In praise of the stick shift

 

I got my driver's license when I was 22, which is a story for another day. My mother taught me to drive in a red, Volkswagen Rabbit -- a stick shift, which I then purchased so I could drive to and from my first actual full-time job at the Lewis & Clark College Law Library.

This summer, I have a teenage driver-in-training who is adamantly opposed to learning to drive a stick shift. She would rather drive the aging family minivan than my newish Mazda 3 with a sporty spoiler on the back. And she has no trouble saying that if she had to drive someone to the hospital in a car with a stick, she guesses they would just have to die.

Fewer than ten percent of the cars sold in America have a manual transmission. Recently CNN posed this question in an article: "Is learning how to drive stick in America still essential?" Their conclusion was no.

While this all saves me the worry of a wrecked car, I find that I actually care a lot about whether she learns.  But am I just being a stubborn "you need to do it because I did it" kind of mom, or is it something else?

Since a good survey can get to the bottom of almost anything, I asked a few friends to tell me why they prefer a stick shift. Outside of the person who said "just because," the two main themes that came out were "fun" and "control." There was a tad bit of "I don't want to feel middle-aged." And it was abundantly clear that those who participated thought driving a stick shift was clearly the better choice.

And thus, the survey cleared it up.  We love our stick shift cars because we like to drive. And when you like something, you want to feel it and be more a part of it. For me, it's pure freedom to drive down a curvy country road on a crisp fall day with the windows down and some great music playing on the stereo. To fully experience that joy, demands the ability to shift the gears of your car yourself.

At least I understand now, regarding Emily, that it's really about wanting her to embrace the opportunity to have a thrill. And I hate to see her close the door on it before she has a chance to test it out. Maybe one day, someone who is not her mother will convince her to give it a try.

**And now, I'm off to vacation.  To swim in the ocean and drive an automatic rental car.  Any writing that gets done will be by old fashioned pen and paper. Back later in August.

Summers of old

I don't recall if my grandfather ever got to ride in an airplane, but I do know he had one dream that went unfulfilled -- to ride in a blimp.

Back in the simpler summers of the 70s, the arrival of the blimp was a big deal. I can still picture that subtle yet distinctive hum wending its way through the back alleys of our brains until suddenly it reached our consciousness and caused us to sprint out to the middle of the driveway to see who would spot it first.

There was something magical yet elusive in it's power -- it's ability to make everyone stop so completely and point up. Almost as if it was daring us to understand how it was so impossibly airborne as it floated across the sky. And even in our stunned amazement, we found the capacity to wave at the unseen people overhead, while we imagined who was lucky enough to be chosen for the thrill of floating through the air in the tiny cabin underneath.

For days after, we kept our ears and eyes attuned to the sky, wordlessly willing it to return.  But it never came twice in a summer. And as time passed, we gradually forgot, and moved on to other playtime activities and distractions until that next July, when with sudden and unexpected command, the magic would materialize once again in the sky over our heads.

I still wait for it every summer.

Take me out to the ball game

Maybe it's because I'm from Oregon.  I never really understood baseball. 

I loved to throw the ball around in the street with my dad, and was intrigued by the smooth, wide leather mitt he kept from his teenage days. We played in P.E., of course. Too much pressure when up to bat. Not enough excitement out in the field.  My preferences leaned towards kickball, tetherball, swinging on the bars and running like the wind. Action.

Earlier this summer, I finally had the chance to attend my very first baseball game.  Colorado Rockies vs. Arizona Diamondbacks. I was the token girl amidst seven of my public broadcasting colleagues. We were lucky enough to score seats in the third row right behind home base.  And I was informed that these were VERY good seats, which made it that much more enjoyable as we ordered beer and hot dogs, sat back, visited, and watched the game. 

As a novice, I found that it's helpful to have an enthusiastic and informed explainer.  Your explainer will tell you which player is good at what.  He'll share important information about how the batting order is determined, how players have specialties that matter, and how to read the stats on the scoreboard.  He'll talk you through what's happening, and sometimes even predict correctly what will happen next. Plus, you can ask all sorts of questions about how people hold the bat, and stand funny, and do other quirky things you notice.

Then in the middle of it all, the most important thing that nobody ever told you comes clear.  Baseball is a head game.  It isn't really about action. And they're not trying to hit home runs every single time.  Aha! So now it starts to get fun. Especially when you discover the added bonus, that the seventh inning stretch really exists -- that even in our era of too-much-coolness, thousands of people are still willing to laugh it up together while singing a silly song.

So when I received an invitation to the second game of my life last week, I jumped at the chance. Seattle Mariners vs. Texas Rangers. Ichiro! Quite possibly the only baseball player I actually know by name. So those seats in the first game... yes... they were good. But this time around, we had the pleasure of purchasing our high-up seats from a scalper on the street outside the stadium, which was its own special thrill.

My assigned explainer for this game had enjoyed a pre-event Bloody Mary, so he wasn't quite up to full-time explaining duties.  But I did get some new insights, learned some good lingo, and was told that Ichiro has a crazy batting style that "should never be copied by anyone." There was an exciting home run, some wild catches, a broken bat that flew across the field, and some dippin' dots to snack on. And it turns out that being high up somehow makes you feel more a part of the excitement.

The Mariners won. We leaped up and cheered, then watched the brilliant red sun illuminate the water as it dipped behind the Olympic mountains after the game. I'm not sure I completely understand baseball yet. But I like it. I'll bet Ken Burns can help me fill in the gaps.

The view from the train

Never the manicured backyards, but rather those more likely to be strewn with the stuff of lives lived hastily and further towards the edge.

Some horses. A lone deer in a field.

Shallow patches of leafy green woods, the kind secretly inhabited by kids who sneak off to create a world of their own in defiance of their mothers. 

Bold artistic statements clandestinely sprayed on the massive canvass of the rumbling freight trains. 

And a woman on the beach who pauses to relish the sheer power, then gives a friendly wave to all on board.

On goals and such

A few days ago, on a plane with more than its fair share of babies and seat-kicking toddlers, we flew over the grandeur of Yosemite's marvelous rock faces brightened by the evening sun. I was reminded of a question I'd been turning over in my mind.  "What's the most difficult goal you ever accomplished?"

When I was first faced with this question, I drew a complete blank, which didn't make any sense. My entire career has been built around the concept of reaching goals, of thriving on challenge and being fiercely dedicated to meeting a target. It brings me pleasure and satisfaction. Surely somewhere in the realm of school and sports and music and work and children and life, I must have achieved something I would easily recognize as a most difficult goal.

But there's something about the label of "goal" that changes the nature of the endeavor -- that moves it out of the realm of something you've done, into an effort with a keen sense of conscious striving behind it.  And that, I realized, was the issue. Goals don't work that way for me.

It's not that I don't think before I start, or face anxiety when things aren't going well, or feel it when I'm striving to overcome a challenge. It's rather that once I set my path, I just go. My effort is placed in making things happen in the moment. And I expend very little mental energy thinking about whether or not I'll reach the ultimate target. 

But thankfully I stumbled upon an answer.  The goal? Learning how to fundraise on the air. Again, at first glance, this doesn't make sense either. A) Because fundraising is what I do. B) This is hardly a grand, life-altering event. C) It feels a tiny bit lame, because in reality, this is technically something a child could do.

But here's the difference: Fear. I wanted to do it, but I didn't believe I could do it. I was terrified to try. I had no idea where to start. And if I failed, it would be big, in front of thousands of people, plus my closest friends and colleagues.

I had to truly think about how I was going to learn and who I would trust to teach me. I had to set a plan for how I would to prepare, and ultimately, face my fear. It was an intensely conscious effort that didn't feel natural at all. It scared me to death. And that first time behind the microphone was a terrifying experience. 

But then it changed, and I learned and mastered the skill. And inside the journey of deliberately overcoming a difficult challenge, I found the memorable magic, the things that made the goal worth striving for... the deeper relationships formed with those I chose to trust... the transformation of my view of my own abilities... and the joy that comes from doing something well that you care about.

I've never particularly liked the idea of a bucket list. And I often found myself at a loss to understand how others easily fill up their lists will all manner of remarkable desires. Mine contains just one item -- to climb the back of Half Dome and peer out over the edge, down into the splendor of the Yosemite valley. 

But now I understand. It's not that I don't want to go to France or Denali or Machu Picchu or the Met and experience many other wondrous and spectacular things. It's that there's only one ambition that claims that special bucket list-deserving hold over my mind.  There's only one thing that feels like a goal because it combines the possibility of thrill with the reality of just enough uncertainty and fear to make it irresistible.

I wonder what would happen if I thought about goals more often.  Whether I'd just get scared and stop. Or whether I'd find even more things to capture my imagination and create experiences that only come from knowing you're putting yourself on the line. Of course, I'm going to give it a try.