Snow and the other woman

In the last twenty-four hours, my little slice of the Republic was hit with about a half inch of rain, a smattering of sleet, and five inches of wet sloppy snow that weighs brutal on a shovel but packs a wallup as a snowball! Tree limbs litter yards and roadways; deep puddles of slush greet walkers at most corners.

Electrical service at the bog flickered through the evening and early morning hours but managed to remain true through the day – despite being unavailable through a good portion of Washtenaw County (see Outage). There were the requisite idiots driving too fast for conditions who (should I say justly?) were rewarded with steep towing and body shop bills.

It’s winter in the upper Midwest and this is how we roll.

I thought I’d stop in on Howard on my way home from the office. True to form, he was seated in a chair by his front window, reading lamp aglow, and in happy concert with a novel. I almost didn’t want to disturb him – but I did. I was met with hearty welcome from my frail friend

We visited for the better part of an hour and solved most of the world’s problems. He recounted stories from his days as a retailer in Ann Arbor; I shared what news of the day I could. Oh, I also was charged with delivering a spate of greetings from the “gang” at the watering hole. To any of you reading, he sends his best wishes and has agreed to let me pick him up and bring him out next week.

Through the course of the visit, I asked him how he was doing. With an honestly I’d hoped for (and dreaded) he told me he’s feeling poorly and shared how day-to-day tasks were almost bettering him. The melancholy in his eyes was quickly replaced with a happy glint as he told me of a conversation he had earlier that day with his pastor. This woman was the local pastor at the Chelsea church he attends, but is now in Tennessee. Nonetheless, she is his pastor – his description: “With the exception of my wife, I’ve never loved a woman more.”

Howard shared his conversation with her and told me it ended with him telling her, “I’m not ready to go and He’s not ready to have me.”

He started to tire and I made my leave.

Thin Ice

Today, I read of a young woman who apparently became confused and drove out onto the ice in the middle of a local lake (see: Idiot move).

This made me remember a few of the winter days when a group of bandits and I went ice fishing on the upper pond here at the bog. The first year, about five years ago, featured some 20 of us huddled around 10-15 holes bored in the fifteen inch thick ice. We had a fire blazing on shore and we’d quickly cut filets and cook on sticks over the fire. Unfortunately, one of the traditions of ice fishing – schnapps – started flowing a bit too freely and we lost a couple of our anglers. I believe Jeff Foxworthy once opined, “If you’ve ever been too drunk to fish, you might be a redneck.” Yep.

Tonight, I stopped on my way home to visit a buddy. Howard is nearing ninety and is a staple at the local watering hole where a handful of good folks gather after work to kvetch, enjoy half-off appetizers, and well-wish. He’s a welcome fixture who can tell stories of Ann Arbor in the 40s and 50s, regale with tales of vintages discovered during European adventures, and remember when he had to chastise internationally known chefs. He also hadn’t appeared in over three weeks.

I abbreviated tonight’s stop for a detour to Howard’s house. He’s often an ornery cuss who might direct his ire at me for discounting his ability to get through the world and I’m a bit wary approaching his driveway. I'm also worried that I hadn't seen my octogenarian friend in three weeks - I hope he's OK.

I've learned that when checking on older friends, anything is possible.

In 1992, a co-worker and I made a trip up to Bloomfield Hills, Michigan because Harley, a brilliant and eccentric septuagenarian-engineer coaxed out of retirement by our company, hadn’t been to the office in 2 days and no one had heard from him. Given his eccentricities, we figured we’d find him naked on the roof with a shotgun quoting Shakespeare. The “boss” of the group – already looking for an excuse to fire him – leapt to the conclusion that he was a no-show and had prepared a dismissal letter to be posted the next day.

We found a deceased Harley.

Through the early and mid-2000’s, I developed a true crush on a beautiful woman named Trudy. She was born in 1915 in Cheyenne, WY, and earned this tribute in her obituary: 

Huebner excelled in every activity she put her mind to and lived life with gusto, family members say. She was passionate, kind and compassionate, a master of the English language and wonderfully irreverent, they add. (Obituary)

Her irreverence lasted well into her 90s – she once told me that the best thing about planning a party was deciding who not to invite!

We lost Trudy in 2009 after series of strokes and the ravages of age. When I win the lotto, I plan to open a restaurant named Trudy’s.

So, I’m headed down the unpaved (and often flooded) portion of Liberty Road in Washtenaw County to Howard’s home. A light is visible beyond the hearty hedge barrier between the road and the house – coming up the driveway I see a familiar bald pate. 

Howard ambles to the door and welcomes me with muted gusto. He’s just recently been released from the hospital after therapy for congestive heart failure, is nearly gaunt, and fights a stagger in his step. Despite it all, I know he’s happy I’m there.

We visit for an hour and throughout he insists on being a proper host and waits on me – despite needing the stability of walls, furniture, and other fixed objects. We trade stories about gourmand excess and wines beyond our status . . . he’s laughing and so am I.

Howard insists on walking me to the door upon my departure – this winds him and he’s reliant on the wall for stability. “Do you want me to stay,” I offer.

“Hell no.”  I get it and I hit the road.

I'll be back with some frequency.

At the risk of being preachy: if you know a Howard, Trudy, Harley, or Vince (earlier post), take full advantage to listen, learn, and laugh.

Training a generation

This year has been busy! Of the seven weekends that have come and gone, I’ve had University business on five of them and currently we’re waiting for our train to depart Union Station, Chicago after an hour’s delay due to the need to replace a faulty car on the planned assemblage.

On the way down, Amtrak celebrated a one-year anniversary of being able to travel at 110 mph on part of the trip – only problem was that we couldn’t careen at that speed on this particular trip due to a backup involving a freight train. Cake was distributed anyway and some ho-hum huzzahs expressed.

Some cursory research reveals that Amtrak loses about $1 billion annually – roughly $32/per passenger (for an in depth discussion of Amtrak’s financial situation, check out this article: Link

The Heritage Foundation presents a bit more data:

In the United States, passenger rail (Amtrak) is the most heavily subsidized of all passenger travel modes, requiring a federal subsidy of $237.53 per 1,000 passenger miles, compared to $4.23 for commercial aviation and $1.50 for intercity busses. Rail subsidies in Europe are just as high, if not higher.  (See Link)

Many argue that these subsidies are essential to avail travel to a broad economic spectrum of riders, that rail travel is better for the environment, and a number of other justifications. Others raise alarms that these subsidies are nothing more than tax payer bailouts for an inefficient service. I’m somewhere in the middle, but acknowledge that it is a values question.

Speaking of values – and working weekends – a recent Saturday morning student mentoring session (I did say Saturday morning – we meet at 7:45 am, business attire, one Saturday a month – yes, I am that mean!) was focused on values based decision making. It was a good session with lively discussion of the worth of a personal mission statement or other articulation of values and the surprises the students found while trying to express their values on paper.

Some discovered that their finished product was much different from their early drafts; others found how difficult it was to distill a values statement from the fruit of their busy lives. The conversation moved to making decisions based on values and its application personally as well as professionally. The old timers in the group (me and a couple of the College’s associate deans) told some war stories from our professional and personal lives.

It was a valuable session for the students (I hope) and for me. It reminded me of the clarity that knowing one’s values brings to life and to remember that not everyone shares the same values as me. That last point makes life interesting – and perhaps frustrating at times. I think I’ll replace “what do you do?” in conversations with “what do you value?”

I do know that right now, I value that the train is finally moving!
 



Clip art reported to be in the public domain and available at:  Link