I picked up the paper and walked back up the drive to the house. It was sopping wet despite being enveloped in two plastic bags. “That’s OK,” I thought, as I tossed it in the recycling bin, I don’t always read it anyway, I mostly subscribe just to do my part to keep a local actual newspaper in business.
The paper was soaked and so was everything else. I haven’t kept track – I don’t really want to know – but I’m pretty sure it has rained every day since spring break. Mid-March to mid-June is a long time. I’m not complaining. Just stating the facts. Cincinnati weather is not ideal, but it could be worse. Much worse.
Having lived in 8 cities, 5 states, central Europe, and spent time in lots of different climes, I consider myself, while not a weather expert, widely experienced in terms of weather. I have heard this saying everywhere I have been, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” But, of all the places I know, Cincinnati has the most changeable weather. In Colorado or Texas it can be sunny for weeks at a time. In Iowa it can be dreary and rainy for weeks at a time. But here the weather changes all the time.
I know, I said it has been rainy every day since spring break, but not rainy all day. It has also been sunny most days too. Which pretty much makes it feel like a sauna outside. It dumps an inch or so, then gets sunny.
I ate outside on the deck this evening just out of stubbornness. I decided that if I wait for a cool, dry evening I might be eating indoors all summer. The table was wet, and my glasses kept fogging up. At one point I cleaned them off, but it didn’t help that much, the air was so humid it still looked foggy with clean glasses.
I loved the sound of the songbirds, and the stream rushing by, and the evening light on the deck. I ignored the sweat running down my back and enjoyed my grilled steak and veggies. I went 1 for 2 at the grocery store, this afternoon. They did have some nice meat in the “on sale because it’s almost past the ‘sell by’ date” so I got a great price, but they were out of Shiner Bock. I compromised for a Wisconsen beer. It was not bad, but I should have gone with the Dos Equis. The fireflies are coming out now. I love fireflies. I never saw them as a kid, and now I can’t seem to get over how cool they are. They must love the rain, because the yard is alive with them.
It was, pretty much, my first day of summer, even though we’ve been out of school two weeks. Have you ever done something for someone that was nice. I did. I don’t think I can ever do enough nice things for others to make up for all the nice things people have done for me, but I feel calm and peaceful and sort of small, and like I somehow in sync with things. I feel like what I imagine a drill would feel like, if it could, when a carpenter drills a hole in wood, or a hammer driving a nail. Have you ever seen the face of those dogs that pull the dogsleds across the snow in Alaska? Joy and fulfillment – doing what they were made to do. That’s how I feel – working hard at what I’m good at, making progress, and loving it.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Transition
Unbroken snow, sparkling in the afternoon sun, smooth, soft, deep, perfect has lain over the lawn four days straight, untouched by boot or glove. There stands no snowman, fortress, cache of snowballs. There has been no snowball war, trail-blazing, fox and geese. The unblemished white carpet reveals no snow angels, sled tracks, tunnels, or caves. No great mounds of snow or giant snowballs at tall as me.
At what point in my life did I become satisfied to admire the snow through the window?
At what point in my life did I become satisfied to admire the snow through the window?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Lights, bikes, and roadkill
I rode to work this morning between two lights: the full moon setting westward and Venus rising eastward. Both were beautiful.
Mornings I bike in dark, and some blocks are normally pitch dark – no street lights or house lights and plenty of tall trees. But today, even the darkest streets were moonly illuminated.
Lights are a big deal when biking in the dark. For starters, I want to be seen by car drivers, so I wear four separate bright flashing lights: three in back, one in front. As I said, lots of the time I can’t see the road for darkness. Well, actually, my headlight shines out about 6 feet, which allows just about enough time to see what I am going to hit but not enough time to avoid it. So far it’s not been a problem, I’ve only hit pot holes and road kill.
My point is, when cars drive by they light up the road. This is very helpful when cars come from behind, but the lights of cars coming towards me can be a real pain, especially if there is a hill. The problem is too much light – blinding light. In this case the light and the darkness have the same result – I can’t see the road.
It seems to me that spiritual light is the same. A person who is in spiritual darkness is oblivious to their depraved condition. I certainly was before I committed my life to Christ. In many conversations with non-Christians this has been a major point of departure. The concept of man’s corrupt state is the point on which the salvation message turns, for if a person doesn’t need healing he certainly doesn’t need Jesus to die for him. The problem, of course, is not that people can’t see any fault in themselves. The problem is people can’t fathom the holiness of God.
I’ve heard someone say that God only shows us a little bit of the darkness in our hearts at a time, as if we would completely crumple if we suddenly saw our heart as it really is. I think this is true. I think it would be like the headlights in my eyes – equally as blinding as darkness.
I noticed another thing this morning too. In the dark, the moon looked featureless. It looked like a flashlight – just a solid bright light. But once, while waiting at a stoplight, I could stare up at it for a while and as my eyes adjusted the dark spots and craters became recognizable.
I think this is like some people I have met who have walked with God for a long time. They often seem to become more aware of the darkness inside, more able to discern shades of light and dark. They seem to be struggling with the Christian life on a whole different level, as if God had been shining his light in them for a long time, and as they got rid of larger areas of darkness they had become aware of smaller things.
I don’t want to imply that people have only darkness in their hearts. Even the most depraved people I have met demonstrate the goodness that God put in all people. I suppose the difference is that some people are growing gradually more good, and others more dark.
Well, I must be a kinesthetic learner, because I think about this kind of stuff while I’m commuting in the dark on my bike, but not so much when I commute in the car.
Mornings I bike in dark, and some blocks are normally pitch dark – no street lights or house lights and plenty of tall trees. But today, even the darkest streets were moonly illuminated.
Lights are a big deal when biking in the dark. For starters, I want to be seen by car drivers, so I wear four separate bright flashing lights: three in back, one in front. As I said, lots of the time I can’t see the road for darkness. Well, actually, my headlight shines out about 6 feet, which allows just about enough time to see what I am going to hit but not enough time to avoid it. So far it’s not been a problem, I’ve only hit pot holes and road kill.
My point is, when cars drive by they light up the road. This is very helpful when cars come from behind, but the lights of cars coming towards me can be a real pain, especially if there is a hill. The problem is too much light – blinding light. In this case the light and the darkness have the same result – I can’t see the road.
It seems to me that spiritual light is the same. A person who is in spiritual darkness is oblivious to their depraved condition. I certainly was before I committed my life to Christ. In many conversations with non-Christians this has been a major point of departure. The concept of man’s corrupt state is the point on which the salvation message turns, for if a person doesn’t need healing he certainly doesn’t need Jesus to die for him. The problem, of course, is not that people can’t see any fault in themselves. The problem is people can’t fathom the holiness of God.
I’ve heard someone say that God only shows us a little bit of the darkness in our hearts at a time, as if we would completely crumple if we suddenly saw our heart as it really is. I think this is true. I think it would be like the headlights in my eyes – equally as blinding as darkness.
I noticed another thing this morning too. In the dark, the moon looked featureless. It looked like a flashlight – just a solid bright light. But once, while waiting at a stoplight, I could stare up at it for a while and as my eyes adjusted the dark spots and craters became recognizable.
I think this is like some people I have met who have walked with God for a long time. They often seem to become more aware of the darkness inside, more able to discern shades of light and dark. They seem to be struggling with the Christian life on a whole different level, as if God had been shining his light in them for a long time, and as they got rid of larger areas of darkness they had become aware of smaller things.
I don’t want to imply that people have only darkness in their hearts. Even the most depraved people I have met demonstrate the goodness that God put in all people. I suppose the difference is that some people are growing gradually more good, and others more dark.
Well, I must be a kinesthetic learner, because I think about this kind of stuff while I’m commuting in the dark on my bike, but not so much when I commute in the car.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Old Tile Floor
I stood one evening years ago,
Trombone in hand,
On a polished wooden floor,
A great many people in front,waiting,
An orchestra behind,
And squeezed my soul out of the shiny bell.
In the end I put down my horn and those in front
Put hand to hand and sent back to me their gratitude.
I left the stage, they called me back, to stand again
On the polished wooden floor.
It seems something touched them.
I stood yesterday
Bass in hand
On an old tile floor
Students in front, waiting.
I squeezed my soul out of my squeaky little voice.
Two dozen souls joined in.
Slowly at first
We built a song, and sang it out
And played it too
And then the room was alive,
And no one cared that there was no breakfast
This morning or supper last night
Or that they forgot their fathers face.
No one noticed the sweat running down
Our un-air conditioned faces, or that our
Meager space was not intended for little feet
But for chairs and tables not is use.
No one remembered who is smart, who is poor
Who is dirt poor,
No one noticed that I’m old and white and
They are young and black.
In the end I put down my bass, and they
Sent back to me
Their gratitude with peaceful smiles
Through shiny eyes as we sat ourselves
On the old tile floor.
It seems something touched them.
Trombone in hand,
On a polished wooden floor,
A great many people in front,waiting,
An orchestra behind,
And squeezed my soul out of the shiny bell.
In the end I put down my horn and those in front
Put hand to hand and sent back to me their gratitude.
I left the stage, they called me back, to stand again
On the polished wooden floor.
It seems something touched them.
I stood yesterday
Bass in hand
On an old tile floor
Students in front, waiting.
I squeezed my soul out of my squeaky little voice.
Two dozen souls joined in.
Slowly at first
We built a song, and sang it out
And played it too
And then the room was alive,
And no one cared that there was no breakfast
This morning or supper last night
Or that they forgot their fathers face.
No one noticed the sweat running down
Our un-air conditioned faces, or that our
Meager space was not intended for little feet
But for chairs and tables not is use.
No one remembered who is smart, who is poor
Who is dirt poor,
No one noticed that I’m old and white and
They are young and black.
In the end I put down my bass, and they
Sent back to me
Their gratitude with peaceful smiles
Through shiny eyes as we sat ourselves
On the old tile floor.
It seems something touched them.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Late Breaking News
Monday I started my second week of school. I forgot how much fun teaching can be.
Wednesday Susan and I celebrated 31 years of marriage with a Cincinnati date: barbequed ribs at the Montgomery Inn, and ice cream at Graeters. We reminisced about old times, and wondered what the next 31 might bring.
Wednesday and Friday I rode my bike to school. It’s 18 miles through the city, but I’ve worked out a pretty good route: mostly residential streets, birds singing and all that. It’s pretty hilly and really dark (I have to leave by 5:40.) It usually takes an hour and 10 minutes, you know, stop lights and all, but Friday I made it home in 57 minutes.
Saturday I mailed the oven range vent hood I “sold” on Ebay. In the end it cost me 10 bucks to send it to some guy in Denver. The height of my Ebay fiasco was hoisting it onto the trunk of my car, (too big to fit inside) strapping a rope around it, and easing my way to the UPS store. At least it’s gone.
Sunday I got inspired to clean up and organize all my stuff in the basement (since that damn vent hood is gone.) I’m beginning to get control of my life again.
Today I joined the select group of Americans who have had a rational discussion about health care. Susan and I worked it all out over supper. If you want the solution just ask.
Wednesday Susan and I celebrated 31 years of marriage with a Cincinnati date: barbequed ribs at the Montgomery Inn, and ice cream at Graeters. We reminisced about old times, and wondered what the next 31 might bring.
Wednesday and Friday I rode my bike to school. It’s 18 miles through the city, but I’ve worked out a pretty good route: mostly residential streets, birds singing and all that. It’s pretty hilly and really dark (I have to leave by 5:40.) It usually takes an hour and 10 minutes, you know, stop lights and all, but Friday I made it home in 57 minutes.
Saturday I mailed the oven range vent hood I “sold” on Ebay. In the end it cost me 10 bucks to send it to some guy in Denver. The height of my Ebay fiasco was hoisting it onto the trunk of my car, (too big to fit inside) strapping a rope around it, and easing my way to the UPS store. At least it’s gone.
Sunday I got inspired to clean up and organize all my stuff in the basement (since that damn vent hood is gone.) I’m beginning to get control of my life again.
Today I joined the select group of Americans who have had a rational discussion about health care. Susan and I worked it all out over supper. If you want the solution just ask.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Day One
Today was my first day of teaching at College Hill Fundamental Academy. This is going to be as good as I thought it might be – the students are bright-eyed and the staff is great. Our principal is a true leader and the atmosphere is positive.
I’m used to memorizing lots of new names, but it’s really hard here because the names aren’t familiar. For example, you can’t believe how many variations there are on the names Shawn and Asia – Deshawn, Dashawn, T’Shawn, Shawntae, Ashawntae, Breasia, Deasia, Ti’asia, Azsia. Nice names but difficult to put to memory.
The students, all ages, loved playing the xylophone I brought from the mountains in Mexico made from rocks. No one can imagine how beautiful it is going to sound – clear and ringing, sort of like glass. They all love the acoustic bass and guitarron.
We are in a “borrowed school” while our building is being remodeled. My room is a storage closet off the cafetorium. There is no air conditioning, no windows. Today it was 90 degrees outside and humid. I completely sweat through my shirt twice with a little drying off session at lunch. A colleague saw me after school and donated a fan. I’m surprised how little it bothered me, I just want to teach these young rascals. In few weeks it will cool off.
Now I have to work out riding my bike to school…
I’m used to memorizing lots of new names, but it’s really hard here because the names aren’t familiar. For example, you can’t believe how many variations there are on the names Shawn and Asia – Deshawn, Dashawn, T’Shawn, Shawntae, Ashawntae, Breasia, Deasia, Ti’asia, Azsia. Nice names but difficult to put to memory.
The students, all ages, loved playing the xylophone I brought from the mountains in Mexico made from rocks. No one can imagine how beautiful it is going to sound – clear and ringing, sort of like glass. They all love the acoustic bass and guitarron.
We are in a “borrowed school” while our building is being remodeled. My room is a storage closet off the cafetorium. There is no air conditioning, no windows. Today it was 90 degrees outside and humid. I completely sweat through my shirt twice with a little drying off session at lunch. A colleague saw me after school and donated a fan. I’m surprised how little it bothered me, I just want to teach these young rascals. In few weeks it will cool off.
Now I have to work out riding my bike to school…
Thursday, July 30, 2009
10,000 Miles
Sometime yesterday evening I drove the 10,000th road mile of the summer. As I cruised the sun was setting behind me making everything brilliant. I sliced through over-stuffed green fields, the Indiana corn looking like emerald candles, their amber tassels glowing warmly. I am becoming unexpectedly familiar with the emerald corn of Indiana.
Three hours earlier I delivered my grandkids back to their father, remembering the days when it was him in the backseat, hurtling over the plains to visit family. These days it requires air travel to see our growing family. Saturday we’ll fly to Guatemala for the marriage of my daughter to the man of her dreams.
Today I did not travel great distances, nor did I wipe the poop off anyone’s butt. I’m at home, trying to process all I’ve done this summer, and what lies ahead.
I set out this summer to re-tool myself in the new focus of my career. That took me first to Atlanta and then Worcester, Mass to become certified in an approach to teaching music to children called the “Orff” method.
On my way I visited parts of the country I hadn’t seen, and determined to experience as much regional culture as I could. As I went I made some great new friends, and connected with family and old friends. Nearly every day was intense, and I think it will take a long time to process everything.
You can see a lot in 10,000 miles -
I looked down from the Arch in St. Louis, a grain elevator in Kansas, a mountain railway in Colorado, a hill on the banks of the Allegheny River in Pittsburg, the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, and the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee.
I looked up at skyscrapers in Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, St. Louis, Kansas City, Hartford, and Denver, and God’s skyscraper ironically named the Devil’s Tower, the stone-carved faces of our presidents at Mr. Rushmore, the massive and imposing Colorado Rockies, dozens of magnificent bridges spanning our great rivers, and the wild, ominous, and beautiful clouds above the Kansas prairie.
I looked out over the ocean from the deck of a sailboat in Glouster, over the rolling Appalachians of New England, over miles of corn in the “I” states (Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio), over the verdant Dells of Wisconsin, the fairy-land of Southeast Minnesota, the golden hills of South Dakota, and the lonesome grass of the prairie.
Ours is a beautiful country, and, as well, the people in it.
I looked at a lot of eyes. Friendly eyes, wondering eyes, eyes I knew and eyes that were new. Eyes that are watching death approach, and eyes so new they are unaware. I saw eyes alive with excitement and hope, and eyes dull with hopelessness and regret. There was pain too. Some eyes were red with pain, but sometimes it was hidden farther back – deeper pain, lonelier.
Some eyes had seen much more than I, and some much less. I showed some eyes fresh new wonders, and I learned from others the same.
To be sure, there is no end of wonder a person can see if he keeps his eyes open.
I had conversations about love and life, hope and renewal, pain and defeat, old times, coming times, hard times. I heard words of joy, words of peace, words of comfort and inspiration, and sometimes, all of this with the same person.
Sometimes we laughed out loud and fairly shouted with enthusiasm, other times we spoke slowly, quietly breathing heavy words.
We spoke of sorrow, heartbreaking sorrow, and also of joy. We spoke of death, and of life, and how to live, and how to die. We spoke of the past and the future, and, since we were all connected somehow, we tried to understand how one affects the other.
It seems every life has enough sorrow to break a man, and enough joy to save him.
I ate fried okra, shrimp and grits, elk burger, buffalo steak, Paula Dean’s home style, the best barbeque in the state of Alabama, cole slaw, potato salad, lobster, clams, shepherds pie, Fluff, banana pudding, and peach cobbler. I had fine dining, not-so-fine dining, home cooking, self cooking, and even resorted to fast food a few times.
I did my best to understand what makes the South the South, and the East the East; to understand how a physical place on this earth can change the soul of a man; to understand why some pray to God, some are becoming gods, and others only see chemical reactions. To understand what it means to be American, what it means to be a teacher, what it means to be a Fuchtman, what it means to be a human.
It occurs to me that in all of this one thing I did not experience – fear. I can’t really explain it. My Father-in-Law used to tell me (usually after driving his grandkids over the plains in a snow storm to visit family) that God takes care of fools and little children. I’m not sure into which category I fit, maybe both.
Three hours earlier I delivered my grandkids back to their father, remembering the days when it was him in the backseat, hurtling over the plains to visit family. These days it requires air travel to see our growing family. Saturday we’ll fly to Guatemala for the marriage of my daughter to the man of her dreams.
Today I did not travel great distances, nor did I wipe the poop off anyone’s butt. I’m at home, trying to process all I’ve done this summer, and what lies ahead.
I set out this summer to re-tool myself in the new focus of my career. That took me first to Atlanta and then Worcester, Mass to become certified in an approach to teaching music to children called the “Orff” method.
On my way I visited parts of the country I hadn’t seen, and determined to experience as much regional culture as I could. As I went I made some great new friends, and connected with family and old friends. Nearly every day was intense, and I think it will take a long time to process everything.
You can see a lot in 10,000 miles -
I looked down from the Arch in St. Louis, a grain elevator in Kansas, a mountain railway in Colorado, a hill on the banks of the Allegheny River in Pittsburg, the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, and the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee.
I looked up at skyscrapers in Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, St. Louis, Kansas City, Hartford, and Denver, and God’s skyscraper ironically named the Devil’s Tower, the stone-carved faces of our presidents at Mr. Rushmore, the massive and imposing Colorado Rockies, dozens of magnificent bridges spanning our great rivers, and the wild, ominous, and beautiful clouds above the Kansas prairie.
I looked out over the ocean from the deck of a sailboat in Glouster, over the rolling Appalachians of New England, over miles of corn in the “I” states (Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio), over the verdant Dells of Wisconsin, the fairy-land of Southeast Minnesota, the golden hills of South Dakota, and the lonesome grass of the prairie.
Ours is a beautiful country, and, as well, the people in it.
I looked at a lot of eyes. Friendly eyes, wondering eyes, eyes I knew and eyes that were new. Eyes that are watching death approach, and eyes so new they are unaware. I saw eyes alive with excitement and hope, and eyes dull with hopelessness and regret. There was pain too. Some eyes were red with pain, but sometimes it was hidden farther back – deeper pain, lonelier.
Some eyes had seen much more than I, and some much less. I showed some eyes fresh new wonders, and I learned from others the same.
To be sure, there is no end of wonder a person can see if he keeps his eyes open.
I had conversations about love and life, hope and renewal, pain and defeat, old times, coming times, hard times. I heard words of joy, words of peace, words of comfort and inspiration, and sometimes, all of this with the same person.
Sometimes we laughed out loud and fairly shouted with enthusiasm, other times we spoke slowly, quietly breathing heavy words.
We spoke of sorrow, heartbreaking sorrow, and also of joy. We spoke of death, and of life, and how to live, and how to die. We spoke of the past and the future, and, since we were all connected somehow, we tried to understand how one affects the other.
It seems every life has enough sorrow to break a man, and enough joy to save him.
I ate fried okra, shrimp and grits, elk burger, buffalo steak, Paula Dean’s home style, the best barbeque in the state of Alabama, cole slaw, potato salad, lobster, clams, shepherds pie, Fluff, banana pudding, and peach cobbler. I had fine dining, not-so-fine dining, home cooking, self cooking, and even resorted to fast food a few times.
I did my best to understand what makes the South the South, and the East the East; to understand how a physical place on this earth can change the soul of a man; to understand why some pray to God, some are becoming gods, and others only see chemical reactions. To understand what it means to be American, what it means to be a teacher, what it means to be a Fuchtman, what it means to be a human.
It occurs to me that in all of this one thing I did not experience – fear. I can’t really explain it. My Father-in-Law used to tell me (usually after driving his grandkids over the plains in a snow storm to visit family) that God takes care of fools and little children. I’m not sure into which category I fit, maybe both.
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