Vespa: A Nimble Wasp

In grade school, I walked my bicycle up a long sloping road after CYO football practices. I was tuckered out from wind sprints and play drills, tackle practice and more wind sprints. I often imagined how grand it'd be if I could sit on the bike, and it'd power itself up that long grade, my weary legs beneath me.

Fast forward 20 years. My brother-in-law was selling a 1969 two-stroke 305 Suzuki Scrambler motorcycle. He wanted something bigger. I wanted to tuck my legs below me and go up and down long sloping roads.

Over 50 + years, I've owned a dozen bikes. A Honda, Suzukis, Triumphs, BMWs, each a little bigger, each more powerful. I trekked to Canada and the Pocono and Blue Ridge Mountains. I mostly favored shaded country roads.

I rode with a small cohort of guys. We ate hoagies on plastic milk crates outside Wawa stores while we talked about open roads and life.

Those guys? Dead now or unable to ride.

Me?

Last summer I decided to return to my biking roots. The roads in Central PA, especially near the Susquehanna River, are devoid of rhyme and reason. They also lack shoulders should you have to suddenly pull over because a tiny hornet flew under your jacket. Dodging horse droppings around blind corners are an unexpected treat.

My last bike, a BMW R1200 R nineT Pure, weighed close to 500 lbs with a full tank. Constant shifting in traffic and rarely getting out of third gear on the local roads was getting tiring. And I didn't need 110 horses to pass Amish buggies.

The word nimble started to bounce around my head. Was there a much lighter machine? One that could give my arthritic clutch hand a rest? Was there a brand known for ease of use with a solid reputation?

A 2024 Vespa GTS 300 Sport scooter now sits in my garage. It's agile, gets 70+ mpg and will go 75 mph. It's a nimble wasp that turns on a dime that makes me smile every time I take it out. (Vespa is wasp in Italian.)

Now, if the 90 degree, high-humidity temps will just settle down, I'm off ridin'.

(C) 2025 by James Hugh Comey

 

Pope Francis: Protector, Keeper and Guardian

I've never met Pope Francis. He wouldn't know me if he sat next to me. Millions have been in his presence during his journeys around the world.

I'm not one of them. I avoid large crowds and heavy traffic and great noise that makes my head rattle.

And yet, for the last several years, I've travelled closely with Pope Francis. I've listened to quiet conversations he's had with his personal bodyguard. I've watched him eat pizza in Rome when he snuck out of the Vatican. I've been at large and small gatherings when he's struggled with English and been eloquent in Spanish and Italian.

I heard him say, "God reveals Himself through surprises."

How could I possibly do this?

Pope Francis is a major character in my Urban Fantasy, The Wicked Claw. After months of deep research, I followed him each time he surfaced in the story. I described what I saw him do. I captured what I heard him say. My role was more of a journalist than a creative writer.

From the book's opening, I mixed actual events with fantastical characters and elements. An ultra high-definition, 4K movie ran in my head, and I tried my best to catch all the details. 

Colorful individuals, unexpected emotions, a sacred tree, secret Vatican Agents, and international settings surface.

At the heart of the novel is Pope Francis. His deep faith, humility, and strength of character are the super glue that allows him to serve the earth and all on it as Protector, Keeper and Guardian.

https://www.amazon.com/WICKED-CLAW-James-Hugh-Comey-ebook/dp/B0CTJF7Y37

© 2024 James Hugh Omey

A Potpourri of Poems

It was my pleasure to host this Life Under the Willow Tree podcast. It presents four writers from the Willow Valley Communities Writers Group. Each reads and gives the inspiration for this medley of poems. They're a delightful mixture of sharp wit, deep emotion, maternal whimsy, and unexpected imagery. I hope you enjoy them.

https://music.amazon.com.br/podcasts/57442b30-65d8-4482-abc9-f1eb68a3431b/episodes/c4ea4f4d-0627-4994-895e-325f461650c1/life-under-the-willow-tree-b10-the-willow-valley-writer's-group-a-potpourri-of-poems

A Writer's Spark

This blog is intended for the ear rather than the eye.

My thanks to Ray Lowe, retired financial planner and fellow Penn guy, for asking me to be on his podcast, Changing the Rules. My interview describes the unusual kick-starter for my writing career and how, through a chance meeting with actor Vicki Guiteras Giunta, Stages of Imagination, our nationally recognized children's theater company, was born.

https://changing-the-rules.simplecast.com/episodes/e-128-ray-and-jim-c

The Geography of Friendship

Every once in a while, I'm contacted by a former student. It might come via Facebook, email, this blog site, or regular mail. Over 37 years, from 6th through 12th grades in three school districts, a community college and a graduate school, I've interacted with a whole bunch of folks.

I heard from a student who received a Fulbright to Oxford. He wanted to thank me for making him read a lot, and write a lot, and rewrite even more.

I heard from a student who was so tickled by my reading her work aloud to the class, she decided to become a writer. She was the editor of a newspaper in small town America doing what she loved.

I heard from students who acted in my high school plays who were touring the country in professional theater companies. And I heard from students who were now in front of classrooms trying to encourage kids to read a lot, and write a lot, and rewrite even more.

All of these contacts were deeply appreciated. Some made me cry a little.

Two came totally out of the blue. They thanked me for their marriages.

Please note, Matchmaker was never part of my resume.

I deeply valued a classroom where students didn't have to raise their voices to talk over unruly, loud classmates. Many of my public school classrooms were packed solid with 35 students, often with a wide range of academic and emotional needs. I had to come up with a plan to create a stimulating, yet orderly environment.

The plan I designed was simple. 

The first two days of a new school year, I allowed students to sit anywhere they wanted. Kids, whether 10 or 18, quickly scrambled to be near friends. Guys, especially from 8th grade on who were not keen to be in English/Language Arts class, headed to the back of the room, as close to the door as possible. That way, they could maybe enter late and leave early.

Only, on the third day, I announced as they entered not to get too comfortable. I was going to assign seats. They loudly groaned. 

I told them the seat assignments were not based on anything more than my educator instinct to where they might be most successful. I spread the friends as widely apart as possible. I mixed male and female students throughout the room. And, most importantly, I brought the male students from the rear door area to the very front, surrounded by quieter, academic-oriented females.

Most hated it. Friends complained they weren't with friends. Guys wanted to sit with their sport buddies. And some of the academic-oriented girls, sitting now behind or next to a guy who wasn't known for stellar grades, quietly asked to be moved.

I asked them all to give it some time. Within three weeks, the groaning was gone.

Then, halfway through the school year, I mixed them all again. Kids who sat near each other had become friendly. Many were borrowing notes. Others were nodding to each other in the cafeteria. New kids who didn't know anybody on the first day were now chatting easily at the beginning of class to their neighbors. The room was getting a tad noisy.

Once again, they groaned when I switched them around. But only for a bit and not as loudly.

Toward the end of each school year, supervisors came in to evaluate me. I always received the same comments: orderly, quiet classroom/ easy sharing of ideas / respectful engaged discussions. Often, they remarked that students they'd observed in other classrooms either acting out or disengaged were just the opposite in my classroom. They sensed the calm demeanor and connectedness in my room. I explained to them the geography of friendship I'd established over the last nine months.

And the ones thanking me for their marriages?

They were two guys who were moved, unwillingly, from the back door to the front of the classroom. Slowly, over the school year and beyond, they became friends with one of their quiet aisle neighbors. They stated they never would've had the nerve to approach, let alone talk to, the girls that became their wives. They admitted their future would've been different if I hadn't plopped them smack dab in front of me, surrounded by a sphere of serious, academic-focused females. 

And they were deeply grateful.

Joseph Brodsky wrote: "Geography blended with time equals destiny."

Copyright (c) 2022 by James Hugh Comey

 

Wanderlust

I'm not a traveler. I've not been to many places.  

I did go to Canada. Twice.

Once by car in the '50s with my parents, brothers and grandfather. My dad ran a tall stop sign he never noticed. We were in Trois-Rivieres, Quebec. 

One minute I was looking out the window at the Saint Lawrence River. The next, I was thrown sideways into my younger brother.

We'd been broadsided.

No one was seriously hurt.

But, I did think something was wrong with my hearing. I couldn't understand a blessed word the local driver was shouting as he got out of his banged up car. A crowd gathered. No one in the entire town spoke English.

It was a bit scary.

Finally, a bilingual insurance agent appeared. My older brother and grandfather stayed in Trois-Rivieres while the car was repaired. The rest of us took a long Greyhound ride back home. 

I went again in the mid '70s. This time by motorcycle with my father-in-law and friend, Jimmy D. After a weary trek through five states, we arrived in Canada at sunset in deeply wooded country.  

We stopped at the only motel we saw. It was beautiful and quiet there. We were weary to the bone.  

I was back in Quebec.

This time, I was ready. I'd studied French for four years in high school.

I had no clue what anyone at that motel and adjoining restaurant said. I could barely read the menu. Foreign language was not my best subject.

Aside from going to Florida when my parents lived there, and the Blue Ridge Mountains by motorcycle with a bunch of guys, I did spend a week in Ireland.

It was three months after I'd retired from public education. Together with my wife, older brother, and sister-in-law, we were going to tour Western Ireland by car and then take my dad's ashes to Ballyhaunis in County Mayo, his grandparents' birthplace.

No worries here. Aside from road signs in English and Irish and a tiny portion of some locals speaking Irish, this would be an absolute piece of cake.

Only, the steering wheel of the rented car was on the right side. The right of way was on the left side. The local roads were barely wide enough for two cars, with stone walls inches from the left door handles. The GPS was always loony and approaching roundabouts with my sister-in-law shouting, "GO LEFT, LEFT!" gave me grey hairs.

It was a bit scary.

My daughter and her family have travelled near and far. As I write this, one of my granddaughters is in Central America for a month. The other spent a month in Norway a couple of summers back.

My brothers have logged serious miles on the water, in the air and cars, exploring, tasting, enjoying what the wide world has to offer.

Me? 

A lack of confidence, I suppose, to venture elsewhere. For the longest time, those of us in public education had little to spare on travel. We were too busy holding two jobs.

But also, a lack of desire.

Talented folks like Anthony Bourdain and Phil Rosenthal have given me a peek and vicarious taste of foreign places and fare. No airport transfer madness. No jet lag. No foreign coin exchange. No Covid testing before and after travel.

More importantly, for me, novels have been my mode of travel. They've taken me places, real and imagined, that satisfy my wanderlust. I agree with fellow homebody, Emily Dickinson: "To travel far, there is no better ship than a book." 

Copyright (c) 2022 by James Hugh Comey

THE WILD WORLD

Late last August, I decided to write a new story. It had one driving force behind it. It had to to be fun to write. Period. There was not to be a single care about filling a blank page (or a blank screen) each morning. Not a lick of worry about plot development or character motivation. Not a blessed concern about setting or rising action or backstory.

I had a scene for the opening. It came from two years of chasing away geese from the community pond behind my house. Over that time, I came to marvel at the intelligence and behavior patterns of these powerful birds. I admired their cunning in avoiding me, while I fumed about the size and quantity of their poop.

That was it. A single scene.

When I sat down to begin, a movie started to run in my noggin. Characters appeared. Tensions developed. Color and light and texture, from 374 years in the future, after the world had gone dark and been reborn. Mutants and Haters and Horrors railed against the injustice of what nature and humans had done to them. A ruthless retail monarch kept an iron grip on the fragile social fabric of Federations and Guilds. Literacy and texts were outlawed, under penalty of death, by Librarians who couldn't trust humanity from confusing prejudices from principles and destroying themselves again.

Each morning, from August to late November, I sat at my desk without a clue as to what or who was coming next. And each night, complex humans and unusual animals, with all kinds of wants and needs appeared. It was a hoot.

From the mulch that had been simmering inside me, they came. I simply tried to keep up with them. Ray Bradbury told me to get up every morning and follow the imaginary folks that were leaving the room. I thought he was nuts at the time. He wasn't.

The book was completed by the end of November, 2019.

Then came the arduous task of checking grammar and spelling. By February, 2020, it looked like things were good. Then, word came that the world was under attack. A virus was coming. It had serious intent.

Fast forward to today. After a bunch of rewrites, to bring in the current medical and cultural shit storm, the book is done. Fantasy merges with science fiction. Hate and hope get confused and reluctant friendships are forged.

I hope you take a look at THE WILD WORLD and enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

https://www.amazon.com/WILD-WORLD-James-Hugh-Comey-ebook/dp/B08Q8NQH6V/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+wild+world+%2B+james+hugh+comey&qid=1607699884&s=amazon-devices&sr=1-1

The Mosquito Men

I'm in lockdown. I'm ordered by the governor of my state not to go out beyond my neighborhood. Not to be close to other people. Not to shop, unless it's for food or medicine. Businesses are closed anyway. Schools are shuttered. Places of worship are silent and empty. Hospitals are gearing for a tsunami of infected patients.

Reality hasn't just stumbled. It's twisted its ankle and is having a hell of a time staying upright.

Each of us is struggling to process and cope with the global pandemic. Many adults are discovering the challenge of daily worksheets and young minds quickly bored. Some are rediscovering music and exploring art on digital field trips. Some are reconnecting with friends and relatives through electronic magic. And a whole bunch are worried if their food, money and courage will hold until medical research, hard data, and clear thinking squashes these invisible bugs.

Me?

I'm remembering when a fellow named Wizard and I drove around for three months in a beat to hell truck spraying white fog into the air. We were both summer help, working for the township highway department.

We were called into the supervisor's office our first day that summer. He led us to a bay where a tired-looking pickup truck with a 50 gallon drum and a gasoline powered compressor sat on weary springs. He showed us how to pour a couple quarts of ink black, nasty-smelling liquid into the drum and then fill it with water. A rubber tube from the compressor went into the filled drum and another rubber tube with a long metal wand with a squeeze handle came out of the compressor. A spare gas can for the compressor and a lawn chair were the last of the equipment.

"Spray on every street in the township," he said. "One drives. Don't hit anything. The other sprays. Switch off. Keep it under five miles an hour while spraying. Log on and off everyday in the mileage book."

He walked away. It was the last we saw of him that summer.

"Do you know why he wants our mileage?" Wizard asked.

"No," I said.

"So we don't just sit under a tree somewhere all day," Wizard said.

"Do you know what the smelly black crap is?" Wizard asked.

"No," I said.

I was beginning to guess why the guy was called Wizard.

"It's DDT," he said. "Don't get any on your hands."

"Do you know what the regular highway guys will call us?"

OK. I knew this one.

"Mosquito Men," I said.

"No," he said. "We're now the Bug Fuc..rs."

And that's what we did. Everyday we added smelly black crap to the drum and filled it with water. Everyday we drove to a different neighborhood. Wizard offered to sit most days in the truck bed and spray the white bug fog into the air. He liked the sun and mostly avoided the spray.

Kids ran behind us in the fog and whopped and hollered. Kids road on bicycles next to me while I drove along in first gear, hugging the curb. I had to be vigilant that dogs and fearless five year olds on big wheels didn't bolt down a driveway.

We didn't run into anyone or anything that summer, and I suspect we decreased the mosquito population. Malaria was not an issue in the township, and West Nile Virus hadn't appeared yet. DDT was outlawed in the early 70s because of its effect on the environment, and I moved on to teaching by then.

I think of this now because I hope Dr. Anthony Fauci and other talented researchers around the world devise a safe and effective vaccine for the coronavirus. Then, nano-version injections of that long ago truck will throttle these pathogens, and kids can whoop and holler once again in schoolyards and playgrounds.

Copyright (c) 2020 by James Hugh Comey

The Gnat

I think it was a dime. It could also have been a snide remark or maybe an inadvertent nudge. The initial trigger wasn’t important. The carnage that ensued was.

My older brother, John, and I shared a bedroom. Twin beds, a large bureau, a night table and my small desk didn’t leave a lot of room for personal stuff, let alone privacy.

 John was going to be a senior and had earned serious attention from college coaches and attractive young women as a diver. Fat was not permitted on his sculpted figure and other than breaking his nose a couple of times from striking the end of the diving board and hitting the bottom of a pool from too clean an entry, he was in fine fettle. He was on our high school baseball team and had his driver’s license.

He was not about, that particular summer day, to tolerate nonsense from his twerp brother when I spotted a dime on the floor between our beds.

“That’s mine,” he said, with the cocksure assurance of a guy who had marched down Broad Street playing the trumpet in the band in the Philly Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“I think not,” I said, tired of his ability to speak some German and get good grades from hardly studying.

One of us reached for it.

Craziness began.

He outweighed me by 50 plus pounds and could bench press me all afternoon. He had reach and speed. I had years of playing tackle football with him and my younger brother in the backyard, where I was used to getting clobbered and holding on until somebody toppled.

We tumbled our way from the floor to his bed. The dime switched hands.  Sweat flew, softening elbow strikes.

 The slates in his bed let go after a bit, and we found ourselves wedged between the two beds.

I felt something brush my head. I thought it might be a gnat. Bugs were always slipping into the bedroom to drive me crazy with their buzzing at three in the morning.

John body slammed me onto my bed, which also collapsed. Pieces of plasterboard rained down on us from somewhere, and the gnat kept brushing my head.

Fatigue and luck smiled on me. I managed to slip a leg lock around his head and squeezed his neck. I couldn’t see his face, but the fight was rapidly going out of him.

 The gnat became insistent, banging now against my shoulders. It began to hurt.

I looked up and saw my mother hitting me with a broom.

“Let him go,” she shouted.

“You’re hitting me with a broom,” I said, astounded.

“I’ve been hitting both of you for five minutes,” she said. “Let him go.”

John didn’t act like he was going to body slam me any more so I released my legs

She pointed the broom around the room.

“Look at what you’ve done.”

We both eased ourselves up some and looked.

 There were two holes in the wall. One was over my desk, which was a tad strange since I didn’t remember being near there. The other was on the wall next to us. John had plaster board fragments in his hair. Books and the lamp on the nightstand were toppled.

“You’ve made me hurt my wrist,” my mother said, easing down the broom to the floor.

Guilt, the chief weapon in my mother’s vast arsenal. Right up there with “close to the poorhouse and nobody appreciates anything I’ve done.”

“You’ve hurt my head,” I said, lobbing her guilt back at her, but she came right back with her stinger.

“I’m going to tell your father.”

Given the circumstances, that was an unnecessary threat, but we knew its implications.

Not three steps into the house that night, my mother would pounce on my father. She would dramatically describe our fight, tearfully pointing out the grievous damage to her wrist, as well as the assault on the bedroom.

 She would then turn the heat of her ire toward him. Within minutes, our pointless brawl would amazingly become tied to something he had done years before.

A shouting match would erupt that would take hours to play out.

I wasn’t too worried.

When the thunder and lightning inside the house would finally fade away, till next time, my father would take John to the hardware store. There they would talk with enthusiasm about tools and spackling paste and home repairs.

 With the same attention to detail he used to sculpt balsa wood into airplanes with tissue-paper skin, John, curse his patient hands, would heal the walls, then, just for chuckles, teach himself to play the guitar. 

Copyright (c) 2019 by James Hugh Comey

Portia and Magpie

Eight months ago I moved. Not far. Twenty-five miles, one county to another. Suburban to country. Congested roads after 3 PM, parking lots jammed with shoppers on weekends, road work and school buses and folks in too much of a hurry clogging my psyche.

I attended both high school and grad school in the city, the quality of the schools, not the raucous subways and police rushing to havoc, drawing me. I lived 41 years in the same suburban house that was only two miles from where I was born. I was seeking a place with open spaces and bigger skies.

After eight months of searching, I found it.

Across from me now is a large pond, with fields and trees beyond. The sky is panoramic, unfettered by buildings and utility lines. The traffic noises, at dawn and dusk, are Canadian geese, trumpeting as they follow mysterious roadways over the house.

Deer, fox, rabbits, and crazy ass insects I've never seen before are in abundance. And in the pond are two long time residents, Portia and Magpie. Portia is a 12 year old mute swan. Magpie is a black and white duck.

Portia's mate, Frick, was found dead recently. He disappeared from the pond two months ago. He was 17 and arthritic and possibly hurt when a hunter who had sneaked onto the pond, fired at some of the local mallards.

There is little that happens on the pond that I don't see. It's 24 hour live streaming, no WiFi needed. And what I've been seeing amazes me.

Magpie, who is all white with black wings, never leaves Portia's side. The pond is skimmed with ice now, but when the water was open, Magpie was always inches from Portia's back when she slid gracefully across the water. Magpie often leads the way up the bank to the feeder, built by the community. Magpie's no fool. Food spilled by Portia will be shared by Magpie and the other ducks.

When I asked about the strange little black and white duck, I was told that he/she crossed the road where there are fields and a stream at the bottom of the community eight years ago and has never left. Portia's wings are clipped. Magpie's are not. He/she can fly away at any time but never does.

A new male mute swan in on his way to join Portia. Hopefully they will connect and share many years together. I'm not too worried. Portia will continue to have the friend who has stayed with her during heat and cold, good times and bad, no questions asked.

Steinbeck wrote, "I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that's why." (Of Mice and Men)

Copyright (2018) by James Hugh Comey

Fall Seven Times

In April 1990, I found myself sitting at a table in an elementary school library in my home town. I had been invited to speak to students on their Writer's Day Celebration. I had co-founded a nonprofit children's theater company the year before with an accomplished professional actor and her sister, an award winning director/choreographer. Many of the kids at the school had seen our first play, The Monster in the Woods. I had been asked to speak to classes about the process I used to create the many fantastical characters in the play and how we animated them through dialogue, song, and movement.

As a thank you for our time, we were treated to lunch in the library. I am not comfortable with such social events but something pushed down my urge to leave and, there I was, sitting across from a man and a woman. The man introduced himself as Jerry. Sitting next to him was his wife, Eileen.

When we started to eat sandwiches, surrounded by the buzz and bustle of other writers and school staff, I realized that something was wrong. Jerry was upset.

"I can't do this anymore," he said.

"I know something is going to break," she said. "You have to hang on."

I didn't know if I should say anything. I could feel the man's frustration, see his unhappiness.

"What kind of writing do you do?" I asked.

"Children's novels," he said. "Eileen writes poetry and picture books."

"That's fantastic," I said. "You're both writing and getting published."

Eileen went quiet.

"The writing isn't the problem," he said. "I have to work another job to have steady income."

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I work for a magazine whose corporate office is close by. I write blurbs about upcoming TV shows. It's money and constant, but I hate it."

"Your newest book is going to catch on," Eileen said. "We're going to be alright. I can feel it."

"I have a Master's degree in writing from Johns Hopkins," Jerry said. "I've had lots of jobs over the years to support my writing, but I'm not sure I can do this anymore."

People were starting to gather up their stuff. I told Jerry that I admired his courage and determination. Although our children's theater company was taking off (we've gone to have over 100,000 kids see our shows), I was reentering teaching in five months, after taking off for four years, to have steady income.

We said goodbye. Neither Jerry nor Eileen were smiling when they left.

The following January, I opened the Philadelphia Inquirer to see Jerry's picture in large display. His 1990 novel, Maniac Magee, had just won the Newbery Award. It went on to win dozens of other awards, and, in 2007 was named one of "Teachers' Top 100 books for Children" by the National Education Association.

Jerry Spinelli didn't give up. He's now written 35 books. Talent is important. So also is determination and perseverance and faith in yourself.

A Japanese proverb says: Fall seven times, stand up eight.

Copyright (2017) by James Hugh Comey

I Hate Winter

I hate Winter.
It's a splinter in the heart.

Toes freeze.
Nostrils sneeze.

Thumbs crack.
A rack of ice coats
The mind, sears the soul.

Begone wretched season.
Melt into blessed warmth, cherished awakening.

Copyright (c) 2017 by James Hugh Comey

'Til It Is Experienced

Close to 40 years ago, I went on a bike trek to the Skyline Drive in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. (The photograph shows me and three of my four fellow riders standing on a ledge overlooking a dew dipped valley.) I remember chunks of that ride. There was monsoon rain that blasted us for four hours, in the dark, in fast, heavy traffic, where I could barely see the tail light of the bike in front of me. There were tiny towns tucked neatly on the sides of glens, and forests thick with color and texture and life. There was a mile long log jam of cars crossing into Norfolk for a huge concert that we skirted past on the shoulder, only to be stopped by a state trooper who started to write us up, only to have to stop because there was an accident somewhere.

"You're lucky today," he said as he put away his ticket book and quickly climbed into his cruiser, flipping on his lights. "Lady Luck just smiled on all of you."

What he didn't know was Lady Luck had already smiled on me earlier in the day.  A man in a older pickup truck, on a crowded, multi lane highway that bypassed Washington, DC,  had been driving next to me. We were going about 60 mph. The sun was not in our eyes and there were no crosswinds. At one point, I looked over and made direct eye contact with him. I looked directly into his eyes, not five feet away from me.

Suddenly, I sensed movement and glanced to my right. His truck was veering directly toward me.

I hit my horn and lifted my head and shouted, "HEY!" underneath the visor of my helmet.

The man flinched when he heard my shout and pulled back into his lane. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Asshole!," I shouted. "Pay attention."

Now, almost 40 years later, after many incidents where I have made eye contact with car and truck drivers, waiting at stop signs, only to have them pull directly in front of me, I believe that something else is at play here. These people are experiencing "inattentional blindness." There is nothing physically wrong with their eyesight. Nor are they deliberately trying to run me down.

The Canadian writer and professor, Robertson Daves, wrote, "The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend."

Two cognitive psychologists, Daniel Simons and Christopher Chabris, performed an experiment in 1999 where they filmed three people in black shirts and three people in white shirts, shifting constantly and passing a basketball around. Participants were challenged to count the number of times the people in white shirts passed the ball to each other.

The result? As the British writer Douglas Adams wrote, "Reality is frequently inaccurate." Over half of the participants, including me when I watched the video, counted 13 times that the ball was bounced between the white shirts. I was proud of my accuracy. I was also astounded when I discovered, along with the 50%, that I did not see a person dressed in a gorilla suit step out in the center of the moving people, pound his chest, and walk off the screen.

I was so focused on the people and shirt color and basketball bouncing that I never saw what was directly in front of me. I was not looking for a gorilla. That man on the multi lane highway was scanning for cars and trucks, large machines with four or more wheels. My two wheeled bike and my direct eye contact never registered, even though he saw me. I was blind to him.

I suspect, however, after that day, when a slim guy suddenly materialized next to him on the DC bypass, he may now be aware of bikes.

John Keats wrote: "Nothing has ever become real 'til it is experienced."

Copyright (c) 2014 by James Hugh Comey

God is in the Trees.

I had a dream the other night I cannot shake. It wasn't happy or even a tad scary. Nor was it the typical scenario where I'm frustrated or lost or reliving past anxieties. It's tone and tenor and sense of wonderment was exhilarating.

It was about trees.

Trees have been on my mind for the last month. Snow storms have been battering my house and corner of the world. Over 700,000 people in my state lost power due to tree limbs, overtaxed by brittle ice, snapping power lines. Wind gusts toppled stately pines throughout the region, and a fractured Cyprus branch from my neighbor's yard collided with my shed roof. (The roof is still intact.) A large branch from the very top of the Holly tree in my backyard snapped and fell like a javelin, impaling the frozen ground beneath it. And the 40 foot Maple tree in the front yard, which I had reinforced last summer with cables in the upper branches and bolts through the dual trunk, shook and twisted furiously, as each frigid storm pummeled it with sleet and snow.

My wife and I began to wonder if we should have the Maple tree removed. Its branches extend over parts of the house and the street. If one of them should break, it could be serious.

And yet, the Maple tree has been my companion and house guardian for the 37 years that we've lived here. Its bark is a wrinkled elephant grey, its shade cool and welcome in the summer. Birds grace its branches even as they poop on my cars. And the fall is a riot of red and orange leaves that become the mulch for our rear garden.

I went to sleep the other night, weighted with the thought of cutting down the Maple.

And then, something remarkable happened. I dreamt of trees. Not my Maple tree. I dreamt of trees throughout the world. Glens and forests on moors and mountain sides. Canadian wilderness and tropical rain forests stretched before me.

And then, I heard a voice. It said, "God is in the trees."

It wasn't my voice. It filled the sky and my vision and my heart.

I do not take drugs and don't drink. I have never had a revelation. But, if I lived during those times when dreams foretold miraculous births and included visits from celestial creatures, I might've believed I had. Freud would tell me that it was my conscience. Odd that it has such a strong voice and waited 66 years to reveal itself. The theological implications of "God is in the trees" has been resonating inside me.

Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote: "The tree is more than just a seed, then a living trunk, and then dead timber. The tree is a slow, enduring force straining to win the sky."

My wife and I still have to make a decision. Safety comes first.

But the life force that flows through my guardian is not unlike my own. We both have wrinkles, both seek to stand tall and straight. Storms may try to make us fall. Through all of this, I will try to remember the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

"I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent
Like the keys of some great instrument."

Copyright (c) 2014 by James Hugh Comey