This idea of downsizing has been haunting me for a long time. As I get closer to the big 80, it just has to be done however my ability to procrastinate far exceeds my need to do certain things, one of which is downsizing.  I like to collect things, pretty things, practical things, meaningful things.  I always have and always will.  I have things from my early childhood that I have saved because it reminds me of my growing and the people and places that were very important tome.  I wear a Miraculous Medal around my neck to this day.  It was given to me by my grandmother on my 12th birthday.  A Miraculous Medal is a pendant with a raised figure of the Virgin Mary, a very Catholic piece of jewelry believed to protect us from evil.  The day she gave it to me she was very excited. She had it blessed by Bishop Fulton J. Sheen who was a friend of my dad’s.  She had me turn around and she clipped the chain to the back of my neck and told me never to take it off.  66 years later and I have never gone a day without it around my neck.  It is like part of my body. I never take it off cause I always listened to my grandmother.  She and I were close because every Sunday for years I would go to her apartment and watch her favorite show with her.  Hopalong Casadeetch was her favorite and she always had homemade treats ready for me to eat during the show.  I have other stuff like that too. In my basement I have a collection of model railroad paraphernalia worth a lot of money that I have collected over the decades.  It is a collection that started very early on.  My dad bought my brother, who was 8 years older than I, his first Lionel prewar model train.  Back then they were all metal.  When I came along 8 years later I got my Lionel train set from my dad but it was plastic by then.  My dad made a large platform for our layout which covered half the living room floor and every year the three of us would create a beautiful town for our trains to run past. Because my brother and I were so different in age we were never very close but at Christmas every year the three of us would work together to set up our Christmas village for everyone to play with.  When I was graduated from college and bought our first house, I took claim to all the boxes in the attic and set them aside for my family to develop our own village,  Later on I devoted an entire bedroom to a raised train layout and played with it for years.  Even as a kid I collected things.  My dad built a floor to ceiling bookcase in an alcove in my room.  I wasn’t much of a reader but those shelves were filled with ceramic dogs and cats, plastic figurines of people in their traditional national garb.  That kind of thing always fascinated me.  As I got bigger and older so did the things I collected. For my graduation from college my brother got me an original water color painting from a young Long Island artist.  I was hooked.  Now I have a collection of about 125 original watercolors that I collected over the years.  Every trip to Europe usually increased my collection by one or two original paintings of Italy, France, Wales, Spain and Portugal. I am out of wall space in my house now so a lot are still sitting on the floor of an unused bedroom upstairs.  I won’t even tell you about my 250 plastic Santas from the 1950’s and 60’s that come up from the basement every December to adorn my mantel.  My last occupational adventure was an antique shop in Vermont where I found this incredible papier mache Jazz Band that I just could not pass up!  I am hopeless I know.

You can see where I am going with this.  As my next birthday is speeding toward its arrival which actually puts me living in my 80th year I have begun to seriously think about what will happen to all my stuff.  I have furniture that has followed me from house to house to inn and house again.  I saw first hand through my antique business that brown furniture had fallen out of favor.. Brown meaning original wood color. People are now painting the beautiful brown furniture with milk paint or chalk paint or other new paint varieties because the brown was what old people had. And shortly after the store started to catch on Covid struct and ended that chapter of my retail experience.  I have some beautiful pieces of furniture from my dad and mom’s house that no one will want.  I ask my kids and they roll their eyes as they do with so much of my stuff.  I do think my son will probably claim all the train stuff and both of them have a few favorite paintings they will keep but that is about it.  Although recently I have noticed new collections popping up in my daughter’s house so there is hope. I do have to go about downsizing all these things so my kids don’t have to be burdened with it all when I pass?  And this is without even mentioning clothes. I have teacher clothes upstairs in a closet.  They include pants that can’t be zipped, dress shirts with 17 inch necks that I can no longer button, I have a beautiful new suit that i cannot even button the jacket.  So accepting the fact that these clothes can no longer fit I decided this would be a good place to start the downsizing process.  There are all kinds of clothes drops around the community so that makes things easy….HA!  I started going through the pockets of my pants and jackets checking to make sure there is no money and then folding them neatly and putting them into plastic garbage bags. So far so good.  Next, down to my dressers and closet in my bedroom.  I have a lot of jeans that no longer fit. For years I was a 30 waist but now I can no longer fit into a 32 inch waist unless it has a stretch waist band.  But to donate, I first have to try them on, check the pockets for money, fold neatly and place in those garbage bags.  Same with the shirts, but the folding is a real pain.  Then there are the sweaters and sweatshirts that I love and do I really want to get rid of them?  I’m just not sure, but I have done enough for one day and I’ll do some more tomorrow……if tomorrow ever comes. I failed to mention that trying on pants is no longer easy. I used to be able to stand up and put my pants on quickly,  Now I either have to sit down to put them on or hold onto furniture while I put one leg in, turn around, hold onto the dresser with my other hand and put my other leg in.  This takes time.

Whenever my son comes home I try to get him to take a few moments and walk with me through the house to see if there is anything he would like to take now or later, to which he usually replies, “Nah!”  I have a few paintings of trains I think he will want and with my daughter there are a few things she wants.  I have some decorative delft plates she likes and some family china but the one thing she definitely lays claim to is my aunt’s piano bench because my aunt would attempt to teach her to play the piano.  The bench seat has a pretty embroidered flower bouquet on it.  Jennie valued her time with my aunt whenever she came from Pennsylvania to visit or we went there.  When you think about it there is so much stuff that is cherished by people that will wind up in a garbage dump, a thrift shop or yard sale or just discarded.  Our lives come down to a pile of stuff that was once cherished and now is pushed aside and has no place to go. When I had the antique shop I used to get upset when someone would bring things in to sell and set up their booth and somewhere in the booth was a basket or bowl filled with old photos of people’s lives- wedding photos, baby pictures, family gatherings, graduations, you name it.  Special important events in those families’ lives. No one ever goes through the baskets, no one ever buys old photos of people they don’t know.  Aren’t there other family members left that should keep these old photos for posterity sake.  Don’t get me started!  There is a lot more that I could say but I am picking my daughter up to go to an estate sale before it closes..

Letting Go

George reminds us that over our lifetime we have accumulated a variety of inanimate objects that were or are still, significant to us but not so much to those who will inherit them.  Thus, those of us in our final years are faced with the conundrum of what to do with this “stuff”… as well as when.

Recently, AARP published an article entitled, “AARP Smart Guide to Decluttering” – 39 strategies on how to donate, ditch, and downsize the things filling up your home.  The premise is that like a diet, where we lose weight only to regain it over time, purging and accumulating also seem to be a constant work in progress.  Therefore, they suggest we begin with a shift in our mindset.  That is we have to dig deep inside to agree that we honestly want to reduce the amount of our stuff before we commit to beginning the process.  I like this step as it reminds me that there are times when I begin a project because it seemed like a good idea at the time but later I replace it by something else that catches my attention.  If I had made it a conscientious choice based on what was truly important to me, I would be more likely to maintain my commitment to it rather than move on to something else.  From personal experience with such matters I would add an additional step to increase the chances of success.  I find that asking someone I trust to check in with me on a regular basis helps keep me accountable.  Knowing my friend, partner, or daughter would be asking me how my decluttering work is going adds another layer of responsibility to my task at hand.  

When I moved in 2021, I seriously began this process.  I offered friends and relatives to take things I no longer needed, I scheduled furniture pick up with Habitat for Humanity, I donated unwanted clothes to the local church which had a “Goodwill” like store to help the less fortunate, I brought items to the recycling center, and as a last resort, I filled a large dumpster with things that remained but weren’t coming with me.  This was a huge effort and a great start.

When I bought my new home in 2023 I found that I still had more than I needed or wanted as well as some furniture and decorations that either didn’t fit or I replaced.  Many of these things I donated to neighbors, contractors who did work on my house, and new friends, and donated items to The Salvation Army, and Habitat for Humanity. Some of furniture and fixtures remain in my basement waiting for me to find new homes for them.

Our aging generation is growing and the challenge faced by our children/family members of getting rid of the stuff we will leave behind is increasingly daunting.  I can’t help but think, what if?  What if there were an agency that was designed to assist the elderly in the entire process of going through their things, deciding what needs to be repurposed or disposed of, and making the arrangements to do so?  Perhaps just putting this idea out there might lead to some additional resources down the road.

For now I think long and hard before I add anything to my home collection.  If I choose to do so I look to take something away and all the while, I keep in mind how much I have and can still let go of while my partner helps me keep this conversation alive.

“Letting go of items that no longer serve you is freeing.”  

– Author Unknown

A Festival of Things

I’m late to the party… after a sojourn to the north country without computer, I’m just catching up on George’s post and Hen’s rejoinder. 

Geo voices something I think we all struggle with: what happens to the objects we enjoy when we’re no longer around to enjoy them? In addition, the sad truth is that objects we enjoy may not have the same meaning to others – so what do we do with them? George confronts the dilemma, doesn’t quite come up with a solution, and then heads out to corral some more objects.

Believe it or not, this makes sense to me.

Look, most normal folks gather ‘things’ for at least several major reasons:

1. Gain: these are commodities to trade, sell, or give away
2. Use: items stockpiled as ingredients for future projects
3. Souvenirs: placeholders for memories of individuals or powerful experiences
4. Beauty: to surround our existence with inspirational art, literature, or music

Knowing George, he is not focused on Gain or Use. He often talks about having his father’s money clip and the Lionel trains of his youth. He also describes his many collections, including cityscapes by various artists, as well as the personal experience of interactions with the artists. For Geo, the beauty of the object and its significance to his relationship with the owner or maker is a data point of joy. I get that. Why not surround yourself with a symphony of objects? It seems autobiographical. Matthew Kelly writes that truth, beauty and goodness are the only things people never get bored with. Why not search after more object’s d’art?

Okay, but what constitutes ‘too much stuff’? I’d say that varies. Possibly, you have too much, when the sheer volume prevents enjoyment of the individual pieces. But maybe the collection is the gestalt – the interlocking puzzle of elements that defines your world. 

Now you have curated a collection, do you continue to add to it as your perspective changes? Of course!

Years ago, I got some advice from Mirni Kashiwa, an esteemed lover of the arts. In her household, they had a tradition of revolving the artwork, in order to focus on various objects and see them afresh. She did not discard her art, but rather archived pieces. It reminds me that you can both be reconnected with a strong memory and also come away with a new meaning by resampling earlier saved objects.

But life is more temporary than things. Our objects will outlast us – even if they are discarded. George’s sadness to see old photographs in a junk store represents our difficulty in accepting our transitory nature. It is not the things themselves, but the significance to the person that is now removed or discounted. I have no answer for that. That we — and memories of us — will evaporate is the hardest truth to accept.

Hen suggests a variety of approaches to assist in managing the disposition of household collections. I like the idea of having an agency to assist people in finding homes for treasured objects – or maybe just ‘stuff’. It goes further than recycling – it’s reassigning. An artist friend’s family arranged a ‘retrospective’ show of his art and then invited people to take pieces that they admired. A little part of Steve went away with everyone that knew him. That would personally make me happy to arrange such an experience for my collections: a festival of things!

Collecting Peace, by Susan Noyes Anderson from her website: susannoyesandersonpoems.com

Collecting is a testament
to life already lived –
a witness of the future
still in store.

The past holds value far beyond
the grave in which it lies;
we are wraith-ed in peace and yet left
wanting more.

Our ghosts inhabit weathered woods,
etched glass, revolving clocks –
every tick marks a beginning
and an end.

So we gather warm and lovely things
to comfort and surround,
ground ourselves in new tomorrows
with old friends.

Many years ago I was traveling with two buddies toward the Florida Keys when we stopped at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino to try our luck at gambling.  I decided to sit down at a low stakes poker table to apply my newly learned skills at a game called Texas Hold’em.  I sat quietly, suppressed my usual friendly banter with the players sitting next to me, and folded my cards often when someone bet on their hand which I assumed was better than mine.  I remember being dealt an off suit K and 3 for my pocket cards (which was nothing to get excited about) but no one raised before the flop so I called the minimum big blind to see how I would do on the flop, which was three open cards for everyone to use.  To my wonderful surprise, the upturned cards were two kings and a 3, giving me a full house with two more cards to go!  Since I was one of the first to bet or check at the nine person table I used my limited knowledge of disguising the strength of my hand by checking to the next player.  Usually, with a family pot (a hand where everyone at the table has called) someone is likely to bet either because they have matched at least one of the open cards on the table or because they assume no one caught a good hand and they want to bluff and make believe they have a strong hand.  In this case, however, no one did.  After the next card was revealed, my turn to bet or check came with no one adding any money to the pot.  Thinking I would be crafty playing with what appeared to be seasoned poker players, I bet the minimum amount so as to not scare away any or all of the other players and to build the pot of chips for a bigger bet at the end.  To my dismay, everyone immediately folded.  I had won the minimum amount with a hand that could have brought me a very large amount of money.  Chalking it up to bad luck I turned to the player on my left and asked him in jest if it was that obvious that I had a big hand.  He smiled and told me it was!  “How did you and likely all the others players know,” I asked?  Well, for one when the flop was revealed you immediately sat up straight in your seat as if something had caught your attention.  You were more attentive as the players each checked their hands and you kept looking at your chips, a sign that you likely have a betting hand.  There were more but I only remember those.  

So there I was, thinking that since no one could see my cards, all I had to do was wait for a good hand to clean up.  It was then, that I learned that while knowing the odds and probabilities of poker hands is a major factor, reading the other players definitely matters in playing winning poker.

I’ve always had a fascination with body language.  According to the Oxford dictionary, body language is “the process of communicating non-verbally through conscious or unconscious gestures and movements.”  Sustaining an equanimous demeanor despite losing, winning, bluffing, or betting with a strong hand relegates only good math and luck to those who can play well against you.  Thus the term “poker face.”  A skill and behavior I continue to practice but find very difficult to achieve.

Of course poker “tells” such as talking during a hand, looking at your chips, becoming quieter than usual, covering or touching your face during a hand are subjective and are never a sure thing.  As with reading people at work or in public, they are only indicators that might yield helpful information.  

Last night Teresa and I went to dinner with a couple she had met last year but, except from what I heard spoken about then, they were people I did not know.  So, before we went, I decided to think about the kinds of body language behaviors that might give me some additional information about them beyond what they said about themselves.  They both stood straight and walked easily into the restaurant.  They embraced us each and immediately began to make conversation.  They spoke quickly and inserted lots of humor in the early parts of our introductions.  They both answered our questions and followed up with questions of us.  We truly enjoyed our evening together.

As I looked back over the evening, a few “tells” about them came to mind.  I realized that I enjoyed their company not just by our verbal conversation but by the way they leaned in when we spoke, their warm and welcoming eye contact, and by the way they held themselves in a comfortable and confident manner.  They were huggers, as am I, and a hug often conveys an intimacy and vulnerability that adds to my willingness to connect.  

Except for this experience, I don’t prep myself to look for body language when i meet people.  But I do often ask myself afterwards why I liked my time with someone and often come up with a behavior or two that was nonverbal and likely subconscious that contributed to our positive interaction.

Are there any such tells that you find helpful when being with other people?

 “Body language is a very powerful tool. We had body language before we had speech, and apparently, 80% of what you understand in a conversation is read through the body, not the words.” –Deborah Bull (English Baroness, dancer, writer, and broadcaster)

Panto-Mine

Panto, short for pantomime, is usually a production that expresses intent without speech. This is the first word that came to mind when reading Hen’s piece about body language. Honestly, I hadn’t thought much about the importance of “tells”, until reading about Hen’s Texas Hold-em experience.

So, true to form, I did an internet search to survey the subject of non-verbal cues. One site indicated that there are eleven varieties of body language that you can observe. These involve:

1. Facial expression
2. Body proximity
3. Gestures
4. Ornamentation: style, color, etc.
5. Interest markers
6. Eye gazes
7. Self-soothing activities, like neck rubbing
8.  Haptics – touching
9. Blocking – like touching ears, eyes, mouth
10. Emblems – common gestures, like ‘thumbs-up’ (or others)
11. Paralanguage: pitch, tone, cadence

Wow – that’s a lot to process! I’m too lazy to focus on all of this. Plus, I’d probably send all the wrong body signals while trying to notice or decode these behaviors while interacting with other folks. Yet, we all engage in this communication – receiving and broadcasting cues – in a subconscious way. 

I think that a lot of the body language we process is both culturally endued, as well as idiographic. Culturally endued, because we are embedded in a society that recognizes common signals like greeting behaviors. Idiographic, because as individuals, we have been conditioned to react to certain triggers.

For example, my mother was a sweet and loving person, but very anxious. She also had profound hearing loss. During a conversation, her body language and particularly her facial expression could change unexpectedly. It was difficult to know if she was reacting to what she heard (or thought she heard) – or whether it was initiated by an impinging anxious thought. I’d guess that Hen would declare such signals as a tells – and he’d be right. However, the cause of the tell would be difficult to ascertain: her cards, current conversation, misheard noises or discussion, past memories, or future concerns. I think my Mom would have been a tough person to play poker with, due to a plethora of tells, which could mean many different things!

At one time, I was responsible for management training in an organization. Two of my instructors went to a neurolinguistics course and came back believers in delving into body language. Eyes flashing left meant combing for solutions; flashing right meant looking for excuses. Really? Mirroring became a popular behavior in meetings – that is, adopting the body posture and gestures of the person you were conversing with in order to promote a positive connection. They lean in, you lean in; they cross arms, you cross arms, etc. Now, I don’t disagree that a certain amount of mirroring fosters intimacy, but the intentionality of the behavior became too obviously disingenuous. It was a short-lived program.

Hen asks what body language signals are important to each of us: I look for posture that says ‘hanging loose’ vs. ‘holding tension’. There might be excellent reason for either of those postures, but the signals lead to different conversations. I also look for eye crinkles – wrinkles around the eyes that accompany a true smile. That’s my two sense!

At the Door by David Wagoner from poetrysoup.com

All actors look for them-the defining moments

When what a character does is what he is.

The script may say, He goes to the door

And exits or She goes out the door stage left.

But you see your fingers touching the doorknob,

Closing around it, turning it

As if by themselves.
The latch slides

Out of the strike-plate, the door swings on its hinges,

And you’re about to take that step

Over the threshold into a different light.

For the audience, you may simply be

Disappearing from the scene, yet in those few seconds

You can reach for the knob as the last object on earth

You wanted to touch.
Or you can take it

Warmly like the hand your father offered

Once in forgiveness and afterward

Kept to himself.

Or you can stand there briefly, as bewildered

As by the door of a walk-in time-lock safe,

Stand there and stare

At the whole concept of shutness, like a rat

Whose maze has been rebaffled overnight,

Stand still and quiver, unable to turn

Around or go left or right.

Or you can grasp it with a sly, soundless discretion,

Open it inch by inch, testing each fraction

Of torque on the spindles, on tiptoe

Slip yourself through the upright slot

And press the lock-stile silently

Back into its frame.

Or you can use your shoulder

Or the hard heel of your shoe

And a leg-thrust to break it open.

Or you can approach the door as if accustomed

To having all barriers open by themselves.

You can wrench aside

This unauthorized interruption of your progress

And then leave it ajar

For others to do with as they may see fit.

Or you can stand at ease

And give the impression you can see through

This door or any door and have no need

To take your physical self to the other side.

Or you can turn the knob as if at last

Nothing could please you more, your body language

Filled with expectations of joy at where you’re going,

Holding yourself momentarily in the posture

Of an awestruck pilgrim at the gate-though you know

You’ll only be stepping out against the scrim

Or a wobbly flat daubed with a landscape,

A scribble of leaves, a hint of flowers,

The bare suggestion of a garden.

Do You Hear What I See?

I learned about body language very early in life! I had a cousin, Linda, who was two years younger than I was and tended to be dramatic even at the youthful age of about 4.  When she got scolded, her face would wrinkle up, her eyebrows would crinkle above her eyes, she would give one stomp of her foot, fold her arms over her chest, drop her head, and turn around so that her back was to whoever scolded her.  Not a word was spoken but the stomping of her foot and the crunched face spoke louder than words. She was not a happy camper!  I also remember as a young boy when being called into dinner from the baseball game going on in the street, my mother would be standing at the door, dish towel hanging over her shoulder, arms folded across her chest, right foot tapping in syncopated rhythm.  As I ran the bases I was more concerned about her foot than making the  base safely.  As the moments passed, my mother’s foot tapped more and more rapidly indicating to me and my friends I had to go home NOW.  I would hit the base running, never stop and just headed straight for my mother  at the door.  All the kids knew what that meant.  My dad had been a Marine, and patriotism was part of our lives.  Every Memorial Day,, 4th of July, whenever there was a parade, my dad, mom and brother would head out for the parade route, usually Northern Blvd in Queens to watch the parade go by.  As  veterans groups or active duty bands passed by, my brother, myself and my dad had to remove our hats and while still holding the hat placed our hand over our hearts.  If we failed to do it immediately all we had to do was look at my dad and his warning eyes gave us the signal to show respect.  These body movements and positions never were explained to us but somehow we just knew what we were supposed to do.  And if we didn’t understand something, we would crunch up our shoulders,  make a stupid face and raise our hands up to our chests with the palms facing skyward, and with a simple shrug of our shoulders express the universal body language signal for, “Huh?”

School was full of body language symbols as well.  But because there were kids from all different countries, religions, cultures you had to be astute enough to pick up similarities in order to understand the body language of others.  Usually there were just minor variations on the theme.  I had a 4th grade teacher who   when trying to get an idea across and we just weren’t picking up on it, he would   turn his back to the class and with his right palm, he would slap the top of his forehead and allow his hand to continue toward the ceiling.  We all knew it was his way of saying, “OY, these kids are thick!”  Invariably one of my classmates would imitate his body language from the back of the room and we would have to stifle our giggles because that would bring a different  body language vocabulary to the classroom.  You didn’t have to be real smart to pick up on the  meanings of these movements.  We just knew!  In junior high school, for the first time we moved from classroom to classroom for the different subjects.  We would start our day in homeroom and end the day in homeroom.   My homeroom teacher in 9th grade was Mr Montalbaum, who was also my gym teacher.  When we returned to homeroom at the end of the day we were kind of loud and shouting across the room to our friends and he had a unique way of getting us to quiet down so he could take attendance or whatever he had to do before dismissal.  He wouldn’t yell or bang on the desk or anything.  While we were filing back into the room he would very quietly put his right hand pointer finger next to his nose on his face and he would walk around the classroom while we were packing our books and getting our coats.  As soon as you saw this, you had to put your right hand pointer finger next to your nose and shut up and take your seat.  You did not want to be the last person to do this because if you were you had to get up in front of the room and sing a song to the class.  Cruel? perhaps but efficient!

Body language in society is constantly in use.  You cannot walk down a street without seeing people using an assortment of words and body movements used to make a point, express a feeling, show affection…. it is used all over.  I guess I learned my knowledge of body language early and became quite fluent in it and what opportunities it provided me.  I taught elementary school in the same little community school for 35 years, and developed quite a vocabulary of movements and expressions without vocalizations.  When I needed my class to come to order (4th, 5th and 6th graders) and they really weren’t focusing on what I wanted, I did a very simple thing that always worked.  I would  go to the blackboard and begin to write in cursive from RIGHT to LEFT what my message was.  For some reason I was always able to write backwards in cursive and when I started doing that they would have a look of amazement on their faces and then the shushing started trying to tell their friends to quiet down.  I  always thanked Mr Montalbaum for the inspiration to do that in a gentler manner than he used.  I am not sure we could exist as a society without the use of body language.  How would we ever be able to express our road rage when someone was crawling in front of us on the thruway without the use of our middle finger?  How would we be able to flag down a cab without a wave…yelling certainly wouldn’t work.  How would a cop directing traffic be able to get his message across without frantically waving his white gloved hand  and pointing at you when you didn’t respond!  And the best thing about it is that body language is multi- lingual , it is pretty much universal from culture to culture..  Too bad there aren’t more things like body language to bring us all together rather than the misunderstandings and confusion the spoken language leads to.  Just sayin’!

My brother and I were not very close when I was a kid.  He was 8 years older than I was  He was born before WWII and I was born 9 months from the time my dad got back from Iwo Jima. As a result I was just a pest to him and we had little in common other than our family history which included on one side, two aunts, an uncle, one cousin, and my grandmother.  On the other side it included an aunt an uncle, and two cousins and my grandfather..  In addition to those folks our extended family, mostly on my dad’s side, consisted of 4 great uncles and one great aunt and several cousins a couple of times removed.  These were people we saw mostly at holidays, and special occasions.  We were closer to the relatives on my dad’s side of the family because we lived closer to them, my mom’s family lived in Pennsylvania.  During my growing up years, holiday dinners consisted of a cacophany of conversations, often in half English half Italian.  They mostly spoke Italian when they didn’t want my brother, my cousin or me to understand what they were saying.  The conversations around the dinner table was usually my grandmother and aunts pushing food on everybody.  My dad would chime in telling them they didn’t know how to cook and complaining about the turkey, the lasagna, or whatever.  It was almost as if this kind of table talk was required.  In addition there were always stories about when they were youngsters and stories of Italy when my grandmother was a little girl.  I loved those stories and listened carefully.  Because of the volume around the table it was hard to hear all of it because a burst of laughter from the other end of the table would drown out the ending!   Aside from my brother and I creating our own stories I was intrigued especially by the stories of the old country or war stories not often shared by my dad and uncle.  These were our stories, our history !

Over the years, the older family members began to die off, the noise around the holiday dinner tables quieted a little, but the stories were told with new ones about the family members no longer with us.  Over the years my brother and I would call each other to question the details of these stories and to confirm what we thought were the conclusion of events and who was involved in them.  My dad was the first to pass away at 65, then my mom at 74. Little by little the people who knew me and knew my history were disappearing and the people to commiserate with about the details of those stories were also fading.  One by one the older generation were passing away and the family was shrinking.  MY three aunts aged 99, 97 and 96 passed away in the early years of the new century.  Suddenly my brother and I were the only ones left.  We had grown closer as I followed in his footsteps with my career, both being elementary school teachers which gave us new things to talk about and steal ideas from.  At this point the upper generations had all passed and my brother and I were all that was left of our family.  But we had each other to reaffirm our collections of events in our past and often took time out from our  families to reconnect and remember those stories and some of the crazy things we did.  Every New Years Eve we would spend at my grandmother’s apartment and after dinner, at the magical moment of midnight we would all be fortified with  pots and pans, lean out the 5th story windows and bang the pots together along with occupants of all the buildings up and down the street,  I guess fireworks weren’t allowed in New York City.

And then one day in April, 2012, my brother passed away.  He was 74. With his death I had outlived every one in my immediate and extended family.  The feeling of loss was intense but I didn’t quite understand why I was feeling the way I was.  Gradually, slowly I was coming to the realization that no one knew my entire personal , history from the time of my birth up til his death.  Gradually the idea was sinking in that there was no one to remind me of the details of so many family events, no one left to call to find out who was at this funeral, no one to laugh with, no one to fill in details, and no one to cry with over those sad portions of our lives that everyone experiences.  I sat with this profound sense of loss for years.  Feeling a part of me had been stolen, parts of my history I couldn’t remember, but there was no one to call or commiserate with. I couldn’t shake the sense of loss I felt and the loss of protection that my extended family provided.  I sat with this feeling until last Tuesday!

I was scrolling through Facebook on my high school graduation page when I realized that I hadn’t heard from some of my high school friends in a long time.  One girl, Anne who I was extremely close with must have dropped off my feed and I decided to write and see how she was doing.  I sent her a long message to find out how she was doing how her grand kids were and how life was generally in Columbus, Ohio, closed my computer and got ready for bed.  About 15 minutes after writing her that message, the phone rang.  The voice on the other end called me by name and I knew immediately who it was.  Anne said she was so happy to have received my message that she had to talk to me.  We caught up on each other’s families, life in general, and then the conversation turned to reminiscing.  We learned to dance together.  Everyday we would run home from High school to watch American Bandstand and pick up the latest dances.  She asked me if I still remembered how to do the Penguin, which was a dance we invented  and it would only work with Be My Baby by the Rhonettes. We learned the Lindy, Cha Cha, Twist, the Mashed Potatoes, and many other dances of the time in front of her tv or mine.  I loved her folks.  When I got home from college for Christmas and Anne wasn’t home yet I would go visit her mom and help her make Christmas cookies.  Her dad and I had a unique relationship, and i always felt he was very fond of me.  His nickname for me was “Stupid Bastard” which I always took as a term of endearment.  We laughed, Did a bunch of…”Do you remember the time when….”
We were on the phone for over an hour, and we got into a heavy conversation about this topic and she said she felt the same way and then said, “You know, you can always call me!”  And suddenly I didn’t feel alone anymore. I had someone from my past who didn’t know much of my early history but was there during our high school years, which were filled with all kinds of stories and emotions and people we both remembered.  It was a weight lifted off my shoulders that I had been carrying around with me for years.  A welcome relief!

Reaching Back

George writes about his family history, what it meant to him, the erosion of resources for family memories (and validation), and a reason for hope because of a reconnection with a childhood friend.  I enjoyed the journey he took me through as he recounted the people and traditions which created deep meaning for him.  

Like George, but for different reasons, I no longer have access to reliable assets to either initiate these kinds of conversations or to corroborate childhood memories.  But unlike George, I don’t miss them.  One reason, perhaps, is that I’ve remembered those that I chose to and, accurate or not, they fulfill what I need from my past to move forward to live as best I can in the present.  Or, could it be that, not having the resources and thus a lack of awareness about them, I am naively satisfied with more recent memories?

I don’t know what, if any, benefits I’m missing in my apparent disconnect from my early days.  If one would reappear, would I be able to resolve some ambiguous recollections?  Would I feel greater comfort in being able to share past memories with those who were there rather than from my retelling of stories to my grandchildren?  I don’t know.

What I do know is that George’s story moved me to action.  For years I’ve thought about looking up and reconnecting with a childhood friend from high school.  Today, I found an email address associated with that name and sent him a letter.  If this is the same person and we get to talk, perhaps I’ll find some answers to the questions I raised.  Or, perhaps I’ll just have a good time enjoying my old friend.

“The best part about reconnecting with old friends is realizing nothing has changed, yet everything is different.” — Unknown

Affirmation

George paints such a compelling picture of family life, both of his and Anne’s: a chaotic, passionate, welcoming experience. It is a crucible that forms our world view — a human chorus of which we are part. This is the birthplace of stories that we call upon time after time, whether they are cautionary tales or celebratory moments.

But what do you do, when you can no longer share these stories with the principal actors? I can feel George’s lament – and his yearning. After all, what is a single puzzle piece without the rest of the puzzle?

We all have a fundamental need to be recognized. I don’t mean the term in the sense of “awarded”, but rather in the down-home sense of someone calling out ‘Hi There – good to see you’– someone who knows you and affirms you. I think that is the resonance that George found in his conversation with Anne. It’s clear that they “get” each other.

I suppose that’s why I enjoy college fraternity reunions. It’s fun to link up with friends that you made while coming of age – before fully understanding the responsibility of many obligations. It’s not really about getting stuck in history, but it is about checking in with those who shared the same experience.

This sense of mutual understanding sparked a memory of a term I haven’t heard in a while: “grok”. Of course, this was a term used when two folks understand each other so well that they almost meld. What a gift that is. I’m glad George had that experience with Anne!

Side bar: Do you remember the book, Stranger In a Strange Land, by Robert A. Heinlein? The story covered contact with Martian culture and their ability to “grok” another entity. In the 60’s it became a short-lived fad term, as in “I grok you”.  However, it does have some relevance here. Here’s how Wikipedia describes it:

“Grok means “identically equal”. The human cliché “This hurts me worse than it does you” has a distinctly Martian flavor. The Martian seems to know instinctively what we learned painfully from modern physics, that observer acts with observed through the process of observation. Grok means to understand so thoroughly that the observer becomes a part of the observed …”

Affirmation by Laurie Grommett from allpoetry.com

^{Another face beyond my nose
            smells sensient scent besides a rose.
                 I walk his earth to feel my toes
                and when I pen, I hear echoes.}

Early this summer I decided to give back about 1/4 acre of my back lawn (It’s about half of my existing back yard) to nature by no longer mowing the grass or clearing encroaching branches from neighboring trees and shrubs .  Currently, this section has longer blades of grass interspersed with the beginning of several shrubs and a very small tree.  The Japanese honeysuckle, the Multiflora Rose, and the Bradford Pear tree are, according to my Picture This app, all hardy and healthy plants and I have every reason to believe they will continue to flourish and multiply. So far my bordering neighbor who is out back as I write, hasn’t said a word.  Either the difference is still negligible, she and her husband don’t care, or I’ll hear from them soon.  I’ve also stopped trimming the side of my lawn that borders the length of the woods along the side of my house which also allows tree and shrub branches to grow into the lawn area and for the undergrowth to develop unabated.

I didn’t make this commitment lightly. In fact, when I moved in a little over a year ago, I vowed to clear portions of the forest. These portions interrupted my line of sight and bumped out into the lawn. But I’ve come to realize that in addition to giving me more lawn to mow it continues to further diminish the local ecosystem which sparsely supports the shade we need or the natural elements that ultimately provide the food we depend on. I hope to make a difference by giving back space for regenerating this habitat.

Years ago I watched a webinar in which Doug Tallamy – entomologist, professor, and author – talked about how the non-native plants we nurture or simply accept and the manicured lawns we dote over have greatly diminished insect life – particularly caterpillars – to the detriment of birds and their survival.  He reported that in the last 50 years we have lost 3 billion birds in North America alone and 1 million species face extinction over the next 20 years worldwide.  Birds are actually responsible for pollinating about 5% of our food and medicine and for rebuilding damaged ecosystems by dispersing seeds through their droppings.  And insects he explains, drive the production of essential seeds, fruits, and vegetables via pollination which are essential for our survival.  They are at the heart of the food web, the main way nature converts plant protoplasm into animal life. And, insects and birds are often plant specific for their food.  Many of the beautiful trees and plants that surround our homes are invasive.  The three I mentioned earlier that have taken root on my dedicated back lawn are among them.  The owners before me left my property beautifully decorated with flowering trees: mulberry, crepe myrtle, eastern redbud, and southern magnolia.  The first two are also invasive.  And while they all eventually will provide more shade as well as a habitat for animals, they are not likely to enrich the local ecosystem with the necessary insects and bird populations that are in serious decline here.

As I walk in the evening I notice a marked temperature difference when I leave our cul-de-sac which is surrounded by forest and move towards the center of the neighborhood which is beyond the cooling effects of the woods.  For years our town has been clearing forests and farmland and building homes and retail centers.  Homes with lawns and few trees and retail stores with huge heat-holding parking lots. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.  Shade lowers temperature.  Large shady areas cool larger areas of air which helps cool the surrounding environment.  According to recent data from NASA and NOAA, the last 10 years have all been recorded as the warmest 10 years on record.  2024 is expected to continue this streak and break last year’s record high temperature globally. Every little bit we give back has to help.

“The sparrow heard that the sky was falling, and while all the other creatures fled, she asked herself, ‘What can I do? I’m just a sparrow.’ But then, in a flash of brilliance, she lay on her back, pointing her tiny feet towards the sky. ‘What are you doing, Little Sparrow?’ the others asked. ‘Well, I’ve heard the sky is falling, and so I’m doing my bit to hold it up.’,” Nipun Mehta recounts a story told to him by a young teenager from a village in India. In an address at last month’s annual Eurpoean Forum Alpach, Mehta palpably builds on the profound parable: “From the lens of impact, the sparrow’s actions may seem insignificant. Yet, where critical mass and ‘critical yeast’ converge is not in quantity, but in the organizing principle of the field in which they operate. The sparrow’s intention to serve without condition sustains the very platform of consciousness that allows a thousand flowers to bloom. She doesn’t just add a drop to the ocean; she sees the ocean in that drop. Her act, because it is given freely, without expectation, becomes the yeast of the heart, drawing a delicate line from the fleeting to the eternal, carried forward by the unseen currents of nature. And in that way, even the smallest act becomes a seed of transformation, a spark that ignites the unimaginable…” From the Daily Good – by Nipun Mehta

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

I admire Hen – he not only stands on principle, he acts upon it. His experiment with the naturalization of his property will be interesting to watch. I can see many benefits for the habitat, as well as for addressing an important aspect of climate: absorption of carbon dioxide. I also like his fable, but more on that later on.

The problem is where to begin to comment on this huge topic. It’s easy to get lost. Just perusing the vernacular of climate improvement is confusing, because the terms have been co-opted by various entities: recyclable, biodegradable, non-toxic, sustainability, circular economy, advanced recycling, greenwashing. Think about it — are you certain that you know what they mean?

I thought I did, until doing a swift read of the internet. Biodegradable means it will melt away on its own, right? Well sure, but if it takes 450 years to do so (like a plastic bottle), is it really practical to name it biodegradable? How about ‘recyclable’? It turns out that many items labeled as such, can’t or won’t be recycled. Why? It seems that if any part of a recyclable product is contaminated, it can either impurify the rendered product or worse, gum up the industrial process used to do the recycling. The plastic windows in envelopes, the sealing membrane on yogurt cups, and other hybrid packaging prevent the recycling of the entire item. In addition, some products named as recyclable need specialized apparatus not widely available. Did you know that ‘compostable’ items should not be recycled (compostable means the same as biodegradable, except needing human intervention)? At the end of the day, only 5% of American plastics are recycled.

The good news is that these terms are being standardized by the Federal Trade Commission as we speak – the first revision since 2012. The European Union has formalized some of these terms as well. For example, “biodegradable” can only be used when greater than 90% of the original material must be converted into CO₂, water and minerals by biological processes within 6 months.

All of that still leaves the world in a position of too much stuff! We have presided over the creation of a disposable culture. Tons of used clothing is buried under the sand in the Sahara as chronicled by a recent National Geographic article. Flip-flops will live forever, apparently. And let’s not even discuss the space junk flying around up there…

Well, I have a solution. My goal is to store 3% of the world’s cast-offs in my garage. I’m almost there. In 450 years, at least some of it will go back to its natural components: green timber drying in the shade, screws, fasteners of all types, old machinery, new machinery, forgotten decorations, rescued items with hopeful futures – it’s all there (at least in one garage bay). I’ll keep checking the progress!

Actually, I have another small goal: to upcycle waste items into some artistic result. It’s a movement: check out Sashiko (the craft of mending and swatch stitchery) and Recycl’Art. Linda’s friend Helene (no relation to the Hurricane) has been weaving plastic bags into usable items for years. I’m starting with making cupcake shaped boxes from detergent caps. However, check out the serious art installation in the picture attached – I wonder if this installation used any of the fashion detritus buried in the desert?

Lastly, I want to say that I loved Hen’s fable. It can seem sometimes that a lone person can’t make a difference. But if we all align with the sparrow, nothing can stop us!

My Frog Recycles All His Trash: Kenn Nesbit (from Poetry for Kids.com)

My frog recycles all his trash.
He eats organic food.
He cares for the environment.
He’s quite the hipster dude.

Reduce, reuse, recycle
is the motto of my frog.
He drives a solar-powered car
to cut back on the smog.

He helps endangered species and
opposes climate change.
He knows that, since he’s just a frog,
this might seem kind of strange.

But still he does his very best
to keep our planet clean.
He thinks it’s only natural.
He’s proud of being green.

Recycling

This is a tough one for me.  I am not sure what to write because after our zoom discussion this week I learned that I was doing it all wrong.  I had no idea you are supposed to remove the clear plastic  that protects the tissues on your tissue box before it can be recycled or else they can’t recycle it.  That was a real blow to my recycling activity. I have been recycling cans with the paper labels on them, not to mention all of the stuff I have been recycling that isn’t recyclable!  Live and learn!  At 78 I am learning new things all the time!  My system is pretty straight forward.  As I use stuff up and I don’t need their containers anymore, and if it is messy I rinse the inside to rid it of excess dog food, ketchup, mustard and whatever other condiments I use.  I have a neat system.  Right outside my kitchen door in the back room I have a large black, swinging lidded, multi use container, larger than a waste basket and smaller than the garbage and  recycling barrels that get rolled out to the street every week.  As I finish using a container or whatever, I rinse, shuffle over to the door and with the lid partially open I can throw most of my recyclables right into that container and save me a trip out there.  Then once every week I drag my little container full of used merchandise out to the Waste Management rolling bin and take it all to the curb.  That pattern is comforting,  The routine done weekly every Sunday evening for early Monday morning pickup is strangely reassuring.  But now since Henry and Wally brought this to my attention, that pattern is broken for fear I may have put an unrecyclable thing in my bin that doesn’t belong. That comfortable, reassuring routine will never be the same!

Recycling used to be simple.  Growing up there were all kinds of recycling, we just didn’t call it that.  I know I have mentioned this in other pieces but we had a metal box on the porch labeled, “MILK”.  Each week mom would put the old used milk bottles in the metal box and there  was always a curled up note in one of the bottles’ necks telling the guy what we needed for the next delivery.  They would deliver regular milk, skimmed milk, cream, and some other milky like products.  Easy…….no hassle.  We as kids would collect soda bottles, I am not sure the soda can was invented yet, and we would go up and down the block collecting other soda bottles to return to the A&P or Bohacks, Waldaum”s or King Kullens, and for every bottle we would get 2 cents in return.  It may have gone up to 5 cents a bottle by the time it was undignified for a high school student to be collecting and returning soda bottles.  Of course the other major source of recycling or repurposing was the dependable paper bag.  I had to give the cashiers at grocery stores real credit because they could fill every inch of that bag neatly and balanced so that it wouldn’t tip over if you had to put it down on the way home.  I think the boxes of stuff back then were designed to fit neatly in the bottom of these bags so that you could get the most efficient amount of groceries into the bag.  When we got home, Dad would empty the bags, taking each item out and putting it away before getting the next item. This procedure took a few minutes but it too was comforting to watch the system at work.  Then when each bag was empty my dad would fold each bag making sure it would lie flat when he stored them away, until their next job came around.  The best time for recycling paper bags was in September when school started.  We would bring our school books home and we were instructed to get them covered ASAP.  Out came the paper bags.  They were cut into one long sheet of bag that would be folded top to bottom to fit the exact height of the book.  Then you would fold the ends in so that it would cover the entire length of the book .  You had to make sure that the open folded end top and bottom on each side would slide over the front and back cover of the book and fit snugly when the book was closed.  The remaining bags were used for various and sundry things, linings for the kitchen garbage cans, etc.

Families recycled all kinds of things, we just didn’t think of it that way.  Luckily I was 8 years younger than my brother, and half his size so my cousin got stuck with the hand me downs from him. But lots of other things residing in the attic were taken down out of the box marked Jerry and given to me like baseball gloves, hockey sticks, ice skates. and of course the old metal roller skates with the ears to attach to your shoes and the skate keys to tighten them.   It was rare that I would get anything new until my brother went away to college and then I started getting new stuff.  when I think back there were a lot of things that we repurposed or recycled but it wasn’t a big deal.  Everybody did it!  I even remember my mom would carefully remove a stamp from a letter that was in the mail box that wasn’t post marked and then she would glue it on to something she was sending  out.  She would also sew curtains for our bedrooms using old tablecloths or bed covers.  That is the other thing people did back then that would fall into the category of recycling perhaps.  She would darn socks, sometimes I had socks with two or three scars on them.  People were just more resourceful perhaps back then and just did things because it made sense and saved money.

In my adult life I think we started becoming aware of the recycling phenomenon perhaps sometime in the mid 70’s.  I remember when we lived in Woodstock, we would have to separate our recyclables.  Glass in one container, cans in another and cardboard and such in a third.  There was no curb side collection back then so we had to take everything to the recycling center ourselves and make sure we were dumping our recycling in the right areas.  So I have been blindly recycling this way for probably 40 years plus.  I thought I was being a good citizen by doing this.  Conservation goes along with recycling and for many years as an innkeeper I drove two little Fiats, which I loved and also a Smart car which was really cool.  And I did it to be conscious of the environment.  Recently, the last few years I have been conscious of the fact that honey bees needed dandelions to be able to produce their honey so I made sure not to cut my grass until the first dandelion crop was in full bloom.  I also purchased a battery operated lawn mower which I love even though it sometimes shuts down in the middle of the lawn . I equipped my house with mini splits for heat and air conditioning to save energy and money and it was the best thing I ever did,  Now I have to sit and contemplate what can I 
do now to meet the new demands on recycling.  I will have to talk to Wally and Henry about this.

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.