Month: December 2024 (page 2 of 2)

The good folks of Maine were stricken by some sort of disease last month. None of us knew what it was, but nearly all of us were affected, me included. At first, I thought it was a simple head cold induced by some dust that was cast into the air by a propane heater fan. Dust has been a trigger for me for most of my life. In fact, back in 2012, I trained Muay Thai at a club in Connecticut that used forced hot air as its heat source. The heat used to run while we were in class. That year, I caught seven head colds in the one season due to the dust spewed from the system. It was terrible.

Again, this year, I thought my illness was triggered by dust, but once others began presenting the same, or similar, symptoms, I knew that couldn’t have been the source. It must have been germ based. Stemming from either bacteria or from a virus, most likely a virus since it was contagious. Seemingly everyone was getting it. People from town, people from the food pantry, and people from jiu-jitsu class. Everyone. What’s worse was that this particular illness lasted weeks, unlike any other I’ve ever experienced. The symptoms began in the sinuses, moved to the head as a headache, and then moved to the throat and chest. Poor Laura even caught it and weeks later, is still coughing from lung irritation. Weird.

Just to let you know, I tested myself for COVID and the test came back negative. I’m suspicious of the test though because I have an odd feeling COVID had a part to play with this. Our collective susceptibility was just too coincidental. The thing moved too fast, was too debilitating, and lasted too long.

The disease isn’t what I wanted to discuss in this post though. It was merely a prelude to the suggested medicament, which is as entertaining as entertaining can get.

I volunteer with an old-school Maine woman. She moved to the state during her early teen years and has yet to leave. She’s now in her 80s and knows the rules of the road, so to speak. Basically, she’s seen a lot of things and knows how it all works in this part of the country.

Last week, as I was nearly healed from the suffering of my dreadful malady, this wonderful woman and I were speaking on the front steps of our organization. She noticed the lingering affliction in my eyes and indicated that I still appeared to be sick. I didn’t feel sick anymore, but I apparently still looked it.

She told me, “You know what will really kick this from your system?”

Of course I wanted to know, so I replied, “What? Oh please tell me so I can pass the information on to Laura. She’s still ill.”

My friend informed me of the cure and it goes like this: “Get yourself a big glass and fill it half way with whiskey. Then fill the other half with water, drink the entire thing, and go to bed. When you wake up in the morning, you’ll feel great!”

I couldn’t believe it. I thought this suggestion was the best thing ever.

I told her, “C’mon, that can’t really work,” to which she replied, “Hey, it’s worked for me. I’ve drunk that and when I woke up the next morning, I had no idea where I was.”

I do love Maine and I love the people in it. This whiskey cold cure is just about as Maine as it gets. Basically, drink enough to knock the cold right out of your soul. While I have no idea if this particular remedy actually has any positive effect on a person’s health, I’d certainly agree that a half glass of whiskey ingested in one gulp would make just about anyone feel…different. If I drank that much in one sitting, my cold would most likely be the last thing I’d be concerned with the next morning.

While straight-up whiskey therapy for a cold might not be the best road to travel down for most people, I’ve heard good things about what’s referred to as a hot toddy. What’s a hot toddy, you ask? It’s a simple drink that can ease the symptoms of just about anything. Here’s the very straightforward recipe:

Hot Toddy Recipe

¾ cup water
1 ½ ounces whiskey
2 to 3 teaspoons honey, to taste
2 to 3 teaspoons lemon juice, to taste
1 lemon round
1 cinnamon stick

Mix the liquid ingredients in a glass and toss in the lemon round and cinnamon stick. Drink up and enjoy. Sounds good to me, especially while sitting in front of a cracklin’ wood stove. See ya next time.

This is going to be an odd post. I’m not even sure what I’ll write. As of this moment and as I sit here and think, I’ve yet to conjure up anything that seems remotely cohesive. I suppose though, I’ll try my best. For me, that’s what these types of situations call for – my best. The issue at hand is that I’m feeling a certain way and I’ve yet to determine an effective articulation for those feelings.

There’s a book floating around out there called, “How to Win Friends and Influence People.” It was written by Dale Carnegie way back in 1936. It’s actually one of the world’s most popular books – a title that’s been sold over 30 million times. I’ve read this book on numerous occasions and can confidently say that it’s had a tremendous effect on me. Probably the most tremendous effect from any book I’ve ever read. The first time reading it was during my attendance at Binghamton University in New York. My mother bought it and mailed it to me and boy did it leave an impression. It’s not a long read and it’s quite approachable. So much so that I wrote an entire summary of it on my other blog. You may find that summary here, if you were so inclined to read it, that is.

I’ll get right into it. This next paragraph may seem abrupt.

I’m concerned with the way people in this world are acting today. I witness their behaviors each week of each year and their lack of politeness is astounding. Consider this: If you were to walk into a room full of people between the years of 1685 and 1815 (during the Age of Enlightenment), chances are, someone would greet you and say hello. Ask you how you’re doing. Today? You’d not be likely to receive a glance. And if the entire population of that room did happen to glance your way, chances are no one would bother saying anything. This irritates me.

Here’s another example: Let’s say you achieved something remarkable. Another time, another place, perhaps you’d receive comments on your remarkability. Today? It’s like your remarkability is a threat to those around you. I get the sense that many folks out there would treat you with scorn rather than offer you the praise you deserve. I’d love to say I’m mistaken here, but I don’t think I am. The general sense I get is one of negativity and a distain for the fellow man. I’m sure I could go on and on regarding the reasoning behind this, but I’ll leave it here; many of us need to wake up to the needs of society and the individual. We must shed whatever weakness and laziness we’ve accumulated and determine ourselves to present a positive impact on others. I’m aware that my claims above are bold and I’d like you to know that I’m generally referring to society at large, rather than the small groups we belong to. Within those small groups, I’ve seen nothing but the best of behavior. Obviously, a few within every group leave something to be desired, but by and large, my experiences have been positive.

Back to my semi-rant. I’ll share a story with you to illustrate my point of all this.

Each week, I work with a very special group of people. We volunteer to help those in our community who may be in need. A few weeks ago, I was talking with one of our volunteers when she mentioned a book she was reading. Being the polite fellow I am, I asked her for the book’s title and author. Even if I had no intention of looking further into the book, the right thing to do was to ask her these questions. It made her feel as though her story was worthwhile and being listened to, which it was.

This woman and I continued to talk for a few more minutes when I was forced to excuse myself to help a person with a task. We parted ways until later in the day. Upon reconnecting, I sat and watched, we’ll call her “Jane,” work. After a few moments passed, I said, “You know Jane, you do a very good job here. I’ve come to conclude that there are a few people in this world who make the entire thing go round. You’re one of those people.” What I said was true. Jane visits our organization every single Monday and selflessly does her job for no pay and without complaint. She’s a wonder and I told her as much.

Here’s the crux: After I offered my thoughts to Jane, she began to cry. She said, “You know, I really needed to hear that today. It’s been a tough one.” She walked away from me, gathered her belongings and went home. I was left wondering what put this woman in such a state, but more so, I was left wondering how the entire group of us could have ignored Jane to such a extent that it took hours for her to hear something nice enough that would cause her to well up in tears. I can’t express how disappointed I was in myself for not paying better attention to the needs of our volunteers. Yes, people should speak up if they’re facing difficulties, but others should also take notice when something isn’t as it should be.

In general, I believe we need to begin paying attention to people other than ourselves. We need to demonstrate to the world how well-raised we are. Are you aware that most of us have mothers and fathers? Yes, it’s true. Do you know that it costs nothing and takes a mere moment for a mother or father to teach a child to show appreciation? To say please and thank you? To express interest in another? If you haven’t been taught to do these things yourself and if you aren’t paying attention the way you should, I implore you to read Dale’s book. It’ll teach you everything you’ll need to know. A good impression goes a very long way in regards to personal relationships, but a bad impression, unfortunately, goes an even longer way. I’ll leave you with this:

1. Approximately eight years ago, a boy who lived up the road from Laura and me told us he was graduating from high school. After hearing this, Laura bought him a card and I enclosed a congratulatory check for $50 in it. We gave both to him. Weeks later when we next saw him, because we hadn’t heard anything back, I asked if he opened the card. He replied, “Oh yeah. Thanks.” Wow. I’ll remember that experience forever and not in a good way.
2. Approximately five years ago, a family a few roads from ours gave Laura and me a dozen duck eggs. We thanked this family profusely for their generosity and being so grateful, Laura decided to spend about four hours of her day baking them a double-chocolate cake using some of the eggs they gifted us. The cake was made from scratch and the ingredients cost about $20 – mostly for the chocolate. It was an extraordinary cake. We gave the family the cake and never heard back from them. Weeks passed when I asked the family if they enjoyed it. One of them said, “Yeah, it was good. Thanks.” Wow. I’ll remember that experience forever and not in a good way.

Being polite means you need to go out of your way to make another person feel a certain way. First, you’ll need to ascertain how you’d like the person to feel and then you’ll need to make that feeling happen. Do you know that every single time Laura receives a gift from someone, no matter how big or small the gift, that person receives a hand-written note of thanks in return? Laura was raised to an extraordinary standard and it’s one of the characteristics that attracted me to her. She’s gracious and very, very polite. I just wish the rest of the world was more like her.

Remember, being polite isn’t a challenging concept to grasp. It exists when a person shows regard for another in their manner, speech, and behavior. The adjective polite stems from the mid-13th century Latin word, politus. Politus can be defined as refined, elegant, or even polished. It’s the demonstration of consideration for others, the using of tact, and the observing of social norms. What’s the opposite of being polite? Being rude, of course. And as we all certainly know, no one, and I mean no one, likes a rude person. So please be polite every chance you can.

PS – If you’re interested in learning about manners and etiquette, I encourage you to take a look at Emily Post.

Back in the 1990s, there was a quarterback for the New York Giants named Dave Brown. I remember watching him play. He was one of the best quarterbacks I’ve ever seen throw a ball. When Dave was on, he was really on. And when he was in this state, he seemingly transformed the football into a missile. Such accuracy and elegance. And speed! Boy, I remember watching those games when Dave was playing well. It was like nothing could stop him.

While Dave Brown was an incredible quarterback for the Giants when he was on, there were unfortunate times when he wasn’t. And when he wasn’t, he was an awful quarterback. During those instances, he was terrible for the team and as I recall, they really didn’t know what to do with the guy. Dave Brown was extraordinarily talented, but his problem was, he lacked consistency. Which, of course, cost him his career. It’s a shame because I believe everyone who watched him play, saw his talent – we really couldn’t miss it. We all hoped that he actually was as great as great could get. That inconsistency thing though – he simply wasn’t great all the time and consistent greatness is what the NFL demands.

I’ve played tennis since I was a young boy. During my early years, my mother sent me to tennis lessons at the town park and afterward, during the years that followed, I continued on with my lessons at a few other locations. I was an awful player. Sure, I’d get a hit here or there, but overall, I was terrible. Which begs the question – why in the world did I join the varsity tennis team when I was in only eighth grade? Not even in high school yet – my friend Russell’s mother talked me into it. She was in the midst of trying to persuade Russell into joining the team and, apparently, in order to do so, he needed a friend to come along. I decided to rescue him and I signed up alongside my good buddy. I even remained with the team after Russell quit a few weeks in. As least I was consistent with showing up.

The reason I bring Dave Brown’s name and ability into this post is because I think I’m a lot like him. Since my teen years, I’ve continued to play tennis and while I’ve learned a lot and have enjoyed my fair share of killer shots, I’ve yet been able to win a match to save my life. Not because I’m not talented, which I am. I’m talented like Dave Brown was. It’s because I’ve got no consistency. I choke. I get nervous and I screw things up when they matter most. But I’ll repeat, I have made some killer shots. Shots so good they’d earn the “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” of everyone watching. And that very same audience would continue to watch as I got clobbered for the rest of whatever game I was playing. Now that I’m middle age and being honest, I can reveal that I haven’t played in years – because of the aforementioned reasons. I still remember how terrible I was and I chalk it up to tennis being one of those things I probably should have avoided since the beginning. Like golf, it’s a game that messes with the head. And apparently, I’m not great at having my head messed with.

I’d like to share a quick tennis story with you. It’s about the time I joined the high school varsity team as a middle schooler. What audacity I had, thinking I could go off and play against those guys who had already hit puberty. Yes, Russell’s mother talked me into it and yes, Russell quit a few weeks after the season began, but while we were together, Russell and me, we enjoyed ourselves. Every day, we’d leave the middle school after classes had finished, walk through the sports fields, all the way to the elementary school, where Russell’s mother worked as a teacher’s aide for none other than my very own first grade teacher, Mrs. Bubley. We’d enter the classroom, where we’d be greeted by a two cans of soda and two very large cookies that were purchased from the Italian deli up the road. Mrs. McKee’s way of bribing two boys who weren’t necessarily interested in playing tennis, as their first choice of activities, anyway. Her bribes worked and we continued drinking the soda and eating the cookies, that is, until Russell decided he didn’t want either anymore and stopped showing up. From that point on, I walked straight from the middle school to the tennis courts, where I’d lose every match I ever played.

During the season, I practiced my game and took tips from the boys who were older than me. Their tips did help and I managed to win a few games, but really, I wasn’t proficient by any meaning of the word. I attended every practice and went to each and every meet. I even joined in the “away” meets where I’d play against boys from other school on their courts. While I haven’t the foggiest memory of most matches, I do happen to recall one in particular. It was an away meet. I remember the coaches placing me against another boy who was about the same age as I was. We were set aside on a court away from the others and were left to our own devices. Since the boy was so young, I thought I had a chance. I didn’t. He handily beat me, which was fine. At least I was able to keep my record of 0-0-0-0.

When the season ended, the entire team was to gather one evening in a high school classroom for an exciting event called “awards night.” Awards night was basically the culmination of everything that occurred on every field, court, or mat during the entire season. It was when all the sport teams gathered to discuss their wins and losses and to congratulate each other on their successes and proud moments. But more importantly, it was the night when the coaches awarded the players with their varsity letters. After all, these were high school teams and if a player participated in enough games, that player earned a letter. I’d participated in all of the games, so I was quite excited about purchasing my school jacket to which I’d sew my letter. As of yet, no one in my family had earned a letter, something I’d readily change.

A man named Mr. Martino was our coach. He was sort of a nice guy. A bit cocky and had that swagger high school teachers exhibited in those days. A lifer who I’m sure retired years ago. Mr. Martino scrolled through the list of players that awards night. He stood in front of the classroom behind the teacher’s desk and called out each individual’s name, who was to walk up to the front, shake hands with him, graciously accept the letter, and return to his desk. It was a moving ceremony, really. The players were overjoyed by their achievements and varsity letters were held up to lower rib areas to show where they’d soon be situated. I was impressed.

The strange thing was…after the final name was called, I realized that I sat alone as the only student who hadn’t received anything. And it wasn’t only me who realized this, the other players did as well and when one of them mustered up the courage to shout, “Hey, what about Jay?,” the others joined in as well. Out of all the wonderful occurrences I experienced that night, those players showing such concern for my well being was the most special. And it’s something I remember to this day.

Under pressure, Mr. Martino looked up and said, “Oh yeah. Jay, c’mon up.” I didn’t waste any time striding forth to that desk to take a firm hold of the only letter left. I placed my fingers on it, pressed them into that soft green and white material, smiled at the coach, and gave him a huge, “Thank you!” After that, I returned to my desk to revel in all the glory the universe would offer me that night. I had done it. I had actually been the first, as far as I knew then, middle schooler to have earned a real, genuine, authentic, and extremely cool looking varsity letter for playing a high school sport. As you could imagine, I sat firmly on cloud nine. The other players appreciated the sentiment as well and showed as much when they clapped for me. They all knew I didn’t really earn the thing for winning any games, but they were glad I got something for my efforts and commitment.

After a few moments, the coach indicated that the show was over and all of us were to head on home. As everyone else was almost gone from the classroom, I stood from my seat and, before I exited too, walked up to the desk to thank Mr. Martino for what he had given me. I said, “Thanks coach. This means the world to me.” He replied, “Oh yeah, let me have that back,” and ripped the letter from my hands. He slid it in his folder and walked out.

And that was that. To this day, I’m not sure a middle schooler has ever received a varsity letter.