It is said that 'no news is good news.' That phrase has seldom worked for me. Like the popular ad for a gossip magazine, 'I want to know.' My entire working life was involved in some kind of information and news gathering or another. Not knowing or how to know, produced more desperation and heartache than, in many cases, the news itself. The phrase was supposed to have originated with King James I of England, who, in 1616, allegedly said, "No news is better than evil news" Defining the news that one doesn't want to know, is a little more acceptable.
My long suffering wife listens patiently as I blow, pound and complain about how much bad news there is in the paper. Home invasions, murders, street gun fights, political patronage and corruption, crumbling bridges, et al, all are icing on the cake of a struggling economy. But wait: today I opened the paper, and whether I was more alert to, or whether there actually was a super nova of good news, I cannot tell, but page after page contained at least one good, meaning upbeat, progressive, helpful, just or just plain, well, good, news item.
On page one I read that more money was to appear in paychecks and that a former boss of the New England mafia had been arrested. (What took them so long?) And that Mitt Romney was keeping the Tea Party movement members away, or at least at arm's length. Inside, the two Koreas are jawing not warring; Congressman Gifford is making wonderful progress. It said that she felt the sunshine on her face for the first time since she was shot. That news alone provided me with a bright solar burst all on its own.
Two editorials were more positive instead of critical or anti something or other. One said that recent signs of life in the auto world have shown that the bailout for GM and Chrysler has basically paid off, and Richard Lugar calls for a renewal of the assault weapons ban. In the letters column, a few brave souls criticized the "we dug it, we own it" attitude towards saving street parking spaces in Boston.
And so it went: the State suspends release of parolees; Blue Cross said its new system of paying doctors a fixed amount per patient is working; and, wow, blue jeans and spaghetti straps are out for House sessions on Beacon Hill. UConn wants to end Spring Weekend drunk and dunk parties, and a woman who was kidnapped 23 years ago has at last found her real mother.
So there it was, pages of good news. Sure, there was the usual negative fare. Welfare worker slain by one of her charges, dozens killed in assaults on Iraqi pilgrims, Miami police officers killed in shootout, and Massachusetts employers cut 2000 jobs in Dec.
Now don't get me wrong. I am not advocating that the press, TV and Internet show only sunshine and candy in their news. It's just that for every piece of bad news, it needs to be countered by some good news. It's not a matter of importance. Even a man saving a dog from a frozen river is a small counter to genocide in the Ivory Coast. One likes to feel that good is still operative in what seems to be an increasingly troubled world of corruption, injustice and natural disasters.
Perhaps this particular paper has always included a fair amount of good news, but I just haven't noticed it. Perhaps one has to have a particular faith in humankind that good is endemic to most peoples, nationalities or individuals, and look for it. Perhaps the events of bad news bring out the good in others. Seeking and finding goodness in the world about us, enhances our own sense of what is right and wrong, not only with the world, but with ourselves.
Buckminster Fuller said, "You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete." I have resolved not to be overwhelmed, achingly depressed or painfully disappointed in the failures and deficiencies of my fellow man. As I read the good news to my (still) long suffering wife, my "goodness" radar picked up her smile and felt the hand upon my shoulder as she stood behind the chair I was sitting in as I read. My new motto might be "No news is missed news."
Friday, January 21, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Bee Nice to Your Honey
Summer Days 2010
At long, long, last my turtle plants or Chelona glabra have opened and their abundance is revealed. They are a late summer bloomer, and they take their time to bud and bloom. Mine are pink, they come also in white or light green. Of all the attractions for bees in my garden, ER, sorry, yard, the Chelona glabra turtle plants are the most sought after by my little buzzing buddies.
After mowing the lawn, (now THERE'S exercise for you...) I went and stood by the turtle plants and watched the bees hum, buzz and softly drone around the flowers. Chelona glabra blooms are elongated but the mouth part curves in, just like a turtle's beak. The bees have trouble getting in sometimes and I watched a couple struggle through the doorway. (I noted that a couple of these obese buzzers could lose 30 pounds) Some bees are laden with honey, the leg sacs bulging with sweet treasure for the hive or nest. I was reminded of the old saw about the monkey that put his hand through the cage to grab some peanuts, but couldn't get his hand back -- unless he let go of the peanuts!
One particular bee seemed to be having a difficult time trying to get into the beak of the turtle head. I decided it was time for a little help for the honey hunter. I have opened doors for lots of people, old and feeble, young and pretty -- both with packages, is my excuse. I have even let dogs and cats through doors, but this would be my first for a bee. I reached over for one that was attempting to push through the flower's mouth and I reached down and squeezed the body of the flower, similar to what one does with a snapdragon. The mouth popped open a little wider and the bee slid in. I don't understand bee talk, but I swore I heard other bees saying, "Me next, over here, squeeze this one." I don't like people -- or bees -- taking advantage of my good nature, so I said, in what I though was my best bee talk, "Buzz off, you're on your own buddy." I did, however, think I saw a smile on the face of the bee I helped. "You're welcome," I buzzed back.
© Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011
At long, long, last my turtle plants or Chelona glabra have opened and their abundance is revealed. They are a late summer bloomer, and they take their time to bud and bloom. Mine are pink, they come also in white or light green. Of all the attractions for bees in my garden, ER, sorry, yard, the Chelona glabra turtle plants are the most sought after by my little buzzing buddies.
After mowing the lawn, (now THERE'S exercise for you...) I went and stood by the turtle plants and watched the bees hum, buzz and softly drone around the flowers. Chelona glabra blooms are elongated but the mouth part curves in, just like a turtle's beak. The bees have trouble getting in sometimes and I watched a couple struggle through the doorway. (I noted that a couple of these obese buzzers could lose 30 pounds) Some bees are laden with honey, the leg sacs bulging with sweet treasure for the hive or nest. I was reminded of the old saw about the monkey that put his hand through the cage to grab some peanuts, but couldn't get his hand back -- unless he let go of the peanuts!
One particular bee seemed to be having a difficult time trying to get into the beak of the turtle head. I decided it was time for a little help for the honey hunter. I have opened doors for lots of people, old and feeble, young and pretty -- both with packages, is my excuse. I have even let dogs and cats through doors, but this would be my first for a bee. I reached over for one that was attempting to push through the flower's mouth and I reached down and squeezed the body of the flower, similar to what one does with a snapdragon. The mouth popped open a little wider and the bee slid in. I don't understand bee talk, but I swore I heard other bees saying, "Me next, over here, squeeze this one." I don't like people -- or bees -- taking advantage of my good nature, so I said, in what I though was my best bee talk, "Buzz off, you're on your own buddy." I did, however, think I saw a smile on the face of the bee I helped. "You're welcome," I buzzed back.
© Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011
Going Back and Going Home.
Nostalgia. The word is a learned formation of a Greek compound, consisting of, nóstos, "returning home", a Homeric word, and , álgos, "pain" or "ache". I suffered from it for years, not from any pain or ache, but often from a feeling of appreciation for the past or something related to the past, often in an idealized form.
A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where I was sent as a World War II evacuee. My memories of that small community were of a happy time, far away from the London Blitz. The house of Mrs. Adams, with whom I was billeted was still there, as was the park with its trim gardens and smooth, lawned, bowling green, the small chapel still stood although it had long ago lost its congregation. The winding road to the school at the top of the hill, and the small sweet shop, where a penny bought a life supply of candy were still in place.
But there were changes. A huge recreation center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A new rotary or roundabout was now in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store and there was now a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These pushed my happy memories aside, becoming intrusions to me.
I asked one long time resident if much had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years. "Nothing too much," he replied. He had slowly accepted the changes, adjusted to them and fitted them neatly into his daily routines. We talked about the changes. He said that to him and others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this town were still there in what remained of what it was. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facility, but for the sake of their convenience in our lives, we accept much in the "name of progress" and advancement of what we term "civilization."
It took a conversation between me and one of my daughters, then 10 years old, as I drove her to yet another soccer match on a Saturday. I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own any more. But the conversation brought home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed all of my four children. It would not be hard to accept. Technology, innovation, communication and changing social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and interact with each other. So Sarah asked: "Daddy, what did you do on a Saturday when you were a little boy?" It seemed as though my answer had been waiting with eager expectancy for that question for years. It leapt from my lips with an eloquence and eagerness that surprised us both.
"Ah yes," I replied. "My Saturdays. I would get my map of the London Home Counties and pore over it for an hour. Then, I would pick some interesting sounding name, circle it, and map out the route. Out would come my bicycle and I would set off on my planned journey. Sometimes the trip was more than a hundred miles. Sometimes it would be to visit someone."
Sarah thought for a moment.
"Your Mom let you go?" She said with a slight note of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes, of course."
"Wasn't she afraid?" exclaimed my daughter.
"Of what?" I answered. "There was no traffic. The streets were safe. The towns and villages that I passed through always had a small cafe where I could buy something to eat or drink."
"But what about, you know, those guys?"
Yes, I knew. I knew she was referring to the headlines that shouted that it was not safe for children to be out on the streets alone; that they could not be left in cars, or strollers outside the store, that leaving with children with others invited risk and that our young offspring were marketable items, or socially manipulative objects or future earners. I knew that I was at a juncture where I could easily frighten my daughter, or create a block of cynicism in her, or a hundred other negative tones in a young mind.
We tread a fine line between keeping our children informed of the world around them and keeping them innocent and blameless of the world's failings and frailties. I realized with a mixture of melancholy and hope, that the climates of my childhood and theirs were a world apart. I also realized that this difference, this dissimilarity of our childhoods, would not, could not stand in the way of giving them that sense of adventure, inquisitiveness and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh village.
As an evacuee, I was shielded and protected from the ravages and horrors of Hitler's terror. What I knew about those dark days, I read years afterwards. No one in that village made it a point to tell me what I was protected from. I just was and didn't have to know from what. Today's children cannot avoid instantly learning about the weakness of their president, of the injustices in our courts, of the revulsion of demented minds, nature of extremes or the brutality of today's terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives them little time to make an honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.
Is our task now, perhaps, not so much to make these things invisible to them, but to educate them how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? Ideas, notions and view towards solutions, perhaps, do not need either time or space to be healed.
My involvement in my children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents. My father left me nothing but the world to make my way in. It was a world of safe streets, kind and decent people, of traffic-free streets, respect for authority, and of TV-free livings rooms. Perhaps my parents did not need to spend a great deal of time looking for negative aspects in my life or their own. The qualities they instilled would serve me well in a world that was largely congruous and amicable.
Today, I know I cannot let my children wander too far from home without some protection from the world and to care for their safety. But I can tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be taken to their soccer matches in lieu of walking or cycling as I did, but those moments traveling in the car are filled with open, honest and fun-filled conversations. We fill our journey with our voices in song and the moments together are taken great advantage of.
Lacking a safe subway system, I may have to take my son into town to see the sights of the city, where I once bicycled or walked, but it affords me an opportunity to share the journey with him and to contribute my experiences to the moments we share. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had to watch my children more than my own parents ever did, but there is a meshing of our minds that was never there when I set out on my own explorations.
I miss those days of yore, that small village in Wales, and I miss my children, whether they are in the next town, state or across the Atlantic. They are all out on their own now; half of them married with grandchildren and the other half far away in London and St.Louis. But when they were part of my milieu, my surroundings, they took up a lot of my time, as I took up a lot of that small Welsh village's time, time that I sometimes felt should have been sacrosanct. But in the larger picture, I realize that today, we need to be with our children, guiding, governing and guarding them in preparation for their eventual emergence as adults. Adjusting our love and care for children to today's world, should be an affirmative journey, not one of fear, resentment or inconvenience. I am thankful that my children do not feel restricted in their world of watchfulness and shielding. I don't know what the world will be like when my children care for their own, but I do know that the values of love, respect, courage and appreciation for all that is good and honest will serve them well.
Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011
A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where I was sent as a World War II evacuee. My memories of that small community were of a happy time, far away from the London Blitz. The house of Mrs. Adams, with whom I was billeted was still there, as was the park with its trim gardens and smooth, lawned, bowling green, the small chapel still stood although it had long ago lost its congregation. The winding road to the school at the top of the hill, and the small sweet shop, where a penny bought a life supply of candy were still in place.
But there were changes. A huge recreation center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A new rotary or roundabout was now in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store and there was now a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These pushed my happy memories aside, becoming intrusions to me.
I asked one long time resident if much had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years. "Nothing too much," he replied. He had slowly accepted the changes, adjusted to them and fitted them neatly into his daily routines. We talked about the changes. He said that to him and others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this town were still there in what remained of what it was. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facility, but for the sake of their convenience in our lives, we accept much in the "name of progress" and advancement of what we term "civilization."
It took a conversation between me and one of my daughters, then 10 years old, as I drove her to yet another soccer match on a Saturday. I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own any more. But the conversation brought home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed all of my four children. It would not be hard to accept. Technology, innovation, communication and changing social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and interact with each other. So Sarah asked: "Daddy, what did you do on a Saturday when you were a little boy?" It seemed as though my answer had been waiting with eager expectancy for that question for years. It leapt from my lips with an eloquence and eagerness that surprised us both.
"Ah yes," I replied. "My Saturdays. I would get my map of the London Home Counties and pore over it for an hour. Then, I would pick some interesting sounding name, circle it, and map out the route. Out would come my bicycle and I would set off on my planned journey. Sometimes the trip was more than a hundred miles. Sometimes it would be to visit someone."
Sarah thought for a moment.
"Your Mom let you go?" She said with a slight note of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes, of course."
"Wasn't she afraid?" exclaimed my daughter.
"Of what?" I answered. "There was no traffic. The streets were safe. The towns and villages that I passed through always had a small cafe where I could buy something to eat or drink."
"But what about, you know, those guys?"
Yes, I knew. I knew she was referring to the headlines that shouted that it was not safe for children to be out on the streets alone; that they could not be left in cars, or strollers outside the store, that leaving with children with others invited risk and that our young offspring were marketable items, or socially manipulative objects or future earners. I knew that I was at a juncture where I could easily frighten my daughter, or create a block of cynicism in her, or a hundred other negative tones in a young mind.
We tread a fine line between keeping our children informed of the world around them and keeping them innocent and blameless of the world's failings and frailties. I realized with a mixture of melancholy and hope, that the climates of my childhood and theirs were a world apart. I also realized that this difference, this dissimilarity of our childhoods, would not, could not stand in the way of giving them that sense of adventure, inquisitiveness and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh village.
 |
| Above: A view of the Ely Valley as seen from Llantrisant. |
As an evacuee, I was shielded and protected from the ravages and horrors of Hitler's terror. What I knew about those dark days, I read years afterwards. No one in that village made it a point to tell me what I was protected from. I just was and didn't have to know from what. Today's children cannot avoid instantly learning about the weakness of their president, of the injustices in our courts, of the revulsion of demented minds, nature of extremes or the brutality of today's terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives them little time to make an honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.
Is our task now, perhaps, not so much to make these things invisible to them, but to educate them how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? Ideas, notions and view towards solutions, perhaps, do not need either time or space to be healed.
My involvement in my children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents. My father left me nothing but the world to make my way in. It was a world of safe streets, kind and decent people, of traffic-free streets, respect for authority, and of TV-free livings rooms. Perhaps my parents did not need to spend a great deal of time looking for negative aspects in my life or their own. The qualities they instilled would serve me well in a world that was largely congruous and amicable.
Today, I know I cannot let my children wander too far from home without some protection from the world and to care for their safety. But I can tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be taken to their soccer matches in lieu of walking or cycling as I did, but those moments traveling in the car are filled with open, honest and fun-filled conversations. We fill our journey with our voices in song and the moments together are taken great advantage of.
Lacking a safe subway system, I may have to take my son into town to see the sights of the city, where I once bicycled or walked, but it affords me an opportunity to share the journey with him and to contribute my experiences to the moments we share. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had to watch my children more than my own parents ever did, but there is a meshing of our minds that was never there when I set out on my own explorations.
I miss those days of yore, that small village in Wales, and I miss my children, whether they are in the next town, state or across the Atlantic. They are all out on their own now; half of them married with grandchildren and the other half far away in London and St.Louis. But when they were part of my milieu, my surroundings, they took up a lot of my time, as I took up a lot of that small Welsh village's time, time that I sometimes felt should have been sacrosanct. But in the larger picture, I realize that today, we need to be with our children, guiding, governing and guarding them in preparation for their eventual emergence as adults. Adjusting our love and care for children to today's world, should be an affirmative journey, not one of fear, resentment or inconvenience. I am thankful that my children do not feel restricted in their world of watchfulness and shielding. I don't know what the world will be like when my children care for their own, but I do know that the values of love, respect, courage and appreciation for all that is good and honest will serve them well.
Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Best of Both Worlds
Someone once told me that having a lot of friends is not necessarily the best thing in the world. He told me that having one or two that you can love, trust, someone who cares and shares from the heart, is about all one needs. I think he was right.
I had such a friend. His name was Carl and he was from that land of windmills and dykes and tulips and clogs - Holland. I can say "Holland" now, but in his presence, it always had to be the Netherlands, or "Nayderlont", as he so musically pronounced it.
Carl passed several years ago, but recently my daughter revived my love and respect for this painter and artist. She had visited Amsterdam, and in that city of canals and one "built upon dodgy foundations both literally with sand, wood, and gravel laid upon one another to build the ever sinking architecture" as she put it. "I wanted to see it through his eyes." In her own recollections, she helped me recall my friendship with this ballet-loving Dutchman.
Each Saturday morning, weather and social schedules permitting, Carl and I had breakfast together. He and I almost always had the same thing: eggs Benedict and whole wheat toast for him; American omelet and white toast for me.
Carl was an ancient, full of wisdom and experience. I was almost 20 years his junior, yet I remained engrossed by tales of his boyhood in his native Holland, his adventures in the Dutch underground, and his constant efforts to keep his painting alive as a meaningful part of his life.
Carl and I talked about the old days and compared them to how we lived today. We shared our lives as if we were lending each other our favorite books, eliciting views and opinions. I never fail to admire and cherish this man who still showed great vitality after so many years. Yet, he called me "smart as a vip" in his delightful accent, because I programed his VCR or fix the lock on his back door that only needed some oil.
Every Saturday, Robert and I had lunch together. Robert was no more than a child at the time, full of innocence and pep. He is my son. Robert did not have a favorite eating place; we could go anywhere - to a fast food place, an established restaurant, or a drive-through. Robert talked about his favorite fire truck books, how he liked snow, and what he was going to do later on in the day. Talking about next month, next year, or even next Wednesday was beyond Robert. His was the world of the moment, the immediate. Life was much too exciting to think about what it could be, or what it once was.
Meeting with these two, a young child, probing his world with eyes and ears, and Carl, with years of kindly "been there done that" was uniquely stimulating. I considered myself very fortunate as I swung between their two worlds, mixing maturity with the unadorned, wisdom with guilelessness, and venerability with the unexplored. Aside from their differences in age and experience, they had much in common. Both had a wonderful sense of humor. Both chose their words carefully. Both had a sparkle in them as they relate their own images of life.
This kind of recipe is powerful against all kinds of assaults by the world of mediocrity and the commonplace. Both gave me a sense of the future and the past. Carl is my future -- one not mired in worn and archaic bearings, but of continued enlightenment. Through him, I experience the wisdom of his past, and I delight in his vitality.
Robert also represents the future, for obvious reasons. I also saw,and still see my past in his young bright eyes, in his eagerness to explore new horizons. Carl talked about mixing new colors; Robert dragged me out at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning to crack ice in the puddles on the dirt road. Carl mapped out his designs on foolscap; Robert traced his in the frost on the window pane.
Breakfast with Carl and Robert, had no age, no education, or the lack of interfering with the way of these two individuals enjoyed each other's company. I watched them and was filled with affection.
My being with the two of them gives rise to the thought that this is what families, or communities, should be like. Carl teaches me principles and learning. Robert teaches me trust and aspiration.
Between these two friends, I reveled in two worlds, taking from each the very best to maintain and build my own.
I had such a friend. His name was Carl and he was from that land of windmills and dykes and tulips and clogs - Holland. I can say "Holland" now, but in his presence, it always had to be the Netherlands, or "Nayderlont", as he so musically pronounced it.
Carl passed several years ago, but recently my daughter revived my love and respect for this painter and artist. She had visited Amsterdam, and in that city of canals and one "built upon dodgy foundations both literally with sand, wood, and gravel laid upon one another to build the ever sinking architecture" as she put it. "I wanted to see it through his eyes." In her own recollections, she helped me recall my friendship with this ballet-loving Dutchman.
Each Saturday morning, weather and social schedules permitting, Carl and I had breakfast together. He and I almost always had the same thing: eggs Benedict and whole wheat toast for him; American omelet and white toast for me.
Carl was an ancient, full of wisdom and experience. I was almost 20 years his junior, yet I remained engrossed by tales of his boyhood in his native Holland, his adventures in the Dutch underground, and his constant efforts to keep his painting alive as a meaningful part of his life.
Carl and I talked about the old days and compared them to how we lived today. We shared our lives as if we were lending each other our favorite books, eliciting views and opinions. I never fail to admire and cherish this man who still showed great vitality after so many years. Yet, he called me "smart as a vip" in his delightful accent, because I programed his VCR or fix the lock on his back door that only needed some oil.
Every Saturday, Robert and I had lunch together. Robert was no more than a child at the time, full of innocence and pep. He is my son. Robert did not have a favorite eating place; we could go anywhere - to a fast food place, an established restaurant, or a drive-through. Robert talked about his favorite fire truck books, how he liked snow, and what he was going to do later on in the day. Talking about next month, next year, or even next Wednesday was beyond Robert. His was the world of the moment, the immediate. Life was much too exciting to think about what it could be, or what it once was.
Meeting with these two, a young child, probing his world with eyes and ears, and Carl, with years of kindly "been there done that" was uniquely stimulating. I considered myself very fortunate as I swung between their two worlds, mixing maturity with the unadorned, wisdom with guilelessness, and venerability with the unexplored. Aside from their differences in age and experience, they had much in common. Both had a wonderful sense of humor. Both chose their words carefully. Both had a sparkle in them as they relate their own images of life.
This kind of recipe is powerful against all kinds of assaults by the world of mediocrity and the commonplace. Both gave me a sense of the future and the past. Carl is my future -- one not mired in worn and archaic bearings, but of continued enlightenment. Through him, I experience the wisdom of his past, and I delight in his vitality.
Robert also represents the future, for obvious reasons. I also saw,and still see my past in his young bright eyes, in his eagerness to explore new horizons. Carl talked about mixing new colors; Robert dragged me out at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning to crack ice in the puddles on the dirt road. Carl mapped out his designs on foolscap; Robert traced his in the frost on the window pane.
Breakfast with Carl and Robert, had no age, no education, or the lack of interfering with the way of these two individuals enjoyed each other's company. I watched them and was filled with affection.
My being with the two of them gives rise to the thought that this is what families, or communities, should be like. Carl teaches me principles and learning. Robert teaches me trust and aspiration.
Between these two friends, I reveled in two worlds, taking from each the very best to maintain and build my own.
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