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Life Experiences

“Reading is FUNdamental” and Trees Really Do Fall in the Forest.

August 10, 2014 By Eric Schickler

Did anybody see this happen?

   

I’ve been on a delightful and very gratifying book-reading tear for the past decade or so. This new-found hobby ties in perfectly with my mid-life-crisis goal of spending as much time as possible in the glorious outdoors of Colorado and elsewhere, both in business and free-time pursuits.

For most of my life this usually translated into some on-the-edge physical sport, adventurous endeavor or work project, with all the inherent insurance risks.  But with advancing age, I’m finding that injuries are less prevalent when sitting in a chair. Reading in the outdoors, in some secluded, peaceful, scenic place is one of my new joys. And my State Farm agent loves me for my latest outlook on life.

A more recent goal has been to find ways to escape the clutches of my beloved iMac computer. But, drat, dang nabbit, digital photography, writing, research, news consumption and social media silliness are all so addicting, so I’m still working on this goal.

Having finished my last book weeks ago, I was getting restless for another literary meal, a mental escape, my next life diversion. Anything so I don’t go near a TV. Or in some instances, people. So I just ordered a few more of Tim Cahill’s classics.

Tim is the author of several books, most published years and decades ago, but timeless nonetheless. His titles include “Road Fever,” “Jaguars Ripped My Flesh,” and “A Wolverine Is Eating My Leg.” He is a founding editor of Outside magazine and writes frequently for National Geographic Adventure and other national publications. He lives in Montana.

I discovered his writings when I happened upon a book at a yard sale a decade ago. It had this close-up photo of an odd-looking, forlorn duck on the cover. This was before the Aflac commercial craze, but I had to buy it when I saw the title: “Pecked to Death by Ducks.”

Cahill’s book titles are randomly and oddly selected, and have nothing at all to do with the content, but then, in strange ways, perfectly explain his adventures and written masterpieces in concise and twisted ways. Some might even call Tim twisted. I’m sure all his friends, and his publisher, do.

One critic explains Tim this way: “Cahill is great! He is the P.J. O’Rourke of the outdoors! Fearless and hell-bent on overcoming all obstacles in his path, Cahill takes us to the oddest and scariest adventures nature has to offer.”

If you have read any Cahill, you will find a slight irony in the fact that while I was comfortably ensconced in my camping chair in the White River Forest of Colorado this past week, with no mortals anywhere within miles of me, halfway into “ A Wolverine is Eating My Leg,” I was jolted from my chair upon hearing a tree–a very large tree, no doubt–topple over and crash in the forest clear across the valley. In the middle of the afternoon. And there was no wind.

No one else heard it. Just me. And how often does that happen?

But I heard it. And so it did indeed fall.

Thank you, Tim.

 

 

A White-Knuckled Visit to a Snowy Ditch

January 30, 2014 By Eric Schickler

I had a near nightmare driving to work in December 2012. It was an icy and snow-packed road in the mountain valley of Lake Creek, Colorado.

I was a tad late leaving for the ski resort to teach kids in ski school, and definitely moving too fast in my Toyota Camry sedan, which has no four-wheel drive, and had some nicely-worn tires at the time. I was cruising down a slight hill and entered a gradual, deceptive curve.

My trusty Toyota Camry awaits my morning commute to Vail Mountain.

I suddenly realized I was in peril as I finished the curve. My speed and the forces of physics had done me in. There was no way to reverse this reality. An object that is in motion tends to stay in motion, especially when friction is nowhere to be found. The rear of the car started wavering — a bit left, then a bit right. I peered ahead to survey my prospects for recovery and survival, or a dastardly doom. Gasp! Oh no. Here come two cars toward me on the narrow, winding road.

I do all I can to use my Upstate NY driving skills to control the horizontal skidding motions, and somehow hold the car onto the road, just getting past the two oncoming cars without slamming head-on into either one of them.

But the evasive maneuvers only fueled the wavering, and on the fourth swivel, around she went–into a full spin. “Holy Moley, this is not good. It’s been a very long time since my last auto accident, but I remember this feeling.”

Resigned to feeling the worst on impact, I checked to make sure I had put on my seat belt (Yes!), braced for landing, and realized I was heading backwards into a slight ditch. Pow! Kerphlumph. Then quiet.

“Am I alive, Mildred? Am I? Yes…. I can feel my fingers. That’s a good sign, despite the very white knuckles.”

Luckily, there was enough snow and the ditch was shallow where I happened to land. I was very lucky. There were several obstacles along the ditch:  a tree, a few large rocks, an electrical utility box, and deeper ditch drops, before and after where I landed. Had I gone off the road earlier or later, I could have hit one of them, then flipped the vehicle. But even worse, while still on the road, I could have spun broad-side or head-on into one of those other vehicles, hurt someone and/or myself, and/or significantly dented my wallet.

I said a few prayers of thanks to my maker and protector. I had dodged a big bullet, and I knew it. As a friend told me later: “You’ll never do THAT again, will you?” Nope. At least not on that road.

I was able to laugh at the silliness of my actions, and at how I felt like a teenager in his first winter of driving. My ski school supervisor laughed even harder when I told him why I was late for work. In addition, I often imagined the snarky, wise-ass comments other passers-by might have made upon seeing the accident scene.

Looking on the bright side, I did for a brief moment reflect on my skilled evasive driving maneuvers when disaster and possible injury to myself and another was imminent. All those winters in Upstate N.Y. did teach me a few things. Then I got humble again really fast.

I learned a stark lesson, and have given much more respect to this road ever since. My lesson was driven home daily, for three weeks after my mishap, every time I passed by the indentations in the snow in that ditch. It never snowed enough during all that time to cover up the evidence of my embarrassing blunder. I think that happened by design.

After the continued embarrassment, I started praying for snow to erase the “scene of the crime” from everyone’s view, especially mine. I had learned my lesson.

Here’s the Camry imprint in the ditch, after a very nice neighbor pulled me out on that cold, slippery December morning in Colorado.

     Site of the mishap.

 

Eye to Eye with an Alien

May 30, 2013 By Eric Schickler

Katy Couldn’t, Katy Could, Katy Didn’t, Katydid!

I’m not a big fan of creepy crawlers. Insects can become frightening monsters when viewed up close, when magnified by camera lenses or filters. You’ve seen the alien-like photos. Parents know not to show these images to their children before bedtime, or they’ll pay for it.

Sometimes, in the spirit of photographic documentation, I force myself to look beyond my fears, and capture images of nature’s small aliens.

The leggy green creature you see here caught my attention early one morning after I moved a large potted plant inside the house for the autumn and winter months.

This leaf-like bug had enough appendages to outperform any one-thumb hitchhiker you might find along the highway. But instead, he found himself unknowingly transported in piggyback fashion to a warmer climate inside a house. No need to use his many legs or wings to flag down a vehicle; he just needed to hang on tight for the ride.

As I moved the plant into a corner I came face-to-face, and bug-eyes to blue-eyes with him. After jumping back a few feet in total surprise, I eventually gathered the courage to introduced myself.

 

It was then that I recognized his eerie beauty, and asked if he’d be willing to pose for a few photos. Getting no auditory reply, I took his gentle antenna movements as an ambivalent “yes,” so off I went for my close-up filters, camera and tripod. I then arranged a red cloth as a backdrop for complementary color accent.

Two hours later, I had these images.

Yes, I know. I am easily distracted. Who could have predicted I’d be finishing my last cup of coffee with this type of unexpected visitor? While he was no conversationalist, he sure beat the unwelcome door-to-door solicitors who canvassed the city neighborhoods each day.

And how can you not love a face like his? I’m not sure who was more intrigued, me or him. He stared at me, and I at him. He’d move slowly down the long green reed and I’d follow, repositioning the tripod from another angle. Of course I chatted quietly with him all the while, trying to make him feel comfortable, and loose, and acting like himself, as I do with any subject in my studio.

I didn’t realize until recently what kind of insect this was. At first I thought he was a cicada, or a locust. He didn’t appear pious enough to be a praying mantis, and because he didn’t just hop away to freedom, I knew he was no simple grasshopper.

I wanted to understand who I was looking at for so long that late October morning in Denver. I had to know! If I could, I would. I knew I should. So I did. And I’ll be darned, he was a katy, a katydid.

A relative of the cricket, and less-so the grasshopper, these primarily nocturnal crawlers resemble their leafy surroundings so closely that during daylight hours they are rarely detected. They get their name from the phonetics of the male mating call, which folks who study insect noises say is: “katy did, katy didn’t.”

I find it ironic and funny that such ambiguous uncertainty, this case of “he said, she said,” or “she did, or said she did, but maybe she didn’t,” is related to mating activity. Do insects fake things to appease or mislead their mates? Or accuse them of such things? Or question their mates’ stories about what and what didn’t happen during you-know-what? Maybe insects aren’t that different than humans.

Regardless of all that, I cannot recall any subject remaining so still during a shoot. For that I paid him extra:  a piece of spinach and a small brussels sprout from the fridge. Much tastier than the plant he rode in on, and perhaps his version of “turning over a new leaf.”

I have to say, my new little alien friend was so well behaved, I moved a step closer to being more comfortable photographing insects. But before you liken me to Prince Valiant, remember: I know there’s always that camera between me and alien. That is my security.

If you are wondering, I refrained from letting him stay in the house all winter. He was escorted out soon after the photo shoot, after signing the model release form.

___________________

All photos and artwork included in this Web site are copyright-protected and the exclusive property of Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer. No downloading, use, reproduction, manipulation, sale and/or distribution permitted without express written consent.

© Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer

___________________

All photos and artwork included in this Web site are copyright-protected and the exclusive property of Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer. No downloading, use, reproduction, manipulation, sale and/or distribution permitted without express written consent.

© Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer

 

Soccer (Fútbol), Football and Baseball

April 27, 2013 By Eric Schickler

I really wanted to play football when I got into high school.

As a kid, I played in neighborhood pick-up games almost every afternoon during the fall. I was fast, rugged for a small guy, and competitive. In high school I now had the opportunity to join an organized team, with equipment and uniforms and official fields, with lights at night, announcers, yard lines, real opponents from other schools, and best of all, motivation we rarely had in our backyard games–cute cheerleaders bouncing around on the sidelines.

“Naw.  Too rough.  You’ll get crushed,” warned my dad. “You’re no giant, ya know. How about soccer?”

Pop was always extremely skilled at offering me options in life. As I got into my teens, both he and mom started loosening up on some of the strict parameters cast around me.  They developed this amazing ability to balance general advice with occasional specific orders. They operated then, and still do, with refined diplomatic grace. They are pure masters at it.

They were carefully, subtly, but deliberately introducing me to the concept of adult free will and the value of making my own thoughtful decisions. each of which results in either rewards or detrimental consequences, and more often than not, a mixture of both.

They were letting me learn from my successes and failures, as long as it was not too brutal. I usually caught on, realizing that sometimes short-term gratification and delight can mask over a hollow infrastructure, where more genuine, lasting benefits never materialize.

“But Dad, seriously? Soccer? Who plays soccer?” And who actually tells people they play soccer?”

Very few kids in America did play the sport when I was a young pup. It was popular in the Northeastern U.S., but was still in its infancy nationwide. Nevertheless, it was becoming more prevalent as a school sport, and dad saw it as a safer option for his son’s physical longevity.

“C’mon Dad, football players are tougher, have prettier cheerleaders, bigger crowds and attract more media attention. They also get more pages in the school yearbook.”

Deep down I recognized that there was another thing driving me. I know this may sound silly, but it’s a guy thing, I guess. Most of all, I wanted to wear a helmet. A helmet emblazoned with some cool team logo.

When you put on and take off a helmet, you know you’re playing a real sport. An intense sport. Helmets weren’t very prevalent in sports when I was young, so you were something special if you had one on your head. Nowadays, of course, a helmet, or some kind of protective head gear, is worn for nearly any activity: baseball, cycling, skiing, snowboarding, rafting, kayaking, mountain climbing, lacrosse, babysitting, day care, and divorce mediations. Who knew about all the potentials hazards back in the 1970s?

Even as a know-it-all teenager, I was smart enough to recognize that my folks were making a special effort to let me  steer my own ship, but were being kind enough to offer wisdom based on experience. Nearly always, they knew better. They wanted to protect me. That was their main job. They wanted me alive and standing up straight for the next family photo. I gave them credit for all that … at least most of the time.

In the case of playing football with guys twice my size, I could see that dad had a point. Besides, he liked me. He wanted me to make it to college, maybe even live into my twenties. I think he also wanted a reliable golf buddy for later in life.

Photo: NFL

His description of the top ten worst football injuries was the clincher. I was being swayed.

“You think it over for a few days, son. We’ll talk about it some more then.”

After a few follow-up discussions about the size of linebackers, those famous ten injuries, and the subsequent healthcare costs, I acquiesced.  Maybe I would like soccer. Besides, the school’s logo didn’t look all that impressive on the helmet.

____________

“Ya know, Dad, I do like soccer. I like soccer players better, too. They don’t have that super tough-guy attitude football players have. And they aren’t hung up on rituals and symbolism like baseball players. Plus, it’s a hell of lot more fun and active than that stupid baseball I played when I was in elementary school. Little League and all that organized, pretentious stuff. No action and a lot of sitting on the bench was all that was. Besides, I hated missing those fly balls out in centerfield. How was I supposed to know it was because I needed glasses?  Everyone, including myself, just figured I sucked as an outfielder.”

Since  they invented contact lenses, I could enjoy soccer to its fullest. Besides, the ball was easier to see in the first place. Soccer is so much better for a kid’s self-esteem and confidence for one huge, simple reason. If you screw up in a game, maybe get the darned ball stolen right from under your feet by a guy you truly dislike, you have an immediate opportunity for recourse.

You can chase his butt down, steal the ball back, and do something awesome with it, like juggle it in front of the cheerleaders, bounce it off your head, heel-flick it to a teammate, or maybe even score a goal. And you could do it as soon as your young little feet got you back in the vicinity of the ball. And the crowd, of course, would go berserk, because you got revenge, and sports fans love that kind of thing.

So soccer allowed you to control your own performance. If you wanted to get results, you had more opportunity to go after it. What could be more American than that? (Even if it’s not an American game).

But in baseball, if you dropped a fly ball out in center field, you’d have to stand there, in full open view of everyone, looking stupid and embarrassed for one, two, maybe three full innings! Your ability to recover your dignity solely depended on the sheer chance that some chump on the other team might hit another fly ball in your direction.

 

Otherwise, you were stuck with the everlasting shame of missing an easy fly ball, maybe even losing the game for your team. What kind of a game is that for kids? Why should one’s ability to get results depend on so much structure, on someone else’s actions? It’s a very strange game. Not enough action, and too much nonsensical, unnecessary talking.

And what’s with all those ridiculous signs baseball coaches make to instruct their runners about what to do next? Then there’s the catcher doing practically the same thing to the pitcher, except he’s making frantic maneuvers between his legs, which in many ways looks like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing in public, all the while encouraging the pitcher to look in that specific location very carefully.

Baseball. Really? If it weren’t slow enough already, you can also just stop the action, at any time–with permission from the almighty, infallible umpire, of course. And he always grants it. So the fans reach for a beer or order more Cracker Jack, because there’s yet another break in the action. Why? Because, I truly believe, the catcher needs to chat with the pitcher about what he should get his girlfriend for her birthday, so he halts the game and saunters to the mound for advice. Then, to guarantee that nobody else gets in on the secret gift ideas, they mumble to each other behind the privacy of their dirty leather gloves.

And have you ever seen the umpire inquire about the content of the pitcher’s-mound chatty-chat? No siree. Because that brief pause gave him the chance to adjust his chest protector and mask, clean the dirt off his cleats, blow his nose, check his text messages and adjust his protective cup.

Kids who played baseball came back from games with all the energy in the world because all they did was stand around (in a “park,” no doubt) for nearly half the game. They hardly ever broke a sweat. If they did, it was because it was August, and hot and humid. Good thing baseball is played in the summer, or players would freeze their knee socks off for lack of movement.

It became apparent to me at an early age that I had way too much energy and need for movement to be standing in a “park” waiting for some half-blind, slow-reflex redhead with freckles to connect his bat to a 50-MPH fastball and possibly send it skyward to me, bored and left ruminating about today’s geography test disaster way out in left field.

And if dad and mom didn’t want me to collide with, or evade others with my speed and maneuverability on a “gridiron,” I guess I could settle for running frantically after a bouncing ball on a “pitch.”

So now I understand why soccer has become such a craze for youth. It lets them control their own fate in the game. They can effect change at almost any given moment. It’s a training field for assertiveness, initiative and entrepreneurism.  It also allows them to expend all that exuberance and sugar-induced energy, rendering them harmless to their siblings and parents when they come home for the night.

 

Soccer was just starting to catch on when I as a kid. Back then, in the 1970s, everyone played baseball or football. You didn’t play soccer unless you had a foreign accent.

While I still idolized the intense action, thrills and aggressiveness of football, I found that it worked best from the comfort of the easy chair, in front of the TV every Sunday afternoon. When my body was ready for rest, I’d set my butt down, watch game after game, and let those guys put theirs to the test.

Later in life, I developed a greater affection for soccer because I was precluded from playing it competitively due to a heel injury.  Titanium screws and plates don’t lend themselves to soccer shoe comfort. And the idea of one good kick on the heel was all I needed to relegate me to the spectator’s seat for all future soccer games.

Nowadays when I watch a soccer match on TV, I long for being on the field again. I can’t help but move in my chair, or if I’m standing, my leg and feet will emulate the movements of the player with the ball. It’s just ingrained in my soul. That’s soccer for you. It becomes part of you. It gets under your skin. I’m the same way with skiing. I love to watch World Cup racing, and I marvel at the technical skills of the world’s beat skiers, but it just makes me want to be out there skiing myself.

Football is different. I DO NOT want to be out there doing it myself! I want those monstrous, muscle-bound hulks of sweating testosterone doing all the fun work for me, while I adjust the HD setting on my 50-inch plasma TV, eat chicken wings, drink beer, put another log on the fire and stuff a comfy pillow behind my back. Dad was right. Playing football is not for everyone.

But I am not ignorant to the fact that soccer does involve a hell of a lot of running around, back and forth, hither and thither, to and fro, and some might say, around in circles, just for the grand satisfaction of one, maybe two goals during a 90-minute game. Or maybe even a 0-0 tie, followed by the dreaded shoot-out.

And then there’s the interesting concept of the headball, a move which more often than not involves the clunking of two heads together, followed by dramatic falls to the grass by both aerialists, and B-rated, Off-Broadway acting that wouldn’t and shouldn’t garner the slightest sympathy from the most protective mom. Let alone a referee. I really wonder if every team has a drama coach on the payroll.

While there are some wussy elements to soccer, it is generally a very rough, grueling and demanding sport. There are plenty of nasty collisions. And unlike those wussy football players, all secure and bold in their arsenals of protective equipment, soccer players wear a jockstrap, shorts and a shirt. Okay, maybe shin guards. But that’s it.

And if that’s not convincing enough, we’ve all heard the stories about dictators and communist governments or fellow citizens threatening to or actually terminating the lives of unsuccessful soccer players. You don’t want to miss that last shoot-out attempt if you play for North Korea, believe you me.

Excitement erupts, along with an occasional riot or grandstand collapse, whenever a goal is actually scored in an important game. And what opera fan doesn’t long for and soak up the announcer’s elongated, roaring “G-O-A-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L” soliloquy? I honestly think that he thinks if he groans out this single word long enough, fans will think maybe more than one goal was scored, thereby inciting a more widespread riot in the stadium.

Fortunately, no soccer player is ever going to grab the referee, ask to stop the game, and saunter across the field to ask his goalie what to get his girlfriend for her birthday. That’s a definite yellow card. Maybe even a red card. Imagine the riots this might provoke?

As an adult, on several occasions I’ve thanked my dad for averting my attention away from high school football, and suggesting soccer. I know I saved him a bunch of money that doctors would have only used to play golf at exclusive country clubs, all the while chuckling with their other doctor friends over vodka-infused Arnold Palmers at the 19th hole about how they love football players and their frequent horrendous injuries.

As I became more worldly, and learned that outside the U.S. soccer is actually called football, or, as our Hungarian friends say, “futball,” I developed a much-deserved sense of satisfaction that I had it both ways in high school. I actually did get to play organized football, and soccer too — all at the same time. So no worries, Dad. Don’t feel bad. I hold no grudge.

One more thing about soccer. Back in the 1970s, the high school girls found it to be a curious new sport, and showed an attraction to us soccer players. I think it had something to do with the lack of heavy, protective equipment and the fact that we played in shorts. Or maybe they just liked a guy who could run for hours on end, perhaps score once, or maybe not at all, and still be happy.

*****

All photos and text on this web site are copyright-protected and the exclusive property of Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer. No downloading, use, reproduction, manipulation, sale and/or distribution permitted without express written consent.

 

 

 

A Life Lived Well … from Starting Gate to Finish Line. Tribute to Jimmie Heuga.

February 12, 2010 By Eric Schickler

A Tribute to My Friend, Jimmie Heuga

Photo by Jim Heath

The public relations business requires that its practitioners promote, protect, market, and manage the reputation of a product, service, company, or in some instances, a single person.

At the heart of the PR business is careful management of media coverage and public opinions.

In my 25 years of work in the PR business, spanning promotion of complicated high-tech products, building materials, transportation projects, recreation services, health services and a myriad of Internet businesses, the greatest job I ever had in the PR/marketing business was assisting in the promotion of the man Jimmie Heuga, and the Jimmie Heuga Center.

Being hired as part of the Heuga Center, as its PR Director, was a indeed a privilege. Joining Jimmie and all his supporters in promoting the philosophies and programs of the Center quickly became so much more than a job. It became an avocation. A labor of love. A train ride.

I recall during one of my first chats with Jimmie, he said, “Ya know, Eric, the Center is growing, we have plans to do a lot more, and expand nationally. You’re our first designated PR man. You can keep the job if you can accomplish one thing:  make those media people spell my name right! It’s Jimmie with an “ie,” not a “y.”   Then he flashed that incomparable smirk and walked out of my office.

After just a few weeks working with Jimmie, I knew my work was indeed part of a shared mission. It was never difficult to get up in the morning to go to work at the Heuga Center. It was, however, often difficult to feel like the day’s work was done, even as darkness fell each night. We had only to watch Jimmie and the grueling schedules he would keep to squeeze a few more hours of work out of ourselves each night.

I cannot count the number of friends I gained through working alongside him to help people fighting MS. The experiences shared with co-workers, the tireless fund raising efforts, the long winter seasons traveling from ski resort to ski resort to make each SKI EXPRESS event as successful as possible. The national media promotions, interviews and partnerships. The special events and dinners.

As staff people at the Heuga Center, we occupied an interesting position. We were the intermediaries between legions of the greatest friends, volunteers and donors in the world, and the people around the United States who were searching for some hope in dealing with the ravages of multiple sclerosis.

Fueling it all, inspiring it all was Jimmie Heuga. Jimmie was our spiritual and enigmatic leader. He was the fulcrum of this great, unique, developing storm against multiple sclerosis. The momentum was unstoppable as more and more people found out about who Jimmie was, what he sought to do, and how he was doing it.

Photo by Jim Heath

The most rewarding part of my job, as with my various other nonprofit, human-service jobs, was seeing the human benefit that resulted from all the public support, fund raising events and work of the staff, volunteers, and board members. That was what fueled my energy for the years I worked for the Heuga Center.

I watched countless inspirational talks by Jimmie, in front of numerous and diverse audiences across the U.S.  But the best talks were those between him and the people he understood so intimately—the participants in the medical programs—other people who had MS.

I witnessed the sense of yearning, desire, hopelessness, despair, frustration, anxiety, uncertainty, anger and fatigue in the folks who signed up or were sponsored to attend the Heuga CAN DO programs.

After five days in the program, assistance from the many talented health and wellness specialists, and daily interaction with Jimmie, these people’s outlooks, spirits, and energy were lifted out of the mire. They were changed human beings.

They were now hopeful, enabled, confident, eager again to continue their lives within the limitations of MS. Now they were oriented toward what they still COULD DO; the focus was no longer on the limitations.  The Heuga Center gave them the individualized templates they needed to live again. To love life again. To cope and prosper. And it was all borne out of what Jimmie experienced and did for himself in his mid-20s, when MS cut short his promising competitive skiing career.

After witnessing this miracle time after time, program after program, I was equipped with the tools, the beliefs, the buy-in, the motivation and a clear awareness of mission to perform what I consider to this day my most meaningful and rewarding public relations, marketing and fund raising work.

As Jimmie’s PR guy, I had something most PR people never have…..a tireless, talented, dedicated, inspirational, extremely kind and likable PR machine. The Jimmie Heuga Express.

His life story, his revolutionary, iconoclastic ideas about dealing with MS, his vision and plan and mission, coupled with his undeniable magnetism, resulted in thousands of changed lives.

Even for those of us who don’t have MS, if you ever met the man, if you had the privilege of spending time with him, learning from him, and watching him do his magic in life, you are now a richer person. You’ll forever be on board the Jimmie Heuga Express.

__________________________________________

High on the Winner’s Podium

I was fortunate enough to spend time near a man in Colorado who possessed enviable courage and inspired countless people around the world to live productive and meaningful lives.

He transferred his exuberance for skiing into an exuberance for living daily life, despite the debilitating constraints imposed on him by Multiple Sclerosis.

His courage and his smile were infectious. He rallied so many toward his cause and created a family of supporters, a family of friends, all of whom loved him dearly.

With his bright outlook, his witty humor, his energy, his tireless dedication to helping others with their MS, and his daily endurance of his own MS, Jimmie Heuga became a champion in life.

Yet that champion would happily engage in a personable conversation with anyone he met, anywhere, anytime. He even offered a ride to my hitchhiking brother one cold Colorado night in the 1970s, along a dark road in Vail. He was just a great guy, a great local in the Vail Valley. My brother had no idea he got a ride from an Olympic champion.

His reach in life was enormous. His impact immeasurable. He touched so many lives.

But what will endure most for me is his simple, inspirational and transformational message of hope. He helped me develop a strength within my own self when I was a young man; he became a mentor. I will always strive to keep the lessons Jimmie taught me through his example foremost in my mind:

“There is no need to complain about your woes in life, …… cope with them, be strong, focus on what you CAN DO, not on what you CANNOT.”

JIMMIE HEUGA

1943 – 2010

What is the Reason for Seasons?

December 20, 2009 By Eric Schickler

 

Seasons on Earth.
Seasons of our lives.

We can have all four seasons in one day.
We can get stuck in one season for too long.
We can move through some seasons too quickly.
We are sometimes ready for the next season, sometimes not.
Sometimes we don’t prepare for the coming season.
Everyone has their favorite season or seasons; but sometimes those favorites change over time.
I have learned as I grow older and more experienced that I like all the seasons equally. It wasn’t always that way. I see how they are all valiant and important. None better that the rest.

Each season has gradual changes as it fades to the next.
And yet there are bursts of dramatic change:
A snowstorm in September.  A 60-degree sunny day in February.  A hailstorm in June.

Each season offers us variations in experience, lifestyle, activities.

The differences among the seasons keep us fresh, versatile, adaptable, on our toes.

We often try to maximize the unique attributes of each season as it nears its end:
We sadden when we see those long, warm summer days fade into autumn.
The glorious colors of autumn, and its cool days, just don’t seem to last long enough.
Dropping leaves and dying vegetation signal the landscape is getting ready to rest.
And the harshness of winter is hard to handle at first.

It’s hard to say goodbye to winter ski season, as ski slopes turn to mush. Mud season blues. The big melt-off.

We often treasure those temperate, blossom-filled days of spring, apprehensive of excessive summer heat.

We are lucky to have four seasons here where we live.

We are lucky to have seasons in our lives.

We are lucky to have each other through all seasons of the year, over many years.

Lives have seasons, emotions have seasons, bodies have seasons.

Those who love each other, those who love us, teach about getting through seasons successfully. But oftentimes, we are forced to learn through our own private experiences how best to enjoy each season, how to survive the harsh elements of each season, and how to best transition from one to the next. And how to juxtapose the seasons to each other to see how each is important, despite their differences.

Autumn of 2009 was a difficult and tumultuous season of change.  The vegetation died more quickly. The leaves did too. And they made different sounds as they hit the ground. The nights were colder than usual, and were colder sooner in the season.

Now the snow is here. The earth frozen. A “cooling off” period of sorts. A time of rest and reflection. A time for muted peace under the snowy quilted blanket.

The rest period begins.

Spring will be here soon, though — full of new blossoms, sprung from those stable roots. The roots that have endured many seasons, many living challenges, learning new ways for better growth as years go by.

Think of how “seasonings” shape the flavor of foods.   We, as well, are flavored by and shaped by the seasons.

December 2009

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