JUST A MINUTE

Last night after dinner the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

“Is Brandi there?” asked a voice I recognized.

“Just a minute,” I offered, and then called to my daughter, “Brandi! It’s Karen.” Within seconds, Brandi took the phone from my hand and entered into an animated dialogue with her friend. Within seconds . . .

I didn’t mean to lie to Karen and I don’t think she was upset, but it hadn’t taken the full minute I claimed it would take.

A few nights ago, Brandi and I went out for dinner. We finished our meal and the waitress brought our check. She laid it on the table and said, “I’ll be back to pick it up when you’re ready.” With a smile she walked away, tending to other tables.

I placed my credit card on the table and waited. Several minutes later she came back to retrieve it. She didn’t come back when I was ready, as I was ready as soon as I laid my card down. She came back when she was ready.

I didn’t know where a friend lived who I planned to visit one day. I called and he gave me directions. The last direction he gave was, “Turn left onto Village Road. I’m right around the corner.”

When I turned left onto Village Road, there was a gas station, an optometrist’s office, and what looked like it used to be a miniature golf course, but there was no house. Thinking maybe my friend said right, instead of left, I pulled over and turned around. The other corner had a drug store, a Laundromat, and a florist, but again no houses.

I turned around once more and headed back the original way on Village Road. I slowly drove about a mile before spotting a house. Getting closer I saw my friend’s address and last name posted on the mailbox. Well, he did live around the corner, just up about another mile.

“Just a minute” translates into “a pretty short time.” It may be a few seconds or perhaps a few minutes, but it’s probably shorter than the time it took to paint the Sistine Chapel. “When you’re ready” means “when I’m ready.” I hope you’re not standing on your tiptoes, unsteadily holding a fragile stained glass window in place, when your friend suddenly dashes off in a hurry and yells, “I’ll be back to help when you’re ready.” “Around the corner” means “somewhere past the corner you’ll find it.” By that definition I suppose I could say Alaska is right around the corner from Hawaii.

We are very loose in the expressions we use, but expect everyone understands exactly what we mean. What’s worse is we often get angry when we’re misunderstood. A simple misunderstanding over an already vague statement can cause family members to stop speaking to each other for decades. If a simple misunderstanding can create such disharmony, think of how heinous an intentional lie is.

It’s easy to bandy around expressions. Usually the meanings are pretty clear. But, assuming everyone understands everything we utter is dangerous. When misunderstandings occur, practicing tolerance goes a long way to restore harmony. It only takes just a minute.

HOLA, OLA

You learn something new everyday, right? Well, I learned something new that increased my understanding of international linguistics. And, of all places, I learned it in a Mexican restaurant during the fiesta portion of our typical Monday night yogachilada evening (first introduced in my post Yogachilada Day).

Brandi, my daughter, and I went out for our usual dinner of enchiladas after yoga. While munching fresh warm tortilla chips dipped in fiery hot salsa, I glanced at a tent-card on the table advertising a drink called Ola Verde, with its English translation listed as “Green Wave.” I knew “verde” meant “green,” so I surmised “ola” meant “wave.” After consulting with Alexia, our Spanish linguistic expert who also doubled as our waitress, she indeed verified “ola” meant “wave.”

I queried further, “Doesn’t the word ‘hola’ mean ‘hello’ in Spanish? And it’s pronounced the same as ‘ola,’ but spelled differently?”

“Si, senor,” Alexia affirmed, “It does mean ‘hello’ and is pronounced like ‘ola,’ but it’s spelled with an ‘h’ at the beginning.”

Eureka! Like in English, Spanish also has homophones — words pronounced the same, but with different spellings and meanings. Of course it makes sense other languages have homophones. I just never considered the possibility before.

How many unconsidered possibilities lie beyond our reach simply because we’re not aware of them? An infinite amount, I bet. Paying attention to what’s going on right now is exciting. The wonder of life abounds in every moment!

I’m now imagining Jeff, my surfer-dude buddy, chanting “Hola, ola!” as a mantra every time he sees a killer wave approach!

Some homophones in English are the words “pare,” “pear,” and “pair.” The pronunciation of each is the same, but the spellings are obviously different and their meanings differ. On a pair of pears I can pare off the peel while my friend peals off the line at a red light. Then revel in the throes of joy as he throws the peels out a window, hitting a queen leaning against a lamppost like a quean. After discarding the waste, I can expand my waist by eating the two pears, too. Then again, my friend may wish that with a whish I toss him a slice. I can share my cache, bought with spare cash. And then sing him a hymn of praise, while he also prays. We may then stop for a few ales, which are certainly good for whatever ails you.

If there’s any pear leftover, we can place it in a bowl and then rent a lane to go bowl. Words spelled the same that sound alike but have different meanings are homographs. So after bowling we can commune in a commune, leap a yard at time as we flee from the yard, stalk animals through a field of corn stalks, quail over a quail that startles us, snake past a snake in the grass, compress a compress over the wound if it bites us, bear the fright of running into a bear, bow to a king sailing in the bow of a ship, subject his subjects to our arguments as we contest the outcome of a contest, offer the king a rose after he rose from a royal nap, and listen to him object if he’s pricked by the object.

Homophones and homographs are members of the same family called homonyms. It’s a lot like we are with the Mexican staff at the restaurant — all members of the human family.

CANNED OLIVES AND JARRED MUSHROOMS

There’s something exciting about opening a can of black olives! It fills me with a cozy feeling of satisfaction, while I also tingle in anticipation.

I think it’s because olives were such a special treat for me as a child. My mother, having grown up in the Great Depression, was normally frugal. Olives were a luxury, reserved for holidays. So, opening a can of them was rare and I savored every last one, though unfortunately I had to share them with everyone else.

I remember when I was very young the olives contained pits. Worried I might choke, my mother cut the olives off the pits and gave me the pieces. I’m sure it wasn’t a task she relished, but she fiercely guarded the safety of all her children.

After a time, the olives came with the pits already removed. I’m not sure if pitting olives was a technology perfected during my youth or if my mom just got tired of cutting them for me. Maybe by then my parents advanced another rung on the prosperity ladder and could now just afford them. It’s interesting how people measure their wealth.

I discovered a clever way to eat pitted olives which garnered me some small status of celebrity. I placed an olive on the end of each finger and ate them from my fingertips. My family routinely requested I entertain them with this performance. I quickly realized I liked performing. My family then quickly discerned which behaviors of mine to encourage and which to ignore.

Perhaps all small children who like olives discover this trick. But, I was the youngest. If my siblings did that trick, I didn’t know about it. Regardless, it was now my turn to shine. Old tricks are still creative when discovered for the first time by a new generation.

Another treat I loved during holidays was gravy made with jarred mushrooms. Gravy is good by itself, but the mushrooms elevate it to a delight. It’s a tradition I carry on today.

Once when talking with a friend about cooking, mushrooms entered into our discussion. She emphatically stated, “Fresh mushrooms are so delicious! Why would anyone use jarred?”

That made me think. I love fresh mushrooms and use them for just about everything else I cook, but in gravy I use jarred. That’s the way mamma made it and it’s the way I continue to make it.

The next time I made gravy I intentionally used fresh mushrooms. They added a nice flavor and the texture was pleasing, but it felt wrong. Something was missing. Then I realized what it was. It wasn’t the flavor or the texture, the gravy was missing nostalgia.

Jarred mushrooms in my gravy provide a link connecting me with the warmth of my mother’s love. The love is always present and all I have to do to tap into it is remember. But, the mushrooms act as ritualistic tools which trigger subconscious feelings; the same way incense burned during religious ceremonies triggers deep rooted beliefs.

I went to the pantry and opened a can of olives.

TEN MINUTES

In ten minutes I’ll be ten minutes older than I am right now. What will I have to show for my ten minutes? Who will I show it to?

In ten minutes I can wash and dry my coffee pot, play a game of solitaire, drive up to the store for a candy bar, dance Chopin’s Minute Waltz ten times, rack up about forty dollars of a lawyer’s time, do half a session of aerobic exercise, or make an omelet. In other words, I can’t really do anything of real consequence.

I can’t build a skyscraper, father a child, earn a university degree, write a novel, grow sunflowers, rebuild an engine, climb Mt. Everest, send an astronaut to the moon, broker a peace treaty in the Middle East, or end world hunger. Those things take longer — much longer.

There’s not really a lot I can do in ten minutes. Or is there?

In ten minutes I can meet someone new, setting into motion the wheels of love which eventually turn into marriage and begin a family with our first child. Family life could provide the setting to share in activities, like working the backyard soil into a garden. We could grow sunflowers, azalea bushes, and perhaps even vegetables. As a hobby, I could buy a classic car to restore and rebuild its engine. I might even take up the challenge of mountain climbing and attempt to scale Mt. Everest. All these experiences provide material for writing a novel.

I can practice a calculus problem in ten minutes, thereby increasing my mastery of mathematics on the road to earning a university degree. Plugging away at my studies can strengthen my ability to calculate trajectories, velocities, gravitational pull, and other parameters necessary to send astronauts into space. I could also apply mathematical principles toward determining angles, stress points, weight ratios, and other factors needed to build skyscrapers.

Instead of pursuing a technical degree, my interests may lie more in public service. By studying history, political science, and other disciplines related more toward working with people, perhaps I’ll become an ambassador sent to trouble spots as a mediator. The problems facing the Middle East can certainly use someone to help settle differences. If humanitarian endeavors or more to my liking, then a career helping to bring food into needy areas and attacking world hunger is a possibility.

In ten minutes time I can open the door for someone who has arms full of groceries, pick up a small child after the tot tumbles to the ground, hold an elevator for someone in a wheel chair, and smile at a senior citizen sitting alone on a park bench. Any of those people may pay forward that simple kindness to others, who in turn pay it forward until kindness surges across the world like a wave.

Life proceeds in moments, not in grand events. It’s the small actions which carry us through each minute and interact with the next. We determine what kind of interaction it will be.

I’m ten minutes older than I was ten minutes before. You are, too.

COFFEE, TEA, OR HARMONY

“I’ll have some hot tea, please,” he tells the smiling, white sneakered waitress, who wears her hair pulled into a ponytail.

“Tea!” he hears snorted from a table behind.

He turns and looks. The man who made the comment, an obvious coffee drinker, appears to be about his own age. Both are dressed casually with similar builds and nondescript features. He asks, “Excuse me, is there something about tea that troubles you?”

The coffee drinker sneers, “Well, what kind of drink is tea? It’s made from dried out leaves.”

“Yes, tea is made from leaves, whereas coffee comes from beans, but both coffee and tea are dried. The oldest method dried them both naturally in the sun, but it’s been largely replaced by controlled heating sources. Most commercial processes dry tea by baking. Roasting is the process used for drying coffee. There is very little difference between baking and roasting. Both use an oven and dry heat,” informs the tea drinker.

The coffee drinker concedes, “So, the processes used to make them have some similarities . . .”

“A lot of similarities. Tea leaves bake at a temperature that releases its maximum flavor. Roasting dries coffee beans, but also heats them to a temperature that, like tea, releases their maximum flavor,” interjects the tea drinker.

“Is that so?” says the coffee drinker. He then offers, “They both have caffeine, too, don’t they?”

“Yes,” confirms the tea drinker. “Per glass, coffee generally has more caffeine than tea. . .”

“Ah, see! There is a difference,” interrupts the coffee drinker smugly.

The tea drinker counters, “But the caffeine content depends on exactly how it’s made.”

“Oh,” the coffee drinker chirps.

“Tea is a great pick-me-up when you don’t want a caffeine buzz. But, you can steep tea to be very strong and brew coffee to be very weak,” explains the tea drinker.

“See, that’s another thing. Tea is steeped,” points out the coffee drinker with a snide emphasis on the word, “Not brewed like coffee.”

“Well,” the tea drinker begins, “Like baking and roasting, it’s really more a matter of semantics than a true difference. Tea steeps by infusing its flavor when suspended in hot water. Coffee brews by releasing its flavor when hot water passes over it, but there is a period of time when the coffee sits suspended in hot water. So, essentially it steeps, too. You can also say you brew tea. They’re really about the same thing.”

Frowning, the coffee drinker obviously racks his brain searching for another objection, but can’t think of one.

The tea drinker continues, “There are other similarities, too. You drink both from mugs. Both are commonly served with sweetener and cream. They both can be poured over ice for a refreshing cold drink, too. There are certainly some differences between them, but they’re pretty minor. And, you don’t have to drink only one or the other. Both are delicious, complementing one another and offering alternatives.”

In tea and coffee, just like in occupations, hobbies, passions, people, and religions, similarities far outnumber the differences. The only things needed to bridge gaps are tolerance, understanding, and respect.

Lively white sneakered steps approach. The smiling waitress, with her ponytail bobbing from side to side, cheerfully sets down a steaming cup of tea. The two men clink their mugs together.

WE HAVE TIME

Everything takes time. At least that’s what I’ve heard ever since I can remember. But “takes” it from what? Is there some kind of time bank we deposit into and withdraw when needed? If so, then it explains why we hoard time as if it were precious. We fear once we deplete our account it will be gone.

We rush through our days obsessively seeking to save a minute here or free up a few minutes there. Then after scrupulously snatching these luxurious minutes from the incessant nibbling of time vermin, instead of savoring them in purposeful ways, quite often we waste the time we so feverishly fought to gain. We mindlessly sit entranced in front of the boob tube or fritter time away pecking out meaningless blather on social media sites.

We cling tightly to our vacation days throughout the year in hopes of doling them out only for exciting experiences. We forego long weekend excursions enjoying local pleasures for plans of spending a week in distant lands seeking exotic adventures. But when we never follow through on making arrangements, instead we have a glut of unused days at the end of the year we either lose outright or “burn up” doing trivial tasks. Is that the glorious reward we sacrificed all year saving up for?

It is true we live and then we die. Our lives as we know them are finite and take place over the counting of time. But time is just that, a counting. It’s a unit of measure. A measurement system helps describe phenomena, but it is not the phenomena itself. Time is not our lives.

We compose the symphony of our lives through events. There is space between events and for lack of a better description we call it “time.” But, time as an entity does not exist. It’s only a tool we use to order the events of our lives in a cogent way. Time helps us place the events of our lives into a perspective we can interpret and understand. Events are precious, not time.

Events occur independently of time. Some are exciting and most are mundane, but the series of events we manifest defines the meaning in our lives. Once an event occurs, we cannot go back in time to relive or modify it. But, we have the power to create new events. Our imaginations conceive thoughts which give birth to ideas. Once ideas are born, our bodies possess the capability to refine and transform them into reality.

We can easily reignite the flame of joy past events lit. With persistence we have the ability to kindle that flame into a roaring bonfire warming our entire being. Even more important, we can call upon our past experiences to craft events offsetting the previous disharmony we encountered. We can’t negate them or remove the pain, but we can offer love to soothe the hurt we inflicted or received from others. New events can nurture the bonds of harmony we all crave. We have time.

RANDOM COINCIDENCE

A friend gave me a book on randomness written by a scientist. My friend and I are both statisticians, so it was an appropriate gift. I accepted it, as I wanted to read the author’s take on the concept, but I stated I personally don’t believe in randomness. He rejected my nonsense, as randomness is one of the cornerstones of statistical methodology. It may be a useful tool in statistics and other scientific venues, but I still don’t believe it exists in reality. I set the book aside and went about my daily business.

One evening I opened my DVD collection of Star Trek: The Next Generation and watched an episode. After thoroughly enjoying the show and scrupulously watching the credits (as I usually do), I decided to start reading the book my friend gave me.

I took one look at the author’s name on the cover and realized I’d just seen it in the credits. I couldn’t quite exactly place where I’d seen the name in the credits. I thought I probably recognized the last name as being the same as one of the production crew or maybe a guest star. But then on the inside I cover I read the author also wrote for some television shows. Star Trek was one of them. Immediately I put that DVD back into the player and fast-forwarded to the credits. Lo and behold, the author co-wrote the episode I watched only moments ago.

Random? Ri-i-i-ght!

Excitedly I dialed my friend on the phone and described the incident, using it as evidence of my claim that randomness is an illusion. Skeptical of its significance, he explained how the mind attaches importance to events agreeing with mysterious beliefs we hold, but simply ignores events failing to support our beliefs. I agreed this phenomenon does occur, but it doesn’t summarily dismiss all such events.

He poo pooed it as mere coincidence. “Coincidence” is another of those concepts I don’t believe in. “Coincidence” describes the action of an event, but not the reason for it occurring; just like “randomness.”

Discounting jokers, there are 52 possible cards in a regular deck. If we arbitrarily pull one out and reveal it, we say we pulled it randomly. That describes the action, but it doesn’t tell us why we pulled that particular card. The way the deck was shuffled, how it was cut, the order of the cards before we touched them, the humidity in the air at that moment causing friction to hold some cards together while allowing others to slide freely, along with a plethora of other reasons account for the alignment of the cards. Since it’s physically impossible to control or describe accurately all the interplay of variables, we just call it “random.”

When we can’t explain something, we give it a name. We pretend the name sufficiently serves as a reason for why the event happened. In essence, we substitute another word to take the place of the word “ignorance.” This substitution process we call “logic.” Satisfied, we move on to the next conundrum perplexing us and find a suitable word to name it as well.

Don’t get me wrong, our ability to used these names helps us develop glorious things; like building towering skyscrapers, creating computers capable of performing millions of calculations per second, and giving us the ability of safely breaking through our atmosphere to explore outer space. But, they don’t tell us why events happen.

Randomness coincides with reasons we just don’t understand yet.

GROWING APPLES

I briefly dated a woman whose family owned an apple orchard. I’d like to say she was the apple of my eye, but alas it was hollow in the core. Obviously I wasn’t the apple in her dumpling either because she peeled back from contacting me, too. I guess the Master Baker just mixed us up together in the pie of life but ultimately we ended up in different slices.

She told me an amusing anecdote though. During the Vietnam War, her brother applied for a draft deferment. Deferments for farming families were legitimate. America still needed food to feed its citizens at home.

A civil servant at the Draft Board asked why he wanted a deferment. He said his family needed him to help work the farm. She asked what they farmed and was puzzled when he told her they grew apples. The clerk lowered her glasses, squinted her eyes, and then asked, “Why don’t you just buy them at the store like other people?”

Duh!

A somewhat similar scenario happened today. I enthusiastically told a coworker I made some hummus from scratch yesterday and baked my own pita bread. Squinting his eyes, he asked, “Why didn’t you just go the store and buy it?”

Okay, so maybe making homemade hummus and baking my own pita bread is not as crucial to the American food supply as farming apples, but the question still seemed obtuse. It was similar to the comment I received when eating a piece of baklava at a restaurant and wondering aloud, “I wonder how you make phyllo dough?”

My dining companion stated in a matter-of-fact way, “You buy it at the store.”

Well, of course you can buy it at the store! But, I wanted to know how to make it.

Just having something is fine, but it’s human nature to explore. I mean why did Admiral Byrd go to the South Pole? If all he wanted was to frolic around in ice and snow, he could have hitch-hiked to Canada!

It’s not just enjoying an event through the experience of someone else, we all like to discover for ourselves. It’s what makes toddlers risk falling flat on their faces in order to take those first unsteady steps. Humans love to discover and conquer new things.

I didn’t just want to simply smear hummus on pita. I wanted to feel the dough in my fingers as I shaped the flat loaves. I craved the aroma of fresh garlic intoxicating me as I ground it up with chick peas in my food processor. I yearned for the excitement of effort. I let it taunt my desire as I worked feverishly toward the culmination — savoring the pungent dip spread across the firm, smooth surface of a freshly baked pita.

I came. I conqured. I ate! The experience was in the journey, not the destination.

I just searched online for a recipe to make phyllo dough. I think buying it at the store is definitely easier, but what’s the challenge in that? Perhaps the next item on my list of conquests is making my own phyllo dough.

Hey, maybe I’ll buy some apples . . . No wait, I’ll grow my own apples and then bake a pie topped with homemade phyllo dough.

TEA PARTY

Two hundred years before my birth the colonies were still under British control. About two hundred years before that, Galileo was born. Neither of those historical events really seems that long ago. But think about all the changes occurring in your life in just the past year. Multiply that change by two hundred. Wow! Now, multiply the change by four hundred. Double wow!

When we speak of history, especially if we’ve done any in-depth reading of certain time periods, we develop a familiarity with it. We romanticize it, seeing parallels within our current lives which extend that familiarity to intimacy. We believe we actually “know” those periods and the major figures within them. But, of course, we don’t — that is, discounting any clear recollection of past life memories when our former incarnations were truly there.

We conveniently ignore all the changes occurring over the centuries between the earlier time period and our lifetime, and then latch onto some similarity that strikes us significantly. Hence, we go beyond believing and accept as fact we “know” that earlier historical time.

Certainly there are similarities. There is no doubt, since similarities between people, as well as time periods, outweigh differences. However, the differences between time periods influence the responses made to similar circumstances. A response made in an earlier time might not be appropriate for now, regardless of how familiar the romanticized nostalgia feels.

For example, consider two mothers who have sick children. One mother and child lived a few centuries ago and the other pair lives today. A mother today shares in the same worry and agony at her child’s suffering as did the mother of centuries ago. She no doubt has an intimate understanding of the earlier mother’s fear. However, their responses are different. The mother from centuries ago administered blood letting to release ill humors from her child. Would today’s mother do that?

Again, think back to your life a year ago. Did anything recently happen similar to an event from then? Are all the factors still equal, calling for an exact duplication of your response? Or have conditions changed to the extent that a replay of your previous action would lead to disastrous results? Yet, how often do we ignore the change in conditions and replicate our earlier response, based on habit, laziness, or stubbornness? If you’re anything like me, probably more often than you care to admit.

Change occurs constantly. Despite our most valiant efforts to thwart it or our refusal to acknowledge it, change still occurs. We can sometimes delay it. We may have a hand in shaping it. But, we cannot stop it. The best we can do is accept it and develop new strategies to resolve recurring situations surrounded by new circumstances. We may use our hard earned experience to pluck nuggets of useful elements from yesterday’s decisions, but we reinforce them with today’s tools.

Two hundred years before my birth the colonies were still under British control. Today we live under different control. In Boston a “tea party” led to significant changes. Will following the same course really work effectively?

ASS

I have an ass. I may be biased, but I think it’s a fine ass. I love my ass!

My ass is over half a century old and been with me my whole life. With good fortune, it will follow me to my grave. We are inseparable and I take my ass with me everywhere I go.

When I was younger, my ass was little. As I grew, it got bigger. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a big ass. It doesn’t stick out like a caboose or wide enough you need a lunar rover to traverse its girth. When I bend over I don’t suffer unsightly butt-crack. My ass is proportional to my size and my size is in the normal ranks of the BMI (Body Mass Index) at 23.1. So, my ass has grown since infancy and its maturity keeps pace with reason.

We are a team and support each other. My ass serves me well by offering a cushion when I sit, a portal to dispose wastes, and a shapely curve that keeps my pants from sliding down. It’s even a topic of conversation, as some women comment I have a nice ass. I like hearing that.

There was also a man who made the same comment, but my reaction was diametrically opposed to what I feel when women offer that opinion. It’s true the context in delivering words is just as important, or maybe more so, than the words themselves.

I watch my ass. So, we enjoy a symbiotic relationship. I try to eat healthy, so as not to pile mounds of fat onto it. I regularly perform yoga and exercise to maintain my tight ass characteristic.

After I eat, particularly when I enjoy any dish chock full of beans, my ass treats me to an impromptu symphony. However, I’ve noticed other people turn their noses up at the tunes it toots out. Appreciation is a matter of personal taste.

Over Christmas I tend to overeat and my bulging butt fits too snug in my pants. My ass tells me it’s time to either regain control or learn to live life as a fat boy. It also instigates its own ornery idiosyncrasies, like hemorrhoids. When they flare up, I feed my ass some suppositories for a few days until its swollen persona shrinks. The hemorrhoids never completely go away, but they’re manageable. It’s funny how in life there are always maintenance activities required and complications that threaten the harmony of any situation.

Of course, there are other times when my ass suffers agony through no fault of its own; like if I get the flu or when I pig out on hot salsa. My poor ass has absolutely nothing to do with bringing on these disasters, but yet it bears the brunt of their violent eruptions. When that happens, my ass hangs on for dear life until the intensity subsides. Everything feels pain due to actions occurring beyond its control.

I love my ass. It’s one of many things between my head and toes I’m grateful for.