Notes on the contents of The Happiness Notebook

First a couple of promises from me to you:

Common cursing won't make it in to any of my posts. If I find it necessary for a dialogue passage, I'll use the popular "$&@#!" I won't allow vulgarity in the comments either. I'm not a prude. I curse frequently, but I've decided to keep this Notebook at a level where an interested youngster could read it and a parent would have nothing to fear.

By nature I am a very dry, very sarcastic person. I love to make people laugh though and playful sarcasm is my favorite method for accomplishing that. I am making a strong personal effort to keep the sarcasm at a minimum. It will shine through on occasion, but it should never be mean-spirited. If you catch it, call me out. I'll fess up and fix it.

I've also decided to try and avoid the following topics:

1) Sex--while this can be a critical component in a happy life, in keeping with my dictum of age appropriateness, I won't be posting tips, opinions, techniques or questions on this subject.

2) Alcohol--I like wine and spirits and I am a beer connoisseur, and I believe a moderate appreciation of these is important to happiness. However, in keeping with my self-imposed propriety, I'll likely stay away from this topic.

3) Pop culture reviews--the closest I will get to this is a magazine recommendation, like Esopus, or touting a living composer. I read all the time, so a book that seems practical or carries me emotionally (up or down) might make it here. As for movies and television, they can be fine works of art, but there are many other sites where you can read about them. In the big scheme, these aren't good fodder for happiness notes. Who cares how much I like Heroes or Lost or how much I miss Arrested Development?

4) Politics--many people don't even care about this subject, while for others it is polarizing. I believe that understanding politics, the political process, your system of government and the like are important. I don't believe that our opinions on those things are relevant to this site.

5) Religion--this is the same as politics. Some care passionately about this. Some do not. For some it is critical for their happiness, for others it isn't involved. Spiritual beliefs are an intensely personal matter that vary wildly from one to another. Pushing people away with my beliefs or arguing over our opinions on this subject are not paths to happiness.

6) Sports--supplanting politics and religion in the more advanced economies of the world as the driver of competitve tension and self-identity, sports can cause huge emotional swings and disagreements and sometimes even violence among its followers. I'm talking about fans here, not participants. We will discuss the participatory aspects of sports. The spectator aspect of professional and university sports will not be addressed in this blog. I might make an exception for international amateur sports, including the Olympics. I'm not sure yet.

7) Philosophy of Happiness--a tough one to exclude, but, oh boy, the subject matter here can get tedious with a quickness. I started drafting posts about the differences between pleasure and happiness, or about whether evil people can be happy when doing evil things and I thought, "This isn't a classroom, it's a notebook. Relax, Doug. Have fun. Leave the academics to the academics." I was right. I deleted the draft posts of these things, including my personal theorem about Americans called "The Will to Comfort" where I deftly compare it to Nietzsche's Will to Power and Frankl's Will to Meaning. I demonstrated that their conclusions, like mine, are a product of our historical milieu and that future generations are likely to have their own "will to something" paradigm. I could go on, but, if you are still reading this, then you understand why I decided against posting on this topic. You probably just stifled a yawn.

Party preparation, the storm before the storm

My two nephews, Nicholas, the buckskin clad brave, and Richard, aka Buzz Lightyear, would like to warn you that Halloween is fast approaching. They were prepared weeks ago.

Around here, we made a conscious decision to play host to a costume party for 16 kids, split between 5th and 7th graders. The party is scheduled for next Saturday evening (see the posts on Sunday morning for details) and should last a little over three hours.

My latest estimate of effort for a three hour party is pushing 70 hours. Yes, seventy. 7-0.

We have to decide on activities and plan those. There are decorations to purchase. Current inventory of decorations to sort through. Decorating itself (meaning the task, we have to do the decorating, of course.) Costume selection. Food preparation. And cleaning and organizing the main floor of the house.

Today is when my involvement in many of these tasks will take place. Being the largest member of the family, any teamster type work is mine. Any work involving a ladder, too. And electrical and janitorial tasks. The only thing that I will not do, in fact, that I am barred from doing, is making any sort of aesthetic decisions. Which decorations and where they are placed are decisions best left to others. My scare meter isn't calibrated for the pre-teen set. There is a chance that many of the kids would wind up in tears. So, I'm only an implementer, not a planner.

However, I am in charge of one thing. One of the activities will involve me setting at the end of our dining room table (which will be super long when we add the extensions.) There I will be giving Tarot readings. To make it interesting, when the parents RSVP, I am asking them for info about their son or daughter (and obtaining their permission to do a Tarot reading in the first place. Some folks don't even like to play with things like this or Runes or Ouija boards.)

I'm doing a simple three card past, present, future spread. The parents are feeding me interesting, mildly embarrassing facts about their child's past and present. They're also giving me an inkling of what the child would like for Christmas or an upcoming birthday for the future. To make this work, I'll have to be vague during the reading, interacting with the kid and ultimately "seeing" the fact. It should get a lot of giggles. I'm predicting (clairvoyance in action here) that they will be lining up to have their fortunes revealed, the little egomaniacs.

I need other party ideas. These are 10 to 13 year olds. All ideas are welcomed. Leave a comment or send an email. Thanks in advance.

Hair could carry a message, too

I want to thank Gretchen Rubin for all the traffic I've had this evening after her mention at The Happiness Project. And thanks to all of you who are stopping by.

If you've perused the blog beyond the front seven posts, you've seen the intermittent posting of hair metal videos. There's even a link list "Locks of Hair" serving as a shortcut to them.

In honor of all this happy traffic, I thought I would post a relatively unknown band and one of their relatively unknown songs. This isn't just any song. It's a message song. A message of peace and tolerance, but with a thundering beat and some guitar shredding. The perfect cocktail of entertainment. (I'm hoping that Gretchen tries to listen at least once. Like the wonderful young woman in the other link provided today, In the New.)

The group is Enuff Z'nuff (founded by the bassist, Chip Znuff) and the song is Mother's Eyes. it is from the 1991 album Strength (and yes, I own it.) Written by the lead singer and the guitarist, this is pop metal at its finest. Superb guitar work, strong vocals, and a catchy chorus. Nothing's missing.

Here are the lyrics to help you out:

Mother's Eyes

Isn't it wrong and isn't it strange
that a man goes by the color of his face?
And isn't it time we've drawn the line
And decided to become a human race, yeah?

Behind that mother's eyes,
What makes a man so tough,
That he don't care if anybody lives or dies?
Give him some love,
Give him some love.
(It might save your life)

Night after night I say the same prayer,
And if anybody's listening out there,
Give it a break, it's all give and take.
But the taking and giving isn't fair, yeah!

Repeat Chorus.

I'm just a man who don't understand,
Why is one man not just like another man.
Nothing can change 'til we arrange
All of life's important fingers on one hand, yeah.

Let me know what you think of the song in the comments. What songs cheer you up? (no matter how serious or sad or silly) And what songs carry a meaningful message for you? Maybe we can create a list for a universal happiness mix tape.

A little night noise would be nice, part 2

I was ready to leave.

Jocelyn convinced me that we just needed to change and head to dinner. When we returned the cats would be gone, she said. They probably made the tracks we saw on the back lawn. Heck, they probably killed the frog.

I dressed for dinner and while Jocelyn prepared herself, I tried to call home to see how the grandparents and the kids were doing. The cell phone could find a signal. There was no phone in the room. This is when normal people just pack and go. We're movie people. We rationalized and stayed.

No cats were around as we got in the car and headed to dinner. About 2 miles away from the plantation, I got a cell phone signal. We called home and checked in. We explained that we would be incommunicado for the evening. I tried to sound confident. Later, I would learn that my in-laws thought I was telling them to leave us alone for the night, no matter what happened.

We had a lovely dinner at a quaint fine dining establishment. Most of the diners were folks, like us, staying at the local Plantation B&Bs. There were only three other couples in the restaurant. We spoke with the waitstaff about our strange experiences thus far. Speaking about them made it all seem rather normal. We felt a bit self-conscious describing stuff that really wasn't very disconcerting. I mean, no one in a hockey mask came after us with a chainsaw. How bad was it?

Our two servers were polite and listened with genuine interest, nodding and smiling. When we finished both young women started speaking simultaneously. They exchanged looks and one of them spoke. "You know," she said. "The Edgewood is haunted." Having just finished my meal and sipping on a port, I was feeling brave again. I remember snorting rather loudly. But then they told us of the story of Lizzie Rowland who etched her name in her bedroom window, and how she died there, in the house, of a broken heart. Her betrothed had never returned from the war.

"This isn't helping your tip," I said.

After some more casual chat about the place and learning that we were staying in Prissy's room, we paid and headed back to the plantation. The moon was new and the night was jet black. No street lights grace Route 5 in this area. We couldn't see off the road at all. We might as well have been in a tunnel. It was so dark that we missed the turn off and drove about a mile beyond to the west. I knew we had passed the place because I had regained my cell phone signal.

I found a place to turn around and we headed back. We crept along and found the turn in. No lights were on outside or inside. We forgot to leave the light on in our room.

The cats were long gone as we struggled to reenter Prissy's quarters. When we stopped crunching the gravel with our footsteps, there was no sound at all. Nothing. No crickets, no frogs, no rustling of the leaves. What did it mean when the crickets were silent? I didn't want to think about it.

I was ready to leave again, but I didn't want to leave our stuff behind. We opened the door, turned on a light, and, after locking both door locks, we walked up the steps to our room.

The room was the entire floor except for the bathroom, which was at the end of a narrow hallway, then down a few steps. It felt like it was completely separated from the bedroom. We weren't too keen about spending a lot of time apart. We got ready for bed together.

Later, as we lied there, not daring to look out a window, we listened. Nothing. No sound. No passing traffic. No animal sounds. We felt utterly alone, as if a nuclear war had occurred and we were the last survivors. We were definitely happy to be together but we were not so thrilled about being alone.

We were scared. Later, when we related the story, people would laugh at us. You're probably thinking to yourself that we're pretty silly right now.

Maybe, if you're used to the quiet, the complete silence, you would probably have no problem with this. We aren't those kinds of people. I need the hum of the refrigerator, the click of that heat pump, the pitter patter of the dog, to remind me that there is a benign reality out there in the dark.

We finally turned off the lights, trusting that wouldn't be interpreted as a "come on in" signal by any evil spirits on the grounds. Sometime later we fell asleep.

We woke up the next morning exhausted and relieved.

But what about the second B in B&B? Where was the breakfast coming from with no owner on-site? Why didn't we think to ask that when we made the reservation?

Ah, but the harrowing story of breakfast will have to wait for another time.

I would love to hear any strange stories you might have via the comments. If they are rated above PG, then you might want to email it.

A little night noise would be nice, part 1

There it is. The scene of our 10th anniversary getaway weekend. The Edgewood Plantation B&B on Route 5 about halfway to Williamsburg, just north of the James River.

So scenic, so historical, so eerie.

Like an opening scene on Scooby-Doo, Jocelyn and I arrived to find that we had missed the owners and that they would be away for the weekend. Our room was actually in another building on the grounds behind the house. No problem.

It was late August (five years ago) and the weather was unusually chilly. The overcast sky was high and gray, the breeze was stronger than gentle. We wore sweaters and jeans. After finding the key, left in a hiding spot in case we arrived late, we searched for our room. The outbuilding, so-called servant's quarters, was two stories and our room occupied the entire second floor. Everything was decorated as if the Civil War had not yet occurred. We were certain the servants didn't sleep in a room like this.

We put our bags away and explored the grounds. A flower garden which was no doubt gorgeous in the spring and summer had no blooms and the gray skies made the greens a drab olive. We walked through the garden, passing an archway that split a high hedge. This must be where the weddings take place, we thought.

Jocelyn wore gloves and I kept one hand in my pocket. She gripped my other hand tightly. Beyond the arch was a thick lawn that needed mowing. It didn't look unkempt, just too long. The lawn ended abruptly at the edge of thick woods. The light was not strong enough to see in them. We didn't go near. Here and there the long grass looked as if it had been walked on. The trampled line went to the woods, but there was no discernable trail. They just ended as as abruptly as the lawn.

We followed a gravel path eastward to a large weathered wooden structure, bigger than the house, that we figured was a barn. It turned out to be a mill. It's large dilapidated wheel did not turn despite the rushing water of the stream beneath it. The ground met an opening on the mill's upper floor. I started to step inside the dark interior when Jocelyn jerked my arm. "No way you go in there," she said. "Those boards could be rotted and you'd fall right through." I didn't disagree.

We peered in through a window opening and looked at the assorted neglected and decayed contents that the light allowed us to see. A broken wagon wheel, rusty ploughshare, ramshackle stacks of boards and, just to send shivers through my body, lying there, filthy and one-eyed--looking right at us--a rag doll. I dislike unknown, abandoned dolls. (I blame a childhood viewing of an episode of The Twilight Zone or Outer Limits or Night Gallery that had a doll in it. A doll with those eyes that pop open when she is upright and closed when she is horizontal. A person was holding the doll horizontally and it's eyes popped open to a shrieking sound of strings. I haven't liked them since.)

We walked on, not looking back. The day was waning and we had to get to the restaurant for our dinner reservation.

We approached the locked main house. Three stories tall, old, built in 1849. We were walking west and entered through a gate in a white privacy fence. There was a gazebo. As we turned we were surprised to see a huge old in-ground swimming pool. That's why there was a privacy fence. You couldn't see in or out of the pool area except on the house side where a wrought iron fence served as the boundary. The pool was filled with water and the surface was moving slightly from the chill wind that blew in from the southwest.

Leaves dotted the pool in yellows, reds, and browns. The water was a deep blue green as if it hadn't been treated in a while. We decided to walk around it and check out the gazebo. We spent a few moments sitting on the bench there looking out over the grounds. An old Rolls Royce sat in the front yard as if to proclaim that only the wealthiest hillbillies lived here. And, no, it wasn't on blocks.

The wind convinced us to get moving again. My nose dripped and Jocelyn huddled close, hugging my arm. We continued our walk around the pool. A short springboard was at the far end. As we neared that end of the pool, farthest from the wrought iron gate, I saw it, floating lazily, almost gracefully under the diving board. The frog's body was large and bloated and a sickly green. Legs and arms extended, he rolled and bobbed weightless and lifeless. It felt like an omen. We commented on our disgust and wondered how the animal died.

The huge empty mansion, the dark woods, the lawn tracks to nowhere, the one-eyed doll, the dead frog, the cold August wind, this anniversary was starting to feel like a Stephen King short story in the making.

We left the pool to head back to the outbuilding when the first cat arrived, mewling and hovering near us but never coming up to us. We stopped to try and coax it over. Was it a stray? Then another cat came into view from around the house and did the same thing as the first. Were they trying to talk to us? Were they warning us? Then cat after cat appeared. We walked by another outbuilding that used to be the old carriage house. I counted a dozen cats of all sizes and colors. They were all crying at us, like they needed to be fed. "Enough," I said. "Let's go."

I was ready to go home.

(to be concluded)

The collection of life's breathtaking moments

We all have them. Those unexpected moments when we are overwhelmed with emotion. The memory of the moment is becomes an indelible part of our lives, as vivid sensually as the actual event. They can still evoke an emotional response just recalling them.

Now, the emotion is not always a good one. It's the intensity of the emotion, whether it is anger, grief, fear, wonder, or love, that fundamentally changes you. The event becomes a watershed moment in your life, where you are forced to travel a new path because of its profound effect.

How we respond to these moments can say quite a bit about us at that point in our lives. One moment colors all the others that follow.

We should appreciate these moments.

I'm going to share only a few of these moments from my life. They are intensely personal, even if others view them as ho-hum, run-of-the-mill happenings. What matters is that the experience was strong and it was ours.

1) When I held Lacie in my arms at Tripler Army Medical Center in the wee small hours of the morning of October 15th, 1985. Her mother had been in labor for three days. It took a dramatic drop in blood pressure and Lacie's slowed heartbeat before the emergency C-section was called. I was shoved out of the way. An hour later, I got to hold my daughter. I was exhausted. And like any new parent, I couldn't believe how tiny and fragile she was. She was mine and she was beautiful and I got to feed her and I will never forget it. My happy tears dropped on her pretty little face.

2) When I moved to Seattle to be with Jocelyn. I hadn't seen her in months. I just remember the intensity of feeling when I saw her and kissed her. Her red mane (you have to see her hair to understand) and her large brown eyes...I still have that image. My entire being tensed, in a good way, when I kissed her. This was what it was like to be at the tippy top of Maslowe's hierarchy of needs. I was self-actualizing beyond possibility. That's when I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. (And that I was a business geek extraordinaire for using a Maslowe reference. Sheesh.)

3) Those first two were pretty big, and I have plenty more of various intensities, but I should slow it down with a fairly simple one. I moved to Hawaii as a member of the US Air Force in 1982. I wound up living there until the fall of 1991. Shortly after I bought a car, I took a drive over the Pali Highway early one Saturday morning. The photo above doesn't do it justice, but those accordian looking green volcanic mountainsides face northeast. When you leave the second of two Pali Highway tunnels (headed windward) the road takes you so that these stunning emerald hills are right there in your windshield view. The morning sun lit them up. As a midwestern boy, I had never seen anything like it. To this day, that image is the standard of natural beauty for me.

Well, there's a sample. There are many others. Not all of them were so positively strong. But we can't ignore the negative. They are, after all, part of us. But for now, let's focus on the positive.

Tell me about your indelible breathtaking moments. If you don't want to leave them in a comment, feel free to email me. I won't judge you...who am I? But I would love to hear what positive things have made you, you.

The Secrets to Happiness: Secret #6

As I've said, there are myriad secrets to happiness and we'll never get to them all. With patience and time, we'll cover a good bit though.

This will be our first secret that is not purely physical. This doesn't mean that we're done with physical secrets by any means. Today, we'll look at an emotional secret.

Before I share this, I need to confess something. Just because I'm throwing these out here for us to read and contemplate and perhaps act upon, it does not mean that I am necessarily an expert at a particular secret. Case in point is this one:

Let it go

How often do we latch onto something, some perceived sleight, some recognized unfairness, or a witnessed pet peeve and we let it bring us down, anger us, or cause us to be mean-spirited?

Probably more than we would like to admit.

My personal examples (this list, sadly, is not exhaustive):

1) being tailgated on I-95. I find this to be a dangerous and unnecessary behavior. I know I should just let them pass, but, hey, I'm already speeding and moving over is only enabling them, right? I think I should just let it go.

2) dropping food. Ever since I can recall, when I drop food it sets off a TNT like explosion of expletives (even if I am not vocalizing them, they're there) and I am genuinely angry. It only lasts a minute or less and it happens so fast it feels instinctual. It isn't. I should just laugh it off. There are a couple of exceptions to this rule: a whole wedding cake, for instance.

3) my 13 year old's tone with her mother. She's growing up, she's feeling independent and smart. We're just silly adults who don't understand what it's like to be in middle school. I should calmly focus on being respectful and let the occasional lapses go. Just give her love.

4) the need to be liked. We all have it to some degree. I used to be much worse at this. Which, if you know me and how sarcastic and caustic I can be, you would think that it didn't matter much. But it does. I don't want to cause people to be unhappy and I want them to fairly evaluate me. But I forget that people have their own problems and foibles and I might not fit their preferences, no matter what. Just be authentic genuine self and let it go.

5) the need to be recognized as one of the best. Again, how ironic, because I am likely to give less than 100% when I am only mildly interested in the activity. Plus, if I don't have shot at being the best, I typically give it up. This blog is supposed to help me with this particular aspect of me. I'll never be the best blogger (and really, is there such a thing?) or the best writer. Sometimes, the act of doing is the important thing. Sometimes, appreciating and learning from others is the important things. Being the best should be personal. That is, be the best for you. Good things will come of that. Otherwise, let it go.

I'm stopping now or I'll be late for work. I don't want people to think I'm not punctual and I could get into my own personal NASCAR race during the commute and my teenager is looking for one of my neckties to wear for Spirit Week and, darnit it all to heck, I just dropped a piece of granola bar. Errrghh...breath...let it go.

Let us know what you would like to let go by posting in the comments.

Beth Anderson and her Swales

I love new books (and old ones, too.) I love new movies (old, too.) I love new paintings, sculpture, television (creative, not reality,) and I love the classics, too.

The same is true for classical music. I love new concert music. (Appomattox, an opera by Philip Glass, premiered last week in San Francisco. Wish I could have gone.) Unfortunately, it takes a while for a professional recording of new classical to find its way to the market. Pretty much the only way to hear it is to go see a performance. Unless you're in a big city, good luck.

The two videos presented here are parts 1 & 2 of the Pennyroyal Swale (1985) by composer Beth Anderson. This work is available on CD and iTunes. It was released on CD in 2004. It is not intended to be a two-parter, but rather a ten minute single movement for string quartet.

Anderson says that a swale is a meadow that supports varied plant life. Her musical swales are intended to emulate that by tossing aside traditional form and quilting together her own varied compositions. Despite this sounding like folk music, it is all from the creative mind of Anderson.

The videos are a set of images of Kentucky. If I were forced to pick a place to live that I would never be allowed to leave, the hills of western Kentucky would be the place (and not because we could raise alpacas there.) These photographs are the perfect accompaniment to Anderson's melodies.

My mother's family is from Kentucky (as is the composer.) This music evokes the feel of the area without sounding cliched or homespun. It takes me back to summers at my grandparents.

If I could change anything about contemporary classical, it would be having it reach a wider audience, to be given a chance to find listeners. This isn't ambient new age or laid back smooth jazz. This is music that appeals both emotionally and intellectually. It is immensely satisfying.

Listen and let me know what you think in the comments. If there are other recent compositions that you like, tell me about them.

From ballcock to float valve, or how to ruin a perfect evening

One reason I didn't post twice yesterday and I had trouble focusing this morning's post was because I have a very simple plumbing problem that is giving me minor fits.

See the "float ball" in the diagram on the left? This is connected to the "ballcock" which is used to control the water flow into the toilet tank. Water will flow into the tank until the float ball is high enough to close the ballcock. As long as there is no leak in the "flush valve" seal, everything should be hunky-dory.

Most float ball and ballcock mechanisms though are designed to wear out. In my case, the end of the steel rod connecting the float ball to the plastic piece that shuts off the ballcock has worn a little groove into the plastic. The float ball never creates enough pressure to shut off the water. Easy enough to fix.

Instead of replacing parts, I chose to replace the whole mechanism. I've done it before. It isn't a big deal. I like the float mechanism which eliminates the big ball float. They should be maintenance free and last for years.

So, yesterday evening, when I arrived home, I did the switch in the downstairs bathroom. Everything went relatively well. I connected all the water lines and ran a test. Looked good. Then...the leak. See in the diagram where the supply line hits the toilet tank? I have a tiny miniscule leak where the new float mechanism is supposed to seal at the bottom of the tank.

Did I mention that this was the small guest bathroom downstairs? Or that I am a 200 lb man trying to maneuver on the side of this thing? I didn't? Well, this is a recipe for frustration.

What should have been a one hour job, stretched to 2 hours before I said that it would wait until tomorrow. I will fix it this evening. But while it remains undone, my mind can't relax. It feels like defeat.

I figure that I rushed the job and left some debris from the prior seal in or around the opening. I'll take it all apart and fix it. It's just a bit frustrating.

But when you finish a task like this, it really is a good feeling. I like to fix things. I don't like redoing my work. This is called a life lesson: Take your time and do it right.

Geez, that could be a Secret to Happiness.

A gathering of blackbirds (with a rewrite)

You've seen them. Sitting. Waiting. Squawking. They sit on wires, line rooftops, cover every branch on every tree.

They could be starlings or blackbirds or grackles. Whatever species they belong to, they are gathered en masse.

You sit in your car hoping and fearing that they will take flight.

When they do, because a horn was honked or the spirit simply moved them, it is a hypnotic breathtaking sight. They move as one, a roiling, flapping, sky-darkening mass of millions of birds. Even Hitchcock couldn't pull off this spectacle.

You wonder what drew them here to this road filled with rush hour traffic and stores and fast food restaurants. That must be it. Maybe these millions of birds are looking for our edible human debris. Where is the food that supports this many birds? Do they eat so little or do we waste so much?

************
EDIT: I started writing this this a.m. I just whacked about 50% of the post. My mind was taking me down a path, a quick sketch of second person narrative that placed you among the traffic and the preternatural (though decidedly natural, if you've seen this first hand) gathering of blackbirds.

The horror wasn't going to come about from a potential Hitchcockian death by pecking, but from making the mistake of parking to watch. That is, parking in the wrong spot to watch. One of the things that you miss when viewing this from a car, is the sound the birds make. A sound that doesn't emanate from their beaks as birdsong, but rather the collective sound of splashing droppings. Being still and under this avian mass is not recommended.

While my humor can push the envelope of propriety, rarely if ever is it scatological in nature. Poo jokes don't make me laugh. So, I chopped it and wrote this.

Not that this was a joke. This was supposed to be a post about the juxtaposition of a truly magnificent feathered spectacle with the mundane routine of a drive home from work. I know that many people take the presence of millions of birds as just a simple given. The time I spent in Texas, where I witnessed this many times at dusk, I never once shrugged it off as boring. I was always filled with wonder. Where were they coming from? Why gather in such a unnatural setting? Where did they go?

The photo, while not mine, is real. The birds do in fact blot out the sky. When seen from a distance they appear to be a dark rippling cloud. I wonder when The Birds will be remade.

Any strange gathering of animals that you've ever witnessed? Leave a comment, let us know.

Remember when "color" was a verb?

What you'll need:

1) a few sheets of paper
2) a box or bowl or bag of crayons
3) a smooth surface
4) fearlessness

Let's break down the list in detail.

1) a few sheets of paper: this could be a sketchpad, plain white paper from your printer, a marble composition book, a three-ring binder with notebook paper (wide or college ruled,) construction paper, fancy stationery, napkins, the backs of paper placemats, papyrus, etc. You get the idea. You need something safe and portable on which to draw, vs a wall for example.

2) a container of crayons: if you have to settle for cheap waxy ones for now, do so, but be sure to make the investment in something of Crayola quality or higher when you get a chance. Go ahead and obtain the most color variety that you can afford, too. It'll spark a little creativity. Be sure that you have a way to sharpen them, too.

3) a smooth surface: counters, tables, desks, lap desks, clipboards or any other flat surface that will hold your chosen paper. If you are using a sketchpad or notebook then you are good to go.

4) fearlessness: oh, boy. Just take a crayon and make a mark on the paper. Good. Now continue making marks with that crayon or switch to another color. This will not hang in an art gallery (for now, at least) and it will not be submitted for criticism. It is nothing more than a simple personal act of creation. No one cares what you draw or how well you draw it. Just do it.

I usually wind up doing experiments where I clash complementary colors or create fields of analagous colors. When I color a paper, I tend toward the abstract, not because I cannot draw (I'm not too bad at that) but because that's where my spark leads me. Abstracts can be very powerful and emotional for me.

When it comes to coloring books, pretty much anything by Dover is worth a look. I can do about one page in a hour or so, but then I won't touch the book for a month. For me, it's a bit boring. Some people love them though.

A friend of mine showed me a game that involves two or more colorers (spelling?). Because crayons are not known for the ability to create fine detail without continual sharpening, it's best to use the largest sheet of paper you can. Start by drawing a circle or an oval somewhere in the middle of the top third of the sheet. This is the head of a stick figure. Pass the drawing to the next person. They can add one element (in any color) to the drawing. If what they add comes in pairs, they are allowed to draw both. Then pass to the next person and on around.

This can go on for a long time and trigger a lot of creative drawing, plus it is a very social game. Could work as a game for adults or one for the family.

So, if you have a lot of fearlessness and you color something that you'd like to share send it to me via email. With your permission, I'll post it. If you have other ideas on coloring or coloring games or wish to share a coloring experience then leave us a comment.

Slowing it down for Jayne Mansfield

Not all of hair metal was raucous noisy tasteless party music. Every now and then a band would slow it down. Usually these songs were superficial "sensitive" ballads. It got to the point where at least one slow love song was expected on every album released. This killed hair metal, not grunge.

But this band, L.A. Guns, led by guitarist Tracii Guns and vocalist Philip Lewis, released a slow song on their 1989 album Cocked & Loaded.

But this wasn't your typical slow romantic nonsense. This was a completely different type of romantic nonsense. The Ballad of Jayne is a tribute to an actress who died when most of the band members were still in diapers. The lyrics are not so descriptive that it has to be about her, but the subject of the song has obviously died--"now she's breaking hearts in heaven"--and the spelling of "Jayne" suggest it is about her.

This song has layers that many ballads of the era lack, including a little string arrangement. I consider it one of the top ballads in the short history of hair metal.

(I forgot to say...yes, I own it...on vinyl!)

A 5th grader's poetry assignment

Gabe had an in-class assignment last Friday. They were given a list of abstract nouns and a poem structure that required them to create four lines of metaphors and similes.

I think Gabe likes these types of assignments. They were given five words and he managed to complete a few of them. Gabe is not known for his lightning speed in writing assignments. I asked him, after his successful limerick, to be on the lookout for other work of his that he would allow me to post. He told me I could have these.

But first, an explanation of the assignment. The structure looks like this:

Abstract noun is the color of metaphor
Abstract noun sounds like simile
Abstract noun feels like simile
Abstract noun smells like simile

They could mix these up. All could be metaphors or all could be similes. I chose this structure because Gabe's first two match it exactly.

To help them with the rhythm of the poem, the teachers hummed a tune. When Gabe hummed it to me, it sounded suspiciously like "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, but that could just be me.

Here are three poems by Gabe:

Anger

Anger is the color of flaming fire
Anger sounds like the devil's cry
Anger feels like boiling water
Anger smells like smoke in the sky

Fear

Fear is the color of blackened mist
Fear feels like a deadly kiss
Fear sounds like screaming souls
Fear smells like burning coals

Jealousy

Jealousy feels like a broken heart
Jealousy sounds like revenge at the start
Jealousy is no place to go
Jealousy is colder than icy snow

I'm wondering if the other two abstract nouns were anything remotely positive in nature. If they were, why did my son save them for last?

Plus, given the content of these poems, I think I better keep a closer eye on what he is reading or watching on TV. A ten year old whipping out "deadly kiss" and "screaming souls" and "devil's cry"? What the heck?

Let Gabe know what you think by leaving a comment.

With a little (lotta) help from my son

Did you know that for two days after using underused muscles they feel sore?

It's true!

I carried out my own experiment this past weekend. Besides the usual lawn mowing and edging, it was time to clear the fence line in the back yard. Doing this prevents young saplings from growing into trees and knocking over the fence. We also prune branches overhanging the yard. When we finish, we have a clear path from four to six feet wide around the fence line.

The photo shows us a brush hog. If I had a brush hog, I wouldn't be sore right now. And I would've had about four to six extra hours for the weekend.

But I also wouldn't have had some quality working time with Gabe. He joined me and did quite a bit of the work. He used the pruning shears to remove small trees, and the hedge trimmers to take out vines and weeds. I worked the rakes, the shovel, and moved a pile of bricks that I casually tossed over the fence about two years ago. Now they're stacked behind the shed. When Gabe needed help with the loppers (pruning shears) I stepped in.

This was the first time that he stuck it out with me. In years past, he would hang out for 15 minutes, do a few things (some I had to redo,) and then head inside never to be seen again. I was skeptical about this weekend, but I kept that to myself. He worked as hard as I did.

When we were done--and he was willing to keep going--he helped me clean up the tools and put them back in the shed. He even said midway through the effort, "The job's not done until the tools are put away."

The kids are growing up. I'm definitely feeling older (at least this morning.) But I'm smiling.

Tell us about a time when you're kids magically showed their budding maturity in the comments or by email.

Happy Birthday, Lacie.

The Secrets to Happiness: Secret #5

There are thousands, if not millions, of "secrets" to happiness. Each person has their own personal set. Many are universal, but most need tailoring to the particular individual.

For example, over on the right, you can see that Secret #1 is "Drink water". That's a pretty safe secret, because you'll die without it. (I'm not saying that death is the ultimate unhappiness, but most of us would try to avoid dying of dehydration.) But how you and I interpret "Drink water" will be quite different. If lived in or around Hot Springs, Arkansas, I would take dozens of containers and make the journey to one of the community taps and fill up with what I think is the best water I've ever had. Here in VA, I drink filtered tap water and bottled water when I am heading to and from work.

You might like flavored Vitamin water or maybe you prefer sparkling water to still. My point is, these secrets are supposed to be very general recommendations based only on what impacts my happiness. Drinking water, in and of itself, rarely makes me feel happy, it rather lays the foundation so that I am likely to be in a happy mood about the rest of my daily life.

I'm belaboring the point, I know. Even though there will continue to be so-called secrets that are just basic things we all should really try to do in some variation, there will be so-called secrets that arouse a modicum of controversy. Today's secret for example:

Make your bed.

Oh, I can hear the cries of "fuddy duddy" already. I'm not, really. I'm kind of a household slob. But a made bed is my visual sanctuary. It is the eye of the hurricane. My nightstand holds a jumble of books and journals and old pens and booklights and magazines. And one of those wooden pegged back massager things. Seeing a made bed, especially because it is larger than my nightstand, overwhelms the disorderliness with order. It calms me. Makes it easier for me to turn down the sheets and go to sleep.

Another possible objection to making the bed is for health reasons as seen in this BBC article. One could wonder that perhaps these scientists had some very strict nannies that led them to this line of research. I can almost hear them saying, "Ha! So there!" to fussy old Mrs. Butterbottom.

I'm not going to do decimal secret numbers, but if I did, it would look something like this:

Secret #5.1: Wash your bed linens weekly.
Secret #5.2: Turn, rotate and vaccuum your mattress monthly.

But, I won't do that.

The Happiness Notebook needs your secrets. Whisper them to me via email or say them aloud in the comments.

Our dog, an introduction

This is Ralph. Sounds like "Rafe" because that's they way the British say it and, after all, Ralph is an English Setter.

He hears a lot of "Ralphy" with a long A sound. Or when I am playful, I say "Ralphy-doodle" or "Ralphie-boy," the latter in my best Jackie Gleason imitation. I don't know where these nicknames came from, but they sound natural. He responds to all of it.

I think that Ralph appears pensive and uncertain in this photo. But that could just be the Setter face.

The pup turned six in September. He's six already?! He was born the week after 9/11 and we felt like we could use a new family member. He's had a pretty good life since that time with the exception of the occasional stay at a kennel while we vacation. Even then, he gets to play with other dogs, go swimming in the summer, and play fetch with the kennel workers.

He loves to play fetch. His preference is a round ball over a stick or a disc. We have to be careful about saying "ball" around him. It's sets off dancing and a plaintive begging sound. It's like having a perpetual toddler in the house at times. When we play with him, we have to control the time or he will play until he collapses. We have a large yard, including a fenced area and he gets plenty of exercise.

The scent of peanut butter has a similar effect on him. Though instead of begging, he brings his "Kong" to you and drops it at your feet. The Kong is a rubber toy that looks like three rubber balls smashed together in descending order of diameter, giving it a snowman sort of appearance. The Kong is hollow though and you can put treats inside. Pup gets to chew and lick the fight to get the treats. Ralph prefers his stuffed with peanut butter.

Ralph knows when I am due home from work. He knows when the school buses will drop the kids and he keeps an eyeout for Jocelyn whenever she leaves. He hates car rides and pretends to be asleep whenever someone grabs the keys. In fact, Ralph will not get out of bed when I rise. He waits for another family member to come downstairs. He knows that I'll be going to work and he doesn't want to risk being taken in for a bath and a nail clipping.

We'll be posting more Ralph related posts over time. Just thought you'd like to meet him.

Let us know about your pet and it's charming behavior in the comments (we really do want to hear.) Or send me a photo and a story and I'll post it.

You can always subscribe via RSS or have new posts emailed to you daily.

Ralph is lying in his bed a few feet away from where I sit writing this in the pre-dawn darkness. He is asleep, but he is making those noises like he's having a dream. I'm hoping that he is dreaming that I opened a jar of peanut butter for him and smeared it on his ball, and that I promised to play fetch with him for hours and hours.