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

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

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

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

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

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

Walthamstow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freewill or determinism – what do you believe?

 Sitting In Its Lap – Brian Rihlmann from allpoetry.com

let it go
is the standard advice

(from others
with their clenched fists
concealed in pockets)

but outside
my own fingers

wrap thicker ones
scaly and rough

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

as i sit in its lap
driving an abandoned backstreet

while feet below
out of sight
work the gas
the brake

No Cowboys and Indians for Me!

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

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

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

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

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

Considering the Role of Ancestors in My Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen Keller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evitandus

(That which must be avoided)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

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

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

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

I Beat Adventurous Adversity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories May be Beautiful and Yet… Thank You Barbra

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defending My Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last year’s favorable experiences:

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

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

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

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

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

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

This year’s anticipated positives:

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you?

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

Soren Kierkegaard

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moments to Remember

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

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

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

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

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

This blog, for me, is a way of recording who I am and, when my physical being ceases to function, who I have been.  This is a collection of my thoughts, ideas, opinions, and personal stories targeted for my children and grandchildren (but available to any who wish to know of me).  

I love good stories.  Listening to a storyteller reveals as much about the raconteur as the story they are telling. Two connections for the price of one!  I also enjoy spinning a tale or two.  Usually it’s about a personal experience and often to my grandchildren, who are, especially in their pre-teen days, the very best of listeners. One such story that they requested over and over again was, Riding with Reg.

One fall day back in the 1990’s my friend Reg, invited three of us to go horseback riding on the trails near his home, aptly nicknamed Rancho Rinder.  I jumped at the chance to spend a day with these guys because I liked them all and was ecstatic that we would be spending our time outdoors.  The least favorite part was that we’d be doing so riding horses.  I didn’t ride, or have any real experience with these powerful, thousand pound creatures. A little background…in college at the school’s campsite I was introduced to well trained trail horses.  I went up to the closest one, to pet it.  Standing a bit too close it adjusted its stance only to put its front left hoof on the top of my foot (I was wearing sneakers at the time).  As I tried to back away it pivoted ripping the top of my sneaker, the sneaker tongue, and the top layer of skin off of my foot.  I suspect he didn’t even know my foot was under him but I certainly did!  And while I did sit in the saddle on a couple of occasions, the horse basically took me for a ride going where it wanted and how quickly or slowly it wanted. Never in the front of the pack, it generally played “follow the leader” and took me where the fly-swishing tails of the others horses went.  The experience was more like sitting on a merry-go-round but with better scenery.

A photo of an earlier time when I rode with friends…

When we arrived at Reg’s stable, I carefully described the limited extent of my equestrian prowess as well as my apprehension of  riding with these experienced riders.  Always one to assure and calm, Reg laughed and guaranteed I would have absolutely no problem and all I needed to do was trust him. (This was from a man who often threw caution to the wind and would jump full tilt into one adventure after another.) So, knowing I was likely going to have to depend on my own resources, I gingerly got on the horse, he said, would be best suited for me.  Off we began on a narrow, one horse at a time, trail from his barn toward the open fields bordering his property.  I was second in line trotting slowly along on this beautiful day.

For some reason, my horse Frightful (not his real name but definitely appropriate) crowded the trees on the left side of the trail. And, despite my yanking the reins to the right, my left leg was scraping bark.  I yelled to Reg to ask him what was up with this left-listing horse.  “Oh!” he replied slapping his forehead with his right hand, “I forgot to tell you that he’s blind in his left eye.”  I asked if there was anything else he forgot to tell me but he said no. Again, the words “trust me, this is going to be easy” found their way to my doubtful ears.

On we rode toward an open field where Reg motioned for us to pull up alongside him so we could ride abreast and engage in conversation.  Following orders I had no idea that Frightful must have interpreted this as pulling up to the starting gate at a racetrack.  And, as soon as one of the other horses moved ahead of him, he bolted, reaching full gallop in seconds despite my many whoas and attempted pull backs on the reins.  At that point all I could do was hold on tight to the saddle horn and his mane as we reached the end of the field seemingly at the speed of light.  When the others caught up I, once again, raised my voice asking Reg what that was all about.  “Oh!” (with a simultaneous slap to the forehead) I forgot to tell you, he’s a thoroughbred and thoroughbreds love to race.  I’ll be sure to stay ahead of you so that won’t happen again. Trust me!”  (It was then that I began to realize those two words must have different meanings for different people and/or situations.)

Nearing the end of our ride I was finally getting a bit more comfortable and less anxious that anything else could cause my horse to behave in a way that might send me to the nearest hospital so I began to enjoy the last of the trails home.  One such path was narrow and uphill and Reg decided it would be fun to turn our trot into a gallop up the hill.  He was certain I was sitting well enough on the horse by now that I would enjoy the challenge.  Of course, as you may have guessed, I was soon to learn that there was one more thing he forgot to tell me.  Reg led the gallop up the hill and peeled off to the right as he reached the top, the next two riders did the same as he crested the hill.  Now I could see why they took their horses to the right as there was a stone wall directly ahead at the top of the hill.  Gingerly (still at full gallop) I began moving the reins to the right.  However, one-eyed, thoroughbred racing, Frightful had other plans for us.  Looking straight ahead, I could tell in a flash that my horse was not slowing down to turn but was maintaining enough speed to jump over the wall!  Screaming at the top of my lungs for him to stop and yanking hard on the reins, he came to a full but abrupt standstill inches from the wall and I found myself with my arms wrapped around his neck looking him straight in his good eye.  “Reg! I shouted hoarsely, what the heck happened this time?”  “Oh!” he said slapping his forehead yet again. “I forgot to tell you, your horse loves to jump if he gets the chance…”

The last mile of our trip home was led by Reg on his horse, followed by our two friends on their horses, followed by me, walking my horse to the stable.  I had many more adventures with him but I never rode with Reg again…trust me!

I’m not sure why some stories appear to be more interesting and worthy of retelling than others.  I suspect it’s a combination of the content, facts riddled with humor, the style, energy, and gestures I infuse when telling the story, and/or the personal relevance  to the listener.  But I’m pretty sure that there’s another element that is less obvious.  Perhaps there is an accidental coming together of words that exudes intrigue or mystery or a joyful indulgence that somehow connects the teller with the listener.  And then, if I can recapture that engagement upon the second telling, somehow the magic ingredient, yet unidentified, becomes increasingly entrenched in the whole of the story and the telling.  Somewhat similar to the repeated use of neural pathways causing thoughts to become deeply embedded in the brain, the retelling of the adventure helps cement the secret component that pulls it all together into a worthy reiteration.

Are there memorable stories from your past or ones that you enjoy sharing with others that perhaps helps continue the family narrative?

P.S.  I started this piece at the beginning of the week and was about to finish it when I had the unexpected pleasure of my grandchildren coming over for dinner and a sleepover.  Teenagers now, and probably more than 8 years since I had retold this story to them, I began telling my them another story they might not have heard.  And sure enough, after much laughter my oldest interrupted and asked me to tell her the Reg and horse story before I had the chance to tell her I had just written about it!  Life is good!

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”

Philip Pullman – an English writer

Tell Me a Story

I loved Hen’s story! It sort of follows the framework of an escalating punchline – a rapidly deteriorating situation told with humor. Just when you think the ride with Frightful couldn’t get worse, the words of St. Ginsu come back to haunt: “But wait, there’s more!” No wonder his kids and grandkids ask for the retelling. 

Hen’s challenge back to us is to think about stories that we enjoy retelling… and there are many! Stories are the glue that bind family and friendships. Recently, we three old guys were at a reunion with our college fraternity. It was great fun – and almost every conversation started with “Do you remember…” followed by mythic recounting of heroic (and some not so heroic) deeds of our youth. The spectacular football catch, the spectacular almost-catch, the pranks, the shared experiences, the people that were a big part of our lives – all were celebrated. 

That’s what stories do: they celebrate moments, vignettes, milestones that characterize a life shared with others. They are the signposts on the highway of our past. We share that journey with so many others – even over generations. After all, the journey did not just start with us.

Some people have a real knack for storytelling… unfortunately, I’m not one of them. But my Adirondack neighbor Jodi is a champ! She has a way of building a situation, so that you feel part of the story. Some deal with danger averted (my favorites). They leave you in suspense as the tale proceeds, such as when the bear chased her and her three-year old son down a secluded hiking trail – you would have thought they were goners, but the bear ran right past them without breaking stride. Or when she was attacked by a mama turkey while trying to free a gosling from a net; or when she inadvertently stowed away on a European ship headed to France… or when she was stranded on a Bavarian ski trail 10 miles from the nearest village. Or…. It goes on and on. Now there’s an adventurous life!

We have tried to encourage Jodi to enter the local “Howls”. If you haven’t heard about them, they are local storytelling competitions where folks tell a short (5 min) story on a common topic. These convocations are hosted by National Public Radio and are recorded in events across the north country. For instance, the last howl was on the Halloween theme ‘You Are Not Alone’. 

I love the idea of memorializing these stories. They have the benefit of being brief, but having big impact. Perhaps, that’s why Hen’s story is so attractive – and it would make a great ‘howl’.

If I had to pick a personal story, it would likely be in the theme of that last howl. In 1957, when I was nine years old and my brother Rich was seven, we were alone in our three-story house one evening. Mom and Dad were out at an event and I was babysitting for the first time. We had always rented the second floor as an apartment to bring in some needed income. But Dad had gotten a better job and we were able to fix up the space into three bedrooms, a narrow hall to a bathroom, and one large erstwhile kitchen. The kitchen was a little creepy and Rich and I avoided it. But the attic was foreboding and we rarely opened the door to climb up the dark, steep, narrow stairway into this world of the past. The attic was composed of two rooms, all paneled in weathered wainscoting. The large windows were placed only a foot from the floor and the wind rattled the panes of glass in warning not to get too close. Literally, there were boxes of broken toys and porcelain dolls with cracked faces watching your every move (and that was before it became a horror film trope!). The partitioned space was a bare bedroom with an old metal bedframe and mattress, covered with spider webs and dust. Once in that space, the atmosphere just pushed you out the door. It was rumored that a prior owner had died in that room and I always wondered why the boxes under the eaves in the main room were never cleaned out. 

On the night in question, Rich and I were becoming used to our new bedrooms. As we turned out the lights and said goodnight, I hoped that Mom and Dad would not be too late. After a bit, I heard some rustling in the attic over Rich’s room, followed by Rich running into my room and jumping into bed with me. “Did you hear that?”, he said. “Someone is upstairs”. 

I did hear that. It was the sound of footsteps walking up and down the main room in the attic. Up and down; back and forth. We pulled the covers tight, but with our ears primed for listening. We decided to pretend that we were not there, breathing quietly as to make as little noise as possible.

Then I imagined what might happen if we heard steps on those rickety stairs coming down from the attic. What if the door handle began to turn. What would we do? We listened even closer to identify where the steps were headed – were they getting closer to the railing that was at the top of the stairs? That railing which moved when you touched it – was that the sound?

That night, I experienced what being ‘scared stiff’ really meant. I was paralyzed as we listened to the marching feet. I knew I had to protect my asthmatic brother, but I was too afraid to get out of bed, open the stairway door and scream: “Get out of our house!” I was too frightened and my skin was crawling with goosebumps. Rich was crying softly. We huddled together for an hour as the footsteps traversed the attic rooms. Eventually, the walking stopped and we heard no more from the attic prowler. But that didn’t stop the fear.

We tried to be as silent as stones, hoping the marching being would not come back. Perhaps the presence had halted to listen for the evidence of small boys lying in their beds. Rich was shaking and we held each other until our parents came home and then we ran downstairs to them. Dad and Mom immediately went up to the attic and reported that all was fine – perhaps it was a squirrel. 

But we knew better.

Laughersby Langston Hughes

Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
   My people.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies’ maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Rounders,
Number writers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,—
   My people.
Story-tellers all,—
My people.
   Dancers—
God! What dancers!
   Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers
Dancers and laughers.
   Laughers?
Yes, laughers . . . laughers . . . laughers—
Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands
   Of Fate.

In Search of a Legacy

When Hen first introduced his idea for our blog he was unsure what direction to go in.  We tossed around a few ideas and he identified his legacy as his ability as a story teller.  He wanted something that would be significant to his grand children in years to come and since he has the ability to weave stories that  his kids and grand kids enjoyed, he realized that is what he could pass along.  They often asked him to tell them the story about the crazy horse again, and hence his legacy began.  Now I have enough to worry about without having to worry about what my legacy might be.  For about a week I began to brainstorm what would be my legacy.  I have no grand children to be remembered by for whatever my legacy might be, so who is going to remember me?  Sure I have friends who will think of me and of course my children but after the next generation is gone it will be as if I never existed.  Hmmm, pretty sad!  So I began to think seriously about what my legacy would be.  I could be one of the world’s best worriers.  Worriers not warriors!  Yeah, but who would care? Oh that guy, yeah he worries better than anybody.  Not such a good thing to be remembered for.  I began to realize, that in my life I had had a lot of interests and abilities but I never explored any one thing to the point of developing an expertise in  it.  My brain storming list was short and not too impressive.  A week went by and we were scheduled to have our zoom meeting again.  I discussed my predicament with Wally and Hen.  Wally suggested my teaching career and the effect I had had on my students.  That gave me pause for thought and pausing for thought was never one of my strong points.

But the seed that Wally planted was germinating in my mind for days.  I started to jot down a few notes.  I loved teaching and loved communicating with the kids.  When I retired in 2003 I thought that that would be the end of my connection with them and time to move on.  I soon realized  that former students were making reservations to come and stay at my inn in Vermont.  It was always a pleasure  to greet these students, now young adults.  I loved seeing what these kids became as adults and over the years have kept in touch with many of them.  When I retired from inn keeping and moved back to New York I connected with many more thanks to the help of Facebook.  We would meet for lunch, laugh and relate stories of their memories of 4th, 5th or 6th grade classes with me.  They remembered mostly the simple communication between us rather than big events.  The personal touches seemed to be the most effective.  Every day they had to write in their journals anything they wanted, and I would answer them the same day and return them.  I did this religiously and the impact was tremendous and rewarding for me as a teacher.  How can you expect a boy to learn when he watched his dog get hit by a car as he was getting on the school bus? Or how do you get a student to focus on their times tables when he had just come off the playground where he was made fun of the whole time at recess?  We developed a trust where they knew it was safe to write things that were bothering them.  Sometimes they would write some very personal things but they knew I would listen and  the information was safe.  Many lunches I spent hearing about how they still had their thought books on the bookshelf at home.  Sometimes the parents would send me notes through the thought books to let me know if something happened at home or if something was coming up that the parents were worried about. It was an incredibly helpful tool for me as their teacher and apparently for them as well.  The other big thing that they would frequently mention is when I would read books to them.  I would use different voices for the different characters where I could be as dramatic as I wanted without feeling self conscious.  Through the years and over many lunches, I had the joy of seeing who these little kids became as adults.  One of my favorites experiences was with a girl in one of my 4th grade classes who was having divorce problems at home.  She became a high school administrator, got her doctorate degree in education, but the best part is she became a hot air balloon pilot.  I love these stories!

Shortly after that zoom meeting I had an interesting experience that made me realize I did have an impact on my students.  It was shortly after the election and I got a message from a former student who had befriended me on Facebook.  I never connected with him other than brief comments back and forth.  He wrote me very hesitatingly that he was concerned about the past election. He is now a 45 year old man who was devastated that his candidate lost.  He went on to say he believed I was probably of the opposing political party than he,  which is why he wanted to contact  me.  He wanted to hear the other side of the argument without all the screaming and arguing.  He wanted to have a civil discussion about elections and political candidates and needed help understanding the opposing view points without the anger and hatred that seems to have taken over our political system today.  I was touched that he would reach out to me and thought his request was very sincere.  And part of me wanted to hear what caused his frustration. I wrote back  that I thought it was a great idea to help both of us better understand what is going  on..

Now I haven’t seen this man for over 35 years.  The last time I saw him was the last day of his 4th grade year.  I didn’t know what to expect but we arranged to have dinner the following Friday night at a local restaurant and discuss his concerns.  He was even going to prepare a list of  questions for us to discuss.  I was expecting to see this short little kid that I remembered but this large 6 foot tall law enforcement officer came in and joined me at the table.  I had had his sister in class too so we  chatted about  his family for awhile and then over bowls of linguine in white clam sauce and lasagna we talked about his concerns.  The discussion was polite and respectful. We even  found things we agreed on.  We talked for almost 2 hours and I think the discussion helped me as much as he said it helped him.   As we walked out to our respective cars  he thanked me for taking his concerns seriously and for being willing to listen as he had no one else with whom he felt he could discuss this topic .  I felt really good about the situation and was pleased that I was able to help.  We said goodbye and I may never see him again but the night was significant.  I knew I was a good teacher, but never gave much thought to what effect I would have on their lives.  I finally found my legacy!  Maybe years from now some former students will tell their own kids about their 4th grade teacher and I will be remembered fondly!

I guess that is what a legacy is all about.  I can rest easy now that I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

Society depends on symbols. Symbols are used to keep us safe on the road where they direct us which way to go, where people might be crossing, or deer or where road crews might be working. They tell us where it is safe to park and where handicapped people can park to make it easier for them to navigate on our streets.  Symbols are used by professions to indicate their purposes. We know there is a pharmacy when we see the mortar and pestle, a restaurant when we see a fork and spoon,  the caduceus to indicate a doctor’s office.  Even in athletics, symbols are used to identify the different teams.  We use symbols on our clothing to indicate different organizations  we belong to or different causes we support.  We even use symbols to locate rest rooms or to tell us when it is safe to cross a street.  The upright red hand means don’t cross and the green silhouette of a person tells us it is safe. Most major organizations use symbols for their advertising.  Symbols are easier to understand than words and even people who don’t speak the language can identify the meaning of such symbols.

I have a few symbols, one in particular that is meaningful to me and that I have carried around with me my entire life.  My family left New York City when I was 5 years old.  They didn’t want me to start school there and have to pay 25 cents a week to the local gang on the lower East Side to guarantee my safety back and forth from school.  My folks decided to move to the country, which back then was Flushing, Queens.We moved into a big old house with 4 bedrooms and a backyard that had trees and grass and bushes.  From the very beginning before I developed any friendships with the neighborhood kids I found a huge old maple tree in the corner of our yard.  The roots stuck out of the ground in a circular pattern and I found l could sit with my back against the trunk and color in my coloring books or draw, even draw patterns in the earth with an old broken off twig.  I loved it there, I felt safe and comfortable.  I didn’t know it at the time but our street was lined with maple trees.  Coming from the Lower East Side of NYC, trees were few and far between and I didn’t know there were different kinds of trees.  That maple in my backyard became my friend.  There was something about the shape of the leaf that I thought was beautiful.  I can remember plucking a leaf off a low branch and twirling it in my fingers, studying each side, following each vein and tracing the shape of the leaf with my finger.  For a  little kid, I was enamored with that tree in my yard,  As I got older I would go there to escape arguments inside the house or times of sadness,  The tree never failed me.

Entertainment wise, maples always afforded us kids on the block with a lot of fun.  In the Fall, you could look up and down the block and see kids with their dads raking the dead leaves into piles on the curb.  Then the kids would go from house to house and take running leaps into the heaping piles of dried crunchy leaves.  I can feel the crunchy scratching of the leaves that wound up going down the back of my shirts, but the fun wasn’t over yet.  Around late afternoon, just before it would get dark, the dads did the unthinkable thing that dads of today can no longer do.  They would strike matches and those leaf piles became alive with orange and yellow flames and the incredible smell of autumn leaves burning could be smelled throughout the block. and the kids would stand around with the flames reflecting off their faces while their outstretched hands could feel the comforting warmth of the fire.  We always stayed til the last of the embers had cooled and the fire was just a puddle of ashes until the next raking session in a few days,

But the Fall wasn’t the only time we were entertained by the many talents of maple trees.’ When they went to seed the trees would shed their seed pods and we would catch them as they  twirled their way to the ground like tiny helicopters  They looked like old men’s mustaches and by puckering your top lip you could hold one between your nose and lip and talk like we thought old men used to talk.  And better yet, if you broke the seed pod in half, and separated the actual covering of the seed, there was a sticky substance that allowed you to stick it to the tip of your nose and walk around like that until the stickiness wore off and it fell to the ground.  The seed pod of the maple I came to discover was called a samara.  

As I got older, I began to appreciate the beauty of the maple leaf and discovered the many varieties of maples that exist.  I loved the shape of the leaf, the points and valleys between them.  I loved how the veins brought nourishment to the foliage.  They would branch out toward each of those points assuring me that life can be fulfilling and sustaining.  And then the added bonus of the changes in colors as the seasons changed and they could produce brilliant reds and yellows depending on the variety of the maple.  Sometime in my teens I saw a copy of Vermont Life magazine and it was all about maple syrup and I actually bought a subscription to the magazine.  Vermont seemed like a wonderland of nature, and I wanted at some time to live there with all the maples and syrup I could stand.  The maple leaf became my symbol!  I would draw a maple leaf on my schoolbooks that we all covered with brown paper bags from the supermarket.  To this day I still enjoy the beauty of that simple pattern of nature. I always imagined getting a tattoo of a maple leaf on my arm but never was brave enough to actually do it.  The closest I came to it is putting a maple leaf decal on both sides of my Jeep hood to keep the memory alive.  I did fulfill my dream of living in Vermont after I retired from teaching.  I owned and operated a Bed and Breakfast in a beautiful Vermont town and Vermont proved to be that amazing place where maple trees thrived, and life just seemed simpler!

Reverence for Trees

Don’t get me started on trees! The Ents were my favorite characters in JRR Tolkien stories.  To me, those large, slow moving, ancient tree creatures represent the power of stewardship. It’s no wonder that people have such strong attachment to the mighty entities we call trees. Once I was called to evaluate the fallen carcass of a beloved tree, in order to judge whether the wood was viable for a sculpture. The owners grew up with that tree (as George did with his maple); had named it; climbed it as kids; and wanted the memory of their tree-friend to be showcased in a sculpture.  They felt so strongly that they engaged a wood artist from Ireland to create life-size ballerina figures from their maple.

Actually, I’m doing something similar: making a series of twenty ‘steeple’ pens from pine used in an 1853 construction (as a result of some remodeling of our church’s steeple). When you consider that the 16” boards that came out of the steeple were likely from a 200 year-old pine, this tree was a youngster in 1650!

If you’ve kept up with current events, no doubt you’re aware of the recent outrage over the felling of the Sycamore Gap tree which stood by Hadrian’s wall in Britain. The logger initially (falsely) accused of the illegal cutting said, “If I’d have done a murder, I’d be getting less hassle, you know that?” – and now wears a wig to disguise himself. People have a connection with trees!

The connection is so strong that many animistic religions claim a self-aware life force – a consciousness — in trees. From the sacred ash tree in Norse cosmology (Yggdrasil) to the shinboku trees of the Shinto belief, trees have been used since early times as a means of approaching the divine, particularly through specimens which have lived for many human generations. Some tree populations – especially clonal forests – are estimated to be among the world’s oldest living entities (The Pando Aspen Grove in Utah is said to be between 14,000 and 83,000 years old, connected by a common root system). Some communities respect their elder-trees by taking their name, e.g., Elmsford, named after the 300-year-old Elm used as a landmark by George Washington. George’s maple tree may have been over 100 years old.

And trees communicate. Some call the interconnectivity of the root system the “wood-wide web”, due to the ability of trees to send chemical messages to other trees through mycorrhizal network – an interaction of root and fungi. German author and forest steward Peter Wohlleben described tree interactions in his book, The Hidden Life of Trees (a great book btw).  

All that said, I’m totally on the same wavelength as George! And while I love the many varieties of acer, my strongest association with a tree symbol is quercus, the strong and enduring oak. In fact, I use the oak leaf symbol – a sigil, really – for my woodturning venture: Lost Leaf Turning.

The use of the oak leaf comes from a very intense dream that I had as an adolescent. No doubt it was influenced by the 1954 movie, Prince Valiant. I used to read the comic strip as well, but the movie made an impression. Specifically, Valiant wore a sigil of a horse on his attire, including his over-tunic. In my dream, I was fighting evil-doers and had the pointy red oak leaf on my chest. Very specifically, my over-tunic was white, with a cutout in the shape of the leaf – and the under tunic was forest green, showing through the negative space – producing a green leaf on white background. In a way, it’s kind of reminiscent of George’s green maple leaf on his white jeep.

Of course, I was fascinated with knights and at the right age for such fantasies. However, the image in the dream persists, even sixty-plus years later. The symbolism of the oak for me represents the ability to hold strong to purpose and to live with honor, participating in the mysteries that the ancient celts used to call ‘oak-knowledge’.

This sense of endurance and resilience is found in the poem The Oak Tree, by Johnny Ray Rider Jr.

A mighty wind blew night and day
It stole the oak tree’s leaves away
Then snapped its boughs and pulled its bark
Until the oak was tired and stark

But still the oak tree held its ground
While other trees fell all around
The weary wind gave up and spoke,
“How can you still be standing Oak?”

The oak tree said, “I know that you
Can break each branch of mine in two
Carry every leaf away
Shake my limbs, and make me sway.

But I have roots stretched in the earth
Growing stronger since my birth
You’ll never touch them, for you see
They are the deepest part of me.

Until today, I wasn’t sure
Of just how much I could endure
But now I’ve found, with thanks to you
I’m stronger than I ever knew.”

I Am Phoenix!

The legendary Phoenix is my symbol!  I didn’t meet this noble creature until I was in my early forties.  It began in the best darn elementary school east of the Mississippi! (Actually west too but I love the phrase so why not?) I don’t remember how I came upon the book but loved reading it aloud on Friday afternoons to all the fifth graders.  Each of the many mythical characters who came in contact with the Phoenix was unique and I was able to formulate a different voice for each.  For years I took these ten and eleven year olds on one adventure after another as the Phoenix attempted to teach David the “important and meaningful” lessons of life.  At the time, it was a great way for me to connect to the students while being appropriately childlike along the way.

Years later, I found myself drawn to the symbol of the Phoenix as well as the traits (admittedly they were embellished in the story) affixed to this creature.  In time, it became somewhat of a representation of both who I am and who I aspired to be — rebirth, passion, tenacity, courage, flight, wisdom, common sense, kindness, competitive, love of sweets, friendship, mentor/coach, love of outdoors, and a playful sense of humor.

The book, written by Edward Ormondroyd, follows the adventures of a young boy named David, who stumbles upon a mythical creature, the Phoenix, in the woods near his home. The Phoenix is a majestic bird with brilliant plumage and the ability to be reborn from its ashes. The two of them quickly become friends, and the Phoenix takes David on a series of magical journeys.Throughout their adventures, David and the Phoenix encounter a variety of mythical creatures and engage in various challenges. The Phoenix imparts wisdom to David and teaches him about courage, friendship, and the importance of kindness. The story is not only a tale of magical adventures but also a coming-of-age narrative, as David learns important life lessons from his extraordinary friend.

At various times in my life I considered getting a tattoo.  The Phoenix, of course, would have been displayed on my forearm. The tattoo will likely never happen, but if it does there is no other symbol I would choose.

My experiences in Temagami, in the Canadian wilderness created lasting changes in how I saw myself and who I was.  And while I didn’t have to enter a funeral pyre and arise from the ashes as did the Phoenix, my fire walk and related encounters provided the ingredients necessary for me to significantly change the course of my life — a rebirth if you will.

At times I am an idealist, a dreamer, and a believer in mind over matter.  And while I am also realistic and relatively grounded in a scientific belief system, I know there is more than meets the eye, more than we can prove, and there are things that defy logic and human understanding.  And in that space between reality and fantasy lies possibilities…maybe even a Phoenix!

“I have been sent to you to see that you get into some trouble. People who never get into any trouble are usually very sad and lonely people.”

 – The Phoenix