How about because it’s 5pm on a Sunday night and you’ve got work tomorrow?

Boo inner voice, BOO! Who asked you?

This morning I was pushing that 40 minutes to 140. I was miles from home on my trusty Corsa. I was rolling slowly around a tight corner bending to the right, up to an intersection looking to turn left. I had a clear view of cars approaching from the left, as they’d be essentially in front of me coming around the curve. I wasn’t expecting a car from the right (It was still early in the morning and I didn’t hear anything coming) but I still made the awkward look back over my shoulder as I cleared the corner.

It turns out there was a car coming but I was going slow so it was easy to stop.

What wasn’t so easy was getting my foot out of my pedal when I was already unbalanced, with the wheel turned, and looking awkwardly over my shoulder.

The world slowed down.

I calmly came to a realization: “You’re gonna fall, John. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Just own it.” There was no danger of being hit by the car – just the pavement. Just inside the intersection my bike came to a stop. I didn’t struggle. My bike just slowly tipped over on its side and I rode it down – not much different from how I’d ridden it for the last hour and a half. Riding a recumbent puts you lower to the ground so I didn’t have that far to fall, but even from a few feet it hurts to break your fall with your hip and shoulder on asphalt.

I looked up from the ground, probably grimacing a bit from the impact that was destined to leave a mark. The car was stopped twenty feet or so back. Neither of us was moving. I saw that both of us were grimacing but only one of us was conveying amusement.

I got out of my pedals, out from under my bike, and off the ground as gracefully as I could re: not gracefully at all and gave the driver the universal, “I’m ok” sign, thinking “I am ok, right?”

Other than a wicked bruise on my ass and a lingering bruise to my ego, I think I am.

And so ends my accident free streak.

The hypochondria in me says this has something to do with a diagnosis my doctor shared with me this month: Peripheral Neuropathy. For the moment it’s idiopathic. I say that because it is… I like to say it (the word)… and I rarely get to. The general anxiety disorder in me says it’s the years prematurely turning my mind to mush.

Roughly twelve years ago we moved. My job changed pretty significantly, involving A LOT more writing. You’d think with all the practice my fingers would get better on the keys but I think it’s been the opposite. I’ve dabbled with typing tutor programs (on my trusty Mac), taking a cue from one of Cheryl’s old teachers who used to say, “Practice doesn’t make perfect, perfect practice makes perfect.”

Maybe associating writing with work – exclusively – makes it more of a hasty chore and it therefore suffers. In the last twelve years I slowly stopped writing for pleasure, or if not pleasure (exactly) at least not for anything other than work.

Maybe that needs to change.

I thought about getting up close to the fence and shooting through it. Then I figured the fence added more than it obscured.

Everyone loves a stairs to nowhere picture.

Graham Hall with improved airflow.

Ventilated Graham Hall – closer.

The place a friend lived as a first year student, now not long for this world.

I am cursed to walk this world filled with sentimentality, seeing meaning in places and things which are not self-evident, and I find near impossible to explain or describe. I’m the person in the car who points places out to my kids, “… and that’s where…” with utter futility. Nothing I could say if given 30 minutes would get across my personal context with a place – let alone the 3 seconds we have in passing.

I find it difficult to speak in groups of people – not just because of social anxiety – but also because I don’t know where to start or end and so do neither.

It makes one wonder why I said anything here, now.

So here’s a few pictures which make me sad.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Love you. Miss you.

Joseph Paul Bouvier of Gainesville (FL), formerly of Dunedin, Merrimack (NH), and Biddeford (ME), passed away on December 23rd. He was 86 years old.

Prior to joining the Army as a young adult – and continuing to this day, family from his youth knew him as Paul Joseph Bouvier… or simply Paul. Friends knew him as Butch. Seeking to escape a nickname and citing a fortuitous mistake on his birth certificate, he went by Joe as an adult. His son-in-law liked to kid him about his multiple personalities. But regardless of the name that came to mind when you saw his face, most knew him as a pretty great guy.

He was the son of Joseph Urbain Bouvier and Bella Tanguay, and the fourth of five children. He grew up playing sports – dabbling in many and excelling in boxing. He grew up to drive tanks for the Army, machine parts for General Electric, and run restaurants for others… then for himself.

Although chronic disease took these things from him at an early age, he did not slow down as much as others might. As his daughter grew into the responsibility of looking out for herself, he volunteered his time visiting with people shut-in at area nursing homes. He served as a Eucharistic Minister for the Catholic Church, bringing Communion to those who could not make it to Mass themselves. He volunteered his time with the Knights of Columbus, encouraging a closer relationship with the local church community, and rising to the rank of Grand Knight. Through it all he carried a smile on his face and a touch of Maine in his voice that could be either disarming or a warning, depending on what the situation called for.

He follows his parents, his brothers Ralph and Henry, his oldest sister Emeline Moreau, and two infant children Joseph and John in death. He leaves behind his wife Annette, his daughter Cheryl Kauffman (John), his sister Irene Bouvier, his sister-in law Maria Bouvier, his two grandchildren Beth and Adam Kauffman, as well as many nephews, nieces, and cousins.

Services will be held in Gainesville (FL) and Dunedin (FL) on dates to be determined.

Kathryn Kauffman of Gainesville, formerly of Dunedin (FL), Billerica, and Lynn (MA), died on November 13th. She follows her husband of more than 50 years, James, who passed in 2021. Among those who remain behind to morn her loss: her son John, her daughters Christine and Lisa, as well as four grandchildren. She was 82 years old. 

Born Kathryn Conner, she was the child of Wendell and Elizabeth (Knights) Conner. She descends from families with long histories in New England, including passengers on the Mayflower.

She enjoyed visiting her grandparents in Vermont as a child. She enjoyed the beach and met her future husband on the North Shore of Massachusetts. She loved animals and especially her cats. She loved some even when it was not clear they loved her back. She had a knack for closing her eyes the moment anyone was taking a picture.

She moved with her young family to Florida in 1979.

She was a lifelong homemaker and mother, raising three happy children. After finishing with her own, she watched her oldest grandchild during the day until worsening health took its toll.  Although she could seem to many like a quiet person, she never stopped surprising people with her sharp wit.

Her health problems took over her life much too early, from the turn of the century until she passed.  While this long, final phase of her life was a constant struggle, her children will endeavor to remember her as the woman who could still smile and laugh. They will remember she had the strength to successfully raise a family.  Through it all, her children never doubted that she loved them.

A private memorial service will be held in the near future.

An early sign his mind was going – and he was fully aware of it – was an afternoon spent at his condo in Gainesville, maybe four years ago. He gave me a copy of his 1Password vault and more importantly, the master password to open it. There was a time he wouldn’t tell me how much he made for a living (re: my whole life) and now he was giving me the keys to… everything.

Ever his son, his last Mac sits running in the corner of my living room even today. I’m afraid of throwing it away without going through everything first… despite having multiple/full backups… in multiple locations (because that’s the way I roll).

Now, if you think there are a lot of things to go through when you’re cleaning out a house filled with a lifetime of memories, think about all the stuff that would accumulate on an engineer’s computer – one who didn’t throw away anything – and carried forward all the data from the last computer when he got a new one.

By the way, if anyone needs a license/registration number for a version of Quicken that’ll run on MacOS 9 (or earlier), let me know and I’ll hook you up.

So I was browsing a collection of encrypted financial records (and finding a more permanent place to keep ‘em), when I came across a seemingly lost text file with the name: “Three Types.” What follows is the full text from this file:

There are only three types of people in the universe:

Those that can count,
And those that can’t.

I love you Dad. I miss you.

James Kauffman, formerly of Dunedin (FL), Billerica (MA), and Altoona (PA), died on July 16th. He passed quietly with family at his side. Among those who remain behind to morn his loss: his wife Kathryn, his son John, his daughters Christine and Lisa, his sister Suzanne, a nephew Glenn, as well as four grandchildren. He takes with him his dry wit, an affinity for outdoor activities (bicycling, boating, etc) that you might not guess of someone who spent his life working indoors, and devotion to a woman he could not leave behind on a Massachusetts beach – more than fifty years ago. He was 78 years old.

Jim – as he was known to family and friends – earned degrees at Penn State University and Ohio State University, concluding with a master’s degree in Physics. He went on to work as an engineer for three different employers before he retired: Block Engineering, Honeywell, and Brunswick. However, he spent the bulk of his career at Honeywell, in Clearwater, FL.

Although he could be cagey about the specifics of his job (he once got into trouble for bringing his young son to the office on the weekend), he took pride in working on various projects over the years involving manned and unmanned spaceflight. Additionally, more than one creation bears his name at the U.S. Patent Office.

He rarely missed a week of Church at his long-time parish: Lutheran Church of the Palms (Palm Harbor, FL), held a number of offices on the governing council (including president), and seldom said no when asked to serve in any capacity.

Jim leaves this life much as he lived it. He spent much of his time savoring the quiet joy of a good book or taking the quiet satisfaction of solving puzzles – in many forms – both designed and spun from life’s exquisite chaos. Through it all, he always gave much more than he received.

A private memorial service will be held in the near future.

In lieu of flowers – in line with what his family believes would be his wishes – please consider either a gift to your local church or your local NPR Station.