The Sweep of the Second Hand

This time today was yesterday when it was already yesterday. This morning in the wee, dark early hours, we fell back an hour (I've always liked how we keep that straight, 'spring ahead' and 'fall back') across most of the country.

I've never been clear how much of the rest of the world does this time-travel-but-standing-very still-stuff, although daylight saving time is utilized across significant portions of the earth's Northern Hemisphere. 

The why we move clocks forward and back is the part I will NEVER understand no matter how erudite the explanation. We share the planet with a nearly infinite number of other life forms from single-celled amino acids to the full scale and scope of the abiogenesis catalog (now available for only three easy payments...), and none of them have watches, much less the concern for time and its division and measurement that we, Homo sapiens, have.

We look up in surprise and dismay at the time and wonder where it's gone, when it hasn't actually gone anywhere. The end of a television program, a movie, a radio serial or other entertainment, a relationship with another person, or political alliance.

You don't have to be Richard to have misgivings about time and what we do with it. Merely being human will qualify. Until this time, tomorrow.

-bill kenny

Bound for a Star with Fiery Oceans

It's amazing and somewhat amusing how a religious devotion, commemoration, and remembrance really evolved into an all-the-candy-you-can-eat-without-barfing exercise, all the way to an adult party-hardy event. Greetings and salutations nevertheless.

There was an ancient Celtic festival called Samhain that sociologists theorize 19th-century Irish immigrants brought with them that helped create our current observance/holiday/day on which to go gluttonous on all manner of sweets. 

Halloween is celebrated in about a dozen countries around the world, gladdening the hearts, I'm sure, of candy manufacturers in the days leading up to it as well as the bottom lines of dentists in the days and weeks following it. 

Remember how our Moms used to go through the goodies, making sure that the apples didn't have unpleasant surprises and throwing all the unwrapped candy away 'just to be safe'. Would it have killed them to pretend the Mary Janes were unwrapped (talk about a dentist's delight- it could take fillings out)--a candy that I don't think I even see at any other time of the year except now. 

And what about candy corn (and I loved it, btw)? If scientists are correct that cockroaches would survive an atomic war, I believe they would do it munching on candy corn, indestructible, indescribable, often imitated but never duplicated. One of the many things I surrendered once my doctors made me understand, as an adult, is that I couldn't be a part-time diabetic. And I miss it more than I can say.

As a parent, I can recall that some of the worst weather of the season always seemed to start about two hours before the kids got organized to head out. So I'll keep my fingers crossed for all the goblins tonight. 

And every child, no matter how young, wanted to trick or treat with her/his friends. Only a baby goes out with a parent. So with a heavy heart and a quiet footstep, the trick was to figure out how far back to trail them as they went from house to house, and no matter how many times a child was told 'no running', what happened? Yep. 

Why was I always surprised when mine paid as much attention to me as I had to my parents? And every neighborhood had a trick-or-treater, usually one of the hyperactive kids from down the street who ate the candy as quickly as he got it. Can you imagine how much magic it was in that house later that same evening? 
-bill kenny

Nipped in the Bud(get)

You might know them better as 'single-serve' 'airplane bottles,' 'shooters,' or 'singles,' alcohol containers. Local vernacular refers to them as 'nips.' They are garbage, whether filled with your booze of choice (which, judging from the discards I see as I walk anywhere, appears to be Fireball in all of its variants) or just empty discards on the highways and byways.

In Connecticut, there's a nickel 'deposit' on each nip sold, payable at the point of purchase. The purchaser doesn't get the nickel back when the nip is consumed, so there's no incentive to not just throw them away. 

In theory, the deposit is aggregated and distributed to the cities where the nips were purchased to finance clean-up efforts from the discards. In the last six months, over fifty-one MILLION (with an M) nips were purchased here in the Land of Steady Habits.

We are a state that believes in recycling, so our soda and beer bottles and cans have a ten-cent per-container deposit redeemable by the consumer, as well as orange juice and tomato/V-8 juice containers. 

Strangely enough (to me), there's no deposit on milk containers or on any other plastic or glass container, beverage or otherwise sold in Connecticut.  My cynical evil twin, Skippy, thinks the state is really missing out on a cash flow there. 

New Haven, home of Yale University and seemingly a lot of thirsty people, with a population of about 134,000, sold the most nips, almost two and a half million. Norwich, the Rose of New England, where I live, is home to just over 40,000 souls but, punching well above our weight class, sold the sixth-largest amount of nips, pocketing almost $67,000.

You would assume that with that kind of money available for clean-up, our streets and sidewalks would be spotless and discarded-nips-free. Reminder: the Feast of the Assumption is August 15th; any other day is on your own time.
Suspect more than one of us would drink to that.
-bill kenny

Victim or Victor?

Growth and adaptation are key to the success of every organism, from a single cell to a government spanning a continent. It shouldn't be that surprising to us, living in Norwich, that our city has changed a great deal in three and a half-plus centuries. That's the thing about change-it relentlessly keeps happening because it's a process and not a product, a journey and not a destination.

Long-time residents will concede that this Norwich is not their grandparents' city, and the youngest among us are looking forward to when their Norwich doesn't resemble the one in which we live now. 

We have decisions about who will speak for us in Hartford and in Washington, D.C. coming up next week. Calling into local radio shows, writing letters to the editors of the only local newspaper that still has an editorial page, and commenting on postings on social media community pages are all helpful but are no substitute for casting a ballot. 

I voted very nearly a month ago by mail. In addition to all manner of officeholders and hopefuls competing for my vote, we have a referendum issue here in The Rose of New England, and it deserves more than a drive-by in terms of your consideration.

We need to reinvigorate neighbors and residents who have become discouraged experts, who have a cloud for every silver lining. There are many among us who can cite numerous examples of 'what didn't work the last time' to talk themselves out of trying the next time, whatever the issue.

Our refusal to let go of the anger and resentment created by past failures keeps us from grasping the promise of the opportunities before us now. Simply put: If we think we can't, we won't. If we don't even try, we'll fail. We'll miss every shot we never take. It's kinda simple: You cannot win if you do not play. Game on.
-bill kenny

On with the Countdown....

This time next week, throughout the country and across the state, we'll be rewriting our history. Again. Elections are peaceful revolutions, or should be. 

We shall have chosen among 'more of the same,' 'less of the same,' or 'something that will prove to be completely otherwise'. Exactly as we wanted, unless it wasn't. 

No one has ever said representational government is neat and tidy-that's a good thing, because it isn't. And while the big mandala continues to spin, smaller and lower-echelon wheels, where much of the real grinding gets done, continue to move as we all move forward.

A better tomorrow only happens if you make it happen.
-bill kenny

Pick Up Every Stitch

As I've mentioned (incessantly), my fondness for Autumn is tempered by what I know happens next, not because Autumn itself has ever done anything to or for me. In New England, we pride ourselves on leaf peeping weekends where excursions travel throughout the region, oohing and ahhing at the multiplicity of colors garbing the branches of deciduous trees as their leaves die.

Sorry. 

That's what they do; hell, it's what we all do. I'm not planning on taking a dirt nap for a while longer yet, but I'll concede I don't have that color thing going for me unless grey is the color you're talking about and the only part of me thinning is the hair covering my scalp. But Sunday morning, for just a moment, wow, it was beautiful, and then it was gone.

Industry left New England in the first decade after the end of World War II. We didn't know it at the time, but the Age of Greed had triumphed over the Age of Need, and those who owned factories that made things got tired of paying the folks who worked in them ein apfel und ei when they could shift everything South 900 miles and only have to pay ein apfel.

Mills that had been in Massachusetts for generations were shuttered as their doppelgangers opened in one of the Carolinas (it all sounds like banjo music to me) and then a generation later, lather, rise, repeat as the new location is somewhere it takes you ten minutes to find on the map, all in the name of value to shareholders. The business of America is business; don't forget your receipt.

In Norwich there are tracts of land, monuments to Mammon, sprawling factories in every corner of the city that have lain fallow for forty years and often longer, slowly disintegrating, releasing toxins into the air and poisons into the earth so that like the salt Rome plowed into Carthage to kill it, nothing will grow. No neighborhood is immune.

There are small ruins that ring the approaches to the city-reminders of what once was, once upon a time. But this time of year, in the early morning, hours before dawn, when stepping outside, the stars seem so bright and so near you can touch them, you remember there's no ground light to dissipate their glow or make them seem as far away as they really are. It's nearly Halloween and colder than a witch's teat, and you know which way the mercury is heading. Dress warmly and mind the shadows.

-bill kenny

One Temporary Escape

Some buy houses for their proximity to schools, shopping, or mass transit, but I, the relentless pragmatist, was keen on walking distance to a cemetery. The Yantic Cemetery is next door to the hospital, where I'm on a first-name basis with the Emergency Department staff. 

Gotta tell ya, it's weird looking out one of the hospital's 4th-floor windows and seeing a person at a grave site who looks like your primary care physician and then realizing you haven't seen your roommate since he went to the OR for tennis elbow surgery yesterday morning. A chill goes up your spine that has nothing to do with naughty nurses or those half-assed (literally) gowns.

Meanwhile, back at Yantic Cemetery, I love reading the headstones and sorting through the relationships. Two plus centuries ago, husbands often outlived their wives because so many of the latter died in childbirth. Often, the child died as well, and those graves are islands of a special sorrow.

There are many headstones of casualties from the volunteer units formed to help preserve the Union in the fight we call, inaccurately and without irony, "The Civil War." Someone, I know not who, always places small US flags on each of the sites-it's very lovely in a slightly sobering way.

 

There's a group of the headstones, I once counted twenty-eight, formed around a cannon that should look out of place in a cemetery but doesn't because it honors those who died at Andersonville and whose remains were repatriated.  

Veterans Day is around the (calendar) corner, and there are few places more appropriate to remember ALL who served for God, Country, or because we're all young and naive still than small-town cemeteries where abstractions and statistics have names and headstones.
-bill kenny