December 25, 2019

Merry Christmas 2019 & a new decade beckons

We send you Yuletide greetings for a wonderful Christmas and great start to a new decade.

The Rising Family skedaddled out of Tennessee for some down time in warmer climes and a break from it all. Humble brag alert: We’re on the road in sunny Florida. 
Enjoying the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral
Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like contemplating the vastness of the universe and humans' exploration of it!

Traveling or not, it’s the season of reflection, giving and gratitude. The ritual of thinking about all that’s been good and not-so-good over the course the past year. 
Saying hello and thank you never gets old, never goes out of style.
Pre-departure annual Christmas photo of the Rising Daughters® 
For our family and friends out there reading this, know this family is thinking of you on Christmas, one way or another. We wish you a heartfelt Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

A new decade, people! Means a fresh start!

December 20, 2019

Steve-O turns 3-0

[Ed. note: this post is super-family-focused. You know by now that I do these from time-to-time.]

Happy birthday my brother. You’re more three decades old. Some say turning thirty years old marks the end of youthful indiscretions that you can laugh away. Personally, I don’t buy that shit. Reject the propaganda that leaving your twenties is symbolic of losing your youth. Like most things in life, it’s all about attitude. 

Then again, thirty is as good as any age to go into overdrive and make your dreams come true. It also doesn’t have to mean you’re suddenly more mature, more self-disciplined, wiser, or more grown-up. Just roll with it, man. There’s still plenty more interesting stuff coming up, at warp speed...
That’s about all the half-baked advice that I am capable of.

My sincere wish is that you had an amazing birthday.

Anyway. 
I’ve always been proud to call you my brother.
You were a cute toddler. I was lucky to have glimpsed some of that as a quasi-adult.
I'm not sure what you were like as a teenager. This photo is hard to read. Probably, like most people, you were preoccupied with figuring yourself out.
Your twenties…establishing the base. Launchpad of adult life. Mom was always leading the cheers and extolling your many virtues. 
You’ve started a new decade in your life as we all enter the 2020s. Neat. Please thrive.
And we all love ya.
Circa 2004

November 30, 2019

World of Coke and SpongeBob

Coked Up
The Rising Family™ succumbed to the temptations of limitless free carbonated beverages. We visited the World of Coca Cola museum in Atlanta, Georgia, in October. Just like its namesake drink, our stopover was bubbly and stimulating. We were seeing the Mecca of Coke, the Cooperstown of Carbonation, the Base Camp of the Boss of all Beverages…you get it, right?
Our tour began by experiencing Coke’s 125+ years of history in an expansive theater. A genial museum rep greeted us. He strode to the front and warmed up the crowd for a slick historical video focused on the company’s origins and history. The group then proceeded on with the museum tour.
For us, the main event was sampling from over 100 Coke products. I discovered my favorite foreign Coca Cola product was “Smart Watermelon” water from China. I saw a Tab cola dispenser and that made me wistful for that brand. 
I'll concede there was some tugging of heartstrings. Even 'ol sarcastic me became lost in thought. The grainy video of the famous 1971 hilltop TV advertisement featuring young people from all corners of the globe signing “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony…” still resonates. (It was recently brought back into social consciousness by the same imagery used in the series finale of "Mad Men" in 2015.) Later, I detected a slight hush in the room when our guide told us we had arrived in the vault holding Coke's legendary secret formula.
We left the Coke museum with our bags filled with small can samplers and souvenirs that we usually avoid. This time, we bought them at the memorabilia store. For jaded tourist nomads like us, that speaks volumes about the power of the Coke brand.

SpongeBob Spectacle
SpongeBob Squarepants has been a staple of our TV viewing diet ever since I first introduced the Rising Daughters to the irreverent yellow sea sponge when we visited Guam years ago. We watched SpongeBob in our hotel room while Marina napped between beach excursions. Bikini Bottom has been a regular presence on our living room TV ever since.
Courtesy of courant.com
We saw a poster advertising the new SpongeBob musical on Broadway in Times Square in 2018. The girls were intrigued, but we spent the money on seeing the Blue Man Group instead. This year, fortune smiled on us with the opportunity to see the SpongeBob musical here at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. Hoppin’ clams it was a family-tastic evening. SpongeBob really rocked.

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November 19, 2019

A love letter to my LEAF

Foreword
I returned my leased 2018 Nissan LEAF electric vehicle last week. I drove it for more than eight months as a daily commuter and occasional jaunt enabler. It is a remarkable car. It is my favorite four-wheeled vehicle to drive bar none. And so…
I am writing this love letter to you, my dear LEAF. We’re been ripped apart after 4,900 miles together. Our breakup provoked anguish and adoration in equal measure. Anguish because you’ve moved on to a new driver; adoration and thanks for the time we had together. I love the way you moved me.

Driving with you was sheer delight. Almost soundless on the road, nary a growl from under the hood. Like drinking coffee on an empty stomach, you spooled up horsepower for amazing acceleration. What is more, your eco-friendly nature made you me-friendly. Without that spirited personality in my life now I must grudgingly accept a ‘normal’ driving experience.
I remember the first time I saw your younger self, with your ample, rounded proportions. You’d been launched into this world for only a few months. I was tasked to drive you to an event near Oppama, Japan. I’d never seen you before.  But I’d heard how unique you looked, how fresh your outlook, how you represented a new era that would change the world. 
You were dressed all in white, glittering in the lights of our office parking lot where I picked you up. I was warned that you were quiet. Still, I couldn’t detect if your motor was running at first, but I quickly figured out how to begin our first date. I remember my focus on not making an embarrassing move;  I gingerly guided us toward our destination at a modest pace. I could tell that you appreciated my caution and concern for your well-being. But I wasn't mature enough, wasn't ready to commit. After a few dates, we drifted apart. When we were together, though, boy oh boy the metaphorical sparks did fly.

Truth is, I tried going out with other cars, to forget you. They were so noisy, so normal, and so sullied. I just used them and walked away.

Looking back, I see now that due to our work commitments you and I drifted in and out of each other’s orbit. Sure, we flirted with other partners. But I never forgot about you, always yearned for another chance. I knew instinctively your future was bright. I hoped to be with you again as you matured. Then one day I saw you hiss along a highway on my computer screen, a silver blur. 
I had butterflies in my stomach when I first laid eyes on you. How hot looking, how modern you’d become. The coltish curves had turned into a sharper silhouette. I was nervous, unsure of myself. How could I again make you mine? But it was more than physical attraction. It was both heart and head. From our first frolic together, I knew you were fun to be with, fun to travel together. Because you'd matured, I knew you'd have the energy and stamina to take me where I needed to go. I thought, how does this ‘new you’ present yourself on the tougher roads of today’s world?
I somehow managed to get back into your good books, sink into your seats. I love that your motor doesn't have to scream to move us faster and faster where we want to go. I love that I know we will have a long future together. I love how when I look at you, despite the troubles of the day, I sense that everything will be all right. 
More and more of your cousins are plying the roads of the Earth, to help make the world greener and more beautiful. Our relationship was part of that.
The vicissitudes of life and work have temporary separated us again. Yet I know that we will reunite somewhere down the proverbial road. Until then, know that I love you. I think you're a lively soul, and practical, and good—all the things you dream for in a motoring partner. So, the question, dear lovely LEAF, do you feel the same way?


October 31, 2019

Pushing pumpkins

I flash orange-tinged jazz hands to you all!

I don’t recall pumpkin patches being such a big deal during my youth in Ontario. We either bought them at the supermarket or my Grampa gave them to us. He grew lots of different vegetables as a retiree/gentleman farmer. The Rising Family™ has its own way of doing things: Embrace the Pumpkin Experience.
Yeah, I’ve got pumpkins on the brain. That’s due to the variety of pumpkin patch outings we’ve had since late September.
And the fact that it is Hallowe’en this evening.
This year, we first encountered the magical orange squash plants during a visit to Cheekwood. It’s an old-money family residence which now is botanical garden and historic estate.
We went there in late September for a Japanese cultural event. But we stopped in our tracks upon seeing this remarkable house made of straw and pumpkins.
Next, we ventured out on our 2nd annual trek to the pumpkin patches on local farms. The idea is to say goodbye to summer and welcome the fall by seeing the farms, enjoying the harvest, and briefly touching the pastoral life.
It’s healthy outdoor family recreation: go on a hay ride; feed the animals; navigate the corn maze; and sample pumpkin flavored foods and beverages.
Of course, during the visit you can also see hundreds of pumpkins. Different shapes, sizes and colors! A great chance to choose the perfect pumpkin for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Beats the supermarket every time.

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October 21, 2019

Summer 2019 Scraps

Courtesy of ed.com via Marian Wayan & Shutterstock
Summer is the greatest season. But it does end. According to the calendar, summer faded into autumn on September 23. In middle Tennessee, according to the thermometer, it was much later. Through the first week of October this year, Nashville's temperature surpassed the 90ºF (33ºC) mark nearly 100 times. Almost 25 percent of the year that hot? It warms my heart! 
That much heat, humidity and fine weather enabled a lot of activity. So here are a few more scraps of summer 2019--time well spent.

“Visiting with folks”
A few days before my family returned home from summer leave in Nippon, I took a solo trip to Tallahassee to see longtime bud Mike Penilski in his native habitat. He was on vacay with his family. I took the opportunity to take another long drive, always a pleasure for me, and visit them for a day. It was PG-rated, no buddy bacchanalia. 
Mainly this was a dip in Wakulla Springs, a taste of Florida panhandle hospitality, and cocktails on the boat deck at sundown.
The Rising Family came back to Music City in late July and the silly season continued. My brother and his girlfriend came to visit us mid-August. This enabled me to conduct a tour of downtown Nashville and fire up the BBQ. It was great to have other relations join my family here.
County Fair
We hit the Williamson County Fair with all the smells, sights and bustle that it entails. As my daughters grow up, they want to indulge in different carnival rides, and their taste in food changes. So this year stressed more exciting, adrenal rides. Less kiddie stuff.  It was the second year that we had major league fun. 
I love the agricultural origins of these fairs. They remind us of where our food comes from. And the families, flirting teenagers, doting grandparents—old time, uncomplicated fun. A source of youthful joy. Hard to come by as the world grows faster and more complex.

Kentucky Kingdom & Hurricane Bay + Louisville Slugger Museum
We took advantage of Louisville this year! Spent two days riding Kentucky Kingdom’s roller coasters and amusement park attractions, and dipping and zipping in Hurricane Bay’s water park. 
This year, I also convinced Marina Man to come with me to the Louisville Slugger museum tour in downtown Louisville. It was baseball heaven. With this visit and two ballgames under her belt this year, I am exposing her more to the joys of the summer game. The museum visit tugged at the heartstrings of history and was educational. I loved every minute of it!
Beyond the history oozing from the walls and dripping on the wood shavings, I saw staff making new bats for today's heroes from all 30 major league clubs including Vladimir Guerrero, Jr. (Blue Jays) and Joey Votto (Reds).

I closed the season underlined by a weeklong obsession with the song “Summer Girl” by the L.A. sister trio Haim. It’s right up there among the great hits about Los Angeles, but with clear nods to Lou Reed. It became my song of summer 2019.

It’s great to be alive, people.

September 28, 2019

Summer 2019 Sliders

I had no idea what “sliders” were when I first saw them on a menu in Nashville. I discovered that the White Castle hamburger chain popularized sliders starting in the Depression era. They are cheap miniature hamburgers that were soon nicknamed sliders because they are so greasy and small you can easily slide ‘em into your stomach. 
Courtesy of The Krystal Company
I’ve learned they can keep right on going downward until sliding out yer ass. In short, they are five stars yummy, but occasionally colon blow. Not unlike these blogposts of mine.

What follows are a few Rising Family™ summer 2019 summaries.

I ask you: who doesn't love summer? The warmth, the sensation of the sun on your skin, watersports, BBQ, camping, the freedom of romping outdoors whenever you want. You need more reasons? How about riding on motorcycles wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. Jumping off a cliff into a cool lake. Humidity like lanolin on your skin. That certain clean feeling after a mid-afternoon shower. Then heading outside for more heat. 

I love Nashville summers. The summer of 2019 did not disappoint. In fun ways through to the mundane, I had a great time. Here are a few reasons why.


The Almighty Lawn
In my youth, I mowed my parents' lawn and thought it wasn't worth the trouble. Now in middle age, I revel in keeping the weeds at bay and resurrecting our rented home’s neglected Bermuda grass. Southerners love their lawns and mini John Deere mowers. I caught the fever. 


Canada Day
We are modestly patriotic, we Canucks. Once overseas, we recognize what a great thing we have going in the Great White North and raise our flag-waving game. I made my point with my American co-workers on July 1. I declared my office a temporary Honourary Consulate of Canada for the day. We avoided diplomatic rancor. Laughter is the best way to achieve a constructive bilateral relationship.


Going to Memphis
Mr. Maczynski, a co-worker from South Africa, was on a temporary assignment at my office during the summer. I took him on a music-inspired tour of Memphis during the Independence Day long weekend. We toured Graceland and Sun Studio, ate hyper-local wet BBQ, drank local craft beers, and rocked it. 
I saw parts of Memphis’s storied musical history that I otherwise would not have had the chance to see. Thanks, Kyle! Even the night drive back to Nashville on the I-40 was exciting. A flash thunderstorm and mega rain made one stretch super-adrenalized. Rock and roll.


Kentucky Fried Carburetor
With no family around, I was free to hit the road on weekends. In July, thoroughly enjoyed a motorcycle tour north to Kentucky on Hobo Bike accompanied by William Matsusiak. For shaved ice. And for fun.

September 8, 2019

NatchezBall Run II

Courtesy of doityourselfrv.com
More Main Dish - Days One & Two
Speeding through southwestern Tennessee I finally felt I was On The Road. I wasn’t in a Hunter S. Thompson gonzo mood; it felt more like relief to be moving forward again. Putting the ill-fated start with Hobo Bike behind me. I did some mental gymnastics to convert the bile of adversity into the champagne of positivity. 
After all, I was driving a shiny pickup truck and gawking at landscapes in parts of the rural South I’d never seen before. Moreover, I was putting miles down on pavement. I think I am at my happiest when in motion.
My optimism didn’t prevent the rainfall. It began soon after I met up with Stevie Y. and WMD at the Black Belt Overlook milepost outside Tupelo. While the rain didn’t dampen my upbeat mood, wistful Elvis ballads played in my head. My riding buddies empathized with my bad luck. They generously offered to take turns driving the truck (a.k.a. our command module) to give me some road time on their German motorbikes. Danke shoen, meine Kameraden. That’s pure friendship right there, folks. It’s also the reason we had a total of eight wheels on the road: 4+2+2. We switched our rides and WMD took the wheel of the trusty Frontier. I jumped on his gleaming BMW.
Later, somewhat soaked, we arrived at a hamlet called French Camp in a pastoral part of Mississippi. We stopped for warm beverages at a tired-looking café/gift shop in an old farmhouse next to a church. There was a palpable Children of the Corn atmosphere there. 
Giddy, chilled, and with the prospect of heading out into the rain again, we repeatedly broke into laughter. At that point, we were roughly midway. Distance-wise, 190 miles left between us and our goal of Natchez, Mississippi.

We pressed on. I drove Steve‘s big Beamer. Its heft felt like a Mark III Tiger tank compared to my Kawasaki.  I was concerned about braking on a slick pavement with the alternating drizzle or downpour. Soon, Steve Y. boarded William’s machine. It was late afternoon by then and this motley caravan bombed down the last quarter of the parkway. We saw a young, indecisive deer dart across the road ahead. An armadillo waddled across the highway, and flocks of bats flew above us in a clearing at dusk. The precipitation grudgingly petered out to a sprinkle. We drove through several verdant green pastures. Other patches on the highway had trees forming a canopy overhead, covering the road. Fallen trees lay on the side of the highway, victims of a recent hurricane. Plenty of dead critter carcasses on the highway, too. As time wore on, we became a little concerned about creeping darkness; driving a motorcycle at night can be dangerous. Still, there weren’t that many cars on the road as dusk set in. We gradually increased speed in an attempt to reach Natchez before nightfall.  As a group, we cruised between 50-65 mph for almost two hours during the last 110 miles to our destination.

I was in that state where my comfort level with the bikes, coupled with growing fatigue, had generated a true sense of contentment, of mentally being in the moment. The speed, dimming sunlight, and the thrum of the motorcycle engine, were soothing. With no other distractions, these elements combine to produce a mild euphoria. I only feel that particular kind of exhilaration when motorcycling or scuba diving.
We arrived in Natchez just before the sunset. The light was a salmon pink that assaulted my retinas, and defies apt description. Just look at the photos! 
We checked in at the hotel, and quickly left for a local Applebee’s to indulge in food, beer, and fellowship. I had a celebratory beer: what a terrific way to mark my birthday! WMD did a Facebook post about the first leg of the journey. I tried to get a nightcap upon our return to the hotel…no luck. So, off to Slumberland. Day One had thrown us a few curveballs, and we needed to ready for more the next day.

Day Two 
All hands on deck for breakfast. Flawless kickoff at 0730, clear blue skies, and Stevie Y., WMD and I were in cheerful mode. In a defiant nod to the “three states” part of the trip’s sales pitch, we added a fourth state. 
We roared over the bridge into Vidalia, Louisiana, to fill up our gas tanks and sniff the Mississippi River aura. For the hell of it. 

Then we hit the road for the ride back to Nashville. Our driving was smooth, fast, and safe. I enjoy going on trips with a band of likeminded, capable drivers in which an agreeable pace and synergy develops. Like it did on this trip. We were averaging between 65 mph and 70 mph. We saw hardly any state troopers on the roads. Few other cars on the highway—everyone was at church! That serendipitous Zone I wrote about earlier returned. We endured another deluge of rain before and after we stopped at a Dairy Queen in Tupelo for lunch. 
All were soaked again after taking two or three turns swapping among the bikes and the truck. The rest of the afternoon was pleasant, uneventful-- meaning there was little rain. The driving was satisfying. 
I’ve done a few motorcycle adventures over the years. It's times like these when you recognize you are in harmony with the road and your friends, despite hundreds of miles covered, and all is right with the world. That was my headspace at three quarters of the way.
We eventually made it to the end of the Natchez Trace Parkway northern terminus. I noted that my Hobo Bike’s mechanical mishap had occurred between markers 430-431, just after the Double Arch Bridge. There was a long oil slick still visible on the highway surface. But we’d persevered and completed the trip. Steve, WMD and I quickly took a group shot to mark its end. Tired, but pleased with the safe completion of our quest, we all went our separate ways.

The Postscript
For me, this trip ended up being a mix of Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and The Cannonball Run. The former is a classic tome. It's a philosophical take on romantic and practical approaches to life’s challenges through a first person narrative, under the guise of describing a motorcycle trip. Zen’s prose is dense. Three times I doggedly tried to finish it only to end in abject failure. Conversely, The Cannonball Run is a 1981 movie, a screwball comedy about a cross-country car race starring Burt Reynolds, Roger Moore, Dom DeLuise, and Farrah Fawcett. It’s dumb, entertaining, full of late 70s/early 80s slapstick comedy and late-era Rat Pack hipster gags. 

Given my callow personality, it’s no surprise this NatchezBall Run was more Cannonball, less Zen. And what fun I had. Thank you, Steve Yarsynski  and Will Matusiak .
I wrote this post one month after the trip. The only physical reminders I have left are a big toe still blackened by the dye from my sodden black riding boots. Also, my motorcycle is still at the shop awaiting repair. I miss Hobo Bike!
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