“First we make our habits, then our habits make us.” Charles C. Nobel This week is the one year anniversary of beginning this weekly blog, Searching Daylight. Having that deadline every week, the structure and accountability of it, has been a good thing for me. Full disclosure - developing and nurturing positive habits hasn't always been my strong point. I've spent at least as much time in my life pursuing unconstructive habits as healthy ones. But maybe I'm being a little hard on myself. As old Will Shakespeare wrote, "But that was in another country, and besides..." Anyway, this discipline of writing consistently and regularly has added some purpose to my days. And the days turn into weeks, the weeks to months, and now to a year. Maybe not much in the grand scheme of things, but still, for me, progress. And that's what we all hope for right? Progress. Something life affirming. Something worthwhile to share. I've thought a lot over the past year about the habits that lead to progress. Trying to look a little deeper at my own life. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And the minutiae of positive gravity, tugging me along. As with much good information, would have been productive to know it sooner. Still, I'll take it... Habits, not goals, make otherwise difficult things easy. Studies have shown that brains can confuse goal setting with achievement. The effect is more pronounced when people inform others of their goals. This is probably one reason Ernest Hemingway resisted talking about his writing when he was at work on a project. In short, he felt talking too much about the work relieved him of some of the need to actually do it. Some truth there. Human nature. Goals can be intimidating, but habits are easy to complete. Once we develop a habit, our brains actually change to make the habitual behavior easier. After about thirty days of practice, executing a habit becomes easier than not doing so.  And with consistency, Read more [...]

Who doesn’t love a library? Well, some people for sure, but for me libraries have always been a sanctuary, a quiet place to read, research, and think. Surrounded by thousands of books and even more like church than, well, church. Before Google there were card catalogs, and you learned how to use them. It was the only way to get the job, the learning, the reading, done. If a person was interested in that sort of thing. During the Great Depression, one of the more unique projects of Roosevelt’s New Deal were the packhorse librarians, as they came to be known. Started in eastern Kentucky, these librarians carried books to the remote poor farming and coal mining families of the Appalachian mountains. The work was tough and was done mainly by women, traveling by horse or mule with their load of books. Because of the 60% unemployment rate in eastern Kentucky, women were often the only breadwinners in families hobbled by poverty. Sometimes there were no roads, and the women would ride dry creek beds, animal trails, or fence lines to get to their destinations and deliver the precious books. If saddlebags weren’t available, books were carried in old pillowcases. If a librarian didn’t have a horse or a mule, one could be rented from a local farmer for fifty cents a week. But that came out of her pay, a dollar a day. One librarian's mule died, and she walked her route all winter until she could afford another. By far the most popular title was The Bible, followed by Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island, and The Adventures of Robin Hood. But it wasn’t just books. Periodicals were also popular, National Geographic, Popular Mechanics, and even fashion magazines. Everyone, I think, aspires to something more, and even if a woman in the remote mountains of Kentucky could never afford it, just knowing what was being worn in New York and Paris was a thing of interest. And why not. Regardless of income levels, social strata, or geography, every parent wants more Read more [...]

On a mild-weathered week in October we make plans to ride motorcycles on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Me, my brother Wall, and our friend Carsten, a software developer turned Episcopal priest. The two of them left a day ahead of me, so I set off alone toward our rendezvous point, Wild Woody’s Campground and Amazing Antiques near Wilkesboro, North Carolina.  I always enjoy these group motorcycle outings, the comaraderie, but there's also a special pleasure in traveling solo on a loaded bike. For one, anybody will talk to you. It always starts with them, usually a man, moving closer to get a better view of the bike, in my case a blue Triumph Tiger. They kind of square up and take in the whole rig.  Comparing it, I think, to some picture in their mind. “Where’re you heading,” they ask. “Blue Ridge Parkway,” “Oh, I’ve heard it’s beautiful. Always wanted to go.” “It is beautiful,” I reply. “You should drive up and have a look.” “I plan to. Once the kids are through college, and I can get some time off work. Like your Triumph. Had a Bonneville when I was young. Wish I’d never sold it.” And so it goes. I usually get the distinct impression I’m doing something they always wanted to do, always imagined they’d do. And now the decades have flown by, stuff happened, and they just never got around to it… Riding up through western North Carolina toward Wilkesboro is beautiful. Tidy mountain farms growing cattle, corn, and Fraser Fir Christmas trees. I’ve always been fond of this area. Doc Watson and his son Merle were from here, two of my favorite bluegrass and country folk musicians back in the day. Doc was completely blind from an eye infection in second grade but went on to become one of the premier guitar and banjo players of his generation. At fifteen his son Merle began playing professionally with him, and himself became known as one of the finest flatpicking acoustic guitar players on the planet. Merle Read more [...]

This week is the thirty-ninth anniversary of one of the great upsets in sports history, Australia’s win over the United States in the 1983 America’s Cup twelve meter Yacht race. Generally considered the longest winning streak in sports, the USA had retained the cup against all challengers for one hundred thirty two years straight.   But in 1983 the Royal Perth Yacht Club entered the twelve meter yacht Australia II, skippered by John Bertrand and bankrolled by businessman Alan Bond, a larger than life character who’d made his fortune in property deals and construction. Bond was a gambler who never flinched at putting his money on the line, and never backed down from a challenge.  Defending the cup since 1857, the New York Yacht Club was an exclusive group of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the United States. Their boat that year, Liberty, was skippered by the renowned Dennis Conner, maybe the finest sailor on the planet. The members of the New York Yacht Club were a group of men (there were no women members) not used to losing, had not lost in over a century, and had no plans to lose. Ever. In contrast, the team of John Bertrand and Alan Bond were upstarts. Whereas Dennis Conner was a celebrity in moneyed America, and had recently been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, nobody outside of sailing circles had heard of Bertrand. He was respected by his small group of peers, but unknown outside that group. Bond was “new money,” and would never have been invited inside the NYYC (New York Yacht Club.) And then there was the boat, Australia II. She was designed by Ben Lexcen, a sailor and marine architect who as a child had been abandoned by his laborer parents, sent to foster care, then dropped out of school at the age of fourteen to begin working at shipyards, building boats. What he invented that year, 1983, designing Australia II, was a completely revolutionary keel design, the winged keel. Under the boat, in the Read more [...]

Morning on Jasper Lake, Minnesota. One in a string of mountain lakes in BWCA, Boundary Waters Canoe Area. It’s way off the grid wilderness, bordering on Canada, and we’ve come far back into it, canoeing ten miles over and through five different lakes to get here yesterday.  My brother and I are traveling with our friends Tom and Marilyn, a retired doctor and his therapist wife, who have made multiple journeys out into this wild and beautiful country of over a thousand lakes and a million acres. Power boats or motored transport of any kind are not allowed here. Canoes and hikers only. Aircraft are required to adjust their flight plans to avoid flying over BWCA.  We are camped on a large granite outcropping, jutting out into the lake. A basic feature of the country, these large boulders were left behind when glaciers carved out these lakes over hundreds of thousands of years. Scrape marks on the rock attest to the power of the advancing and retreating ice. There are no man made dams here, only mother nature at work. Digging.  We’ve pitched the tents in the shade of the pines and cedars that have taken root in the thin soil. The views over the water from our high perch are expansive and well…breathtaking. A large beaver swims lazily next to the shore, curious about us. Loons dive and surface, their haunting calls reverberating off the granite cliffs.  Bald eagles watch from the treetops, swooping down on unsuspecting fish. My brother and Tom have taken a canoe out this morning and come back with three glistening lake trout. Marilyn and I fry them up with scrambled eggs and bagels for breakfast.  Today is not a traveling day, which is a relief after the paddle in yesterday. In addition to canoeing across the five lakes, there was a portage between each pair. Where everything is carried across rocky connecting trails, sometimes fifty yards, sometimes a half mile. Occasionally more. Tom has demonstrated the technique Read more [...]

On a drive up through the heart of America, heading toward the Boundary Waters in Minnesota, my brother and I encounter a major thunderstorm coming across Illinois. It’s a flat but beautiful country of farms and windmills. Green wheat, corn, and soybeans stretch for miles in every direction, and Interstate 36 plows right through the middle of it. To the north, straight in front of us, we can see the storm off in the distance. It’s dark, very dark, and as we close in bolts of lightning tear toward the ground. It stretches from one corner of the horizon to the other, over the broad farmland. We have some sandwiches packed, and had planned to stop and eat lunch at the next rest area, but by the time we reach it the rain is blowing sideways in sheets. We sit silently and eat in the car instead, as it drums away on the roof and windshield. Pretty well used up from a long day of driving, we check into a hotel that evening and order Chinese from a nearby restaurant. I volunteer to go pick it up and get there near closing. A mop bucket stands near the kitchen entrance and I walk in just in time to see a young Asian woman disappear into the back. At the counter a small boy, not more than ten, is standing, almost formally, at the register. Barely tall enough to see over the counter top, he asks me, in a polite tone, what I have ordered.  “Moo goo guy pan with brown sauce, and beef with broccoli.” “That will be $23.45, please.” He takes my card, hands me the receipt. I see the top of another small head peek out from underneath. “Is there someone else back there?” I ask, leaning forward over the counter. His sister pops up with a large smile, blushing, and runs to the back. I sign the receipt and ask the young man. “Will your mom split this tip with you?” He shakes his head no with a look of disbelief at my ignorant question, then steps into the kitchen, where his mother is cooking my order. I’ve been in a few restaurant Read more [...]

Anyone who travels much knows the drill. The standard things we pack, according to the destination. For overnight trips, three to four days, or even a week, I have a medium sized green duffle perfect for the job. It easily holds a few changes of clothes and clean underwear (so my mother doesn’t worry, bless her soul,) toiletries, notebooks and laptop, chargers, a good book plus a kindle with more - meds, headwear, flip flops, and other assorted whatevers.   If the trip involves air travel, the luggage changes though the contents remain. There’s a well worn black TravelPro carry-on I'm fond of, with plenty of various sized and configured pockets around a good sized main compartment. It still rolls on old fashioned two wheels, the zippers all work, and I have found no reason to upgrade. It is also expandable, but I almost never have use for that, and it fits in any overhead bin. Attached is a large blue name tag, to help distinguish it from all the other ubiquitous black carry-ons. I long ago learned to carefully fold and roll my clothes. It minimizes wrinkles and is so much more space efficient. Socks, earbuds, and other small odds and ends tuck neatly into the spaces around the rolls. Also a tiny bluetooth speaker I’ve started to bring along, about half the size of a small can of tomato paste, with excellent sound that belies its size and price. Over the last several years I’ve built some substantial playlists on my phone, and both iTunes and Spotify know all my algorithms. I’m always careful not to foist my music or podcasts on fellow travelers, and my favorite sound is silence, but I've learned there’s a time and a place for having some music on hand. One can only read so many books in a day after all, and sometimes need a break. A well chosen song lightens the heart and relieves the mind. But I digress. The original point was that I have a very specialized journey at hand, to which I’m having to give serious thought and attention Read more [...]

There’s a vegetable stand we like to stop at in the summer once local veggies and fruit start coming in. It’s on a side road so not everyone knows about it. In the front yard of a small well kept brick house, protected from the elements by one of those portable carports with the plastic roofs.  It’s on the honor system. Prices are written on a white board, and you do your shopping, then put the money in a slot in the top of a metal box. Last week when we stopped, there were beautiful peaches, yellow squash, silver queen corn, white potatoes, cucumbers, and…. wait for it …. home grown tomatoes.  We bought some of almost everything. And that night had a memorable vegetable supper of fried yellow squash, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and coleslaw. Along with iron skillet cornbread, sliced tomatoes and vidalia onion. And fried peach pies for dessert. It all tasted wonderful, and brought back memories of my grandmother’s kitchen when I visited every year on summer break. All that was missing from the meal was her green beans, long cooked with pork belly. This was before pork belly became a staple as an appetizer in hipster restaurants. A humble cut of meat marked up astronomically. I love it as a seasoning agent in beans. On a bed of arugula with five spice maple glaze, not as much. My grandparent’s house was on a nice sized piece of land in Cherokee County, where I learned to shoot but not really hunt. I was way too tender-hearted to actually kill anything. My grandfather plowed up a half acre of bottomland for my grandmother’s garden spot. And in case you don’t think in acres, a half acre vegetable garden is a big ass garden. I would look out my bedroom window in the mornings and see her broad brimmed straw hat in amongst the pole beans. She had a short three legged pine stool my grandfather had made for her, that she could carry around, and sit and weed, or pick. A large old apple tree stood at one end of the garden, and Read more [...]