Next week I celebrate my 78th birthday!  That actually means I have already lived 78 years and will be starting my 79th year.  The common greeting now when old friends meet and share their ages is, “How did this happen?”  Because 78 sounds very old I have decided to divide my longevity not into years, but into decades.  8 sounds much better than 78.   In looking back over those 8 decades, the 8th decade coming to an end next year, I can see purposes  to many of them.  And identifying those purposes is much clearer than remembering  the purpose of one particular year.  My first 2 decades are pretty much the same for everybody.  You are meeting your relatives for the first time and being dragged around in a baby carriage, something I don’t think is used anymore.  The ride was smooth and your line of vision was more up toward the sky rather than from side to side The first half of my first decade was spent in a railroad flat on East 23 rd Street and 1st Ave.  I don’t have many memories of those years with the exception of the little girl around my age who lived in the next apartment over and who I only saw on garbage days when the dumbwaiter was at our floor.  My mom would open the door to the dumbwaiter which was in the kitchen and put our garbage on the dumbwaiter.  That was the only time I ever saw the girl next door and only through the open doors of both of our kitchens.  We would both see portions of the other’s face intermingled with whatever garbage was being transported up to the roof to be incinerated.  And to this day, though I never met her, I remember her name.  Maureen and I only saw each other through garbage and boxes and such.  The second half of this decade was full of new challenges.  My family moved out of the railroad flat and out to the country as Queens was referred to back then.  From a 2 bedroom flat in Manhattan to a big 4 bedroom house in the country was quite an adjustment.  My world was expanding because I could actually go out and play with the neighbors’ kids in the street and  I began school.  I figure those first two decades were for training for what was to happen in the remaining years of decades 1 and 2, that followed, to develop independence, enough to be able to walk the seven blocks to and from school every day.  The learning experience was much wider than just what we were taught in our classrooms.  We learned our neighborhood, what garage roofs you could jump off without any problems, which neighbors gave out money at Halloween and many other valuable lessons.  These two decades were building a foundation for what was to come. Jr high and high school taught us how to socialize with other kids, learn to dance by watching American Bandstand every day after school, and visit friends who lived in far away neighborhoods on our bikes.  So all of that went into the making of my first 2 decades, the decades of learning.

The tail end of decade 2, was scary at first. I was never away from home before and here I was in a dorm room with two other equally frightened new college students.  More social learning took place this time with girls.  Up til then, girls were just hide ‘n seekers, freeze tag players and just boys with long hair.  This was definitely , serious learning time and learning with a purpose, serious decisions had to be made, like declaring a major, whether or not to join a fraternity and which one.  Serious stuff.  It meant serious study too. Focused study on what we thought was going to be our life’s profession.  Then suddenly in the beginning  years of decade 3, graduation arrived.  I was interviewed on campus for a teaching job and was hired as a fourth grade teacher for the following year.  I was in a serious relationship then which would lead to marriage that year also.  This decade was full of adult activities, marriage, buying a house, adopting kids–all serious and wonderful things  The third decade sped by because of all the changes, the concentration on work and kids,  maintaining the house- the usual stuff.Good decades that flew by.

Decades 4 and 5 offered more learning.  We moved to a new house. the kids had real difficulty in school.
Much turmoil through out Decade 4. House maintenance, construction of a new addition -all good stuff but then with the sneaking in of decade 5 everything I knew was about to change.  Divorce and finally admitting who I truly was and trying to maintain an equilibrium in order to function at work and at home with the kids. All of a sudden I  had 35 years behind me  in the classroom and the uncertainty of what was beyond crept into my psyche.  What was I going to do? Would I keep the house now that both kids moved out?  Each decade it seems brings new and specific questions that have to be thought out.  As it turns out, the day after I retired from teaching I was in Vermont working a beautiful bed and breakfast.  Even more than teaching, innkeeping demanded my attention all day, but I loved it.  But inspite of everything the years and decades continued to fly by.  I am now at another one of those life events that are worrisome, interesting and exciting all rolled into one.  

Decades 6 and 7 flew by .  I am soon to be on the doorstep of number 8 looking in with hope and trepidation. The last few years were years of loss.  Friends and colleagues have passed.  We kid that our social lives consist of doctor appointments and funerals, said jokingly but knowing there is truth to it.  I have a large bay window in my living room that looks out on to the street and the surrounding houses. We call it the geriatric section of our town cause we are all over 65.  I stand in the darkness looking out this window and imagining how are they coping with  senior citizenship.  I don’t have any hobbies that I would do alone, I have been looking for adult classes to see if there are some that would interest me, or volunteer work , something to keep my mind off regular life.  Luckily my dog stays by my side and I admit I talk to him as if he were human  Just waiting to see the challenges, experiences and adventures the 80’s will bring.  I’m ready for them I guess!

Forward!

Eckhart Tolle, in his book, Practicing The Power Of Now, explains that there is no past or future, there is only now.  Whatever happened before, happened in the present moment and whatever will happen will likewise, happen in the now.  Because we allow our mind to dwell on the concept of time as we know it, we give undeserved importance and attention to what was and what is to be.  We often obsess with the past because it gives us an identity and we dwell on the future because it may offer us hope or the predilection of fear.  Accepting this belief that spending more time in the present will be logical and beneficial to me, this rejoinder will focus on the present with the expectation that practicing it will enhance my remaining days, weeks, months, years, and, yes, maybe even decades.  

Babette Huges is currently 101 years old and recently published her ninth book.  She says, “There’s an idea in our culture that’s so wrong: that life is over when you get to be a certain age. But your golden years, like mine, can be the best years of your life.”  She also gives 8 rules she lives by that are lessons she learned that contribute to her happy longevity.  I aspire to them all but want to single out two, which, for me helps power all the others:  “Don’t ever believe you’re ‘done’” and “Move your body, rest your mind”

Jokingly, I attribute failure to adhere to the first one as bad math.  That is, those who give up, throw in the towel, and/or admit that they are too old to do thus and so, must have added up some of their reduced, declining, or lost abilities and came to the sum(mary) that there’s not enough left for them to carry on with joy or satisfaction or hold a mindset of grateful living. And to them I say, “Recheck your numbers!  Reevaluate the weight you gave to each addend.  Rewrite the problem so it concludes with a positive sum!”  Following Eckhart Tolle’s suggestion, I would ask as you are reading this, what problem do you have at this moment?  While you’re reading these words, thinking about the concept, maybe even conjuring up an argument against it, none of the problems you believe you have are preventing you from this experience.

If I continue to recognize how much I can do, understand, appreciate, and enjoy while I’m doing it, I believe, even without additional effort, I will have many more of these positive moments eliciting positive feelings, going forward.  If I allow my mind to wander backwards to what I had in the past or forward to what I’ll have even less of in the future…I won’t.

What will I do now to prolong my health, happiness, and value with what I currently have is the question that guides me forward.

The history of how I arrived at this present place in my life is somewhat storied in these one hundred plus blog posts and rejoinders.  It is also revealed to those who care about me through my observable behaviors and actions. The stories and pictures and conversations remembered, are there for the pleasure or information of the viewer but basically serve as a benchmark for the process of how I’ve morphed into who I am today.  However, how I show up today, every day, is how my story continues.

“Do not grow old, no matter how long you live.  Never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery in which we were born.” – Albert Einstein

Story Stick Revisited

I always enjoy George’s writings – and of course we discuss these posts prior to publishing. The discussions are the best part of doing a blog: having a chance to match perceptions and dive deeper where the writing stops.

His retrospective looking at life by decade is an interesting approach. This reminds me of our attempt to record our personal history in some concrete manner – like our previous post on the Story Stick. I decided at that time to create a record of my life by carving a three-foot cedar log with inflection points and memories. Well, I’m still working on it. But that’s all right, I’m in no hurry with this project. 

If you are going to memorialize your life experiences, there ought to be a basic design first. My story stick is divided into two parts: life before marriage; and that portion after. Before marriage, I was responsible for only myself. Life certainly changed as responsibility for others increased. So, my Story Stick will reflect a simpler trajectory in the first part, but a more complicated journey in the second half, dealing with many threads: gains, losses, and the incorporation of new relationships, but culminating in a place where life’s work is done.

I could have divided this journey into decades, as Geo did… but Eric Erickson’s developmental stages seemed right for what I wanted to explore. If you recall, Erickson’s life stages progress from developing a basic sense of trust; exercising will and independence; learning to take initiative; developing competence and a particular identity; learning to share in an intimate relationship; caring and contributing to family and society; and finally, consolidating what you’ve learned and its meaning. 

Of course, I have paraphrased Erickson and his challenges for each portion of maturation: from Hope to Wisdom. He details choices that we make to trust or not-trust, to fold inward or reach out. I reckoned that a neat idea would be to memorialize episodes that followed his psychosocial stages.

A neat idea – but still unfinished. I’m not going to jump in to a quick taxonomy just yet. However, one early theme is sure. I’m a child of the shoreline. Many early memories have to do with the beach. The first half of my story stick features an undulating pattern that represents waves. At three years old, my mother taught me to dive under the breakers at Beach 109^th Street in Rockaway. When you are three, every wave looks big! Standing stiff will get you knocked down time after time. But you can learn to gauge its crest and dive right under. That skill stands as a learning point for me. Problems can seem big, but engaging them and diving under their energy can help you come out the other side — or learn to time the crest and use its energy to ride into shore. The sense of trust instilled by my parents helped me to learn to dive; it also also helped me to trust myself. Trust is the first big choice.

Aria, by Shahaf Yefet (from allpoetry.com)

Let’s trust each other
and see what happens.
Let’s strengthen one another
and see what happens.
Let’s care for each other
and see what happens.
Let’s make an effort
and see what happens…..

Wood is a wonderful material: it has direction which can be surprising and pleasing – parts which show the strength gained by adapting to strong winds, as well as seasonal temperature changes. Individual trees may vary in coloration caused by the absorption of particular minerals. They display evidence where they fight against disease or decay. Trees are like us and working with wood can provide insights about our own lives.

When you work with wood to fashion a product, generally the first step is to make a rough shape, which is gradually refined. The surface of the wood is smoothed and a finish is applied. Typically, the first layer of a finish is sanded back to the original surface to fill the pores and provide an “optic surface”, where light is evenly reflected. Next, thin layers of separate finish may be built up over time. While there are many types of finish – each with its own discipline – a rule of thumb is to always place a softer finish over a harder finish. Sometimes, this is referred to as “finishing the finish”. It involves either minutely scoring the surface to achieve a bond with each additional application – or choosing a finish which ‘melts’ into the preceding layer.

I attended a lecture and demonstration with Richard Raffan, a world famous woodturner. He advocated a process where a finished piece is refreshed continually with just a drop of oil, rubbed into the wood on a continual basis. Over a year (or many years) the patina is incomparable. His point: a finish built up over time displays a luster which stands out from a piece finished in haste and neglected.

Again, I find a lesson in this analogy. Our substance and grain pattern are influenced by the type of wood we are, as well as the environment in which we grow. We are roughly shaped and then refined by experience. We spend a lot of our time ‘finishing the finish’, adding protective layers and creating our own personal patina. And that luster is what we have learned and put to good use.

I find that there is no benefit to rushing the process of patina. The aspects of life that mean the most to me are the areas where I have spent the most effort in practicing and developing life skills. Like layers of film, each succeeding year adds to the finish. Setbacks and mistakes can cause damage and rework, but that is part of the process. It highlights the need for continuous renewal of the ‘finish’ – and a strong reason to apply myself to the work, even as energy and ability wane.

Are the things you treasure most, hard won over time?

Here’s an excerpt from a poem by Justin Farley: One Step at a Time (from alongthebarrenroad.com)

“…Life is one continuous climb.
Each day one step closer to
the potential written in your heart.
No need for giant leaps
or desperate measures destined for defeat,
but Ed 4 you must find somewhere to start.
Progress comes to those who push onward,
planting seeds even when tired
and a day off is a tempting reward.
For excuses quickly become reasons
to idly watch months go by
without a step forward.
It’s the small choices you make
compounded over a lifetime
that leave you in the plains or push you to the peak.
At the end of life’s journey,
the number of seeds you’ve sown
determines the character you reap.”

The Finishing Never Finishes

When I first read Wally’s topic I was totally unable to think how i could respond to it.  He has experience working with wood and using various techniques to make the wood come into its own.  With his work and patience he turns the raw wood into a beautiful, useful article or simply a beautiful work of art.  I have no such talent, nor do I work with any raw material over which I have any knowledge or ability to improve, make it a work of art or turn it into a functional tool for me to use.  When we first started our blog Wally made each of us a beautiful pen, perfectly formed, smooth and shiny surface, almost too beautiful to use for fear of somehow carelessly damaging it. I display this pen proudly in my pen holder on my desk alongside a collection of stolen writing utensils from various banks, restaurants, inns and anywhere I see an attractive writing tool , but none of those shine through the way Wally’s does in my holder.  I have to admit when I am with my kids and they see a pen they think will attract my attention, they hurry out of the establishment not wishing to be embarrassed by their father.  Kind of funny after years of dealing with embarrassment over their antics, but that is for another blog entry.

So I stewed over how I was going to respond.  For days I tried to find something I did as a hobby or practice that could fit into the category of Wally’s wood working and kept coming up with blanks.  A week went by and even some lack of sleep trying to appreciate some raw material that I was familiar with.  I read Wally’s piece over and over hoping suddenly something would pop and I would find my inspiration of how to respond, and actually that is exactly what happened.  I was reading this on face value.  Suddenly the word metaphor popped into my mind and as I read his piece once more it became so obvious.  He actually already wrote about it as a metaphor.  The ideas finally started flowing and I knew it was what I had to write about .  It all had to do with being a teacher for 35 years.  My material, which had always been in the back of my mind wasn’t wood but rather students.  So many similarities between wood and students.  When I thought about it the similarities became stronger.

The raw material came from all different environments. With some it was  obvious to see that this individual object had come from a very difficult and harsh environment, while another may have come from a loving, caring environment, and every other possible circumstance you could imagine.  The finishes that would be applied to these human objects would be applied slowly and to various successes over 12 years and continue on ad infinitum until the final project was almost complete. Unfortunately or maybe luckily, these applied finishes would be adjusted over the years by the various finishers whose job it was to do just that.  But with this natural resource the process went on throughout life perhaps never to end until the end!!  You have to evaluate how the last finish was applied, determine whether it was an improvement to the original or needed correction as it passed through the years and as the finishers applied their finishes systematically year after year.  But the process never stops.  We never seemed to be able to finish the finishes!

Today, I am a retired finisher.  Not often enough, I have the distinct pleasure to share a meal or a drink with some of my pieces.  I look and study them across the table to see if I can see any of the finish I applied, and the times I can see my effect on them it brings a warmth to my heart and a pride in my ability to have been able to contribute to the completion of this beautiful work of art… my students!

With Time Comes Treasure

I’ll begin my response where Wal ended his post: “Are the things I treasure most hard-won over time?”

Not always.

I once treasured the nearly two miles of trails I created—through much sweat, sore muscles, and even a bit of blood—on my property in New York. I don’t remember exactly how long it took to complete them, but they were definitely hard-won. Although those trails are no longer mine, I still carry them in my inner treasure box.

I also value the accomplishments of my career. For me, reaching those milestones involved hard work: countless hours of thinking, researching, planning, revising, and practicing. However, my consulting work in later years was invigorating, engaging, and interesting. I did it because I wanted to, not because I needed to. Something I treasured, for sure.  According to Merriam-Webster, the first definition of work is “activity that a person engages in regularly to earn a livelihood.” By this definition, my consulting work wasn’t actually work even though it required perseverance and significant effort.

My current home, which I consider a gift in my life, took almost three years to find. The psychological and emotional efforts of living in a temporary apartment and avoiding opportunities that would take me away from the area certainly qualified as hard. Clearly, this is another example of what Wal’s question addresses.

However, it seems to me that the day-to-day things I treasure—relationships, daily routines, enjoying nature, engaging in playful activities, reading a compelling book, and having exciting conversations—aren’t necessarily hard-won and often happen spontaneously. Reflecting on this, I realize that it was the satisfaction I felt at the end of each hour or day working on the trails that I treasures most, more than their actual use. Similarly, it wasn’t just putting together workshops and activities for my consulting gigs that I found rewarding, but also the ideas and insights I gained from the material.

Being fully engaged in an activity or conversation is now more treasured by me than working hard for the future. Perhaps this perspective arises because my future grows shorter with each passing day, or perhaps it’s because I’ve slowed down enough to realize that all we really have is the present moment. 

But how did I get to this place of understanding and perhaps wisdom?  Living a life hard-won over time!

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” – Thornton Wilder

Teresa and I often walk Duke through our neighborhood in the early morning or late evening or both.  Earlier this week, we noticed one of two book sharing station situated between two properties alongside the road.  Much to her surprise, Teresa noticed that a number of books by one of her favorite authors were there for the taking.  As she scanned each one, she made her selection and made a mental note to drop off one or more of the books she already read to replace and enhance this simple neighborhood resource.  At the base of the station was a large dog bowl and a sign that said, “Water for your dog.”

As we continued on our walk we recognized how these simple additions by our HOA contributed to our sense of belonging and a connection to our neighbors.  I wondered what else neighborhoods could offer (with or without an HOA) that would both provide a useful service and add to a sense of community.

A little background about our neighborhood may help clarify why I’m intrigued by this and why I think it’s so important.  We are a collection of about 250 houses on properties ranging from 3/4 acre to slightly over two acres in size.  There is only one road leading in to this almost 30 year old development.  If you drive straight in and keep turning left at the end of each stop sign you’ll find yourself back at the entrance after about 2 miles.  There are 8 side roads off of this main loop, each ending in a cul-de-sac.  It appears to be a mixture of families with older children who have moved out of their childhood homes and some newer families with young children.  There is one small park with a pavilion, several picnic benches, a jungle gym and a set of swings.  Here is also where you will find the other book-sharing station.

When we moved in exactly one year ago, we met the neighbors to our right and the ones across the cul-de-sac.  After a few months, we met the family on our left.  By the end of this first year we know or have spoken at some length to 7 of the 14 families on our street.  Two of the remaining 7 we have exchanged pleasantries and all of the rest we have had occasion to share a wave or two.  To date we enjoy all of them and have had every reason to believe that we could be good neighbors and/or friends.  And yet, in all but one case, we initiated first contact. 

For the last few months I’ve been hosting a weekly card game at my house and 3 of my neighbors are regular attendees.  One of them is separated from my next door neighbor by one house and both have been here for over 20 years and yet they had never met until they came to my house for cards.  

It seems to me that sometimes people will take advantage of opportunities to connect with others (their neighbors for example) but for a host of reasons, don’t otherwise initiate them.  Thus, my notion that coming up with ways for people to easily share with each other might also provide opportunities for them to connect with each other.  And, when people are connected over things they have in common, their immediate world becomes a gentler, more negotiable, and happier place to live.

As Teresa and I wondered about how we might expand the book-sharing station notion, we came up with a few ideas.  What if we offered, at the neighborhood park, the following:

• a mini farmer’s market area at our park for those of us who have vegetable gardens and an overabundance produce to give away?
• evening concerts throughout the warmer months?
• a monthly food vendor event?
• raised garden beds for those who wanted to garden but didn’t have the space or know how to begin?
• a request for volunteers to leave a water dish at the foot of their driveway for dogs during their walks with residents?
• a doggy bag and waste can at key corners and establish a volunteer group of dog owners to maintain them on a shared basis?
• a community service volunteer squad to whom members in need could turn to for assistance?

These ideas for further creating a sense of community may be specific to my situation.  Are there similar needs and possible ideas for yours? for ours?

“Because Amelia smiles as she skips down the street, her neighbor Mrs Higgins smiles too, and decides to send some cookies to her grandson Lionel – in Mexico.”    – David Ezra Stein

Building Community

When we have had new neighbors, my wife invariably makes a baked product to bring over and welcome the new-comer. We live on a busy county route – it’s not readily walkable and there’s reduced opportunity for backyard fence conversations, due to geographical barriers. The ‘welcome wagon’ effort is typically a one-off, but sets an expectation of friendly behavior going forward. There’s not much to define a neighborhood in this setting.

Likewise, our hamlet does not have a commercial center other than a small convenience store next to a post office. However, there are still opportunities to create interactions both spontaneous and strategic.

Twenty years ago, Linda was the highway superintendent for our town. Seeing the need for a walkable community she advocated for accessibility changes to our historic Main Street and connections to an abandoned railway corridor. Partners in the effort, I chaired a committee to create a Main Street masterplan with sidewalks, crosswalks, and solar lighting, while Linda worked with the State Department of Transportation to gain approval to build a walking trail along the rail corridor.

We both suffered some disappointments in achieving support. The DOT approved the rail trail plan but withheld the funding, due to the lack of an established “destination” at either end of the walkway. Undeterred, Linda got permission to lease the land from the state and during lulls, she trained new employees on heavy equipment by bull-dozing a path along the corridor and used her contacts to repurpose grindings from another state project to set a base for this new walkway.

I was able to find funding through a separate NYS senate member grant, which allowed Linda to pave the entire 2.2-mile path through our village. As they say: “Build it and they will come…” We had an instant ‘boardwalk’ for the community to exercise, walk, jog, rollerskate, or bike – and just as important: to encounter one another. We built berms along the trail and encouraged families and businesses to adopt a berm with plantings and flowers.

In the first year, there were 80,000 person-visits to this trail. It had become its own destination! The parking lots were expanded. Boy Scouts constructed benches and an exercise station along the path; the Lions Club built a gazebo. We established a town committee to oversee the trail and its maintenance. Local and State government cooperated and helped plant wildflower sections on the path, interpretive signage, and doggy-stations. Twenty years later, our trail has just been linked to another trail section which proceeds through the city of Kingston as well as corridors to nearby towns in the other direction – a continuous length of over 38 miles.

Now, this is a success story with a caveat: plan for a lifecycle of use and involvement. The results were clearly worth the effort. However, the residents now see the trail as an entitlement, which government should maintain with tax dollars. I happen to agree with this conclusion, but the initial grassroots ownership has faded a bit as we have aged and the overhead of maintaining the trail and its niceties has increased. Hen’s efforts to bolster a geographic community is not too dissimilar to our rail trail story. Building community relationships is a worthwhile investment, but plans need to consider what happens after the initial blush of enthusiasm, so that the idea can be sustained through the dynamic of changes in personal commitment and population change.

The Community: Vera Sidhwa from poemhome.net

I needed you and you were there.
You helped so many unaware.
Community, you’re my favorite way,
To work, celebrate and play.

To work is your major goal,
But together in an effort major.
I believe in you community.
You are absolutely believable.

Working in a community is wonderful.

Community

Eight years ago, after teaching elementary school for 35 years and then immediately on to my next career of inn keeping, which I did for almost 15 years, I finally retired.  Not knowing how not to work, I began reading all the old peoples’ magazines and stumbled upon an article in the AARP Magazine.  The headline read something like Ten Ways to Live a Long and Fulfilling Retirement.  Just what I was looking for, some magic potion to keep me going.  I settled down in my comfortable rocking chair and began reading this interesting article.  It wasn’t what I expected.  It listed the ten most important activities for seniors to do to live longer and enjoy life, with number 1 being the most important.  I don’t remember most of them but I was certainly surprised when I discovered that a healthy diet and physical activity were not numbers 1  and 2 on the list.  As a matter of fact they came in like 6 and 7.  The number 1 thing for seniors to do is to keep an active social life, cocktail parties, dinners, social events in the community and the like.  I really liked that cause I crave being around people and enjoying their company.  It came naturally to me after two careers where I dealt with people all day long.  Number 2 was equally as surprising–  belonging  to a community where your involvement is important to the group, giving you a reason to show up and maintain your responsibility to the group.  They used the example of a chorus, where your voice is necessary for the blend of sounds it is trying to create. I liked that almost as much as number 1!

When Henry came up with the topic of “Community” I immediately checked the definition of community with Siri’s help. A community is a group of people living in the same place or having things in common.  Additionally it can mean a fellowship of people with common interests or likes.  Naturally, I started thinking about the communities that I belonged to and what my contributions were to them.  I looked back and counted the communities I used to belong to, model railroading groups, Barbershop choruses, as well as some professional communities as well.  As for the present my communities aren’t quite as well defined but there are several that I participate in regularly.    Naturally there is my neighborhood.  I refer to it as the geriatric ward of Port Ewen as everybody in  a two block radius of my corner is over 65.  I believe it is a requirement of the Real Estate brokers to prequalify people moving into our community by checking their birth certificates.  And it is a great community.  We get together for great activities (our meeting room is in the middle of the street) like seeing why the State  Troopers are at Mrs. Reynold’s house or Central Hudson is replacing poles. We all but take attendance as there is no requirement to attend.  But if someone has a problem in their yard or house right away several neighbors are there to help out. It is a comforting feeling  and that is what a community is supposed to provide for its members.

Another community I belong to is my Old School Community.  This community is a little different as it invites people of various ages.  Previous students and former teachers in my school gather about once a month for a luncheon to catch up with each others’ lives and to see what our students became- a very fun and rewarding activity.  That old saying, “You can take the teacher out of the school but you can’t take the school out of the teacher,” rings true.  I was in the  same school for 35 years and at the time, our school,  the community we served, the parents and the kids were all part of that very important community with an important valuable job to do.  Most of our luncheons involve reminiscing about things that happened 25 years ago, but those things were important and put smiles on our faces.  What good is a community if it can’t make you smile?

I also belong to the Italian American Community in Ulster County.  We have dinners, provide kids of Italian descent with scholarships, have guest speakers, provide trips to the homeland, and donate time and money to other various communities around the area.  I love the dinners because it reminds me of the Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house in Queens where 15 or 20 family members would arrive for feeding time at the zoo.  These dinners today are fun because they take me right back in time, people speaking loudly, laughter, Italian expressions and a lot of hands waving around.  It brings me right back to my grandmother’s dining room table.  We wouldn’t fight at the table but  our voices were raised in order to be heard, and usually to tell gramma you were stuffed and couldn’t eat another bite.

Now I debated including this community.  I don’t know anyone’s name but they always bring a smile to my face.
I own a 2018 Jeep Wrangler and have 14 rubber duckies on my dashboard left  on my door handle from people from all over and always anonymously. This community is a huge group of Jeep Wrangler drivers who basically  attack while you are in the store shopping, only to come out and see the little rubber ducky proudly crunched into the door handle.  I don’t know why it works or how, but it immediately puts you in a good mood and then you are obligated to park near the closest Wrangler and put one of yours on their door handle.  Silly? yup.  But it always works, and right now in this world there isn’t too much to laugh about.

Two professors from Bowling Green University taught me an important lesson: don’t crowd two topics into one message. But here I am thinking about freewill vs. determinism, heritage, secrets, and judgement.

Now, my DNA analysis shows the majority of my paternal heritage is concentrated in Southern England with an admixture of Danish, Swedish and French. That’s no surprise, since Southern England was overrun by Vikings and Normans at various times.

It seems that my family may have come from Walthamstow, a section of Essex (although since 1960, a borough of London). However, I know little about these folks… and what I do know gives me pause.

Waltheof, the Anglo Saxon Earl who owned the manor at Walthamstow, joined the Danes in rebellion against William the Conqueror shortly after 1066. His wife Judith, betrayed his intentions to King William I (her uncle) and he was eventually beheaded in 1072. Reportedly, Judith did not care for Waltheof very much.

Walthamstow remained a sleepy agricultural and sheep farming community until the railway was built through the marshes to the village in the mid 1800’s. It then became an industrial hub, known for a variety of manufacturing enterprises, from minting coins to building omnibuses and Swedish electric motors. The first “all-British aeroplane” (the Avro1 ‘Yellow Terror’) was launched from Walthamstow Marsh. Alumni of Walthamstow include William Morris, David Beckham, Alfred Hitchcock – and apparently, my forebears.  

I’m looking at a picture of a smallish balding man and his more substantial wife. Given the shape of his face and nose, I place him as an ancestor: likely, Edwin Wilson, my great grandfather. Folklore says he owned a bicycle manufacturing business in Walthamstow in the late 19^th century. That would be about right: the modern bicycle was developed in Walthamstow, resulting in a craze for the new contraptions beginning about 1885 and culminated in the “bicycle bubble” which collapsed around 1901.

Walthamstow

Edwin had five offspring, including my grandmother Winifred. Winifred is recorded in 1901 at sixteen years of age as marrying a boarder in the Wilson house, George Fields. George – also an employee of Edwin Wilson — signed up for the Royal Navy 8 months later and disappeared for 25 years. In the 1908 census, Winifred marked her status as “spinster”.

That same year, she married Walter Alfred James Cook, a railway porter. For reasons unknown, Edwin did not support the couple’s intent to marry and essentially disowned my grandmother. Was it because she was still married to Fields? Was it something about Walter? This is interesting folklore, as Edwin died three years before Winifred’s marriage to Walter. Walter variously listed his occupations as railway porter, electrical engineer, costing clerk, and packing case carpenter. He joined the Royal Navy in 1917 and was transferred to the Royal Airforce in 1919. I’m guessing that he had a hands-on technical bent. I’m told he could play the piano and apparently was very social. I don’t know, because I never met him. Walter and Winifred had five children and emigrated to America in 1922. He listed his occupation as ‘manager’. The story goes that he secured a job with a company based on his experience making ivory billiard balls. As far as I know, he had no such background.

They named their first-born son Alfred (known as “Boy”); their second son Walter Charles (“Charles” after Charles Smith, grandpa’s half-brother). They also named their oldest daughter, ‘Winifred Jr’, so naming traditions were important. In fact, one of the strongest disagreements I had with my father, was when he insisted that I name our first-born Walter Charles (WC the III and Walter the IV), saying that it was convention to name a son after the grandfather — but too many ‘W’s!

Well, my Nana may have had a roving eye, because, as a consequence, Walter Alfred left her, took Boy, and by 1927 was ‘whereabouts unknown’. Soon after, Boy stole a car and not being a US citizen, was deported and conscripted into the Australian Airforce; he died during WWII.

That left Winifred raising four kids during the depression. Life was difficult and the whole family worked at odd jobs. Nana went out to bars with her second oldest daughter Mary. She made Mary say she was her older sister. Mary drank a lot but was a sweet and warm soul. (I always wondered why Aunt Mary always stocked ginger ale in the fridge; never considering that it was for mixing drinks).  In the late 1940’s Winifred moved in with my father and mother – but it did not last: she tried to beat my pregnant mother with a broomstick and that proved to be the last straw. Dad got her an apartment and I saw her sparingly. I’m told she loved my brother and I – and that seemed genuine. But all I really remember is her love of watching boxing and wrestling on TV on the rare occasions that she babysat.

Now, why have I shared this unflattering narrative? I’ve always viewed myself as the latest issue of a long-running magazine, owing my story to those who came before. Yet these stories make me cringe and I have judged these folks harshly.

I linked up briefly with a long-lost cousin Jorge, who filled me in on his branch of the Wilson family: yet more tales of questionable merit. It seems that Winifred’s older brother (Jorge’s grandfather) emigrated from London to South Africa early in the 20^th century as a railway engineer. He apparently was responsible for a major accident and escaped to South America to avoid possible consequences.

I mean, Come on! As Kate Atkinson would say: When will there be good news? It makes me wonder if I’m cut from the same cloth. My father used say “Scratch an Englishman and you will find a pirate”.

I say, ‘Arrgh, Matey’, who am I to judge!

Freewill or determinism – what do you believe?

 Sitting In Its Lap – Brian Rihlmann from allpoetry.com

let it go
is the standard advice

(from others
with their clenched fists
concealed in pockets)

but outside
my own fingers

wrap thicker ones
scaly and rough

like a father’s hands
they enfold mine
vice-like on the wheel

as i sit in its lap
driving an abandoned backstreet

while feet below
out of sight
work the gas
the brake

No Cowboys and Indians for Me!

Even as a young kid, I was aware of my heritage. By that I mean I knew the nationalities of my parents and figured early on that I was a mutt.  Both my parents were born in America, and all my grandparents emigrated to America in the late 1890’s or early 1900”s.  I knew that my dad was Italian, and my mom was Welsh.  Two significantly different cultural traditions that at times were hard to co-mingle. The Italian side of the family was centered in NYC and the Welsh delegation was centered in coal country in Pennsylvania.  On holidays when the two traditions intermingled it was quite apparent that the two cultures were diametrically opposed to one another.  The incredibly stoic, low key and unemotional Welsh contingent could not understand the loud emotionality of the Italians.  At our dinner table everyone talked over everyone else and in loud voices in order to be heard.  My Welsh grandfather could not understand why everyone was yelling at each other.  They weren’t angry or anything, but it is how they communicate.  The other conflict between the two cultures was how the Italians pushed food on everybody.  “Mangia,” was heard above all else as my father was filling someone’s plate for the third time.  That being said I thrived in all the confusion and was actually comforted by it all.  As an aside, when I got married in 1969, my parents had everyone over their house after the reception for yet another meal.  My dad passed 6 years later in 1975 and while the family was preparing the house for sale and selling off the furniture, there was a ledge that went around the circumference of the table upon which we found compacted Hors d’oeuvres resting peacefully on the ledge and hard as a rock that were served at the dinner after my wedding.  I can just picture my Aunt Fay, unable to politely refuse my father, inconspicuously hiding her
second or third portion on the ledge of the table.  We got a good laugh out of that.

I guess what I mean to express in that long paragraph is that even as a kid I was proud of my two diverse heritages and still am today.  Back in 2006, I had the opportunity to go to both of my grandfathers’ villages. I was more closely associated with the Italian side because we lived amongst the rest of the family in New York City.  During the summers we were off to Pennsylvania.  My Welsh grandfather came from a small little village just north of the English border.  We drove there after having high tea in Bath near the Welsh border.  To my disappointment we arrived in the village and to where my grandfather’s house was to find a Ford Dealership.  The village name was Pwf.  My aunt told me it’ s pronounced sort of like a sneeze.  That was disappointing but we stayed for dinner at a restaurant and attended an Evensong at the local church.  Every night the men’s choir sang, and it was quite a beautiful tradition throughout Wales.  We toured Wales which is quite beautiful especially Northern Wales before heading to Italy.  Our adventure there began in Naples where we rented a car and began exploring.  My Aunt Eleanor told us about her only visit to Italy that occurred when she was 5 and my dad was not quite a year old.  My grandmother always sent money to an orphanage in Naples every year and my aunt told me about her memory of going to the orphanage and getting a tour by the manager of the orphanage. She remembered holding his hand as they toured the building.  When we got there, we found that that man was going through the process of beatification.  He was soon recognized as a saint and known in southern Italy as Papa Longo. My aunt was beside herself when she realized she had held the hand of an actual saint.  From there it was on to Pietrapertosa, the little mountain town in the Dolomites in Basilicata where my family came from.  The trip became very emotional as we drove into the village and found our hotel.  Walking out on the cobble stone streets that my grandfather probably played on brought tears to my eyes.  As soon as they heard my name, we were escorted all over the town to meet the few remaining relatives and of course we had to go to the mausoleum to see the DeFina family Mausoleum.  The land is too rocky to bury people, so they are all interred in Mausoleums. It was an incredible experience!   As in Wales, there was an after-dinner ritual in Italy called the passegiata.  The entire town goes for a stroll, men arm and arm, women chatting with their friends and the children running up behind- a really beautiful tradition cementing the community together. But what does all this have to do with tracing my roots?  I joined Ancestry.com figuring they would find that I was 50% Italian and 50% Welsh.  Not so fast White man!

When a said I knew I was a mutt I had no idea… So, I am 38.8% Italian, 37.6% British/Irish, 4.5% Greek/Balkan, 1.5% Spanish/Portuguese and then a smattering of Broadly Northwestern Europe (whatever that means!) 2.4% Western Asian & North African and….and… .2% Western Asian and Native American.  So, I must have one or two ancestors who crossed the land bridge between Russia and Alaska.  I never expected that, but it might explain why I never liked to play Cowboys and Indians when I was a kid.

Wally and Henry ask the question:  How has that influenced my life or contributed to who I became and how I behave? I suspect that my immediate and grandparent generations had the most impact on who I am and what I became.  I did discover in my grandfather’s village in Italy that all of my relatives there were teachers.  Not only that but a cousin, 14 times removed (my great grandfather, Rocco DeFina and her great, great grandfather were brothers) who took us around the area was a teacher and then opened an agriturismo (Bed and Breakfast) right in the village.  Coincidence?  Perhaps or perhaps preordained!  My mom’s sister was a high school English teacher, and my grandfather was the president of the Mahanoy City, PA school board……more coincidences?

I am considering doing the Ancestry process again just to see if it comes back the same.  I am proud of who I am but also curious.  Is that pride just a natural feeling or were all of my ancestors proud.  They were certainly adventurous to make such huge life decisions to emigrate.  I do not share that adventurous spirit!  But the entire search is fascinating. When I started this search, I discovered that my Italian grandfather was one of 7 children. My dad only knew of five.  Come to find out Rocco DeFina had seven children, Guiseppi, Maria, Antonio (my grandfather), Sebastiani, Vincenzo, Guiseppi and Maria.  It was not uncommon in Italy back in the mid 1800’s for parents to name later children with the same names as earlier children who died at young ages. I also discovered that Rocco DeFina was a symphonic Violinist and toured the US with an Italian Orchestra sometime in the mid 1850’s, did not like the United States and returned home.  Then every single one of his children emigrated to America to follow their dreams.  I guess the story isn’t over yet!

Considering the Role of Ancestors in My Life

Wal’s description of his family ancestry and detailed family folklore generated an interesting conversation at our last Zoom meeting.  During that time and in Wal’s subsequent follow up email, several questions evolved related to the purpose of his post, what – if anything – do I owe my forebears? – are we truly able to exercise free will or are we governed by determinism? and – who are we to judge those who came before us, or should we judge them at all?

Inspired by George and Wal’s treasure of DNA data, I recently spit in a bottle and sent if off for analysis.  As of this moment, it won’t arrive for another 2-4 weeks so I must choose another approach regarding my genetic background and family history.  Soon I’ll have more information to contribute to this ongoing conversation.  However, a void I can no longer fill, are the stories handed down from past and surviving relatives answering the who, what, where, and why that Wal and George seem to have in relative abundance.  My family was small, disconnected, and prone to taking stories and secrets to the grave.  For my part, I didn’t ask many questions when I had the chance as the busyness of the present moment always seemed more important than seeking out stories of the past.  Today, when I have the time and interest, it’s too late.  And, for my children and grandchildren who are furiously (and successfully!) dealing with the demands of the present, I’m hopeful that somewhere woven into the now over 100 posts we’ve written, there will be answers to the questions they may have when the tugs of the present give way to the questions of the past.

I wish my mom were here with me now as I sit on the patio, listening to the birds, feeling a gentle breeze, my bare feet resting against Duke’s warm fur as he sits under the table as I type this rejoinder.  This time, not to ask all those questions I’ve garnered over the years, but to just sit beside me and to enjoy all these things that make me happy.  Because, you see, these are the things that made her happiest.

Regarding any allegiance to those who came before us, we at least owe them a thank you for our being here.  At most, we can choose to carry forward their beliefs, teachings, and behaviors that helped mold us into the parts of who we are that we admire.  Despite family folklore, we don’t really know what they were thinking or what motivated them to do what they did.  What we can do is take the apparent knowledge we have and use it to both understand what possibly influences us as well as what we seek to do differently because we don’t necessarily like the story outcome.  I honor my mother’s parents as they came from Austria and Romania, worked hard, and led respectful, caring lives.  I honor my father’s parents (although I never met them) for giving me a father.  My father escaped with his brother from Mussolini’s Italy in the late 1930’s to America.  Before my father’s parents died in an internment camp, they were apparently wealthy as they owned a large shoe factory together and his mother made her living as a doctor (called a woman healer at the time).  Whether they were honest and hard working or not, I don’t know.  My father, after he came to the US held a number of high-end jobs often ending in issues with the companies and often with the law.  Eventually, there was an arrest warrant for him in the state of NY so he fled to Texas and never returned.  He abandoned his family and made only excuses for it when I tracked him down and met with him – 6 months before he died.  He was smart, charming, elusive, controlling, and self-absorbed.  And while I inherited some of those traits, some I accepted without self-question and others I chose to change.  Perhaps I am a better person today because of him, perhaps not.

And in answer to the question of free will vs determinism, I say both are acting on us, often simultaneously.  I’m aware that I have similar traits and perhaps ambitions to those of my ancestors that influence my actions and yet I am able to amend or diminish or augment those that I deem unacceptable as they currently exist.  Of course, the bump in this opinion is, what if I’m not aware of those traits that I’ve inherited and thus, unknowing they exist, offers me no opportunity to use free will to change them?  Hmmm…

Finally, what is the purpose or role of judging our ancestors?  What if we compare them to ourselves and, if we believe in free will, find ourselves to be better?  Or, if we seem to pale in comparison to our past relatives, are we any less, based on the challenges we face today vs yesteryear?  If we can find motivation to better ourselves because of our ancestors, all the better.  After all, isn’t any motivation used for betterment, of value?  Otherwise, why allow judgement to confuse us by adding yet another layer of information (true, false, or in-between) to cloud our already exhausted minds as we seek to be content with our lives.

There is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.

Helen Keller

It began as a conversation over dinner with my friend George (not my blogging buddy but a different George)  It was the kind of dialogue that begins with (“Wouldn’t it be cool to…”) Being bikers, we had often heard stories of the mecca to Sturgis in the Black Hills of South Dakota held each year during the first week of August.  Founded in 1938 and pausing only during World War II from 1942-1944, it is has grown to be the largest motorcycle rally in the world.  It was over dessert on a warm spring evening in 1991 that we made the commitment to go.

George had a trailer that would hold both his 1976 Harley Sportster and my 1982 Yamaha Seca 750.  His Honda Accord was sufficient to tow the weight but close enough to keep us vigilant.  We called ahead to book a room and discovered that everything within 100 miles of Sturgis was taken. We knew it was a popular biker destination but didn’t know between 50,000 and 60,000 bikers would descend upon this town – population, 5000.  (Today it has grown to around 7200 but the rally attendance hovers around 500,000!)  We finally found a room outside of the 100 mile mark and a stone’s throw from Wyoming.  We were all set.

A few weeks before our departure I attended a fund raiser sponsored by the school district I was in.  It was focused on gathering food and clothing for the Yankton Sioux on a reservation in Southeast South Dakota.  I had the opportunity to speak with the Sioux Elder, Ellsworth Chytka,  who was making the presentation and before I new it, we were invited to spend time with him and his family on the reservation on our way to Sturgis which was located on the western most part of the state.  What a rare opportunity for us to see first hand what life was like for these Native Americans who remained separate from mainstream society, what part of their culture still mattered, and what issues they faced.  We exchanged numbers and addresses promised to do our best to get together.

August finally arrived, we strapped our bikes to the trailer in Somers, NY, put our gear in the back seat and a plethora of maps in the front seat and we were off!  Spelling each other, we drove over 12 hours the first day, regularly checking the car, the bikes, and the trailer and keeping our speed only slightly above the 55 mph speed limit suggested by the trailer manufacturer.  We found a motel that night and went to bed with no incidents to report.  The next day we agreed to pick up the pace and did pretty well until early afternoon when one of the trailer tires blew.  George guided the car to the shoulder and after a replacing the bad wheel with a spare, we were cautiously on our way to the next town where we paused our trip to have our flat tire repaired.  Since we had lost some time we decided to drive well into the night to get back on schedule.  I believe we were in Indiana as we drove into the setting sun and we both remarked that the sun seemed to be taking a long time to set.  We wondered if driving due West on a straight, flat road actually prolonged the process.  For the rest of the trip to Sturgis we often remarked about the extra long sunsets.  (I haven’t done the math to see chasing the setting sun really kept it in view longer or if we imagined it.)

As we entered South Dakota we left the highway and traveled on some rather bumpy and pot-holed back roads. It was then that we noticed an odd noise and the smell of burning rubber so when we stopped for gas we checked out the trailer only to find that somehow the axle was bent and causing the tires to wear unevenly.  Luckily, we weren’t too far from Ellsworth’s reservation so we slowly pushed forward and made it to the reservation and his house without further incident.

His home on the reservation was set on numerous acres of open land dotted by islands of woods.  Roaming free within a spacious fenced in area were chickens and horses.  In one corner was a sweat lodge with a generous quantity of unevenly piled firewood and nearby was a rather large vegetable garden.   Ellsworth and his two wives and ten children along with multiple dogs and cats lived together in a large and rambling farmhouse.  Largely self sufficient, there appeared to be a clear division of labor that was upheld by even the youngest of the clan.  Our visit included an off road tour of the reservation by jeep, at night, with only moonlight to guide us, dinner and a room (we later discovered that we had displaced a couple of the younger children who had to double bunk with some of their other siblings), and breakfast the next morning.

Ellsworth told us of a nearby mechanic/welder who was known to do good work but had an intense dislike of Indians so when we went to him to have our trailer looked at, we were not to mention who recommended him to us.  (Note:  When we talked to Ellsworth about Native American issues he said he was an Indian and didn’t much care for the term, Native American.)  We followed his directions to an isolated home with a huge barn surrounded by a collection of nonworking cars, trucks, tractors, and trailers and asked him if he could help us with our bent axle.  Without saying a word or offering a gesture, he crawled underneath, shook his head, unhitched the trailer and pulled it into his barn.  About 40 minutes later he pushed it out, showed us an axle thicker than the old one and refashion so as to fit our trailer wheels.  He said, “ That one won’t break that’ll be twenty bucks.”

We drove straight on to our motel room and grabbed an early dinner and went to bed so that we could leave early the next morning, on our bikes, for Sturgis.  Bikers were everywhere and cars were few and far between.  Not only were bikes diagonally parked along both sides of the street but down the middle of the main drag leaving little room for anything much wider than a motorcycle.  It was a visual overload of scantily clad female bikers, chaps, vests over bare chests, tattoos of every kind, and decked out bikes.  The bars were mobbed and the only rule we were told to follow and that remained cemented into my brain was not to look directly at any biker woman who was wearing the colors of the Hell’s Angels! 

The areas surrounding this little town offered bike races, concerts, open spaces where bikers did near impossible things with their bikes, vendors, and campgrounds.  We spent a second day in Sturgis and then used the remainder of our week to ride through the Black Hills, tour Deadwood, and to visit Mount Rushmore.  Experiencing those places in the open atop a motorcycle feeling the temperature changes, smelling the varying scents, and seeing the unimpeded views was indescribable.  

On our way home we stopped in Indiana for the night. The following morning George found that a thief had cut the chains that tethered his Harley to the trailer.  Apparently, my Yamaha was unworthy of his effort and, for the first time throughout this trip I realized my Harley envy that hadn’t yet resulted in a purchase, was a good thing.  We contacted the police who said they knew of a man who had a history of stealing motorcycles in the area and they would let us know if they came up with anything.  We recentered my bike on the trailer and left for the last leg of our journey.  Somewhere in Pennsylvania, on a country road we stopped for gas and upon checking the trailer noticed that one of the hubs was glowing cherry red from overheating.  Apparently, the wheel bearings had little or no grease left to lubricate the spinning wheels and the friction was creating a great amount of heat.  There was little chance it would last a few miles let alone the 100 plus miles we had left.  It was getting dark and we knew there was no chance we could find a repair shop open and nearby.  As we stood next to the gas pump discussing who would get the back seat for a more comfortable bed for the night, a man putting gas in his beat up pickup wearing ripped and soiled clothes and walked over looked at our wheel and reaffirmed (in rather crude English) that we weren’t going to get far with the trailer in that condition.  He smiled and said that if we wanted, his father lived a mile and a half down the road and he would most likely be able to help.  He gave us directions, told us to go all the way down the disappearing driveway, knock on the door and asked for Pop.  He said, “Tell him Lucky sent you.”  We figured either this friendly and helpful offer was sincere or he was sending us to a local chop shop where not only they cut up and sold stolen cars, bikes, and trailers, but maybe the people who brought these items as well.  We talked it over and decided to take the chance.  He said he would be along shortly but was sure to tell is that when Pop answered his door, not to be afraid of his coy dog (a coyote and dog mix).  Lucky pulled out of the station and we now had a chance to reevaluate our decision but in the end, decided to give it a try.

In the middle of nowhere we pulled up to an extremely run down house next to a huge barn in similar condition.  Sure enough, Pop answered the door, the barking coy dog came charging to greet us but stopped short of attacking us.  So far, so good.  He came out to look over our trailer situation just as Lucky pulled in behind us blocking any chance of escape should the friendly offer to help change for the worse.  But that was the last time our level of defensiveness was raised.  Together, with Pop’s wife and a young girl looking on, they jacked up the trailer, took off the wheels, poked around in the barn until they found matching wheel bearing on some old and rusting pieces of equipment, repacked the wheel bearings in some fresh grease, and put it all back together.  It took them over two hours to put us back on the road and with deep appreciation we asked them how much we owed them for the parts and their labor.  “Nothing” they replied.  We couldn’t believe how fortunate we were to happen upon these people in our time of need and to top it off, they, who were by our calculations living below the poverty level, asked for nothing in return.  We insisted they take what we felt was a generous payment, and asked where we were so we might send them a thank you once we returned home.  “Oh, don’t you know, we’re in the Promised Land.”  Shivers went through us as we realized we had we had broken down and were rescued in Promised Land, Pennsylvania.  Indeed!

(A few days later George received a call from the Indiana State Police telling them that Andy Anderson had indeed, stolen his bike and but for a few scratches it was in good shape and ready for him to pick it up.  On his way back, George stopped at Promised Land and brought Lucky and Pop and his family, some food and beer.)

This, my friends, gives credence to the saying, “It’s the journey, not the destination.”  

“Life is about accepting the challenges along the way, choosing to keep moving forward, and savoring the journey.”  – Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

Evitandus

(That which must be avoided)

What a great story! When we discussed Hen’s piece, George and I were a little lost in how to respond in kind. Hen challenged us by asking us if we had an adventure we could recount. “NO!” was my emphatic response. I have spent my entire adult life avoiding adventure. I’m the guy whose idea of adventure is wearing a plaid tie with a striped shirt… I’m the Jon Arbuckle of adventure.

Occasionally, I might try something that tiptoes into the unknown. Once, I accompanied my brother in a rock-climbing attempt. We went to the area of the ‘Gunks known for practice climbs. In fact, there’s a climber’s route book which shows step-by-step pictures of various approaches and where to obtain hand-and-footholds, belaying points, and such. Rich was pretty experienced climber and assured me that it would be straightforward. I got three feet off the ground. My body actually froze – could not move my feet. They needed WD-40 to remove my hands from the death grip I had on the rocks. My hand prints are still there. Archaeologists think the marks are ancient petroglyphs, but I know the truth.

I can’t help it – I think it’s post traumatic stress from riding the Cyclone at Coney Island when I was a kid. Ever since that experience, I have striven to evade that life-ending feeling of rapidly escalating heartbeat, which usually accompanies the internal mantra “How in Hell did I get here?”

Sometimes a person can back themselves into an adventure, such as that time when the armed security guards emptied out of their booths and rushed me at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo – or when that gang in Rio surrounded me at the beach – but that’s a different story. I didn’t mean to have an adventure. Now that I’m thinking about that, is it likely that ALL adventures are unplanned? I’d really be interested in hearing other points of view about this.

And, yeah, I get Hen’s main point: it wasn’t about being in Sturgis – it was about what happened enroute. It was the adventure within the adventure. True enough, the journey is all important. Surviving it is also nice.

George suggested that adventure is a mindset. Once you let go of your fear, you realize that every anxiety-provoking possibility is simply an adventure waiting to happen. Thanks, Geo – that is a helpful outlook! It’s also a surprising take from a ‘glass half-empty’ guy – maybe you are a secret optimist!

Even though I may choose the spinning teacups ride over the Cyclone, who knows: my next adventure may be waiting in the queue. I’ll get back to you on that.

Here’s a stanza from Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road, which captures the spirit of Hen’s story for me:

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

I Beat Adventurous Adversity

After reading Hen’s piece I was a little perplexed as to how I could respond to it.  As a person who lived a relatively safe life, I would never expose myself to such an adventurous experience as Henry writes about.  I am sure I lost out on many opportunities as a result.  But sometimes life throws us surprises and adventures occur whether we want them or not.  I am  getting up there in years and very happy being a cranky old man who hates technology.  I like it when it is working smoothly but the minute it breaks down I am flustered as to how to fix it.  My adventure began with technology.  Last Wednesday morning I woke up, the arthritis in my wrist and thumbs seemed exceptionally painful, and went to turn on my new Smart TV that my daughter got me for Christmas.  She set it up for me and showed me how to turn it on and get to the regular cable channels.  This particular morning I turned it on as instructed and  there was a whole new screen which I could not remove to get back to my home screen. So frustration was already creeping in……..I was supposed to meet Henry and Wally in New Paltz for lunch so I had that to look forward to, or so I thought.  I went out to get in my Jeep and tried to turn the Jeep on and nothing.  Tried it again, tried it several times…… nothing!  I figured I better text Wally and Henry to let them know that I wouldn’t be joining them.  Henry called right back and said he had his truck and jumper cables and he’d come to my house and give me a jump start.  Wally joined us at my house and we decided to have lunch in Kingston nearby.  We jump started the jeep and it was purring nicely so we left with the Jeep running to get a good charge.

I was frustrated with my Jeep and outsmarted by my Smart TV but otherwise things were improving.  I got back from lunch and took the Jeep out for a long run, came home, watched a little TV on my regular unsmart TV in my bedroom.  For 2 days the Jeep started as usual and I was mobile and getting things done.  Saturday morning I had errands to run and jumped in the Jeep and ………nothing.  I tried it again and again and again. Probably 10 times  and this is where my adventure actually began.  I called AAA and they came and gave me another jump start.  Great. He told me to let it run for about 45 minutes…no problem.   My son suggested that maybe it was the battery in the key fob and that I should try the spare fob.  Sounded like a good idea, so headed out to the car, locked the door to the porch.  The car was still running since the jump and I was going to take it for a long run to really charge the battery.  As I was driving out of my street a light came on my dashboard that said, “Fob is not detected in the vehicle.”  On a Jeep if the fob isn’t in the car while you are driving, it just shuts down,  but I was close to home and turned around to get my other fob.  I pulled in my drive way, accidentally shut the car off, and went to get my other set of keys.  I got to the back door and realized, because I switched keys I did not have a key to the porch door cause I had just had the porch enclosed and didn’t put a spare key on my other set of keys.  I immediately went into cursing mode….but wait!!!!! I hid a porch key outside for my kids.  Whew, no problem, go get the key from it’s hiding place in my generator and open up the house.  I opened the top of the generator and there it was.  I tugged on the little leather doo hickey it was attached to and nothing happened.  I pulled harder…nothing!  I tried to get my finger in to where the key was stuck to no avail.  The key had slipped into the hole in the hinge where it was hidden from all invaders and then twisted.  Now I was scared.  How the Hell am I going to get in my house?  I do not want to have to break a window so now I started freaking out.  I think maybe I gave Jennie the key so got in the Jeep, tried to start it and ……..dead as a door nail!  Now I am really not enjoying this adventure.  What am I going to do?  I decided to walk around the whole house and see if by chance, one of the windows wasn’t locked.

On that side of the house the bottom of the windows are about an inch above my head.  I reached up and was able to push the window open and relief ran through my body!  I let go of the window and it slid back down but I could get in the house this way.  I stood wondering how I was going to  get my body up to the window.  Because I had the different key chain I couldn’t get into the garage either where I had a nice step ladder, so what was I going to do?  I told myself to calm down and think!  OK, I have to make a Rube Goldberg kind of gadget to replace a ladder.  I found a large wide flower pot so I put that under the window upside down but that only brought my eye brows to the window sill.  Another trip around my house and I found an old wagon that I pulled over to the window,  turned upside down and put the flower pot on top.  As I climbed up on the upside down, wobbling flower pot, I realized it still wasn’t high enough for me to climb into the window.  Another trip around the house and I found a large antique metal can that I put flowers in on my front porch.  This would definitely work.  I carried it to the window, took the flower pot off and piled the large can on top of the upside down wagon, put the flower pot back on the wagon so I could use that to help me step up onto the top of the can.   This contraption was even more wiggly, but up I went. Now my chest was level with the bottom of the window.  I pushed the window open again, higher this time but it slid down again.  Jumped off the pretend ladder and  found a stick that I could hold the window open with.  OK!  Proud of myself, I climbed back up on this rickety contraption and stuck my head in the window.  I was immediately head bumped by my dog Devon who thought this was a fun game.  Licking my face over and over and nose bumping my forehead as part of the game, I had to persevere!  In spite of my arthritis I was able to get my left heel inside the frame of the window which excited my dog all the more and began jumping up on the windowsill, having a wonderful time.  Inch by inch I was able to get more and more of my left leg inside the window.  At that point It didn’t matter how much pain it caused I felt victorious and I was going to get in that damn bedroom, get the damn keys and succeed.  I managed to slide my body across the windowsill just as the Venetian blinds came crashing down.  I didn’t care, I beat the challenge!  I got the keys, went out to the car with the old fob and tried to start it…….nothing.

I did not choose to have this adventure.  It challenged my rickety body and my distorted mind but I roughed my way through it.  It wasn’t as much fun as Henry’s challenge but in a weird way I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest.  My car was dead until Monday when I called AAA again, the guy came within half an hour, jump started me again,  and after letting it run for an hour I drove it over to the dealer.  Lo and behold it wasn’t my main battery but in the recent Jeeps they have that Start/Stop feature that is supposed to save gas by turning off the engine every time you stop for a light or anything else.  When I first bought it I thought the car kept stalling out every time I stopped, so I turned that feature off, but apparently the smaller battery when dying draws energy for the main battery.  So it spent all of Monday at the Jeep dealership, is home now resting comfortably, ready to start whenever I need it!  My daughter also came and spent an hour fixing my Smart TV.   So I am GOOD TO GO!

I’m looking at a cedar log and wondering how it’s going to help me make sense of my life.

For the better part of a year, a question has been rattling around in my head – an earworm that just won’t go away: how would you symbolically represent your life? I believe that this topic originated in a discussion with my buddies, Hen and George and has kept me thinking: How would I do that?

The question is both repelling and compelling. After all, it reeks of self-absorption. In addition, perhaps I would not have the energy or skill to do a reasonable job of whatever approach I undertook. Of course, I would like to be remembered, but memories are short-lived. More importantly, I would like to remember – remember the experiences and people that have helped me to be where I stand today – and commemorate that experience.

So, I put it to you – What would you do, in order to render an accounting of who you are, or where you’ve been? I guess the easy answer would be a collection of written memoirs or an autobiography, maybe even a blog like this one. Perhaps it would be reflected through a particular focus, like Stanley Tucci’s book, My Life Through Food. Or maybe, it is simply a series of recipes or other works that speak for you?

I mean, some people paint self-portraits and murals, compose symphonies, sew quilts with personal meaning, construct buildings. Let your mind run free — What would you do?

I’ve decided to give it a shot… that’s why I’m looking at this log, which I mounted on a lathe. For millennia, people have erected monuments to reflect incidents, achievements, boundaries, and laws. These belong loosely to the family of stelae – or stelai if you prefer the Greek. Inscribed gravestones, obelisks, menhirs, and totems all strive to tell a story. So that’s what I intend to do – on a smaller scale – with this log.

I’m going to shape this log so that it is tapered on each end, the thickest part will be near the middle. It will stand vertically on a base. The base will remember my parents and brother and life’s journey will proceed in a spiral fashion from bottom to top. The center will reflect the wedding rings that my wife designed and cast.

The progression of the piece will follow Eric Erickson’s life stages and challenges, representing the development of virtues that are associated with each stage: hope, will, purpose, competence, fidelity, love, care, and wisdom. Let’s hope it’s not too late for wisdom.

When I was eleven, I read The Illustrated Man, by Ray Bradbury – a collection of short stories. It tells the tale of a person covered in body art. Each tattoo represented an event from his past, present – and future. When the man fell asleep, each individual tattoo became animated and reenacted the experience depicted in a short story. Ultimately, the last tattoo foreshadowed his death. I guess I won’t go that far! But significant events reflecting the life stages will be carved or engraved within the spiral, but the top may remain unfinished.

Centuries past, soldiers called aquilifers carried a standard which were emblematic of their particular Roman legion. Many times, these were mythic or fierce beasts. The top of my work will feature a mayfly, representing ephemeral quality of life. Mayflies live most of their existence underwater in moving waters or streams. They emerge and morph into spinners that live for a day or two. This stage is short, because their digestive organs are repurposed for reproduction – they cannot eat; they have no defense and can neither bite nor sting. They can fly gloriously for a brief period, dipping into the surface of water to lay eggs, avoiding predatory trout. When they finally alight, exhausted, on a fragment of grass or window screen, they have a characteristic pose with their front legs raised almost in an attitude of prayer. Somehow, these creatures capture my sympathy. So, a mayfly must be incorporated in my work as a standard, although I’m not sure how to accomplish that just yet. All of this is going to take some time and I’ll report back on progress periodically.

Does any of this get your wheels spinning? Let your mind run free: What would you do?

Wheels, by Lauren Coles ( https://pickmeuppoetry.org/wheels-by-lauren-coles/ )

Wheels can spin in your head,
An idea can spark from anywhere,
The mind is a creative genius,
If people don’t know what the world needs there will not change.

Memories May be Beautiful and Yet… Thank You Barbra

Many people around my age open up the newspaper each morning to the obituaries.  We joke that if our names aren’t listed, we know we are good for another day at least.  Humorous, no doubt, but also a truthful assessment of what life is like.  When I recognize one of the names, I read through the story of that person’s life.  I skim through the part of the “survived by…” and focus on the kind of person he or she was.

More than once while doing this I couldn’t help but wonder from whose perspective this life story was written. That isn’t always the way I remembered that person, cast as a super hero, or a gentle soul, when I remember a situation where that person was anything but.  But we must speak kindly of the dead!  I wonder if one of his kids wrote the obituary or is there an obituary writer who writes the story after a brief interview with the family.  Or, perhaps, the deceased wrote his own obituary.

Of course, our lives are composed of significant events and special people, but also of our character. All of these things made up who we became in our adult life.  But significance is in the eyes of the beholder.  I want to be remembered as a good father, and a caring effective teacher, and if I were writing my obituary, I would certainly include those traits, as well as being an effective caring innkeeper who always tried to assure the guests’ a positive experience at our inn and community.  I want to be remembered as kind and funny, and trying to accommodate the individual needs of whoever I was teaching or giving directions to.

I guess what I am getting at is that if I wrote my own obituary and someone else wrote one about me, would they be symmetrical?  And if not, which one is going to be the one that people remember?

Which raises the question how do I want to be remembered?  Do I want people to remember me the way I envisioned myself or do I want to be remembered the way they actually remembered me?  Scary thought!
Hopefully the amalgam of all my parts will come up on the positive side, but there have been dark times, angry times, and sad times that I would choose not to be remembered for.

Wally is putting significant symbols of his life on a story stick.  He has the ability to carve those significant symbols and include them on his story stick, and Henry’s sister was able to patch together her mother’s life story on a quilt.  Wally’s story stick and Henry’s sister’s quilt can be on display as a constant reminder to what that person’s life was like for all who have an interest in being reminded.  I don’t have the ability to display the important events of my life like either of those.  My symbols have always been in words.  Years of journals recording significant events year by year on a daily basis: the adoption of our kids, our various moves and houses, family happenings, births and deaths, sicknesses, achievements, all the things that happen to most families. But journals are not always visible as a life reminder to those who want to remember what life was like. I am afraid I will have to be content to be remembered from good deeds I did for others over however many years I survive.  I hope and pray that the good deeds far exceed the bad.  I hope my kids can someday look back on their dad and fondly share their memories of him and laugh at his silliness and cry at his misfortunes.  I hope some of the kids who were in my classes over the years will remember their fourth-grade teacher as someone who listened and cared about their well-being and remember fondly some of the activities, conversations and lessons they learned from him.  Maybe a guest or two will remember fondly their visit to Woodstock, Vermont and the late-night conversations around the blazing fireplace of the Deer Brook Inn. with a bottle of wine.  Unfortunately, we will never know what we are remembered for or the answers to these questions. 

Defending My Life

Defending Your Life is a light-hearted 1991 movie starring Albert Brooks, Meryl Streep, and Rip Torn.  It focuses on two unrelated early to mid-life people who died and wake up in a midway place where each, with the help of an attorney-like support person must represent their life before two impartial judges who will determine whether they are evolved enough to go forward or who need to go back to Earth until they’ve reached an acceptable level of worthiness.  This process involves their assigned support person using video snippets of their lives as evidence to support the premise that each was either ready to move on or not.  What an interesting way to represent how we spent our lives and how we arrived at our present state of who we really are.  However, since no one has been filming my life since birth (whew!) I do not have the video data necessary for this approach.

Continuing on with the medium of film to illustrate who we are, I am also reminded of the section of Don Miquel’s book, The Four Agreements.  In his discussion of perceptions, he proposes a scenario where one enters a movie theater to watch the movie, “This is Your Life” as lived and remembered by you.  Then, you go into the next theater also showing the movie of the same title but written by you or a member of your family.  As you watch this one you realize it’s not the same.  In fact, you are certain that many of the events never happened the way they are shown and the meaning behind them are way off or completely incorrect.  Hmmm, what if my choices for what captures the essence of who I am are only my perceptions and not those of my family, friends, coworkers, and neighbors?  Will this graphic collection of renderings of me be valid only to me?  And if so, then, will this representation matter?  I believe it will matter if I accept the notion that the meaning to those who see it after I’m gone, is that this is what I remember experiencing and what I found to be meaningful.

For my 75th birthday, my granddaughter gave me a workbook entitled, “Walk with Me. – a Grandfather’s Story.”  It is a guided journal of my memories with 112 written prompts to include different segments of my life’s experiences and how I felt and acted at the time of their unfolding.  When completed this will be a comprehensive way to address Wal’s challenge but not a consolidated rendering that summarizes my life.

Shortly after my mother died, my sister collected my mom’s unused fabrics and material from her skirts and dresses and commissioned a quilter to create several 3’X3’ square quilts for each of my mother’s children and grandchildren.  The quilt, made from mom’s own clothes and favorite quilting fabrics, displayed coffee cups, flowers, spools of thread, and music notes.  A perfect representation of her love of music, gardening, sewing/quilting, and her morning cup of fresh-brewed coffee!  It hangs in my bedroom and revives fond memories each time I look at it.  I think this is most like the kind of expression of our lives that Wal has in mind.

I wish I could think more simply, just as my sister did with the quilts.  I often bog myself down with too much detail fearing I’ll leave something out or deprive the viewer of the fullness and richness of what I’m describing. 

As I tried to hone my ideas I thought I might proceed with a combination of some of the approaches I mentioned.  One would be to collect items (pictures and objects) that I see as symbols of important times, people, events, and changes that had a significant impact on who I came to be.  I would photograph each item or find or create a picture of intangible experiences and write a brief phrase of explanation below it.  Perhaps I would capture the most significant items from my granddaughter’s book and exchange each section with a photo.  This picture book would be a bound publication that could also be converted to a digital version.

But then I remembered a challenge I faced when I was 40.  When I went north for my outward bound-like Temagami experience, they had us draw a life map representing significant parts of our lives from birth to present day on a round piece of oak tag.  And, in the center, we were to draw a symbol of who we were and who we wanted to be.  I recently retrieved this artifact from a box in my basement.  Partially because of my inability to draw well as well as the faded print and my fading memories, I no longer remember the meaning behind all of the figures.  And yet, this child-like rendering still serves as a clear reminder of my journey.  As I continue to mull over this query, and if I choose to follow through with it, this may very well be my response to Wal’s challenge.

As all years that are in our past, there are events and experiences that we wished hadn’t happened and those that we recall fondly.  This post is about those things we remember favorably about 2023 and those that we hope to recall joyfully, at the end of this year.

Last year’s favorable experiences:

Mine included finding a house and property, moving in, and making some renovations to suit my likes and interests.  

I made more time for being physically active which included hiking with Meetup groups as well as projects in and around my home.

I experienced the joy of following my granddaughter’s college application and decision making process and felt pride in how well my children are doing in spite of all of life’s challenges.

I spent more and more quality time with Teresa and am making progress on learning how to be a loving and accepting partner.

I enjoyed the company of new acquaintances and am realizing how important this social interaction is for me.  I love finally living in a neighborhood and enjoy the chance and purposeful interactions that fill my weeks.

There are more but these are the “big rocks” that fill my 2023 bowl of positive experiences.  Which ones stand out for you?

This year’s anticipated positives:

I’m already mind-gardening!  I plan to build a fenced in/raised bed vegetable garden this spring.  I’m thinking of starting with peppers, carrots, radishes, lettuce, beans, and chives.  As I look back on this at year’s end, I’ll find ways to make it even better.

Visiting Kylie in her first year in college and reflecting on her new friendships and interests.

I will have played more pickleball.  (I’m also considering taking some lessons to improve my game.)

I look forward to recounting the year with more experiences with my son and daughter-in-law and adding more Washington, DC attractions to my list of visits with them.

My first visit with Teresa to her son’s family in the Sierra Nevada mountains of northern California this spring will likely become an annual event.

I’m moving the process of planning and preparing meals up a notch on my weekly schedule.  Yum!

And you?

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

Soren Kierkegaard

Gratitude

We wrote about worry in the last post, so elevating the positive memories of 2023 seems like a way to restore balance in the universe! 

I would love to report a series of firsts in looking back at 2023 – new experiences that bring a sense of accomplishment and joy: milestones which document growth. Boy, I’m hard pressed to identify any. Last year was a service year, mainly devoted to carrying out tasks which began as obligations, but ended with a deeper understanding of responsibility. 

The concept of service entails subordinating your own desires to attend to someone else’s needs and desires. Last year my focus was caring for a person at the end of his lifespan, supporting an organization in distress, and shoring up a challenging business. A better person than me would find obvious highlights in those activities, but I’m not yet that better person.

When I look at how folks find joy in the midst of the scuffle and “trudgery” (yes, that’s a made-up word) of everyday life, it seems that a common sentiment is a version of ‘It could have been worse, so be thankful’. I can sign up for that point of view: the old Khalil Gibran idea of deeper sadness hollowing a vessel to hold greater joy.

Alternately, I like the poem below from Nancy Carmody, which looks at each chore and turns it on its head: the silver lining playbook. She is on target — I am sincerely grateful for the ability to do the tasks I would prefer not to do. It is right to celebrate the fundamental joy of being alive, having choices, and simply ‘doing’. In that vein, I nominate these meaningful successes of 2023:

• Spending time with friends, remembering past shared experiences and creating some new ones
• Sitting next to my love on a couch laughing along with Kim’s Convenience
• Teaching my grandson to play chess and then watching him beat me 
• Hitting that great tennis backhand down the line – once
• Making an edition of pens from 300-year-old wood
• Updating the history of the local church

Those are highlights which I’ll cherish… and here’s what Nancy says:

I Am Thankful For — Nancy J Carmody (reposted from Gratitude – The Life Blog)

…..the mess to clean up after a party
because it means I have been surrounded by friends.

​…..the taxes that I pay
because it means that I’m employed.

…..the clothes that fit a little too snug
because it means I have enough to eat.

​…..my shadow who watches me work
because it means I am out in the sunshine.

​…..the spot I find at the far end of the parking lot
because it means I am capable of walking.

​…..all the complaining I hear about our Government
because it means we have freedom of speech.

​…..that lady behind me in church who sings offkey
​because it means that I can hear.

​…..lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning, and gutters that need fixing
because it means I have a home.

…..my huge heating bill
because it means that I am warm.

​…..weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day
because it means that I have been productive.

…..the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours
because it means that I am alive.

Moments to Remember

After reading Hen’s post my head was spinning. I was trying to remember an event or happening that was outstanding enough to raise my spirits or make me recall it fondly.  Daily life has its ups and downs certainly, and whether good or bad we learn from both kinds. Scratching my head, I tried to pull something up in this old brain of mine and I kept shooting blanks.  Is my glass really half empty?  That troubled me more than anything.  Was my joking about it all the time a self fulfilling prophesy? I closed my computer and walked away.  But it stayed in my mind all day and would pop up when I least expected.  Later that afternoon I stopped what I was doing and thought that a day, a year is made up of moments.  I was looking for the wrong thing.  I was looking for the spectacular instead of those little moments that bring a smile to my face when I remember them, or bring on a sense of pride or accomplishment, and the thoughts began to flow.

Just the day before I had such a moment while having blood work done at our local lab.  You have to sign in when you arrive.  They have little stations set up where you have to put your driver’s license on a tray so it can be photographed and then you have to follow a series of prompts til the end.  It only takes a few minutes to complete.  As I was heading to take a seat and begin my wait, a man stopped me and asked if .  I could help him sign in because he left his glasses at home and couldn’t read the prompts  No problem, I read the prompts to him and  told him where to put his license and insurance cards and walked through the whole procedure.  I didn’t think anything of it.  As I was heading back to the waiting area the man stopped me and thanked me for helping.  It really seemed like nothing to help him.  As I sat down, a woman who was sitting right next to where we signed him in, looked at me and smiled and  winked.  After my blood was harvested, the woman stopped me and said how nice it was of me to treat that man with such patience and respect and she said she didn’t think he could read at all.  That little moment lightened my heart.  It was something that I thought anyone would do for another person.  But for  whatever reason the whole day I felt good about having done it.  Now I was starting to see how I could measure my gratitude in little events instead of the fireworks and applause events that I had none of,

Realizing that things like that happen frequently and without fanfare, I began to collect my thoughts about this topic.  I remembered at Christmas time when my daughter, son and girlfriend were opening gifts and I had sort of stepped back and watched from afar, I remember smiling and watching as if I wasn’t even in the room , and remembered how heart warming it was just to watch the interaction among them.  My gratitude didn’t have to be for big events.  Small person to person connections were worthy of acknowledgment.

Earlier in November there was a neighbor who just moved in two houses away and she stopped me one day and invited me to a get together with other neighbors on the block.  I went to her house on the date of the gathering and to my surprise almost the whole block of people were there.  I had been living here for 8 years and hadn’t talked to several of them.  It was such a nice group of people and I met every one.  The conversation was about the neighborhood, the houses, jobs we used to have as most were retired and it made me feel at home and safe with these people.  Now people stop and talk while walking their dogs or putting out the garbage cans.  Just a nice feeling of camaraderie that was fostered at that one gathering by a total stranger who had just moved in.  A former student who I have been in touch with for about 45 years  sent me a newspaper article about her being appointed to Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum Development for the Kingston City School District.  Her note simply said she knew how I liked to keep track of my former students and follow their careers. MY heart filled with pride.  There were many of those moments- too many to keep track of, but reflecting on them, I felt a whole new sense of gratitude and whatever the opposite of malaise is!

Onto 2024 and the future!  I have no idea what that will bring but at least now I will be attempting to recognize those moments that lift me up.  And lifting up can mean, fun, pride, accomplishments, gratitude and a list of other emotions that I haven’t even thought of yet.  I hope this year will be good for all of us, will have high points  and low points from which we learn.  Mistakes that won’t be repeated, new friendships being made, old friendships revised, all intertwined with humor and love.  Fill up that glass, I’m in it for the long run!