A Slew of Subarus? Who Knew?

The very first new car I ever bought—In Brattleboro, Vermont, back in 1973—was a wimpy little yellow Subaru DL sedan. I paid $2459 for it. I remember lamenting that its engine was the same size as that of a large-ish motorcycle.

Subarus have come a long ways. Now every time I visit Vermont, I’m struck by the staggering number of them—old and new—I see on the roads and streets.

I’m guessing Subarus, with their relatively small models and across-the-line four-wheel drive, resonate with not just practical needs—the snow, the mud, the rugged landscapes, the small-town and rural digs of many Vermonters—but also their values—love of the outdoors, respect for the environment, an appreciation of scale, responsible consumerism—and perhaps even, as touted in Subaru’s marketing, LOVE.

       The choice of a car is a statement, part 
       of the uniform we wear to show the world 
       our stripes.

THEY’RE MULTIPLYING!
Lately, I’ve been noticing a tremendous surge in the number of Subarus plying the streets of the Twin Cities (Minneapolis / St. Paul MN). I wondered if it was just my imagination—or perhaps a self-reinforcing result of my leaning toward a Subaru for my own next car.

So yesterday, while out walking, I conducted my own little survey. I postulated that, if my theory bore out, I’d spot—among the 45 or so vehicle brands sold in
the U.S.—at least four Subarus in the time it took me to walk the eight blocks
back home.

I saw seventeen. And this morning, of the 30 or so cars parked in my office building’s west lot, seven are Subarus.

I decided to check out my theory, and I find—at, of all places, iSeeCars.com—a
list of the ten states where Subarus are most popular. No surprise to me: Vermont is number one. But among the other nine, Minnesota is nowhere to be seen.
 
           Might folks be at least trying to make 
           a modest, sensible choice?

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
So what’s going on? Are Subarus even more popular than I thought in the rest of the country? Has the apparent Subaru boom here in the Twin Cities happened so recently that it simply hasn’t yet made the iSeeCars list?

Perhaps it’s just my neighborhood; like maybe we’re sort of the Vermont of Twin Cities communities. I’ll keep my eyes open as I wander around the rest of the metro, but I suspect the phenomenon is widespread.

My reasoning might best be explained in its own post here, but I’ll bet it has something to do not just with consumers’ needs and the effectiveness of Subaru’s marketing, but with the mood of the nation in this bizarre, post-reason period in
our history.

Given how difficult it is to function in this culture without a car, might more
and more folks, given the paucity of practical alternatives, be at least trying to
make a modest, sensible choice—one that lays claim, symbolically as much as functionally, to their values in the face of the most sweeping attack by an administration on wise environmental stewardship seen in our lifetime?

After all, the choice of a car says a lot about a person. It involves much more than
a practical convergence of needs and features. It’s a statement of personality and beliefs, part of the uniform we wear to show the world our stripes.

The hopeful yet misguided Trump base can have their rattletraps and pickups. And the new oligarchy they’ve chosen to lead them—the only true beneficiaries of this regime’s largesse—can have their Range Rovers, Escalades and stretch limos.

Me? I have more concern and more hope for my grandchildren's future than that...and I’m secure with my masculinity; I’ll take that wimpy little Subaru.

JACK AND THE BIFLOP – Hypnosis for Dummies

You are feeling completely relaxed and yet very alert…Your eyelids are so buoyant you couldn’t shut them if you tried…You will read what follows as if it held the key to eternal happiness…

The human mind is an awesome—sometimes frightening—thing. Exploring it is like sticking your head into a dark cave. You want to see what’s in there, but you realize that, whatever it is, it may not want to see you. Nonetheless, those of us who are incurably curious, who never want to stop learning and growing, can’t help ourselves; we continue sticking our heads in that cave.

If you’re curious about Nature, you have to be curious about your own mind. You want to know how it works, how it gives rise to your feelings and actions, why it changes, and where its blind spots are. By the same token, if you’re too busy, too self-obsessed, too encumbered by stress to notice what’s going on around you, you’ll almost surely fail to notice and appreciate what’s going on in you.

PRIVATE PRACTICE
One of the most compelling glimpses into the mind I’ve ever seen seemed, on its surface, just a frivolous prank. I was at Fort Devens in north-central Massachusetts, training to be an army communications security analyst. I learned that Jim, one of my barracks mates and a fellow student in Morse code class, was a recreational hypnotist.

The human mind is like a dark cave. You want to see what’s in there, but whatever it is, it may not want to see you.

Jim had been asking around our unit for guys who’d be willing to let him put them out—not just willing subjects, he admitted, but good, easy, gullible ones. He didn’t have to look far. Jack Smith, a regular Army private from Detroit, eagerly volunteered. Jack was a nice young man, tall and, though somewhat doughy, reasonably trim. I suspected he hadn’t had access to much education.

Jim hypnotized Jack several times, putting him through hilarious routines, some of which went so well that I suspected, at first, they’d been rehearsed. He created imaginary "force fields" around things that would make Jack unable to touch them, no matter how hard he tried. He'd make Jack shiver and sweat simply by telling him the room was getting colder or hotter.

Seeing Jack’s actions completely taken over by someone he hardly knew was simultaneously hilarious and chilling. Perhaps the most amazing demonstration was Jim’s planting a knockout “trigger” word in Jack’s mind. Just before we went on Christmas leave, Jim hypnotized Jack and told him that, even after he was out of his trance, whenever he heard Jim say the word biflop, he’d immediately fall into a deep sleep and do whatever Jim told him to do.

Jim had Jack wrapping his arms around himself and shivering, and then, a minute later, he was turning red and sweating.

MONSTERS AT THE MARGINS
When we returned from leave, Jim got everyone together, ostensibly to share stories of our trips home. He made sure Jack was sitting down on a bunk with guys on either side of him.

Jim started talking about his Christmas with his family, and then decided to tease poor, gullible Jack. He needed a word that sounded like it was going to be biflop, but wasn’t. We all had a corner of our eyes on Jack. “So,” Jim continued, “I was anxious to get back ‘cause I couldn’t wait to go out on… biv-v-v-ouac.”
 
As that very deliberate, emphasized first syllable passed Jim’s lips, Jack’s eyelids fluttered and his chin started to slump. Quickly recovering from the false start, Jack couldn’t figure out why everyone was in stitches.

Jim continued his monologue for another half minute and then dropped the bomb right in the middle of another innocent-sounding sentence. “…It was an amazing dinner: turkey, dressing, squash, you know, all the biflop…” Jack collapsed, saved from falling to the floor only by the men sitting next to him.

UNWITTING SUBJECTS
I never let Jim hypnotize me. First of all, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t work. I wasn’t suggestible enough, not to mention trusting enough. Secondly, I’ve never much liked being embarrassed.

Finally, I must admit to fearing such a profound loss of control, and the possibility of being exposed—especially without the presence of a professional psychologist—to whatever monsters might unwittingly have been provoked from the margins of my consciousness.

How about you? Ever been hypnotized? How has it helped—or hurt—you? Has it helped you be more aware? More curious? Are we, in some ways, hypnotized unconsciously by our daily routines, our schedules, our gadgets, the media? How might this affect our children and grandchildren as they inherit stewardship of this amazing, fragile planet?

CONCENTRIC RINGS – A Lifetime Shared With #4

While out walking this morning, I came to a favorite spot along my usual route. It's a small, unkempt grove of dense woods on an odd parcel of land hemmed in between the Mississippi River Parkway, the Shriner's Hospital and a steep railroad berm. I've always enjoyed the fifty or sixty steps it takes to amble past this little forest remnant, half expecting to look in and see a deer or a wild turkey.

But today, just like that, my little slice of urban Eden is gone, cleared right down to barren ground. And all for who knows what—most likely yet another condo project. Something, perhaps, like not seeing the forest for the fees.

        

How casually we humans trample Nature, squashing life as thoughtlessly as we might step 
on a bug with the audacity to get in our way.

I couldn't help thinking about that community of living things, that extended family, spending—what, certainly many decades—competing for air, sunlight and scarce nutrients, and ultimately finding their symbiotic balance. How casually we humans trample Nature, squashing life as thoughtlessly as we might step on a bug with the audacity to get in our way.

As I surveyed the carnage, I kept being drawn to the stumps, those still-living feet of noble oaks, elms and ash. Just days ago, each had stood proud, each with its own personality, unique for its size, shape and perhaps the number and severity of its battle scars. Today, they're reduced to numbers, branded in gaudy green spray paint.

      

This one—the only one I'd felt compelled to 
stand on—and I had shared almost exactly the 
same lifetime.

I stepped up on number 4 and stood there, imagining myself its missing trunk and branches. I wondered how long this sweet, patient being had stood here…and how long it might have remained, but for the ambitions of a few strangers.

Curious, I knelt down, brushed away the sawdust and elm seeds, and started counting the rings. And that's when my feelings about this one tree suddenly turned from mere empathy to something more.

You see, I'd counted exactly 67 rings, which means this oak was born in 1945—the same year I was. Of all the departed souls from this forest, this one—the only one I'd felt compelled to stand on—and I had shared almost exactly the same lifetime.

PHOTO: Paul Lupo

Tears welled up in my eyes as the mystical power of that thought swirled around me. I tried to imagine the acorn splitting, that single, tender root probing down into warm soil, that gangly shoot reaching straight up to catch sun's gaze…just as I may have been taking my first breath, catching my first glimpse of the light of day.

Could either of us possibly have known, at some metaphysical level, that the other had just arrived too? Had we ever laid eyes on each other? Had my parents ever just happened to drive me past this spot where, just a few feet away, my contemporary was also growing up?

I hoped the "rings" of my life...might be noticed 
by someone, someday.

Now, I know this tree and I never shared the slightest intentional connection, but what I couldn't—and can't—dismiss is the certainty of how much we did share: the same cool, rainy April mornings; the same sweltering July afternoons; the same crisp October breezes; the same hunkering down through all those long Minnesota winters.

Sadly, ironically, I'd just realized all this common ground with a new friend whose life was over. I headed home wistfully, hoping the "rings" of my life—those varying layers of experience and growth I, too, have accumulated—might be noticed by someone, someday, and be considered as right and worthy as I consider those of oak number 4.

I suspect I'll be contemplating those 67 cryptic rings of life for some time.  How many more will grow for me before they must yield to the ambitions of others? How long before, like ripples spreading from a splash, they're absorbed by the vastness of time?