Autumn ambivalence

As I am with many things, also too am I conflicted about autumn.

Should I lament its brevity or rejoice in its beauty? Must I cling to the passing season or welcome the ritual of death that it renews?

Tonight I was reminded of autumn's beauty and impermanence during a vigorous sojourn among the sycamores and sugar maples, during an 80-minute walk down the canal feeder trail among the white oak and weeds.

The walking path rests above the Miami River waterway that once served canal boats decades ago as man and beast moved goods from Sidney and other points to the Miami-Erie Canal.

The rustling of the breeze and intermittent calls of birds joined the seasonal symphony, as my feet shuffled through the crunchy carpet that was once the canopy.  

The only other sound was the distant whine of wheels and motors, a fitting  juxtaposition with the canal trough below, the modern connected to the eternal.

Seeing autumn unfold is like saying goodbye to friends.

I don't know why some maples and oaks and poplar and paw paws still retain their armaments, while others willingly have ceded their cover, accepting winters' fate.

Stubborn trees aside, the empty multitude let in an array of light, but not enough to soak up the morning dampness that will hasten the leaves' decay, a crucial step in the forests' regeneration.

The morning light plays visual tricks, revealing everything so that nothing stands out. But the evening tone mutes the muddy background, magnifying the beauty of the turning trees. 

In darkness, beauty builds, no spotlight required.

At one point, I deemed it necessary to leave the asphalt ribbon and connect with the dirt, traipsing a trail carved into the earth.

To do so, I had to outwit a jealous branch of thorns guarding the path below a golden ceiling. My first reward was being allowed to traverse a dry gully funneling nothing but air toward the river below. 

At waters' edge, I paused to enjoy the languid stream succumbing to gravity, flowing south toward the Ohio River.

The world may move fast but time on earth moves slow.

Back on the natural scar, every so often a tree had been felled, a barrier reminding me to slow down but still keep going forward.

Where the water widened, a side trail connects to a sandbar, which begged to be bothered. While standing there calmly, I saw a deer grazing in the island of grasses and reeds. 

Sight betrays distance -- is that 50, 60, 70 yards away? I can't tell, but I am far enough away for my feet to rake across the rocks for a few steps without alerting the animal.

Then I paused, standing quietly for a few minutes before the deer finally caught the scent of an interloper. At that point, the deer surveyed its safety and decided to bound into the underbrush on the other side of the water.

And I made my return to the natural path before climbing up the hillside to begin my trip back to the trail's beginning.

There were some experiences to be appreciated in both directions. 

Twice I heard the flump-whomp-plunk of a walnut making its Newtonian plummet, bouncing off branches and whirring through leaves before splashing into the rivers' flow, the ripples accelerating upon impact before dissolving as quickly as they came.

As I was about to leave, the roar of a nearby freight train racing over the bridge signaled that life keeps moving on, here and elsewhere.

You woke up this morning? Good -- that means it is time to rewrite your obituary

Right now, if either of us died, our obituary would probably include the standard things that everyone else’s would have – who our family is, the towns that shaped us growing up and where we made our way in the world. It might include some of the charitable things we have done or the awards we have won, perhaps even some of our greatest failures and regrets.

But, if either of us were to die today, the obituary would be written, with no chance for modification, no chance to alter the facts contained therein. Like the stone atop a grave, our obituary would be the record of the brief blip of our lives on this mortal coil.


So, today, I am going to work to rewrite my obituary.
Tomorrow, I am going to shape my future in ways I never thought possible.
Each and every day I wake up to another sunrise is the chance to rewrite my obituary.


Today, I start working toward the goal of walking the Grand Canyon and the Appalachian Trail by my 45th birthday.
Tomorrow, I will work on the book whose idea has germinated for more than a decade.

And both days, perhaps, I will keep my heart open to the possibility of something more in my life besides an empty house at the end of the day.
 And the day after that, all three wishes! And the next, and the next, and the next.


For each day that I am given is special,  and each another chance to change the contents of that final word on the life that I have lived.

Today, I begin rewriting my obituary. How about you?

Farewell to a newsman's newsman, a collector and cantakerous, humorous friend

After soaking Sidney all day, the rain has stopped falling.
That would suit my good friend Eric, a former colleague and mentor, who died today.


Who enjoys rain, really? But it's impossible to experience the meteorological gloom that settled over Sidney today, and not make the connection.

Many a time, Eric and I would tentatively plan to engage in a weekend foray to some regional fair or tiny burg, or even simply decide to dine out during the week, and the decision whether to make the jaunt would hinge on the weather. Cold was abominable, but bearable. Same for the heat. He nearly wore out the heating and cooling system in that old Taurus of his.
But rain was about the worst nuisance, especially after Eric finally embraced retirement.


It wasn't always that way -- I can remember when he would almost derisively explain his mother's daily fixation on the weather wherever he was, the intrusions upon his daily life manifested in multiple telephone calls, even from several states away.

But then Eric got sick. And his mother died. Perhaps when she slipped this mortal coil, and he became the eldest (and last) in the American von Klinger clan, that worrisome vocation became his. Or maybe his grasp of time and what was important was colored by his bout with lung cancer.

Whatever the case, he suddenly became keenly aware of the weather. He didn't let it dictate his life but he certainly was shaped by it. Rain was cause for a grumpy exhortation. But then so were any number of slights, failures, or encounters.


If only it were thundering outside, to mimic his sonorous bellows at whatever injustice, mistreatment or stupidity he encountered, at the hands of the retailers who dared to stop carrying his favorite soup, or the newspaper carrier who couldn't manage to locate his apartment, time after time after time, or the neighbors who made a habit of helping themselves to that paper on Saturdays.

Eric was a journalist's journalist -- it was always about the story, and never about its author. If Eric knew of my need to put fingers to keyboard to sort this all out, he probably wouldn't be very happy.

Nor would he want to read this description of him, peppered with more "I's than a politician's promise.
Intellectual.
Irascible.
Inimitable.
Infuriating.
Integrity.


Those are just some of the things that I will miss.


No one could eviscerate a wrongheaded political argument better than Eric. His vocabulary and humor were unparalleled. He might even chide me -- gently -- for wearing out alliteration, one of my favorite exercises. Too trite, he'd say, always the editor, the coach refining my prose.

But it was his life in recent months that has refined me, like a crucible in the hottest fire, giving lessons for living as he drifted into dying.

Even on the bad days, that mischievous twinkle couldn't be totally hidden, upon the telling of a horrible (and horribly funny) joke, or reminiscing about past loves. And those weren't all women, ya know?
I never understood it, but it was a marvel to hear him talk about his childhood dogs, recounting their travels and characteristics as if they were in the other room.

And he always fought, for what he thought was right, what he deserved, and even for a few more months on this earth, after that cancer spread to his brain.


Sic transit gloria mundi. Rest in Peace, you cantankerous, hilarious, unforgettable curmudgeon.






The official obituary, for print:
Eric J. von Klinger, formerly of Sidney, died Aug. 22 after a lengthy battle with cancer.
Von Klinger, a former staff writer with Coin World, was 66 years old. He was born in 1946, the son of World War II veteran Joseph, a pharmacist and lawyer, and Louise von Klinger, a homemaker.
Von Klinger, a noted expert and researcher in error coins, and authored the Collector's Clearinghouse and Readers' Ask columns during much of his six-years on staff.
Prior to joining Coin World, von Klinger served in writing and editing positions at daily newspapers in Indiana, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Utah and West Virginia.
Von Klinger was also a veteran numismatic journalist. From 1993 to 1996 he served as an associate editor for Numismatic News and as a writer for Coins magazine.
While growing up in Wilmington, Ohio, he got his first exposure to numismatics.
When the Lincoln, Memorial Reverse cent was first released in 1959, von Klinger's seventh-grade science teacher brought a roll of the newly minted coins to the classroom, giving a cent to each student.
An intrigued von Klinger remembered that his father had a bag of old coins, and he began examining those coins, beginning a lifelong hobby.
His interests grew to encompass nearly every area of United States coins, early American coppers and tokens, as well as world coins.
Von Klinger was a charter subscriber to Coin World, which was first published in April 1960.
Von Klinger earned a bachelor's degree in English from Miami University of Ohio, where he also pursued graduate studies in English.
He was a member of the American Numismatic Association, Civil War Token Society, and Token and Medal Society.
He is survived by two nephews, Mike (Jenny) and Matt (Phyllis) Smuland, and former wife Shawnee (Mark) Culbertson.

Love graffiti, or a bridge to nowhere?

There are objects everywhere waiting to tell you stories, if only you'll look for them.



If you ever find yourself nestled deep in Tawawa Park in Sidney, take a stroll and  look for the big red covered bridge.

The Ross Bridge, named as these things often are -- for a local mover and shaker -- crosses Tawawa Creek, which is more formally known as Mosquito Creek.

There is something alluring about a covered bridge, the more timeworn but viable the better. Objects of utility, their simple beauty is striking. And they once littered the landscape in Ohio amid the latter part of the 19th century. Just a few scattered sentinels can be found today, a reminder of a different era.

This bridge is a modern iteration of the type that were once found across west Central Ohio, made by Reuben Partridge. I wonder what Mr. Partridge would think if he saw the way people have left their mark on something meant to honor him.



Scratched and dug and gouged and chiseled into the beams and the rails and the window frames of this bridge are the names of thousands of people, mostly presented in pairs, likely reflecting the youthful glow of love's first gleam.

Who are Kevin + Jen?
Their names still stand out like supernova amid the heavens, but what about their love? Did it rage as brightly and flame out as quickly as their celestial doppelganger or does it still burn, strong and bright?

You can't help but wonder who exactly is BVF, and whether he is still in "LUV" with Virita, as he was in 1981.
Where has time taken these two? What joy and grief have they experienced, and were they there to share and bear it with each other?

Bill and Anita made their mark in 1974. But this is 2013.
One hopes that they are about to celebrate 40 years, marked by times good and bad, but always together, but time and love both have ways of playing funny tricks on people.

Does Joyce still love Don?
The romantic in me says yes, that each of these couples' love has stood the test of time, that it is deep and true and etched in their hearts like their names on that wood.

The cynic says that, given the explosion of divorce and rise of single-parent households, there is, at best, a 50 percent chance that these two are still together, seven, 23 or even 39 years after they made it public. Of course, maybe they have a better shot than that -- it must be true love if you're willing to attempt vandalism.


It is just a bridge, and these are just carvings. But when I see love graffiti, I can't help but wonder whether the metaphor of these hearts and names represent love as a bridge to nowhere, or the solid foundation for a life of love.

Season in Review (Or, Why Cardinals Fans Should Be Thankful)

This is a little tardy, what with losing the password and all, but here are some thoughts about the way the Cardinals' season ended.


That was hard to watch.

Scratch that -- that was really hard to watch.

Almost as painful as a 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' marathon.

How does it feel today, Cardinals Nation? Perhaps you woke up with a hangover, a heavy heart and despair? That’s just the inevitable crash downward after being so high for so long.

We Cardinals fans, we baseball junkies, have become so used to the adrenaline rush, the endorphin-boosting thrills, of winning do-or-die games so many times, we’ve forgotten what it feels like to be on the other side of the equation.

For 13 months, the highs had never been higher. Now, the low seems never to have been lower.

As rapturous as the Game Five victory against the Washington Nationals in the Division Series this year -- four runs in the ninth inning when the team was down to its last strike twice!! -- that didn’t guarantee a clear path to victory, to play in the final contest.


As surprising as the World Series championships were in 2006 and 2011, what were arguably the best teams of the past decade provided more clunkers than clinchers.

In 2004 it was the intersection of history and a bunch of "Idiots" from Boston that spelled the end of the MV3's first hurrah.

You know the story. The Red Sox swept the Cardinals in four games, busting the Curse of the Bambino in the House That Steroids Built.


In 2005, we were reminded that not every postseason memory is positive, and not every positive memory had a happy ending. For as long as Brad Lidge remains on this mortal coil, Cardinals fans will forever link his name, and his baseball career, to one pitch in Houston on that fall night in 2005 when Albert Pujols launched a missile over the train tracks.

Before that pitch, Lidge’s career trajectory was rising meteorically, up, up, up, as Mike Shannon might say. Since then, his career has been closer to the other side of the parabola, the sharp slide toward earth (for the record, both he and Albert went on to claim a World Series title or two).


But as much as that moment of glory for Cardinals fans altered Lidge’s career, it didn’t derail the Astros. They kept on chugging, winning game 7 to earn their way to the World Series.

So what if the White Sox beat them? The Astros made it there. Few people take pride in losing, but losing to a winner softens the sting.

What do we remember from 1996?
What should we remember?

The horrible performance from the Cardinals against Atlanta after being up three-games-to-one, or the return to postseason under new ownership and new manager after a drought of success that was unfathomable after the riches of the 1980s and Whiteyball.

Failure is an orphan, and success has many fathers, but whatever you remember from 1996, or 2004 or 2005 or 2012, do not lose sight of the fact that the Cardinals had seven more games (eight if you count the spin-the-wheel play-in game) than all but a few teams.
Brandon Phillips and Reds Nation? Silenced, stunned by the knockout blow from Panda and the San Fran Crew.

With a rookie manager, a broke-down pitching rotation and three future Hall-of-Famers gone, the Cardinals came within one game of another World Series.

The Cardinals got to play seven more games of baseball than 14 other National League teams. Cardinals fans got to see St. Louis experience another Red October, the ninth time in 17 seasons. That is an embarrassment of riches virtually unparalleled in all of Major League Baseball.

It's also seven more times than the Little Bears from the City of Broad Shoulders in that same period.

Cardinals' fans like to pick on the Cubs and their fans. Easy, convenient target and all that.
But, aside from brief blips, the Cubs and their fans have been content to merely exist, as if playing meaningful games past April is too much to bear.

As baseball underwent three rounds of expansion (1969, 1992 and 1998), the Cubs chugged along, making their customary once-a-decade playoff appearances. "Hey, look at us, we made the playoffs!" the fans would say. And then the inevitable but inconceivable came true, time and time again. Thisclose to a World Series on more than one occasion (you might say the gap was as thin as a goat’s hair), the Cubs lived up to a record of futility rivaling Sisyphus.

Or consider the Kansas City Royals. Missouri’s "other" team, whose success has been minimized to one World Series Championship in their lifetime, and that one is courtesy at least in part due to the temporary vision problems that afflicted a first base umpire.

I’ve heard the love and reverence of Cardinals Nation described as a college football atmosphere.

Here in the state that is round on the end and hi in the middle, Ohio State fans blanket the state like smog asphyxiating Los Angeles, and the parallel is pretty amazing. People in this state live and breath Ohio State football, unless of course they root for Michigan. As annoying as these fans can get, their passion and knowledge defines their fanaticism. I'd like to think that Ohio State fans, in that regard, are just like Cardinals fans.

So, the postseason is over now (after the woeful blink-and-miss exit by Detroit), and it is time to rest. To restore and renew faith and energy for the Cardinals, to begin to prepare for the next season.

After all, pitchers and catchers report in a little more than 13 weeks.

O, Albert! My Albert!

O Albert! My Albert! Your time with the team is done;
Cards Nation will weather your defection, the prize we sought not won;
The park is near, the cries I hear, the people all disgusted,
Disappointed in The Machine, El Hombre we must miss:

But O heart! heart! heart!
bleeding drops of Cardinals red,
While the on-deck circle is bare,
5 no more is said.


O Albert! My Albert! rise up and hear the jeers;
Rise up, for you the banner's flung, Stan's harmonica goes still;
For you, bouquets and ribboned wreathes, for you the stands a-crowding;
For you they'll call, the swaying masses; their eager faces spurning;
Here Albert! dear hitter!
This cap fits not your head
A bad dream: the on-deck circle is bare, 5 no more is said.


My Albert does not answer, his lips are pursed and still;
My Hombre does not feel my wrath, he has no pulse nor will;
Clydesdales are stabled safe and sound, 11th victory lap long done;
To Junior League your fearful trip, no pennant win will come;

Exult, Anaheim! And ring the Angel's bells!
But I with mournful dread,
Look at the on-deck circle,
Where 5 no more is said.

A drying well for ink-stained wretches like myself, OR, the "Buy a Darn Newspaper Before it's Too Late" Project

Time marches ever onward, but in what direction? Onward to this Brave New World, where bits and bytes equal cash and cachet, and the physical realm has been replaced by the digital cloud?

Is it news anymore that media outlets are shedding jobs? Like the annual stagnation of the Chicago Cubs, the erosion of jobs in journalism continues unabated, the technological waves lashing and lapping at an ever-dwindling shore.

Like the drowning man watching a rope of salvation recede into the horizon, I've watched from afar with the sense of resigned detachment, that some day the same fate would afflict me.

So far, it has not, and for that I am thankful. But as I read the latest story of a media empire crumbling into decay (www.stltoday.com/business/local/article_344cb82c-ce99-11e0-8ca1-0019bb30f31a.html), I can't help but wonder when this will befall all of us veritable ink-stained wretches.

How long before the "hard copy" versions of newspapers are chopped for good? Reasons given will be many, with many calling it one of environmental friendliness, others leveling honestly that it is not all about going green, rather saving green.

That fateful hour approaches more quickly every day, with each Kindle and iPad shipped to stores, and as each App is downloaded.

So, do yourself a favor, and find an outlet for a newspaper, a gas station, perhaps (those still exist, don't they, since they haven't figured out a way to download fuel, well, unless you count electricity). Anyway, tomorrow, or this weekend, or before it's too late, go to a gas station and buy a newspaper. Plunk down one of those worthless dead presidents (sorry George, we really do love yah!) and buy a transportable snapshot of the world.

Feel the pulpy texture in your hands. Wash off the ink that accumulates from lingering on the Op-Ed page as you contemplate ideas put forth in a column by someone who ticks you off.

Clip a coupon or advertisement to serve as a visual reminder of the people who really support their local newspaper, the moms and pops (and the big guys) who pour their hard-earned $$$s into trying to reach an erudite, educated local customer.

Read all about your most recent local community meeting, be it a city council or school board, and learn what happened without having to go to the time and trouble of actually, you know, showing up for it. After all, a reporter was sent there to cover the gathering -- surely it's worth $1 just for the privilege of skipping it.

Perhaps you will be distracted by a fly while thinking about that opinion column. Go ahead and fold the newspaper while the fly dive-bombs your head.
Can your Kindle do that?

Take a swing and smack the fly.
Is there an App for that?

That is just one of the many tangential benefits to newspaper ownership. Everyone should have the pleasure of experiencing these sorts of thrills, so today, by the power vested in myself (D.C., I believe), I have declared Thursday, Sept. 1, National Buy a Darn Newspaper Before It's Too Late Day. Will you participate?


Set aside the screen for a second (OK, after you've finished reading this; you're almost through!), and consider this:

There surely are psychiatric studies underway or that have already been published exploring the ever-widening digital gap between whatever generation the current one is being called and those of us who of an age, ahem, where we can no longer be trusted.

Would you deprive a young child the joy of killing flies with yesterday's sports scores and a half-filled out crossword puzzle? Would you rip from the hands of a wee lad the one tool of violence he or she can legally possess?

And, if nothing else, think about America's animal community: birds and fish everywhere are counting on you.

So, on Sept. 1, buy a newspaper. You'll be glad you did.