6things3

I may be in my 60s but I’m a kid at heart. In 1971 the State University of New York at Cortland conferred upon me a Bachelor of Science Degree in Recreation Education. That’s right. I have a 4 year degree in play. I took courses like Board and Parlor Games and, Bait and Fly Casting. On the slightly more serious side there was a course entitled The Philosophy of Leisure. Among other texts we read, Homo Ludens (man the player). Johan Huzinger, the author, makes the argument that mankind is largely distinguished from other creatures by our capacity to create leisure and fill it with play. Big goals are a big challenge so they can feel like work. Therefore, it is important to have 6 Fun things to do be for you die.

Take a Hot Air Balloon Ride

Childhood excited the imagination with Around the World in 80 Days, and the final scenes of The Wizard of Oz. As an adult in Tucson Arizona we lived less than 5 miles from the lift off field for the annual Hot Air Balloon Festival. Can you believe balloons shaped like everything from Mr. Peanut, to the head of Christ! What wonder there is in watching The Dawn Patrol as the earliest balloons arise in the darkness like giant floating pastel light bulbs among the stars.

You might wonder why after all this time it’s still at the top of my list? There are two major reasons. The first I hope isn’t true for you. I couldn’t bring myself to spend the $100 per person on such a frivolous, relatively short lived experience. Writing this makes me put my life where my talk is. Long before this chapter goes into print I hope to edit this page and tell you I’ve been up in the air. The second reason may be harder to overcome. Like Jimmy Stuart in the Hitchcock classic movie, I suffer from a mild case of Vertigo. Actually, I like being up high. Planes don’t bother me. I once took a brief flight in a very small helicopter. It was the kind that looks like a giant bubble with a fan on top. I felt safe and secure in it. I like to “climb” mountains, as long as the trail isn’t too steep or too close to the edge. Maybe if the sides of the balloon basket are high I won’t get dizzy. Sometimes the Fun things on our list will challenge us beyond our proverbial “comfort zones.” Oh by the way, Brenda and I took our Balloon ride with safety and only a little vertigo.

Visit All 50 States with Brenda

As I write I am discovering many of the things on my to do list have been there for a long, long time. They were inspired in childhood. It was second grade, if memory serves me. With the help of Dick and Jane we were learning to read. The picture files in my brain can still call up that little family trailer, the cute little dog, and interesting stops from Maine to Florida. My first wife, Lily, and I visited many places in 29 years. Some of them are worth as second trip. I want to start over and see them all with Brenda, my new wife. We’ve already begun.
It was Cincinnati, of all places. We had a lay over on our way to a job interview in South Dakota. There in the hallway of the airport was the visual representation of the skeptics retort in a giant aluminum statue: When pigs can fly!

On Saturday morning I was in the hall so as not to disturb Brenda’s sleep while I made my weekly call to Mom. Looking out the window I nearly dropped the phone. “I just saw a dinosaur rabbit! I said in amazement. I swear it was 3 or 4 feet long with ears to match. Who knew Jack Rabbits got so big?

We also saw giant windmills, crossed over the Continental Divide and visited Devil’s Gulch, a site believed to have been an escape route for Jesse James.

The interview was as absurd as the airport statue. It didn’t fly. I didn’t take the job working on the Sioux Reservation. They hired a man from New York City by the name of Charlie Chan – really! However, the trip was an adventure for newly weds; an opportunity to visit places we had never been.

Brenda and I have taken other trips to nearby Arkansas, Branson Missouri and New York. That leaves about 45 to go. In ten years or so, as we near retirement we hope to have an RV and take some extended cross country trips. In the meanwhile, sometimes the things on our fun list come unexpectedly attached to less enjoyable ventures.

See the World

                                       Far Away Places

Words and Music by Joan Whitney and Alex Kramer © 1948

Far away places with strange sounding names
Far away over the sea
Those far away places with the strange-sounding names
Are callin’, callin’ me

Goin’ to China, or maybe Siam
I wanna see for myself
Those far away places I’ve been readin’ about
In a book that I took form the shelf

I start getting restless whenever I hear
The whistle of a train
I pray for the day I can get underway
And look for those castles in Spain

They call me a dreamer, well, maybe I am
But I know that I’m burnin’ to see
Those far way places with the strange-sounding names
Callin’, callin’ me.

This song hit the top ten in 1949, the year I was born. It was made popular by Bing Crosby and Perry Como. When we got our first TV one of my favorite weekly shows was the Kraft sponsored Perry Como variety hour. On the visor CD holder of my car are two discs with the old crooner’ s most popular hits. I can drive down the road listening to “Round and Round” or Catch a Falling Star.

One day back in 1983 I got a call from my friend The Rev. Canon Philip Weeks. “How would you like to go to the Holy Land?” he said.    “I’d love to, Philip. But I don’t see how I could afford to go.” I replied. “I’m taking your wife I thought you’d like to come along.” He made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. We could go two for the price of one if I assisted keeping track of the other tour members and their luggage. It seemed like “a trip of a life time.” For me, before the trip the Bible was full of meaningful stories that might have had some link to the real world in real history. After the trip, the Bible was the story of real people and places that had been written to give meaning to our lives. By happy coincidence we had a seminary professor for a tour guide. He helped us distinguish between traditional legendary sights and the few places where Jesus really did walk.
I’m also a fan of the Indiana Jones movies. (Can you tell from my hat!?). On this trip we also went to Petra. Some of you may recognize this picture from the move about searching for the Holy Grail. We got there on horse back, just like Indy.
I’d love to go back and just spend a long time in Galilee and not again do the 5 stops everyday whirlwind tour. Given the political turmoil in the area I am still waiting for an opportunity to return.

In 1991, the Triennial General Convention of the Episcopal Church was to meet in Phoenix. With only one Hispanic mission in the whole Diocese of Arizona, the Bishop was eager to expand this ministry before the rest of the country came wondering why we were doing so little to reach out to such a large segment of our population. Our mission church, The Chapel of the Resurrection had been planted many years before in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood in South Tucson. We had a couple of second generation Hispanic families and that was it. In January that year I boarded a plane and headed to Antigua, Guatemala, for a month long emersion course in Spanish.

It was the first and only time I have been out of the United States all by myself without an experienced tour guide to tell me where to go, or when, or how. As we landed on the one lone runway of the capital city airport I had second thoughts. The control tower was only a story and a half high. The ground crew awaited the plane with their fingers in their ears. “What have I gotten myself into?” As my bowels were turning to liquid I was glad I had already learned to say “Que es el banio?” Customs cleared me with no difficulty and I proceeded to get my luggage. All the passengers were herded into one small baggage claim area where a single conveyor belt slowly spit out the suitcases. Only passengers were allowed in this room. However, the balcony surrounding it was jammed full of awaiting friends and family members. The din of Spanish greetings filled my ears with unintelligible messages of welcome. I made sure my NAWAS travel name tag was prominently visible on my chest so that my promised limo driver would be able to find me. I imagined at some point to see him in uniform holding a sign saying “SCHMITT”.

Feeling out of place, alone, and vulnerable I noticed two shady looking characters looking my way. I hoped I would be picked up soon and not fall prey to some gang of kidnapping anti-gringo rebels. The doors to the outside bulged in and out. I could see a mob of taxi drivers and wondered how I’d get by them to find my limo. A man in uniform tried to take my suitcase. I wrestled it away from him. That is until he finally made me understand he was another layer of the customs security process. He needed to search my luggage. I zipped my suitcase closed once again, mustered my courage and passed through the doors to the crowded streets. Short people from everywhere pressed against me. Then to my dismay the men from the balcony stepped in front of my face and said in broken English. “NAWAS travel, we were sent to get you!” Before I could do anything else my luggage was in the back of a tiny Japanese pick up truck with the smaller man. I was squeezed into the front seat with the big guy.

An hour later they deposited me in my home for the next month. It was the country residence of a member of the Guatemalan Supreme Court. I was the only current guest and had a cook and gardener at my disposal. Because of these fine accommodations Alan, my private tutor, was able to teach me here in the courtyard instead of in the cramped class room of the Esquela. The month went by quickly with many other adventures, including a weekend trip to Ruinas, Copan in Honduras to visit Aztec ruins. I discovered that American school buses never die. They move to Central America to become the main choice for inexpensive public transportation. I slept in the shadow of a volcano that puffed smoke on a regular basis. The vivid colors of native clothes and vegetables in the Mercado entranced me. I hoped that one or more pictures from roll after roll of film used might result in one or two worthy of National Geographic. On my last night I shared a service of Holy Communion with my host and tutor.

Some years later with the blessing of a three month sabbatical leave I traveled once more with Philip Weeks. This time I went for a month long mission trip to the Philippines. Who knew it is possible to travel 25 hours and get home an hour before you left. We sampled all kinds of new food, including dog. There were four of us on this trip. Philip and Hugh were veteran partners in ministry to the Philippines. Frank and I were the green recruits. For about half the trip we divided into two teams. In his wisdom, Phillip sent Frank and I off together for a week. We stayed with the pastor of a Philippine Independent Church, and his family. Third world people are very generous with their hospitality. The pastor’s daughter gave up her bedroom for us. The family let us use the household fan. I’m a big guy and Frank is about the same size. It was quite the adventure for the two of us to find a way to sleep on that single metal camp cot of a bed.

It may seem like these experiences might dull ones appetite for foreign travel. They did just the opposite. They piqued my curiosity and sense of adventure. Lily and I took cruises to Cotzumel, Mexico and Bermuda. One summer we spent two weeks on Turtle Cay, Bahamas. We stayed in the parsonage in exchange for leading Sunday worship for the island’s Anglican congregation.   Roughing it can be exciting in its own way. “Going in style” is certainly a delight when you can afford it. Either way, travel to “far away places with strange sounding names” is still calling me. Last summer I took Brenda across the border to see the Canadian side of Niagara Fall. Also, for some more future travel, she wants to go to Fiji or other South Sea island. We both are attracted to the idea of an Australian trip. Some night another phone call may lead us to some other place we haven’t yet considered.

Sometimes the fun things we desire to experience stretch us in ways we can’t imagine ahead of time. Often they help us understand how other people find meaning in their lives.

Dance Often

“Work like you don’t need the money. Dance like nobody’s watching.” Mark Twain

My friends and I were all in 7th grade. Our parents sent us to the local Grange Hall once a week for Arthur Murray dance lessons. We learned all the basic ball room steps: the Waltz, Foxtrot, and Cha Cha. One of my favorites was the Polka. I loved to swirl my partner round and round lifting her completely off the floor. For the last few minutes of class we were allowed to practice something more contemporary to hits like, Rock Around the Clock, and The Twist.

Dancing wasn’t much fun in high school. In those days everyone did their own thing. You had a partner but there were no set steps and you only touched for the slow dances that were more about groping than moving in time to the music.

Once in college dancing was more fun. One of the required classes for Recreation majors was folk dancing. This was more like it. Although, there haven’t been any opportunities to do the Virginia Reel or an Irish Jig since. My second job after college was teaching children with learning disabilities. My supervisor, Kip Waugh, was a local man from the rural town of New Braintree. Upon discovering my singing ability, Kip recruited me to be a caller for the community Eastern Square Dance group. In Western Square Dancing the participants must pay careful attention to get their every move from the caller. He must be very knowledgeable of all the possible moves and create the dance more or less extemporaneously. However, Eastern Square-dance has set patterns for each dance. All I had to do was substitute the calling directions to well known Yankee folk tunes like, Bell Bottom Trousers, and Marching Through Georgia. Now and then there would be a break in the square dancing. The band would play without me and I’d grab a partner for a fast Polka.

Moving forward a decade, Lily and I took dance lessons twice. In the 70s we mastered Disco and The Hustle. In the late 80s we spent six months relearning ballroom steps at the Fred Astaire studio in Tucson. However, as Lily’s muscular dystrophy progressed she became less steady on her feet and our dancing days declined to an occasional wedding reception waltz. December 31st, 2004 Lily promenaded across to the next life.

However, life goes on. Following Lily’s death I was blessed with a new partner. Brenda was a close companion to both Lily and me during her last three years. Our relationship has blossomed into a wonderful marriage. At the same time through a series of coincidences and cooperative problem solving Sandy Tamplin moved her dance studio into the Parish Hall of our church. Brenda and I have taken advantage of this convenient opportunity and are learning many new steps together. Including several that I had not known: West Coast Swing and Nightclub Two Step for example. There are some wonderful people who participate regularly and we enjoy the classes, practice dances, and parties very much. Sometimes just when you think your fun is done new possibilities arrive.

Get My Own Sailboat

The Boy Scouts taught me to sail Sailfish. It’s not much more than an oversized surfboard with a mast and a single sail. But for a teenage boy on a small lake with a strong wind and an hour to race it was a thrill. One of the guys at the waterfront regularly raced his Snipe. He taught the rest of us the ins and outs of traversing a triangular racing course. We had timed starts, a three buoy course, and season end bragging rights to the two man team with the best record.

It’s hard to explain the thrill of harnessing the wind. You can make it propel you along with a white wake foaming behind and no gasoline needed. You can race across the water with the force of the wind on the sail resisted by the force of the water against the keel. The result is like a watermelon seed spit at high velocity from the lips of God. It is possible to make headway into the wind by tacking relentlessly back and forth across the edge of the blast. Then you can be rewarded with a push from behind and coast your way back to home dock.

George Koch shares my love of sailing and he had a boat, the Kohkob. It was an Olypmpic Star class racing boat with a 4 foot heavy keel. The boat was vintage 1950 something and needed a lot of work. George enlisted me to crew and I helped with the restoration of this wooden relic. Boats certainly can live up to their reputation as “holes in the water in which you pour money.” George and I were both pastors in the small New England towns of Webster/Dudley Massachusetts. He is Lutheran. I’m an Episcopalian. The local body of water is Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. The traditional translation for the impossible name is: You fish on your side, I’ll fish on mine, no one fish in the middle. Webster Lake, as the locals more easily called it, was divided into three parts none of which was more than 12 feet deep. Much of it was less than the four foot draft of The Kohkob. George and I would be racing along when all of a sudden the craft would lurch to a stop. One of us usually fell overboard, which made it easy to know whose turn it was to push us free.

Steve lived nearer to the lake. He had a more modern boat: a Buccaneer. This boat is another two person racer. Steve let me crew for him. It was lots of fun even though we came in last place after the sheet (the rope attached to the sail that lets it in and out) broke and I fell out backwards. The club gave us a homemade trophy with a toy sailboat and two plastic men swimming nearby. It was “the last place good sportsman award.”

I hadn’t been sailing in close to twenty years when I had the opportunity to rent a Sunfish for a week. It’s a slightly larger version of the Sailfish. We were at Camp of the Woods, New York, with my brother in law Art and family. Each of the nieces and nephews enjoyed a ride. I went out once or twice everyday.

The title of this Big thing began as Go Sailing Once A Year. As you can see it has changed. I really want my own boat so I can go sailing whenever I am able. Sometimes when we consider the things we really like our priorities change. The picture on the left is my O’Day Day Sailer being brought home recently. I am currently waiting for the paperwork so I can get her registered. I have named her Anamnesis. It’s a Greek word we use the communion translated a “remembrance”. It means “to make real in the present a past and future reality.” In this case, for me, it means “timeless fun” or “fun beyond or, outside of, time.”

Have My Own Archery Range

“You are a gorilla,” said the man behind the counter, as I gave him my name. He reached back and retrieved a box with a dozen 32 ½ inch fiberglass arrows with target tips. The average draw length for arrows is 28 inches. If you look closely at a bow there is a label that gives its strength in pounds for a certain length of bend. For example, 40/28, is 40 lbs when pulled back 28 inches. God blessed me with a much larger wing span. I wear a 36 inch sleeve. Thus my first grown up bow took exponentially more strength to pull than the 45/28 on the label.

It’s hard to remember now which came first. I think it was the reading: The Adventures of Robin Hood. It might have been the movie. Even on a small early black and white TV, Earl Flynn makes a dashing Robin Hood. It might have been the TV series. You can still watch these early shows on the WWW. Whatever came first, the allure of romantic adventure from the days of Sherwood Forest captivated my imagination. That’s probably in my genes too. Mom is from England. I feel sure my parents must have given me a toy bow and arrow. However, my first real memory of shooting at a real target is another Boy Scout event. My Archery Merit Badge was earned one summer at Camp Gorton. Later, while earning my 4 year degree in play Archery I and II were among the first activity courses on my class list. It was then I purchased my own recurve bow and 32 ½ inch arrows.

It’s been many years since I last used that bow. I don’t now recall whatever became of it. However, Brenda and I recently purchased a bow we can both use along with two sets of arrows. Thank God they make them a lot longer these days. I can now draw the string back to the full extent of my reach. Part of our 30 year landscaping plan is to set up our own Archery Range in the back yard

Archery is like a number of other sports. It requires concentration. The smallest change in your body or technique can translate into a huge variation in the flight of an arrow. It can be a metaphor for much more spiritual reflection and meditation. There is a Classic book, Zen and the Art of Archery. The concept of Sin in our Christian tradition comes from the archery field. The Greek word translated into English as “sin” means “to miss the mark” or target. We aim to do what is right but often we miss. It takes a change in our behavior to get back on target. I imagine the same is true of Golf, Darts, or target practice on a pistol range. Some of the fun things we do in life help us unconsciously reflect upon the more serious and spiritual side.