Author: Tim Gels

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.

Crouching beside my granddaughter who was sitting on the trail, my wife looked up at me.

“Tim, do you have a handkerchief?”

I didn’t say anything as I reached up to release my daypack’s sternum buckle, allowing the bag to slip easily from my shoulders.  I moved it to lean against the front of my body and reached into the pocket where I knew I had stashed a clean bandana before our hike.

I didn’t say anything because this was a crucial moment.  My granddaughter, who had seconds ago crashed and burned while skipping down a north Alabama trail, was looking down at the scrapes on her knees that were starting to ooze blood.  Leaving her knees, her gaze then went to her hands which were also battered from the fall.  My wife and I waited, not wanting to encourage an outburst by revealing our concerns.  Were there going to be tears?

Nope.  Not that day.

My wife distracted our granddaughter by dramatically pouring a bit of water into the cupped handkerchief and then wringing it out before starting to clean the first knee.

“Ooh, you’ve got blood on that one.  That’s one knee.  Give me five!” she said, looking expectantly into the damp eyes of the six-year-old.  On something akin to autopilot, she raised her hand to slap the one offered by Lisa.

“Ooh, look, you’ve got blood on your other knee.  That’s two!  Give me ten!”  Again, their hands came together, this time twice.

“And your hand,” my wife said, wiping a smear of blood and dirt from one of the little palms. “You’ve got blood in three places!  Give me 15!”  Three hand claps this time, with a smile starting to form beneath the teary eyes.

“And your other hand, too!  Four places!  Give me twenty!”

I waited for them to slap their hands together four times before I offered more information.

“Umm, your left elbow, too.  There’s a bit of a mess there,” I said quietly.  They both looked down in unison.

“Wait,” my wife said, wiping the mud away.  “There’s no blood there, just mud.  That doesn’t count.”

By now the tears that almost rolled down her cheeks were starting to subside, and the kiddo wiped them from her eyes before taking the back of her hand to her nose for good measure.

A bit more time was taken to examine the wounds, then they both returned to their feet.

Our granddaughter had already turned back to the trail, not wanting to lose position with her sister. 

“Be careful,” my wife and I said together, but our admonition fell on ears that were already moving away at a faster pace than was wise for the rocky trail.

With my eyes rolling, I tucked the handkerchief back into my pocket and we were on our way, just hoping to keep up.

Have you ever tried teaching musical chord theory to a six-year-old?

Me either.  

Wow, that would be crazy.  I can’t even imagine.  I suppose there are people who can do it–and six-year-olds who can learn it–but they’re not in my immediate family.

If I’m being honest, my own grasp of music theory isn’t that great, but that doesn’t mean I can’t play what have been called the “three magic chords” on a few different instruments.  In case you don’t know, and you’re not six years old, the “three magic chords” in any key are the 1st, the 4th, and the fifth; in the key of C, that would be C, F, and G.  If that doesn’t make sense, please just trust me for now.  Many, many songs are based on those three chords alone; if you want me to I can make up a percentage, but for now I’ll leave it at, “it’s a lot.”

So, back to the six-year-old.  It’s my youngest granddaughter (my regular readers nod their heads and whisper, “Of course it is”), who’s been showing an interest in music for a few years now.  Until now, my encouragement has been limited to modeling (read: playing) and making instruments available.  Making them available, that is, with close supervision for everything except the dulcimer since it’s darn near indestructible.

When it comes to actually teaching, though, one of the obstacles young people face when learning a stringed instrument is, well, the strings.  Typically steel with a diameter measured in thousands of an inch, they’re tensioned to a degree that means simply pushing them to the fingerboard is anything but simple when your hand is small.  Adults know the pain as well when they first start playing–it’s hard.

The aforementioned dulcimer is nice to play because of its low string action, but it’s not a “guitar,” and it doesn’t have the same appeal as the instrument grandpa plays.  

Enter the ukulele.

The ukulele has enjoyed a surge of popularity in the last decade or so, but until now I’ve largely let it go by.  My, ahem, older readers might get the reference when I say that my being well over six feet tall and the fact that I go by, “Tim,” has had something to do with my hesitation toward the instrument.  Maybe I just wanted to avoid the latest fad, I don’t know.  Regardless, I haven’t had an interest until my youngest kin expressed a desire to play an instrument like the one I do.

Though the ukulele isn’t indestructible, it is relatively inexpensive, so two of them now have a home in my living room, readily available to the youngest musicians in my life as well as to me.  They’re fun to play, and they’ve got me thinking about polishing up my falsetto. We’ll see.

My family and I got home from the Gulf Coast just the other day, and it’s wonderful to be back.  My wife, Lisa, and I have, as long as I can remember, held the belief that the best part of going away is coming back home.  

Lisa’s an organizer.  I’m not going to say she enjoys the planning and packing, per se, but she’s good at it and I think she finds satisfaction in it.  There’s something to be said for unpacking once we’re back home, though.  We try to do it quickly so we can settle back into our home routine without bags and boxes sitting around for days.

The drive down (it’s usually “down,” as in south to the coast from our home in north Alabama) is an organized affair, with everything in its place and an overall sense of organization.  The drive back up, by necessity, has a degree of organization as well–just to get everything back into the car–but it’s not quite the same as that initial trip.

Settling into our destination is a lot of fun.  Those first few days are exciting, and we do our best to relax and enjoy the time with family.  We love being on the coast even more than being on the beach, and each day there is a pleasure.  That said, there comes a time when we each start to think about being back home, and we begin to look forward to it.

And here we are, back home.  Our youngest granddaughter has already asked if we could make a countdown chain for next year.  I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but it won’t be long.