Can't can't do anything!

Just saying, “I can't” gives you a 90% chance of failing.  Turning that “I can't” into an “I'll try” decreases your chance of failing by 50%.  These are really just numbers I pulled out of my wazoo, but you get the point.  

People have a tendency of looking at the entire feat and letting it overwhelm them, myself included.  Never was there a more daunting day than when I looked up at the mighty Mt. Krn of the Julian Alps and thought about hiking my way to the top of 7632 feet!  How would I ever get myself to up there? I was not exactly in primo shape like most of my hiking group members, which was composed of an Iron Man competitor, Antarctica explorer, Mt. Kilimanjaro hiker and many other places in the world that I have trouble locating on a map.  Obviously Slovenia was the hiking trip you take when you have already checked off all those other places, but I like to think that Slovenia is the new Austria ;-)

The group started out and I was forced to just fall in line with the others because there was no alternative to climbing to the top.  We had hiked several hours the day before and slept in a mountain hut where I didn’t see any buses leaving for those that wanted to wimp out.  The comfortable mountain hut had several bunkrooms, bathrooms, many supplies and food so I doubt they were hiking or air lifting things in, but still I was not given the option of hopping a ride down the mountain.  A fun alternative would have been a giant escape slide taking me over the rocks, through the pastures, past the cows and back to Kobarid for a few more pints of Laško on a sunny patio…ahhh!  But, off I went with the rest of the group taking it one step at a time.   

There were points of the hike where it was not as steep and I was able to walk up the path enjoying the beautiful scenery around me as I made progress.  Not only did I enjoy the mountain flowers, but also the cannons and barracks left behind by the Italians from World War I.  Must have skipped the chapter where WWI was fought in the Julian Alps, but the town of Kobarid was very proud of their history and eager to tell us about how The Alps played a major role in the war.  Rounding the bend to find these war leftovers made me think about troops carrying these things up while hiking and picturing a part of a cannon strapped to my backpack that was already filled with water reservoir, powdered Gatorade, snack bars, trail mix, sleep sack, towel, bag of dirty undies, socks, shower gel, facial wipes, deodorant, phone and passport, made me realize that these guys may have had it a lot tougher than me and I was going to have to press on! 

My hiking pals and I have found it a good idea to sing while hiking to keep the bears away, but this time it was to fill my mind with song to keep the “I can’ts” out of there.  And what does one sing while hiking in The Alps you might ask, why songs from the Sound of Music, of course! All the usual “Do Re Mi” and “I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen” songs rolled through my head quickly and then I spent a good hour or more trying to remember all the words to "The Lonely Goatherd" from the puppet show scene.  I could get the chorus, but somehow I couldn't connect the "Men drinking beer in a pub remote heard ladee odle ladee odle lay oo oo.” part to the rest of the song so I continued to noodle on it while I progressed.

The hike was no Julie Andrews spinning on the grassy hill hike like I had envisioned.  In fact, the grassy meadows were gone early on and then I was left with rough trails, which turned into rocks, rocks and more rocks.  I may have grumbled that I felt like I was hiking in Afghanistan, but for those of you that gaze at the beautiful snowcapped Alps, I’m here to tell you not all of them have snow on top; those are white rocks!  But since I didn't see a sign of an escape route for those who really don't think they can make it up the rock pile, I had to press on.  Of course there could have been a sign, but it would have been in Slovene which sometimes lacks vowels and is not the kind of language you can easily guess the words.  Perhaps learning zasilni izhod (Slovene for emergency exit) ahead of time would have been helpful. 

Step-by-step, song-by-song I made my way up and perfected the use of hiking poles, which are not just for show and eventually I summited Mt. Krn!  As it turns out my two friends and I beat the rest our over-achieving group, who in the fog, had missed the path up there and were resting in a nearby mountain hut.  This really was just a hut to get in out of the elements with no supplies so I don’t think there was an easier way up there.  I made it.  Yes! And from that day forward realized I can do so much more than I think I CAN! 

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice.

As we draw nearer to Father’s Day this Sunday I have been thinking about my dad and want to share a few of his isms this week so here is the first:

It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice. 

This was something Dad said about a hundred times when I was growing up and I practice it often no matter what stage of life I seem to be in.  The importance of showing someone respect and treating them as you would like to be treated sometimes feels like a lost art form, but it’s worth bringing back.  I’ve spent quite a few years in the corporate world being exposed to many types of management styles and I have always found that what works for me is when someone is nice I will work harder for them and when they flex their attitude I get ticked off and spend more energy stewing than doing.  It doesn’t take a lot of effort to listen to people and show them a little respect or smile at someone you pass on the sidewalk.  Try loosening up those smile muscles and have a nice day J

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

What's the rush?

We are a nation obsessed with always moving as fast as we can and beeping at those who are not moving fast enough to get out of our way!  Anyone in front of us is a moron and anyone who passes is a maniac.  We use drive thru windows to get our coffee, donuts, burgers, pizza, ice cream, money, dry cleaning, library books, prescriptions, mail letters and even get married!  Why are we in such a hurry? We rush around all day so we can get home, sit on the couch and watch mindless reality shows about people who, for the most part, are not doing anything more exciting than we are, they’re just doing it in better clothes/cars/homes while using more colorful language.  Or we watch a crime show with beautiful investigators that can crack any case in less than 42 minutes and get the suspect to confess.

I’ve had the opportunity to take the past few months to slow down, enjoy my surroundings and get to know my neighborhood a little better.  Every afternoon when the kids get out of school I see them ride home on their bikes or walk with their friends and then there is the little boy about 9 years old at the end of the street who is usually by himself.  The school bus drops the kids off at the corner and it probably takes this boy 10 minutes to walk to his house, which is less than a block away.  Some days he reads while he walks home, weaving back and forth over the tree lawn, sidewalk and front lawns.  I’ve seen him stop to check out a bug or anthill, follow a butterfly or watch a squirrel and he always seems to be happy with whatever he is doing.  Yesterday was a special treat as I watched him carefully carry his dimensional Titanic replica fashioned out of construction paper down the street while avoiding wind gusts.  This kid seems to get it though; he seems to know that life is about exploring what’s out there, taking it all in and enjoying the moment.

This summer I pledge to take more walks just to get fresh air and look at the lake, more bike rides through the park to see the birds and flowers, and more time on the porch reading books or hanging with my friends.  I want to capture just a little more out of life and savor the summer before I’m back cursing the morons and the maniacs who don’t know how to signal.

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

The Family Garden

I come from a long line of gardeners, dating back to my ancestors who crossed the Atlantic to find new hope when a potato famine hit their homeland.  They came over as hardworking farmers who ate what they harvested, shared with those who had less and never wasted or wanted for more.

My own family, though not farmers, had a garden in our backyard.  Every spring my dad would put down his briefcase and play gardener for a few months growing corn, green beans, tomatoes, green peppers and the occasional squash, while Mom would serve fresh, can or freeze all of the bounty for future suppers.  This little garden paradise was situated in the back corner of our two-acre yard beside the long row of pines and in front of the neighbor’s lush pasture with peaceful cows that would occasionally looked up from their endless munching and to give a moo which is cow talk for, “Hey.”  Thinking back it was a beautiful country scene that made Dad so proud, but I hated it. 

I hated every moment I had to spend in that garden with jungle-like plants grabbing at my ankles, large flying bugs so peculiar that I was sure were yet to be discovered by entomologists, and disgusting things that would spy at me with their tentacles flicking and then jump at me as if to say, “None shall pass!”  I would moan and groan every summer morning when Mom would tell my brothers and I to get down to that garden and pull weeds.  Of course none of us would spring out of bed and head for that godforsaken annoyance, so by the time we made it there the sun was beating on our backs and the bugs were hungry for our flesh.  Mom, being the wise negotiator, would dangle the reward of going swimming if we had our work done by noon and if the temperature was above 80 degrees.  Eighty degrees was the threshold for Mom to pack up the car and head to the lake, so many summer mornings I would stand by the old thermometer at the back door and wait for the mercury to rise above 80. 

After swimming we would return home and Mom would get things started in the kitchen which meant there were beans to snap and corn to husk, but at least that could be done sitting in the shade with our old beagle, Barney, stretched out beside me.  It wasn’t until I visited my cousins in North Carolina that I learned it was shuckin’ corn.  Their chores were much the same, but they had a bigger garden which included potatoes and let me tell you there is nothing worse than putting your finger into a rotten potato as that is a smell that lingers for hours no matter how much soap you use!

Supper would finish up and then I would take scraps to the cows, which was secretly my favorite chore.  I would fill a grocery bag of husks and corncobs and walk down the backyard toward the fence yelling, “Here cows!”  People say that cows are dumb animals because of the way they look at you all clueless, step in their own poo and can be tipped over while standing, but even an eight-year-old girl can train cows!  I would dig into the brown paper and pull out such treats for these cows, tired of their clover and alfalfa diets, and yell, “Here cows!” while I dumped it into the pasture seeing them come on a dead run.  Like watching a fat kid sprint after an ice cream truck, oh that determined look on their faces with their big bellies swinging side-to-side.  They would reach the pile of goodies and even let me feed them by hand as their long, slimy tongues licked my fingers while they retrieved a delectable cob that someone had already chewed off all the delicious kernels.  They would chomp in delight look at me with one eye donned in lovely long lashes and I would scratch the bridge of their nose as their tales swished and swatted at the occasional fly on their back.  Oh how this kid with a vast imagination loved chatting with those cows and naming them even though some didn’t appear the next year.  “Mom, I can’t find Bessie this year.”  “Be quiet and finish your hamburger, dear.”

Years later when the neighbors no longer had cows, my brothers left home and I went off to college, my parents decided to plant grass.  Yes, grass.  They purchased their fresh produce from nearby farm markets because they realized Edgar’s corn was just as good as their own.  So what does that signify to me?  There is nothing cheaper than child labor and no better discipline/torture a kid can experience to take the place of working in the family garden.

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

Easter Surprise

It was Easter morning when I made my pilgrimage back to the church where I grew up.  Arriving a smidge late, I managed to sneak in while hymnals were held high and voices bellowed spirited “alleluias.”  I slid into the spot next to Grandma who greeted me with a smile and gave me a squeeze with her soft, 93-year-old hands producing the warmth of a hug. 

The service was cruising right along as I settled into my Sunday morning reverie logging the Easter usual’s:  children’s sermon preaching Jesus over bunny with candy (check), white hairs all wearing vibrant Easter egg colors (check), story of the ladies finding the uncovered tomb and learning of the resurrection (check).  I then drift deep in thought about what it means to anoint a corpse knowing how ill at ease I am around dead things.  First flashback – finding my angel fish floating in its tank with a nearby Bud Light can and a college roommate swearing, “No one even went near the tank at the party.”  Second flashback – finding a dead bird in my backyard and the difficulty I had touching it with the shovel when I squeamishly tried to flip it into the garbage can.  Let’s face it, if I had been sent to a tomb and found it empty there would have been “alleluias” coming from me since I wouldn’t have to prepare a corpse that had been sitting in a cave for a few days! 

My careful considerations were interrupted by the minister when I heard, “There is wine on the inner ring and grape juice on the outer ring of the communion tray.”  Wine? What? We had always been a church of Welch’s.  When did wine hit the menu? I sat at attention as the tray made its way, snaking through the rows.  As it came closer I could see there were still glasses left in the inner ring!  I already smelled the bouquet of pinot noir wafting through the air as it reached my row.  The elderly lady next to me carefully selected her glass from the inner ring and gave a sly smile as she delivered the tray to my hands.  I selected from the inner ring as well and passed the precious cargo on to Grandma whose curled fingers reached for the inner ring just as my mother grabbed the tray.  Grandma then pulled her hand back and selected a glass of juice from the outer ring.  Her opportunity to grab a little booze before heading back to the home was dashed by my mother and her quick reflexes.

I sat clasping the small plastic vial of goodness and waited as the tray continued on throughout the rows.   Soon all vials had all been distributed and I heard the words, “Take and drink.” I sipped slowly to breath in the aroma and savor the flavor of the earthy, red berry when suddenly my brain caught up with my senses and I realized my dream of a lovely pinot had been dashed by a very real 2-Buck Chuck experience.  I’m guessing a wine list was not provided at the Last Supper so I take and drink and sit there quietly.  I later think about how the church fulfilled my dream of having real wine at a service without having to drink out of a chalice shared by an entire congregation.  I also think about how next year I will arrive earlier to set up a block to allow Grandma the opportunity to sip a little vino so her cheeks can flush to match her blazer.  Happy Easter!

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

OH-IO

Just another sunny day in Cleveland and I can’t help thinking there is an extra spring in my step after watching the Ohio State Buckeyes serve up an exciting win over #1 seed Syracuse (sorry to my Orange friends, but if it’s any consolation you were selected by E! News as having one of the best uniforms due to using a very trendy spring color, tangerine).  After mourning the loss of my bracket that exploded into tiny bits with the fall of the Tarheels (pairing another spring favorite color, baby blue, with a classic argyle detail), I quickly rebounded when I realized I could now cheer for an Ohio team on their way to win a championship.  

For years I have fought the battle with many crazed fans donned in scarlet and gray and supporting a neck full of poisonous nuts on a string that Ohio State is simply a large university within the Ohio borders and is not the official team of Ohio.  However, I admit today I am tempted to purchase the very cool OH-IO scarlet T-shirt worn by Jared Sullinger during an interview with CBS yesterday.  Why the sudden change of heart?  I pondered this awhile before I realized it’s not just because this is an exciting team to watch with Aaron Craft’s spunk and determination, but also it’s because I’m usually not in a position to cheer for any of my teams post season.  You see, I’ve always been and always will be a Cavs, Indians and Browns fan and while they have had post-season thrills in my lifetime, those are now distant memories.  The Cavs are finishing up another so-so season where young Kyrie Irving has been forced to lead a team of inconsistent players with big contracts and little drive.  We are getting ready for another exciting season of Indians baseball which one month in will no doubt be considered another “rebuilding year”.  And when I’m tired of lack luster games at Progressive Field, I will dream of late summer Sundays in Cleveland Browns Stadium where I will count the minutes to the first mention of a quarterback controversy.  

So now I get it.  It’s tough to be a fan in this city that I love, but if you find a team that gives you something to cheer about you reach out with both hands and grab that sacred Buckeye necklace, thrust it high in the air and yell, “O-H!”  Hang on Sloopy, because this could be a wild ride.

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

Timing is Everything

The bus came to a careful stop in the town center of Macroom, County Cork, Ireland one sunny afternoon in late August.  Frank, who served as bus driver and tour guide, quickly alerted us there was a problem with “the old horse” and that he had placed a call in to the tour company to send a new bus, but it would take an hour or so for them to reach us.  He apologized over and over for the unexpected stop as we exited the bus and started off to explore this quaint little town.  

The first stop directly ahead of the bus was Macroom Castle which was built in 12th century by the O’Flynn family and later given to Admiral Sir William Penn.  The admiral’s son William lived there awhile before moving to America and founding the state of Pennsylvania.  I guess if you’re going to leave the good life behind exploring and founding a new state is pretty cool.

Splitting off from the pack I decided to explore the town on my own, peeking into store windows and just getting a vibe for the area.  I spotted the Guinness sign with familiar toucan and “Lovely day for a Guinness” tag which I paused to admire and photograph.  Apparently it was a lovely day for a Guinness for when I walked a little further I bumped into one of my bus mates who informed me that everyone was over at Dan Buckley’s Bar across the street.  We made our way to the pub in time for the first round of pints, a few orders of chips with brown sauce and delightful conversation between people that for the most part had been complete strangers a few days earlier.  

After a few pints and discovering I really like Smithwicks, our fearless leader Frank reappeared to let us know “a new horse” was awaiting us and he again apologized for this great inconvenience.  I later told Frank that it was no trouble and we all enjoyed our unexpected stop in Macroom as the difference between leaving us along the side of a road and leaving us in a town with a good pub made all the difference in the world.  Our breakdown meant we got to explore a new town (OK, we really only explored the pub) and discover some things about each other.

My first full day of being released from corporate cubicle confinement was the start of March Madness which meant instead of wondering what to do with my time at home I was able to log a few (or close to 8) hours on a barstool with my brackets in hand.  This unexpected stop in my life’s adventure has proven to be a good time to explore, spend a little extra time in pubs meeting new people and discovering some things about myself.  This stop may turn out to be another good memory.  So as the Irish say with their Guinness saluting the heavens, Sláinte!

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced. 

For more information about the lovely town of Macroom visit www.macroom.ie