Jennifer Taylor, MFA

The last morning in Vancouver I got up before anyone else and walked to my favorite indie coffee shop. On the way I noticed a sign posted on a tree about a missing cat. “We’ve been around the neighborhood with cat treats for her, but to no avail. We think some kind-hearted person took Skittles in, but we love her more than anything and want her back.” I kept a lookout for the missing feline, but didn’t see her.

I picked up lattes that put Starbucks to shame, along with vegetarian breakfast samosas. I slowly walked back through the quiet neighborhood thinking how much I would miss being there. As I walked, I looked in the second story windows of houses where quite a few owners placed flower arrangements on tables in front of the windows. Later our host told us she was glad to keep the flowers that Micah had bought for me because she hadn’t gotten anything for Valentine’s Day. The same day we left she had another group of five arriving.

After packing up, we headed back to the main road to look around before time to board the bus. We had lunch in a Thai/Malaysian restaurant and I had time for another coffee before we met the Quick Shuttle. The driver this time was more low-key, although he said we might have quite a wait at the border. It took about thirty minutes of waiting for a bus ahead of us to finish up before we were able to go through the security line and were back in the U.S. “Welcome home,” the officer told us.

Jon and I waited outside for the taxi at 5:50 in the morning. Although buses ran early, none would be able to cart us from one section of the city over to BCIT technical school, in time to catch a shuttle to Whistler. Zooming across town felt surreal that early.

A woman wearing an orange poncho stood at the entrance of BCIT with a flashlight and asked if we were going to Whistler. Once Jon and I were in line for one of the buses, I noticed a guy with a giant thermos of coffee strapped to his back. Volunteers from the Salvation Army held cooling cups of hot chocolate out to us.

On board, the bus driver made an announcement before we took off for the two and a half hour drive to Whistler. “My name is Christian,” he said. “Let’s all pray that we can get to Whistler this morning. I’ve been there once.” My brother laughed along with the crowd while I pulled on Jon’s sleeve. “He’s joking, right?” I asked. Jon shrugged. Christian later said he’s from State College, PA and drove his coach all the way from there. He wasn’t kidding about only making one trip to the mountain. His company had been contracted to help manage transportation since the roads were only open to buses and local residents.

As the bus rumbled onto the highway, we were treated to the sun rising over the mountains casting an orange glow onto the water. While Jon slept, I watched out the window, transfixed by the scenery. The road wove through the mountains in an endless series of twists and turns. When Christian passed another bus, he waved an arm in victory.

As we approached Whistler Olympic Park, I nudged Jon. “Almost there,” I said. We heard one of Christian’s co-workers on the walkie-talkie. He had gotten to the turn off for the park, but didn’t have the right parking permit, so he had to turn the full bus around and head back down the mountain and wait for someone to bring a permit. Luckily Christian had the permit, which he generously offered to loan his co-worker for a couple hundred dollars.

After we stumbled off of the bus, we got caught up in the crowd’s excitement. “Hello and welcome to the 2010 Olympics!” a woman yelled from a megaphone. “Happy Valentine’s Day and Chinese New Year!” she added. We headed toward a series of tents that served as coverings for security lines. After being checked out (my boots had metal buckles and had to be wanded), we wandered around the base of the mountain. We’d hoped to be able to see the village of Whistler, but we were too far away from it.

The walk from the bus to the mountain top was probably a little over a mile, uphill. We enjoyed the walk, although several people seemed to struggle. I again wondered how older people or those with disabilities would be able to get to the event. During the walk, we stopped by a Vancouver 2010 banner to take a photo. A volunteer asked if we’d like to have our picture taken together and we said sure. “Act like you like each other,” she said while taking the photo. “It’s Valentine’s Day!”
“He’s my brother,” I replied, and we laughed. “So sorry,” she said. “I’m not going to say that to anyone else today!”

Close to the top of the mountain, we stopped to watch ice sculptors working on a local scene. We walked past a couple of food stands and an overpriced store selling Olympic gear at inflated prices. Then we saw athletes ski right by us doing practice runs for the biathlon. Loudspeakers blared about milestones in biathlon history. We bought coffee and hot chocolate along with some pretzels. One of the guys working in the food stall from Australia asked if I wanted a Snickers or a cookie. “It’s too early for that,” I said, even though later, I’d wish I had gotten both. “Welcome to the Games,” he said, handing the drinks to me. “It’s awesome to be here,” I replied. He nodded.

Armed with warm drinks and food, we walked up another slight hill toward the biathlon track. There were about two and a half hours before the event would begin, but the crowds were filling up the standing section and bleachers. We walked around trying to find the best vantage point in the crowd, and decided on two spots were we could see the shooting portion and athletes as they rounded the corner to the finish line.

We passed the time by people watching. Several spectators had brought their country’s flags, which they either carried in their hands, or draped around themselves. Some people brought cowbells. Some began drinking beer for breakfast. The people on the right side of us sat down on the snow and had a picnic. And then the Portland couple decided to camp out next to us. They were probably in their 60’s. He was prepared - binoculars, sunscreen, umbrella and comments for everything. Over the next couple of hours, he proceeded to tell us about (in no particular order): his wife’s emerald ring that he got her for Valentine’s Day, that his son was partying at their house, how much it cost to send his son to college, how his son kept calling to ask for money, about the history of the biathlon and about one athlete in particular named Ollie.

When the sun shone on the mountain and warmed us up, he shared his sunscreen while complaining about the glare. Later when the temperature dropped and rain fell, he whined about how could this be the winter Olympics? And even later during a rain/snow mix, he talked about being cold.

There were 88 participating in the biathlon. As each one skied by, he yelled something like “go Chinese dude,” or “Ollie I have a man crush on you. I’d marry you if I wasn’t married already!” I’m not saying that’s why the extremely accomplished Ollie came in thirteenth that day instead of in the top five, but I might be insinuating that had something to do with it.

Biathlon is a very complicated sport - after skiing, the athletes have to alternate between shooting targets standing up and lying down. If they missed any of the five targets in a row, they had to ski penalty laps, which is what happened to Ollie. The event took about an hour and a half, and the crowd went through all of the weather changes with the athletes. By the end, I couldn’t feel my toes, but the sleeting had finally stopped and the sun emerged again. We watched the flower ceremony and the athlete from France who won that portion before we went back down the mountain, tired. This time the bus driver was a woman who didn’t say anything during the ride back.

Once back at BCIT, we had to find out directions to the bus stop. We were able to ride public transit for free around the city by showing our Olympic ticket. The older bus driver asked me how the event had been. “Cool,” I said. “Right, but how was it?” he asked. “Really fun,” I said.

A group of Canadians from another part of the country sat near us and asked about Whistler. They had tickets for an event there in a couple of days. “Were you warm enough?” one of the women asked me. I nodded. “Are you generally warm or cold?” she continued. The others laughed. “She’s going through menopause and doesn’t know how to dress,” one of the men said. We talked with them for a while and they mistook us for Canadians.

Once home after the nearly hour-long ride, Micah handed me a lovely bouquet of pink and white carnations with baby’s breath and lots of greenery. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said. That night we had dinner again at the Indian restaurant where the owner remembered us and what we had ordered.

Next, the last day in Vancouver and the trek back to the U.S.

The next day Micah and Jon set out for the Richmond Oval to see speed skating. In an effort to green the Olympics, spectators were able to take public transit up to a certain point, and then had to walk the rest of the way. The guys had to walk a mile both to the arena and back to the bus after the event. The weather was mild but a steady drizzle fell most of the time we were there.

Mom and I set out to see more of the city. We sat on the bench at a bus shelter along with a guy in a hockey jersey. As the bus approached, we all stood up and walked to the stop - only for the bus to pass by. “Hey,” the guy yelled. “We were waiting for you!” Because it was Canada, the next bus right behind that one (not the number we needed), stopped to say we had to be standing right at the stop for the bus.

So I stood watch next to the bus sign. The man who lives in Vancouver said he had never heard of that rule. He didn’t have tickets to any of the events, but was on his way to a friend’s house to watch speed skating. He said he hoped that we were enjoying the city, and was glad we had event tickets.

Mom and I had a great time walking through Kitsilano, a cute part of the city filled with shops, restaurants, bakeries, cafes and florists. Since it was the day before the Valentine holiday, all of the flower shops had lovely displays on the sidewalks under their awnings. We saw several men carrying bouquets and vases.

We meandered into different stores and were impressed by the shopkeeper’s friendliness. They all wanted to know where we were from and if we had event tickets. We spoke with a lady about the luge tragedy, and she said she wasn’t going to watch any of that sport’s coverage on TV. “I couldn’t stand it,” she said. We agreed and told her about our decision not to attend the event.

Later, we bought fabulous cupcakes at Cupcakes by Heather and Lori. I’m quite the cupcake connoisseur, and the Diva is right up there with the best I’ve eaten. Made of chocolate cake, pink vanilla butter cream and pink sugar crystals, it was delicious enough for me to still consider ordering for a special occasion from Atlanta. We had lunch at the Banana Leaf, a good Malaysian restaurant with a tropical vibe. And of course I drank coffee from various shops along the way. I was sad to reach the Wired Monk too late in our journey to have more caffeine.

Our favorite store was Shine, a boutique with consignment and new clothing. We both bought scarves, and the owner gave us free recyclable tote bags. A couple of blocks from the store a woman asked where we had gotten the bags.

Back at the house, Micah and Jon were tired from their adventure. They had enjoyed watching the event and flower ceremony. Afterwards they took the sky train to the downtown area and took photos of the outdoor Olympic torch. That night we stayed in and had a light supper and those amazing cupcakes.

For my next installment I’ll write about our trip to Whistler for the biathlon and the character from Portland, OR.

On our first full day in Vancouver we had breakfast at an independent coffee shop before heading out to explore the city. Getting around was incredibly easy, even during the Games. We took a bus to the sky train and then found ourselves downtown. We had hopes of tickets to the opening ceremonies, but balked at the $1,100 price for seats and decided we could watch along with the rest of the world on TV.

Our first stop was the historic area of Gastown with cobblestone streets. We wandered into shops tucked into old buildings set against the backdrop of the harbor, working steam clock, and gaslights. I was struck by how friendly the shopkeepers were. They all asked where we were from, and if we were enjoying our visit. Most of the people we spoke with who live in Vancouver didn’t have tickets to any of the events (including our hosts), but planned to follow them on TV.

We had lunch at the Water Street Cafe, a cute place overlooking the water and steam clock. In keeping with the Olympic spirit, we had torch martinis, a tasty blend of champagne and pomegranate juice. After lunch, Micah and Jon went up in the Lookout at Harbour Centre that has a great view of the entire city. That’s when they heard about Nodar Kumaritasvili’s tragic death during his luge practice run. Jon and I had luge tickets, but I was apprehensive about seeing the event and possibly witnessing something awful, since that is the fastest luge track in the world. Reports would later say he was at fault, however with as many accidents that have taken place on the track it seems as though preventative measures could’ve been taken beforehand.

Saddened by the news, we headed over the Chinatown, which is the second largest in North America. We wandered though Dr. Sun Yat Sen Garden and Park, which was built in 1986 for the World Expo held in Vancouver. There are multiple buildings and pools all constructed in the classical style. It was a very peaceful area, except for a man who was stumbling around either on something or battling a mental illness. As we turned to leave, we saw EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT on the side of a nearby building in light up letters. We later found out that’s a fairly recent addition by a builder.

On the bus back, we saw a huge crowd gathered at Robson Square where some kind of Olympic rally had been held. Even though the city was adorned with Olympic banners and crowded in areas, it wasn’t overwhelming. And aside from a clogged sky train ride, we didn’t feel hemmed in by crowds.

That night we decided to order in pizza and watch the opening ceremonies. The pizza place wasn’t happy that we didn’t have a local phone number, and asked that we make sure the address was right. She hung up the phone with a “thank you, bye bye,” without getting our name or a credit card number. About 45 minutes later, she arrived in the pouring rain with pizza that was still piping hot and some of the best we’ve tasted.

After watching the ceremonies, we were tired from the long but eventful day. Next up, Micah and Jon’s experience with speed skating and my journey to Kitsilano with Mom.

Last week we set out for our Olympic adventure that began in Seattle and then onto Vancouver. Despite blizzard conditions in PA, Mom and Jon were able to meet up with us without any delays. Our flights arrived in Seattle a mere hour apart, and then we were off to explore the city. We stayed at the Moore Hotel, a fun and quirky place run by three siblings renovating the old building one floor at a time. We had dinner at Mama’s Mexican where the food had a little to be desired, but the atmosphere made up for it. Where else can you find decorations of Elvis, Marilyn and Santa Claus while listing to mariachi tunes?

The next day, we spent the morning at Pike Place Market, which isn’t just a tourist attraction. Locals also shop for fresh foods and flowers there. The market stalls change daily with different vendors arriving each morning toting their wares. It’s $75 to set up for the day, and the sellers have to take their belongings with them each evening since there isn’t way to secure them at night. It’s a feast for the eyes to see amazing looking produce (one place had ‘big-ass grapes’) and gigantic bunches of flowers. I have to say it made our farmer’s market in Atlanta look a tad skimpy.

We had breakfast at the Crumpet Shop where you can get crumpets with ricotta cheese and almond butter with really good organic coffee. Ah, coffee. Coffee shops abound all over the market and on nearly every corner. There’s even a drive through just for espresso.

After checking out at the hotel, we took a cab to pick up the Quick Shuttle that would take us into Canada. The bus driver was a highly excitable, overweight man who talked about how long it might take to get through customs. Due to increased security for the Games, he said we could be there from 30 minutes to eight hours. The bus ride to the border takes about two and a half hours. Our driver assured us that we were get there as quickly as possible, and try and get in front of any buses in line at the border. Each time we passed a bus on the road, he said that’s another hour we just saved!

We all had to get off of the bus and take our luggage into customs. The process took about 45 minutes and then we were back on the road. The ride took about another half an hour to get into Vancouver. With our faces pressed to the windows, we saw the rise of the majestic Coast Mountains. Each block that we passed had coffee shops, florists, and bakeries.

Our group took a cab to the rental near the university in a quiet neighborhood. The owners live upstairs and usually rent out the third floor to students visiting BC to learn English. After unpacking, we checked out the neighborhood and found a coffee shop and bakery called Butter (Jon sampled the giant Oreo that’s been written up as one of the top 101 foods to try in Vancouver). I was enchanted by a place called Shopper’s Drug Mart, where you can buy stamps, mail packages, buy groceries, any kind of beauty treatments from lotions to cosmetics, and get your prescription filled.

We had dinner at Handi, a really good Indian restaurant. Although Vancouver is known for great food, I didn’t see anyone who was overweight. The people who live in the city have such ready access to healthy foods and produce that rivaled the Pike Place Market. Stores are near enough to homes that people walk instead of taking to their cars. Public transit is great from buses that run all across the city to the sky train that’s like a subway. But cleaner. Vancouver is a very clean city. I think we saw one wrapper on the ground the entire time we were there. And the trash bins have recycling receptacles on them.

That night, we slept well as our travels had quite tired us out. Stay tuned for more on the city and our experience with the Games.

Since last week I think I’ve worried less. Really. Or at least I’ve thought more about worrying and what it isn’t doing for me. I ask my husband if I seem a bit less angst-ridden than normal. His response is a noncommittal “maybe.” To me that’s progress because he’s usually the one who is much more cognizant of my worrying than I am. Why is that?

So I feel ready to tackle this week’s assignment - worrying before a doctor’s appointment. I don’t mean right before. From the moment I schedule an annual exam, check up, or physical, I think about all of the hidden maladies that might be lurking undiagnosed. But worrying prepares me for anything that might happen, right?

Um, wrong.

Dr. Elizabeth Lombardo, Ph.D., M.S., P.T psychologist, physical therapist, and author of “A Happy You: Your Ultimate Prescription for Happiness” patiently listens to my main excuse for worrying before doctor’s appointments. I think it’s a solid one.

“One of my lungs spontaneously collapsed about ten years ago,” I say. “I spent three days in intensive care while a team of doctors and residents tried to figure out what caused the tear in my lung.” I didn’t add it remains a mystery to this day, even though that’s the way I think of it.

I wait, wondering if she might tell me that I have cause to worry or at least be cautious.

But she doesn’t.

“A lot of times we confuse possibility and probability. It could happen,” she replies.

I feel triumphant for a second. Yes, it could.

“But what’s the probability?” she asks.

Hmm. Because I haven’t had major health problems in ten years, the chance of a recurrence is low. But isn’t there still a chance? And shouldn’t I be ready and armed with my shield of worry?

“Differentiating between possibility and probability is really important,” she tells me. “When we worry about a possible illness, we accept the worry like law.”

Okay, guilty as charged. Whenever I go to the doctor, I wait for the bad news. In my mind, the doctor pulls out a chart and tells me that the level of something is elevated, which is a sign of real trouble. I think my body is like my ’99 Jeep. They’re both reliable, but at some point, a belt is going to break or an organ is going to fail and it’s not going to be pretty. Granted, I do seem healthier than my Jeep. I definitely stay out of the doctor’s office more than the car stays out of the garage.

Dr. Lombardo kindly reminds me of how destructive stress can be.

“Stress changes everything in our lives. It can cause a rash that makes no sense at all. It affects gastrointestinal and even memory functions.”

I’ve heard of the risks associated with worrying, but never really considered that I might do physical harm by worrying - it just doesn’t fit with my Jeep metaphor. After my lung collapse, I made a complete recovery even though I hadn’t “prepared” myself by worrying that it might happen in the first place. Besides, even my active imagination couldn’t have done anything about the stabbing pain and sensation of no breath on one side of my body.

“What if you do have something else going on? Because it happened once before you can be convinced it’s that again,” she says. As a physical therapist, Dr. Lombardo has worked with patients who had severe health problems or recovering from accidents. “I wish I had appreciated my life before this happened,” is what they tell her.

I don’t want to waste my health on worry. The next time I make a doctor’s appointment, I’ll conjure up the image of wearing a winter coat while sitting on the examination table. Maybe I’ll add in boots and woolen mittens too. Perhaps Dr. Lombardo’s analogy will remind me how pointless worrying is about something that hasn’t happened. Yet.

Next week’s assignment is how to reign in my worrying about health problems – both real and imagined for my loved ones. For some reason, not everyone appreciates frequent reminders to go to the doctor, not even if they’re written on sticky notes with a little heart.

As I write this, I’m not worried about anything. Well, that’s not absolutely true. I’m slightly worried about my mother’s upcoming doctor appointment. And along those lines, I’m concerned the health care bill will never pass. In addition, my nine-and-a-half year old cat has taken to meowing whenever my husband leaves the condo. I wonder why she has growing separation anxiety. Moving right along…

I’m very fortunate that Dr. Elizabeth Lombardo, Ph.D., M.S., P.T psychologist, physical therapist, and author of “A Happy You: Your Ultimate Prescription for Happiness” has agreed to coach me through my worry project. As previously mentioned, I’m a forward worrier, so we decide to address certain scenarios I build in my mind on the off chance those scenarios come to pass. I like to think it’s my small contribution to planning ahead.

Dr. Lombardo mentions two reasons behind many types of worry.

“There is part of thinking that this worry has a purpose,” she says, explaining that worrying about a worst-case scenario is a way of preparing yourself emotionally should the worst case actually happen.

That’s true for me.

“There is also if I worry it won’t happen.”

Uh oh. That also sounds familiar. I realize that I’ve often hoped that by worrying about a situation, the Fates would cut me some slack and keep the thing I’m worrying about from taking place.

She gives me a great analogy about worry, one that makes complete sense to me.
“I used to live in Dallas, Texas. It gets really hot in August,” she tells me. “Come January, it gets cold. If it’s 100 degrees outside, and I wore a winter coat and hat because it might get cold, what would you think?”

I laugh.

“Exactly. But what if I said in four months it will get cold and I’m trying to prepare myself? Worry is wearing winter clothes in summer.”

I think about how heavy worrying makes me. It’s the invisible burden I always seem to carry.

“Many people have been worriers all of their lives. You can change your patterns and assess why you worry and how helpful and accurate that is,” she explains.

Dr. Lombardo tells me about a list of cognitive distortions. In my case when I worry about future events, that’s called fortune telling, which she says means negatively predicting the future. That isn’t helpful to anyone, least of all myself.

Which brings me to scenario number one. Many of us have people in our lives who routinely make personal comments that are upsetting. My issue is that before I see those particular people I try to gear up in advance for what they might say. While many people think of things they should have said, I actually think of comebacks to comments that have yet to be uttered. Of course that means anticipating an interaction with those people is stressful – before I even see them.

Dr. Lombardo gives me ideas for coping techniques. For instance, if I go to visit that person over a weekend she suggests planning a getaway, like taking a walk. It’s also a good idea to plan a relaxing event after the visit is over.

“Have something when you get back to look forward to rather than focus on the negative, try to minimize the stress and focus on the positive.”

I can envision scheduling a massage or a manicure after getting back from a trip and realize how much that would help me to relax - even in advance. If I can worry ahead of time, why can’t I relax ahead of time?

She also advises me to think about why the hurtful comments resonate with me.

“Take a look at your own self concept. A comment only hurts if in some way we agree with it. If someone says something that hurts, look at your self beliefs and reassess.”

I have certain trigger points that instantly put me on the defensive. One is my career choice and the need I feel to defend remaining in an industry that continues to plummet.

“Again, another thing is to look at why this person is making those comments,” she adds, suggesting I realize they are coming from someone struggling with their own self confidence problems. If I can think about that, the comments might not hurt as much.

Over the coming week, I’ll put her great advice into practice and report back. And stay tuned for next week’s scenario in which I worry about the horrible diagnoses that await each time I go to the doctor.

I recently wrote an article on resolutions for 2010. I set out to find out why we feel compelled to make changes and why we often choose the new year.

We all feel the need to change something, right? My goal is relatively simple. I would like to stop worrying. I’m not exactly sure when I crossed the line from non-worrier to full fledged worrier. It certainly wasn’t in high school. It might have started in college when I coped with a roommate who had severe health problems. Or maybe it began when I started wondering about my career during junior year.

Like many problems, worrying crept into my life. It infiltrated my thought patterns and impacted how I dealt with issues that cropped up - and this is the best part - issues that hadn’t even happened yet. I’m a forward worrier. I can project scenarios and worry about those before they take place. I think that’s the subset of worry I’d like to tackle first. If I can learn how to train my thought patterns away from situations that have yet to happen, then the next step can be working on reactionary worry.

So I’ll call this the resolute worrier project and take my readers along with me. Any tips that you might have are appreciated and welcomed.

A recent New York Times Magazine article addresses the origination of news. Who decides what is news-worthy? Good question. That might have been a dilemma for editors and journalists years ago, but unfortunately it seems that no longer matters.

As we’ve become used to breaking news encompassing everything, it seems the only urgency is in who is reporting the story first. As I’ve written before, I’m worried about the fate of print - books, magazines and newspapers. Yet what’s being reported and the continued exhaustive coverage needs to change before we permanently lose interest.

I can’t tell you the last time I sat down and read the entire daily paper. I skip around to different sections trying to find actual news. If I want to read someone’s opinion, I might read an op-ed or a blog, but as the New York Times Magazine article points out, so much that’s being reported as news is actually opinion.

So here is what I wonder - has the old style of journalism been pushed to the brink of extinction? Or can something or someone save it?

On a recent trip to Saint Simons, I overheard two interesting conversations. I should insert a disclaimer here. I don’t eavesdrop on purpose, but we writers just can’t seem to avoid it. End of disclaimer. Micah and I were eating dinner in a restaurant whose glory has faded over the years. We were one of the only couples having dinner. The conversation we heard was between a man in his late 50’s at the bar talking with his mother on his cell phone. His voice had a booming quality that reached the entire restaurant.

He talked with her about a tree that needed to be cleared from her property, and apologizing for not being there with her that evening. During the conversation the call dropped. He continued to try and reach her again, not listening to the bartender who said the coverage was better outside. Instead, he mechanically shoveled the rest of his dinner into his mouth and left, presumably to call his mother back and apologize yet again.

I heard the second conversation in a coffee shop between an overweight middle aged man wearing a flannel shirt and a guy in his 20’s clad in jeans and a dirty t-shirt. It was something of an interrogation with the older man asking question after question and giving his opinion. It was something like this:

Older: How’s it going with that new roommate of yours?”
Younger: Okay I guess.
Older: He sure is a strange one. So gloomy. Really depressed. He’s gotta learn that happiness comes from the inside.

That was the part of the discussion when I had to stop reading my book and focus on listening. The older fellow didn’t strike me as someone who would think that way much less speak those thoughts aloud.

We all make judgements and assumptions. That’s just the way we’re wired. I’m fascinated by the interior versus the exterior. From just looking at the man from the restaurant, I wouldn’t have thought he would be consumed by guilt from his mother, and would place her needs before his own. And the man in the coffee shop appeared more like a good old boy type from his clothes and mannerisms than someone who would think about the origins of happiness.