The Dude Abides

Yes, that bastion of urban colloquialism. Dude. It's a word that is so reliably present in the American lexicon that most people have forgotten its meaning. My high-school Industrial Technology teacher, Mr. Sater, had a rule against its use, unless it was done properly. Since I respected him so, being the only teacher (or person in general) that I ever consistently called "Sir", and being the next-door neighbor to his daughter, I followed his express wishes without ever complaining.

I figured out, as a high-school freshmen, what that word meant. Though I haven't always used it correctly since, I've made a mental note every time I've misused it. A dude, besides being a slacker pot-aficionado with a penchant for White Russians, is a person who is unfamiliar with horsemanship. More specifically, it's a person who vacations on a ranch, but is otherwise a resident of an urban area. This is also where we get the term "Dude Ranch".

I like to think of myself as a capable man. I can swing a hammer, wire a light switch, split wood, hunt, fish, and all kinds of manly shit. But horses... Well, I just haven't ridden a whole lot of them.

Back when I was a 20-something, I went a few times with my young wife to A&A Ranch, which is completely misleading. It was a stable next to an I-170 overpass. Calling it a ranch of any kind is just a damn lie. It's since been renamed Ace Stables, but for $20 and a tip to the trail guide, you could go on a half-hour ride. The guide was typically a teenage girl, and this had absolutely nothing to do with why I enjoyed going.

Time and unforeseen occurrence being what they are, the universe conspired to make sure that I had very little opportunity to ride for the last thirteen years or so. I like horses just fine. I'm not afraid of them, and I even have what I feel is a natural rapport. I do with most animals.

This past weekend, I set up a ride at Koli Equestrian Center for me and my family. I don't recommend an hour-and-a-half in a saddle if you haven't done it frequently enough. My ass is sore. Very sore.

The office was neatly decorated, but utilitarian. It was clearly inhabited by people who work for a living. There were two shelters out in the pasture with an adjacent exercise ring. Two dozen horses were tied off under the shelters, well shaded and seemingly quite content. We met with our guide, a very nice Native girl who was maybe twenty-five, named Silvia. She took us out to meet our horses and we were asked to stand outside the corral until called for. The boss, a very impressive looking Native with a proper cowboy hat, called us over one at at time to mount up.

My darling daughter got an older horse named Alice. Silvia told us that it used to be Crazy Alice, but she'd had calmed down a lot in her later years, so it had been shortened. Alice had a history of having thrown every employee who had tried to ride her while she was being broken.

Mrs. got a beautiful Paint named Butch. He seemed a little shorter than my mount, but he was calm and loving. Butch was of certain age at around 16, and had a companion that he liked to spend time with. Of course his name would be Cassidy. Had it been me, I'd have gone with Sundance.

My horse was also a beautiful Paint named Slider. She was only slightly older that Butch, and otherwise well mannered. She didn't seem to care for her bit and tossed her head frequently during the ride. We managed to get along well enough despite the perceived discomfort.

Unlike most trail rides, we weren't relegated to the straight line business of following he leader. The loosely defined trail gave us the option to follow several different paths, with each of us being in the lead at any given time. Slider had a natural tendency to want to be in front, and as a result, walked a little faster than everyone else. So, I practiced with her a little. We'd trot from time to time. I'd lead her back and forth on the path, and she was quite willing to comply. Besides feeling a need to hurry, she was very pleasant and well-mannered. Sometimes, I'd hold her up to wait for the others and turn circles with her among the sage brush. From a distance, I imagined that she looked like she was dancing.

The Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona is a vast place. Life is hard, but not impossible. Though the guide groused about the lack of wildlife during our ride, I didn't think it was that bad. The tough and hardy vegetation is beautiful in its harsh way. Lizards scampered about in abundance and colonies of ants toiled on a graciously cool day. We spotted a few red-tail hawks, one grey hawk, and a lonely old coyote.

A friend of mine, who understands my love of nature, said that I should spend some time in the woods. Well, this was far from it, but it was still a beautiful way to spend an afternoon. Time spent in nature isn't a labor of any kind. It's calming. Every sound is soft. Every creature, noble. For ninety minutes, I got to abide with the world according to natural law, and with a sweet Painted mare to bear me along on a serene stroll.

There is a pleasantness in being an observer in the natural world. There's very little commitment except to appreciate it and protect it. The sights and sounds of creatures great and small always give me a measure of peace that I couldn't find anywhere else. With the soundtrack being little more than the wind in the mesquites, and the soft clop clop of hooves on the gritty Sonoran soil, I'll admit to being no cowboy. But neither am I a dude.

Life Particles and other Cosmic Phenomena

Dahn Yoga was offering an open-house of sorts. Well, to say they're open on Sundays and staffed by volunteers is more accurate. Come one, come all. Leave your preconceived notions at the door and be ready to share in an exercise of being bigger than yourself.

My folks would be having fits at the thought of me going to a yoga class. "It's a pagan religion," they would chide. Not true, and it's still more godly that sitting slothily on one's ass, and gluttonously eating potato chips while watching pseudo-erotica that you hide from the kids. But, no indictments from me.

I know a little about a lot of stuff. Enough to make conversation with anyone who knows more about a given topic than I do, but not enough to be called an expert about much of anything. So, to paraphrase my favorite Bart Simpson quote, "Lady, what I don't know about yoga could fill a warehouse."

I once thought that yoga was really just frequented by a bunch of kept-women and stay-at-home moms who had nothing better to do between the hours of 9am and 2pm, and maybe it is. Admittedly, my experiential cross section of the demographic is from one hour of one Sunday. But Dahn Yoga was interesting. The small reception area (really more of a vestibule) was filled with a few chairs, a water cooler and racks of herbs. There were traction socks and meditation magnets on the walls, and pamphlets and flyers galore. The facilitator was a woman of a certain age whose name I didn't actually hear, but she bowed deeply to me when I entered and hugged me warmly. Her greeting was in Korean, though she was most decidedly of European descent.

She invited me into the studio and, along with some other attendees, we started dancing. It wasn't dancing in the traditional sense, though one of the other women in the class certainly turned it into that, but an exercise to stimulate the acupressure points on the balls of my feet. After fifteen minutes of alternately tapping my toes on the mat (while surreptitiously working my way around the room and feigning interest in the informational posters), my right hip flexor groaned incessantly. I think I need to see a chiropractor.

The next forty minutes or so were dedicated to exercises where we stimulated our energy and did several poses, which were meant to both strengthen the body and focus the mind. Throughout, we used magnets to direct energy to or away from our chakras, and I admit that when centering the magnet between my eyes (the seat of wisdom and knowledge), I certainly did feel a small ache that I could not explain.

One of the last exercises we did was to sit in a half-lotus position (you know this as indian style or criss-cross applesauce (the more PC term these days)) and our hands in front of us, nearly touching. We were to focus on the energy crossing between our palms and then to extend our hands out as far as we could until we felt that connection being lost. As I extended my hands, I felt as if there were in fact a rubber band trying to pull them back together. As we breathed in, I stretched the imaginary rubber band. And as we breathed out, I allowed it to pull my hands together.

As the exercise progressed, we were encouraged to imagine ourselves embracing the earth when our hands came back together. Then we were embracing someone that we didn't really like and asking their forgiveness. The next person was someone we loved, to whom we were sending our energy. And our final embrace was of ourselves. How can we love others if we don't first love ourselves? It's true.

I came away from the class with a new appreciation. The Sleeping Tiger pose is in fact physically difficult. Guided mediation does affect tangible sensation and the flow of energy. Is it psychosomatic? Could be. But does it matter? The volunteer-instructor brought us into a sharing circle at the end and we were given an opportunity to discuss whatever we felt during the class.

One woman expressed an awareness of her left foot, which I can only surmise is numbed from some medical condition. Another woman discussed her meditation practices from a battle with cancer five years ago. On Sunday, she welcomed back the occurrence of the color purple, which had been frequent visitor during her cancer days. I discussed my 'rubber band'. Others shared the inclusion of sensations not previously felt during the magnet exercises.

I can only conclude that the reality of meditation is in the effect that it has on people. I believe that it's more, but I'm looking for something concrete, verifiable. In the mean time, a warm hug from a stranger and a relaxing stretch on the floor while getting in touch with the universe can't be a bad thing.

And I'm not above copping a cosmic-feel.

Ties that Bind

George Machuga: No middle name, son of immigrant parents, graduate of the 8th grade, World War 2 veteran, Union Electric retiree, one of Jehovah's Witnesses, and my grandfather. I've discussed his impact on my life in some detail before, but honestly, an encyclopedia of volumes wouldn't really be enough to cover everything worth discussing. I had a pretty good run of thirty or so years in which to be a grandson. That time was precious to me in a way that I can barely describe, and in that time, I came to know a man who was utterly reliable and predictable, but never boring. There were, in fact, some things so defining of George that I cannot associate them with anyone else. At least not with that level of certitude. All others are just poseurs. Pretenders to the throne.

So, my little sis sends me a picture she took in a Walmart the other day. No caption or explanation was necessary. It was a neck tie. Not just any neck tie. It was a zipper neck tie.

Now, a lot of people have never seen these little contraptions, and most give me those confused puppy head turns when I try to explain it. Consider it the dickey collar of business accessories. For the discerning man who doesn't have time or wherewithal to tie a traditional neck tie, consider the zipper tie. When cinched, it looks no different from any other tie, but the neck band is literally a zipper. Yes, for $10, you too can have the ease and convenience of a zipper, but the class and sophistication of a top CEO.

It was also the only kind of tie that George ever wore. Since the advent of the zipper tie, I don't think he ever saw a need to use anything more complicated. I rather doubt that he knew how to tie a Half-Windsor, which then makes me wonder how he managed his dress uniform while in the Army. I saw his wedding photo and he was wearing a tie. Grandma may have tied it for him...

So, when this picture downloaded to my phone, I laughed heartily. Not only was it a zipper tie, but it hung on a tag that said 'George'. It, quite literally, was George's Zipper Tie. And for a moment, I thought back to all of the times that I associated with those ties.

Throughout my youth, I spent countless weeks with my grandparents. Those weeks included events of religious fealty. Three times in any given week, we would end up driving from the town of Livingston, Illinois, to a neighboring town of Gillespie. That is where the Kingdom Hall was located. When we left my grandparent's house, we'd head in a northerly direction, often with a quick detour to pick up Joan Lilley. Joan was the matriarch of her clan, and as sweet a woman as one could hope to meet. Her persistently positive attitude could unravel just about any bad mood you could have. And being a grandmother, she always had a couple of dollars and some candy to spread around.

Joan was also the mother of Lorraine 'Rainy' Mathenia (nee Lilley), my mother's sister-in-law. As it would turn out, I was related to more than half of the Gillespie congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses. Last names were in such short supply that congregation elders took to simply using a member's first name with a prefix of 'sister' or 'brother' as gender would dictate. It made identifying people during audience participation much easier.

Saturdays were almost always relegated to public ministry. This is where readers roll their eyes at the 10am wake up call they get from the local congregation, while they try to distribute the Watchtower and Awake magazines. Believe me when I say that anyone who has ever claimed to have had their doorbell rung at 8am or earlier by a Witness is just lying. Witnesses don't even conduct their morning meeting prior to 9am, and they don't ring any doorbells until after.

Having their congregation spread out over such a large portion of southern Illinois, George (being an elder) often conducted  the Saturday morning meeting with only the people who would be venturing out with him. Other elders would do the same with their own local groups. So our particular car group was seldom more than the grandparents, my aunt and uncle, one or more grandchildren, including myself. The remainder of the day was spent driving from one farm to the next. In the rural confines of Macoupin County, an entire day of public ministry could entail visiting only three houses.

On one particular Saturday in early summer, we drove along the roads northwest of a town called Staunton. Sometime before lunch, George suddenly pulled over to the shoulder of a road that was nestled in the valley of some heavily wooded hills. We got out of the car walked through the weeds in the ditch. Out of the long hill that stretched up from that ditch, a simple pipe jutted, trickling a steady stream of water. I stood carefully so as not to get my new dress shoes wet. They were Polish leather (had no idea Pols made leather shoes), and a nail from the sole was poking through into my foot. They were uncomfortable, but looked nice.

George told me that the water was from a natural spring. Who had plumbed this little spigot was unknown, but the water was fresh and delicious in my cupped hands. I drank my fill and stepped away, flinging water from my hands. George stooped to fill his cupped hands in the same way I did. The whole time he drank, his otherwise laughable zipper tie flapped in the breeze against his grey suit.

The ties were cheesy and inexpensive, but they were utterly him. As much as his faith was part of his life, there is very little of it that I got to share that didn't include those ties. In truth, much of the context of my youth incorporated those ties, including extended family. I find it strangely comforting that such a ridiculous object can make so many people think of him. I suppose that's because I miss him so much, and the thought that he still lives on in the people that mattered to him is soothing.