BIRD’S-EYE PEE-EW – The Sad Decline of Balconies

As a designer and former architecture student, I despise the plague of cheap, soulless apartment and condo buildings popping up around town in recent years. Especially here in the neighborhoods surrounding the University of Minnesota’s sprawling Minneapolis campus.

Most are dull, three- to twenty-story cuboids clad in various colors of stamped metal siding. (As if color could mask the lack of imagination.) With little dimen-
sion, detailing or texture, they appear to have been built on the cheap for a shelf 
life of about ten years.

HANGING BY A THREAD
As if to double down on the shallow design, the builders—pretty sure they’re not architects—nearly always tack on a bristling of tiny, barely-closet-size balconies. Underscoring the tackiness, they opt not to even try integrating them into the building’s structure. 

Instead, they’re more or less screwed into the façade, where it seems the only thing keeping them from simply falling off under their own weight is a pair of half-inch cables. I'm sure the wires are up to the job, but they don’t look like it.

         

These dime-a-dozen, afterthought balconies are more insult than asset! I wonder if prospective renters or buyers actually see these little appurtenances as an attraction—one that probably added a couple hundred bucks to their payments. 

             These “McBalconies” always look 
             more like swings than solid ledges.

CANTILEVER…OR CAN THEY?
More damning than my esthetic gripe is the fact that very few residents even use these bitty balconies. If I scan twenty of them—say on one of these fine summer evenings—I’d be surprised to spot two of them occupied. Few have as much as a folding chair on them.

No wonder. The thin, woven strands holding up all these “McBalconies” make them look more like swings than solid ledges.

NOW THAT’S A BALCONY 
A thoughtful, well-designed balcony, one you’d actually want to use, is a wonder, especially for those without the space, or with too much altitude, for a deck. It affords one a chance to step outdoors now and then, breathe some fresh air, maybe catch some rays. What’s more, you get a bird’s-eye view.

A balcony should at least provide enough room for a couple of chairs and a small table. Room not simply to sit, but to stretch your legs out without them poking through the railing. Even better, space for a few potted plants, perhaps a bird feeder, and—codes permitting—a small grill.

Besides the issue of space, there’s also an esthetic baseline here; a deck has to look solid, as if it’s actually incorporated into the structure of the building, not just glued on. It’s that visual integrity, that intentionality, that makes a decent balcony feel solid and safe.
   It’s a bonus when your balcony’s made of wood.

Though rare these days, it’s a pleasant bonus when your balcony’s made of wood. I know it can be a maintenance issue, but it’s a warmer vibe—kind of like the feel of sitting in a wood canoe instead of one stamped out of cold, hard aluminum or some synthetic supermaterial.

         

          Nature blesses us with a vital spiritual 
          connection to Mother Earth.
 
ENTREE TO THE REALM
We human animals have a primeval need for secure, elevated vantage points. That need, once driven by the sheer will to survive, eventually gave way—once we gained the luxury of leisure—to simply a desire to enjoy a few of Nature’s won-
ders, even when living in the city.

We all, especially children, need regular doses of what author and Children and Nature Network co-founder, Richard Louv calls Vitamin N (Nature). It calms us, cures us, and blesses many of us with a vital spiritual connection to Mother Earth. A good balcony offers us at least a maintenance dose.

But we’ve been steadily losing touch with Nature since the Industrial Revolution. And never at the staggering rate that’s come with the Digital Age. The Internet, social media and artificial intelligence have all taken ravenous bites out of that essential connection. Bad balconies don’t help.

While I feel sorry for a kid who doesn’t have a back yard to play on, or an adult who’s too busy to spend much time outdoors, thank God there are still ways to experience Nature in an urban setting. A walk, a bike ride, container gardening…all offer us precious entrée to that precious realm. 

So does a good, solid balcony.

PHOTO: iStock

WATER, WIND AND SPIN – My Go-round With the June, 1981 Minneapolis Tornado

It's prime tornado season here in southern Minnesota. (From May through July we average 41 twisters each year.) 

I've been fascinated with tornadoes since I was a boy, and find it pretty ironic that, while I've still never seen a twister, I have, indeed, been in one. This post marks 25 years since that unforgettable experience.

A DRAINING EXPERIENCE
It’s June 14, 1981—a Sunday—a bit before 4 PM. I’m upstairs in my little house on 16th Avenue South, Minneapolis, chipping away 60 years of paint that's lost its grip on a window sill. Though it’s far from taxing work, I’m sweating.

The air outside, and even more so inside—on the second floor of a non-air-condi-
tioned house—is thick with humidity. I’m grateful for the occasional waft of breeze that finds me.

The work is pleasant. I’m accomplishing something, listening to some nice Hall & Oates on the stereo, and Bess, my sweet black lab, is lying on the rug beside me, panting.

At one point, I notice it’s getting kind of dark outside, and that now those breezes are holding their breath. You can almost smell the rain coming. Oh well, I figure, I’ll work until I feel it on my hands.

 A few minutes later the gunmetal sky and everything I can see out the window has taken on an eerie greenish cast. I realize this can’t be good.

I don’t remember hearing the civil defense sirens going off. Just that soon it’s raining, then hailing. Then the air starts churning…and that’s when I hear it.

          I picture the massive, vacuum-cleaning
          vortex swirling overhead.

SO MUCH DUST

Nearly everyone who’s lived through a tor-
nado says they heard an unearthly rumbling heading toward them. Like a freight train. That’s exactly what I hear. Bess hears it too and gets really squirrelly.
 
I’d always wished I could see a twister. I admired those daredevils who tear along back roads in Kansas, Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to document them. So here’s my moment, I'm thinking; I’m about to be in the middle of one. But I can tell you, what I’m experiencing is not a thrill.

IMAGE: The Weather Channel

I imagine the massive, vacuum-cleaning vortex swirling overhead.** And here’s this flimsy little house, these two minute creatures helpless in its path. If it’s an F4 or F5, we’re like so much dust.

I take the cues and start down to the basement. First I shut the window, and I feel my ears pop as if something just sucked all the air out of the house. In the kitchen I grab some candles and my portable radio, and by the time Bess and I reach the cel-
lar it’s like we’re under a trestle and the train is thundering right over us.

     The entire roof of the three-story apartment
     building next door gets lifted off and dropped
     across my back yard and garage.

FOREST FOR THE TREES
We’re not in the basement for more than a few minutes when the ominous roar ebbs. And we still have a roof over our heads! I head cautiously up the stairs and, thank God, everything appears intact.

It’s when I go outside that I see the destruction. Eighty-foot, half-century-old trees ripped from the ground. Cars piled on one another. Large sheets of drywall and other building materials strewn in the street. (I later find out they’re from the Sears yard a mile away.) And the entire roof of the three-story apartment building next door lifted off and dropped across my back yard and garage.

IMAGE: teapots happen

• The so-called Har Mar tornado, rated an F-3 with winds reaching nearly 200 miles per hour, was on the ground for 26 minutes.

• The human toll: two fatalities, 6 serious injuries, more than 80 minor injuries. (Experts considered it miraculous that these numbers weren't much higher.)
• Other impact: $47 million in property damage; 1,300 homes, 50 businesses and 400-plus vehicles damaged or destroyed; 3,500 trees killed; some 30,000 customers without power.*

So I’ve finally experienced my tornado, up close and personal. I suppose that affords me certain bragging rights. The good fortune of having survived it is not lost on me, but I'm also disappointed that I never saw it. 

Maybe this tornado season I’ll get that chance (from a safe distance this time).
                                               ~       •      ~       •      ~      

* Storm data thanks to CBS News, WCCO and Minnesota Public Radio, and
   Hennepin County Emergency Management.

** I should write a post just about all the ways air acts like water. Suffice it 
to say for now that how water drains from a sink or bathtub, how it swirls—counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere—is exactly the way air acts during nearly all tornadoes. And yes, just like water, most tornadoes spin clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.

I BEG YOUR POLLEN – The Joyous Succession of Summer Flowers

The other day a friend and I were comparing notes on our daily walks. He won-
dered how I, as Mr. Wonder himself, manage to spot something new to photo-
graph and write about nearly every day. 

I explained that if, instead of simply waiting to be struck by wonder, one seeks and expects it—a notion I call SEEING GENEROUSLY—there’s always something new to see.

 Each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next.

PASSING THE BATON
One example, I explained, is the splendid sequence of flowers that bloom through-
out the summer here in Minnesota. No sooner does one species shed its blossoms—turning to the work of reproduction—than another’s unfurl. 

It’s like a bloomin’ relay race; each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next. Something's always flowering afresh, serving up something new to see, smell and carefully touch. 

First, the heralds of spring: Siberian squill and snowdrops. 



Then, in order:

• Crocus, hyacinth and daffodils.
• American tulips and Virginia bluebells

• Common lilacs, followed by late lilacs
• Bleeding hearts and lilies of the valley
• Peonies

• Irises
• Hydrangea
• Lilies and gladiolus
  
  

• Bee balm and coneflowers
• Asters and dahlias
• Chrysanthemums

Of course, this is just a sampling; there are so many other plants—including trees—that join the bloomin’ cavalcade. 

Catalpa flowers 

CYCLES OF LIFE
Besides just flowers, lots of things change during a Minnesota summer: Bird song, smells, the shades of green bedecking trees… Even people’s faces. So don’t let your walks get stale. Look for wonder, expect wonder, not just in all these plants and crit-
ters, but in change itself. 

And don’t let this, another of Nature’s countless lessons on life, be lost on you: 
We all bloom at different times too!

STRING OF PEARLS – The Sequence of My Perfectly Imperfect Days

DRAWING: Albrecht Dürer

Each night as I settle into bed, I say a prayer of gratitude for the day’s blessings. From the most profound gifts,
like peace, freedom and the health of my loved ones; to somewhat less vital ones, like a safe, warm, comfortable place to sleep; to such a trivial gift as the smell of the lotion I just rubbed on my hands. 

Lately, this prayer’s started to feel pretty repetitive; it’s been much the same script every night for like a year and 
a half. Life’s been so good during this stretch that I’m wondering if my gratitude’s become so humdrum as to lose its sincerity. I mean how pure can one’s appreciation be for things one’s seldom, if ever, had to do without?

I ask myself if, God forbid, my fortunes should turn south—I get sick, a friend dies…whatever—would I still be able to feel grateful despite the pain? That doesn't mean I'd deny the emotions. I'd acknowledge and process them, but I'd also cele-
brate how many, many nearly perfect days there have been.

   Hey, I remind myself, it’s still a string of pearls.

PHOTO: Pearly Luster

VARIED TREASURE
So, to hone my thanksgivings, take my blessings less for granted, I’ve been picturing each of my most fortunate days as a pearl. (I’ve amassed quite a string—by my rough calculation, about 25,000 of them since I was old enough to even think about gratitude. That’s an array of pearls the length of two-and-a-half football fields. Or, I suppose, if I made each pearl repre-
sent a year, I'd have it down to the length of a nice double-loop necklace.)

Of course, strung here and there throughout my life are a few outliers of, how shall I say it, varying luster. Some are misshapen; some are off-color or have obvious blemishes. A handful represent such heavy hurt or sorrow that they’ve broken and fallen off.

PHOTO: shutterstock

But hey, I remind myself, it’s still a string of pearls. 

It may be far from perfect, but the precious little orbs scooch together to fill in the gaps; I turn some so you can’t see the flaws. And I still have this unique, incredibly beautiful, perfectly imperfect treasure. The miracle’s not just the awesomeness in aggregate, but that of each individual pearl. A reminder of my need to take it—good or bad—one day at a time. 

PHOTO: Katie Carrin Jewelry

HOW ‘BOUT YOU?
Let’s make this a conversation. How do you consider the good days in your life? How have you managed to weather great hardship and still feel gratitude for your better days? 

            “Those who look for seashells will find seashells; 
              those who open them will find pearls.”
               AL-GHAZALI

COMMAND PERFORMANCE – Americans’ Willing Servitude To Cameras

Smile! 

Thus begins every child's career as an actor.

It wasn’t always this way. Look at portraits and group shots from the early days of photography. Folks look as I suppose they must have felt at the time: not scowling, but certainly not smiling.

        

So how did we get from that norm to today’s camera culture where kids, many of them now adults, feel that whenever they see a lens they must not simply smile, but start acting?

Is a child hamming it up for the camera really big deal? Not if it were just a few children on a few occasions. But the fact that it’s virtually every child on every occasion says something troubling about our culture.

DOUBLE EXPOSURE
One reason for those stiff, old sepia-tone poses was that, until the turn of the 20th century, the technology of photography required subjects to stand perfectly still for as long as a minute. With the development of inexpensive, hand-held cameras and faster-exposure film, taking pictures became ever less formal, more spontaneous.     

PHOTO: China Daily

Fast-forward to the turn of the 21st century. With 
the wide availability of digital photography, not 
only did exposure times become insignificant, but snapshots began to lose their preciousness. One could afford to take a hundred shots and throw away 
ninety-nine.

So, if a parent didn’t like their child’s expression opening a Christmas present in one shot, they could coach a better look of delight in the next.

  They strike the pose of someone they want others 
  to think they are.

OH-H-H THE BOREDOM!
Besides parents’ prompting, kids learn photo-emoting through simple observation. They see their family and friends hamming it up for selfies. They see it in movies and on TV, where deadpan is death. 

And then, of course, there’s social media, where the last thing kids want is for their friends to see them not being cool and having fun. So they strike the pose of someone they want others to think they are. 

PHOTO: iStockPhoto

Next time you watch any live—or taped-live—TV show (SNL and the so-called talk shows come to mind) watch what hosts and guests do while they’re being introduced. They’ve obviously learned that inaction induces boredom. And boredom is the media’s kiss of death. 

So they animate. A little dance, engaging hand gestures, mugging it up for the camera. Always moving; always an engaging expression.

THE WORD ESCAPES ME
The penchant for performance even shows up in our use of language. Used to be, when folks quoted someone, they’d use that person’s words. If those words were especially colorful they might have attached some colorful modifiers to describe how they said those words. 

Then in the late 70s and early 80s, with the advent of the “me decade” and the Valley Girl craze, the words “He/she said...” gave way to “He/she goes…” And instead of describing how a person said something, the adjectives gave way to...
you guessed it, acting. Tell gave way to show.

         

           How have we become not just the 
           entertained, but the entertainers?

ALWAYS ON
These days nearly wherever we go, indoors our out, we’re on camera. Someone’s always watching: the police, security guards, Google Street View vehicles, folks monitoring their Ring doorbell camera. I fear this omnipresent scrutiny is making us feel self-conscious nearly all the time. Obliged, even subconsciously, to be putting on a show.

If we’re not there quite yet, we soon will be. The point where we can’t tell any more whether Jimmy’s or Jill’s expression reflects genuine emotion or just their performance for the “reality” show we’re all starting to accept as everyday life. 
(By the way, “reality show” must surely go down in history as the oxymoron of 
our age.) 

Some folks will do just about anything to be on TV. Including, like most of their reality show favorites, making utter fools of themselves. Is this just light-hearted fun, or does it augur an age in which human beings blithely trade their every real, God-given faculty for stuff that’s artificial—yes, including artificial “intelligence.”

       Maybe…they feel better seeing others 
       who are even more pathetic than they are.

MIRROR IMAGE 
We’ve become so inured of performance in our own lives that many of us now expect it from others. Most notably, in the election, by a large minority of Ameri-
cans, of a U.S. president who has mastered absolutely nothing…but performance.

IMAGE: Busy Beaver Button Museum

This shallow, soulless little man has, more than any public figure in my lifetime, blurred the distinction between fame and qualifica-
tion, performance and lying. He’s famous only for his fame. How sad, when one might expect honesty to be a key asset for a political leader, that so many Americans have chosen performers for that role.

We know this problem has been building for decades, since now we have senior citizens (Trump is prime example) who have never lived a millisecond of reality in their lives. No looks, no brains, no talent, no humanity… It’s all an act. Trump, if nothing else, has validated his followers’ preference of show over substance.

This is the kind of audience that’s made the Real Housewives conglomerate a billion-plus-dollar enterprise. Maybe it’s that their own lives are so miserable and they feel better seeing others who are even more pathetic than they are. Folks whose job, it seems, is a celebration of ignorance, selfishness and vulgarity. 

PHOTO: Kathy Boos / Bravo

              I don’t think I’d relinquish control 
              of my body and soul.

SPORTS PROGRAMMING 
When I watch TV sports I always cringe when the cameras swing around for shots of fans. It’s as if someone flipped the “On” switch on a bunch of robots. Folks suddenly forget cheering on their team, stop mid-sentence chatting with their seat mates, and start performing.

PHOTO: Val Montanez / The Kansan

You know the moves: the aggressive bobbing of the head; the impassioned “Yeah!;” the “We’re-number-one!” finger; the jersey grab-and-shake. It all happens on cue, as if scripted by TV sports producers. If you don’t emote on demand, the producer won’t cut to that camera. And there goes your audition for the big time. 

And then there’s the Jumbotron. Your mug appears up there and you don’t perform, expect to be ridiculed by thousands of your fellow fans.

PHOTO: KickinItWithCarly / TikTok

Really? Shouldn’t folks be devoting every second in those $150 seats to enjoying the game and the com-
pany of those around them, instead of letting that ESPN camera flick the switch on their fake,”reality show” selves? 

I wonder what I’d do if, God forbid, that should happen to me. I’d like to think I’d not change my behavior at all. Okay, maybe I’d nod or offer a little wave, but I don’t think I’d simply relinquish control of my body and soul. Or would I?

Would you? We'd love to hear what you think; leave a comment.

LABOR OF LOVE – Celebrating My 600th Post

Have you heard about the new twelve-step program for the habitually long-winded? Yeah, On-And-On...Anon.

Well, sometimes it feels like that's what I've been doing here at One Man's Wonder these past few years. I hope I've been picking my battles and choosing my words well enough so you don't agree.

FROM DUTY TO DEVOTION
It seems like just yesterday that I first stuck my toe into this blogging ocean. My first post, So This Ant Walks Into a Bar, got one comment.

At that time, I was grateful just for the support of my family and a few of my closest friends who—despite their shyness about leaving comments—dutifully came to see what Jeff's new diversion was all about.

    Six hundred posts, some 1,700,000 page views and 78 countries later, 
    I'm feeling pretty encouraged. I think I'll stick with it!

And speaking of encouragement, that, besides the sheer joy I find in the writing, is really what's kept me going—from those requisite visits of loved ones, to the small leaps of faith made by my followers, to all the "lurkers" who tell me they follow me anonymously, to the cherished relationships I've formed with fellow bloggers, authors and other kindred spirits. This online community is amazingly generous and kind-spirited.

Thank you, everyone! I'll make you a deal: You keep checking in at One Man's Wonder, leave me a comment when the spirit moves you, and share your favorite posts with others; I redouble my efforts to keep posting reflections and inspiration worthy of your interest.  Deal?

HOME DELIVERANCE – Presence From Afar

"Conjure" is a fascinating verb. Usually, it means calling upon some kind of spirit 
to appear, as if by magic. But it can also have a far less occult meaning.

That’s the kind of conjuring I do when I pray for my loved ones. Now, just so I don’t lose you in a fog of abstraction, I'm okay if we just call it visualizing, im-
agining, calling to mind…whatever.  

THE POWER OF PRESENCE
I believe there’s immense power in one’s physical presence. It’s what drew me to become a hospice volunteer. I knew I couldn’t reverse anyone’s terminal diagnosis; I didn’t presume I could end anyone’s pain.

But I did believe I could simply sit with someone. Keep them company. Help them find meaning, or at least a degree of comfort, in their precious days. If they could still communicate, I knew I could listen. Even if they couldn’t, I could still relate by sharing my thoughts, empathiz-
ing, caring. Language wouldn’t be essential.

The power of presence isn’t just some airy, theoretical notion. There’s scientific proof that the company of a caring person promotes health, healing, and a sense of connection.*

 It feels like I’m delivering the intention in person.

TELEPRESENCE
It’s one thing to be fully present with someone who’s right next to you. Where you can see, hear and feel each other. But how does one bring that kind of immediacy to bear on someone who’s 1,200 miles away? That’s what I aim to do when I pray. 

The trick, if you want to call it that, is that I don’t simply ask God ** to be present with my loved ones; instead, I will myself—with God’s help—to be present with each of them in turn. (I believe God is happy to employ me as a deputy.) 

ILLUSTRATION: dreamstime

There’s nothing all that inscrutable about it. I simply imagine the person’s face, and let that image meld with other memory to evoke what it’s like being with them. Their demeanor, their attitude, the spirit they exude. 

Then, once that virtual connection’s established, I use it as a conduit to send them my love and best wishes. It feels way more direct than simply putting a wish out there to the Universe and hoping it finds its way to a loved one. This way, it feels like I’m delivering the intention in person.

       The good news is that it might just work.

LOST AND FOUND
After doing this for a while I wondered, if I can project my virtual presence to someone I know, why couldn’t I do so to a stranger? Thus began my spiritual reaching out to folks who need the power of human presence more than anyone: 
those lost in the woods or at sea, buried deep inside collapsed mines, or trapped under earthquake or bomb-strike rubble.

IMAGE: Soldier of Fortune

In this case, my intention, my prayer, is for that poor soul to actually feel not just the presence of whatever their higher power, but my presence. To know, without doubt, that, even in their hopelessness, there’s this one fellow human being who, despite the untold miles, is thinking of them at that very moment, wishing them well, encouraging them not to give up. 

If my “friends and family” conjuring raises a few eyebrows, I imagine this audacious version might seem quite over the top. The good news is that it might just work. The other good news is that I doubt anyone can prove that it doesn't.

PHOTO: 9News, Sydney

   
         Sometimes you have to believe it to see it.

LEAP OF FAITH  
Of course, as with any endeavor—especially one this intangible—faith is the linchpin. Sometimes, contrary to that old skeptic’s adage, you have to believe it to see it. ***

And I do believe it. You can too.

              “Your presence is a miracle.” ~ THICH NHAT HANH

* Psychology Today

** “God” is the term I use to identify my higher power. Yahweh, Jehovah, Creator, Allah, Great Spirit…any title will do. I believe they’re all names for the same thing.

*** The expression, “You have to believe it to see it,” is often attributed to former National Geographic photographer, DeWitt Jones.