I am inclined to start explaining when an armed guard starts walking toward me.  I quickly explained that we had never seen one of these things before and had just stopped to look.  I kept my hands in sight and spoke in the least threatening way I know how.  The guards smiled and said that was fine.  They came down to the fence and began telling us about the windmills.  They told how much they cost and how many homes each one can power.  One guard went back to the trailer and brought us some literature.  It was all very interesting.  They explained how fast the blades turn and how there is something that keeps them from turning too fast when the wind blows too hard.  We asked lots of questions and the guards seemed to love having company and someone to appreciate the windmills.

My last question was different from the rest.  I wasn’t sure if I should ask it, but I did.  ”Why is it that these windmills have to have armed guards here?”

His face changed expression.  Then he told us that people had come and shot at the windmills and almost hit a technician who was working on one of them.  After that the company decided that they had to guard the windmills.  He said they hoped that someday they would not need guarding any longer.

As I asked myself why anyone would shoot a windmill, I remembered some signs I had seen down in the valley.  The signs said “NO turbines in Bedford County.”  I later examined one of these signs and visited the website of the organization that sponsored them.  I expected to find something extremist and perhaps ill-informed.  Instead I found an environmentalist approach to the subject.  ”Save our Allegheny ridges” is their name and slogan.  And being an environmentalist myself I have sympathy for their position.  But I also recognize the need for renewable energy to replace our dependence on the oil we are running out of and paying more and more to get.  I recognize that drilling miles deep under the oceans and in riskier and riskier places will inevitably lead to more and more disasters like the one we are now seeing.

It is strange to me that people in the Gulf region still support “drill, Baby, drill” despite the effects of the oil spill on their environment.  The lure of jobs and money is too strong, I suppose.  And if this holds true for all of us it means that we will keep moving irrationally toward ruin, despite all warnings to the contrary.  On the other hand, I do not live on the Gulf and my livelihood does not depend on the oil economy.  I wonder what my position on these issues would be if I were in their places.

I have read the “NO turbines” materials on their website and I see their side of the debate.  I’ve read that the North Carolina legislature is blocking any windmill building on ridges in the state.  There certainly are no easy choices to be made.

My one and only experience with one of the windmills was not unpleasant.  They are very large and they certainly detract from the beauty of the mountains.  But no more so than transmission towers and microwave relays and power plant smokestacks.  They are remarkably calm and quiet things, actually, especially being so large.  Given the alternatives, they might not be so bad.  We certainly don’t need to be shooting them.

I was hiking on a lakeshore trail in a nearby state park. Ahead was a small wooden bridge across a stream. Several good steps and you would be across this bridge. But crossing it on this early morning, I noticed something that brought me to a stop. Someone had written something there. I imagined it to be the hand of a young boy. But instead of “fuck you” or “parents suck” it was something strangely different.

“I love you!”

As I walked on, I began pondering this message. It was not addressed to anyone. Usually you would expect a name attached. “I love you, Mary!” Or Jane, or Sally . . . someone with a name.

Was the boy shy? Did he want to leave the message anonymous, so he could point it out to any girl he brought and claim it was to her? Or could his love have been for another boy, and no girl at all? Or was this message more of a wish than a reality? He felt love, but his love had no name to attach to?  Or could he have just been happy on a bright, sunny day and in love with life and with everyone?  I kept wondering because there were all these possibilities, and no way to tell for sure about any of them.

However, I vote for the bright, sunny day.  A day with an exclamation mark beside it.  A day when love was an overwhelming feeling that had to be written down, even on a bridge.  A day when it was free and unbounded, including all the world and the entire human race.

I know this sounds like nonsense.  I know such writing was not placed by the head of the local chamber of commerce, kneeling down on those boards in his business suit and tie.  It is nonsense for sure to him.  This is the work of a child, we assume.  It must have been a child, we assume.  Thus we make it childish and foreign to our practical lives.

Sometimes on televised football games the camera shows a person in the end zone holding a sign saying “John 3:16″–the location of a verse in the Bible.  The person wants us to get a Bible and read that verse.  He believes it will do us some good.  Perhaps it will for, if I recall correctly, this passage begins “God so loved the world . . ..”  So in this theology it is god-like to love the world, but that is in theory.  It seems that the majority of god-fans don’t see it that way.  Their god loves their particular portion of the world–their country or tribe or religion or ethnic group, or whatever.

Speaking before a fundraiser for his political party, Newt Gingrich recently declared: “I am not a citizen of the world. I think the entire concept is intellectual nonsense and stunningly dangerous!”  In this view it is every country for itself, and may the best country win.  Or it is every race or language group for itself.  Or it is every social or religious group for itself.  And so we always at war, one against another.  So it goes, and so it goes.

Human love, if we have any, tends to narrow down, not broaden out.  We love only certain classes, races, political persuasions.  We love children and relatives only if they behave themselves and treat us as they should.  We certainly would never love an enemy.  Our loved ones are the loving ones, meaning those who love us.  Thus does love amount to no better than a practical selfishness.

I know the author of the inscription didn’t have all of this in mind, but it’s what I think about every time I cross his bridge.

Being thus acquainted, you follow this car down the road, observing.  You imagine that he feels your displeasure behind him and is now ashamed of himself for his rude behavior.  Then you scold yourself for having such a stupid thought.  Then you imagine that he is laughing at you and gloating.  You are a poor slob of a driver he has beaten.  But then you know that he does this all the time with little notice of other cars.  He is a superior car, a privileged car among them, and he gives them, gives you, little thought.

But he does give thought to the car in the new merge lane that just passed you and seems bent on passing him as well.  Same situation as before, only the roles are reversed.  The new car wants to do the same thing, pass him and cut in.  But there is no way he will let this happen.  His bumper is almost touching the rear of the car ahead of him, riding it, as we say.  The ambitious car gives up, slows down, and pulls in ahead of you.  Congratulations, you are now two cars down.  Of course, you could have fought off this new car like the guy ahead of you did, but you are not that kind of person.  You are a good person and a courteous driver, although sometimes you hate yourself for this behavior.  Were you to play the aggressive driver you would feel guilty as a result, but now you feel cheated.  Those seem to be your choices, guilty or cheated.

It is strange how the anonymity of driving allows these games to be played.  If they were driving their grocery carts to the check-out station, and you were ahead of them in line, they would not push in ahead of you like this.  The contact is too close and personal for that.

We do things as strangers that we would not do as neighbors.  A few of our family or neighbors wronged is a big deal; thousands of strangers wronged is but a passing concern or thought.  Our dead soldiers are carefully counted and tracked because they are ours and we know them.  The greater number of others dead is not counted or tracked.  They were strangers.

In theory most religions assert that we are fellow human beings and children of the same god.  But the practice is much different.  In theory we would treat each other on the road as we would in the supermarket.  But the practice is different, as we know well.

So how do we handle ourselves in such a world?  Do we “do it unto others before they can do it unto you,” or do we treat others as we would like to be treated ourselves?  And further complicating this choice is the factor of anonymity.  There are a lot of people who will choose to be kind and fair with others when they are in close contact, but will easily support the torture and killing of strangers.  So we behave morally as individuals and immorally as societies.

Living in the South in the 60′s, I had friends who would vote for every segregationist who came along, call Martin Luther King a Communist, and say that civil rights protesters were only getting what they deserved when beaten or killed.  But individually, with known Black people in their community, they were kind and respectful and helping of those in need.  This is the paradox of moral man and immoral society.  This is the hypocrisy of practicing our personal morality while supporting public immorality.

And these were my thoughts while driving down the road.

We’ve all had experiences with doctors where there was no clear verdict.  They try this, and then they try that.  They do some other tests.  We wait to see if things improve.  Nothing seems to work.  But there in the ophthalmologist’s office we found that a clearly successful outcome had been achieved.  It was like a miracle.  He had stripped off my bandage, and immediately I saw things clearly.

President Obama’s daughter asked him this morning if the oil leak has been fixed yet.

It hasn’t.  They’ve tried this, and then tried that.  They have done other tests.  They have waited to see if things improve.  Nothing seems to work.

It seems to more and more of us that all the things that need fixing are resistant to it.  Our political system, the world economy, our worsening environment, crime and violence, ignorance and poverty, wars that never end.

I started to include our health care system.  I started to say our health care system is broken and need fixing.  Then I realized that the health care system just fixed my left eye for me.  Fixed it good.

So IF you have a good job and good insurance, and IF you find a competent surgeon who’s on his game that day, and IF they have stuff clean of germs and sneaky bacteria, you might just get in and out and be okay.

And be thankful and almost astonished, because we aren’t so used to good news these days.

Appalachian Journey features the string trio of Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, and Mark O’Connor with guest singers Alison Krauss and James Taylor.  The music is varied and only loosely to be identified as Appalachian (although we are certainly happy to take credit for it!)..  But it has the typical Appalachian music blend of melancholy and exuberant, with melancholy being predominant.  Some music is arranged from traditional tunes and other was composed by Meyer or O’Connor.  Alison Krauss sang “Slumber My Darling” and James Taylor joined the group for “Hard Times Come Again No More.”  The balance of the 90 minute program consisted of pure instrumentals featuring the trio and occasionally a duet.

A host of adjectives would apply to this musical experience: beautiful, haunting, rousing, complex, discordant, uplifting, sobering, magical.  It was sometimes hard to decide which was more powerful, the music itself or the musicianship of the artists. I’m sure that the performers would have remembered notes that were a little flat or an entrance made a little slowly, but to the mortal listener it comes across as pure perfection.  You feel you are watching and listening to something that no one else could match.

This craftsmanship also extends to the filming and production.  You never see a camera but they seem to be everywhere and by the dozens.  You watch the hands, the fingers, the faces, the glances, the thrill of the wild applause.  The hands were amazing to watch, and so different.  Yo-Yo Ma’s hands are delicate and womanly.  Edgar Meyer’s look like those of a carpenter or longshoreman.  But each works like magic and so fast the eye can barely follow.

Another remarkable part of this experience is the fullness of the sound this 3-person group achieves.  I wager that if you played this music for 10 people (without a view of the group on the stage) and asked them to guess the number of musicians, everyone would guess many more than three.  Of course the Canadian Brass has only five and the King’s Singers only six, and the same holds true for them.

Musical tastes vary greatly, we know, and this music might not appeal to you.  But I suggest you give it a try, especially if it sounds like something a little out of your usual realm.  I loved it and will watch and listen again.

You get used to all the swim team noise.  You get to where you seldom even notice it.  But then, nearby, I heard unusually loud hollering.  Angry hollering.

One of the swim team “coaches” was giving the devil to a young boy.  Face red, arms waving, fingers pointing.  The poor kid just standing there with his eyes staring down at the pool deck.  I put the word coach in parenthesis because I’ve never seen a one of these guys doing what I would call coaching.  Their job seems limited to getting the kids organized in the water, timing their laps, and urging them on.

“Go, go, go!”  “Don’t let him pass you, Cramer!”  “Alright now, I want to see some better times.”

They do not teach about swimming.  Their deal is to motivate the kids to try harder at doing it the way they came there doing it.

I felt sorry for the boy who was being berated by his “coach.”  Although warm and comfortable in the adjoining hot tub, I felt his pain, his embarrassment.  It made me wonder about the men who do this.  Were they super athletes when they were this age?  Or are they taking it out on these kids as a make-up call for their own lack of achievement?  Do they have jobs where someone bosses them around, where they have to take a lot of crap, and this is a way of getting to unload on someone else, even a poor kid?

When I was the age of the swim team kids, I had a wonderful Boy Scout leader.  His name was John Murphy and we called him by his last name, Murphy, like we called each other by last names.  Murphy was devoted to us boys and we knew it.  He deserved to be called a leader, both in leading by example and also through his advice and encouragement.  There were certainly times we disappointed him, but never did he berate anyone.  Achievements were about us, not about him.  Murphy was someone I still feel indebted to.  My better self would like to be such a person and be remembered so long and so fondly.

To be sure, there are times for urging people to try harder.  There may be times for taking people to task.  But showing them the way, teaching them how things are, those speak louder and last longer.

Adirondack Shelter

The park lies astride two lines on the map: the Tennessee/North Carolina state line and the Appalachian Trail.  The trail held the most interest to me.  Along the trail there were camp sites with rustic Adirondack Shelters like the one pictured here.  They were made of logs and very solid.  They were open on one side and that’s where you built your fire and did the cooking.  A good spring was always nearby with cold, running water.  If I could add up all the nights I spent in these shelters it would be measured in months.

As boys, our scoutmaster taught us that staying in these shelters was both a privilege and a responsibility.  He said that the next hikers behind us might get in late or arrive in the rain.  We must leave some good dry wood and kindling.  We must leave the place clean.  And some left-over canned food would be a good idea too.  We must think of those who would come after us, and we must leave things for them as we would like to find them for ourselves.

Being a serious and thoughtful young man, I took these instructions to heart.  I felt satisfaction when I left a shelter in good order.  I felt guilt if I did not.  I rarely failed to leave things the best I possibly could.

I have hiked in and found shelters exactly as I would have left them, and I have found them trashed and without a stick of dry wood.  On those occasions I would wonder what kind of people had left things in such a mess.  Had no one ever told them about their responsibility?  I supposed they must have been from somewhere far away.  People who had not been raised right.

We pulled into such a shelter late one day in a solid downpour.  We were tired and soaked and cold and looking forward to a warm fire.  As my buddies huddled and rested, I went back out in the rain with my double-bit axe.  Across on the ridge I found a dead chestnut tree.  I knew there was dry wood inside.  I chopped and chopped and brought back logs to split under the shelter.  After considerable effort I got a hot blaze going.  The next party would find a nice stack of that wood all ready to go.

Why do I think back on this and feel that same kind of guilt as crude oil floods the Gulf of Mexico from an exploded oil well off the coast?  The fact that we are drilling for oil a mile deep and far out to sea highlights the fact that we have already plundered all of the underground oil that is easily within our reach.  We are going for the last of it, no matter the cost or the consequences.  For those who come down the trail behind us there will be none left, but who cares?

I once pulled into an Appalachian Trail shelter and found that people needing firewood and unwilling to climb the nearby ridge and fell a dead tree had taken apart and burned the entire outhouse, excluding the seat.  The seat sat oddly by itself in full view of the world.  Like the mountains in West Virginia that are stripped off to get the last of the coal and then left behind as so much waste.

Waste is the word for it.  The land, the trees and plants, the air and water, the buried resources, the wild living things that fly and run and burrow–we are wasting it all.  Those who come after us will surely wonder what sort of people could have done this.

I suppose I am more of a hill climber than a flatland rider.  I have ridden in biking events on the Eastern Shore of Maryland where the entire route is flat as a tabletop.  And I have ridden in the Colorado Rockies where we crossed the Continental Divide back and forth.  The section from Vail up to Vail Pass, for example, is 18 miles long and entirely uphill.  About the same distance as my entire ride yesterday.  But I still like the variation.  Riding for hours on level ground is boring to me.  I like the ups and downs.

Riding a bicycle, you’re aware of the ups and downs much more.  In order to ride efficiently, you have to look ahead and anticipate them.  One of the most common rookie mistakes is getting caught on a steep hill in the wrong gear.  You learn to look ahead, anticipate what’s coming up, and shift to a climbing gear in plenty of time.

Riding yesterday I was enjoying a fine downhill section: smooth pavement, no cars, lots of speed, nice curves.  But as my adrenalin rose, reality put in a disclaimer.  This will not last, and there will be a price to pay for it soon enough.  Screaming downhills are followed by grinding uphills.  Things tend to even out.

The only bicycling exception to this rule I ever met up with is on Mt. Haleakala on Maui in Hawaii.  A company there will rent you a bicycle at the top of the mountain, let you ride it down, and pick it up and the bottom.  Nothing but downhill.  Coast all the way.  I guess that sounds good to a lot of people.  To me it sounds pretty boring.  The ups and downs are more true to life.

My old professor friend had to play golf every time he came to town.  One day we’d been invited by friends to play at one of the gated retirement communities nearby.  We happened to be walking down the fairway together when chimes began to play.  The chimes were playing “Nearer My God To Thee.”  This struck us both the same way.  He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we both restrained the urge to laugh out loud.  And his comment was this:  “You know, Ed, this is okay for some people but not for me.  The last thing I want to do is live all shut up with a bunch of old people waiting to die.  I want to live where there are young people and children and a slice of life.  I think you’re away, go ahead and hit.”

Well, I second that motion.  Riding on the level is okay, but give me some ups and downs.  Some protections are okay, but not when they insulate and isolate and choke us off.

A fellow bicycle commuter was killed in D.C. last week.  Run over by a 5.5 ton army truck leaving the office about 6:00 p.m.  Will I be more careful around the cars and trucks I ride with?  Probably, at least for awhile.  Will I play it safe and give up my bike?  No way.

Malcomb was both fascinated by this sight and distressed because none of his friends had seemed to notice.  But the man with the ugly foot was close to him and looking his way, so he pretended not to notice.  Then the man turned his back and started to the hair dryer nearby.

The man had noticed Malcomb noticing.  Being a swimmer who often appeared shoeless and pantless in pool locker rooms, he had encountered the curiosity of young boys in the past.  His most memorable occasion was once when a very small one went and brought his older brother in for a look, then went back and tried to get his mother to do the same.  So he did know what was up when he heard Malcomb loud whisper out, “Hey Jason . . .!”

Anticipating something of the sort, the man at the hair dryer turned quickly.  He caught Malcomb pointing and giggling, and the two made eye contact.  Malcomb looked away quickly hoping he had not been detected but knowing he had.  Any remorse was unapparent.

I thought about sticking my foot in his face and inviting him to take a better look.  I actually considered doing this.  Then the expression “boys will be boys” came to mind.  Then I began an internal conversation with that expression.  Boys should be taught better, I said.  It’s one thing to laugh at someone who makes a fool of himself, but another to laugh at something a person had absolutely no control over.  Such as the color of his skin or the fact that sometimes when they give out right feet a man gets a bad one.

Andrew is shy, a virgin, and mostly a loner except for his best friend, Carlos.  Andrew’s mother, a widow, likes younger men and brings them home for the night on a regular basis.  Andrew’s night time refuge is to turn up the radio and listen to a late night radio talk show.  His glimmer of hope is an unanticipated romance, his first, with a local waitress from the restaurant where his mother also works.  Andrew’s final dilemma is that he cannot stay in Barstow with his mother and first love and still fulfill the dreams his teacher inspired.

The moving speech in which his teacher/mentor described in great detail his risk of settling for a life of mediocrity in Barstow must have weighed heavily upon Andrew.  To the end you keep wondering if he will or if he won’t leave Barstow.

As storytelling, this film is both moving and insightful.  The acting is believable and quite adequate to carry the quite ingenious plot.  Although the ending is a little sudden and forced (a common fault), it is easily forgiven.  Leaving Barstow is well worth the 89 minute investment.

Watch the trailer for Leaving Barstow.

Click here to view the embedded video.