TERRE HAUTE —
It just occurred to me that I am fortunate to have a passion — a drive to do something that takes me away from the clutches of my job, of home repairs, of the mundane and the ho-hum. I say that because I know people who don’t have that something, that hobby, that interest that gets them out of bed or off the couch or away from their desks, and I feel sorry for them. I really do.
Most of my friends have passions, and I’m fortunate that I found a mate who has them, too. I think the world is just a little more exciting when I encounter someone — and I mean the occasional stranger, too — who is passionate about something he or she does or saves or collects or studies out of an interest or a need to know.
I clip and keep old proverbs and quotes and maxims under the glass that tops my desk. One of those sayings is by Will Rogers, and it makes sense to me. He said that there are only two ways that a person can get smarter: by reading good books and by associating with smart people. He makes a good point, but I’d like to add a bit to what he said. I’d suggest you need to spend time with people who have a passion, a fire.
Not too long ago, I was waiting on a receipt at a local mini-mart (boy, do I long for the days when they were called gas stations, and I didn’t have to pay for compressed air). The door opened behind me, and a man walked through it. He stopped and held the door, not for an aged lady or an older gent with a cane, but for a boy of about 14 who was apparently his son. The boy was consumed at the time with a hand-held video game and his fingers were poking at it as if he were trying to desperately defuse a bomb. He jabbed at the thing until — because he was clomping along with his head down — he walked blindly into a metal bread rack.
Loaves and buns flew, the rack teetered on disaster, and the kid had to have at least gotten a skinned knee or barked shin out of the meeting, but Dad, instead of reminding Junior to walk upright with eyes open, just shook his head and extended his palms to offer the customers (and the sore cashier who had to pick up the mess) a “What’s-a-guy-going-to-do-with-a-kid-like-that?” kind of look. I can just see that boy in a year or two, texting while he’s driving his dad’s Buick.
I would suggest that the boy in question needed a meaningful interest rather than one that requires a full-time assistant to keep him from walking into a whirling airplane propeller. There’s no question that he had a passion, but I would question whether his was going to make him any smarter.
My wife helps people; it’s a passion with her. The things that she can do for other people, particularly for her family, makes her happy, and tired, all at the same time. In recent years, she has gotten our entire family involved in putting Christmas gift boxes together for children through the Samaritan’s Purse program. I can’t tell you how many hours she spends shopping for gifts, carefully arranging the boxes for maximum loads (my son’s shoe boxes are best since they are the size of semi-tractor trailers), writing notes to the children who’ll open them, and wrapping them in colorful paper. Often, long after I am snoozing in bed, she’ll be found in the middle of our living room floor, surrounded by mounds of coloring books and toothpaste, Matchbox cars and comb sets, constructing a gift box for a child she’ll never know. I think hers is a good passion, one that contributes.
I wrote a column years ago about a fellow named Mike Hoevet. Mike’s passion was collecting baseball memorabilia. Whether it was a moth-eaten pennant or cracked ball glove or scruffy garage sale bat, Mike was interested in taking a look. He was passionate about the history of baseball, and he felt that everything he took in needed a home with him rather than in a dumpster. He would get very, very excited just talking about his latest acquisition.
Over the years, I’ve met plenty of people who had passions, for the theater, for fishing, for horses, for cooking. Talk about those things and you’ll see their eyes light up. My buddy, Joe, collects and uses hammers; he’s passionate about working in his shop, but what he really likes to do is strap on his tool belt and use a hammer and nails to build things. He loves it. Joe’s brother-in-law, Dennis Weber, makes the most beautiful wooden toys and boxes I have ever seen. He spends almost every free moment in his shop at home; I have a beautiful desk and a letter tray and a neat oak, toy bi-plane to prove it. My friend, Bill Wolfe, has had a passion for clay since he discovered it on the banks of Raccoon Creek near Coxville years ago; we should all be glad he’s never lost his enthusiasm for it.
My father-in-law, Gib, gone now for two years, collected and repaired clocks of any kind. He picked many of them out of junk piles and bargain boxes, but he never bought one that I knew of for its looks. He was a tinkerer, a term that originated in the 16th century and meant a mender of pots and pans. He loved to sit in the dim light of an old lamp and work on those clocks — on radios, too — not because he sold them on eBay or in second-hand shops, but because he was interested in how they worked, and he reveled in the fact that he could take something that was broken and literally make it tick again.
My brother makes knives, using the antlers I’ve picked up in the woods for their polished handles. Lathes and wood and good steel are passions with him. My friend, Julia, collects everything Mickey Mouse. Another friend, Malcolm, who lives in Danville, Ind., now, had to give up most of his collection of antique glass juicers when he moved out his huge farmhouse. It may sound strange, but the man was the King of Juicers — depression ware juicers, cut glass, you name it — he had them all. His antique farm tools had to go to auction, as well. I’ll bet he still has his favorites tucked away, though.
I think it is a sad thing to see people, particularly young ones, who collect things only as investments and hedges against a bad economy. I don’t think that’s why you collect something, why you search and pick over and dream about the things for which you have an interest. I’ve heard children speak of their baseball card collections as if they were investing in gold futures or drooling over stock options.
I won’t lie; had I known some of the cards I collected as a kid were going to be worth big money someday, I probably wouldn’t have shoved them between the spokes of my bike tires, and I probably wouldn’t have traded my Sandy Koufax for a Rico Petrocelli or a Tony Oliva, either.
Even though I am devoted to my teaching, and excited about my writing, and about walking, I have to admit, I am probably most passionate about books. I love the feel of them, and the heft of a good book in my hands pleases me. I almost always carry a book with me, and I read whenever and wherever I can.
I do keep my eyes open for bread racks, though.
Mike Lunsford can be reached by e-mail at hickory913@aol.com or by writing to him c/o The Tribune-Star, P.O. Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. Read more of Mike’s stories at http://tribstar.com/mike_lunsford, and visit his website at www.mikelunsford.com. He is currently working on his third book.
Mike Lunsford
The Off Season: The passion of having a passion is a great thing
- Mike Lunsford
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A walk in the woods
I went for a walk in the woods one day last week after work. It was a warm and green afternoon, and a fresh blue breeze blew in from the west like a new spring friend.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘Dowsers’ provide hope more than science
My grandfather was a man of God. Many times I saw him, his right hand held high in the air at his Wednesday night “prayer meeting,” praising the Lord before weeping at the altar on his knees. And yet, he was a “dowser,” a “diviner,” a “witcher” who, as a favor, would grab a forked sassafras stick and find water for some poor unfortunate whose well had gone dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: As of today, it’s unofficially spring
Despite the calendar telling us not to rush things, I think it is all right to go ahead and say spring is here. The Ides of March has passed, Easter is coming soon, and I have already been out in my yard with a rake, getting my boots muddy. It looks like spring to me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Twain’s Sawyer helps us yearn for ‘wilderness of childhood’
My cousin, Roger, stopped in one day last summer for a glass of tea and a little conversation. Rog has lived an hour’s drive away for years and now, and besides summer reunions, I don’t see him nearly often enough. He’s a good man who has raised a good family, and he owns a healthy sense of appreciation for not only the life he has now, but also the lives we had years ago as kids.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Cheerful green of wheat fights winter blahs
There is a light drizzle of freezing rain tapping at the door of my cabin today. It is little more than a week before the words I am writing are due to appear on your breakfast table or work desk with your morning coffee and scrambled eggs. But I write when I can, and today, despite a full schedule of televised football games, and the stacks of ungraded papers in my briefcase, and a good book lying open on my nightstand, I am clacking away on a keyboard to the whir of a heater and the steady drip of my gutters.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On the simple joys of watching it snow ...
It began to snow about 20 minutes ago, as I write this, light, wind-driven flakes that fall silently into my woods as I watch from a window.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On this day above all, ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’
More than a year after his wife’s death, the great American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, wrote in his diary on Christmas Day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Remembering a Lefty Frizzell-kind of Christmas ...
My brother and sister and I sat around a Thanksgiving dinner table a month ago, shifting in our seats just enough to make our yet-to-be digested turkey sit a little more easily, and, as we often do when we get together, we reminisced about our childhoods for a while.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The wonders of wading in ‘The Iridescence of a Shallow Stream’
I have no idea how many times I have written a story that begins with the wistful phrase, “When I was a boy. ...”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Little man who came to dinner changes feel of household
My 7-year-old nephew, Carson, came to visit us last week. That in itself isn’t earth-shattering news, for he often drops by with one of his parents or the other, the last time dressed as a ghoul for Halloween. But for a couple like Joanie and me, whose youngest child is now nearly two decades past Carson’s age, having a little guy like him in the house, even for a few hours, takes a bit of adjusting.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Reflections: a bit of red glass and our daily thanksgivings
I sat in the half-light of my old desk lamp a few nights ago, a chilly wind blowing in from the northwest that made me appreciative of my long-sleeved shirt and purring heater.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Growing up — and ‘old’ — with many mouths to feed
At our family reunion last summer, I asked my brother if I could borrow a pair of photo albums he had put together. Over the past couple of years, I have committed quite a few of our family’s old yellowing snapshots to newly cropped and digitalized lives, and I wanted to do the same with some of the pictures John has collected for himself.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Violets in October – a pleasant surprise
I guess I don’t pay much attention to the weather forecasts these days because it surprised me a bit when our furnace kicked on a few nights ago.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A library is a good thing — even a little, homegrown one
I grew up with libraries, and I can’t imagine there ever being a time when I won’t want to wander one exploring it like some bookworm-Balboa, finding an author or title that I never really knew existed before. Creating those “Eureka” moments seems to be a dying interest now that so many of us download and digest books electronically without ever really considering that there just might be some hidden gem we’d have liked even more had we simply stumbled upon it on a shelf by accident. I think those moments of discovery are not unlike kicking up lost treasure a mile from where X marks the spot.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The ‘soothsayer’ who came to dinner
I’ve had a good time opening my mail these past few weeks. Sure, I still received the usual junk about lower credit card rates and satellite television packages, but the genuine letters made me smile; most were about a story I wrote in late August.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The agony of de‘feet’ has this writer on his heels
I don’t know if I can electrocute myself by using a computer and soaking my feet in a pan of warm water at the same time, but I am contemplating taking the risk. My feet, particularly the right foot, have staged a 10-digit rebellion over the past few months. After a half-century of commendable service, my pods are screaming to be taken in for repairs, a big inconvenience for a guy who works on his feet all day and whose “sole” form of serious exercise is putting one foot in front of another walking the local roadways.
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Mike Lunsford: Summer’s hidden beauty worth the wait
The great naturalist John Burroughs once said that nature teaches more than she preaches. I can’t recall a summer where that rings true more than this one, for that old sun of ours truly taught us a thing or two these past three months.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time to redefine the concept of ‘assisted living’
Although it has been nearly two months now, I can’t forget the few afternoon hours I spent on a hot June day this summer at a local “assisted living” facility in town. I had been asked to speak to a group of men there about Father’s Day, but for most part, the wonderful old guys who came to listen certainly made my day more memorable than I did theirs.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Observations on smooth stones and blue-green water…
It was raining when I began to write this. Although no one could rightfully call what we got this afternoon a “downpour,” it was nice to have my windows open to hear the steady drops of a passing shower tapping on my dry-as-dust deck and hard-as-concrete yard.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: This summer has us recalling the heat of ’36
It was “only” 99 degrees one afternoon last week when I decided to work on a backyard deck. With a jack and a drill and a little more sweat than I wanted to invest in the project, I went about the business of leveling its sags and dips a bit. The sun pounded down on my head and shoulders like a thug’s blackjack, but as I packed my tools and drank a glass of cool water under a big maple tree a few hours later, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I’ve been these past few dusty and drought-stricken weeks. I have worked under this summer’s heat lamp for only a few hours at a time, but God help the roofers and utility linesmen and firemen, and so many others, who are out in it day after long hot day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: We had no better friend than Andy Taylor
The world is a sadder place now that Andy Griffith has died, but at least we still have Andy Taylor.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Wading deeper into the subject of Blue Herons
Like a relative who has worn out his welcome, the hot, parched weather of this young summer has already overstayed its visit with us, so my wife and I have found ourselves walking our road later in the evenings to keep our feet cool and our backs dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Thanking two dads whose gifts have never stopped coming…
It is nearly a week until Father’s Day, but I have had my dad, and my father-in-law — a second dad to me — on my mind today. I wrote about both men just a few weeks ago, but I have set my mind to write about them again anyway. I don’t want this story to be sad; they both loved to laugh and wouldn’t want that. No, I just wanted to tell them hello, and to thank them again for what they still do for me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Raising a flag for my father, veteran or not
My daughter, Ellen, and I stood at my parents’ graves on Mother’s Day a few weeks back and talked about how it couldn’t possibly have been so long since we lost them. My dad, for instance, has been gone for 16 years, and that is nearly unimaginable
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Time to become one of the boys of summer again …
Besides writing for a living, I teach school, and I’m not ashamed to tell people that I still love my classroom. I’ve been a teacher for 33 years, all of them in the same school district, and virtually all of them in the same building. But I also have to tell you that if the next few weeks don’t slide by pretty quickly, I may just let loose of the last thread of sanity from which I have been dangling for a while now. There are a lot of teachers out there who feel the same way.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time for us to get the real lowdown on dirt…
I have had my hands in the soil as of late. Two Fridays ago, I planted a viburnum bush, three chrysanthemums and a yellow poplar, not because it happened to be Earth Day, but because it was sunny and warm, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. The dirt I scraped out of and back into the shallow holes I dug near a backyard picket fence smelled good, and when dampened with a few sprinkles of water, it soon found its way into the deep wrinkles of my knuckles and under my fingernails. For the most part, I have nothing but good things to say about dirt.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Make big money: Raise worms at home for fun and profit…
When I think about all of the crazy things my brother and sister and I did just to make a few dollars when we were kids, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for teens this summer as they try to find jobs in what is supposed to be a very tight market. Money, to say the least, was a rare commodity when we were growing up, but you have to at least give us credit for trying.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d…’
Had white lace curtains been hanging in the west window of my cabin, I would have had a perfect Wyeth painting to watch last Thursday. A gentle breeze was wafting through my screens, and the sunlight of a warm late March day was fractured by the window sill as it poured onto my legs and feet. I could catch the scent of lilacs as it was carried in by that wind, and it and the subtle melody of the chimes that hang just outside made me as lazy as an old cat.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A report from the country as a new season brings sense of renewal
Regardless of what the calendar may yet say, spring has happened. It couldn’t have come too soon, and it wasn’t just last week and its windy 70s that have convinced me. I have been keeping a journal of sorts in my head for a fortnight now, stashing away reports of birds and buds and sounds in the crammed cabinets of my mind, all in a file marked, “The New Season.”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Feeding time at the homestead draws a host of new guests
I stepped outside into the warmth of an unusually mild early March morning last week to do what I always do just before I grab my briefcase and book bag and lunch bag and head off to work. It’s nearly always dark when I leave, even as the sun gets up earlier and earlier in the late winter, so I often go about the business of feeding our cats with porch lights on and a flashlight in hand.
- More Mike Lunsford Headlines
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Oklahoma Survivors, Heroes Survey Damage
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NBA star pledges $1M to help tornado recovery
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Morgan Freeman falls asleep on air
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DWTS Crowns a Winner
Police Ram House to End Hostage Standoff
Demi Moore a Rocks Bikini at Harry Morton's Family House
Anthony Weiner: I'm running for New York City mayor
Kate Middleton's Dress Flies Up
VIRAL: Baby makes epic soccer goal
The Hangover Baby All Grown Up
