It’s just before sunrise on a frigid February Sunday morning, and I’m standing on a frozen lake. It’s still dark, although the sun is starting to make its way up and out over the trees behind me. My guide for the morning, Ben Nugent, a thirty year-old biologist for Fish and Game, finishes pulling his sled, packed with the tools we’ll need for a day of ice fishing. I met Ben about twenty minutes ago, right near Mosquito Bridge outside Tilton. The first thing he said to me was, “This is the coldest morning I’ve fished this year,” and now, standing in the middle of Lake Winnisquam, wearing six layers of clothes, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and foot warmers inside my boots, I believe him. The cold takes my breath away, reminding me that it sure was warm in my bed about an hour ago, where I still could be, snug and cozy as I dream of soft tropical breezes and warm sand between my toes.
My imaginary vacation is interrupted by the whine of the gas-powered ice augur that Ben’s man-handling as he drills a hole into the ice. Water gushes out as Ben kicks the slush and ice away and drills another hole. My guess is that the fundamentals of ice fishing haven’t changed much since our ancestors realized that salted squirrel meat gets pretty tired around mid January. You cut a hole in the ice, you bait a hook, you drop the hook into the hole, and you wait. A few days before Ben cautioned me that even though he’s picked out a sure-fire winning spot for us, “There are no guarantees” we’ll catch anything, but as I watch him set up the shelter and cut the bait, I have a feeling I’m in the hands of a pro, and if I can prevent myself from freezing to death or falling through the ice, I might just be eating fish for dinner tonight.
I’m not much of a fisherman. To-date, my greatest achievement as an angler is getting a three-pronged lure stuck in my ten-year old belly while yanking it from a sunken log only to be followed twelve years later by a mid-river mishap in Montana when I learned that fly fishing waders filled with gallons of Bighorn River water make for a hilarious, near-lethal combination. And prior to today, the thought of ice fishing reminded me only of the joke about how the ice fisherman died (he got himself run over by the Zamboni), but with thousands of fishable bodies of water across New Hampshire, I decided it was time to hit the ice and see what the frigid fuss was all about.
Ben’s from northern New Hampshire, and after two years of college, he abandoned his plan of becoming a pharmacist. “A life under fluorescent lights was not for me,” he adds as he divvies up the sucker meat. Ben is a conservation biologist for New Hampshire Fish and Game. “My job is to look for and study endangered fish populations for the state and help towns make good decisions about how to protect them,” Ben explains. And when he says things like, “Trawlin’ on Winni,” and “Jigging for lakers,” he says them with such casual conviction that I’m convinced this man knows more about fish and fishing than I could ever hope to. Besides, anyone who utters the sentence, “Black crappie makes great eating,” with a straight face deserves my respect.
We’re now seated in the temporary shelter – sort of a bob house on the fly. The thick plywood base has two hatches in the floor, and Ben’s positioned them just above the holes he’s drilled. He then unveils his baby, or as he calls it, “My $350 fishing buddy,” a state-of-the-art depth and fish finder. Ben drops the cable sensor down the hole, and we see how deep the water is and where the fish are. “Without this, you’re fishing blind,” he says, which sums up every attempt I’ve ever had at fishing until today.
Ben hands me a small rod with a simple lure and a piece of sucker meat on it. I watch as he cuts more of the meat and puts it into what looks like a small copper bell at the end of another rod. “It’s time to chum the holes,” he explains as he puts three or four pieces of bait into the bell, latches the bottom and drops it into my hole. Ben tells me that it’s a chum bucket, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve heard that term before, but only during Spongebob Squarepants, drawing even greater attention to the fact I’ve got lots to learn.
We watch the bucket descend on the depth finder’s small screen, and just as it reaches fifty-five feet and the bottom, Ben yanks the line to release the bucket’s bottom to let the chum fall to the floor. Our target today is lake trout, a robust species that’s found in most lakes across the state. I learn that any trout we keep has to be at least eighteen inches long and that trout love smelt. Ben waxes poetic about the smelt, about how they’re key to the health of the larger fish in the lake. “The trout and the salmon eat smelt, so we need smelt for the other fish to thrive,” Ben tells me. I had no idea how important smelt were to the entire operation, and Ben continues, telling me the smelt population in Lake Winnisquam is healthy and plentiful. I think we’ve dumped enough of it at the bottom of our holes to host a trout-only, all-you-can-eat “smeltasbord,” but so far, the fish ignore us.
Ben’s fish finder shows nothing except our lines in the water and an occasional fish or two. We’ve been out here for about two hours already and nothing’s biting except the cold air. Ben suggests that the chum left behind by the bob house owners in the distance might have helped our trout lose their appetites or that last weekend’s fishing derby may have played a role. Either way, we’re having no luck, and Ben decides to find a new spot. Within minutes he’s drilled two new holes, and we’re soon seated in our cozy shelter, rods in hand, and fresh chum down the holes.
One thing I can tell you about ice fishing when the fish aren’t biting is that you spend a lot of time talking about other things. Ben saw John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett at the Capitol Theater last weekend, and I really liked George Clooney in the film, Michael Clayton. The sub-prime housing market issue is a big problem, and the New York Mets will play their last season at Shea this summer. I once saw an otter in the lake when I was a kid, and did you know that otters will eat only the eyes and brains of salmon that are caught in Fish and Game’s nets? We talk Red Sox, mink, bald eagles and fish. We discuss the state of fishing on Winnipesaukee (great) and the future of the Bridal Shiner (not great). We talk about how ugly the cusk is and about how last summer a renegade pickerel in Merrimack nipped at campers’ feet as they swam, and that the Round White is a very rare fish in New Hampshire and lives only in Newfound Lake.
“We might get skunked today,” Ben laments. We try another strategy and go back to the original holes and bait a hook on a “tip up,” a contraption that sits over the hole with a baited line at the end and a flag that snaps up the moment there’s any tug on the line. Ben sets it, and we head back to our holes.
It’s around 10 AM and we’ve been out here for four hours. Just then, Ben sees the raised flag on the tip up, and we jog over to see what we’ve caught. Ben can’t believe it – the flag’s up but there’s nothing on the end of our line, just remnants of the sucker meat. Apparently we’re the only suckers out here today. Back in the shelter, our time running out, we even try dumping the carcass of the sucker fish Ben filleted last night to entice our recalcitrant foes, but it’s frozen, and the sucker’s head bobs on the surface of my hole, its dead eyes staring through me, mocking my incompetence.
Just before we quit, we’ve fallen back into silence when Ben murmurs, “You’ve got a lake trout right underneath you.” I reel the bait gently upward, hoping the fish will forget the free food we gave him and attack my strings-attached snack. But he’s too smart, too full or too jaded for my shenanigans, and he swims away, leaving us fishless.
You might call five hours sitting on a block of ice in the frigid winter air with no fish to show for it the definition of failure, but I’m not so sure. How often do you get to learn all sorts of things from a man who’s an expert in his field and have fun doing it? And there are worse places to spend a Sunday morning than in the great outdoors. Besides, what’s a little frostbite among new fishing buddies?
Friday, February 22, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
"The Fat Man's Candy" or "How Cheese Changed my Life"
The holidays are over, and as I look in the mirror, I see a flabbier version of myself staring back, a look of confused anxiety on my face as I realize what six weeks of over-indulgence can do to a man. This year was gonna be different – this was the year I stayed away from third helpings of the festive pecan sugar log, rejected another lap around the buffet table, the year I avoided the face-first forays into the creamy Frito-laden dip. That plan ended the minute the eighth swan went a’ swimming, unfortunately, leaving me swollen, sullen and looking for the ghost of Jack Lalanne, and he isn’t even dead yet. When New Year’s Day rolled around, I seized upon the first day of the New Year as the perfect time to right my ways.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Tim O'Shea Must Shut Up!
“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.
Monday, November 26, 2007
SF Man Part Two - I Am Not Dougie!
Part Two – I Can Hear You Getting Fatter
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Short Fat Man Tears ACL, Gets Shorter and Fatter
Part One – Mental Toughness, Physical Weakness
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
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