Got a match?

I've always loved autumn best. Sure, spring is the most welcome season, eagerly awaited after a gray, lingering winter. Summer? Everybody loves summer because it brings out the fun in all of us; It transforms us into kids bursting with joyful optimism, where anything is possible. It's no mystery to me why our forefathers had the unmitigated courage to declare independence from our overlord in England in summer. It's no surprise that a guy first walked on the moon in that shoot-for-the-sky season.

But to me autumn is special above all. Its noticeably shortening daylight signals the coming end of frivolity and encourages contemplation of more serious tasks ahead. Like sealing a house snugly against the coming winter cold. And cutting back the perennials in the garden hoping they will return in a few months, if we are lucky. Most of all though, autumn is filled with bittersweet emotion. It's one last exuberant splash of warmth and color to hold onto in our memory until winter finally relaxes its icy grip.

Yes, autumn is close to perfect … except for one missing element: The rich, earthy smell of burning leaves. 

When I was a kid that was always the final reward for hours spent raking leaves and piling them in a riot of brilliant color. Touching a match to the pile would first send tendrils of smoke into the sky and within minutes there would be a conflagration, giving off waves of heat and throwing ashes and sparks high into the air like miniature fireworks. 

That's frowned upon today. Illegal actually. There's the risk that it might set someone's home on fire, although I doubt it has happened very often. But we're told the smoke and those airborne particulates pose an environmental hazard to air breathers like us. I don't know about you but I see a greater environmental threat coming out of the tailpipe of half the diesel buses on the road today. Yet they go on fouling the air with their fumes while the rich, pleasantly pungent odor of burning leaves has been banished from our backyards forever.

Well, not so fast.

This year I've decided to fight back against encroaching limits to our freedom. When the time is right and the leaves are at their most colorful I will conduct a small ceremony, in the backyard of course.  Gathering a small amount of leaves I will set them ablaze in a container and then suck in deep breaths of the resulting smoke. I will emulate the pattern of dogs who love to roll around in stuff they really like—the smellier the better—in order to get the odor of it on their coats … and I will try to infuse my clothes and even my hair with the fragrance of that wonderful earthy blue smoke.

Will I influence others to defy the burning leaf ban? You never know. A single spark can start a revolution. 

But I will cherish that moment regardless. And I will keep those clothes in a sacred place where I can periodically return again and again to rekindle one of my favorite autumn memories.

If I could bottle it I could probably make a fortune.

Colorblind

They say that women dream in color and men dream in black and white. That may be true. But do you remember in color or black and white?

Because when I close my eyes and try to recall the images that have made the greatest impression on me I see nothing in color, just black and white. 

   —Worn, discouraged, haunted-looking people in the dustbowl during the '30s.

   —Couples in Times Square, joyfully embracing in celebration of the end of World War II.

   —Little John Kennedy Jr. saluting his slain father.

   —A young Vietnamese girl running naked on a road, screaming, her clothes and back having been burned by napalm.

   —A Viet Cong guerrilla executed by a pistol shot to the head.

  —The last U.S. helicopter to leave Saigon perched on the top of a building, with an impossibly long line of desperate South Vietnamese hoping to board it.

There are many more just like them. Each capturing a defining moment and conveying powerful emotion. And there isn't a single colorful Kodak moment among them. 

All I see is in vivid black and white.

You'd think that with all the rich, vibrant color film people have burned through over the years there might be something that stands out in my mind's eye. And with digital cameras so omnipresent today, you'd think that great color photos would be all over the place. A dime a dozen. 

But no. Somehow color doesn't leave a lasting impression for me. If anything color seems to detract—or distract—from the essence of a photo. 

Try to think of all the photos that have left an impression on you. Do you remember in color? Or black and white?

George Cruz

I drove into my parking garage one day only to learn, sadly, that the gentleman who managed the day shift had passed away suddenly over the weekend. The crew was in shock and so were many of us regulars.

George was a decent human being, the epitome of someone who put everything he had into doing things correctly and well. He wasn't a big shot. In the New York masses he was just another guy who went to work every day and put everything he had into making his garage better than the rest. He was outgoing with a ready smile and a positive view of life. How could you not like him and respect him?

George's guys also told me he left behind a wife who spoke little English and an adult daughter, both of whom were devastated. Entirely by coincidence, I had taken pictures of George and some of his people just a few weeks earlier, not sure what I would do with them. So when I went to the office I created this poster the guys could put up in the garage where patrons could see it, learn what happened, and maybe offer condolences to his family. It was the least I could do

It's a good idea to thank good people just for being who they are whenever you can. Someday it may be too late. 

I am a rock

I am a rock ... person. 

Totally.

You know how when visiting a place, people often follow a tradition of leaving a stone behind, as a silent witness to their visit? 

I've got a reverse tradition going. Wherever I travel I often bring a rock home with me, as a souvenir of my visit. 

To me, rocks can be interesting. Some have incredible character, shape, coloration. And they last forever. Everything, with the possible exception of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, is pretty much fair game in my book.

My collection includes examples from Thoreau's cabin at Walden Pond, the Monterey Peninsula, Florida, Maryland, Colorado, Pennsylvania, good old Cape Cod, the UK, France, Italy, you name it. I once found an interesting boulder in a stream while fly fishing in New York State and struggled knee deep in 40º water to work it loose just so I could lug it God only knows how far to my car. That was very nearly a hernia-inducing event.

So what do I do with these durable souvenirs?

Put them in my garden. Nothing blends better with plants than interesting rocks and boulders.

Garden gnomes are for wimps.

No doubt I've broken innumerable laws in my ceaseless quest. Perhaps, someday very soon, a surveillance drone will spot me in flagrant derocko, report my GPS coordinates to the authorities and there'll be hell to pay. Fines no doubt. Community service even.

My only hope is if they make me turn big rocks into little ones, I'll be happy.

I may even be able to sneak one or two home with me.

                               (Incriminating photo with a new friend.) 

Control what, exactly?

Recently I came across one of those many Top Places to Retire lists. It featured Holland, Michigan, (pop. 30,000), praising it as a wonderful small college town on a lake with a Dutch influence and its very own Tulip Festival, yadda, yadda, yadda. You've seen this stuff a million times. The Holland Chamber of Commerce must be delighted.

So guess what I found in the local news from charming little idyllic Holland, Michigan?

"The Tulip City" has a crime problem: Their very own Holland Latin Kings, two branches of them, violent and well-armed. The Feds just indicted 31 suspected leaders and members. 

What's interesting is that "the gang possesses 'nation guns,' which can be kept at various locations. They are also traded for other firearms with Latin Kings in Grand Rapids and Chicago, records showed."

I'll bet.

Now this is just a wild guess but does anyone believe that solid, upstanding people like members of the Holland Latin Kings—and similar groups around the country—give a crap about any of the gun laws most law-abiding people follow much less any new ones?

Acts of Love

A few months ago, as I was working on completing an outdoor project, showing it off to my daughter, she admired it, somewhat predictably, ... "very nice, dad" ... and then casually mentioned that there was a stain on the seat of my pants. "A brown stain" in her words.

It didn't register with me at first. The khakis in question are my work pants. Of course they have stains all over. There's a hole in one knee as well. The cuffs are fraying. Work pants. Stains. Stains. Work pants. Is there a problem here?

"Did you have an accident?,' she asked gently, quietly.

THAT caught me by surprise. She nurses people who are largely unable to care for themselves. The aged with dementia, Alzheimers and other problems. And children—even infants—tragically injured in accidents or abused by adult monsters. She cares for them with enormous compassion. She knows about brown stains.

"No, I didn't have an 'accident,' Emma," I replied with more than a little sarcasm.

That didn't stop her one bit.  

She suggested gently that maybe I should change my pants.

I told her I was wearing the appropriate pants for yard work. And I had more to do.

But she persisted, again, quietly. 

And that's when I realized that she was protecting me. We had house guests and she didn't want anyone to overhear—or to see her dad with a brown stain in the seat of his pants. Not if she had anything to say about it.

My heart jumped into my throat as I saw that my daughter was now caring for me the way my wife and I had cared for her. All those thousands of little acts of love that parents just do for their kids. She was now doing the same for me. She didn't want anyone to see me as weak or helpless. She didn't want me to be embarrassed in front of others.

I went and changed my pants. There was no "accident." The stain was so small I could barely see it. But she saw it. It had jumped out at her in a flash. And she responded in a way I will never forget. 

When my parents reached their later years I felt that a baton was gradually passed from them to my brothers and I. While Mom and Dad never relinquished their independence, they did permit us to do more for them and ultimately care for them when they couldn't care for themselves. We took on a parenting role.

Now I saw the very first sign that the overwhelmed, confused and frightened little kid we carefully scooped up off the plane from Korea so many years ago was reaching for that baton. Gently. Quietly. Protectively.

Another generational shift was beginning. Ever so gently.

President? Or role model?

Last night Mitt and Ann Romney were interviewed on Fox and according to Mitt, he says he's not going to disappear.

I hope not. While he failed in his bid to win the Presidency he may be infinitely more valuable to our nation as a role model in how to live a decent life, be a productive, caring citizen and in so doing achieve personal success.

At the risk of sounding like that lowlife John Edwards, there really are two Americas today. Charles Murray has spelled it all out in his latest book, Coming Apart. 

There's one America where people follow the traditional and possibly boring path that usually includes things like attending school, studying and graduating from high school then going on to university or technical school in the hope of developing worthwhile and marketable skills. 

Marriage might follow, and after that, a family—kids. It means being a good parent—a BIG job. And being a good husband or wife—not just when times are easy but when they become tough and trying. You can get through life without developing spiritual faith or believing in God. That's a personal choice. But people who possess a strong faith tend to have a durable set of values they can carry with them throughout their lives. That can be a source of strength when times do get rough—and they most certainly will. It can also help them be better citizens in their communities and do a better job raising their children while giving them their own set of values to live by. 

Being a good citizen means more than paying your taxes and showing up at the polls to vote every so often. It involves things like volunteering as a firefighter, a soccer coach or scoutmaster. It means showing up at parents' night, school board and borough council meetings (boring though they may be at times). It means being a good neighbor and noticing if something seems amiss in the house across the street or in the behavior of the kids on the block and then doing something about it. It might even require you to take enough interest in your country that you decide to serve it directly in the military or working in a government agency or even—God bless you—running for public office yourself.

In the other, non-traditional America, people are more likely to drop out of school and fail to get both an education and marketable skills. They are more likely to have children out of wedlock and not be around to provide the homework help, guidance and values only parents can. Instead of contributing to society, they are more likely to become dependent on society. Their chances of personal success are slim and as a result their children carry a greater burden in their own struggle to succeed. 

By all accounts, Mitt and Ann have lived good and decent lives. Instead of holding them up for ridicule, as some people have, America should be looking to them as examples.

We would all be better for it.