This is Rory’s Leprechaun trap. Our granddaughter is ten. She’s been making these contraptions for years. Rory does indeed have Irish blood lines. One was my paternal grandmother, Cora Casey. And the other was Kristin’s paternal great, grandmother, Ivy Doyle. Although, Ivy went to her grave quite insistent that she was not Irish.

This year’s temptations consisted of chocolate, some bling from a Mardi Gras Party K and I went to in Nashville recently, and an irresistible drink made from cooking oil, blue food dye and some glitter.

The trap is deployed the night before St. Patrick’s Day. Two of Rory’s trusted stuffed toys hide under a chair and wait to pull the trap cord.

This year, like all the previous attempts, the trap was sprung in the morning and excitement builds, but the contents are gone and only a handwritten note remains;

Dear Rory,

Nice try and better luck next year.

I will reward your persistence with this certificate for one free expansion pack for your new video game.

BTW, your guards were asleep.

For myself, I never made a Leprechaun trap, but I should have. I just put my tooth under the pillow for 25 cents.

Early in our lives, my father bestowed some classic Baby Boomer life lessons on me and my two brothers: look the person you’re greeting in the eyes, offer a firm handshake, be polite, and dress appropriately. This was a time, in the fifties and sixties, when personal relationships and appearance were held in high regard as tools for success.

In 1972 near the completion of the school year, four junior industrial design students, our entire class, were called into a meeting with the President of Layton School of Art, Edmund Lewandowski. I’d never accually met Mr. Lewandowski, but I recall walking passed the open door to his office and seeing him sitting straight up at his immaculate desk. His pipe, chair, pen set and papers all at right angles to each other. Content from the meeting escapes me other than chit-chat. My fellow juniors looked like art school students, dirty jeans, sweatshirts and PF Flyers; all of us looked like that most of the time. But for this particular meeting with the school President, the echo of my father’s teachings prevailed, I showed up wearing a clean shirt and tie. It just seemed like the correct order of business. I didn’t know I was competing for anything, but how I carried myself in that meeting, and my gesture of propriety, would launch an incredible opportunity. A gift from the ether that, point-blank, set the trajectory for my life.

My mother came into the room at 8:30 am. I was working the third-shift, I’d only been in bed for an hour. “Eddie someone from the Layton School of Art is on the phone, he said it’s important.” My first thought, of course, was what have I done? It was June. I’d finished my junior year studying Industrial Design and was working over the summer as always. I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.” It was the school administrator, “Good morning Ed this is Kempert Quabius. Layton has been chosen to be one of thirteen design schools across the nation to represent American design schools at the 1973 International Congress for the Society of Industrial Design (ICSID) gathering in Kyoto, Japan. It’s a three-month culture exchange tour. You’ll travel around the three main islands visiting: industries, schools, and historical sites. The four-day ICSID event is roughly in the middle of the journey. The Edger Kaufmann Foundation will pay for: flights, room and board, plus the fees for the conference. You only need spending money. Would you like to represent us?”

I’d rarely been out of Wisconsin. I couldn’t speak or read Japanese. I wouldn’t look like everybody else. I couldn’t use chop sticks. I didn’t know any of the customs and the currency was an unknown. I was twenty-two-years-old, where do I even get a passport? My head exploded.

My mother looked like space aliens were kidnapping me. Of course, I said, “Yes.”

It was a grand adventure. I’d never been an outsider, a minority, or been somewhere with no points of reference. That new perspective impressed me; I vowed to bring my children to Japan (if I ever had any) for the same experience. For me, being the foreigner broadened my worldview. It made me curious about understanding new things and people. That is to say, I tried all the food, learned enough of the language to be polite, and dared to go out dressed in classic Japanese robes. I left Japan with a robust sense of wonder, open to what the world had to offer.

Describing it all would take many pages. For this missive, I will offer one specific highlight.

We were on the Shinkansen (Bullet train) rocketing across the southern plains at 180 miles per hour towards our departure city of Tokyo. The many tunnels we passed through created a strobe-light effect. You’d alternate between seeing your reflection in the black of the window and the sun-lit landscape. Suddenly, she appeared through the window standing in regal indifference, her snow-capped shoulders draped in cerulean blue, my first iconic mountain, known throughout the world, the highest in Japan, Mt Fuji. She took my breath away, Fujisan was enchanting, inviting, mysterious, sensual.Her contour was unmistakable, a perfect cone, the summit dazzling, crisp, white. She was like the girl you have a crush on walking into the room: mysterious, alluring and perhaps unattainable. As I stared, I felt like she had something for me. In my heart I said with complete faith, someday I’ll return for your gift, and then darkness. The entire encounter was over in fifteen seconds, but Fujisan had vexed me. That was the moment the subliminal seed was planted. At the time, I didn’t realize how much I’d been smitten, but this encounter would unleash the power of positive affirmation and creative visualization.

The arc from that first view in 73’ to my return to Japan to climb Mt. Fuji with my family took twenty-eight years. Life happened in between: Graduation, a design career, finding a mate, having children, owning a home, and saving for travel. But, once the power of visualization is set in motion, one must be patient, make yourself available, and be open to the signals that point to your dreams. Japan would be the first of several mountain ascent for my family, the immersion in a new culture for my sons, and an unforeseen friend would materialize to assist us. Her kindness enabled our success on Mt. Fuji and her dream, that she shared with us on the summit, would lead all of us to another spectacular adventure in front of 250,000 lining the parade route.

All because I’d worn a tie.

Le Lacet Hors d‘oeuvres

His original name was Brandon, the beautiful Golden Retriever my family adopted when we moved to the country. The first six years of his life he’d been a city dog with little area to wander and no practical dog experiences. He didn’t fetch, chase rabbits or swim. Storms, fireworks and guns scared him. He was the only dog I’d ever had that could lose at hide and seek. I should have understood how could he learn any doglyness living in a kitchen eating table scraps with everyone calling him Brandon? But, there was simply no way I was going to have a dog with that reminded me of the AV kid in high school. The problem of changing his name was given careful consideration owning to his perceived lack of swiftness (I say perceived because he later showed us he could be both creative and devious). The solution proved clear as we simply dropped the “n” and called him the phonetically close but machismo filled Brando, with tongue firmly in cheek.

For all his restricted city habits, Brando was big, lovable and had the kind heart the breed is famous for. He barked at the correct times to protect us and assimilated into an honored place in our family. He coveted his hikes with me and I couldn’t drive to the dump on Saturday morning without him although I believe his true motive was his passion for the WHBL Polka Hour we’d listen to on the Sheboygan AM radio channel. 

It took him a while to understand the country. Tall grass scared him for a week or so, he was clueless with twenty-five acres surrounding him and he would only walk up to his knees in the river behind our home. The latter christened him the slightly derogatory but endearing, Golden Wader.

He consumed whatever he discovered on the trails around our home from dead mice to the most disgusting turd piles imaginable deposited by the indigenous fauna. His involuntary methane release could empty a room and we loved him for it.  

My oldest son and I had planned a trip to climb Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The trek required new boots that needed the all-important break-in prior to the trip. Brando dutifully stayed at my side as I hiked all over the Kettle Moraine State Forest; we must have put 75 miles on my new boots and my “desk job” legs. There were times though when he sat quite perturbed watching me ride away on my bicycle for some extra cardio exercise knowing he couldn’t go along. Brando would look at me with distain…like he was planning something.

A week or so after our successful return to Wisconsin, I grabbed my hiking boots from their resting place and slipped my feet into my old friends. As I reached down to pull on the laces all I found was quarter inch stubs protruding from the eyelets…”what the hell?”

In an instant, I replayed our rapid descent from the roof of Africa. Sweat showered from us on the swift two-day retreat. My boots had been soaked with the salty collection. My macho-less city dog had turned the laces of my Asolo climbing boots into hors d’oeuvres. I laughed out loud because he had helped me prepare for the unforgettable adventure. The laces were a very small price to pay for his loyalty and friendship; I knew he must be laughing somewhere behind the house.

My epiphany was confirmed two days later when my son discovered the laces congealed in a pile he was removing from our yard. Brando, my unpretentious buddy, had strategically rendered his clever revenge for my bike rides without him…Golden Wader, indeed.  

Most folks watch Drag Racing on TV, but even the most sophisticated home entertainment systems cannot properly convey the controlled eruption of 11000 horsepower.

At the track, spectators have access to the pit area. Dragster teams’ warm-up the Nitro Car engines to double-check the rebuilds after every run across the three days of competition. As you wander the pit area, the unmistakable rumble begins and magnetizes the true gearheads and the curious, pulling them towards the thunder like ants muster to spilled ice cream.

The car sits on jack stands; a bodiless, tireless, jumble of tubing and wires nestled between the haulers covered by a branded canopy. The dedicated crews huddle in the confined space, most of them wearing gasmasks. As the nitro fuel does its work, an acrid cloud billows forth like something found on the acidic surface of Venus. Some fans grab their noses, but that doesn’t leave enough fingers for their ears and burning eyes. Those with ear protection steel themselves in this HAZMAT environment. As I turn and study the people near me, I see my own joy reflected in their tortured faces. A man with a cane sees me and nods his approval as we share and endure multiple sensory overloads. Suddenly, the throttle is jacked. Loud doesn’t come near to describing this physical assault. The controlled explosions move the ground under your feet and invades, every hair follicle, nerve, muscle, and bone without invitation. It’s a fight or flight mugging. Eight or nine people turn in fear and scurry away, darting through the remaining disciples. It’s like being near a lightening strike and subsequent thunder. You jump, shocked and afraid for an instant, then awed and humbled by the unimaginable power of it. Then, all goes silent. The people around you cackle with joy and acknowledge our shared communion, a tribe that held together against a common foe. One stranger, who was without ear protection, turns to me with a crumpled grin on his face and simply says, “Ouch”.

In different cultures, large bucks or Stags, represent spiritual authority or the supernatural. In Celtic mythology they were messengers from the otherworld.

My brother Dave and I both started hunting when we were twelve, Dave two years before I did. In the early sixties, only buck could be harvested. Our father taught us gun safety, hunting etiquette and our love of nature and the outdoors. Not so much about Celtic myths, only that there are big ones out there if you are in the right place at the right time.

Dave has been in pursuit of that mythical buck for over sixty years. I’ve harvested around fifty deer in that timeframe, Dave probably five. Two were doe he shot so I’d have meat on our table. He doesn’t generally eat venison; my family thrives on it.

It was a cold, gusty, morning; the zero windchill finding every weakness in our day-glow armor.

Three of us were posted in elevated deer stands; we have six varied locations on our sixty acres. Opening morning, shots begin to ring out as dawn breaks in the surrounding area, but our woods remained quiet. By 9:00 am I hadn’t seen anything but squirrels.

Then, a loud shot rang out. That had to be Dave, I thought, the sound came from his direction. I wondered if I should head over there, but because it was a singular, definitive report, I chose to let him sort it out. Dave never took a risky shot and he’d walk past me to return to the cabin for the ATV if he scored. Fifteen minutes passed and he appeared out of the woods one hundred yards away. I watched him approach, looking for any signs that would broadcast his results, but he just plodded along, laboring in his over-sized boots. He didn’t even look up at me until he was close enough to simply speak without yelling, “I got one. It’s the biggest buck I’ve ever seen in my life.”

The pleasure I experienced for him in that moment felt like an ascending, weightless leap, the jump from the picnic table into the leaf-piles of our youth. I’d lived the history with him, he’d been in readiness for this opportunity all of his hunting years, “Damn, that’s awesome, bro.”

I began clambering down my ladder to his objections, after all, it was still opening morning of deer hunting. Dave didn’t want to interrupt my morning, but I still had plenty of time to hunt and I was driven now by the joy to help him celebrate. He went for the ATV and I walked over to his buck to lend a hand. It surely was the biggest ten-point buck I’d ever seen, almost a horse. Where the antlers connected to the skull were as thick as corncobs.

He backed the ATV close enough to attach the buck. He was still in the best kind of shock; his hands shaking from the adrenaline. I gladly tried all the knots making sure the antlers stayed off the ground. I don’t know how he felt pulling his prize slowly back to the cabin, but I’m sure there was: relief, pride, redemption, satisfaction and the private, undefinable emotions any of us experience when life-long dreams and visualizations come to fruition.

Dave had been sitting with his back to the marsh. We do that because you can generally hear them splashing around, not so in the woods he was facing. His classic 30/30 lever-action rifle perched on the railing of his stand. The silence was broken by a doe scampering around to his left. Dave watched in delight as the doe approached the foot of his stand, he never even reached for his rifle. Then, he recalled thinking sometimes buck are chasing doe. He looked up to see the gigantic buck, twenty-five yards away, focused completely on seeding the doe.

It was a simple task to pick up the rifle and dispatch the buck; no Annie Oakley heroics or Seal Team sniper-skills necessary. That simple task, however, was the culmination of a sixty-one-year journey beginning when Dave was twelve. A journey of patience, disappointment, serving the other hunters, enjoying the outdoors with friends and family and perhaps, one day, having all those hours in the woods produce an opportunity.

The otherworld myths have rewarded you for all those hours in the woods Dave and I, for one, am pleased beyond measure you bagged the Big One.

My wife and I committed to one-on-one trips with our two sons. She took Nathan to England when he turned twelve and Christopher to Spain three years later. I would do something similar when they reached seventeen and I love soaring vistas. Nathan and I would climb Mt. Kilimanjaro together. The challenges of serious altitude, the Western Breach Route, and passing a dead climber produced an epic adventure that bonded us.

However, when I discussed possible mountain destinations with Christopher, he voted against any venture into altitude and suggested something with wheels and tires, fair enough. I looked at driving Off-road vehicles across the Baha Peninsula or both of us earning our competition racing licenses at Road America. We ultimately chose Jim Hall Go-Kart Racing School in Oxnard, California followed by an NHRA drag racing event in Sonoma just north of San Francisco. Go-karts offered a much safer environment and maximum track time. Of course, I rented a convertible to get us around. After all, I’d taken Nate to Africa and our parental strategy is to keep things equal.

As go-kart tracks go, this was no bug zapp’n, neon illuminated, tire lined, grab-ass, Saturday night fun-park destination. This was a purpose-built go-kart race course with eleven turns and properly angled curbs that we learned very quickly to avoid. Go-karts don’t change direction flying through the air. These karts had seats with side supports, disk brakes and a computer read-out on the steering wheel for lap times.

This was a racing school not a competition. We walked the track with our instructors as they showed us breaking points, driving lines and the subtle nuances of kart placement. Twelve inches away from the curb in one particular spot would maximize the line through the next series of corners. This information enabled us to go fast almost immediately.

The layout offered a challenging array of direction change, g-force and breath-holding curves at speeds that continued to solicit withdrawals from our adrenal glands for all five days.

The two longest sections of full throttle presented us with completely different thrills. Our fastest speed at the end of the longest straight was seventy-miles-per-hour if we did everything right in the previous two bends. Then, brake as you turn to rotate the kart, apply the gas and sail in a fluid arc hugging the left side of the track. Then, arc right, then left, twelve inches from that curb, then left again for 180 degrees at full song, grunting as you endure one and a half times gravity. Holding your breath, long enough to taste the bacon you consumed at the hotel breakfast buffet, vowing, mid-corner, to switch to oatmeal and bananas the next morning. The kart would straighten and settle, but you only have enough time for a quick inhale and you fly through the fastest right-hand sweeper on the track. Five awesome corners and you never lifted your foot, all done sitting only one inch above the track surface. The old saying is: Karting is the most fun as you can have with your pants on.

We dined at our hotel that first night, the fatigue from fifty-plus laps hung on us like a humid August night. When our plates arrived, we were both beguiled by the difficulty we had picking up our forks. Our gripping muscles depleted by the stranglehold we’d forced on the steering wheels. However, there was deep satisfaction to our weariness and the shared experience; as dinner wound down, Christopher looked up at me with a quiet smile and said, “Dad, that was a day well spent.”

The endeavor to bond with my two sons outside of our comfort zones was diverse. Nonetheless, the pride on Nathan’s face at 19,340 feet and Christopher’s endless grin after getting the day’s fastest lap, will warm my soul forever.

My blog title has a simple origin story. It introduces an underlying concept that will percolate through the missives, observations and the stories I will share.

A good number of the adventures and events in my life have been associated with both conscious and subconscious creative visualization. The early experiences that can shape our paths in life and create our systemics. Then, as we grow, our dreams of the future, our desires, and our goals can manifest into reality and affect our life trajectory. This first post is a meaningful example of how the mechanics of visualization can create an outcome.

Well into our marriage, Kristin’s mother had saved this book and presented it to her. After I read it, the parallels were unmistakable, all the characteristics of little Eddie can be used to discribe me. I put the book down and said, ” Kristin, you married Spaghetti Eddie.”

Even now, years later, I sign notes and emails to Kristin with an ‘S’. If I do something silly, she’ll call me Eddie Spaghetti. And I still don’t read the directions.

The allure of duck hunting has always been a mixture of family, friends and raucous laughter. At the very core, we participate in a collective enthusiasm. The word enthusiasm originates from the Greek entheos which means ‘the God within’.

“True enthusiasm is attractive. It touches people at a deep unconscious level and makes you want to join the dance. It’s not persuasion; not a play on emotions. It’s not intellectual, it’s instinctual.” ‘The Power of Enthusiasm’ by Shah McBee

We never examine the God part, there’s no need. For each of us, that is an intimate, solitary connection that words can only muddle. What we share is the numinous presence in the dawns of nature’s infinite cathedral. Yes, for us, it’s church.

Sunrises aside, I never laugh quite so hard or pump quite as much adrenaline as I do duck hunting. You can’t tell someone what it is like to hear the hiss in the air that signals the Ring-necks orbiting over the decoys, invisible, but lurking in the morning fog. Or the jet fighter howl Bluebills emit as the birds unfold from the sky to buzz the decoys at over seventy-five miles per hour. 

On a calm morning when a flock sets their wings and commits to land, the only sound that permeates the quiet is the unmistakable clicks of your fellows releasing the safeties on the Remington and Benelli shotguns. Anticipation spurs adrenaline and brings your heart thumping into your throat, breathe, breathe.

Good shooting has a Zen, no-mind, quality as you lead and fire without conscious thought and the pride we all feel for one-another when a terrific shot is made and puts food on the table. And yes, the endearing jibes when we miss.