This past week I started fall classes at the University of Wyoming. By itself, this situation is nothing out of the ordinary. During these few weeks, millions of kids are going through the same experience. The one thing that makes my situation unique is that I am not a kid. I am a 55 year old man going back to college after taking a break from school that lasted 32 years.
I attended this school, the University of Wyoming, in the early 1970s. I walked then on the same walkways to my classes that I do now. I sat in the same classrooms in the same buildings. Some of the rooms have been remodeled and updated, replacing the blackboards with digital projectors, but the feel of the classrooms is much the same as it was then. When I arrived in Laramie this summer, I took a temporary job that gave me a chance to go into the dormitories where I lived in the 70s. The rooms were empty from the downtime of summer. I saw that nothing has changed. The lobbies, the hallways and the rooms all look the same as they did then. It is almost as if time has stood still for 30 years. I went into my old dorm room. The same sink is still there and the same bifold doors still hang on the closets. I saw the same brick walls and the same corkboard above the desk. I walked down the hall and went into the rooms of some of my friends. Names came back that I haven't thought of in years. I went to the other wing where the girls lived. I could almost hear them talking and see them coming and going on the floor. The feeling was a little surreal and also sad that those memories are rooted in a time so long ago.
I am basically the same person that I was back then. The noticeable exceptions, at least in my mind, are that I now have a lot more life experience, and I am much more determined to succeed. Of course I am older, but I don't really think of that. Oh yeah, the one other thing that I notice, and I don't really like, is that a lot of the students call me 'Sir'. I don't like it because they see me as different. They see me as an old guy, and I don't want to be thought of that way. On reflection though, I suppose it's okay, because it shows that some kids are still polite and respectful, which I think is a good thing, and it gives me a little comfort.
I know that my situation is somewhat unique for a person my age. Not many people at my stage of life have the opportunity or the inclination to return to college. A lot of people think about it and fantasize about it, but not many people actually do it. My friends all congratulate me when I tell them that I am going back to school. Then they explain how they are tied to families and jobs and financial obligations, and how they couldn't possibly go to school at this point in their lives. When I tell my story, I always see a look of dreamy longing on their faces, but that look is often mixed with a look of questioning doubt, like, "How can you do that?", or, "Are you crazy?" They are stuck in their ideas that doing anything besides what they are doing would be crazy.
Sometimes it's hard to see the reality of my situation. It's hard to stop thinking in terms of a linear life that we are so conditioned to live. American culture says that we go to school when we are kids, and when we become adults we end our schooling to work and raise families. When those stages are done, we retire and wait for death. Every stage supposedly has it's order, but it doesn't have to be like that. Not really. We can do whatever we want if we just allow ourselves to do it. If anything defeats my success in school, it will be that I succumb to the idea that people don't do this. I can't give in to the idea that this isn't where I am supposed to be, that my life is out of order. I have to keep telling myself that it's okay to buck the trend. It's okay to do things differently. I am happy now, and that is what counts.
I have been looking for an event or a moment that really drives home the fact that I am in college for real. That moment came on Wednesday, the third day of the first week of my first fall semester. My class had just ended at 10:50 a.m. and I walked out of the Classroom Building toward the Student Union. I turned up the sidewalk in front of the geology building, and I was suddenly confronted by a broad, congested stream of students walking toward me. My first thought was, "This is it!" "This is the intensity of college that I remember. I am really here in the bustle of academic life." My second thought was that all the faces looked so young. All of them. I thought, "I am here, and I am a student just like them, yet I am unique in my age and my experience and my journey on my road less traveled. I'm like a red marble in a jar of greens. I am the sole representative of my generation."
There may be others like me, persons who have changed the course of their lives by returning to college at a later age, but they weren't there at that moment, and therefore I was the only one. At that moment I felt truly unique, fortunate, maybe even blessed. My realization on that day was that I am here representing all those people who give me that envious look as I tell them my story. I know that they want to step out of their average, boring lives and do what I am doing, but they have every excuse why they can't. I don't blame them. We are all locked into our lives in one way or another. Now I feel like I owe them something. I want to succeed so they can have their vicarious dreams. Maybe I'm projecting, but it's part of what drives me on. Now that I've had the moment I was looking for, it's time to get to work.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Triumph
The title is, and isn't what you think. It's my motorcycle, and it keeps me sane. It's a brand name, but it's also a triumph of the spirit.
I fell in love with my Triumph Speedmaster the first time I saw it on the showroom floor; the bike with the dorky name, typically British. Triumph was an icon of the 60's, associated with names like Brando and McQueen, and even Dylan. I remembered it from my boyhood. It was friendly and familiar. I liked it's blacked out engine, the sexy curve of the black and yellow tank, the sporty drag bars, and the gunfighter seat with room only for a determined passenger.
I took it home and it grew with me. I was healing from a setback, a divorce. The Speedmaster was my therapy. It diverted my interest. It helped me get centered again. I learned again to ride, and I relearned my rudimentary mechanical skills. It sounds a little corny, but I found Zen in a torque wrench. I found ways to coax more power out of the vertical twin engine. I added a new seat and saddlebags, and I experimented with different windscreens. One thing I didn't change was the basic look it had when I brought it home; that classic Triumph look.
Riding is the reward, the prize. It's hard to explain the feeling of cruising down the blacktop, with a wind at my back. The growl of the exhaust floats up to my ears like a mantra of harmony and power. It's like a symphony of the senses with wind and sound and cinema of the passing landscape. It's soothing, really. But it's not something I can totally lose myself in. Riding takes total focus. People have asked me how riding can be pleasant if I have to concentrate so hard. The appeal comes from shutting out all the bad stuff, the anxiety, the regrets, the distractions, and concentrating only on the inputs from the road. It's like the Buddhist practice of calm abiding, a meditation, a calming of the mind. I empty my mind of everything else, and I ride.
Rarely do I take my Triumph for a ride without drawing some kind of attention. I spot a man and woman standing on the street corner, dressed up for the evening. The woman tugs the man's sleeve and points toward my bike. Both are smiling as they watch me ride by. A young girl, maybe 10, smiles and waves from the sidewalk. A carload of college age boys pulls up beside me at the stoplight, and one rolls down the window and hollers, "Nice bike!" As I pull into the parking lot, an elderly man walks over. "Is that a Triumph? I had a Triumph once," he says with a sound of longing in his voice.
The Triumph was to be a transitional bike, something to get me back into riding again. But now that I own it, I'm hooked. It's not the most common bike on the road. In fact, it's rare to see another Triumph. It's not the most powerful bike either, with only 790cc's. Many other bikes are twice as big. But my Triumph has soul. It's classic. As Robert Pirsig might have said, "It has quality." I'm going to keep it.
I fell in love with my Triumph Speedmaster the first time I saw it on the showroom floor; the bike with the dorky name, typically British. Triumph was an icon of the 60's, associated with names like Brando and McQueen, and even Dylan. I remembered it from my boyhood. It was friendly and familiar. I liked it's blacked out engine, the sexy curve of the black and yellow tank, the sporty drag bars, and the gunfighter seat with room only for a determined passenger.
I took it home and it grew with me. I was healing from a setback, a divorce. The Speedmaster was my therapy. It diverted my interest. It helped me get centered again. I learned again to ride, and I relearned my rudimentary mechanical skills. It sounds a little corny, but I found Zen in a torque wrench. I found ways to coax more power out of the vertical twin engine. I added a new seat and saddlebags, and I experimented with different windscreens. One thing I didn't change was the basic look it had when I brought it home; that classic Triumph look.
Riding is the reward, the prize. It's hard to explain the feeling of cruising down the blacktop, with a wind at my back. The growl of the exhaust floats up to my ears like a mantra of harmony and power. It's like a symphony of the senses with wind and sound and cinema of the passing landscape. It's soothing, really. But it's not something I can totally lose myself in. Riding takes total focus. People have asked me how riding can be pleasant if I have to concentrate so hard. The appeal comes from shutting out all the bad stuff, the anxiety, the regrets, the distractions, and concentrating only on the inputs from the road. It's like the Buddhist practice of calm abiding, a meditation, a calming of the mind. I empty my mind of everything else, and I ride.
Rarely do I take my Triumph for a ride without drawing some kind of attention. I spot a man and woman standing on the street corner, dressed up for the evening. The woman tugs the man's sleeve and points toward my bike. Both are smiling as they watch me ride by. A young girl, maybe 10, smiles and waves from the sidewalk. A carload of college age boys pulls up beside me at the stoplight, and one rolls down the window and hollers, "Nice bike!" As I pull into the parking lot, an elderly man walks over. "Is that a Triumph? I had a Triumph once," he says with a sound of longing in his voice.
The Triumph was to be a transitional bike, something to get me back into riding again. But now that I own it, I'm hooked. It's not the most common bike on the road. In fact, it's rare to see another Triumph. It's not the most powerful bike either, with only 790cc's. Many other bikes are twice as big. But my Triumph has soul. It's classic. As Robert Pirsig might have said, "It has quality." I'm going to keep it.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
School
I am making plans to go back to college. It's something that I have always wanted to do, but other things have always distracted me from that goal. I dropped out of college after getting mediocre grades and having no specific goals or direction. My self confidence was at an all time low. I intended to take some time off to figure out a path to follow and then return to get my degree. I wanted to return to college, but family, work and other interests diverted my attention, and before I realized it, 30 years had slipped by.
I have been asking myself why I failed the first time in school so I can understand how to succeed the second time around. I think this is important. My first attempt at college was pretty dismal. I went to college back in the 70s when I first got out of high school. I was too immature and undiciplined at that time. I take responsibity for that. But at the same time, I had no real mentors and no cheerleaders. I had always tried to please everyone else, and I didn't know how to take care of myself. I didn't demand anything of myself, and I didn't stand up for the things I wanted. Nobody encouraged me to follow my real interests. Nobody showed me how to study and get good grades. I had very little self-confidence. I was angry that my one real mentor in high school was fired, and I rebelled in a self-destructive way. My anger carried on through my college years and into my first years of work and family life.
During the years after quitting college things gradually improved for me. I made my share of mistakes, some of them huge, but over all, things steadily improved. I think my turning point was my first job in computers. I took a job selling PCs, and there was a big emphasis on being positive. My employer sent me to a Dale Carnegie course. At the time I thought the course was bogus, but it gradually sunk in that good things happen to people with a positive attitude. I was also lucky to have positive, patient bosses over the years. I was able to bootstrap myself into better and better jobs. With mentoring and self-teaching, I finally learned how to succeed.
I think back to those times in college. I was searching for acceptance and validation, and I wasn't getting it from school. I didn't go to class. I started partying and hanging out all night with friends. I know I wasn't dumb. That wasn't the cause of my failure. After dropping out of college I started to read. I had a huge thirst for knowledge and I read literally hundreds of books on diverse subjects like history, science, culture, philosophy, and fiction. My career gravitated toward intellectual pursuits like geology and computer technology. I proved to myself I could get good grades. I worked at a midwestern university where I took a 4 hour college class and got a solid A. For years I have been convincing myself that I have the ability to succeed in school.
There is really nothing stopping me now from achieving my dream of going back to school. I have no real obligations, no family to support, no big payments to make. I have a few obstacles like tuition and rent, but doesn't every student have those same problems? I have cheerleaders to encourage me, which I haven't had in the past. My only real concern is my perseverance, my sticktoitiveness. I get bored easily. I have days of highs and lows, and I wonder about my ability to get through the lows. I think I can obtain a degree in two semesters, but can I maintain my dogged resolve for that period of time? Can I muster a campaign of consistent studying and test taking? Maybe the only way to answer those questions is to just do it. Find the courage and do it!
I have been asking myself why I failed the first time in school so I can understand how to succeed the second time around. I think this is important. My first attempt at college was pretty dismal. I went to college back in the 70s when I first got out of high school. I was too immature and undiciplined at that time. I take responsibity for that. But at the same time, I had no real mentors and no cheerleaders. I had always tried to please everyone else, and I didn't know how to take care of myself. I didn't demand anything of myself, and I didn't stand up for the things I wanted. Nobody encouraged me to follow my real interests. Nobody showed me how to study and get good grades. I had very little self-confidence. I was angry that my one real mentor in high school was fired, and I rebelled in a self-destructive way. My anger carried on through my college years and into my first years of work and family life.
During the years after quitting college things gradually improved for me. I made my share of mistakes, some of them huge, but over all, things steadily improved. I think my turning point was my first job in computers. I took a job selling PCs, and there was a big emphasis on being positive. My employer sent me to a Dale Carnegie course. At the time I thought the course was bogus, but it gradually sunk in that good things happen to people with a positive attitude. I was also lucky to have positive, patient bosses over the years. I was able to bootstrap myself into better and better jobs. With mentoring and self-teaching, I finally learned how to succeed.
I think back to those times in college. I was searching for acceptance and validation, and I wasn't getting it from school. I didn't go to class. I started partying and hanging out all night with friends. I know I wasn't dumb. That wasn't the cause of my failure. After dropping out of college I started to read. I had a huge thirst for knowledge and I read literally hundreds of books on diverse subjects like history, science, culture, philosophy, and fiction. My career gravitated toward intellectual pursuits like geology and computer technology. I proved to myself I could get good grades. I worked at a midwestern university where I took a 4 hour college class and got a solid A. For years I have been convincing myself that I have the ability to succeed in school.
There is really nothing stopping me now from achieving my dream of going back to school. I have no real obligations, no family to support, no big payments to make. I have a few obstacles like tuition and rent, but doesn't every student have those same problems? I have cheerleaders to encourage me, which I haven't had in the past. My only real concern is my perseverance, my sticktoitiveness. I get bored easily. I have days of highs and lows, and I wonder about my ability to get through the lows. I think I can obtain a degree in two semesters, but can I maintain my dogged resolve for that period of time? Can I muster a campaign of consistent studying and test taking? Maybe the only way to answer those questions is to just do it. Find the courage and do it!
Saturday, January 20, 2007
A sense of change
It's been a while since I last wrote in this blog. I was stopped. My physical journey has come to an end, at least for now. I traveled across the country and back, and now I am at my destination in New Mexico. I felt like I should catch up and write about everything I experienced on that trip, but at the same time I saw new things were happening around me, and I felt their essence was slipping away. I need to move on to my original premise, that life is a journey. It's not just physical, moving from one geographical location to another. The important trip is really in my mind.
I am an idealist. I always have been. Age has tempered me with realism, but I still dream of the ideal. A while back I watched a pundit on TV who said Americans should package themselves as portable workers with their own health care and retirement plans, and they should acquire a portable skill set. This strategy, he claimed, would help those workers survive and thrive in the global atmosphere of outsourcing, layoffs and temporary employment.
That idea appealed to me. Layoffs were a constant threat to my job, and and I wanted some kind of assurance for myself. I liked the idea of being portable. I wanted to be a self-contained worker. I could walk into an employer's office and offer my services free and clear. Along with some other preparations, this plan would give me freedom to sever my ties to my current, soulless employer. I could move around, choose my work, choose my living location. It seemed ideal.
I set my course to become a freedom loving and unfettered worker. I did all the things I thought I should do, and more. Debt was in my crosshairs, and saving became my goal. I trimmed my possessions to the spartan necessities. Ridding myself of my excess belongings gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction. I felt a sense of relief. I became unburdened. It was a spiritual experience.
My house had been my sanctuary for the last 4 years, but it wasn't ideal. I wanted a better place to work on my motorcycle. I wanted a place that was more energy efficient. My homeowner's association made me beholden to other people's rules, and it limited changes that I wanted to make to my own home. It wouldn't be hard for me emotionally to put my house on the market. The hard part was losing my base. I felt grounded when I could return home and hide out at the end of the day. I was jumping into the unknown and handing over my future to fate.
The portable worker idea gave me a seed of an idea to change my life. It started me on a physical and a mental journey. I had to find courage to let go of my old life, and trust that things would work out. So far, I am on plan.
I am an idealist. I always have been. Age has tempered me with realism, but I still dream of the ideal. A while back I watched a pundit on TV who said Americans should package themselves as portable workers with their own health care and retirement plans, and they should acquire a portable skill set. This strategy, he claimed, would help those workers survive and thrive in the global atmosphere of outsourcing, layoffs and temporary employment.
That idea appealed to me. Layoffs were a constant threat to my job, and and I wanted some kind of assurance for myself. I liked the idea of being portable. I wanted to be a self-contained worker. I could walk into an employer's office and offer my services free and clear. Along with some other preparations, this plan would give me freedom to sever my ties to my current, soulless employer. I could move around, choose my work, choose my living location. It seemed ideal.
I set my course to become a freedom loving and unfettered worker. I did all the things I thought I should do, and more. Debt was in my crosshairs, and saving became my goal. I trimmed my possessions to the spartan necessities. Ridding myself of my excess belongings gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction. I felt a sense of relief. I became unburdened. It was a spiritual experience.
My house had been my sanctuary for the last 4 years, but it wasn't ideal. I wanted a better place to work on my motorcycle. I wanted a place that was more energy efficient. My homeowner's association made me beholden to other people's rules, and it limited changes that I wanted to make to my own home. It wouldn't be hard for me emotionally to put my house on the market. The hard part was losing my base. I felt grounded when I could return home and hide out at the end of the day. I was jumping into the unknown and handing over my future to fate.
The portable worker idea gave me a seed of an idea to change my life. It started me on a physical and a mental journey. I had to find courage to let go of my old life, and trust that things would work out. So far, I am on plan.
Friday, December 15, 2006
A Bizarre Tale
About a year ago, in early 2006, I received a call from my credit card company telling me that they noticed some suspicious transactions on my credit card. The transactions, they said, didn’t match my buying patterns, and they wanted to know if the purchases were mine. After some phone calls and some postal mailings back and forth, we determined that indeed my credit card information had been compromised and some fraudulent transactions had occurred.
The amounts ranged from around $50 to $200 and all were payments through online payment systems including Stormpay.com. StormPay is a service similar to PayPal, although PayPal was not involved in my ordeal. I use credit cards very little, and these transactions were easy to catch. However, for many people who use their cards often, this could have been very bad news. These transaction amounts fall in the range of everyday purchases, and if they were buried in a long list of other legitimate transactions, the fraud might have gone undetected for months. I was lucky to catch them right away.
I worked with my credit card company and the vendors involved in the transactions, and all were resolved satisfactorily except one that dealt with Stormpay. Stormpay refused to refund my money. They sent back a list of disclaimers stating that they weren’t responsible for fraudulent transactions going through their system. They also sent a printout of the transaction detail. The printout listed my correct name, address, and phone number. Curiously though, the email address was not mine. The name was attached to the email domain @e-no.lv, which is registered in the country of
The transaction detail showed a deposit of $50 into the Stormpay account from my credit card. Then the money was shown to be refunded to a person by the name of Drahoslav Trinka, who then withdrew the money from the account. This was clearly a fraudulent series of transactions, but Stormpay would not acknowledge the fraud. Using circular logic, they insisted that the person opening the account had read all the disclaimers, making the account holder name (me) responsible for transactions.
Since the amount of the transaction was small and appeared to cross international boundaries, my credit card company wasn’t inclined to pursue the case further. Happily though, my bank which issued the credit card, made up for my loss and transferred $50 into my account. I felt a bit violated by the whole affair, but I was no worse off financially. I thought that was the end of the story.
I wondered who had stolen my credit card information. The bulk of my credit card purchases were for airline tickets to see my girlfriend on the west coast. Other than that I had used the card very little, and only once had I used it in the previous few months. I had some suspicions, but nothing really made sense.
Recently I received a letter from a company called LexisNexis marked ‘Important Security Information’. The letter stated that they were writing on behalf of LexisNexis and their affiliated company Seisint because “a user ID may have been used in an unauthorized manner that allowed some personal information about you to be viewed”.
The information in the letter was a little distressing, but I wondered why this company would have information on me. I did a Google search on ‘LexisNexis Siesint’, and what I found out distressed me even more. I found an article at Infoworld.com with the following title:
LexisNexis: 280,000 more possible data theft victims
Personal information may have been exposed to unauthorized individuals
By Paul Roberts, IDG News Service
April 12, 2005
The following paragraph is an excerpt from the article:
“An in-depth review and analysis of two years' of search activity uncovered 59 incidents of unauthorized access to information, LexisNexis said in a statement. The news follows revelations in March that intruders used the IDs and passwords of legitimate LexisNexis customers to gain access to information on 30,000 people whose information was stored in "Multistate Anti-Terrorism Information Exchange," (MATRIX), a database and information retrieval system managed by LexisNexis's Seisint division. The latest report form (sic) the company expands the number of potential victims by 280,000.”
For the whole article see http://www.infoworld.com/article/05/04/12/HNmoredatatheft_1.html
My first question is why am I in a database called the “Multistate Anti-Terrorism Information Exchange”? My best guess is that I was selected for my airline ticket purchasing habits. Wasn’t this database the center of controversy a few years ago when it was discovered that the Bush Administration was selecting citizens somewhat at random and without warrants to be put in a database and scrutinized for terrorist activities? There was no accounting of who was put in the database or who had access to the data. Then I realized that the credit card I used to purchase airline tickets was the same one compromised by the Latvian fraud artist. It took 20 months for LexisNexis to send me a notification letter. Thanks a lot guys.
If this story fits together the way I think it does, then I almost have to laugh at the strange, absurd irony. The government is spying and collecting data on innocent, unsuspecting citizens. They are mining the data and fishing for criminal or terrorist activities. However they don’t make the database secure, which allows the real bad guys, possibly even terrorists, to break into the database and steal the identities and cause real harm to the innocent and unsuspecting citizens. Is this really the way our government is supposed to work?
I suppose I should be careful what I say. After all, they do have my number.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thoughts of the trip
It's been quite a while since I wrote in this blog. I've covered a lot of ground since my last post. To summarize, I started driving west from St. Paul Minnesota. I arrived in Laramie where I put my possessions in storage and got rid of the U-haul. I drove on to Dubois where I spent a few days in my brother-in-law's hunting camp. I then drove on to Oregon, taking a route through the Tetons, southern Idaho, and the Columbia River Gorge.
I spent a couple weeks in Corvallis, Oregon, helping my girlfriend pack her belongings into another U-haul. With that done, we journeyed in a small caravan of two vehicles, my pickup and trailer, and her little SUV, to our eventual home destination of Albuquerque, New Mexico. We retraced my tracks back through the Columbia River Gorge and across southern Idaho. We cut south through Ogden, Utah, and drove through suburbs and communities nestled between the majestic Wasatch Range, and the Great Salt Lake. We turned east on I-80 across windy, southern Wyoming to Cheyenne, where we then turned south on I-25, into Colorado, through Denver, along the Front Range and into New Mexico.
It's easy to list out the route and recite all the towns I drove through. It's more difficult to answer the question that I was asked, "How did you feel about all that?" The short answer would be 'excited tiredness'. The long answer will take much more time.
It's the memories that bring out the emotions, and I remember the small fleeting things. The day I left the Twin Cities, I got up at 5:00 to take care of business. I left town in the early afternoon and drove late into the night. I was looking for a place to pull over and sleep a few hours. It was almost 2:00 a.m. and I was dead tired. I was in the Black Hills on two lane blacktop, driving south toward Custer. I found a narrow parking pullout so I stopped. I got out to check the suitability of parking there for a few hours, and as I stood in the darkness, I looked up at the millions of stars in the black, moonless sky. A chilled breeze was blowing. Then, from that darkness I heard the eerie, almost unnatural sound of birds from across the road. They were coming from a stand of trees that I could barely make out. First I heard a hoot from an owl, and then a loud screech from some kind of raptor, maybe an eagle. It sent a shiver up my spine. I had never heard an eagle screech at night. Was it screeching at me? I decided the parking area was too small, and it looked like a place where people might congregate in the morning. I didn't want to wake up with a tourist peering in my window. As I drove away my tired mind came to the realization that a bird sanctuary or a small zoo must have been hidden in the darkness of the trees. Still, I was creeped out, tired, and a little depressed. I drove on.
I remember driving through, or near, Custer Park, still looking for a place to stop and sleep. My tired eyes suddenly saw shadowy sillouettes in front of me on the road. I slowed down. My tired mind couldn't make them out, but I suspected deer, or cows. When my headlights caught them full on, I could see deer-like animals with horns. They were large, and they had a different coloring around the neck, like a mane. Elk! Then I saw more sillouettes beside the road, three on one side, then a bunch on the other, then more on the first side. I slowed the pickup to a crawl. If one would jump in front of me, I didn't know if was alert enough to avoid it. I needed to stop soon. I don't know how many were there, maybe a dozen, may fifty. Then they were gone, and I had only the dark, empty highway ahead of me. It made me feel good to see elk. It made me feel good to know there were still wild things out there, even if they lived protected in a state park.
After driving through Hot Springs, SD, I finally found a place to turn off. It wasn't really a place. It was a turnoff that ended at a wire gate to a sagebrush pasture. I didn't care. I couldn't go any further. I made sure the U-haul was off the road, and then I kicked off my shoes, laid the seat back, and slept. I slept longer than I expected, longer than I wanted. The sun was fully up, and the road was surprisingly busy. I carefully backed the U-haul onto the road and drove on again.
A coyote ran across the road at Edgemont, Wyoming, and then turned and stood near a patch of rabbitbush and watched as I drove by. What was it thinking? Surely they do think. Coyotes are adaptable and cunning. They need to be with man around. I was raised to despise them, but I admire them just he same. I have caught many glimpses of them from the road. I've felt their sharp teeth while playing with a friend's pet coyote which he raised from a pup. I have come eye-to-eye with a big male, as I sat on the edge of a meadow waiting for elk to appear. Each encounter was surprising, and somewhat awe inspiring. What did that coyote in the rabbitbush think of me? Now I am questioning what I think of him.
This move to the southwest is a transition for me. I am rethinking everything. I am throwing off the old and the boring and the familiar. I'm shaking loose from the tradition and convention. Some parts of the old system still have me in its grip, like the need for a paycheck and insurance, but I want to change what I can and see things from a new perspective. I want to see my world from the eyes of the coyote.
I spent a couple weeks in Corvallis, Oregon, helping my girlfriend pack her belongings into another U-haul. With that done, we journeyed in a small caravan of two vehicles, my pickup and trailer, and her little SUV, to our eventual home destination of Albuquerque, New Mexico. We retraced my tracks back through the Columbia River Gorge and across southern Idaho. We cut south through Ogden, Utah, and drove through suburbs and communities nestled between the majestic Wasatch Range, and the Great Salt Lake. We turned east on I-80 across windy, southern Wyoming to Cheyenne, where we then turned south on I-25, into Colorado, through Denver, along the Front Range and into New Mexico.
It's easy to list out the route and recite all the towns I drove through. It's more difficult to answer the question that I was asked, "How did you feel about all that?" The short answer would be 'excited tiredness'. The long answer will take much more time.
It's the memories that bring out the emotions, and I remember the small fleeting things. The day I left the Twin Cities, I got up at 5:00 to take care of business. I left town in the early afternoon and drove late into the night. I was looking for a place to pull over and sleep a few hours. It was almost 2:00 a.m. and I was dead tired. I was in the Black Hills on two lane blacktop, driving south toward Custer. I found a narrow parking pullout so I stopped. I got out to check the suitability of parking there for a few hours, and as I stood in the darkness, I looked up at the millions of stars in the black, moonless sky. A chilled breeze was blowing. Then, from that darkness I heard the eerie, almost unnatural sound of birds from across the road. They were coming from a stand of trees that I could barely make out. First I heard a hoot from an owl, and then a loud screech from some kind of raptor, maybe an eagle. It sent a shiver up my spine. I had never heard an eagle screech at night. Was it screeching at me? I decided the parking area was too small, and it looked like a place where people might congregate in the morning. I didn't want to wake up with a tourist peering in my window. As I drove away my tired mind came to the realization that a bird sanctuary or a small zoo must have been hidden in the darkness of the trees. Still, I was creeped out, tired, and a little depressed. I drove on.
I remember driving through, or near, Custer Park, still looking for a place to stop and sleep. My tired eyes suddenly saw shadowy sillouettes in front of me on the road. I slowed down. My tired mind couldn't make them out, but I suspected deer, or cows. When my headlights caught them full on, I could see deer-like animals with horns. They were large, and they had a different coloring around the neck, like a mane. Elk! Then I saw more sillouettes beside the road, three on one side, then a bunch on the other, then more on the first side. I slowed the pickup to a crawl. If one would jump in front of me, I didn't know if was alert enough to avoid it. I needed to stop soon. I don't know how many were there, maybe a dozen, may fifty. Then they were gone, and I had only the dark, empty highway ahead of me. It made me feel good to see elk. It made me feel good to know there were still wild things out there, even if they lived protected in a state park.
After driving through Hot Springs, SD, I finally found a place to turn off. It wasn't really a place. It was a turnoff that ended at a wire gate to a sagebrush pasture. I didn't care. I couldn't go any further. I made sure the U-haul was off the road, and then I kicked off my shoes, laid the seat back, and slept. I slept longer than I expected, longer than I wanted. The sun was fully up, and the road was surprisingly busy. I carefully backed the U-haul onto the road and drove on again.
A coyote ran across the road at Edgemont, Wyoming, and then turned and stood near a patch of rabbitbush and watched as I drove by. What was it thinking? Surely they do think. Coyotes are adaptable and cunning. They need to be with man around. I was raised to despise them, but I admire them just he same. I have caught many glimpses of them from the road. I've felt their sharp teeth while playing with a friend's pet coyote which he raised from a pup. I have come eye-to-eye with a big male, as I sat on the edge of a meadow waiting for elk to appear. Each encounter was surprising, and somewhat awe inspiring. What did that coyote in the rabbitbush think of me? Now I am questioning what I think of him.
This move to the southwest is a transition for me. I am rethinking everything. I am throwing off the old and the boring and the familiar. I'm shaking loose from the tradition and convention. Some parts of the old system still have me in its grip, like the need for a paycheck and insurance, but I want to change what I can and see things from a new perspective. I want to see my world from the eyes of the coyote.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Benny
The house is sold, I'm on the road, and I didn't think I'd see this day. I left Minnesota on October 2nd, 2006, watching the Twin Cities slowly shrink in my rear-view mirrrors.
My traveling partner for this trip was named Benny. He was an orange canary that I had promised to deliver to my girlfriend's daughter in Laramie, Wyoming. Benny would stay in Laramie while I continued on to my girlfriend's home in Oregon. We would pick him up in a few weeks on our move from Oregon to New Mexico.
Benny acted a little agitated as we drove away from the Twin Cities. I put his cage in the passenger seat, so he could sit on his highest perch and look out the window. He flew around his cage, chirping and hopping from perch to perch until I shoved in a music CD, Los Lonely Boys. When the music started to play, Benny calmed right down. He squatted down on his perch and his eyes closed the way birds do when they sleep. I think the music got us both settled in for the long drive that was ahead of us. The miles started rolling by, and Benny sat contentedly on his hightest perch, looking out the front and side windows. I tried to keep food available for him. Before we left town, I bought red leafed lettuce and a sweet potato, both his favorites. I poked bits of veggies in the side of his cage where he could sit on his perch and nibble away.
As the day wore on and dusk started to fall, I noticed that Benny once again was becoming agitated. He flew off his perch and circled right back to the same spot. He couldn't fly far in the confines of his cage. He kept looking toward the back window of the pickup cab. He chirped and shuffled from side to side on his long perch. It looked like something in the back of the cab was bothering him. I craned my head around to look in the small dark area behind the seat. My bags and clothing were stacked behind the seat to the bottom of the rear window. Only a small, dark space was left behind my head. Then I realized the Benny was looking for a place to roost for the night. He wanted to fly into the small, dark area behind the seat to go to sleep. I didn't let him into the back of the cab, but I did pull over and then place the cloth cover over his cage. I left a small opening where I could peek into his cage to check on him as we drove into the night. That did the trick. I could see him in there, perched on his regular sleeping place. He was quiet the rest of the night.
I drove late into the night, and then pulled off the side of the road to sleep a few hours. After I woke, I drove to the next town and pulled in for gas and coffee. I found a free advertiser in the news stand and used it to reline Benny's cage. I normally clean his cage every day, but in the chaos of the last night of packing and the morning of closing on my house, Benny's world had been neglected. I found fresh water for his bird bath and cut fresh vegtables for his breakfast. Benny had a fresh cage, the pickup had a full tank of gas, and I had my coffee. We were ready for the road again.
On the final leg of the trip to Laramie, Benny acted like a seasoned traveler. He sat on his perch, against the side of the cage, as close to me as he could get. He gave me his little sideways look, the way birds do, and I could almost see him smiling. Then I realized I was smiling too. So that's the way we rode, on the last leg of our trip together from St Paul, Minnesota to Laramie, Wyoming.
I missed Benny after I left him in Laramie. As I drove toward Rawlins, I kept looking over to see how my little orange friend was doing. He wasn't there. All I saw was an empty seat. It's funny how I had made friends with that little bird. I popped in a CD, Los Lonely Boys, and settled in for the drive.
The house is sold, I'm on the road, and I didn't think I'd see this day. I left Minnesota on October 2nd, 2006, watching the Twin Cities slowly shrink in my rear-view mirrrors.
My traveling partner for this trip was named Benny. He was an orange canary that I had promised to deliver to my girlfriend's daughter in Laramie, Wyoming. Benny would stay in Laramie while I continued on to my girlfriend's home in Oregon. We would pick him up in a few weeks on our move from Oregon to New Mexico.
Benny acted a little agitated as we drove away from the Twin Cities. I put his cage in the passenger seat, so he could sit on his highest perch and look out the window. He flew around his cage, chirping and hopping from perch to perch until I shoved in a music CD, Los Lonely Boys. When the music started to play, Benny calmed right down. He squatted down on his perch and his eyes closed the way birds do when they sleep. I think the music got us both settled in for the long drive that was ahead of us. The miles started rolling by, and Benny sat contentedly on his hightest perch, looking out the front and side windows. I tried to keep food available for him. Before we left town, I bought red leafed lettuce and a sweet potato, both his favorites. I poked bits of veggies in the side of his cage where he could sit on his perch and nibble away.
As the day wore on and dusk started to fall, I noticed that Benny once again was becoming agitated. He flew off his perch and circled right back to the same spot. He couldn't fly far in the confines of his cage. He kept looking toward the back window of the pickup cab. He chirped and shuffled from side to side on his long perch. It looked like something in the back of the cab was bothering him. I craned my head around to look in the small dark area behind the seat. My bags and clothing were stacked behind the seat to the bottom of the rear window. Only a small, dark space was left behind my head. Then I realized the Benny was looking for a place to roost for the night. He wanted to fly into the small, dark area behind the seat to go to sleep. I didn't let him into the back of the cab, but I did pull over and then place the cloth cover over his cage. I left a small opening where I could peek into his cage to check on him as we drove into the night. That did the trick. I could see him in there, perched on his regular sleeping place. He was quiet the rest of the night.
I drove late into the night, and then pulled off the side of the road to sleep a few hours. After I woke, I drove to the next town and pulled in for gas and coffee. I found a free advertiser in the news stand and used it to reline Benny's cage. I normally clean his cage every day, but in the chaos of the last night of packing and the morning of closing on my house, Benny's world had been neglected. I found fresh water for his bird bath and cut fresh vegtables for his breakfast. Benny had a fresh cage, the pickup had a full tank of gas, and I had my coffee. We were ready for the road again.
On the final leg of the trip to Laramie, Benny acted like a seasoned traveler. He sat on his perch, against the side of the cage, as close to me as he could get. He gave me his little sideways look, the way birds do, and I could almost see him smiling. Then I realized I was smiling too. So that's the way we rode, on the last leg of our trip together from St Paul, Minnesota to Laramie, Wyoming.
I missed Benny after I left him in Laramie. As I drove toward Rawlins, I kept looking over to see how my little orange friend was doing. He wasn't there. All I saw was an empty seat. It's funny how I had made friends with that little bird. I popped in a CD, Los Lonely Boys, and settled in for the drive.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Take This Job And Shove It
Didn't Merle Haggard sing that? I'm done. Friday was my last day of work. That doesn't mean that I am retired, or that I won't work again. It means I am through with THAT job, and THAT employer. It means no more calls in the middle of the night to go in and fix problems. It means no more long weekends of grueling work. It means having weekends to myself again. For the time being, it means having evey day to myself instead of having to give up my time to the whims of my bosses.
The complex of buildings where I worked always seemed dark and sinister. I resisted going to work there, but circumstances just seemed to draw me in. The buildings are constructed of dark brick and dark glass. They sit back from the highway across a mowed grassy field, surrounded by marshlands and cornfields. They recently erected some signs and lights, but earlier the place looked dark and foreboding, especially at dusk. Before I worked there it reminded me of a modern version of a House of Frankenstein. It only needed strange lights coming from the upper windows, and storm clouds with lighning overhead to complete the scene.
I think it's good that I'm leaving. I never liked that place. In this case I am following my instincts, and they are telling me to get the heck outta there.
Exit Merle. Enter Willie. "On the road again. I just can't wait to be on the road again...."
Didn't Merle Haggard sing that? I'm done. Friday was my last day of work. That doesn't mean that I am retired, or that I won't work again. It means I am through with THAT job, and THAT employer. It means no more calls in the middle of the night to go in and fix problems. It means no more long weekends of grueling work. It means having weekends to myself again. For the time being, it means having evey day to myself instead of having to give up my time to the whims of my bosses.
The complex of buildings where I worked always seemed dark and sinister. I resisted going to work there, but circumstances just seemed to draw me in. The buildings are constructed of dark brick and dark glass. They sit back from the highway across a mowed grassy field, surrounded by marshlands and cornfields. They recently erected some signs and lights, but earlier the place looked dark and foreboding, especially at dusk. Before I worked there it reminded me of a modern version of a House of Frankenstein. It only needed strange lights coming from the upper windows, and storm clouds with lighning overhead to complete the scene.
I think it's good that I'm leaving. I never liked that place. In this case I am following my instincts, and they are telling me to get the heck outta there.
Exit Merle. Enter Willie. "On the road again. I just can't wait to be on the road again...."
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Chaos
I really believe that a person should move every 5 years just to get rid of unused junk, and so life doesn't get boring and stale. That being said, I really detest moving. I'm living among piles and boxes. I have piles to be packed, piles to go to Goodwill, and piles that I just don't know what to do with. The thing is, my possessions are minimal compared to a lot of people. What do people do that have a lot of stuff?
So, this is my life right now. In a few weeks I'll be settling into a new place, and hopefully things will calm down a little. I'll be glad. I want to concentrate on other things. There are so many interesting people and places and ideas out there, that it is a waste and a shame to be stuck on a long-term, mundane job or routine. I thrive on new ideas. I am attracted to smart and creative people. I hope for an infusion new interests. Even though my life is chaotic with this move, it's a worthwhile investment in my psyche and my well-being.
I really believe that a person should move every 5 years just to get rid of unused junk, and so life doesn't get boring and stale. That being said, I really detest moving. I'm living among piles and boxes. I have piles to be packed, piles to go to Goodwill, and piles that I just don't know what to do with. The thing is, my possessions are minimal compared to a lot of people. What do people do that have a lot of stuff?
So, this is my life right now. In a few weeks I'll be settling into a new place, and hopefully things will calm down a little. I'll be glad. I want to concentrate on other things. There are so many interesting people and places and ideas out there, that it is a waste and a shame to be stuck on a long-term, mundane job or routine. I thrive on new ideas. I am attracted to smart and creative people. I hope for an infusion new interests. Even though my life is chaotic with this move, it's a worthwhile investment in my psyche and my well-being.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
I promised my employer that I would stay to the end of a project, and after working 12 hours on Saturday, the cut-over has been accomplished, and now it's just a matter of tying up loose ends. I am working the rest of the week, but I certainly will be concentrating on other things.
My first concern is getting moved out of my home. I have been culling and sorting and boxing, but it still looks like I have made no progress. I live pretty simply, but I am amazed at the amount of stuff I have collected over the years. My goal it to get rid of as much stuff as possible. I need to fit everything into one U-haul trailer and a small pickup bed. I want to throw off all vestiges of my former life and start completely over.
I am not entirely forsaking the memories of my past. I like to keep one or two small things in rememberance of significant people or events from my past. I have a small collection of rocks that I have picked up in my travels over the years. I pick out one rock, and I hold it in my hand, and I remember, "Oh yes, this was from my trip to the Oregon coast. It was cloudy and cool as I walked with lovely Addy, and we watched the waves breaking on the sand."
Some people have chided me about my rock collection. During a past move a person picked up a box and exclaimed, "What do you have in here, ROCKS?" I said yes, and she looked back with shocked surprise, and then burst out laughing. I have to ask why is that worse than packing knick-knacks, or bobble-heads, or any of the millions of other things that people collect? My rocks contain memories, and they connect me with the earth. Each person has their own values and priorities.
My first concern is getting moved out of my home. I have been culling and sorting and boxing, but it still looks like I have made no progress. I live pretty simply, but I am amazed at the amount of stuff I have collected over the years. My goal it to get rid of as much stuff as possible. I need to fit everything into one U-haul trailer and a small pickup bed. I want to throw off all vestiges of my former life and start completely over.
I am not entirely forsaking the memories of my past. I like to keep one or two small things in rememberance of significant people or events from my past. I have a small collection of rocks that I have picked up in my travels over the years. I pick out one rock, and I hold it in my hand, and I remember, "Oh yes, this was from my trip to the Oregon coast. It was cloudy and cool as I walked with lovely Addy, and we watched the waves breaking on the sand."
Some people have chided me about my rock collection. During a past move a person picked up a box and exclaimed, "What do you have in here, ROCKS?" I said yes, and she looked back with shocked surprise, and then burst out laughing. I have to ask why is that worse than packing knick-knacks, or bobble-heads, or any of the millions of other things that people collect? My rocks contain memories, and they connect me with the earth. Each person has their own values and priorities.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I am a man making major changes to my life. I am quitting my job and moving from Minnesota to New Mexico. My friends and co-workers are supportive, although I suspect they secretly think I'm a little crazy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a little crazy. Some have said that they have thought about doing the same thing, but they have never had the courage to do such a thing. Well, I'm doing it.
Several factors are driving this decision. First, I have always wanted to live in the American Southwest. I like the history and the prehistory, the culture, the art, and the lifestyle that I perceive it to be.
Second, I am anxious to get back to the mountains and a dryer climate. Minnesota is beautiful for its forests and its greenery and its lakes and rivers, but it's also known for its stifling, summer humidity and damp, cold winters. I really miss dry air, cool nights and mountaintops on horizons a hundred miles away. I miss the geology, the exposed rocks, the layers, the colors, the textures, and the sense of unfathomable time.
Third, (maybe this should be first) I have met a lady. Her influence has made me realize many things about myself, and she has helped me gather the courage to make this move. Without her, I think I would have withered into an aging, lonely, insignificant man, working a soul-less job, and hopelessly clinging to a tenuous paycheck. She has made me see that life is too short, and that I need to take chances and really experience life.
The fourth reason for moving is the developing attitude I have for my job of the last 6 years. Although I make a pretty good living, I draw no spirtual sustenance from my employment. It provides no balance in my life. My employer demands more and more of my time, which I am becoming more reluctant to give up. I have survived several stressful layoffs, and this spring there was talk of still more cost cutting, which translates into yet more layoffs. For their role in the cost cutting, the people in upper management give themselves high-fives and big raises, while the guys and gals in the trenches suddenly find themselves out on the street. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't be caught in that situation again, so when the rumors of cuts started circulating this spring, I said 'enough', and I put my house on the market. I started thinning out my possessions and preparing for a change.
So here I am, packing my meager possessions under the deadline of a house closing, and preparing to drive half way across the continent to an unknown future. It should be a real trip. I was ready for a new adventure.
Several factors are driving this decision. First, I have always wanted to live in the American Southwest. I like the history and the prehistory, the culture, the art, and the lifestyle that I perceive it to be.
Second, I am anxious to get back to the mountains and a dryer climate. Minnesota is beautiful for its forests and its greenery and its lakes and rivers, but it's also known for its stifling, summer humidity and damp, cold winters. I really miss dry air, cool nights and mountaintops on horizons a hundred miles away. I miss the geology, the exposed rocks, the layers, the colors, the textures, and the sense of unfathomable time.
Third, (maybe this should be first) I have met a lady. Her influence has made me realize many things about myself, and she has helped me gather the courage to make this move. Without her, I think I would have withered into an aging, lonely, insignificant man, working a soul-less job, and hopelessly clinging to a tenuous paycheck. She has made me see that life is too short, and that I need to take chances and really experience life.
The fourth reason for moving is the developing attitude I have for my job of the last 6 years. Although I make a pretty good living, I draw no spirtual sustenance from my employment. It provides no balance in my life. My employer demands more and more of my time, which I am becoming more reluctant to give up. I have survived several stressful layoffs, and this spring there was talk of still more cost cutting, which translates into yet more layoffs. For their role in the cost cutting, the people in upper management give themselves high-fives and big raises, while the guys and gals in the trenches suddenly find themselves out on the street. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't be caught in that situation again, so when the rumors of cuts started circulating this spring, I said 'enough', and I put my house on the market. I started thinning out my possessions and preparing for a change.
So here I am, packing my meager possessions under the deadline of a house closing, and preparing to drive half way across the continent to an unknown future. It should be a real trip. I was ready for a new adventure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)