DO YOU STAND BY THE TREE OR COME UP TO THE DOOR

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“Honey, I think Bob’s here.”

“Is it Bob or George?”

“Well, I think it’s Bob, but I’m not sure. They all look alike to me.”

“George is a little darker.”

“I don’t know. Darker? Lighter? They’re pretty much the same.”

“Well, is he staying by the tree or coming up to the door?”

“He’s sort of in between the two, just standing there.”

“Has he seen you?”

“How would I know? It’s not like he’s standing there waving at me. He’s just standing there. Looking at the house.”

“So walk to the door so he can see you.”

“I’m sure he sees me but he’s still just standing there.”

“Did you unlock the door?”

“I’m doing it now.”

“What did he do?”

“He went back by the tree.”

“That’s George. He doesn’t like to come to the door. He wants you to go out to him.”

“No, he wants you to go out to him. He doesn’t really know me.”

“Okay. I’m coming.”

“Well good morning George. How are you?”

George says nothing. Just stands there by the tree, waiting.

“Want some Cheerios, George?”

Still, just stands there silently, waiting.

“Here you go, George. Enjoy.”

George takes his Cheerios, sits and eats by the tree, saying nothing. When he finishes, he leaves.

Next day.

“Honey, Bob’s here.”

“How do you know it’s Bob?”

“Because he’s coming right up to the door, looking in and waiting.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“He’s knocking on the glass.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“You want me to talk to him? I don’t think so. He likes it when you talk to him.”

“I’m coming.”

“Hey Bob. Wanna peanut?”

Bob puts out his hand and takes the peanut, making quick nothing of the shell and popping the treat in his mouth.

He puts his hand on my knee.

“Want another one?”

He did, and made short order of that one as well.

Bob will typically go through between five and ten peanuts before he leaves. And after each one he politely taps me on the knee and waits.

I never thought I’d feed squirrels on our back patio, much less know the difference between a couple of them or give them names. Bob was, of course, my favorite. He was tame enough to come right up and sit next to me, waiting for his treat. He also ate a lot more treats than George, mainly because he was willing to risk coming up to the door, knock, and wait. And that was the cutest part of Bob. He would wait in the tree until he would see us moving in the kitchen, and would come up to the patio door, stand upright on the glass, and actually “knock” on the door with one of his paws until we opened the door to give him his peanut. So cute.

So what is life’s little lesson in this tale of animal endearment?

Heck if I know. I just thought it was a cute story worth sharing.

Oh wait. Right. That’s the lesson.

Sometimes, “cute” is just as worthy of sharing as “profound.”

That’s the lesson?

Okay, how about this …

If you want to eat better in life, don’t just stand by the tree. Walk up to that door of opportunity, knock and wait for your treat.

How’s that?

WHEN IT’S HEAVY, MAYBE YOU SHOULD CALL SOMEONE...

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It was a particularly heavy snow this morning. About six to seven inches of the stuff made the rear view through our crystal clear patio doors look absolutely beautiful. Winter's usually naked trees and brush now standing gloriously clothed in magnificent, angelic radiance. Proudly posing for picture postcard perfection.

Of course, no such snow-covered splendor could go without running to our front yard to revel in its majesty as well.

And there it was. Our front yard. You know, that part of the yard that includes our driveway. Our rather long and wide driveway. Now looking even longer and wider than usual. The driveway with that 19-3/4 inches worth of snow-plowed slush, mush and ice so considerately placed at the end of our driveway by our local snow-plow driver. An otherwise fine young man I'm sure.

As if to drive the point home as to how heavy the snow was, a branch came crashing down into the pristine snowscape with a reality-deafening thud.

No problem. I'll just fire up the trusty old snowthrower and ... problem. Our trusty old snowthrower gave up its heroic ghost recently so we've been using snow shovels.

Still, how bad could it be? We've shoveled eight inches of snow before.

Another branch came crashing down, gasping as it bore through the white stuff to stop with limb-shattering numbness on the black asphalt.

My wife said, "Maybe you should call someone."

Good idea I thought. I called my buddy Ken who was in his fourth year at college. Strong guy, kind of a math geek, but always willing to help out. I asked him how much weight were we likely going to be shoveling today.

He did the math. Here's the numbers rounded down. Five hundred and forty cubic feet of snow-covered driveway, multiplied by the estimated 18 pounds of equivalent water-weight per cubic foot meant we were going to be shoveling approximately 4-1/2 tons of snow by weight.

EXCUSE ME?!??

"Did you say, four and half TONS?!?" I asked. "TONS??!!" I repeated rather loudly. "You do realize we're using shovels, don't you?"

He said, "Maybe you should call someone."

I called my daughter. The one who has a degree in philosophy. "Have you seen the snow yet this morning?" I asked her.

"Yes. It looks fun, but I think you got more out there than we got in the city. You guys got like eight inches?"

"It's between six and seven," I said. "So, how much do you think it weighs?"

"How much it weighs?" she repeated.

"Yeah. How much it weighs? We've got about five hundred and forty cubic feet of snow on the driveway and..."

She interrupted. "Did you just say five hundred and forty cubic feet of snow? HOW much snow did you guys get?"

"Like I said, between six and seven inches. The driveway's about eighteen feet wide by fifty feet long and when you cube it with the snow depth we've got about five hundred and forty cubic feet of snow. But anyway, my question was, how much do you think it weighs?"

"Five hundred cubic feet of snow and you want me to guess how much it weighs," she said. "Dad, I'm a philosopher. Maybe I could tell you what the snow was thinking, or possibly how the driveway felt, but maybe you should call someone to get the weight answer."

"I already did," I said. "I called Kenny at college. He said it's around four and half TONS. We gotta shovel about four and a half TONS of snow this morning."

"Do you need help?" she asked, I'm sure quite rhetorically. "Maybe you should call someone."

My phone beeped, telling me I had a call waiting. "I'll talk to you later," I said to my daughter. "I've got someone calling in."

"Good morning, this is Mr. Eclectic. Do you know how much snow I have to shovel this morning?" I said rather cheerily.

"Yeah," the somewhat breathy voice said, "About forty cubic feet less than we started with this morning. Get off the phone and get your ass out here and help me shovel." Gone was the sexy breathy voice that began the phone conversation. In its place was the five hundred cubic feet of snow that needed to be shoveled, NOW, voice. (Although I must admit, it was still kind of sexy).

It took us about three and a half hours and let me tell you, four and half tons spread out over 900 square feet is still very, VERY heavy snow.

So what's today's tip?

Easy, when you have a heavy task in front of you, sometimes it's good to call someone. To ask for their help. Not just to talk about the heaviness of it all.

Really, ask for help.

Sometimes we cry alone for reasons we will tell no one.

And when we're done crying, we go on.

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WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THE OLD PEOPLE?

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He knew I was there, watching him, studying him, but if he cared he didn’t show it. He just sat there. Eventually lighting a cigarette. Eventually putting it out. He said nothing. He didn’t move much. At one point, he smiled. But it gently faded after a few minutes. Every now and again, he would close his eyes.

After about twenty minutes, I walked over to him and asked, “Excuse me, but could I ask you a few questions?”

“You have already asked me one,” he said, as a quirky half smile appeared.

I liked him. “How old are you?” was my first, I mean my second question.

“I am 87,” he said. “Is that important?”

“Not so much important as curious to me,” I said. “I don’t mean to offend you, but you seem both ancient and young at the same time, and I was just curious.”

“Why would that offend me?” he asked. “To the very young I am very old. It is merely an observation. To the very old, youth is a state of mind as much as it is forgivable behavior.”

“You knew I was watching you but it didn’t seem to bother you,” I said.

“You watching me had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you,” he said. “If a thousand people watch the sun rise, will the sun be bothered? Or do anything different merely because it is being watched? To the observed it is nothing. It is the observer that can be changed.”

“Why do you smoke cigarettes?” I asked.

“Because I enjoy it,” he said simply.

“But what about your health? Aren’t you worried about the damage smoking can do to you?”

“I have been smoking one cigarette each day for 76 years,” he said. “I am not worried.”

“Do you have any family?”

“I did. But I am the last.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”, he asked. “Is death not a part of life? To be first or last is not important. To be, that is what matters.”

“Indeed. To be. That is what matters.”

We talked a little more. And it seemed with every answer he gave, I grew a little wiser. There was a part of me that wished I would have met him earlier in life. But as I thought more about it, I realized that neither of us would have had the questions and answers that we had today. Besides, he probably would have said something about wishes not giving meaning to life.

I said my last “Thank you” to him and began to walk away.

I heard, “Remember me.”

I stopped, and slowly turned around to say, “I will.”

But he was gone.

In this age, we too often look for answers in the esoteric or the exotic. We track the latest trends. We gush over the newest guru. We pander to that which we like and slander that which we don’t.

But today I learned five lessons from an ancient young man who had no vested interest in the outcome of our time together. In his honor, I pass them along.

Answer simply.

Enjoy what you do.

Don’t worry.

Be.

Remember.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO IN YOURS?

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“I know this may sound crazy,” Jim said, “but when I was a kid I used to love walking around the big willow tree in our front yard with them, after a freshly fallen snow.”

“You’re right,” Joanne said. “That does sound crazy. I’m just the opposite. I like mine warm. Put ‘em in a warm salt soak and I’m nearer to heaven for a while.”

“Not me,” piped up Barb. “Give me a stroll through some tall grass dripping with the morning dew. I find it thoroughly refreshing and it makes me smile.”

“I say nothing beats warm oil and gentle hands,” Bob declared. “You feel so relaxed.”

Matt sat quietly for a few seconds. Slowly, a smile eased onto his face. An ever so slight chuckle breathed out as the smile spread to his eyes. “I liked waiting for a warm summer rain when the dip in the back yard filled up. Then me and the kids went running out, and on the count of three, we all jumped in the puddle together. It was great. We’d usually empty the puddle after a few good jumps but then we’d just go inside and wait for it to fill back up. And then we’d do it all over again. The kids loved it. I loved it. It was one of those traditions that you remember for a lifetime.”

“Last year,” Matt continued, “my youngest came to visit. She’s almost thirty now, but there we were, sitting on the back deck, when a warm summer rain came up. We just sat under the table umbrella, talking. Suddenly she got up, took me by the hand and said, ‘Come on Dad. It’s full.’

“We walked out to the edge of the puddle, and jumped in together.” Matt stopped to soak in the memory.

No one minded the quietness of the moment.

It all started with an odd question: “What do you like to do in your bare feet?”

Me? I think I’m going to wait for the next warm summer rain.

WHEN LIFE HANDS YOU LEMONS, MAYBE THE BEST THING YOU CAN DO IS …

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She had the kind of giggle that could soften marble, and she played it with as much aplomb as she did abandonment. She couldn’t have been much older than two years and she walked behind her daddy like the princess of the condiments aisle.

She would point to the jars of pickles, announce to all, “pick-o-o-ohs,” and giggle. She would point to the olives and declare, “ah-libs,” and giggle again. With royal command, she pointed to and proclaimed, “catch-em-up, momstard, yell-ish,” as the ketchup, mustard and relish stood in respect, and she giggled. “Yell-ish,” she repeated, this time a little louder, and by this time her giggling was joined by at least half a dozen adults who seemed mesmerized by her.

We parted ways at the end of the aisle as she and her dad headed down the bread aisle and I scurried through the canned goods, a smile still anchored to my cheeks, and one that would return every time I remembered the Condiments Princess.

And I chuckled when I heard, from two aisles over, “Mommy wants holy wheat bread, daddy, not white.”

But the best moment of the morning, was when we were in the produce section. There she was, carrying about seven or eight lemons in her arms. Suddenly, there they were, rolling on the floor (perhaps giggling?). Her little arms went skyward, like a referee signaling a touchdown, as she said, “Uh-oh daddy, I dropped my lemons.”

“That’s okay honey,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” And her face lit up with a huge smile.

“I dropped my lemons,” she said to a lady passing by, “My daddy’s gonna take care of it.”

And she giggled.

I learned an important lesson that day. Sometimes when life hands you lemons, maybe the best thing you can do is to lift your hands to the heavens, and tell God, “Uh-oh Daddy, I dropped my lemons.” Then trust Him to take care of it.

Oh. And don’t forget to giggle.

Learning to Live Lean, Clean and Green

I counted her shoes strewn onto the floor of her bedroom closet. Twenty-three-and-a-half pairs. That’s right, “and a half”. As in, a half pair of shoes. One unpaired shoe.

“So-o-o-o Terri,” I said, dragging the first word out. “A half pair of shoes?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I keep hanging on to it in case I ever find the other half.”

“And how long have you been looking?”

“I guess about three years,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “Maybe I should get rid of it?”

And I wondered quietly why that was even a question for her.

She had originally asked for my help in organizing her home office, which looked amazingly like someone had taken her supplies and stuff, stood in the doorway and rather enthusiastically shoveled it in the room. There was her paper recycling waste basket that had overflowed so much I couldn’t tell where the waste ended and her filing system began. Tucked in the corner was her “open space closet”, which doubled as a piece of exercise equipment that hadn’t been used for its original purpose since she discovered she didn’t have to go to her bedroom closet to hang up (read, throw) her clothes.

Of course to reach her office we had to pass through the gauntlet of her kitchen, which she proudly called, “the war zone.” The narrow pathway through what her rental agent called a “cozy kitchenette” was lined with stacked crap on one side, counter-stacked with crap on the other side. And I couldn’t help but wonder if that muffled sound I heard as we passed the sink was last week’s leftover pizza, growing and growling and patiently biding its time waiting to ambush whoever was brave enough to do the dishes.

I’m not saying she lived like a pig, but, … well, actually I guess I am.

Most of us are familiar with the old saying, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” I think her motto was more like, “Something should go somewhere but if it doesn’t fit there then just put it somewhere else.”

Hopefully, you’re not in a similar position. But whether you need a lot or a little help, here are my five favorite tips for de-cluttering your space.

One: Start Empty. This is perhaps the simplest, although not necessarily the easiest way to organize a room. Start with a clean, minimalist space. This of course requires that you have someplace else to temporarily put the stuff, but it’s a lot simpler to put into a room only what you actually need if you can start with empty walls and an empty floor.

Two: Place Deliberately and Slowly. I don’t mean work in slow motion, but don’t hurry to get stuff back in the room. Take your time and be sure that what you put in your space actually belongs in that space.

Three: Divide and Conquer. Now that your stuff is out of the space, look at its pieces not its mass. It’s not one big mess but ten little messes. Or maybe it’s fifteen little messes. Or maybe it’s even twenty-three and a half little messes. The point is to break it down to pieces small enough to feel good about daily progress as you work through to separate the wheat from the chaff. Not everything you have is something you should keep. Be thoughtful as you go through your stuff.

Four: The Smaller the Space the Fewer the Stuff. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve seen people try to stuff a Hummer’s worth of car into a Mini Cooper’s worth of garage. Seriously, you really don’t need so much stuff. If you want a little eye-opener about our attachment to stuff, rent the 1986 movie “Labyrinth” and wait for the scene featuring the Junk Lady. “Oh, what have we got here?” she begins. “Oh, your little bunny rabbit. You like your little bunny rabbit. Don't you? Yes! There's Betsy Bou! You remember Betsy Bou don't you? Yes. Oh, it's a pencil box. Got lots of pencils in it too, and, oh! Here's your panda slippers. You know how much you love your panda slippers. You never wanted them thrown away, did you? Oh, it's little Horsey. You love little Horsey, don't you dear? You got a printing game, you have! Oh, here's a treasure. Here's dear old Flopsy. You'll want her. Charlie Bear. Right. There's Charlie Bear for you…” It should make you think twice about holding on to so many things.

Five: Get Help. I don’t mean you must hire a professional organizer. Get a friend or family member who can help you sort through your stuff with a little detachment. Someone who can ask you questions about why you think you really want to keep things in your space. Someone who can dispassionately (or passionately, if need be) say, “No.” Someone who understands your end goal is to live lean, clean and green.

Think you can’t do it? You can.

Live light.