​Not many people would write a poem titled, “Ode to the Power Company.” We don’t think that way. We expect lights to be on, the air conditioning running. We don’t get excited and creative thinking about the generation and distribution of electricity.
 
At the same time, there is some poetry involved in the humanity of how companies come together to help EVERYONE in times of storms and duress. We will see this in the coming weeks as cleanup occurs after hurricane Ida hits Louisiana.
 
There will be tragedy. And there will warming stories of saving others. People will unite to overcome massive barriers to cleanup, salvage and start over. Lives will be wrecked as something new emerges.
 
Through it all, the electric companies soldier on. Their people prepare beforehand. Their families know they won’t see their mothers or fathers who work on the power lines, who drive the trucks, who respond immediately and overwhelmingly in numbers from all over the country to help their fellow brothers and sisters dig out. It’s an awesome display of unity and goodness to ensure the affected communities can fight their way back to some semblance of normalcy.

And, as we know from past experience, there is a “new normal.” Reconstruction doesn’t put things back the way they were. Trees disappear. Rivers reroute themselves. Houses wash away.
 
We replant and rebuild. But, the landscape is altered, never to be exactly the way it was before.
 
Recently we were hit by several power microburst storms near our house. During one of those wind and rain gusts, our power flickered twice. Whew, the lights stayed on. Then a few seconds later we lost all power.
 
It’s not like outages have never occurred before. We got out the flashlights, lit the candles, called our electric company to let them know what happened, and got their update on restoration of service.
 
It was hot and humid that night. Slowly, as the AC effects wore off and our house heated up, my wife and I peeled off covers, until it got too stuffy to sleep. Just as it started to become extremely uncomfortable, the power popped back on. Hurrah!
 
The wind hit 77 miles an hour that evening. We got blasted with over an inch of rain in an extremely short period of time. It was not surprising we lost power.

What surprised me was how quickly it was restored, and we were thankful for that. We reset the clocks, felt the AC cranking again to cool everything down inside. I thought a lot about writing a poem, “Ode to the Power Company.”
 
There is no perfection when it comes to some of our modern technologies. We think they’ll run continuously and get used to the convenience. When a major storm hits or there’s some other glitch, we wonder what went wrong, not really considering all the pieces of equipment that must interact and operate correctly to ensure the reliable delivery of electricity.
 
Major storms make us reconsider and remember how fortunate we are. Not only for electricity in general, but for the hard work so many people put into making sure we our homes and businesses reconnect after a disaster.

​ 
It’s clear Covid caused shortages of products in the market. But, seriously, can it be true that M&M’s aren’t making it to the shelves?
 
To find out, we went to Walmart. First, our closest Walmart where we typically pick up many of our basic items. No dice on the M&M’s.
 
For clarification purposes, this does not mean ALL varieties of the larger bag of M&M’s where out-of-stock. Instead, it was the version I prefer – mini M&M’s. Their unique dark chocolate taste and crunchiness fuel my addiction.

After multiple weeks of my wife checking the shelves, I began to forage another nearby Walmart. Same result.
 
Then, egads, I went to Costco, and found the regular M&M’s slot empty (typical for Costco, they only carry limited sizes and types of products, so normally they would have had the regular and peanut M&M’s; the peanut version was still in stock; whew). This further demonstrated the supply chain monster hitting us so heavily in the sweet tooth. How will we survive?
 
At the same time while visiting Costco, it was time to replenish our stock of peanuts. To my knowledge, in the 17+ years of our Costco membership, they have NEVER been out of the peanuts we purchase. Not so last time. They were nowhere to be found. I went back a week later, with the same result.

Peanuts and M&M shortages. What are we to do?
 
Checking in other supermarkets, it became clear that M&M’s were to be found. The prices were higher, the stores more of the boutique variety, so those of us requiring industrial supplies of sweets and salt had to decide if our addiction was so powerful that we bowed to the demands of the elite supermarkets. So far, my willpower has held, and I have not stooped to the higher prices. But I’m slowly bending.
 
I found it hard to believe in the shortages without consistently seeing it with my personal eyes. Before the M&M and peanut shortages became apparent in our key shopping stores, another disheartening series of empty shelves had me scrambling.  This was for peppermint Tums.
 
Peppermint is good to help settle the stomach, so when I purchase a bottle of Tums, I prefer that flavor. You can get multiple other fruit flavors, but I prefer to stay away from them.
 
Several months back, as my bottle dwindled, I began the search for peppermint Tums. Again, both Walmart’s were out. Went to Walgreen’s. Nope.
 
Checked in another local supermarket – Piggly Wiggly. Empty. All sizes of peppermint were out. Other flavors of Tums were available and, ultimately, I bowed to the need to get one to have in those emergency cases of heartburn. But, it’s not the same.
 
The peppermint Tums shortage opened my mind to the supply chain debacle of Covid. The mini M&M shortage, combined with the peanut cans out-of-stock at Costco drove home how fortunate we are to only lose these items for which substitutes can easily be found.

Imagine if it was fruit and vegetables. Or, how about gasoline? Or, God forbid, water? There’s the statement around of, “First World problem,” and I think it applies here.
 
Remember and give thanks for what we have, even with the inconveniences of the past year (and continuing today for some products). We still can substitute for our favorites. That’s enough to get us through.

​A couple of months back, I returned to the movie theaters for the experience. I missed that during the height of Covid.
 
It took a bit to get me back. Certainly, safety was a priority. But, interestingly enough, it took some time before a flick came out that generated interest.
 
For almost 18 months, no one went to a movie in a public space. For those who are film buffs, this was hard, as you want the sound, sight and first-hand experience of seeing something on the full screen.

I thought the urge to see something in a theater rather than at home on a television screen would be overwhelming, but it really wasn’t.

As I scanned what was coming out and peaked my curiosity, there wasn’t much as the world started to open up. Finally, “The Forever Purge” made it to the screen, and as a fan of the others in the series, I knew I wanted to see what was up next.
 
“The Forever Purge” met my expectations. Much of the rest of the experience didn’t.
 
I didn’t drive in with high expectations. Instead, entertainment and being engaged by the plot line were the keys. Those goals were met.
 
What occurred to me afterwards was how other aspects of being inside the complex wore on me. For example, I typically like watching the previews. They pick the good stuff to titillate you with. Yeah, it’s redundant and violent typically, but it can also give you a quick thrill.

This first time back out, I found each preview boring, predictable and loaded with crashes and shootings. I don’t need any of that. Rather than waiting with anticipation, thinking, “hmmmm, I’d like to go see that,” I instead went to myself, “never going to see that.” Sadly, that applied to all the previews.
 
Then there are the posters of upcoming flicks in the halls. I go early to shows so I can meander the soft carpet and peruse what’s coming next.
 
Again, this was a total disappointment. My thought process went like this, “Hollywood has had 18 months to come up with some really cool and unique story lines. That certainly hasn’t happened.”
 
Instead, the wall posters were cartoons, reruns of reruns, take-offs on similar subjects, shoot ‘em ups, unbelievable dystopian futures, and others than seemed beyond the believability range.
 
“I waited 18 months for this?” Each stop to look at a poster drew disappointment.
 
Then, there was the popcorn. I do like popcorn. Yeah, it’s monumentally expensive. Probably takes 25 cents to make and they charge you five bucks for the smallest bag. But, it’s part of the experience, and with the right amount of butter, it’s perfect to sit and munch on in your cushioned seat.

Maybe it was a bad day or a bad batch of kernels, or my expectations were too high (something our mother always warned us about). Regardless, the popcorn let me down, tasting stale and lifeless. Rather than heightening the experience (and, isn’t it all about the experience?), it weakened the experience.
 
The movie was good if you like the Purge series. They threw some new stuff at us, a few twists to the plot, with some good dialogue and some issues for you to consider afterwards. The rest of the experience I could do without. I haven’t been back. It’s going to take a damn good movie to get me there.

​Twenty-nine years ago, my wife and I canoed the Boundary Waters (titanic, pristine lake area bordering Minnesota-Canada). We repeated it with our three children 14 years ago. We just got back with our kids and their significant others from our third voyage.
 
When I speak to others about these trips, I term it a “transformational experience.” There is nothing else like it I have done in my life. And, there is nothing to compare it to.

Why is it transformational? You can figure that out once you go there, but that’s the only way to completely understand.
 
I will try give the sensations, feelings, views, treks, challenges, smells and sights justice through words, so stay with me. In short, you are transformed through the trip.
 
Launching the first day makes you nervous. You face the unknown. What’s out there? Will bears get our food? Can we carry the packs and canoes through the portages? Will anyone sprain an ankle? What happens if the food runs out? If a moose charges us, what should we do?
 
You wonder how explorers did what they did. Sailing across from Europe. The pioneers heading west. Lewis and Clark canoeing the rivers to the Pacific Northwest. No maps.
 
Excitement abounds as well. Getting away from modern-day life. Isolating from the stresses of our jobs, commuting and the non-stop nature of news. Breathing fresh air with no scent of automobile exhaust.
Transformation comes slowly. Listening to the sounds of nature – loons, fish splashing, chipmunks and squirrels chittering, raccoons foraging your campsite like thieves. The accomplishment of paddling hard hour after hour, carrying 60-pound packs on your back and canoes through unbelievably pristine portages near streams that gurgle and moss that sends your senses soaring.
 
You don’t see any buildings. You rarely see people. There are no cars. There is no Internet. You don’t have a washer or dryer. Your bed no longer exists.
 
Removing the elements of modern life transforms you and brings you back to core survival. Cook food and clean up. Find water and fill your bottle for drinking, cooking and rinsing. Create your shelter (pitching tents) each evening and take it down again the next day before pushing off.
 
It’s easy to forget humans are mammals. We have that very basic need to eat, sleep and drink to get through a day without our bodies deteriorating. The Boundary Waters experience teaches you this, and transforms you through the process.
 
My older brother has a buddy who has often related a story about how our current society would be much better off if we all got back to the basics of hunting, fishing and farming our own food. We’d be worn out from all the work, stop complaining and criticizing, and crash in our sleeping quarters each evening exhausted from all the effort.

The Boundary Waters is like that. It forces you to quickly adapt to the conditions you face. Your body and mind must react to survive. These are not complicated changes, but they are primal.

Total silence during a sunrise. You watch this at 5 a.m., wondering the last time you heard nothing. Wind whips through trees miles away and you hear it, but it is so quiet nearby, you see no limbs or trees bending anywhere in your visual sphere. A loon calls, and you watch it come into for landing, and you HEAR its wings piercing that air. That’s silence.
 
That’s the transformational experience of the Boundary Waters -- bringing you back to your day-to-day life upon return – a centered feeling of being more at one with all of nature, and knowledge that you survived and accomplished something worthwhile. It is one of the best feelings in the world.