worked alone, taking orders and operating the cash register with my right hand and frantically reaching back to run the fryers and the grill with my left. I must have put on quite a show for the gawkers on those days.

The job paid minimum wage, but I got one free sandwich and all the fries and drinks I wanted during each shift. All in all, it wasn't a bad deal. Each day, I skipped breakfast and lunch, then snacked on fries and iced tea while I worked. When my shift ended, I would settle down for a leisurely burger and do some reading for my classes. I hardly ever bought groceries that year, even stopping in for free fries on my occasional days off, and I actually lost fifteen pounds because the hard work kept me too busy to eat much.

Within a couple of weeks, I got "promoted" to "opener." There was no extra pay, but I got to come in at 9 a.m. and open the place--a much better job than "closer" at 10 p.m. when I was ready to collapse into bed. Mornings were quiet at the mall, and I was able to develop a routine that made the job enjoyable. I liked having a couple of calm hours of preparation duty before the lunch rush began.

When I'd been there for about three months, my morning calm was interrupted by a phone call at precisely at 9:30.

"Hello, French Fry Factory!" I sang out in my cheeriest voice.

An elderly sounding woman on the other end of the line said, "I would like to speak to Marion, please."

"I'm sorry ma'am," I replied. "There's no one here by that name. I think you might have the wrong number."

The woman recited the phone number and again asked for Marion.

"That's the right number," I said, "but this is the French Fry Factory. We're a restaurant in the mall, not a residence."

"Marion said I should call her at this number," the woman continued, beginning to sound frustrated.

"I'm really sorry," I said, "but there's no Marion here."

With that, she abruptly hung up. I shrugged, sent a silent wish that she would find her Marion, and then got back to work.

The next morning, the phone rang at 9:30 once again.

"Hello, French Fry Factory!"

"I would like to speak with Marion, please." The same voice.

"I'm sorry, but this is the French Fry Factory again."

"Marion said she'd be there." This time, I heard what sounded like a hint of panic.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. Do you have a last name for Marion? Maybe I could help you look up her number."

"She said she would be there," the woman snapped and hung up.

For months, these calls continued--not every day, sometimes not even every week, but always at 9:30. Each time, the woman seemed reluctant to believe that Marion wasn't waiting expectantly for her call. And each time, she hung up before I could say anything helpful.

This was back before caller-ID, so I investigated. I asked the other "openers" if they ever got any wrong-number calls. Most of them said they didn't, but one annoying guy said he refused to answer the phone before 10:30 when we officially opened for business. He eventually admitted that he may have heard the phone ring a few times in the morning, but he stuck to his philosophy that if they weren't open, he shouldn't have to answer the phone.

As the months went along, I tried several strategies. I started answering the 9:30 calls by saying "Hello?" in a pleasant voice, as if I were a retiree in the middle of morning coffee. That didn't help. Sometimes I picked up the phone and didn't say anything, but the woman would just hang up after a few seconds. I even answered a few times with, "Please don't hang up. I want to help you find Marion." But the woman would repeat, "Marion should be there," then hang up. Once I even answered, "Hello, information ... could I please have the last name of the party you are trying to reach?" No luck--all I heard was a click.

I don't remember exactly when the calls stopped, but one day I realized that the woman hadn't called in a month. In the meantime, I had transferred to another graduate program and was about to leave the French Fry Factory and move out of the area.

During my last week, the manager held a surprise going-away party. Most of my coworkers were there, and several of the pretty young women who worked at the clothing stores in the mall (and whom I had often treated to free coffee) stopped by to kiss my greasy cheek and give me their best wishes. The unexpected pleasure of this party nearly brought me to tears as I realized how much this silly little job had meant to me for the past year.

The owner even showed up. He was a lawyer who hardly ever came to the store. I heard that he operated the restaurant as a tax write-off and was upset when we actually started turning a profit. But he seemed like a nice enough guy, and I was glad he came to say good-bye.

With the owner was a very tiny old woman. She had bright, happy eyes, and I could tell she had once been young and active. She still maintained an energy and a glow that made her very appealing.

"This is my grandmother," the owner said after shaking my hand and wishing me luck, "Mrs. Candelaria."

"Oh, Glen, don't be so formal," the woman scolded her grandson. Then she turned to me and smiled, extending her hand.

"Please call me Marion."

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 3:49 PM | MAKE A COMMENT

Friday, Jul 17, 2009

What to do When the Neighbor's Dogs Won't Stop Barking for Thirty-Three Nights in a Row

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1) Call the "will do odd jobs" guy whose number you found on the bulletin board at the supermarket. Offer him twenty bucks. He'll know what to do.

2) Turn up the Republican National Convention really loud on the television. (This won't stop the dogs, but it will give you a new appreciation for their barking as a comparative source of intelligence in the world.)

3) March right up to those dogs and tell them in a stern voice, "Cut it out you guys, and I mean right now."

4) Invent a soundproof fence. Install it in the appropriate location.

5) Try to find one of those whistles only dogs could hear that everybody but you seemed to have when you were a kid. What the heck--anything's worth a shot.

6) Place a personal ad in the "singles" section of the newspaper. Emphasize that you are looking for someone who really, really likes dogs.

7) Tie an anonymous note to a brick and toss it through your neighbor's window. The note should say that you "know what they're up to" and "it had better stop really soon or there might be more bricks."

8) Bring six quarts of water to a boil. Add three beef bullion cubes. Add a dozen sleeping pills. Reduce heat to medium. Cover and let simmer for half an hour. Serve at room temperature in a doggie dish.

9) When the dogs finally stop barking and fall asleep around 4:30 a.m., tiptoe up to them and yell, "It's about freaking time!"

10) Purchase a large bucket of "Bark-be-Gone." Apply liberally.

11) Ignore them. Sure, that'll work--just like it did with that playground bully in junior high.

12) Eat lots of vegetables, exercise, take your vitamins, and outlive the hairy beasts by sixty years.

13) Help the dogs open a dot.com business. That should make them disappear pretty quickly.

14) They say that living well is the best revenge, so buy a twenty-year-old Chevy pick-up, drink wine with a screw cap, and take a vacation to Dollywood.

15) Enroll in that community college continuing education course about dog mind control that you've always wanted to take but couldn't quite fit into your schedule.

16) Walk by the windows naked every few minutes. That should confuse them into silence.

17) Go to the library and check out a book about dog behavior. Make sure it's a really big hardcover book. Throw it at them. Throw it hard.

18) Radio their coordinates to central command.

19) Read to the dogs from that notebook full of love poems you wrote in tenth grade.

20) Throw the dogs a surprise birthday party. Get a poodle in a bikini to jump out of a cake.

21) Become friends with the neighborhood kid who's really good with his slingshot. Invite him over for a snack and target practice.

22) Take up the tuba. Practice late at night. Don't worry so much about improving you ability to play. Volume is key.

23) Move. Now.

24) When your neighbor finally comes out on the porch at midnight and says, "Will my sweet puppies please stop their barkie-warkies? Who are my good boys? Yes, you are, yes, you're my good boys, yes, you are, oh, my pookie-wookie puppies!" videotape the whole thing. Make sure your lawyer gets the tape into evidence at your trial. No jury would convict.

25) Take comfort in the knowledge that only cats have nine lives.

26) Enter your neighbors in one of those "win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar" contests at the local mall. Make sure it's the pet-friendly "win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar" contest, not that other one.

27) Join a support group. Confront your feelings. Get in touch with your inner child. Make peace with your demons. Pass the talking stick. Revisit past lives. Tame your gremlin. Don't be afraid to cry.

28) Forget the dog whisperer. This job is too big. Contact that horse whisperer guy. Ask him if he does dogs.

29) Begin a novel with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night, and my neighbor's dogs were barking again." Find a literary agent to handle this can't-miss bestseller.

30) Write a complaint letter to President Bush. If anyone can help with such a difficult diplomatic situation, it's him.

31) Mark your territory.

32) Knit each dog a really nice sweater--maybe some booties and scarves too. They've probably just been trying to tell you that they're a little chilly.

33) Bark right back at the smelly bastards and see how they like it.

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Posted by John Sheirer at 9:31 AM | MAKE A COMMENT

Wednesday, Jun 10, 2009

Teenagers with Scapels

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For much of my life, people in the medical world had one attribute in common: they all looked ancient to my young eyes.

My first dentist had wrinkled fingers the size of hot dogs, but he could still fit seven of those blotchy digits in my mouth as he drilled my first fillings. Our school nurse had quite a few bristly gray chin hairs and was rumored to be well over 100 years of age. And the doctor who delivered me and saw to my health needs until I was eighteen had bags under his eyes so big he could have kept a stethoscope in one and reflex hammer in the other.

Things began to change when I made my occasional visits to the health services clinic in college. One doctor who examined my sprained knee seemed like a pretty cool, almost-middle-aged guy, a lot like the hip young professors who hung out at the student center or shot baskets in the gym. The nurse who gave me a flu shot was barely thirty and cute enough to make me blush as she rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on my shoulder before stabbing me with the needle.

As I’ve grown older, the people in the medical world seem to have gotten progressively younger. Now that I’m hovering around the half-century mark, I’ve reached some sort of median patient-professional age. About half of the people in white coats look to be my age or older, but the other half look like they’re about to shave for the first time or still have a provisional driver’s license.

The most extreme example was the urologist who performed my vasectomy a decade ago. When I asked how many of these operations he had done, he replied, “A bunch, you know, like, several.” From the rough way he handled my still-sore goodies during the follow-up exam a week later, I could tell he’d never been on the receiving end of the procedure himself. And the nurse assisting him looked too young to be a legal participant.

These situations keep repeating. When my wife and I took our twenty-year-old son to the emergency room with a broken wrist, his doctor looked like he could be on our son’s intramural soccer team. Kid Doctor decided to consult with his supervisor, so I expected a craggy old guy who smelled like mouthwash and mothballs. But the supervisor looked young enough to be the first guy’s slightly older brother, who just stepped out of a Gap ad.

The young cardiologist who oversaw my first treadmill stress test kept calling me “Sir.” The doctor who did my knee surgery last summer mentioned that we had some mutual friends, so I looked him up on the Internet and discovered he graduated from high school a year after I did. At a recent physical exam, the phlebotomist drew my blood while simultaneously texting her friends about that night’s Hannah Montana concert. (Okay, that last one may be a slight exaggeration.)

These youngsters have been wonderful practitioners (with the notable exception of the ham-fisted urologist, who I like to call “Dr. Knuckles”). I have great confidence in them even as I chuckle and wonder what they’re planning to wear to the prom. I never make any comments about their youth because I was once in a similar position. At age twenty-three, I taught my first college classes and was barely older than the students who rolled their eyes when I walked into the room wearing an ill-fitting suit to try to look the part.

What worries me now is that these youthful technicians, nurses, and doctors provide an unwelcome window into the future. How young will the doctors look when I get my bad knee replaced in a decade or so? What about the dentist who pulls the last of my teeth and fits me for dentures? Will the teenager on the nursing home staff call me “grandpa” as she feeds me my strained peas and applesauce?

Of course, those visions are better than the alternative.

A former student stopped by my office the other day to visit. She’s a smart, confident woman, young enough to be my daughter. She combines a professional attitude with a friendly smile and sympathetic, comforting eyes. Those qualities served her well as a student and will be even more essential as she sets off in her chosen profession.

This young woman just passed her certification exam to be a funeral director.

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 5:57 PM | MAKE A COMMENT

Monday, Jun 01, 2009

Commencement Season

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(These two pieces are adapted from my two "Greetings from the Faculty" commencement speeches at Asnuntuck Community College, the first one in 1995, the second in 2003.)

Greetings and Welcome

I've been asked to deliver solemn and serious greetings from the faculty. Therefore it is my great honor to say to you tonight ... hi there ... howdy ... helooooo .... how's it going? ... greetings.

You're getting a college degree tonight, but what exactly does that mean?

Well, a student in one of my classes this semester, Cheryl David, one of tonight's graduates, wrote an essay that began with a great story about a friend of hers who had what she called "a bunch" of college degrees. So many of them, in fact, that her diplomas covered a good bit of one wall in a very special room of her home: her bathroom. Cheryl pointed out in her essay that her friend kept these diplomas right next to the toilet paper. And Cheryl got the impression from that arrangement that if there was no toilet paper left, you were supposed to use the diplomas.

In that context, what does it mean to earn a college degree?

When I graduated from college on a rainy spring day back in 19-blahdaty-blah, I was a bit unsure of what my college degree meant to me, so I did what I often did back then--I wrote a poem, and I'd like to share that poem with you now. (You're probably thinking, "Oh, man, I'm graduating--I thought I was done with literature!")

Well, actually, that's sort of what this poem is about. I was more than a bit tired of school when I graduated--tired of reading poems that I didn't like, tired of paying tuition, tired of studying all night, tired of listening to dull teachers, tired of taking picky tests, tired of trying to figure out what my teachers wanted me to say in my own writing. So I wrote this poem about being tired of school. It may not be very good, but that doesn't matter because I never gave it to a teacher. And best of all, it's short.

***

What to do After College

Fill your head with dirt
topsoil--rich, dark.
Plant flowers in your ears
daisies or azaleas,
trees in your eye-sockets
butternut or cottonwood,
food crops in your nose
corn, potatoes, grains.
Plow them with your tongue.

Your brain?
Keep it for amusement,
donate it to science,
or chop it up for fertilizer.

***

Well, I didn't chop up my brain for fertilizer, much as I felt like doing so more than a few times. Instead, I took some time off from education to deliver pizzas and flip burgers and sell my own plasma--but I eventually took my brain out of mothballs and went back to school. And I encourage all of you to continue your education in some way--if not now, then when you've had a bit of a rest.

Also on that day I graduated, one of my favorite teachers took me aside for a private talk. I assumed she wanted to give me words of wisdom that would mold my future and let me know how to live as a college graduate. She shook my hand warmly, and all she said was, "welcome to ... welcome to whatever the hell it is!"

Just what are you being welcomed to when you get a college degree? The bottom line is that you've achieved something that gives you both the right and the responsibility to improve your world. But how can you make the world a better place? What have you learned here that can help you improve your world?

You might have loved it here at Asnuntuck--and I think most of you did--or you might have hated it here at Asnuntuck--and I think most of you did. But you can't deny that you've learned things here that can help you make your world a better place. We can't tell you what those things are--only you can decide that. That's sort of the last question on the last final exam: "How can you take what you've learned here and apply it to make the world a better place?" If you've learned enough here simply to ask that question--How can you improve the world?--then you're farther along on the way toward answering it than ninety-nine percent of all talk show hosts and, as of last November's elections, about two-thirds of the United States Congress.

You're getting a college degree. You've done a great thing. The faculty members here on stage with me are very proud of you and honored to have been a part of your work at Asnuntuck. You deserve the highest praise we can give you. You deserve the respect and celebration of your friends and family. You deserve the chance to change the world. You've earned it. Accept nothing less.

Greetings. Congratulations. How is it going? Now go out and make the most of "whatever the hell it is."

*********************************************************************

Why We Made You Do Those Terrible Things

(Greetings From the Faculty, Commencement 2003, Asnuntuck Community College, Enfield, CT, 30 May 2003)

Before I begin, I've been asked to make an important announcement. It seems there was a computer glitch in the academic records. Some folks here tonight are a few credits short of graduating. I'd like to read a list of people who will need to see their academic advisor before the night is over. (At this point, I pulled out a sheet of paper about six feet long.)

Actually, this is a list of Asnuntuck graduates who we are hoping will run for governor of Connecticut in the next election.

Okay, so everyone here really is going to graduate tonight. But you haven't graduated yet, We have time for one more class tonight--a class whose subject matter is the terrible range of things we faculty members have put you through to get you to this point.

And please pay close attention because there will be a test later!

To begin with, let's do some writing. Could everyone please take out the #2 lead pencil and blue book that you were issued tonight with your cap and gown ... Oh, we forgot to give you blue books and pencis? I'm sorry about that.

Why did you do so much writing in your college career? Because in real life, you'll be asked to communicate extensively in written form, from daily e-mails to annual reports. And don't count on having an assistant to do your writing for you because assistants are no longer in the company budget.

How about a little reading now. Please take out your textbook and open to, oh, how about, page 4,297. Yes, that's the book you paid $150 dollars for a few short months ago but got only $3.95 when you sold it back last week.

Why so much reading? Because in real life, you will be required to digest and process vast amounts of written information. Even people with dream jobs at MTV read reports more often than they watch music videos.

How do I know that? Because I've done my research. Okay, let's do some research. You've all memorized APA and MLA documentation by now, haven't you?

We've asked you to do so much research because in real life, you will be required you to find out what other people think and to connect their thoughts with your own ideas and experience because that's how human knowledge is carried on and how human culture is built.

Okay, I can tell that I'm talking too much. It's your turn. Let's have each of you come up and give a five-minute presentation on what your college experience has meant to you. We have time, don't we? This will only take until midnight or so. You don't have any other plans for tonight, do you?

Everyone hates public speaking, but we've asked you give so many speeches because the farther you go in real life, the more you will be required to present information to small and large groups of people--unless, of course, the only public speaking you want to do in your life is long shifts of repeating, "Would you like fries with that?"

This is starting to sound way too much like a lecture, so let's change the pace a little. How about some small-group discussion? Starting over here, let's count off by fours ... ready? ... one, two, three, four, one, two, three ... Okay, this is too complicated. Just divide yourselves up into groups. So if you're sitting near someone you don't want to work with, this would be a good time to move. Go ahead, don't be shy.

Did you ever ask yourself why we did so much group work in class? It's because in real life, you will be required to be active learners in a global village where you'll need to interact with a great diversity of people to form effective communities and be good citizens of the earth.

In fact, all of these tortures we put you through--writing, reading, research, public speaking, group work--these were not just about preparing you for a job or further education. The real-life goal has been to help you become a fully rounded, thinking, feeling, doing, aware human being who can make our world community a better place--whether you run for governor of Connecticut or not. (But please, I'm begging you, consider it.)

Now, about that test that I promised ...

By a show of hands, how many of you have taken a test during your time in college? Really, that many? I never would have guessed.

I have a secret to share with you about tests. I'll probably get in trouble for revealing this secret, but you deserve to know the truth. Remember all those tests and exams and quizzes that you had to study for all those long hours? The real-life truth is exactly what you've always suspected: there is absolutely no educational reason for tests. We only made you do them because we're cruel and evil people who were only happy when you were suffering.

Congratulations. You've passed the test. And thanks for being here tonight. In real life, attendance is a very important component of your final grade.

And by the way, just in case you were wondering, tonight's class will not be getting out early, so don't even ask.

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 6:49 PM | 1 comments

Saturday, May 16, 2009

My Real Mother

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We've all seen those silly soap operas where a character discovers her "real father." It turns out that the man who raised her and whom she called "Daddy" all those years is not her real father at all--just some guy who made an "honest woman" out of her mother decades before. Her real father is actually the town drunk or the murderer recently paroled from prison or the town's richest oil baron or even--uh, oh--that nice older gentleman she started dating last month. Not very realistic, but these scenarios make for some high drama.

My story is not nearly as dramatic. For most of my life, I had a sneaking suspicion that my mother was not my "real mother." As a teenager, I had Dad's eyes and high forehead and muscles and usually calm temperament. Mom sometimes seemed to be an alien creature so much more like my sisters than me. Don't misunderstand--she was a wonderful mother, dedicated and kind and generous and funny. But she wasn't like me. She was softer and rounder, had an unpredictable temper, a lack of patience, and an inability to drive a car effectively.

Dad was definitely Dad, but how could this woman be my real mother?

I understand that the biology behind this fantasy made no sense--not even soap opera sense. Finding out that your Mom is not your real mother is something that happens only in Psycho sequels. Because Mom told so many stories about what a difficult pregnancy and birth I had been, she clearly thought I was her biological son. And I have a twin sister, obviously Mom's child. The whole thing was beyond my powers of explanation, yet I held tightly to the not-my-real-mother fantasy for much of my life.

Two unrelated moments in my late-thirties led me to put away my childish fantasy. One afternoon while I backed my car out of a parking space at the gym, my workout partner chuckled. I asked what was funny, and she told me that I backed the car "like an old lady." I immediately had a flash of Dad harshly criticizing Mom's driving. When I pondered that memory later in the day, I realized that I never criticize anybody's driving. People drive the way they drive--different styles for different drivers. Dad and I may have the same shaped hands, but when it came to criticizing drivers, we took very different roads.

Of course, the relative I resemble in the car is Mom. Her driving used to make me crazy even before I could drive myself. She was well into her forties when she finally got her license. Even at age twelve, I saw that she had very little idea what was going on behind her. She seemed content to travel down the interstate at forty miles per hour, confident that she would never run into anything or anyone. She was right. She never hit a thing with her car, but the drivers screaming past her and shaking their fists were running the risk of head-on collisions. This was a woman who stopped at green lights because she was afraid they would turn yellow. Mom was completely safe--just a terror for everyone else on the road.

I maintain and sometimes even exceed the speed limit when I'm on the highway, so that's not where the connection is. It's backing up. Mom inched backward a millimeter at a time, looking frantically over one shoulder, then the other, then back and forth again until she was dizzy. I'm not that bad, but I admit that I always make a tight U-turn in the driveway so my car points headfirst toward the street. And I'll walk an extra half a mile at the mall to find a "pull-through" parking space that requires no backing to enter or leave.

Not long after the driving revelation, I decided to shave the beard that covered my chin for nearly twenty years. I'd started growing it in my late teens and endured all the jokes about how scraggly it grew. Eventually, the bald spots filled in. People only occasionally ask me what I'm hiding behind my beard. I usually claim that I don't like shaving or that I'm tired of being a baby face.

The day I shaved it, however, I found what I had been hiding. As I wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, I saw Mom's face staring back. I still had Dad's forehead and eyes and the top half of his nose, but from there down, I was my mother. In my amazement, I uttered a few soft curses and even saw Mom's words in the shape and movements of my mouth. Good lord, I thought to myself at long last, she is my real mother.

I'll always love my mother and be grateful for all that she did to raise her stubborn, sometimes distant son--not an easy task. Mom has been gone for many years now, and I wish I could let her know that I never really thought she wasn't my real mother. That theory was never more than a childish fantasy. I know for sure that she was always my one true real mother.

Two other facts I know for sure: I don't back the car quite like an old lady, and I started growing my beard back that same day and haven't shaved it since then.

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 9:43 AM | MAKE A COMMENT

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Night of The Shining

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The year was 1980, and I was nineteen and thrilled to be spending the summer as caretaker of an empty college dorm. My choice that summer had been between going home to the farm or staying at college. If I went home, I would bail hay, weed the garden, stockpile firewood, and converse with the cows for three months. If I stayed at college, I could have a free apartment in an empty dorm, take a couple of easy summer courses, and make a few dollars. Sure, I'd miss my family, but I didn't have to think long to make the decision. On top of the other benefits, I had the company of several good college friends also working in other dorms that summer. They were better conversationalists than the cows.

One of my friends was the caretaker of the women's dorm across the quad, my buddy Katie. She was nineteen too, smart, lots of fun, and (as a bonus) very cute. Although I had a bit of a crush on her, we had never dated, mostly because we were both somewhat shy and late-bloomers in the dating world. I was bright enough to know that when Katie asked me to go to a movie one night that summer, she meant it as "friends," and that was okay with me. After all, I could spend a few hours with a girl I really liked, and the cows were not showing movies in the barn back home on the farm.

The movie Katie asked me to see was The Shining. Neither of us had read the Stephen King book or knew much about the plot, but we heard it was supposed to be scary. We weren't exactly horror fans, but our little college town had only one theater with one screen, so our movie options were limited to this potential fright-fest. On the positive side, I imagined the possibility of Katie grabbing onto me if she got scared. Of course, if I got scared, I planned to grab onto her.

The evening was warm and pleasant as we walked the mile from campus to the downtown theater. We talked about classes, friends, and how much we enjoyed being the only people living in the dorms that summer. We shared the secret that we had both snooped into every corner of our buildings, from the cobweb-laced attic to the moldy basement.

The summer of 1980 was a few years before the multiplexes would take over the theater business, so our destination was one of those cavernous cathedrals with burned-out lights, a stained screen, flaking paint, gargoyles in the rafters, and sticky carpets. Some people might have called it "run-down," but we thought it was charming.

Just as I'd hoped, the movie was scary enough that Katie leaned over into me, and I put an arm around her shoulders. What I hadn't counted on was that the movie was so intensely creepy that neither of us even registered the fact that we were huddled together until the closing credits rolled. When the lights finally came back up after two hours of stomach-churning horror, shocks, and grotesques weirdness, we could find very little to say to each other at first.

Darkness had fallen by the time we left. This wasn't the pleasant summer darkness of my many relaxing strolls around campus that summer. This was a darkness that masked the presence of an insane, ax-wielding Jack Nicholson behind every shrub and that freaky little kid riding a tricycle down every side street waiting for the perfect moment to scream "Redrum!" We walked quickly, arm-in-arm, eventually talking in loud voices about whatever trivial things popped into our heads. The subject we avoided, of course, was the movie we had just endured. We supposed that if we didn't say anything, we might forget about it by the time we got home. Fat chance.

At Katie's front door, we finally acknowledged just how creeped-out both of us were. We both let out a series of nervous laughs, and the tension actually eased a bit. After a quick hug and a few more chuckles, we said goodnight and each went back to our empty dorms.

It wasn't until I went to bed that I realized how similar the movie's situation--being a winter caretaker at a summer resort--was to being a summer caretaker in a college dorm. Lying alone in the dark, I couldn't help but hear every little squeak and creak from the hundred empty rooms all around me. In a very short time, I began to imagine those little noises were being made by chopped up corpses come back to life in an upstairs hallway or by decomposing naked women rising from their bathtubs.

I had to do something to keep my wits, so I jumped out of bed, tossed on a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, and grabbed the only weapon I had--my tennis racket. Wearing my bicycle helmet, I spent a nerve-wracking forty-five minutes going through every room in the building, slowly opening each door, flicking the lights on with the racket, poking into closets and under beds, and assuring himself that nothing dangerous lurked within.

Of course, the building was empty. The sounds I'd heard were simply the noises every empty building makes at night, the same noises I hadn't noticed every other night that summer. When I finally made it back to bed, I felt plenty silly. I wondered what kind of an idiot I was to let a harmless movie frighten me to the point where I would be foolish enough to search an entire dorm for bogey-men or bogey-women or bogey-children. That kind of tension and embarrassment was exhausting, so I soon drifted off to sleep.

When the telephone rang two feet from my half-sleeping head five minutes later, I sat up so fast that I nearly broke my spine. My heart pounded from toes to eardrums as I picked up the receiver.

"John, this is Katie," she whispered. "Did I wake you?"

Why did I always lie when asked this question?

"No," I replied, glancing at the clock. It glowed "2:37 a.m." in haunting red numbers.

"I think I hear someone outside," Katie continued. "I hate to ask, but can you come over?"

My tennis racket was still in my hand. This time, I left the bicycle helmet in the closet.

When I got outside, I saw Katie across the quad peeking out the edge of her window. I waved at her with the tennis racket, and then made a circular motion to let her know that I was going to walk the perimeter in search of prowlers and stalkers. In the very back of my mind, I considered the possibility of ghosts or decomposing corpses, but mostly I was on the lookout for something far more frightening: real people.

After making a circuit around her dorm and whacking every bush with my tennis racket, I rang Katie's doorbell. She invited me in for hot chocolate and told me that she had called campus security. They had promised to send a car for a "drive-by," and a few minutes later, we saw the cruiser crawl slowly up the street, going maybe five miles an hour with its lights flashing to scare away any interlopers who might have evaded my racket.

When our cups were empty, Katie said, "I hope you don't think I'm a big baby for asking this, but I'm still kind of scared, and it makes me feel better that you're here. Would you like to spend the night?"

I must have been staring because several seconds later Katie said, "I have bunk beds. You can be on top."

"I like being on top," I blurted, and then pretended that what we had just said was perfectly unambiguous.

Katie smiled, and we went to her bedroom. I climbed up her desk and hoisted myself into the slender top bunk while Katie settled in below. The darkness eased our inhibitions, and we talked for a while about times in our lives when we had been frightened. Katie had once been caught in the middle of a near riot at a high school football game and barely escaped unhurt by climbing underneath the bleachers. As a child, I had been lost on a neighbor's farm for the longest hour of my little life.

Eventually, inevitably, our conversation turned to The Shining. Katie confessed that she probably wouldn't have cared that someone may have been walking around outside her dorm, but the movie had put her nerves on edge.

"Do you think I'm silly for letting a movie get to me like that?" she asked.

"Wanna hear what I did tonight?" I replied.

I told her about my goofy march through the dorm brandishing a tennis racket. We started chuckling about how silly we both felt, and when I told Katie about the bicycle helmet, we laughed for what seemed like hours.

When we finally settled down and lay silently in the dark bedroom, I felt a wonderfully pleasant glow. I had started out the evening just hoping to hold Katie's hand at a scary movie and ended up with a bond much stronger. I felt a real deepening of our friendship because we had shared our fear and our embarrassment. I felt that Katie might just be my friend for life after this crazy night.

I was just about to fall asleep for the second time that night when I heard footsteps outside. Someone walked up to the bedroom window, paused for a few long seconds while taking shallow, ragged breaths, and then walked away into the night. Every hair on my body wiggled and stood up, and I held myself as motionless as possible.

Ten seconds later, I heard Katie say in the quietest whisper possible, "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," I whispered back, barely audible.

Before I knew what was happening, Katie had clambered up into the bunk beside me, quick as a gymnast mounting a balance beam. She pressed her body against mine and buried her face into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, one holding her back and the other cradling her head. We didn't say a word, and each could feel the other's heart thumping in time with our own.

The footsteps didn't return, and our hearts eventually slowed. I don't remember falling asleep, but when I awoke entangled in our embrace, morning light flowed brightly through the gaps in the curtains.

Katie lifted her face to mine, and our eyes met for a second. My mouth tasted stale, one leg was asleep, and my full bladder ached where her hipbone pressed against me. Katie's hair felt clammy, and I could smell the light acid scent of her sweat. We shared small smiles and muttered good-mornings from the side of our mouths, careful not to breathe in each other's faces.

More than two decades have passed since that night, and both Katie and I have read the book and caught The Shining a few more times on television or video over the years. With every viewing, it seems less scary and more goofy. The characters seem over-blown one minute and wooden the next. What in the world were these people with a rocky marriage, alcohol issues, and a troubled child thinking when they took a job in an isolated, empty resort--haunted or not? For that matter, what was Stanley Kubric thinking? Thank goodness for Misery, The Shawshank Redemption, and The Green Mile--without these three, there wouldn't be a movie or miniseries based on anything by Stephen King that's worth seeing.

Katie and I did stay friends and saw a few more movies together during college. When neither of us had a steady boyfriend or girlfriend, we'd occasionally take in a romantic comedy together--anything but a horror movie--and complain to each other about our dead-end love lives. We lost touch after graduation and now live on opposite sides of the country.

But when Katie saw my name listed in an alumni directory a couple years ago, she sent me an e-mail asking if I'd seen any good horror movies lately. We've been exchanging movie reviews and updates on our lives since then. Katie runs her own public relations firm and is married with two teenaged daughters. Not long ago, her whole family rented a certain scary movie for Halloween, and Katie got a big kick out of telling her husband and kids the story of that long-ago night of The Shining.

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 8:12 AM | 2 comments

Friday, Apr 24, 2009

Loop Year

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The following are two selections from my book Loop Year: 365 Days on the Trail, recycled here4 in the spirit of the recent Earth Day. Please check out my website, www.johnsheirer.com, for more information about the book.

Day 26 -- Saturday, June 11, 2005 -- 8:05 a.m. to 8:44 a.m. -- 39 minutes -- Sunny, 73 degrees

Not far along the trail, I discover a baby bird perched on the edge of a bog bridge. I'm sure Jerry or Ginny could identify the species, but to me, it's just a tiny black-and-white-speckled baby bird. Its little breast is hammering, and it doesn't even look at me as I approach. I search the trees for any sign of a nest or parent birds, but there's nothing. The baby shivers and sways unsteadily on its fragile feet, and I'm tempted to pick it up and … and do what? Call the game warden? Drive it to the local vet? Build a nest for it? Take it home? Adopt it? Knit it a sweater, cap, and booties?

Ginny has worked in veterinary hospitals for years, and she has told me many stories about people who bring in abandoned baby birds. These birds always die. Nature is beautiful and wonderful, but the sad reality is that cute little creatures die. Not everything can survive, and not everything should survive. If every baby bird at McCann's lived, the birds would take over. They wouldn't attack like in the Hitchcock movie, but they'd eat too many insects that eat other insects that are harmful to the trees, and then the trees would suffer, making it harder to support the nesting needs of so many birds. In a very real sense, unchecked birds could eat themselves out of house and home.

Ginny says it's best to leave the abandoned birds where they are. Nature has a purpose.

But my big stupid human heart doesn't want that. It's so hard to think about nature's complex systems, chains of being and chains of eating. I just want to cradle this helpless creature in my hands until it feels better, flies off to join its parents, and chirps a story to its siblings about the giant fleshy thing who saved it and sent it on its way.

I walk on. For two miles, I debate what I'll do with my little friend when I come back around to the bog bridges--pick it up or let it be. Even after two miles, I can't decide.

When I return, of course, it's gone.

*****

Day 36 -- Tuesday, June 21, 2005 -- 10:16 a.m. to 10:57 a.m. -- 41 minutes -- Sunny, 70 degrees

I see Jerry in the parking lot when I arrive at the trail today.

"I have some great advice for you," he says with a smile. "If you miss a day, just start over."

"Easy for you to say," I reply. Jerry is retired, so he has a little more time on his hands for starting over than I do.

Another friend told me not to worry about hiking the trail every day. "Bill Bryson didn't finish the Appalachian Trail, and he still got a book out of it," he said. "Sold a few billion copies too, I think. Made enough money to buy the Appalachian Trail."

I don't have quite the literary reputation of Bill Bryson, who could probably sell a million copies of a book about walking around in his front yard.

I had lunch with another friend yesterday and told her about my plan to hike each day for a year. She wasn't sure I'd be able to keep going for a full year.

"You'll probably miss a day," she said.

"I'll try not to," I replied.

"If you miss a day, then you can just hike twice the next day," she said. "Like with my birth control pills. If I forget to take one on Tuesday, I just take two on Wednesday."

"This is interesting advice from a woman with five kids," I told her. She ignored me.

"What if it rains?" she asked.

"I'll hike in my raincoat," I replied.

"What if it snows?"

"There's this new invention called 'boots.'"

"What if your car won't start?"

"I'll hike to where I hike and then I'll hike."

"The woods are full of deer tics. What if you get Lyme Disease?"

"God, Lyme Disease. That would be pretty bad. I didn't think of that. But I'll keep hiking even if I get Lyme Disease."

"What if you die?"

"Then I guess I'd have to put the project on hold for a little while. Or you can finish the year for me."

"Okay. Hey, can I hike with you sometime before you die?"

"Sure," I said. "With support like that, how could this project not be a success?"

"You're very welcome," she said.

###

Posted by John Sheirer at 12:05 PM | MAKE A COMMENT

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John Sheirer

John Sheirer (pronounced Shy-er) is the author of the new memoir Loop Year: 365 Days on the Trail, which received the Connecticut Green Circle Award for environmental activism, as well as the 2005 memoir Growing Up Mostly Normal in the Middle of Nowhere, a finalist for the Sante Fe Writers Project Literary Award. He teaches English and Communications at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he has been honored multiple times by Who's Who Among America's Teachers and recently received the Distinguished Service and Educational Excellence Award. John lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy Barone, terrific stepkids Danielle and Daryl, and Daisy the amazing hiking dog. John's website is www.johnsheirer.com, and he can be reached at jsheirer@acc.commnet.edu or (860) 253-3138.
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