Yet There is Method

January 12, 2021

My team lost last night.

I wish they’d won, but they didn’t–the other team did.

For whatever reason (some call it fate, divine providence, chance: take your pick), I was born in Dayton, Ohio. As I understand it, I spent the first few years of my life living in an apartment within the city boundaries before spending the rest of my childhood in what I call, “a suburb of a suburb” some 25 minutes from the place of my birth.  

I don’t have much of a recollection regarding those “first few years” of my life, but I distinctly remember leaving the second house at the ripe old age of 17 to join the Marine Corps, so I’m pretty sure about those later years.

Ohio was a great place to grow up.  

“If I were giving a young man advice as to how he might succeed in life, I would say to him, pick out a good father and mother, and begin life in Ohio.”

Wilbur Wright, 1910

My memories involve snowy winters and hot clear summer days.  A few tornadoes, hiking through the woods in the southeast part of the state, and a relatively uneventful childhood.  It was Ohio, for goodness’ sake.

My team lost last night.

I grew up with one sport in my life: Baseball.  I wasn’t a particularly good player, but I could throw the ball to home plate from center field, so that was the position I remember playing.  (I do have one good baseball story that comes to mind every time I hear Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days,” but that’s about it.)  The Cincinnati Reds were usually competitive during my childhood years, and they were dominant for a few of them (see Big Red Machine). Baseball was and, to a degree, is still my sport.

Football, though, is pretty big around my home here in north Alabama.  It’s pretty big up in Ohio as well, despite my lack of awareness when I lived there.  (One quick anecdote about how clueless I used to be when it comes to football: When I moved to Alabama in 2000, I got my family members Alabama sweatshirts because I thought they referred to the state.  Um, no, Tim, they’re all about the football team.  Oddly enough, I’ve never seen a family member wear that shirt.)

My team lost last night.

Most of the folks I know here in the south are fans of the University of Alabama football team, but I decided years ago to root for the team of my birth state, The Ohio State University.  It just seemed right.  I was born there and raised there.  Most of my family still lives there, and I visit when I can.  

I have a lot of good reasons to support my team.  Despite their loss last night, the OSU football team is a darn good group of players.  They were good enough to score 24 points against the best team in the nation.  Unfortunately, the best team in the nation was good enough, last night, to score 52 points against them.

I’m not one to talk (too much) trash, but I can point out that last time the two teams met some six years ago, my team did win.  And, historically, they’re good enough that they could win the next time they meet in the future.  They’re a good team, a competitive team.  I believe in my team.  

My team lost last night.

We could talk about some possible reasons my team lost last night.  Our starting quarterback took a debilitating hit just 10 days or so ago.  Certainly that slowed him down–it had to.  The Buckeyes were down three starting players due to Covid-19, and they lost their starting running back to injury on his first possession of the game.   

We could also talk about the advantages the University of Alabama enjoyed last night.  Their coach’s name is at home amongst the greats of the game, and–as of last night–he’s won more national championships than any other head coach in the history of the game.  Their starting quarterback is nothing short of top-notch, and one of their receivers won the Heisman Trophy just a few days ago.

Two good teams, great teams, historied teams, and in their most recent matchup, my team lost.  At the end of the night, my team lost.  There will be a post-game analysis, some soul searching, and an effort to do better next time, but last night my team lost.

It’s not the fault of the referees, the field, or the weather.  They lost.  Next time they might win, but this time they lost.  The other team scored more points, and that’s what wins games.  I hope the best for them next time, but this time…well, my team lost.  When one’s team loses, they lost.

Honestly, this post isn’t about football at all, now is it?

I’m a bag person.  

I love a good bag–any kind: Tote Bags, lunch bags, pencil bags, nice paper bags, and especially backpacks of all sorts.  I have a deep appreciation for daypacks, book bags, tear-drop bags, extended-day packs, even full blown hiking backpacks, though I don’t have a use for one of those anymore.  

Bags are a weakness.  I can’t be sure, but I think it’s because I’m also a guy who likes to take his stuff with him, and I have a lot of stuff.  Going to school, for example, involves at least three bags on any given day. Fortunately, I have a good selection of bags to choose from. 

I’ve got my book bag with my computers and associated paraphernalia, as I’m an itinerant elementary-grade science coach.  I’ve got my lunch bag that’s actually a large tote bag holding my smaller lunch box (soft-sided) and my beverage bag.  That last one holds my thermos and my water bottle.  Finally, I’ve got another bag or two carrying whatever I need for my current project.  That might include cameras, microphones, lab equipment, or supplies for activities and experiments.

Bags are a major part of my hiking trips as well.  I know people have to wonder why I’m normally wearing a daypack on a trail that most folks hike carrying only a water bottle, if that.

Well, if you need water, of course I’ve got a bottle.  Again, most folks do.  But, what about a snack?  I’ve probably got one of those in my pack.  Lost?  I’ve got a compass, just in case I need to know the general direction of the trailhead.  My phone does the heavy lifting with navigation, but it’s good to be prepared.  

Want to see something small?  I’ve got a magnifying glass or two. Want to take a picture with a size reference?  I’ve got a folding meter stick.  Flashlight?  Of course I’ve got one, although I didn’t that time I finished a hike by the glow of a flip phone (it’s been a while). Need to start a fire or make a sling in an emergency?  There’s a lighter and a small hank of rope in my pack.  Sam Gamgee knew the value of a bit of rope, and so do I. 

Seeing me with a largish daypack, you might ask, “Why not a smaller bag?”

That’s where I cross the line, arguably, from need to want.  Coffee, anyone?  I’ve got either a thermos that’s full, or–if it’s a long day out–a small stove and the pot to boil water.  Those longer days require a small coffee press, so that’s in there, too.  Of course I’ve got all the fixings, as well as a few plastic sheets for my wife and me to sit upon.

—–

—–

For better or worse, I think the bag thing might be genetic.  My wife and I gave our granddaughters daypacks for Christmas, and we’ve done our best to see that they have opportunities to use them. We gave them to the girls a few days early, and since then we’ve been on the trail twice.  

Yesterday we picked them up for a short excursion, and as we prepared, we gave them their snack bags (small drawstring bags containing a cup, a few pouches of hot chocolate, a spoon, a snack, and a napkin).  

The oldest said, “I’m not sure I’ve got room for that.”

With smiles on our faces, we opened her pack to find two stuffed animals and at least a dozen small plastic toys with their egg carton-like container.  This was all surrounded by a good amount of Christmas gift detritus.

“Are you sure you’re going to want to carry all of this?” It was a silly question, but it had to be asked.

“Yes.” Determination.

“Okay, but you have to carry your snack.”  As it turned out, there was room.  Not a lot–we had to strap her sweatshirt to the outside of the pack halfway up the trail–but there was room.

She was a trooper, and carried that pack on her seven-year-old back for more than three miles without a complaint.  I’m proud of her, though I’m sorry if I’m responsible for the bag thing.  

One of yesterday’s grins came as we were passing a family on the trail.  We were just getting started, and they were headed toward the parking lot.  A young girl, just about my granddaughter’s age, was leading the way, her arms swinging freely.  Her mother, though, was carrying a large stuffed animal that I suspect wasn’t actually hers.  My unspoken thought: “Shoulda given that kid a backpack, too!”

When I think about the things that have been given to me over the course of my life, I’m struck with the realization that I’ve forgotten the vast majority–I mean the vast majority–of those them.  

I don’t know what I got for my 11th birthday.  No clue.  Honestly, I’m not sure I remember everything I was given for my 56th birthday, and that was just last month.  

Christmas of 2006?  I’ll bite…what?

Graduation gifts?  It’s safe to say someone gave me money (well, for high school), but I don’t remember anything about it.  Wedding gifts? I remember a few.  Fathers Day? I’m sorry, but no.

I don’t think I’m alone here.  I mean, we’re given stuff all the time.  We receive it, we’re thankful for it, and then we let it go.  I don’t remember all that I’ve given, either.  We get, we give, and most of the time we forget.  For better or worse.

The other day, though, I was struck by the awesomeness of one of the things I’ve been given.  Truth be told, I don’t remember the circumstances of the giving, or even to whom I owe the earliest thanks.  I just remember the gift, and how appreciative I am for it.

It came to my mind while I was standing in a music store late last week.  I was shopping for a MIDI controller.  Why I was shopping for a MIDI controller is another story, but that’s what I was doing.  (For those who might not know, a MIDI controller is–in essence–a keyboard for a computer.  A keyboard that looks and functions like a piano keyboard, not a computer keyboard.  It’s used to input data such as notes and triggers for electronic music.)

Now, I’m not a piano player, and the only claim I have to being a keyboardist is the ability to type with all ten fingers, even though my left thumb is only used rarely.  That said, as I was testing the controller (a mere formality, since I’m only getting started with electronic music), I played a few chords in the key of C, specifically the C, F, and G chords.  

Why those chords?  Well, they don’t require me to use the black keys, and they’re usually some of the first chords a beginner learns on the piano.  Also, I knew that the “I, IV, and V” chords (Roman numerals) are the primary chords in any key, and I knew that those major chords are made of the up of the 1st, 3rd, and 5th notes in the major scale based on any given note.

Wow, even though that was basic stuff, it sounded complicated.  I know the theory, but it was still kind of tough to put into words. 

The thing is, though, that I can take that knowledge, and use it to pick up and play (though not necessarily well) any instrument in that music store. Guitars, bass guitars, ukuleles, mandolins, violins, and anything with a keyboard: I can play them, albeit with very limited proficiency. 

For those who know about such things, you of course noticed that I didn’t say anything about brass or woodwind instruments.  Those things are dark magic, and I’m clueless.

Why can I play all of those instruments?  Because I was given the gift of music, all those years ago.  The story is fuzzy, at best, but at some point I was given the knowledge of how music works and the opportunity to put what I learned into action.

And I am now, and always will be, grateful.

For me, the gift of music is up there with reading and the ability to perform basic mathematical operations (and woodworking–I’m thankful for that, too). I don’t use it every day, but it’s there when I want it or need it.

To my folks for the support, my teachers, and all of the authors who wrote the countless books and articles I’ve read: Thank you!

Being “in nature.”

What does that even mean?  As is sometimes the case, I’ve recently had a few different versions of the “nature” question presented to me in a variety of formats, all within just a few days.  

Maybe that–being presented with different versions of an idea within a short amount of time–happens with a greater degree of frequency than I think it does and I just don’t notice it, but I don’t think so.  I mean, it’s common on social media, but that’s only after I do an internet search for something. 

Look!  A squirrel! 

Back to nature.  Being out in nature.  

Okay, one more aside: one of the bits of information that recently came my way concerned the flora and fauna of one’s indoor spaces.   As in, under one’s bed or in one’s bathroom.  In one’s kitchen or living room.  Indoors.  Kind of cool to think about, unless you’re trying to go to sleep.

That’s not what I’m writing about, though.  I’m writing about another idea, that of the natural succession of disturbed land.  

—

It’s early December, and the sun sets early enough that getting outside after school can be a challenge.  It was something I wanted to do on a recent afternoon, though, so I clocked out as soon as I could and came straight home.  After a quick change of clothing into something warmer, my wife and I were back out the door.  We wanted to walk on some trails at a local land preserve called Harvest Square.  It’s really close to the house–just a five-minute-or-so drive–and we love it for its convenient location.

It’s a small preserve with just about a mile of trail that winds through it.  The land, as I understand it, was donated by the developer who built a small shopping area (a grocery store and the usual assortment of small businesses that one finds nearby) adjacent to the preserve, and it includes two ponds that were formed when dirt was excavated to level the construction site.  

There is a significant amount of land undergoing natural succession, as well as a stand of woods that hasn’t seen cutting in at least a few decades.

Most of this preserve is what I understand to be disturbed land.  Land that’s not as natural processes made it.  Land that has recently seen bulldozers and other heavy equipment as well as chainsaws and piles of debris that smolder for days after the half-hearted attempt to burn them. 

Disturbed land.

As we walked that trail, though, I wondered if the birds flying through the trees and the occasional squirrel in the undergrowth got the memo, as they say.

In the area of north Alabama where I live, natural succession above the grasses and forbs often starts with one of the Callery pears, either the Bradford or Cleveland.  They’re invasive, and absolutely dominate until taller trees take over in a decade or so.

The birds, though, nest in their branches and find concealment in their leaves.

Loblolly pines are one of the few trees that can compete with the Callery pears, and their early growth is vigorous.  Loblolly pines are the type of tree that is often planted after a clear cut so lumber companies can say they replanted.  The loblolly is a wonderful tree in its own right, but it’s certainly not the oak or hickory it typically replaces.

The squirrels, though, find food by destroying the green cones in an effort to get to the developing seeds, and the birds are happy to eat what the squirrels do not, although not until the cone matures in a few more weeks.

The Callery pears and the loblolly pines are signs of disturbed land, yet they’re still nature.  Deer run through them, snakes and other reptiles live in the detritus and debris at their bases, and fish–brought in through the ephemeral creek that runs through the property–swim in their shadows.  

Nature.

I know that the big picture isn’t as many would want it, including myself.  Earth moving equipment (let that term sink in for a moment) wouldn’t have torn the original flora up by its roots or disturbed the native fauna.  Yet, it did, and nature is doing its thing and covering the scars.  Small picture stuff, but I’ll take it. 

For better or worse, when my phone rings I almost always know who is calling.  

99% of the calls I answer are from people I’ve put in my phone as contacts (always leave a message the first time you call me).  The other 1% is broken down between someone from whom I’m expecting a call and the rare solicitation call that comes when I’m expecting a call from someone else.  Hate it when that happens…

Earlier tonight, just about an hour ago, my phone rang and the image on the screen showed my wife looking back at me.

“Hello!” I said after pushing the green button.

“Hi.”  

Silence.

“Hello,” I said again, thinking the connection was bad.

“Hi,” said the voice again.  A voice that was not my wife’s.  A smile crossed my face as I realized it was my youngest granddaughter who was out shopping with her Nana.

“Hello, how are you?” I asked.

“Fine.  I’m calling to see if I can come over tonight.”

Like I’m going to say no.

“Of course.  It would be fun to have you come over!”

“Okay.  I’ll see you later,” she said with a voice that was both confident and unsure all at the same time.

“Okay.  See you in a bit.”

I was reaching for the button to hang up when I heard my wife’s voice through the descending handset.

“Hey,” she started, “is it okay if she comes over tonight?”

I wasn’t sarcastic–not even a little.  That said, I’d just coordinated the evening with a six-year-old; what else was there to say to her grandmother?

“Of course,” I replied instead.

“She said she can be quiet,” Lisa continued.  

“I’m sure she will,” I said.  I’ll see you in a bit!

—

As I’m writing this, I’m in a Zoom call with my writing group*.

—

Okay, sure.  She’s six years old and adores spending time with her grandmother.  She’ll be quiet, I thought as I hung up the phone…sure she will.  

Since I’m at the point now where I’m writing about real time events, I’m here to tell you that Lisa and her mini-me are not quiet grilled cheese makers.  

That’s okay.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.

---

*Looking for an online writing group?  Check out https://www.teachwrite.org (unsolicited endorsement–it’s a great group).

Crossed arms.  Lots of crossed arms.

Crossed arms and quiet.  Uncertainty.  Maybe a bit of fear, and maybe a bit of boredom: It was hard to tell.

Behind me, Wade Mountain and its deciduous forest stood some 700 feet above us.  In front of me stood some 50 feet, each pair belonging to about 20 Girl Scouts and a handful of their leaders.  

And they were quiet, with arms crossed and anxious energy on their faces.  Really quiet.

“Okay,” I started.  I always start my sentences with “okay” when I’m nervous, which I was, but for a reason entirely different from that of my young charges.

“Okay, who’s never been in the woods before? I mean, this is your first time up a trail like this,” I asked, gesturing to the path leading in through the trees.  Five or six hands raised slowly, half of them belonging to adults.  A murmur spread through the group, but it was too low for me to understand, so I went on.

“Okay, thanks. Okay, now, how many of you have been in the woods a lot?  Like, you’d be comfortable going alone,” I asked.  I was happy to see three or four hands shoot up, most of them belonging to the middle-school-aged girls.  That was encouraging.

As the hands went down, the group settled back down into silence.  And crossed arms.  Then again, that hadn’t really stopped.

It was just after 2:30 in the afternoon, and I had an hour and a half to introduce this troop to hiking and then lead them on a short trip into the preserve.  The trail we were to hike was relatively flat and easy, since I knew this was a beginner group.

I gave some information on the area and then began to go over some basic trail safety when a hand that was dying to go up couldn’t hold itself down any longer.

“Are there snakes?  Are we going to see any snakes?”

Normally, I answer that question with, “If we’re lucky,” but that clearly wasn’t the correct answer for today.

“Almost certainly not,” I replied.  Pointing to the parking lot behind them, I continued with, “Do you see all of those cars?  With that many people on the trail, any animal we might see is definitely hiding.”

She continued, her anxiety spilling out.  “What about other wildlife?  What lives up there?” 

“Well, there are some deer, raccoons, ‘possums, squirrels, and chipmunks.  Maybe some snakes and a few lizards, but, again, the chances of us seeing anything are pretty slim.”  The “snakes and a few lizards” part of my list came out quieter than the furry part of the list.  That seemed to work.

I’d talked enough, and it was time to go.  I turned to head up the trail, and with just the slightest bit of trepidation that comes with responsibility, the troop leader followed me into the open forest, her group trailing behind.  

North Alabama is beautiful in early November.  The trees still held enough leaves to give the woods a golden hue, and the trail was clear and wide.  The hike itself was wonderful, and confidence levels grew as the hour passed.  

Somewhere around the turnaround point, one of the older girls near the front decided that “Step up!” was the appropriate thing to say as every rock and root was traversed, which was often.  Her natural leadership ability was starting to come to the surface, so I rolled with her enthusiasm despite my love of the quiet woods.

As we rounded the final curve in the trail and the light reflecting off cars became visible, the words that I knew were coming rang out.

“We survived!  We survived!  We survived Wade Mountain!”

Yes, you did, and hopefully you’ll all give yourselves the chance to do it again sometime soon.