Growing old in our culture has often been associated with pain, suffering, and even humiliation. At best, we learn to manage the pain and, rather than face outright dismissal, we are tolerated—granted a certain leniency for moving and thinking more slowly, for our moments of forgetfulness.

Modern medicine and research have given us the ability to live longer—sometimes a full generation longer than our ancestors. But a longer lifespan isn’t necessarily better if our health is poor. Increasingly, attention has shifted toward health span: living a longer life in relatively good health.

Yet even good health and longevity don’t mean much if you don’t like your life as an older person. Thanks to my friend and 3oldguys.com subscriber, Leo, I was introduced to a crucial concept for addressing this challenge. It’s called Joyspan. Author Dr. Kerry Burnight coined this term to describe the missing ingredient in creating and maintaining a sense of joy later in life. Leo came across Joyspan in a New York Times article by journalist Jancee Dunn, who explored how to cultivate this enduring sense of well-being.

According to Dr. Burnight, “Joyspan is the experience of well-being and satisfaction in longevity.” She is quick to note that joy is not the same as happiness. Happiness tends to be a roller coaster—bursts of pleasure followed by inevitable dips until the next high comes along. Joy, on the other hand, is steadier and more deeply rooted. It’s embedded in our state of being. Cultivating Joyspan, therefore, is less about chasing happiness and more about nurturing contentment and satisfaction in daily life.

I recently listened to a newscast about the “happiest” country in the world—Finland. One of the interviewees, a philosopher and professor whose name escapes me, suggested that what makes Finns so “happy” is not euphoria but rather a deep sense of contentment and cultural comfort. It immediately reminded me of Joyspan.

In Dunn’s article, “Is Joyspan the Key to Aging Well?” she lists practical, nonnegotiable choices we can make daily to enhance our quality of life—no matter our age or health:

• Grow – Stay curious and open to learning.
  
• Adapt – Instead of mourning what we once could do, adjust to what we can do now.
  
• Give – Use your skills, strengths, or interests to help others, no matter how small the act.
  
• Connect – Maintain social connections; they are vital to physical and mental well-being.
  

The article goes further, offering ways to make these practices manageable through simple, meaningful actions. I might add that we “old guys” wrote about one of these choices—adaptation—in our June 30, 2024 post, “Life in the Slow Lane,” from which I’ll borrow a closing quote.

Naturally, each of us will respond to the concept of Joyspan differently. Some may see it as a repackaging of familiar wisdom. Others, like Leo, will want to expand on it—he suggests adding a fifth step: clean eating and regular exercise.

For me, the value lies in realizing that our relentless pursuit of constant happiness may actually undermine the very peace we seek. Perhaps the real magic is found in acceptance, contentment, and satisfaction—with who we are and how we choose to live.

“It’s not a question of how old you are, but how you are old.

-Jules Renard

The Joy of Small Things

I think joyspan is a useful concept, even though it drags along a bit of pop psychology in its wake. Young or old, living a joyful life is a goal we strive to achieve. Just check out the number of books with Joy in the title: Little Book of Joy, The Book of Joy (many variants with same title), Joy of Cooking, Joy of Sex, The Joys of Compounding, Joy of Movement, Finding Joy, Choose Joy, I Choose Joy,  The Joy of Living, The Call to Joy, The Living Waters of Joy, Unwrapping the Presence of Joy, and so on. There is even a website regaling the “joy of Satan”! Yikes!

So, joy is where you find it, I guess and maybe that’s the point: you have to be open to the possibility of joy.  We seniors have taken years to find our groove and there is a temptation is to narrow the choices we make. It is easy to lose that suppleness of mind and spirit we had as youngsters. 

After we three old guys discussed the concept of joyspan a bit more, I think the consensus was that one must cultivate a practice of openness and willingness to adapt. That is what allows a person to get the largest measure of joy out of daily life. Joyspan provides a reminder to embrace your daily path. Hen would also suggest acceptance and contentment – I would add ‘engagement’ to the mix. 

There also seems to be an effort to distinguish joy from happiness. Joy is long lasting, happiness is short-lived; joy is internal, happiness is external.  I appreciate Talmudic scholarship, but I’m not sure it is worth it to tease these concepts apart. Perhaps joy is celebrating lots of little happinesses?

Yet, I’m a dour sort. I don’t believe that we were put on earth simply to be happy – at least not all the time. Point in fact, I have not seen any book title called The Joy of Colonoscopy. Most of the time I just find myself stumbling into joy. Most of the time, it is a simple event.

One such recent experience involved a sandwich. All summer I had been thinking about a nice BLT, without the B & L. Yes, a simple tomato sandwich. I love tomatoes and the smell of tomato leaves in the garden.  Finally, we lined up all the ingredients: a solid beefsteak tomato, mayonnaise, pepper, and toasted Heidelberg rye. It was glorious! I felt like I had summer and sunlight in my mouth. What a rush of endorphins. This sandwich turned my routine day into one of limitless opportunity and optimism — but why? It seemed like an outsized reaction to such a small thing. In passing I wondered why I felt so joyful, but my custom is not to overthink good times. Experiencing joy is a gift. The key is to recognize those gifts. 

What small things bring you joy?

Glass Half Full/Glass Half Empty

Joy Span is a concept I never thought about before until Hen brought it up as a topic.  There are things that make me happy all the time, laughter is a cure for a lot of what ails us.  But now thinking about it, and reading Wally’s essay, I realize that Happiness is temporal.  It makes you feel good while something is happening, but dissipates as the experience passes.  Joy hangs around forever and may not cause laughter but rather a warmth that radiates through your entire body.  And along with that feeling throughout your body, it can bring a warm smile to your face, probably without teeth showing.  Reflection often occurs with it because more often than not, the feeling of joy brings back memories of times before when you experienced the same feelings.  Never having put much thought into it before, this brought me to the point where I had to reflect on what kinds of things do I have in my Joy Span.  I suspect that my life experiences mixed up the two feelings and never consciously separated joy from happiness.  Both made me feel good and what I believed to be happiness.

Now after thinking about this concept, I realized that Joy comes into our lives in many different forms.  It can sneak in quietly from external sources. Something happening around you, in your neighborhood or within your own family that may not have caused any kind of reaction while it happened but upon reflection made a sense of wellbeing in you hours later.  It might not have been funny at all.  Pride can be a source of Joy!  Something you have accomplished in your life that you are proud of can be the source.  For me I think this is the kind of Joy I have experienced.  My career teaching little kids is a great source of pride for me and the joy comes years later when I meet up with a former student and we share a lunch and talk about their lives as adults.  I am often in awe of what these “kids” have achieved and occasionally they even attribute part of their success to my having been their teacher.  That brings surges of Joy up in me. I have one former student who came to my room at a difficult time in her life when her parents were divorcing and she was struggling visibly.  Twenty years later we met for lunch and we talked about what her life is like now.  She became a teacher, then an administrator, went on to get her doctorate in education which isn’t unusual but took a great deal of perseverance on her part, and as if that weren’t enough she went on to get her hot air balloon pilot’s license.  That brought Joy to my life and still does just thinking about how she changed from that scared little 4th grader to this adventurous, intelligent professional woman who gives me credit for having had a positive influence in her life.  Just off the top of my head I can think of other sources of Joy, aside from my kids, there are my pets.  All my life I have had pets, always dogs and cats, often fish and birds as well.  Mostly my dogs have afforded me the Joy that only animals can bring to a person.  They love you in a way nothing else can, and mine have given me Joy my entire life.  As I am writing this I am realizing that I have had Joy Span for a long period of time and realize how fortunate I have been in my life.  

Now, not to disappoint my fellow bloggers, and to maintain my image of glass half empty, during this period of revelation, it made me wonder if one can experience Joy without experiencing sadness or hardship.  Without these things how would we be able to tell what Joy is? In my life I certainly experienced hard times, things I was ashamed of, struggling with who i was and pretending to be someone I wasn’t.  Those were shameful times.  Shame is another one of those anti Joy words.  Loneliness belongs in that group as well and so does anger.  I can get angry at myself very easily, for saying something or for not saying something that needed to be said or never should have been said!.  It is the comparison between Joy and Sadness that allows the Joy to stand out and last over the years.  Sadness eases over time and stays with you but you don’t have to let it out of its cage it you don’t want it.  Joy has a way of seeping out when you least expect it and allows you to sit back, feel the warmth, and let that toothless smile form on your face.

Now here is the dilemma I face.  The future!  Currently, I am experiencing a period of serious loneliness. I have never lived alone before, and it is too bad it happened when my mind and body are less resilient than in the past. Some nights around 3AM I wake up and I go into my living room and stand in front of my big bow window and look out over the world and wonder what the neighbors feel when they waken during the night.  It is troubling for me, luckily my dog is by my side as he always is and I can confide in him.  But since we discussed this topic during our weekly meetings, I have noticed a few things or perhaps remembered a few things.  One afternoon I was sitting in my living room, having a nice glass of Malbec. My living room has windows on 2 sides and the dining room which is open to the living room has windows on the two other sides and the light streaming in through those windows and my big bow window to the world brought in the most incredible natural light I have ever seen.  Between feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and the visual light show which brought many of my paintings to life I experienced that warm feeling throughout my body, I leaned back into the couch and felt that toothless smile come over my face and damn if that wasn’t Joy I don’t know what is.  And i can always go back and draw that moment up in my mind whenever I want.  And i realized there are many more examples as simple or as complex as that moment for me to draw from.  I am hoping now with this reference point that however long my body holds out I will live it out in Joy Span

I’m not against technology! Most of my friends would disagree with that statement.  I remember when our living room TV had a pair of rabbit ears on the top.  It was magical, but all it did was allow us to catch magical vibrations going through the air and winding up as moving pictures on a screen in your house.  We didn’t have remotes back then so dad would say move the right ear to the left just a little  oh and while you are up get me another beer.  That technology didn’t bother me at all.  It was directed toward something i understood and had a modicum of control over.  And then TV antennas on the roof came about and we had little control over that nor did we need it.  There was a phone usually on the kitchen wall and one on a table in the living room.  The only technology knowledge we needed was fitting your pointer finger into a round hole and moving the dial around to where it couldn’t go any further.  And after you did that 7 times, magically a voice would speak to you. Easy, no sweat!  Technology was easy back then, helpful and manageable.  After that cable came in. I didn’t understand how it worked but it was manageable and uncomplicated to handle.  I should have suspected that that was the beginning of the mercilous onslaught of never ending “things” meant  
to make life easier.  My brother got a reel to reel tape recorder so he could record songs and sing into it himself, transistor radios became popular and we carried them all over with us to listen to Cousin Brucie in NYC and 1010 wins NY.  These were all good things, fun things, making life easier and more pleasant.  These things didn’t turn around and bite you when you weren’t looking!  I didn’t even mention the portable typewriter!   We had to learn to type without looking at the keyboard.

But then, all of a sudden, as if in a foreign war, we started getting bombarded with all kinds of stuff that we had to be taught how to use.  Cell phones.  Great- we can call people from wherever we are day or night- that’s cool.  Before you could only pace around in a small space while chatting.  Maybe if the chord was long enough you could take the kitchen receiver into the living room and sit down to talk but more often the chord wasn’t quite long enough and we wound up sitting on the arm of some wiggly wooden arm of gramma’s old desk chair.  But that was the most harm it could do.  Then cell phones morphed into little computers and suddenly we had to have passwords to make a call  and you had to remember the password.  Computers were becoming popular too and people started getting them for their homes.  More stuff to learn, and more passwords to remember.  God forbid you used the same password on two different “devices,” because that was a definite no no!  Our modes of transportation were picking up more slowly on technology but even cars were developing.  All the things growing up that we felt entirely comfortable with were now changing.  TV’s, radios, phones, computers, machines in stores like cash registers, soda and candy machines it was overwhelming for me.  I don’t have a technological bone in my body so my mind doesn’t adjust well to this stuff.  And I could go on talking about other changes that were  occurring and forcing us to deal with but what i really want to chat about is the danger in these things.

Years ago, the new machines were helpful and basically non-punitive but today that has all changed.  I try to use the technology like when I buy things online but even then I get punished. I bought a beautiful watch I saw online, not that I need one because my phone tells me the time, so does my computer, but I wanted this watch.  I ordered it and it came in 2 days.  I love it!, but then the next day  another one came, exactly the same and so did my charge bill with 2 charges from the same company for two other things i didn’t order.  I called my credit card company and told them and they said it would be best if i worked it out with the company.  The punishment is just beginning. I called and explained but there was an extended waiting time of over 30 minutes.   Anyway, the story goes on and I think I have resolved the issue after several days of punishment dealing with the credit card people and the watch company.  Fine, then another charge card comes in with two charges from Macon, Georgia totaling $340.  Different credit card company but a little easier to deal with.  Then my daughter calls and I tell her what happened and I get the lecture about not giving out any numbers over the phone because thieves  steal them and use them wherever.  So what the hell is so important about  passwords.  I am watching tv and I hear that there are people who go around now stealing the deed to your home by finding out your basic information about your finances, your bank and then get a copy of your deed and mortgage and you don’t own the house anymore. You don’t even know it until you get humungus bills to pay off on your equity.  This morning before I left the house to grocery shop I received 14 different phone calls on my land line all from my old area code.  I decided I would call them all back and annoy them.  Each number I called brought the same answering machine explaining they could offer me better car insurance rates than the company I have now.  How do they know who my insurance company is?  Or that I want to lower my premium.  I also got 3 calls from police organizations wanting me to donate to help protect their members which I have been advised by my son is a real scam!

 Anyhow- —enough.  Technology is eventually going to win and cheat us all out of something.  I just don’t understand how to maneuver my way around the modern technology and why should I have to?  Where are all these smart inventors who came up with this technology and why can’t they figure out a way to make it safe to work on without the fear or losing your house, your inheritance, your first born.  Too bad all these creative crooks out there don’t put their creativity into doing good for the world!

There Are Help Desks

At the heart of George’s post is a plea against invasive technology that has the ability to cause harm. I’d guess we all agree that scams are on the rise. In fact, The NY Times called out a hacker group that advertises disruptive cyberattacks for pay: you can buy a ‘school shutdown’ attack for fifty bucks!

The truth is, technology is about potency. Its force multiplier for productivity and entertainment is evident, just as is the potential for exploitation. It seems to me that George’s complaint is about the balance of power – whether that membrane between the private and the shared has gotten too permeable. Technology that was once just ‘one-way’ has become interactive. Even our phones are listening.

Yet, many of us post our private life on social media without a thought of how it can “bite you”. We post our thoughts, pictures, and information for the world to see. We use GPS systems to find destinations while traveling, but overlook the capability of those systems for tracking our own whereabouts.

I believe we engage in voluntary submission of private data, because we still believe in good will. The root cause of George’s concern is the abrogation of good will; the willingness of people to do harm for personal gain. Sure, that has always been a human failing, but now we have provided better weapons  — weapons that seem magical or mysterious. And what we don’t comprehend, we fear. Unfortunately, the fear of new-fangled technology can isolate us as we age. 

It’s foolish to believe that the world has never been a dangerous place. And it’s ineffective to decry technology, simply because it has potency. You don’t use a sharp tool without understanding methods for safe use. And perhaps that sharp tool allows you to achieve wonderful results.

Meeting the Technology Challenge

Whatever topic George creates is certain to be imbued with vivd, often humorous, homespun stories from his personal life and, in that regard, this post does not disappoint.  George begins by painting a picture of technology form the old days when it felt simple, easily understood, and non threatening.  As we read on we catch the drift of his message as technology for him advances from helpful to more complicated to harmful.  Indeed, I understand his point and agree that there are times, for me, when present technology is frustrating, difficult to grasp in its expansiveness, and brings a  high degree of caution to my everyday usage.  But I don’t draw the same conclusion about technology as does my colleague.

I feel my life is vastly enhanced and well worth the challenges it poses.  Early this spring we wrote about the impact of technology on senior citizens in response to one of our readers’ querys.  In my piece I focused on the many ways I use modern and present day advances to my benefit. But I often spend more time on the positive and give less attention to the challenges in my life.  Good or bad, I recognize that not all people see the world as I do and perhaps I can spend more of my time to address these issues without feeling like I’ve sunk below the median level of water in the glass half full/half empty idiom.

To George’s point, it certainly feels like life was a lot easier and simpler when we were young. There are several reasons I believe that is true:

1. Whatever technology we grew up with was practiced by us, influenced by our peers, and at a time when we were full of energy and curiosity.
2. Advancements in technology occurred more slowly over a longer period of time allowing us to adapt more comfortably and in an as yet limited information age.
3. It helped separate us from our parents and elders as they were less likely to use new technology or see it as “necessary.”(Uh oh!  Have you become your parents?)
4. We felt more or less invulnerable and thus didn’t see the hidden dangers in changes or fear them.

George states: “Years ago the new machines were helpful and basically non-punitive but today that has all changed.”  Yeah, it can certainly feel that way as electronics become basic to our way of life and lack of knowledge about how to use them can push us away or worse, keep us from doing the things we enjoy.  Case in point, Teresa and I went to a movie last year where the theatre had no ticket windows.  In their place stood an enormous kiosk for selecting movies and seats and only took credit or debit cards!  

And, if George refers to punitive to mean negative consequences, I can also see his point. As senior citizens we aren’t as adept, savy or incentivized to “keep up” and as confirmed by AI, there are more people scamming and more scams (especially geared towards seniors) than every before largely because of technology. It can be scary!

(Okay, time to move up a bit in that proverbial glass of water.)   So what can we do as senior citizens in a world that changes faster than we can comfortably adapt to and becomes more alien to us each day as new technology invades our lives?  If we bury our heads and label it negatively, I believe we limit the happiness of the time we have left.  But if we choose carefully and manage those new systems that are integral to our lives, I think we can see and feel that the benefits outweigh the challenges.  Here are some things we can do and I hope our readers can add to this list in the comment section of our blog:

• Use AARP as a resource for ideas, information about scams, and links to helpful information especially for seniors. 
• Use your children, grandchildren, friends, and neighbors for assistance.  They likely enjoy showing you what they know and you get to interact with them in a meaningful way.
• Ask AI – Use Siri, or Chrome or whatever browser you have about a question or concern you have.  It’s impressive how much information and assistance you can get in a very short period of time.
• Use YouTube to look up “how to.”  It’s amazing how many resources there are to see and hear a video about how to do something.
• If something electronic comes looking for you to buy – don’t!  
• Shop online with trusted companies
• Take courses on electronics or for seniors or about scams from your local adult ed programs.

“Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty.  Anyone who keeps learning stays young.  The greatest thing in life is to keep your mind young.”  Henry Ford

There are many Septuagenarians who are continuing active lives that directly contribute to their fitness.  For them, not much has changed that physically taxes their bodies.  As a result, their muscles, bones, mobility, flexibility, and stamina may not be what they once were, but they are still robust and functioning effectively.  However, for those of us who stopped or significantly reduced our work, relaxed into a more casual and less physical lifestyle, the activities that once fueled our fitness are likely less frequent, less strenuous, and possibly gone.  Yes, while more time to play pickle ball, golf, and walking are embraced by some, there are generally less hours per day that we are moving.  In my opinion, this has only contributed to the aging of my body.

When I was younger and working full time, effectiveness was paramount but efficiency was the route to getting more done in a shorter time.  If I could carry all of the items from my car to the kitchen, why make two trips?  If I could park close to the store, I’d save time walking from my car to the door and have more time to do all those things that needed to get done.  However, as an older man I now realize that I have more time and less things to get done.  What I do need to do is to attend to my fitness and health.  What was once efficient and effective may no longer be effective…for me.

So, given the fact that I am noticing declining strength, stamina, and flexibility despite the fact that I’m relatively active for my age, I have begun to notice daily activities that can further contribute to my well being simply by making a few changes in my environment and in my behavior.  The following are some of these adaptations that work for me.  I would love to know what others you may have that I could incorporate into my routines.

• When working in the garden, bringing in groceries, or moving items from one place to another, be less efficient.  Take items one or two at a time and make as many trips as possible to increase your step count for the day.  This includes parking as far away from the storefront as you are comfortable with.
• Place items you use daily (like pills for instance) in a cabinet or shelf that requires you to stretch!  (Up or down)  Alternate arms each day to increase your flexibility.
• When carrying items, consider them as weights and pump them up and down as you are walking.  (Wear a hoodie or make sure your neighbors aren’t watching while doing this!) 
• When I make or receive a phone call, I stand and begin walking around my house or yard.  One time I recorded an almost 2 mile phone call!
• Alternatively, when on the phone, get up and practice standing on one leg at a time.  (This way, if you fall, you can get immediate help from the person on the other end of the call!)
• Actually, I just thought of another phone call health activity that I haven’t tried but will be sure to do.  Leave a 5 or 10 pound weight in a place accessible to you when you are on the phone.  Then you can alternate hands while walking and talking while you pump iron! (Of course if you’re like me and can only concentrate on one thing at a time, you’ll likely have no idea who you talked to or what you said after you hang up.  Either that or you’ll crash into a chair or trip over the dog…ugh!)  Author’s note:  I am not responsible for any damage or injury caused by following these suggestions.  These are done entirely at your own risk.

I’m excited to hear of any you have come up with!

“I’m at an age when my back goes out more than I do.”

-Phyllis Diller

You Got To Move It, Move It!

Hen poses the challenge of maximizing opportunities for healthy activity now that we are sliding into the eighties. Good thoughts! You know, I actually feel as though I’m more active now than during my working years. That’s because my occupational life was spent at a computer workstation and on endless telephone or video meetings. When not at work, a good portion of my time was devoted to commuting fairly long distances or waiting in airports. In between, Linda and I sandwiched in child rearing, chores, and more active pursuits. 

My pursuits are less intense than they used to be, but I scurry around a lot during the day – I hate to sit still. My new health tracker routinely repots 7-13k daily steps, without any particular intent to do so. I’m learning what sharks and King Julien (Madagascar, the movie) already know – you’ve got to move it. Sitting is the enemy.

I don’t have any exercise hacks to report. I believe that it is important for older folks (or anyone) to focus on aerobics, strength training, and flexibility. Weekly tennis or pickleball provides some aerobics, although I need to find more opportunities like that, outside of jogging or planned walking (Sorry, I still need to have a real purpose or destination in order to walk). 

But aerobic activity is only part of the equation. One of the real issues for seniors is avoiding physical frailty. I believe that weight training is critical to maintain functional musculature and balance. I work out with free weights every other day: nothing special or impressive — five-to-ten-minute upper-body routines followed by five minutes on the stationary bike. It’s a longstanding habit. My goal is not to gain strength, but rather to ward off precipitous loss in tone. Flexibility is a real shortcoming for me – I need to improve my attention to stretching. I tried chair yoga and felt better,  but I’m too impatient to follow the discipline. 

Clearly, I’m no role model. I still have a weight issue and it is easy to lose commitment when a meeting or social engagement gets in the way. However, I see that consistency is really important. We can’t control our environment, but we can control our choices, especially when unforeseen events impede physical maintenance.  For example, injuries can hamper a routine. Last year, a wrist injury and a damaged shoulder prevented certain weight training activity. For the first time in many years, I had to lighten weight, but increase reps for particular exercise. It brought home the need to keep doing what you’ve always done, because it is difficult to regain a capability, as we age. 

A flexible attitude works wonders. When I was younger, I really resented wasted steps and rework. Everything needed to be done efficiently. But just as Hen relates, now I see taking extra steps as an opportunity. In addition, I find myself grateful that I have the ability to pick something off the floor that I dropped; go back to the car for things I forgot and should have remembered; and work in a very serial fashion, rather than multi-task. After attending to some ageing friends, a real take-away is that we have to constantly reassess how we will accomplish the daily necessities of life as we age. Preparation today is key for independent living in the future. That thought reminds me that I need to move it, move it!

Mind Over Body

Hen and Wally stress the value of movement.  I know it, I believe it, I feel it, but I can’t always convince myself to do it.  One reason is arthritis! It hurts to move! Feet and hands are especially difficult for me to move at times!  It pisses me off.  As a younger version of me I could never sit still. I would run instead of walk, ride a bike instead of run, dance whenever the radio was playing and generally my body was always moving, wiggling, twisting rather than remaining still and motionless!  That’s how I kept slim. As a young father we would go roller skating, ride bikes, play tag, race the kids up the stairs to go to bed!  Watching TV was done while folding the laundry, cleaning the dishes, always multi tasking where one of the tasks was movement of one variety or another. But that was then!

Most of my life was spent in perpetual motion! Standing still was boring!  It was inconceivable to spend a night on the sofa in front of the tv!  But back then movement didn’t mean hurting! Being an elementary teacher meant moving all the time!   Running around the room to work with kids, doing projects on the floor, playing with the kids on the playground at recess, always moving.  And then after retirement from 35 years of teaching I owned a bed and breakfast in Vermont. Serving food, In and out of the kitchen, helping folks up to their rooms with suitcases, stripping beds, lugging soiled laundry two flights down to the basement, lugging clean laundry back up to the rooms. Lifting mattresses to make the beds, cleaning bathrooms and doing the same thing over and over again. It was routine, automatic, had to be done, thoughtless!

Then retirement came and Covid struck! People stopped doing things, stopped socializing and life became more sedentary.  No one socialized, you only went out when absolutely necessary and I started becoming stationary.  Not because I wanted to but because there was no one to do stuff with.  The couch became your assigned seat. Activity consisted of moving from the couch to the refrigerator and back again.  The long walk to the fridge did not make up for the snacking that occurred out of boredom!  And over time the mind adjusted to the inactivity and the body accepted the lack of mobility.  Which brings me to today.

I have to do the things Wally and Henry talk about. I have started walking when the heat isn’t intolerable. Each time I walk I try to extend the walk by a block or two. I walk around my neighborhood and am meeting new neighbors and other walkers.  When I go to a store I park in distant spots so that I have to hike to get in.  I walk through the aisles a couple times just to get more steps in. When I have doctor appointments I park around the block so that I have to walk a ways to get there and I climb the stairs instead of using the elevator.  I really try to make an effort to move!  And sometimes it hurts. But here’s the thing…..it isn’t my body that is fussing, it is my mind!  I am constantly fighting my mind.  It doesn’t want to send my body out on motion responsibilities. Why bother when the couch is so comfortable?  In this heat is it really worth the effort?  It will cool down later and I can go for a walk then unless it rains!  You get the picture!  Living alone I don’t have someone to debate these issues with!  My arguments for inactivity are weak, yet effective.  I try not to succumb to my immobile thoughts but sometimes they are so strong they simply overpower logic!  With 80 approaching very quickly I understand the consequences of inactivity but with age comes wisdom and I can often push that off to the side and  say what the heck, I want to finish this book!

These are difficult times in which we are living.  I was never very good at coping skills.  I am very good at expecting the worst to happen and then when it doesn’t I am pleasantly surprised.  During these times, however, I just can’t imagine what the worst could be.  The thought of even contemplating worst case scenarios, is a worst case scenario in and of itself.  But before I get too bogged down in the doom and gloom, let me write about why I am writing this.  I can’t even turn the tv on or listen to the radio without hearing the latest event that is going to cause me to develop heavy agita.  I know the solution to all of this grief is still a long way off and I have to be able to distract myself  in order to go about my day without being engulfed in the heaviness of the day.  Distraction is always one way, if only short lived, to allow normalcy to enter my brain and allow me to compartmentalize those ongoing fears.  I can actually build a wall around those fears, lock them in for a time while I let something in to lower the blood pressure and normalize my life.  I began for look for things that amuse me, interest me or just make me laugh.  Often times they are simple things, ordinary things around me every day that just make me feel good.  I began to realize it is the simple stupid little stuff that has the capability of making the boogie man disappear for a while.

Ever since I was a kid, my dad and I would go to this big nursery called Garden World on Francis Lewis Blvd in Flushing after Mass on Sundays.  There were probably 6 or 7 greenhouses, each one specializing in some kind of plant or flower.  We often went into New York City Sunday afternoons for dinner at my grandmother’s and Aunts’ apartment and dad would bring her flowers.  She had a favorite sitting spot in her kitchen by the widow with the fire escape and all her plants would be there on the window sill.  Her favorite plant was the coleus plant but she always called it a Saint Joseph’s Coat of all colors and I never knew it was a coleus til much later.  I guess that is why the coleus has always been my favorite plant and I make sure I fill my gardens with them even today, in every possible color combination that exists.  One day I was coming home from grocery shopping, opened the gate to my backyard, looked around at all my coleuses and petunias, and the colors and even the smell of the earth made me smile.  It immediately brought my grandmother to mind, which intensified the smile that was brewing inside waiting to burst out.  Between the colors of the coleus leaves, and the brightly colored petals of the petunia flowers I was surrounded by the simple distraction I needed to chill. To this day, every time I enter my backyard I get the same sensation I did that day and for a short time at least everything is ok with the world.  Simple and so beautiful, enough to change my mood completely.

It is the simplicity that makes it so spectacular!  Another simple stupid thing is when I enter my house, my dog is here to greet me.  He greets me with all the enthusiasm possible and even though I know deep in his canine heart he knows I will give him a treat, I still prefer to think he just loves me for the wonderful person I am.  The treat is offered after he sits down, looks up with his big puppy dog eyes, waits for me to tell him, “Gently!”  The process is not over, because he then follows me around the house, joins me in the bathroom before I go to sit down in front of our favorite TV show.  He waits for me to get comfortable on the sofa and then climbs up, plops his 60 pounds of muscle on my lap, waits for me to put me legs up on the coffee table so he can then rest his head on the comfortable ottoman created by my extended legs and falls to sleep.  Once again it is the simplicity of his confidence in me, knowing that he is safe and loved that puts a smile on my face and relieves much of the tension of the day.   These simple signs are easy to overlook and that’s why i called them stupid, but for me they are essential for me to make it through some of the most difficult days of which there are many lately.

I’m almost embarrassed to tell you about the next stupid thing that brings a smile to my face but it works every time.  I drive a 2018, 4 door Jeep Wrangler Sahara.  Best car i have ever owned. and I love driving it and being in it.  Jeep Wrangler drivers have always had a secret hand signal when you pass by another wrangler.  It is a simple two finger salute and it is done very casually, almost lackadaisically, some do it more enthusiastically than others but you can’t pass another jeep without the signal recognition.  One day, about 3 years ago, I was coming out of Home Depot, went to open the car door and this little rubber thing fell to the parking lot.  I bent over to pick it up and it was a little policeman rubber duck.  I thought it was odd but I put it on my dash board and drove off.  I started looking at passing jeeps more carefully and discovered a lot of them had rubber duckies on their dashes.  That made me smile in a perplexed way.  It was kind of silly to see  some of these heavily modified jeeps with an entire dash filled with all kinds of rubber duckies.  Little by little my dash began to fill up and I had the same reaction everytime I got to my car and there was a little fireman rubber ducky or ghost rubber ducky.  Just seeing it there perched on my door handle made me laugh out loud. It was time for me to spread the wealth around and get some rubber duckies of my own to secretly hand out.  Anyway, another stupid little thing that aways brings a smile to my face.  I keep looking for other little things to distract me from the world of politics and craziness.  They pop up when I least expect them to.  Hope all of you have escape hatches too.

The Stories We Share

Geo puts forward the proposition that we all can use some respite from the constant flow of negative information headed our way regarding the state of the world. He looks for “stupid, little things” to cheer him up. It brings to mind a recent NY Times opinion piece about ‘bringing in your horizons’ when the data rodeo is just too distracting. In other words: focus on the small bits in front of you. Makes sense.

Geo and Hen are far better about being in the here and now than I am —  I seem to operate in the here and there. When things seem oppressive and out of my control, I tend to look for opportunities to impose structure – and it may not be in areas I find enjoyable. Rather it is the act of organizing that brings some peace. I guess I’m looking to gain predictability over some small part of existence.

But Geo is asking ‘What puts a smile on your face’ during dark times? That’s a harder question for me to answer.  For sure, joking with Hen and George puts a smile on my face – our conversations pursue many rabbits down many rabbit holes. I also smile when I receive a text from my grandson: his young discoveries are full of enthusiasm. It’s great to share his stories!

Well now, perhaps that is the answer: it is the stories we share that brings a smile? A friend has been journaling about his baseball tour through the middle of the country – his reports are light-hearted. What a cool trip! It’s a reminder that it isn’t the length of the runway that is most important – it’s the lift in your wings.

Linda and I recently attended a ‘Howl’, sponsored by Pubic Radio and the Adirondack Center for Writing. It was held in a local brewery on a Friday night. We did not know what to expect, but the ground rules are the following:

• A theme is set for the evening (in this case it was Kitchen Confidential)
• Attendees are invited to come up to the mic and relate a five-minute story on the theme
• There are no interruptions during the telling and time is kept by a monitor
• The winner is selected by two judges and proceeds to a regional Howl

So, our fellow narratologists arranged chairs around the podium, beers in hand. Nine stories were related to the audience, each an enjoyable listen. Two stood out for me. One story came from an English teacher who moonlights as a server. She made the point that restaurant kitchen lingo can improve a relationship. In her restaurant, the chef acknowledges every request with a standard reply: “Heard!” She wished her husband would respond in similar fashion!

The winner for the night, Sammy D., traveled nearly 100 miles to tell a story about a prison friendship which grew out of a common love for cooking. “Old Timer” and “Young Blood” rattled each other’s bars to impart news and secrets for making meals taste like “the streets”. Ground up Doritos played a meaningful part in the yarn.

The intimate setting for the story-telling dissipated any iota of anonymity. We focused on the people and their experiences: we brought in the horizons. Linda and I left with smiles.

Looking For a Few Good Smiles

George reminds me that recognizing opportunities that make us smile can transport us to another mindset, feeling, and/or mood rather quickly.  In his post, George talks about things that he comes upon that for him, releases his sense of daily agita and brings him to a place of calm.  This happens when occasionally someone leaves a duck on his Jeep, or he returns from an errand or social gathering and reenters his garden, or when he sits down and Devon waits for him to create his favorite lap space.  They appear to be fortunate events that may or may not occur throughout the course of his day.  And when they do, he smiles and reaps the benefit of their effect. 

This got me to thinking.  When fortune doesn’t “smile” upon us and provide the circumstances we’re programmed to smile at, is there nothing we can do but trust to luck or can we tap into this programming and improve our odds?

Several months ago, while we were walking Teresa asked me if I could see anything that resembled the shape of a heart along our route.  I wasn’t sure what she meant until she pointed out an area in a tree where the branches and leaves seemed to outline the shape of a heart.  The idea that we could “create” via our perspective, images that represented objects or thoughts or feelings if we simply focused our attention toward that end was intriguing.  She began to point out heart shapes to her granddaughters when they were together and over time, each of them would spontaneously shout out when they saw something that resembled a heart.  When they did they smiled, but they really broadened their grin when they saw the joy it brought to their Nonna!

Could this concept be the answer to my pervious question?  What if we set our intention each morning to find things throughout the day that make us smile?  They could be things that we find humorous, cute, heartwarming, or even mischievous.  Whatever would normally bring a smile to our face is fair game.  It only takes a bit of imagination, a heavy dose of determination, and a sprinkle of luck to laugh our way through any typical day.  I dare you to try!

PS  Yes, there are things that I don’t have to conjure up that force a smile on this old face:

– the way Duke rests his chin on the most uncomfortable looking places

– jumping in the pool last week and realizing the quiet around me was not the refreshing water but the shorting out of my hearing aids that I had forgotten to remove

– my grandson’s knack for relentless comedic humor

– the twinkle in my daughter’s eye when she catches me in a misspoken word or story

– remembering old stories

– the “eye hugs” I received at a silent retreat 

– helping others 

“There is always a reason to smile.  You just have to find it.” 

DE Philosopher DJ Kyos (Kyos Magupe)

Dear Readers,

We want to thank Diana, one of our followers, for submitting the following question to our blog:

“How does technology impact your life?  There is a stereotype of older adults that they don’t understand or are less capable of effectively using technology.  But I find seniors are just as likely as someone younger to own a smartphone, tablet, etc.”

Technology and This Old Guy

Diana’s question helped me to see how much I rely on modern day technology and why my daily screen usage is what I consider to be so high.

I have always been curious and interested in learning about the newest innovations that have the potential to affect my life.  As a result, I continue to use many of the latest technology tools on a daily basis.

For over ten years, I have been wearing hearing aids to enable me to pick up and better understand speech as well as the higher frequency sounds made by birds, running water, and children.  Three years ago I upgraded to a set that is connected to my iPhone via Bluetooth.  Since then I cannot only hear better but I can participate in phone conversations while my phone is in my pocket.  And while it looks like I’m talking with Duke as we walk through my neighborhood, I’m really on a phone call with a real human.  They also enable me to listen to texts without lifting a finger.

In addition, I use my phone for reading the news, weather reports, banking, online shopping, creating and viewing shopping lists, directions, calendar dates, email, investment accounts, photography, bird and plant identification, set my thermostat, open and close my garage door, pickle ball schedules and who will be playing at which courts, in-store shopping coupons, control of my TV and sound system, music, pre cooling or heating my car and having it pick me up from a parking space and driving me home with the full self driving function if I wish (yup, I have a Tesla). 

I often find that I don’t always remember all of the things I want to and I have found the “reminders” function on my phone to be an extremely helpful remedy.  Using my Apple watch or iPhone I simple ask Siri to remind me to do something at a certain time and it does.  For recurring events like taking out the garbage I can ask it to repeat weekly or any other interval of time to fit my needs.  And, when I’m on a walk or away from home, I can ask Siri to remind me of something “when I arrive at home.”  And she does!

Lately I’ve been using AI to help me with a number of things. I can better understand the news by asking questions about cultures, people, customs, or words that are used in a newscast but that I don’t understand.  I also found an exciting app called Gemini which is an interactive source for just about anything you wish to know or converse about.  Recently Google enhanced this tool by experimenting with Google AI Mode which takes the conversations to a deeper level.  I have used this to get ideas for blog posts as well as topics I am interested in.  For seniors who may find themselves spending more time alone than they prefer, this is another way to chat with an intelligent resource whose only purpose is to listen to you and respond accordingly. While it’s not the same as talking with a friend, it does offer a couple of advantages.  First, the information is an extraction of an extraordinary number of sources which is believed to be factual and not influenced by one person’s experiences or interpretation.  Second, it only answers your questions.  It doesn’t talk about itself or add stories that it finds interesting to it and not necessarily what you wanted to hear.

When I was a boy, I remember listening to my mom and my grandparents talk about the good old days and how all of the new fangled gismos and inventions weren’t really necessary or good for us.  It occurred to me that they likely resisted newer technology because they were more comfortable with what they knew and had used successfully for so long.  It was also easier to continue to do what they were used to than to make the time and effort to learn something new or possibly very different.  It was shortly after that I set a reminder to myself (way before Siri’s reminders were available) not to be that way when i grew older.  I’m sure there are some technologies I’ve chosen not to use because it’s not worth the effort but I’ve not doubt that if I wanted it badly enough, I could.

However, as much as I love using these present day devices, my deepest satisfactions come from being in nature and enjoying the sights and sounds and smells offered up without any need of the aforementioned technology. I think we all could use some “no screen” days once in a while, doing things in real time, untethered.

A Sober Look at Technology

What a great topic, Diana – thanks for sending it in!

So, when I read your comment, I was involved in the following:

• Checking Word Press on my phone
• Looking at the results of my smart ring regarding sleep, bp, and pulse rate
• Preparing to start a Zoom session for our church’s worship service to reach the homebound
• Completing a newsletter article for my woodworking club on Word and sending to the editor
• Checking the bank balance for the three woodworking club accounts and reconciling to QuickBooks

All the above would be laborious without technology. Yes, old folks can deal with those IT functions that make life easier. Certainly, we become practiced users if there is a direct benefit. Does that mean we understand how to consolidate three TV remotes? Of course not – that’s why we have kids! They say Delegation is a dish best served old (they do say that, right?). 

I’ve used AI to create logo’s I can burn into my woodturnings with my laser engraver, using Laser Grbl. Bottomline, if I want something bad enough, I’m going to have to learn it. But it may not  come that easily. For instance:

My health tracking smart ring has vagaries. Trying to get it to work with my new phone was a challenge. It stumped my oldest son, who is an IT professional. However, he did provide a clue which my youngest son used to figure out the problem. Which all circled back to my wife Linda’s fitness watch. It seems that she did not ‘pair’ her watch with her phone, since she simply reads the watch display.

Not so with the smart ring, which depends on the phone to display results. So, Bluetooth, being the powerful function that it is, allowed my phone to pick up her watch… and I paired it, thinking I was pairing my ring device. Easily fixed you say? Not so much, because I had downloaded the smart ring app which recognized Linda’s watch – and it wouldn’t switch to the ring – this app is seriously monogamous (which, I approve, but marital counseling was obviously indicated).

In order to get the ring to work, we had to uninstall and reinstall the ring app three times! And then pair Linda’s watch app with her phone, so we could eat breakfast and look at our own pulse rates. Finally, we re-paired the ring with my phone: Mirabile dictu! – it worked!

Now this ring is on the cheaper end of the fitness spectrum, so it comes with an attitude. It gives me data when it feels like it. Sometimes, the feedback is strange – my sleep cycle is divided into three categories: deep sleep, light sleep, and ‘sober’ — Sober? What is sleep sobriety? Perhaps the most important takeaway is that according to my ring, I’m sober for only an hour every night! Wow, good to know… In addition, it labels my sleep as “BAD” every night, whether I sleep for 4 hours or 9 hours. Maybe I’m not sober enough? Yet, I got the sucker to work! 

Obviously, there are many unanswered questions in the age of technology. Diana, I can only conclude that to survive in the information age, seniors should stay sober for at least an hour every day.

What the Hell Happened

Dear Diana,

Thank you so much for wanting to discuss technology!  I am one of those seniors you mention who is afraid of the new technology.  It is almost as if developing minds prior to 1980 are incapable of biologically and intellectually understanding what you have to do the minute you open your computer.  Just now, as I attempted to get to where I can respond to your comment, I was on the verge of throwing my keyboard out the window because it would not let me in to where I usually write my posts.  I didn’t do anything different than I usually do but it just decided it didn’t want to give in to my requests.  A younger generation, anyone younger than Baby Boomer, would know how to trouble shoot, and respond according to whatever signals the machine was giving to correct the problem.  My pounding on a key many times and rather heavily was not allowing my machine to respond appropriately to me.regardless how heavy or frequent my pounding was occurring!

But I digress.  I didn’t understand a lot of what Wally said about his watches, and rings and pairing them with Linda’s watches and rings……….Whatever happened to ordinary jewelry?  In my day, watches told time, it took quite an adjustment on my part when all of a sudden watches began telling you the date and day of the week!  What was that about? That is what nature and firemen calendars were for.  I have a collection of old watches that I never use anymore because a new device called a cell phone does that for me now.  I remember when rings were for friendship or engagements or just  for hand decorations and then we had to go and screw it up and now Wally checks his blood pressure through his ring?  What the hell is that about?  And if it is paired with Linda’s watch so whose blood pressure is it recording anyway. I am not sure I want people to know my blood pressure, heart rate, or who knows in the future it might know what your next thought is going to be.  Maybe when it is quiet and you are pissed at one of your friends and thinking about what they did to annoy you , perhaps their watch will go off warning them that you are thinking about them and what it was you did to piss them off.  

Now that I think about it, maybe I am just afraid of change.  I don’t like it  when something that I have come to do automatically changes to some new technology and I have to rethink how I have to respond.  For example, in high school back in the early 60’s I had typing class.  The keys on my typewriter keyboard were unlabeled so you had to learn where all the letters were by looking at a chart on the blackboard and we couldn’t look down at our own keyboards.  That was a very valuable class for I needed my typewriter all through college.  They taught you to double space after a period and before the first word in the following sentence. It made sense!  It was visual. It notified you of a change.  Perfect!  It was also accepted procedure to double space between paragraphs and to indent the first word 5 spaces so the reader realized your thought was moving on.  These things were logical, necessary, and helpful to the reader.  What the Hell  happened?  No double spaces anymore between sentences, no indenting new paragraphs, and most times no double line space between paragraphs.  What is this world coming to? Call me a technophobe!

Daylight savings time arrived and we had to move our clocks ahead one hour.  I was all prepared for this so the night before as I was heading to my bedroom through my kitchen I figured I should set the clocks ahead.  My microwave clock was so easy to adjust.  IT says “clock,” so I press the button and the time begins to flash.  Great,. I got this!  The hour is flashing so I move the hour flasher up one hour and then the minutes begin to flash and because they stay the same I just press the finish button and voila, it is done!  The new time is recorded and proudly proclaiming the new time.  Great.  Now right next door to my microwave is my oven and stove with the time display right there in full few. I have done this a dozen times.  I press the button for time and it takes me to how long do I want to cook the food I’m not preparing.  So,  I press it again and it wants to know how many minutes do I want the oven to heat up?  At this point I am talking to my stove telling it I just want to move the time one hour ahead.   Perhaps it is not responding to my raised voice and the familiar pounding on the button. Any how, I finally got the hour to move but the minutes stayed the same.  I decided it would simply self correct itself over night, but yeah, that never happened.  To this day, my oven and my microwave tell two different times, six minutes apart!  I surrendered.!  In the old days, you took the clock off the wall, turned it over and hand cranked the little dial to the correct hour, pulled the little nub up  and adjusted the minute hand and hung the damn thing back on the wall.  But technology is always changing, I get it! I just can’t keep up with it.  I own a cell phone, a computer, my car is full of computers, but I don’t have to like it!  I remember my dad always used to talk about the time when life was simpler and now I understand what he meant.

We three Old (and growing older!) Guys have decided that indeed, you can teach an old dog new tricks!  So, in the interest of refreshing our blog and continuing this adventure we began precisely 6 years ago, we are inviting you, our readers, to engage with us more actively so that we might bring you an even more meaningful experience.

Beginning with this post, we encourage you to let us know what’s on your mind.  What questions, suggestions, or issues do you have that you would like us to respond to in our blog?  We promise to review each of your questions and comments before we select one that we will reply to.  Each of us comes with a different approach, background, and lifetime of experiences and look forward to giving our readers our best advice, thoughts, and suggestions from our own unique perspectives.

We look forward to changing up our approach and to the potential of engaging more with our followers.  You can submit your queries in the comment section at the end of this blog.  We will be sure to let you know that we have received it and if we expect to use it for an upcoming post.

Gratefully, 

Hen, Wal, and Geo

How carefully do you chose the words you speak?  Do you pause to find the best word you know to match your meaning or intention as closely as you can?  Do you over promise and under deliver when you give someone your word?  When you say, “ Let me be honest…” are you saying you’re not honest with your words unless you state that you are?  What is your relationship with words?  Do you understand how you are perceived by the words you chose and how correlated they are to your actions…for others as well as yourself?  Do you believe that your words influence your thoughts (through energy) and your thoughts have the power to manifest happiness, success, and self-healing?

I am drawn to people who “walk the talk.”  When my friend says he’ll meet me at 6:00 and is consistently there on time or early, I can trust that with rare (and out of his control) exception that’s what I can count on.  In turn, I reciprocate.  I trust less (and am drawn less) to the person who is inconsistent with keeping their word.  This doesn’t mean I’m rigid or inflexible.  I am okay with someone who (knowing they have difficulty keeping to their word regarding being on time) gives me a time range they can commit to.  This gives them flexibility they require and gives me the information i need to plan my schedule.

Recently, it seems to me, words are given more casually and with less intention as if to say, I’ll try but I’m not making any promises.  And, that appears to be “good enough” for most people today.  I understand the appeal.  If I accept that when someone tells me they will do something and they don’t or if they do it’s not entirely what they said, then I might feel less obligated to keep my word.  And if I feel that makes my life a bit easier because I can pay less attention to holding and being held accountable, I can make easier, more palatable choices for myself with little to no consequences.  It feels to me like we as a society are drifting in that direction.  Do you agree or do you see it differently?

I am in the process of developing a friendship with a neighbor who is relatively new to me.  I love the way he thinks, his deep knowledge about many different disciplines peeks my curiosity and challenges my ideas about certain things.  I would describe him as a polymath.  (How’s that for a word in a post about words?)  One of the things I enjoy about him is his ability to break complex concepts into words that help me understand what he’s describing.  Often, in conversation, he will pause before he speaks as if he’s first gathering and organizing his thoughts, pushing them through a series of personalized filters, and then speaking his mind as precisely as he wants to be heard.  Recently, he appears to be expanding the range of his vulnerability filter as we spend more time together.  

I also admire my dear “3 Old Guys collaborators” and how they use words.  George fuses his language skills and love of conversation to spin a yarn, tell a story, and reminisce.  An expansive conversationalist, he weaves his stories with humor and emotion often making for a compelling listen.  

Wal, is a wordsmith with the gift of articulating a clear and engaging notion with brevity and wit.  While George entertains me, Wa makes me think.  His ability to make connections between and among, historical fact, religion, personal anecdotes and the written word, readily and in such a seamless manner is unparalleled in my experience.  I am blessed to have reconnected with these men at a time when I can appreciate them for what they offer.

Early on in bogging infancy we wrote about Don Miguel Ruiz’s first agreement – Be Impeccable With Your Word.  Going beyond being honest with others, it extends to avoiding talking badly to oneself.  Derogatory or negative name-calling about ourselves can do no good and can only reinforce harmful perceptions about who we are.  The concept that words are powerful enough to do harm or good to those who are the recipients of such thoughts is echoed in other readings we referenced over the life of our posts and rejoinders.  I’m in the middle of reading The Silva Mind Control Method by Jose Siva and Philip Miele.  It contends that our thoughts (words being the instrument for thoughts) create the energy to impact our cells and thus our physical and emotional well being.  The authors argue that being able to tap into and control those thoughts/words to use in a helpful manner is not only a proven scientific fact but can be taught.  Stay tuned as I finish the book and practice their suggestions for enhancing my ability to self heal!

Do you have any stories about the power of words?  We’d love to hear them!

“A Man’s Only as Good as His Word”  – Rodd Thunderheart – author of See Through Love

Word is Bond

After a second read, I think Hen is really talking about making commitments and being predictable, not about the words and language used. I agree that on a purely transactional basis, we prefer to deal with individuals who actually do what they say they will do. I say ‘purely transactional’, because sometimes we don’t want people to do the things they say they will do!

A subtext to Hen’s post is that ‘words have consequences’ which became quite a meme during the election cycle. Playing loose with language can create havoc: false claims, red herrings, over-hyped platitudes, emotionally- invested labels, and ambiguous messages distort how people rationally process communication. Is that really new?

But do I agree that ‘giving one’s word’ counts for less than it used to? I’m not sure. Yes, I do agree that it’s hard to count on folks doing what they committed to do. Anyone who has depended on a contractor to do work on time, on budget, can understand that there’s a certain amount of wiggle room in the process. And aren’t we pleasantly surprised when statements are backed up with results? The ‘surprise’ part of the reaction kind of says it all.

But is that new – is it increasingly true that people discount their word? I can see evidence to support that in our little restaurant business. My son schedules interviews for open positions on his days off – Monday or Tuesday. Most never show up. Tim will text them – and they usually answer with a tragic excuse. They ask for a reset and a new appointment which invariably is not kept. Perhaps the fact that “gaslight” and “ghosting” are terms recently added to the lexicon proves Hen’s point.

Yet, I have a hard time accepting that such behavior is increasing. Maybe that’s just a yearning, rather than a conclusion. People are molded by their circumstances… and some do not like being cornered into making commitments: they want to keep their options open. Some individuals will say what think others want to hear, because they cannot find it in themselves to understand or express that they are not invested in the outcome – or incapable of meeting the request.

Thirty years ago, I was part of an industry and school system task force to evaluate life skills certifications for our local high school. As part of the process, employers were asked what were important transferrable skills needed to supplement subject related knowledge. Items such as reliability/dependability, time keeping, clerical skills and accuracy checking, and so on were raised. These attributes were translated into learnable skills: keeping appointments, time tracking, basic social greeting skills, practical goal setting by breaking jobs into manageable components, using word processing and office applications. We incorporated some written certifications into various curricula for all graduating seniors. Perhaps these actions don’t work over the long haul – or perhaps people have been complaining of the paucity of those behaviors for thousands of years. For me, the jury is still out.

Words by Anne Sexton

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

Manner, Time, and Place

When I read Henry’s essay I wasn’t sure what I could add to the discussion.  Even now as I sit down to write my contribution I am still not certain how to be relevant to the topic.  Words were always important to me and I remember as a young person I would marvel at adults who could speak in clear coherent sentences with big impressive words included in those sentences.  I remember early on being turned off by people who would verbally include words that really added nothing to the sentence but perhaps were fillers until the words they were looking for popped into their minds.  For example, inserting the word “LIKE”  several times in a sentence drove me nuts.  I was driving to the like grocery store.  I wanted to yell, “Were you driving to the grocery store or not?” Or, “I had to, ya know, pick up something for dinner.”  How the hell would I know what you had to pick up!  I was very careful not to include those two, for lack of a better word, expressions in my speech.  Even today on TV news programs during a question and answer segment the narrator will ask a question and a guest will answer it by saying, “Well, I mean, it was an invasion of our privacy, bla bla bla!”  How do I know what you mean when you didn’t tell us what you meant ?   I am sure there are other examples of exact speech atrocities that we all have heard.  During my teaching days, each morning on the chalk board (I’m dating myself cause it wasn’t a green board or a white board, but a chalk or black board) I would write a word of the day with its definition, and any student who used that word during the day either in conversation  or in writing would get extra credit.  I am not sure if it improved the kids’ vocabulary but it certainly expanded mine.  Many of those words on the board I still use today.  I still experience a sense of ennui when I am home alone and have nothing important to do with myself.

In the course of writing that rambling paragraph, I came up with an idea I want to express. There are many types of words and I don’t mean nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs but rather words used to describe different emotions.  We could even classify them as different types of languages..  There is the language of love.  Words of love are usually softly spoken with tenderness and close to the person who is the object of that love.  It is often accompanied with gentle touch, hugging and tenderness.  Smiling also accompanies the words and a warm sensation runs through the body as it happens.  It is a wonderful feeling and often lasts within us for a long period of time.  It is directed at an audience, lover, child, parent, pet and the vocabulary is usually adjusted for the particular audience.  Words are carefully selected to enhance the expression of the love you want to share.  Your words are different if you are addressing your child versus your husband or wife or dog, as well they should be, but in all instances touch is usually essential to the overall expression of the feeling you are trying to communicate.  In juxtaposition, there is the language of anger.  The words used in anger are often pronounced louder than the words of love, with a sharper tone.  The  purpose of these words is to cause discomfort in the individual they are directing the tirade at(sorry, at which they are directing the tirade). Angry words are often accompanied with dramatic body movements- stamping of feet, slapping of hands against our sides, pounding fists on tables. I have to include this thought. I remember as a kid around 1954, my family was watching probably Walter Kronkite where they showed a newsclip of Nikita Kruschev speaking at the UN and banging his shoe on the desk screaming, “We will bury you!”  I remember it because it scared the Hell out of me. The language of anger is also terminated with the angry party storming off and slamming the door behind him.  Unfortunately today, the language of anger overwhelms the  language of love and I think we need to adjust that soon.

There are several other languages as well that are common to all national languages on the globe but have different sounds to them. There is the language of confusion.  The words used in that English language often begin with “Huh?”  Sometimes, “Wha?” and often followed with expletives.  People speaking confusion are often seen shrugging their shoulders, arms bent at the elbows and palms facing upward.  Facial expressions usually include exaggerated forehead wrinkles, often one eyebrow raised, and head tilted to one side.  This is not to be confused with the language of fear which can often be expressed slightly differently. Fear usually starts with words like, “What the…?”  but the body language is a little different than confusion.  A fearful person is usually turning his head back and forth, looking for danger around him.  His eyes are quickly swirling around in their sockets in order to see the danger coming at them.  Words of protection are used……..be careful…….look out……..duck.  And most importantly on their minds is escape!

I would be remiss if I were to omit the language of learning.  It is often recognized by the use of words that question things.  Unlike most of the other languages, the words in this language are usually followed by a question mark.  The  voice speaking  these words often rises in pronunciation toward the end of the word or sentence.  Are you going to the store?  The word store rises in the voice box to indicate that it wants to learn something.  These learning words include WHO?  WHAT?  WHEN? WHERE?  WHY?  and possibly, ARE YOU CRAZY?

In conclusion, I am afraid I think differently than many people.  I am not scholarly, and am not involved in deep intellectual thinking because I am not sure I have the capability of that kind if thought.  Humor and sarcasm are more my style.  I admire Hen and Wal for the way they think and are lifetime learners.  But I do love language but just at a lower level. I will share one last teacher story.  When I was teaching fourth graders grammar I would always try to find a hook to get the kids involved because grammar can be deadly.  I came up with this wacky idea to teach the class about adverbs, normally a very dry lesson.  Adverbs are pf three types. Adverbs of manner tell how an action (verb) was done.  Adverbs of time tell when an action (verb) was done, and adverbs of place tell where an action(verb) was done.  Dry, dull, boring lesson and more than likely not remembered beyond playground time. BUT— by making an adverb Conga Line where the entire class got up, stood in a line with their hands on the person’s hips in front of them and began singing, Manner, Time and Place, UUNNHHH! and kicking one foot out on the UUNNHHH, as we danced in a line around the classroom I hoped it would help them to remember that.   I still have students in their 50’s who may remember not much else from 4th grade, but remember dancing around the room singing manner, time, and place.  What more can I say?

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

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

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

Letting Go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Author Unknown

A Festival of Things

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

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

Believe it or not, this makes sense to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panto-Mine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the Door by David Wagoner from poetrysoup.com

All actors look for them-the defining moments

When what a character does is what he is.

The script may say, He goes to the door

And exits or She goes out the door stage left.

But you see your fingers touching the doorknob,

Closing around it, turning it

As if by themselves.
The latch slides

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

And you’re about to take that step

Over the threshold into a different light.

For the audience, you may simply be

Disappearing from the scene, yet in those few seconds

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

You wanted to touch.
Or you can take it

Warmly like the hand your father offered

Once in forgiveness and afterward

Kept to himself.

Or you can stand there briefly, as bewildered

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

Stand there and stare

At the whole concept of shutness, like a rat

Whose maze has been rebaffled overnight,

Stand still and quiver, unable to turn

Around or go left or right.

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

Open it inch by inch, testing each fraction

Of torque on the spindles, on tiptoe

Slip yourself through the upright slot

And press the lock-stile silently

Back into its frame.

Or you can use your shoulder

Or the hard heel of your shoe

And a leg-thrust to break it open.

Or you can approach the door as if accustomed

To having all barriers open by themselves.

You can wrench aside

This unauthorized interruption of your progress

And then leave it ajar

For others to do with as they may see fit.

Or you can stand at ease

And give the impression you can see through

This door or any door and have no need

To take your physical self to the other side.

Or you can turn the knob as if at last

Nothing could please you more, your body language

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

Holding yourself momentarily in the posture

Of an awestruck pilgrim at the gate-though you know

You’ll only be stepping out against the scrim

Or a wobbly flat daubed with a landscape,

A scribble of leaves, a hint of flowers,

The bare suggestion of a garden.

Do You Hear What I See?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reaching Back

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

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

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

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

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

Affirmation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affirmation by Laurie Grommett from allpoetry.com

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

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

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

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

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

Forward!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Story Stick Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aria, by Shahaf Yefet (from allpoetry.com)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Finishing Never Finishes

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

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

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

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

With Time Comes Treasure

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

Not always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Building Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Community: Vera Sidhwa from poemhome.net

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

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

Working in a community is wonderful.

Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walthamstow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freewill or determinism – what do you believe?

 Sitting In Its Lap – Brian Rihlmann from allpoetry.com

let it go
is the standard advice

(from others
with their clenched fists
concealed in pockets)

but outside
my own fingers

wrap thicker ones
scaly and rough

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

as i sit in its lap
driving an abandoned backstreet

while feet below
out of sight
work the gas
the brake

No Cowboys and Indians for Me!

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

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

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

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

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

Considering the Role of Ancestors in My Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen Keller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evitandus

(That which must be avoided)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

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

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

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

I Beat Adventurous Adversity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories May be Beautiful and Yet… Thank You Barbra

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defending My Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last year’s favorable experiences:

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

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

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

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

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

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

This year’s anticipated positives:

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you?

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

Soren Kierkegaard

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moments to Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other day I was congratulating myself on coming to grips with the preferences in my life. Usually, I take things as they come without a lot of examination. But, I thought, after being on this earth for over 75 years, I should have defined a certain set of clear likes and dislikes based on experience.

For instance, I’ve had some trouble with my feet due to an injured Achilles tendon – and there is one brand of shoe that seems to correct the problem. So, in a swift preemptive strike, I ordered two more pairs of Keen Brixen low-cuts. Because, who knows when they will stop being manufactured? Now it’s true that George calls them ‘clown shoes’ and he’s not completely wrong. Nevertheless, I was patting myself on the back for not only finding my shoe groove, but also for investing in another 4-5 years of hobble-prevention (anti-hobblement, non-hobblemento?).

Armed with that success, I also ordered an extra pair of K-Swiss tennis sneakers – pretty much for the same reason. The shoe bank is prospering and the future looks bright! I felt myself rising, freed up to make other choices based on my newly curated tastes. Maybe it’s time to ‘flex my brand’?

I mean, I have standards –right? I’m not crazy about gel toothpaste. I prefer spinach over green beans; angel hair as opposed to bucatini; peach jam instead of grape jelly; gestalt vs. cognitive; hard sci-fi more than fantasy; Rimsky-Korsakov over Phillip Glass. So why not declare that this is ‘my thing’ – it’s how I define myself?

My 97-year-old friend Dap demonstrated why I should not do that.

I shop for him, as he gave up his driver’s license. His tastes are very well defined – and have caused some disagreeable interactions between us (I think that Dap would characterize these interactions as ‘teachable moments’). After all, his shopping preferences specify Dole sliced peaches, Stewart’s brand white bread (lasts for two weeks), Hood non-dairy creamer, Florida Natural Most Pulp orange juice, General Mills Wheat Chex, Freihofer mini-cakes, Oreo thin cookies (chocolate and lemon), razor thin-sliced Angus roast beef, Land O Lakes white deli cheese, Stouffers frozen turkey dinners, Sam’s Club rotisserie chicken, Twining’s Irish Breakfast tea (square, not the round bags) … and Poland Spring water. I know this list by heart, because it rarely varies – and exceptions are not well received.

For instance, he requested another order of Poland Springs water: has to be 12oz bottles, has to be an 8-pack. But the grocery store featured only the small bottles, or the 12 oz bottles with sippy tops. I picked up the latter. Other than that, every item was as noted.

It turns out that sippy tops are not acceptable. When I brought in the groceries, my friend grew red in the face, slowly stood up and literally bellowed: “NO SUBSTITUTIONS! I have told you over and over that if you can’t get what I want, I don’t want anything!” He was in such a state that he actually became short of breath. To make sure I got the message, he wrote “NO SUB-2-TOOTS” on the next shopping list. (At least we could both laugh about that).

Let’s skip over the fact that he already has an industrial strength water dispensing machine for hot, cold, and room temperature options which holds a 5-gallon water tank; let’s also skip over the several cases of Poland Spring water sitting in his kitchen; let’s skip over the efficacy of Poland Spring water vs. other brands. The issue is entirely due to the cap on the bottle. I’d venture that this is an example of exquisite preference.

So, the question is: when do preferences become requirements; requirements become rules; and rules become commandments? I’m watching a 97-year-old individual paint himself into a corner, isolated by his preferences. After a lifetime of choices, it seems a shame to be defined by a shrinking set of options.

Now I’m scared straight! I think that I’ll hang loose with my curated tastes for a while – gel toothpaste is okay, after all — but I’m keeping my Keens!

Perfectionism by Blue Winged Poet — allpoetry.com

She poured a rainbow
down the toilet; its colors
wouldn’t stop touching.

My Relationship with Preferences

When I was younger, in my late 30’s, I began learning that what I knew to be truth could change with new information.  Scary stuff!  Around that time I began reading Buddhist type material.  One such reading yielded a phrase that remains with me, “…change expectations to preferences…”  The intention here, was in order to become happier, one needed to free oneself from becoming needlessly disappointed when something didn’t occur as expected.  However, if I preferred something to be a certain way, it carried less weight and thus became more acceptable if it didn’t quite turn out the way I had hoped.  This was a guiding principal for me over the better part of my life. 

More recently, I read Michael Singer’s book, “Living Untethered” which challenged me to leave behind my preferences.  He argued that if I simply took things as they are without even caring if they turned out a certain way, the angst, disappointment, and upset I still might feel when having a preference, one way or the other would cease to exist!  While a worthy challenge it is one that requires great diligence and discipline.

However, Wal reminds me that while I might aspire to total acceptance and freedom from want, I am and will always be a passionate, feeling, and responsive being.  I enthusiastically embrace the joy I experience when I meet a goal, accomplish an objective, or it’s a cool sunny day when I hoped it would be.  Knowing that and integrating Wal’s query about our relationship with preferences, especially as we age, I now wonder how it will go from here, for me.  Mind you, Wal has much to learn as the young whippersnapper of our group.  In those 431 days until he’s my age (and even longer to reach George’s longevity 😉 he’ll likely pick up a thing or two about preferences and the acceptance of substitutions and how to avoid falling into the “exquisite preferences” category.  But I thank him for his bringing my attention to this part of our senior lives.  What if we never thought about it?  What if we fell into the mindless behavior of seeking that which we know and brings us contentment without seeing the trap before it springs shut and is so tightly shut that we can no longer see a way out?  His story about Dap is a perfect reminder that staying aware that our choices and our reactions to those things that bring us joy or frustration are the products of our own doing.  Whether we seek to recognize this or ignore the warnings and fall prey to our shrinking perceptions, is the story of our lives yet to be told.

“Inflexibility is the worst human failing. You can learn to check impetuosity, overcome fear with confidence and laziness with discipline. But for rigidity of mind, there is no antidote. It carries the seeds of its own destruction.“

Anton Myrer – (Marine Corps vet and author)

Life Repeats Itself

Wally’s topic was tough for me.  I didn’t know where to go with my thoughts.  When I read Hen’s piece it gave me an idea.  I was always a little(size) kid, the littlest kid on the block, so I never got picked for teams or games even though I was fast!  Sometimes I got to fetch the ball when it went out of bounds.  Anyway, I am not “poor me-ing” my childhood.  There are many of us who experienced being left out or ignored. Every time I went out to play on the block this is what I learned to expect.  I accepted the role I was assigned and either went along with it or played alone in my room.  I am not sure where I learned to cope. I don’t think my parents ever sat me down and said that I was the little kid on the block and should just accept that as the  way it is. I don’t remember them telling me anything that helped me develop the attitude I eventually did.  I had to survive……period!

Without going into too much detail or hand wringing, my dad was a heavy drinker and not the nicest guy on the block when he had a few.  Everyday, I would worry what he was going to be like when he came home.  More than likely he had stopped at McAuliffe’s at the bus stop on the corner of BowneSt and Northern Blvd for a quicky which became 2 and by the time he walked around the block to our house I could tell he was a few sheets to the wind, as the expression goes.  If I had expected him to come in the door like Father Knows Best, I would have been incredibly disappointed and once again confirmed that I had little power to make things nice.  This went on for years.  And I adjusted my life accordingly, being careful to orchestrate such things as when my friends came over my house, or we were playing in my backyard, it was my job to hide all that from my friends, so that my house seemed just like theirs!  My philosophy developed over time.  I never realized it was buddhist like til I read Hen’s response.  All on my own I decided that expectations or predictions, whatever you call them, cause problems and I had two choices, either never expect anything in which case you never will experience any feeling or expect the worst and when it turned out by chance to be much better than anticipated(childhood logic) I could revel in the positive feelings I was unfamiliar with.  I adopted the latter philosophy and it worked well for me.  In stead of worrying about the outcome of something, just anticipate the worst so that if that is how it turns out I wouldn’t be all upset, BUT if it worked out better than my mind had it managed, I could be over joyed.  That works well for me, even today.  All through my life I worked hard to do my best but that didn’t necessarily change the outcome. BUT when the outcome was what I really hoped and prayed for the feeling of accomplishment and gratitude was terrific.  I did this through college, through my working years and it served me well.  Life got easier as I aged, goals became more easily attainable and I actually learned to love the life I had created.

Fast forward to the present, and I am starting to see the past repeat itself.  There are too many unexpected roadblocks thrown in the way of seniors. Personal health issues, loss of friends and relatives, disappointment at your own body that it can’t do what you want it to, anymore. So, I am finding that old, adopted philosophy that I thought I came up with on my own is seeping into my life again.  I’m not as good at not anticipating things as I was way back but perhaps it is like riding a bike.  The biggest unknown at this point in my life is the loneliness.  My expectations at 77 are very low, that way I can’t be disappointed but if something should develop then I have all this room to celebrate.  I guess you could say I’m a half empty kind of guy who is ok with that because if it should be filled imagine the joy I will experience!

Somewhere between the acceptance of my diminishing capacity due to aging and the notion that I am capable of maintaining my current level of physical and mental activity lies a balance. And living in this balance, is, for me, the best way to enter the winter of my life.  In other words, while I won’t deny that my abilities and reaction time are diminishing, it is counterproductive to add to those limitations by reducing my activities and mental mindset.  I believe, it only accelerates the aging process whereby continuing to participate at the present level of activity along with the mindset that “I can” prolongs my current status until I naturally succumb to less.

Sometimes I hear senior-speak accelerate acceptance of their age.  In anticipation that they will no longer be able to play singles pickle ball or hike 5 miles, or stay out past 9:00 pm, they will only play doubles, only go on hikes that are 3 miles or less, or turn down evening events that are scheduled to end at 10:30.  The more we tell ourselves that we are no longer capable, the more we become no longer capable.  

On the flip side,  I hear seniors overstate their abilities in spite of their age.  In denial of the fact that they tire more quickly or cover a singles court at a slower pace, they tell themselves they are as fit as ever and either use excuses to cover their less than youthful performance or convince themselves they must work harder.  While this feels like a more positive approach to aging, it may lead to more frustration and stress as they seek to stay fixed in a state that is no longer able to be sustained.

Somewhere within all of the thinking and beliefs and expectations seniors have for themselves, there is a balance.  A place where we continue to challenge ourselves to do our best without comparison or expectation or need.  In The Four Agreements, by Don Miquel Ruiz, the fourth agreement (Always Do You Best) is defined as, “Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick.  Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.”  And, of course, in doing our best, we simply (this is hardly simple!) accept whatever the outcome.

And so, it is easier for me to accept whatever my best looks like, if I change my old concept of balance in which everything is in a perfect state of stasis. In this case the image is both people on the see saw are of the exact same weight and sit on a horizontal plane across from one another.  This is how I used to interpret balance.  Now, I see balance as more fluid, as moving gently from the middle to 5 or 10 degrees either way.  I now accept that I’m in balance if I’m a bit lopsided in the up position one day or perhaps off center in the down position on another.  I am only concerned when I’m closer to the extremes.  Formerly a rather rigid thinker, I’m allowing myself to become a bit more flexible.  This permission gives me the comfort to accept my less than perfect attempts at whatever I do, to fall within the “okay” realm as I continue to live my senior life walking along my redesigned balance beam.

“If you think you can do a thing or you think you can’t do a thing, you’re right!”

-Henry Ford

On Balance

Hen raises an important subject – maintaining balance, particularly within the aging process. Reevaluating the boundaries of reasonable expectation is a constant exercise. When we were younger, we might count on improving physical skills with practice and experience. On the down side of seventy, there’s a bit more internal negotiation that needs to take place. I guess this is the dynamic balance that Hen talks about: don’t sell yourself short, but don’t set unrealistic goals. Someone’s advice to me was, “whatever you did yesterday, continue to do it tomorrow – right up until the point where you can’t; then adjust”.  

In order to achieve balance, It’s been said that we have three abilities to draw from: the power to stand; to withstand; and to understand. The power to stand is action-oriented – to stand up and take a step, move forward, even though it may be hard to do. It draws on energy and courage. It’s our positive motive.

The power to withstand relates to endurance and adjustment. This strength flows from our ability to adapt to changing circumstances, while keeping core values in sight.

Power to understand portrays our skill in discernment. Analyzing our environment and developing a course of action derives from our ability to understand.

If you were a pilot, the power to stand would be the horsepower of your jet engine and the amount of fuel available for your journey. The power to withstand represents the integrity and agility of the aircraft, which allows you to trim the ailerons to change altitude or direction. It helps you to deal with heavy weather and navigation. Your ability to understand, aids in setting a safe, but efficient and interesting flight plan. These three abilities work together to maintain balance, in my opinion.

Now, in our discussion, George raised the point that sometimes, overwhelming circumstances obliterate any hope of balance: no fuel for the aircraft, hurricanes on the horizon, or broken navigational aids. In our life, we’ve seen people laid low with serious illness and devastating personal setbacks. Yet, I’ve found that even when facing terminal illness, friends that I know have found some sense of balance and adjustment to a ‘new normal’ of diminished options. In fact, it’s really amazing that we can alter our range of expectations so readily. Perhaps that’s why Hen warns of limiting ourselves too early… we get what we expect.

An interesting take on expectations comes from a post in letslearnslang.com:

The Symphony of Unforeseen Wishes

In the silence of our solitude, expectations hum a melody,
Painting pictures of tomorrow, shaping our destiny.
They dance like playful shadows, by the moon’s silvery glow,
Weaving patterns of hope and fear, in the ebb and flow.

These silent whispers of the heart, these sparks in the mind’s night,
Illuminate the path ahead, a beacon of spectral light.
They are the architects of dreams, the cartographers of desire,
In the forge of their promise, we stoke our inner fire.

But expectations, like all gifts, possess a double edge,
They can lead us to the mountaintop or to the precipice ledge.
For when reality bites, and dreams start to fade,
The echoes of unmet wishes can cast a long, dark shade.

Yet, in the grand tapestry of life, they play a crucial part,
Pulsating like a steady rhythm in the symphony of the heart.
They are our north star in the abyss, our compass in the unknown,
Guiding us through the labyrinth of life, to a future yet unshown.

So, navigate with caution, in the sea of these silent pleas,
Where the waves of expectations can drown with subtle ease.
Balance your dreams, your ambitions, your quest for the sublime,
With the understanding that every dream may not shine in time.

Savor the voyage, the adventure, not just the final goal,
Find joy in the making, in the growing of your soul.
For expectations are but whispers, not our absolute decree,
In the chaotic, beautiful symphony of our life’s spree.

Understand that life’s true treasures often lie in the unseen,
In the resilience forged, the wisdom gleaned from where we’ve been.
Even when expectations crumble, or seem to steer astray,
The spirit of perseverance, of hope, will light the way.

So, let your soul echo with expectations, let them take flight,
But ground them with understanding, with gentle, loving insight.
For the symphony of unforeseen wishes can play a bitter-sweet tune,
In the silent hours of longing, under the watchful moon.

And know, dear voyager, in your pursuit of the ideal,
That success is not always about how you make the world feel,
But about the heart that persists, that loves, that dares,
Despite unmet expectations, and the burdens it bears.

For the worth of our journey, when all is said and done,
Is not in the fulfilled expectations, nor in battles won,
But in the heart that, despite the trials, the hardship, the strife,
Stands resilient and hopeful, singing the symphony of life.

A Balancing Act

My life has always been a balancing act.  Not to suggest that there weren’t large amounts of time when things seemed to be in perhaps not perfect balance but at least close to it.  When I was a  little kid it was my job to keep an eye on my dad to make sure he wasn’t drinking too much while he was preparing dinner.  He wouldn’t get mad at me the way he did my mom or older brother so I was the bourbon police.  What a responsibility that was for me.  I would be responsible if he drank too much and got sloppy.  I hated to be the house spy and the weight of the responsibility I had as a little kid was overwhelming.  When I started school I was the little kid, shortest in my class, bullied by the bigger kids all the way up through junior high.   I used to have to either get out of school quickly and run home or wait inside the school doors til the other  kids got a head start and then maybe I could make it all the way home without getting picked on or beaten on. I only wish Robert Gross, my nemesis in 7th grade is reading this. Just the weight of knowing what the options were threw my whole  life at that point out of balance.  It wasn’t til I began high school that I began to feel more secure and accepted.  I was still small  and skinny but for some reason, the hoods were too busy smoking in the bathrooms to be picking on us small kids and I began to find my niche which truly brought some balance to my life.  The world seemed at that point to get easier.  No more looking around corners or planning my escape routes.  Life became simpler, more naturally easy and I found my place in the world  that surrounded me.  Fortunately that was just the beginning of the period of balance in my life as I became even a little popular in high school. That gave me the expectation of it continuing through college, a reasonable expectation.  As my world grew bigger the balance seemed to even out.

College was a hoot, and expanding my world allowed me to interact with all kinds of people including more people like myself.  Balance wasn’t a concern, it was just naturally occurring.  Of course campus life and independence overpowered any concerns about anything else and fun became the focus of the new society I was part of.  It wasn’t til senior year was ebbing when the next wave of imbalance struck. Will I get a job?  Will I even like the job I had been preparing myself for for the last 4 years?  Where will I live?  Marriage, family, home, all started tilting the balance to where I almost fell off the tight rope.  That was a tricky period but one by one things began to fall into place.  The job I was worried about I, fell in love with.  I got married and we bought a house, that long rod that tight rope walkers use to balance their bodies high in the air was getting easier to manipulate and more experiences piled up in the good balance column.  I was feeling at ease with myself, confident of my job and this continued for a good decade and only started to get off kilter when the kids entered those difficult teen years where every parent is tested for capabilities beyond their control.  Those factors of balance were beyond the control of us all and were foisted on us to deal with as aptly as possible, usually clumsy and feeble attempts guiding us through those unbalanced times.

Unbeknownst to me a huge hurdle was about to be thrown at me that I assumed would wreck my balance for good but turned out quite the opposite.  Having hidden my being gay all my life I thought I could simply go on hiding it.  But circumstances developed that required me to make one of the most major decisions of my life.  I decided to come out at 46—-everywhere!  In for a penny, in for a pound as the expression goes.  To obtain any kind of balance that I had recently lost, I had to be truthful in all aspects of my life.  Of  course work was the hardest.  I came out to my principal and colleagues, then friends and family.  To my great surprise it wasn’t a big deal- well to them it wasn’t, and many expressed their knowledge of it for a long time.  In the moment of truth, my life fell into balance like it had never done before.  The panic attacks I had been experiencing for a decade mysteriously disappeared, my gastro -intestinal attacks from colitis and an ulcer eased and my life actually became calmer and more relaxed.  I was once again more balanced.  The truth set me free!  It opened up a whole new realm of exciting possibilities and gave me the confidence to face retirement from teaching head on and opened up a second career for me in the hospitality industry.  A second career I came to absolutely love.  How many people can say they had two full time careers they truly loved?  Balance at work!

Which brings us to today…….Truth requires me to admit this is the last quarter of life for me, and as of now I am still on the right side of the grass, which is something in itself.  However, balance has taken a new form at this point in life, a harder one to deal with.  Before the world had always been expanding, more opportunities, new friendships, experiences.  Now I find the world shrinking, opportunities not being offered unless you consider 10% Senior discounts as opportunities, and of course the most vicious of all, the loss of friends and family.  It is no longer a distant threat with the loss of colleagues, old school buddies, new diagnoses around every bend.  When two old friends meet and begin to converse, the topic of conversation invariable goes to where does it hurt,  how long have you had it,  what meds do you take?  Henry calls these conversations “organ recitals.”   That is a perfect description of these talks and we all have them.  Now I didn’t want to get morbid but the simple truth is balance is much harder at this point in our lives.  Hen and Wal are already gritting their teeth with my “Glass half empty” view of life so let me finish by saying, there is something to be said for years of experience and knowledge gained from all our years of living.  We know how to navigate through a lot of rough water, and have built  in defenses that support us and quell our fears.  We do a damn good job of that but it just has to be said that balance  is harder now adays!  Try putting on your briefs standing up!  Try balancing on one foot for 15 seconds at a time.  Try staying calm after the fifth day in the row of finding the newspaper in the flower bed instead of in the newspaper box by the walkway.  Try remembering what day of the week it is if you forgot to take your pills this morning!  And I might add, a half empty glass allows me to fill it up again with wine!  Wine does wonderful things for balance….you just “forget about it,” as Archie Bunker used to say!

I never liked being alone.  Even as a little kid I didn’t enjoy my own company.  My dad worked in Manhattan at a 9 to 5 job and my mom worked at our local hospital from midnight til 8 in the morning,  So when I came home from school I was alone from 3 til 5 cause Dad hadn’t come home yet and mom was sleeping til dinner time. I would do  my homework and then run out and join the other kids playing in the street.  I was never very good at entertaining myself.  That may be one of the few traits of mine that has followed me everywhere up to the present.  A lot of it has to do with low self esteem I am sure.

For most of my adult life I have been partnered, but with the onset of Covid and some other unfortunate circumstances, I have been cast out to fend for myself.  Actually it wasn’t that dramatic!  However, for the first time in my life I bought a house by myself and moved back to the community where my kids grew up and where I had close friendships and connections.  Sometimes circumstances just dictate what you have to do.  I thought I could handle this all on my own.  And,,,,I proved to myself that I could handle it but there was no guarantee that I was going to enjoy it.  Old ghosts rather quickly came to haunt me.  Before, I always had someone to encourage me and calm me down when circumstances required it.  At 70 years of age the old body began to break down and I had no one to tell me things would be all right or we will go through it together.  Not only did I have to go through things alone, I had to deal with an over active imagination about what the pain in my lower stomach meant.  The glass was definitely half empty at those times. I am not very good at soothing myself or developing alternative possibilities to what could be causing the pain!  That is just one area I have trouble dealing with alone!  I’d be remiss if I didn’t add making major decisions alone about life or the house. NO one to run it by…..to clarify……to annoy…or all of the above.. all necessary when making major decisions.

Another area I have trouble with is doing things for enjoyment.  Most of the things I did for fun always included another person.  Sheer beauty or happiness or even sorrow is so much better when you can share it with someone you care about.  A beautiful sunset is a work of art but watching it alone makes it seem empty and ten minutes later I have to ask myself if it really happened.  I love to laugh but find it uncomfortable to laugh alone.  It just isn’t as funny.  This past Friday, Wally and I went back to our old college haunts and met with 4 fraternity brothers (a gaggle of old farts)to plan an upcoming reunion at the college.  In the course of the conversation, we started laughing and griping about all sorts of things and we cackled for a good hour straight.  Not just that polite chuckle, but guffaws from the belly, the kind of uncontrollable laugh that comes from the pit of the stomach and is probably much better blood pressure medication than anything you can get at the pharmacy.  I continued laughing all the way home in the car and later that night when something would pop back into my mind.  One of the guys in the group said, as we were saying good bye in the bar/restaurant, “If you need proof of true affection, we just experienced it!”  He was right on the money!  But for me that kind of thing can only happen in the company of others.

So now at 77, I live alone!  I don’t know what to do with myself cause I don’t enjoy doing things alone.  I love my little house and I tend to the gardens as best I can, and have the place decorated with all the art work and antiques I have collected over the years.  I am proud of it, but it still feels like something is missing- another person. Someone to cuddle on the couch with, to snuggle by the fire with, to stand holding each other watching an incredible thunder storm sweep through the area, and squeezing each other tight as a loud surprise burst of thunder strikes and scares us.  But, that isn’t to be….. at least for now.

OK, OK, I know I have to quit whining.  So what am I going to do  about it?  A  thought came to me to try and think about times when I actually enjoy being and doing things alone.  So the list isn’t too long right now…..This isn’t a complete list but it is what I can identify as things I truly don’t need other people to enjoy, in fact they would probably interfere with my enjoyment of them.  The first thing that came to mind is my jeep.  I LOVE my jeep and I love driving it.  I have used it to move three times, to load antiques to take to my shop when I owned it.  Just to rub things in, as I am typing this old Mother Nature is beating my street with a beauty of a thunderstorm.  All I can think about is standing in front of my huge window in the arms of another and watching the lightning and counting the seconds til the thunder claps to figure out how far away the lightning struck….but I digress!  I like to drive somewhere I have never been before, crank up the radio, sing at the top of my lungs, and enjoy the scenery as it passes by.  I can speed up or slow down to study something that interests me.  I especially enjoy doing that at night cause I like to take sneak peeks into people’s homes and imagine what the family is like that lives there.  My imagination takes over and the story develops- what does dad do for a living?  Mom’s sister lives with the family and she watches the kids most of the time and so it goes.  I can’t do that when other people are in the car with me!  I also like mowing the lawn.  Something is soothing seeing the rows of mowed grass develop a pattern on the lawn.  It is immediate satisfaction     and when complete I feel accomplished, an achievement that adds to the coziness of my house.  The same thing is true of tidying up the garden, making sure the flowers are plush and the beds are weed free.  Digging in the dirt kind of reminds me of being a kid and daring the girl next door to eat dirt!  I like sitting at my dad’s desk and writing out bills, filing them away, straightening up the cubbies and the drawers and making sure that when I pull the drop down desk back up that it is as neat and organized as it was when I started.  The other thing I enjoy by myself is meandering through the aisles of a big antique shop where I can take as much time as I want looking through things.  I love searching through piles of stuff for that one piece I have to have. I can spend hours doing that. The trouble is, how do I incorporate these things into my life so that I can actually begin to enjoy myself alone for most of the time.  Of course, the worst time is around 10 pm when the street becomes quiet and the effect of being alone really sets in.  Maybe someday I will discover the secret.  I am tired like Brenda Lee was of being  alone with just the beat of my heart!

Better Alone?

Better Alone?

I look at George and see a person who is energized by social interaction. When we talk, it’s pretty apparent that he reaches out to engage in many interactions with friends, former students, and past colleagues. George is outgoing and comfortable – except apparently, when he is by himself. I certainly wish that the intimacy and easy connection he seeks becomes a reality. 

When George posed the topic of ‘Activities I like to do solo’, I would have guessed wrong as to his top items: driving in his jeep, doing bills, weeding the garden, searching for antiques. Antiques aside, I might have expected writing, drawing, and model railroading to be on the list. And certainly, after 50 years, I know George well enough to tease him about driving around at night peering into people’s homes. In fact, I have already reported him to the local constabulary (“yeah, he’s a jeep guy singing in his car looking in folks’ windows – can’t miss him; has rubber duckies on the dashboard”). At least that may result in new relationships with uniformed individuals. After all, what are friends for, George?

Okay, so now it’s my turn to ‘fess up: I sort of like to be alone – at least for portions of the day. When I’m alone, I can obtain focus free from distraction. Perhaps there are two broad categories of things I can do better by myself: tasks that I “ought” to do and tasks that I’m “called” to do. There’s a big difference between the two.

Usually, I put off obligatory demands… But when alone, there seem to be less excuse for ignoring all those projects which lay half done or unstarted. These items may vary, but currently range from fitting baseboard in an extra room, reseating the tail light cover on the truck, or maintenance of the brick walk at the museum. Obligations where I’m lacking skills, but also have no desire to improve those skills. 

Unfortunately, I’m haunted by unfinished business. Solo, I will at least mentally break the activity down into manageable pieces and force myself to take baby-steps to complete elements of the work. I’d be safe in guessing that we all have these lurking “to-dos”, where any distraction is a ready-made avoidance reason. But when I’m by myself, these to-dos seem to stand tall and stare at me.

The second broad area of solo tasks is actually not so broad at all, because it’s really about achieving focus. Hen and I have had some discussion about “flow”, that state where all activity seems to effortlessly stream from the unconscious, or barely self-analytic, aspect of our make-up. It’s when you’re ‘in the flow’ and totally riveted in doing what is at hand.

You know how this goes: you follow your curiosity to a new place, find the joy of discovery, as well as the desire to try something new — something new just beyond your reach – but achievable! It takes all your concentration, like riding a bike for the first time. There’s no time to think: just do. 

For me, it can be conceptual: reading a book that opens a door to another worldview, leading to more research. Or it can be hands-on, like trying a technique that improves your ability to achieve a goal. It is purpose-driven. I find this often while attempting to make something from a slab of wood. It is addictive, but – at least for me – easier to achieve while by myself.

I think George was on this path when he mentioned his pleasure in driving alone – following his curiosity, trying a new route; finding the joy of discovery. George related an experience where he came upon some historic stone houses nestled in the middle of undeveloped land on a back country road… and wondering about the origin stories of these dwellings, while trying not to lose his way. Sounds like fun!

Perhaps some things are better when you explore your own time and space.  So, drink in the light! (No, Geo, that’s not “drink in the night”: read it again).

Here’s a poem by Lizella Prescott:

Singularity
She is alone.A loner.On her own.A single singularitydrinking in the light.

Alone and Together

While I would describe myself as a social person, I often enjoy being alone.  Not by choice, I spent many childhood hours alone or with my dog.  Due to a variety of reasons, I wasn’t well liked by the general population of neighborhood children and as a result, spent lots of time in the nearby woods exploring nature with my shepherd collie.  Likely because I never knew what it was like to be part of a larger group of friends, playing alone in the natural environment was what I knew.  You can’t miss what you never had so this was enough for me. In high school, I became part of a small group of accepting friends and enjoyed the benefits of socializing as well as having alone time.  Fast forward to the present and I find myself in a similar state.  I have a wonderful partner and a small circle of friends but also find myself spending weeks or longer by my(human)self but in the company of my four footed companion, Duke.  And, about 90% of the time, it works very well.

To mitigate the downside of his loneliness, George closes “All Alone am I” by identifying the things he does that are enjoyable because of his single status.  He reminds me of the things I prefer to do alone as well as the joy I get from certain activities with or without my partner.  For example, I love taking care of the outside of my property.  Cutting the lawn, making and maintaining hiking and off road trails, vegetable and flower gardening, and wood cutting are deeply satisfying physical chores.  I get to exercise my muscles, spend time thinking while doing repetitive tasks, and often get into the flow that Wal describes in his rejoinder.  When alone, I also feel good about what I am still able to accomplish, by myself, with my own two hands.  But when I’m doing some of these with Teresa (I say some because we haven’t yet tried riding the lawn tractor together – after all, we’re still new to the neighborhood!) I not only appreciate the help but feel the closeness of shared and often playful time spent together.  This dual enjoyment – working alone or with another (sometimes with my grandchildren) also includes creating the morning on the porch, watching a movie, or being in nature.

In some of those cases I have a preference to be alone.  As I’m easily distracted when someone speaks to me, I’d rather drive alone, cut the grass alone (until I get a bigger seat), and read and write alone.  As soon as someone speaks to me while I’m doing any of these things, I might easily pass my turnoff or lose my place since my brain literally can only do one thing at a time and, lately, very slowly!

Currently, I’m updating all of the light switches and outlets in my house as well as door knobs and light fixtures.  Since I’m not a trained carpenter or electrician, I often find obstacles that are unique to me that require lots of research, trial and error, and plain think-time.  My brain functions in a very specific order that allows me to stay focused and eventually get to an acceptable solution.  However, if someone offers a suggestion or asks a question that isn’t in the order in which my mind is processing, it throws me off, gets me confused, and sometimes upset (dare I admit, angry?)  Then, if the suggestion or question happens to lead me to a quicker or better solution, it takes me a lot of zen practice and time to get to the point of accepting and appreciating it.  So, while I’m not proud of this behavior, I do know that my preference is to do it alone…for all concerned!

I am a most fortunate man to have the time to do things alone as well as time to share with another.

“When nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?” ~Charles Bukowski (German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer.)

I have been struggling for a few weeks now.  A very close friend was diagnosed with Stage 4 esophageal cancer that had metastasized in his liver, lungs and lymph nodes.   It was a very bleak diagnosis without much hope of any curative procedures addressing it.  One night around 9pm he called me and said he just got a call from his doctor with the results of his blood work and the doctor told him he was severely anemic and he should get to an ER immediately.  He said he was going to wait til the next day to go and I said, “Like Hell” and ran over, picked him up and off we went to Northern Dutchess Hospital ER.  They admitted him right away and gave him the first of 2 blood transfusions.  The first one didn’t work but the second one took hold.  With his symptoms and concerns they decided he couldn’t leave until they performed a colonoscopy and an endoscopy.  The endoscopy procedure identified the cancer and set all this into motion. From the very diagnosis he pretty much decided this was his death notice and began getting his affairs in order, accepting the truth, and trying to decide how to protect himself from the pain that more than likely would be associated with the end of his life.  His friends, myself included, weren’t quite as ready to accept his impending demise as he was.  With the help of his doctors and his loyal friends we encouraged him to begin chemo treatments and immunotherapy  treatments in the hope of slowing the process down and giving him some hope of survival.  There are new wonder drugs out  now and hope springs eternal….but not in Sal’s case.  I took him down to Sloan Kettering in Westchester County for one of his first chemo treatments.  Things went well, the treatment was relatively easy and painless, giving us both hope.  I was shown how to remove the chemo needle from the port two days after treatment and with great trepidation I agreed to be the official needle remover from the port in his chest.  He went through 4 chemo treatments before his next scan only to  discover the chemo did absolutely nothing to shrink any of the tumors or lesions,  In fact the number of lesions in his liver increased considerably. After much conversation, debate, and disbelief Sal and his doctors decided to end treatment and allow it to take its course.  That was in mid January…..By the second week in May he had passed

I have lost a lot of people in my life.  Both parents, my brother, aunts, uncles and friends have all passed in previous years as well as another dear friend also with esophageal cancer.  I miss them all terribly and there are empty spots all through me where their life forces once filled the holes.  But they all died at times and places where I was not present.  Sal is the first human I actually watched deteriorate, decompose and die in front of my very eyes.  Stepping back a moment, Sal and I met 8 years ago when I returned to NY after selling my inn.  We were both freshly out of relationships, had 2 adult children each, living alone for the first time in a long time, we were around the same age and similar in a lot of other ways as well.  The friendship developed quickly and mutually.  We shared many of the same friends and traveled in the same circles.  So our friendship grew very strong.  10pm calls were common to complain about our kids, the crazy state of American politics, ask advice, give advice and plan things to do.  It was very comforting especially because we both were newly out of relationships where all of that was build in. Now, once again we had someone to commiserate with, to complain to, to be encouraged by or made fun of for stupid remarks.  We each filled a need in the other’s life and things were good.

Sal’s disease struck suddenly, and the progression of it was so swift none of us was prepared for it with the exception of Sal, thank goodness.  But Sal had a group of loyal friends who in combination with his two sons, came together and started providing all the services and care he needed.  Grocery shopping, witnessing wills, driving him to appointments and the most important of all, visiting and talking with him during this terrible time. That was the most difficult part for me was just trying to be with him and comfort him.  What could I possibly say, what do we talk about, how do I make him feel better.  One day in a meager attempt at humor myself and another friend were sitting on his bed while he was laying down, and he pointed to his dresser and asked me if I would close the bottom drawer which was open about a half an inch.  Sal always was a little compulsive, but something just came over me and in a loud incredulous voice I said, “That’s what you are upset over?  The drawer is open a quarter of an inch while you can’t even get up out of bed?”  We laughed but driving home that night I felt terrible that I was that insensitive.  That Sunday, Sal threw his own 74th birthday party to give him the opportunity to say good bye to all his friends.  That was the last good day he had.  It was a great party and many of his friends came from all around the area.  It was truly joyous. That week things went down hill suddenly.  He called me to come over midweek cause his lawyer was coming and he needed a witness to update his will and trust. He had trouble sitting up that day but got through all the legal stuff and he was obviously relieved to have all that taken care of.  This was after he arranged for a priest to come to give him last rites, which actually never occurred.   That Friday his son called and asked if I could come over and sit with Dad while they went to temple on Saturday.  I got there around 10, he was still in bed and I came in the room and we chatted.  He slept for a little while and then asked if I could help him into the living room.  He was lying on his side and I lifted him upright which he couldn’t do for himself.  I helped him stand and put his wheeled walker in front of him and he asked me to walk in front cause the wheels sometimes went too fast for him.  We crept into the living room and got him set up on the couch.  He was a little hungry so i got him some fruit and yogurt and he ate a tiny bit of it only to regurgitate moments after.  We were talking and he fell asleep, moaning from the pain in his stomach. This went on and off for about 2 hours and I realized he probably didn’t even know I was there.  He was a shell of his former self having lost about 40 lbs in 2 months.  I realized he was dying right before my eyes.  When his son got home I made it to the car just before I broke down.  Sal passed two days later.

Since then I have been having a lot of difficulty.  That hole that is left that Sal filled hurts.  Politically we were in synch so when something happens that I know he would like I want to call and talk to him about it.  When 10 pm comes I expect the phone to ring but it doesn’t.  I was telling my doctor about it this week and he said that being privileged to witness the death of a loved one is one of the most intimate moments two people can share, probably the most painful but also the most intimate.  Something a person never gets over but works through.  It exaggerates my loneliness, the issues I was dealing with (or not) since my relationship ended and am alone.  He and I were simpatico, in synch, shared much in common and now that person is gone.  Knowing you are in the last chapter of life makes all of this more poignant.  I want to go out laughing and living life regularly, not morphined up and counting the seconds til relief finally comes.

Connections

George is grieving his friend: it is difficult and exhausting. It’s said that grief is a process, but I wonder if we emerge whole at the far end of that process. As individuals, we make sense of the world by establishing a sense of continuity. Death exposes the vulnerability of that proposition. 

George’s piece evoked a number of feelings and it’s hard to know how to respond. He was given the most substantial gift a dying person can bequeath: a seat on the last train leaving the station – the opportunity to be a companion on the final journey. This speaks to the connection between George and Sal. Knowing George, he brought compassion, concern and humor to the situation; an ideal traveling companion.

But now that Sal has gone on to parts unknown, the lost connection has become tangible. When the brain loses connections between synapses, we call it Alzheimer’s disease. Currently, there is no cure. How do we treat the loss of connections in the heart? Many of us have lost numbers of connections in our social fabric – and the losses mount as we age. We rely on this network of loved ones as opportunities to transmit our feelings and affections, as well as to receive love and feedback. Loss of these connections can shrink our world.

It is easy to say that the obvious solution is to simply make new connections. And that certainly is good advice. After all, the brain repairs itself: new experiences establish new connections. If the analogy holds, so can the heart establish new emotional bonds. But perhaps, we are not ready to leave behind the strong ties we have just lost.

So, George has taken a first step: that is, to honor his friend in his writing – to keep the connection alive. Highlighting those experiences, he shared with Sal reinforces the significance of that person in your own life as well.  Our friends shape us. 

At times like this, I think it is important to celebrate those connections with other friends. It reinforces the connections that remain and acknowledges the temporary condition we all face together. 

A stanza from When We Two Parted, by Lord George Gordon Byron

They name thee before me,

A knell in mine ear;

A shudder come o’er me –

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well –

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

Celebration and Acceptance

George shared his grief and sense of loss and found solace in doing so.  What he feels, what it triggers, and how it impacts his emotional well being, is only known to him.  Despite his openness, his conscious vulnerability, and his choice of words, we can never really understand what he is going through.  It is indeed a solo and lonely experience, whether we live alone or with a large family.  In the final analysis, when we move into our thoughts all that follows is ours alone to endure.

One of the many gifts I receive from speaking with these two other “old guys” every week is the ability to openly express my feelings and ask direct questions about death, dying, and living in our waning years.  An otherwise, taboo topic or at least one that is more often avoided rather than encouraged, the mystery and power of knowing I will eventually die is gratefully diminished as a result of this ongoing banter.  The more we dig deep to respond to each other’s thoughtful questions the more comfortable I become with the inevitable.  The more I recognize our overlapping fears and thoughts and hopes, the more I realize that I am part of a common and universal journey which affects all of humanity.  I feel less afraid, more prepared, and clearly motivated to make the most of what time I have left.  I wonder what it would be like if these kinds of conversations became more commonplace, especially among families.  Would we not fear less?  Might we make more time to forgive, accept, and live with more compassion and love?

Funerals, memorials, and wakes loom larger, for men of our vintage, than weddings, births, and other light-hearted gatherings.  Yet all are celebrations of life.  All bring friends and families together.  The passing of a loved one brings us in touch with others who not only share the loss but with the possibility of reconnection.  And doesn’t reconnecting with distant family and friends provide the potential for establishing deeper relationships than was possible before?

Each age has its benefits and its challenges.  The secret, I believe, is to create a mindset that recognizes and celebrates the benefits and accepts the challenges regardless of the decade in which we reside.

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.”

Marcus Aureliu

We make decisions, sometimes with certainty, but almost always followed by doubts.  And so it is with my decision to finally buy a house and property that feels perfect for me, for now but not what I spent more than two years in search of.

As one of the three “Old Guys” who walked into a bar some four years ago, I think like a kid but measure behaviors by my age.  Living with Duke in my apartment has been a new and challenging experience.  Living with the daily (and nightly!) noise and odors from the nearby trucking company, numerous construction sites, and 24-hour commercial businesses (A humongous Amazon warehouse is one of them) coupled with the limitations of a 3^rdfloor apartment has been for me, difficult.  As an outdoor kid who relishes the peace and quiet and enchantment of nature the expiration date for doing without was past due.  

This house didn’t match my requirements for the style, the size, the required updated features, or the accessibility to a first floor bedroom but was filled with light and open spaces and a screened in porch.  A stretch for sure, especially considering the out of reach additional costs required to convert it to my dream home.  But it does sit on a very nice piece of property.  Enough land to provide room to roam and to garden and enough privacy to feel like the retreat I once had.  And the views!  Out of each window of this cul-de-sac house I can see woods and open space and the marshlands of Silver Run Creek, a preserve that is protected from any development.  My decision was clear and swift.  I made the offer and told the seller’s agent I wanted a response by noon the next day.  In this crazy market, it usually works the other way around where I would have to meet the listing agent’s timeline, often competing with numerous buyers offering outrageous above-list prices.  This time it was different.  They said yes within my parameters.  Clearly this was meant to be!  This was yet another factor that affirmed my decision.  

Tomorrow morning I will attend the closing and will begin the process of taking ownership and making more decisions about what to update and how much to spend and whether or not it will be worth the cost for me as well as the return value on the home.  Last night, as I considered taking out yet more money from my investment savings to meet my project ideas, I experienced “the doubts.”  Should I have waited longer for a smaller more updated home?  Am I too demanding in my requirements for the property?  Should I have spent less?  Do I really need to update to make me happy?  Am I leaving myself enough investments to carry me through potential elder care issues?

Perhaps.  But, if not now, at the ripe young age of 76 ½, then when?  What if the work I look forward to doing around the house provides the exercise, inspiration, and energy needed to live healthier and longer?  What if I had waited longer and fell into such despair that I would be unable to enjoy a better-suited purchase?  For me, for now, I am ready to cast aside the doubts and move forward.  Peace and quiet and new adventures, here I come!

“I Go to Seek a Great Perhaps!” (Again!) – Francois Rabelais

Heart vs Mind

I had trouble deciding how I would respond to Henry’s piece about decision making.  Buying a house is a huge decision that has to be made and one that is not easily rectified if you screw it up!.  I understand the frustration, worry and second guessing that goes into such decisions and that is why I wasn’t sure what I could add to the discussion. I would come up with an idea and then talk myself out of it, realizing that my idea didn’t contribute anything significant.  I fretted and postponed, argued internally with myself for days.

And that is when the realization came to me and the clarity was unmistakable!  I was doing the same thing  I always do when I have to decide, except that factors come to play in the process.  Never having put much thought into my decision making until now at almost 77, it became crystal clear how I go about it!

I have had to make major decisions many times. I purchased 5 houses in my life.  When I was married I pretty much deferred to my partner because that was easy, and then I had someone else to blame if things went south.  But there were certain things that I took the lead on because they were things that I held the strong belief that I was doing the right thing.  Adopting my children, and dealing with the county social services required many decisions and a constant but not aggressive pressure.  I was determined to make it happen and I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do.  And therein lies the rub!  The major decision making was easy once I knew in my heart it was right for me.  Every house I ever purchased I knew as soon as I walked into it, it was the right fit. I just knew!  I felt it, it fit me.  It was the emotional connection that is within my heart that made those big decisions easy for me.  And once those kinds of decisions are made there is no second guessing because I just “feel” they are right. I just felt in my heart it was time to retire- a huge decision.  My partner wanted us to buy an inn, and I was ok with that but knew in my heart I wanted it to be in the northeast to be near my kids.  So the next chapter of my life was running an inn in Vermont and it was definitely the right choice.

The minute my intellect gets involved is when the trouble starts.  If the decision isn’t important enough to be heart capturing, then my mind takes over and hence…. agita! The intellect starts whispering to me.  What ifs and second guesses creep in and the decision all of a sudden becomes much more complicated than it really is.  Fretting becomes my middle name as I run through multiple scenarios that muddy the decision further.  Lists of pros and cons, seeking advice from others who have difficulty deciding things themselves, and then endless second guessing results.  And for me the sad thing is the decisions that I make this way are usually not worth the time and worry I put into deciding.  They just aren’t that important to me.

So, yesterday it just came to me.  Heart vs Mind/ Emotion vs intellect.  When faced with a significant decision, my emotion takes over and I basically trust that it will lead me to the right course of action.  The minute my intellect gets involved is when all the what if’s and how about’s start eating away at my brain and causing little pockets of doubt that tend to spread and grow.  I am not suggesting everybody’s decision making process works the same way, but for me, the more important the decision that has to be made, the heart is the organ I use and can depend upon for successful actualization.  I am just not as comfortable in the intellectual realm.  That’s just the way I am wired.  I have to end this now cause I am starving.  I think I’ll go for pasta, but I had pasta yesterday, and I want some wine but I hate to pay 10-12 bucks for a glass when I could get a bottle for that price and stay home.  Maybe I’ll call a friend and see what he wants to do, then I don’t have to make the decision at all!

Between Two Pines

I am happy for Hen! It has been pretty clear that he has been making a good face in a poor situation for two years. He and Duke are at home in the open spaces, not holed up in a concrete bunker by the Amazon warehouse.

And yet, even though Hen says this house was not quite perfect right out of the box, it reminds me of his previous happy home: connected to expansive woods and water feature. It’s ripe for exploration and I can see a good fit!

But he raises the issue of decision making and the ‘yips’ that sometimes accompany a path you’re not quite sure is the most suitable.  Generally speaking, I think those doubts usually subside once the decision is made. Most folks are a little shaky pre-decision, but more positive once they have made a choice. After all, we’re at least moving forward and usually too busy attending to the follow-up activity resulting from our decision.

John Muir famously said that “Between every two pine trees there is a door, leading to a new life”. Decisions are like that – they open a door displaying a new vista, with lots more choices to make. Of course, my grandson edited Mr. Muir’s comment to read ‘Between every two pine trees, there are two more pine trees’. And yes, decisions are like that as well. Always more vistas and more choices…

A friend of mine is of the opinion that people make decisions emotionally and then rationalize why they came to their conclusions. In other words, decisions come from the subconscious and only later made logical in the conscious mind.  There’s some truth to that. Despite our best efforts to categorize and analyze the wants and needs underlying our choices, we don’t really have a grip on all of our motives. Malcolm Gladwell agrees. In books like The Tipping Point and Blink he documents the readiness we all have to very quickly make judgements, even without a lot of data.

George told Hen, ‘You’ll know when a house is right for you – you will just feel it’ – or words to that effect. George felt comfortable letting his unconscious help make a connection – and a decision. Haven’t you ever felt that something just “felt right”, even if you couldn’t exactly pin down what that was. Honestly, I believe that my best choices were made simply by relying on that subconscious litmus test. 

And yet, I still research, write exhaustive lists of pros and cons, and perseverate, before coming to conclusion. I guess this is my typical ‘due diligence’ mode.  However, if I’m in a group when a decision needs to be made – and no one wants to make it – I’ll be the person to press forward. My nature can’t stand a vacuum. 

Isn’t it great that life can be so contradictory? How do you approach a decision?

Hard Choices By Jojoba Mansell from greatexpectations.org

A path is laid out ahead,
It forks before your feet.
A decision filled with dread,
Uncertain of what you’ll meet.

A game full of chance,
Of many hidden pit falls.
To find true romance,
Dare you risk losing all?

Choices never easy to make,
Fog seems to cloud your way.
You fear making a mistake,
Of gambling and losing the day.

But life is full of Hard Choices,
And risk is part of the game.
Be brave, ignore doubting voices,
Make the choice, life won’t be the same.

“Thoughts and prayers” – it’s become a meme; words which have suffered from ‘semantic satiation’ (as reported by CNN). That is, a phrase repeated so often as to lose any significance.

But I have some thoughts about prayers.

I believe it is justifiable to view the ‘thoughts and prayers’ incantation in a cynical way, when the sentiment is simply a substitute for action. However, when we gloss over the power of communal prayer, I think we lose a vital medium for change.

It is documented that we humans have come together in prayer for over five thousand years. At its root, prayer is a quest for connection to the ineffable, an act of supplication. All faiths practice a form of this connection – no one religion ‘owns’ prayer. People pray as individuals or in groups. Whether it is the ‘two or more gathered in my name’, the minyan of ten, or formal call to worship, communal prayer strikes a cosmic chord. Deepak Chopra calls prayer ‘applied consciousness’.

While prayer itself may not immediately change outcomes, it does change us. We—being changed – can affect outcomes. An author I admire, C.S. Lewis, has said: “I pray because I can’t help myself. … I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God. It changes me.”

Action is a necessary concomitant of prayer. To offer thoughts and prayers without commitment to deeds is ineffectual – it’s only half the process. This is not just my opinion:  Pope Francis has said that prayer without action is useless. However, my favorite quote is from Houston Police Chief Art Acevedo:

“This isn’t a time for prayers, and study and inaction, it’s a time for prayers, action and the asking of God’s forgiveness for our inaction (especially the elected officials that ran to the cameras today, acted in a solemn manner, called for prayers, and will once again do absolutely nothing).”

Think about a prayer vigil asking supplication and forgiveness for our inaction to effect change to quell violence. Think about the power a citizen group – with many points of view and diversity of faith – can accomplish by gathering for communal prayer about our inaction in living out our ideals in a way that helps our shared community. Would our elected officials join or disown such activity?

What if every citizen meeting started by reciting something like the following:

I pray that harmony may prevail in my community. Help me to be an instrument of peace. Help us in this community to come together to resolve the issues that affect us all. Help us cooperate in overcoming violence, health issues and prejudice. May we each bring our experiences and our expertise to the table and work out solutions together. Help us to listen well, to empathize, and resolve the best path for our community. Amen.

Some may say this would violate the separation of church and state, because the word ‘pray’ is included, yet there is no mention of a deity – and of course, ‘amen’ simply means “so be it”. In the spirit of discussion, would you see this as just a naïve wish or essential pledge to any meaningful change?

What follows is reported to be the Dalai Lama’s favorite prayer – attributed to Shantideva:

“May all beings everywhere
Plagued by sufferings of body and mind
Obtain an ocean of happiness and joy
By virtue of my merits.

May no living creature suffer,
Commit evil, or ever fall ill.
May no one be afraid or belittled,
With a mind weighed down by depression.

May the blind see forms
And the deaf hear sounds,
May those whose bodies are worn with toil
Be restored on finding repose.

May the naked find clothing,
The hungry find food;
May the thirsty find water
And delicious drinks.

May the poor find wealth,
Those weak with sorrow find joy;
May the forlorn find hope,
Constant happiness, and prosperity.

May there be timely rains
And bountiful harvests;
May all medicines be effective
And wholesome prayers bear fruit.

May all who are sick and ill
Quickly be freed from their ailments.
Whatever diseases there are in the world,
May they never occur again.

May the frightened cease to be afraid
And those bound be freed;
May the powerless find power,
And may people think of benefiting each other.

For as long as space remains,
For as long as sentient beings remain,
Until then may I too remain
To dispel the miseries of the world.”

What If…?

Once again, Wal presents us with a well thought out and carefully articulated discourse on a timely issue.  Even more, he offers up a suggestion and asks each of us to consider what might happen if we, collectively, took it seriously.

I am moved by this question and Wal’s insightful views.  Would I see this, as he puts it, “… as a naïve wish or essential pledge to meaningful change?”  I suggest that it doesn’t have to be one or the other.  For me, naïve wishes, in the minds of action-oriented thinkers, become essential pledges to meaning change.  Yes, if we are caught up in the meme of “thoughts and prayers” and generally feel hopeless about how things are, this suggestion could become just another “naïve wish.”  But what if we bring ourselves to these things with hope and enthusiasm about what could be?  Even if it begins as another innocent and as yet unsophisticated idea, could it not spiral into an unexpected but highly effective action?  Absolutely, I say!

Wal plants this seed for all of us to witness.  We can pass by it and notice it’s beauty and smile or shake our heads and see it’s futility, we can stop and hold it in our hand for a while and consider it’s potential, or we can pick it up, feel it’s possibilities and decide to adopt it, plant it and nurture it.

Why not advance Wal’s question from query to an outright challenge?  What if we accept the premise that simply feeling badly and once again thinking about and praying for the victims of violence is no longer enough and worse, is eroding my capacity for honest empathy?  What would happen if each of us took the recitation* Wal assembled and brought it to the organizations to which we belong and asked them to consider using it to begin each gathering?  Or, what if you brought it as a working construct to be modified and adapted so that it engendered more ownership?  Can you feel the energy that could bring? 

“I Go to Seek a Great Perhaps”

Francois Rabelais * I pray that harmony may prevail in my community. Help me to be an instrument of peace. Help us in this community to come together to resolve the issues that affect us all. Help us cooperate in overcoming violence, health issues and prejudice. May we each bring our experiences and our expertise to the table and work out solutions together. Help us to listen well, to empathize, and resolve the best path for our community. Amen.

Time to Put on My Old Man Pants

I believe in the power of prayer; I must believe in it because I do it all the time.  Sometimes I pray out loud, sometimes I pray silently.  As a kid growing up Catholic, I knew all of the usual prayers by heart…. The Our Father, Hail Mary, Act of Contrition, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep…To this day, when I begin to pray I go through the entire litany of memorized prayers before I get to the real substance of what I am praying about, just out of habit!  I remember as a kid  when my parents were arguing loudly, I used prayer as a way of blocking out their anger and the length of my praying was in direct correlation to the length of the argument and saved me from hearing what was being said.  I used prayer as a way of drowning out anything I didn’t want to hear.  As I aged, I often would pray as a way of allaying my fears.  The physical act of praying blocked out my fear and apprehension and allowed the time to pass with as little worry and anxiety as possible.  It still works for me.  The saying of the prayer in my mind distracts me, barricades outside noise, and allows the time to pass by without having to replay the reality that initiated the prayer in the first place.  It doesn’t bring me the peace and comfort I would see on my Aunt’s face when she would say her rosary but i was always envious of how successfully that worked for her.

I came to realize that my mind is never quiet.  Maybe if I practiced yoga I would be able to shut it down for periods of time but honestly there is never a moment when I am not talking to myself in my head.  I don’t hear my voice in my head but I perceive every word as clearly as if I were speaking it out loud.  I also came to realize that more often than not those head conversations present themselves as prayers,  asking for help  or hoping for a solution to some kind of problem.  Sometimes I am not even aware I am doing it but my mind is never silent.  I have incredible internal conversations when I am driving, or eating alone, or anywhere and in any activity where directed thinking is not required. Sometimes I may be asking for help, imagining a dream I would love to see come true, sometimes a hope that I could win the next argument with someone.  But it always includes a wish, a hope, a different outcome, all of which I perceive as prayer.

There are times when my prayers are less than questioning and more out right angry. Can there be an angry prayer?   If there is an “All Mighty,” omniscient being why are innocent children dying in schools, why are there tornadoes and earthquakes to add to our suffering? Why are there bad people shooting up schools snd malls and churches.  Why can’t the omniscient one prevent this pain and evil.  At those times my thoughts get quite agitated and angry and yes, even challenging! What does the Almighty one get from our pain and suffering.  And if nothing, why not stop it.  Teach us how to live harmoniously and get along, after all the Almighty Omniscient one has the power to stop it and the knowledge that it is going to happen.  Those thoughts usually enter my head after a school shooting, having been a grade school teacher for 35 years!

I believe that prayer benefits the pray-er more than the object of the prayer because it can drive that individual to action.  And action is often what is needed to answer prayer. I guess it is time for me to put on my old man pants with the suspenders and step up to the plate.  Who knows,  if enough of us take action, change might just occur! I sure hope so!

I remember growing up and well into my adult years when someone rang my doorbell or knocked on my door, a kind of rush would go through me in anticipation of guests arriving. Often it was the Jehovah Witnesses, but hey, it was unexpected, it was a change in routine, and offered an unexpected surprise- usually a positive or pleasant unexpected surprise.  I don’t know when the change in me occurred but recently, if someone knocks on my door, it sets a tension filled, fearful reaction even if in the middle of the day.  If it happens in the night hours, I tend to be really hesitant and concerned for safety.  After living in my house for almost a year I had a suspicious experience that sat like a rock in my shoe ever since.  I had been away for the weekend and returned on a Tuesday.  There were four days of newspapers scattered across my lawn.  A neighbor had already warned me about that and advised me to get someone to pick up the paper for me but I didn’t heed his advice.  A surprise knock on the door occurred in the middle of the day.  Apparently the knocker was expecting no answer and was surprised when I opened the door.  A middle aged woman was standing at the door and said with surprise ‘OH!”  I asked if I could help her and she stammered and asked if a judge lived here.  “A judge never lived in this house, I responded and as I looked past her there was a stopped car with three men in it waiting for her.  She apologized for bothering me and returned to the car.  I didn’t think much about it until a few days later when the neighborhood was buzzing about a break in just several blocks from here.  The “looking for the judge” excuse was used all over and when no one was home, the house was broken into.  That is when I first began to get that foul taste in my mouth of distrust.  Now if there is a knock, my first instinct is to go to the front window, pull the drape back a little and peer out to help me decide if I should open the door.  My dog goes to the window now automatically and waits for me to pull back the drape all the while growling and barking.  If this knock happens after dark, I get a little chill up my spine.  The front door is the only protection I have and being a senior citizen living alone it can be a little threatening.

This feeling of insecurity has been building over the last few years.  I remember the day of the Sandy Hook shooting.  I was driving back to my Inn from having been with my kids that weekend and literally had to pull off the road because the tears were affecting my vision.  I could not conceive of anyone doing that to little kids and their teachers. Columbine already happened while I was still teaching but that seemed long ago and far away.  I tried to imagine if I would have been as brave as those teachers –some of them using their own bodies as shields for their students.   That scared me to my soul and still has me in disbelief every time a group shooting happens.  The school ones are especially difficult for me.  Then in 2019 Covid came along and we all became isolated, living in the safety of our own cocoons, praying to be spared the inevitable infection that being among other members of our tribe would cause.  For over 2 years we lived in fear of Covid, adjusting to talking to the few people in our households and yes, our pets!  As the virus began to wane, we had to learn how to be among people once again.  Our masks separated us from others but once again we were facing personal fears we all shared.  My life of being safe and secure had changed.  Before Covid I was dealing with the fear of personal safety and the safety of people I love against physical harm.  Covid brought on the fear of sickness, pain and discomfort.  My personal comfort quotient continued to slip.  With society opening up after two long years, mass shootings began to spring up again in grocery stores, concerts, schools and more schools, universities, Sweet Sixteen parties.  I wasn’t aware of the effect this has had on me til last week. I was going to meet teacher friends for dinner at one of our old familiar haunts.  I pulled out of my driveway and about two blocks away from home I realized I didn’t have my phone. I   turned around thinking what if there is a shooting I would have no way of letting anyone know if I was safe.  Very matter of factly, I acknowledged that and returned home, got my phone, and headed to the restaurant.  On the way there I began to realize that my thinking had changed and I was concerned about my safety.  When I got there I was telling that to my friend and she said she always carries her phone wherever she goes for that very reason, so I guess I am not alone.

This whole thing saddens me, and I worry about my kids’ safety, friends, everybody!  So last night I am sitting alone at home watching TV and my son calls from South Carolina.  Up until that phone call I had an obviously false sense of safety and security driving around in my dependable Jeep Wrangler, I feel very safe in it.  Perhaps the last bastion of safety for me was my car.  My son proceeds to tell me that down there there has been a rash of car thefts.  No break ins and jump starts but new technology that can use your key fob remotely from where you keep it in your house, as most of us keep our keys near the back door.  With this new technology, a thief can aim this device at your fob and open the doors and start the car and off they go.  No fuss no mess!  So now they have a device that you can get to cover your fob, like a coat or armor, to protect your fob from falling predator to this new car theft device.  Call me old fashioned but I miss the days of feeling safe in my house, at school, grocery shopping, eating in restaurants, going to the movies and just living life the way we used to.  Some of the solutions are easy but we just can’t seem to have the desire to bring safety back into our lives. What aspect of our lives is next to be violated?  We won’t even protect our kids!

Fear Itself

Last week, Linda and I went to our local grocery store. Because I am oblivious to details, she pointed out that the fellow who entered in front of us had a machete strapped to his back. Certainly, a cool fashion accessory, but — unless he was shopping for coconuts– I’m guessing that here was a guy who believed himself to be under constant threat. 

According to Bureau of Justice, we in the US are at the lowest rate of violent crime since 1993. Indices of crimes including assault, rape, and robbery are all downward trending. However, perception doesn’t always follow data, does it? Why is that the case?

Is it the media, which relentlessly brings every report of violence to your doorstep via radio, tv, phone, internet, and the newspapers strewn across George’s front lawn? No wonder these topics are always in our conversations. According to Randall Munroe in his book, Thing Explainer, “gun”, “kill”, “attack”, and “shoot” are in the top 1,000 words that people most frequently use.

Or is it the aging process that leads us to focus on our safety? Do we feel more vulnerable as we age? Perhaps, this is the reason that the largest percent of gun owners are the age group 65 or older (36% of our cohort owns a gun)? A girl enters the wrong driveway and is killed by a 64-year-old. A young man knocks on the wrong door and gets shot twice by an 85-year-old? No wonder the lady knocking on your door seemed nervous, George – she was probably afraid of you! Old folks are dangerous!

Do we fear for our safety because we don’t understand our constantly changing society? Neuroscientist Daniel J. Levitin reports that as we age, our dopamine receptors and hippocampus shrink. The consequence of this age-related deficit is that we are chemically less motivated to look for new experiences. In addition, our accumulated memories act in opposition to the acquisition of new points of view. Such a condition leads a person to back away from initiating change in their personal circumstances and can promote social isolation and “hypersensitivity to threatening stimuli.” 

Yikes, is that us? Is brain chemistry leading us to focus more on threats and safety?

I subscribe to the theory that what you focus upon is more likely what you will bring into your life. Rumination reinforces the aspects of life you ruminate about. Whether you choose to call this selective perception, self-fulfilling prophesy, or the law of attraction, it works the same way. Therefore, the key is to focus on what moves you ahead. But how?

Professor Levitin encourages older folks to learn new skills both for brain health and to maintain a feeling of well-being. He argues that embracing a mindset of curiosity and openness not only empowers us to feel more in charge of our lives, but is actually good for the brain’s neuroplasticity. In other words: ‘Keep Up’. Hmm, sounds right. Maybe there’s room in that macramé class, so I can learn how to weave a sheath for my machete… what do you think, Geo?

Freedom from Fear from NikkiGsPoetry – poet at allpoetry.com

Fear

The twisted truth
hidden inside every human,
chemically charged,
hypothetical noose,
effects booming,
Like steel it’s forged,

From the deepest parts,
of the heart,
of the subconscious mind,
created to blind,
created to distract from reality,
to drag you towards fatality.

Paralyzing,
irreparable damage,
brain analyzing,
deciphering the disadvantages.


The path,
overcome damnation.
The truth,
swallowed by isolation.
The remedy,
chase your aspirations.

Fear.

Fueled by fire,
diminished by desire,
overcome the obstacles
keep faith in your arsenal.

Fight your fears,
take the cotton out of your ears,
lift the veil so you can see,

Set yourself free.

My Freedom to Choose

George openly shares his feelings about how he sees life today with regards to safety and security.  He remembers his earlier life as far less worrisome and his present existence as great cause for concern about his (and his property’s) safety and the safety of others.  He presents examples as well as conversations he has had with others that validate his feelings.  None of us can understand the depth of another’s emotions, especially those evoked by fear.  Nor, can any of us tell a person not to feel that way and expect that to happen.  I believe I understand how George arrived at his current perspective and accept that this heavily influences his present reality. 

While I sometimes share similar feelings when faced with the issues George mentions, they don’t influence me in quite the same way.  As a result, I arrive at different point of view.  My rejoinder is not intended as a rebuttal or an attempt to foster “my view of life” as better.  It is simply my perception of how I feel about present day life and how I choose to allow it to influence me.

Any time I hear of another mass shooting, violence affecting children, and crime in general and the inability of policy makers to come together to address these issues collaboratively, I feel a host of emotions.  I experience frustration, anger, sadness, disappointment, and sometimes helplessness.  I wish these things were different. Never the less, at this time, that’s not the case. 

My impulse and past practice has been to immediately replace the negative thoughts these events invoke with the positives in my life.  I have much to be grateful for and so why would I want to dwell on things that aren’t going well in the world, especially if I unable or unwilling to do anything directly about them?  I’ve acted similarly with personal loss and hurt.  And while this seemed to help keep me from sinking into despair it has had its drawbacks.  Recently, I’ve adopted a hybrid practice that is not yet measurable but is appealing enough to me to continue on in this fashion.  Rather than brush aside or replace the anguish caused by terrible news, I’m learning to sit with it and accept it for what it is.  While I don’t much like how it feels, I now believe it’s necessary to let it in and experience the resulting emotions.  Then, I ask myself what I can do or what I’m already doing, directly or indirectly, to counter whatever anger or hatred or negligence is behind this news and act accordingly.  Finally, I remind myself that, on a day-to-day basis, I regularly meet kind, thoughtful, peaceful people despite the fact that they struggle with the challenges of life.  I remember that in this day and age where the communication of horrifying news is instantly and directly transmitted to our phones I believe they are outliers of what over 8 billion people experience on a daily basis and not representative of our daily lives.  On a regular basis, I feel relatively safe and secure as I go about my daily routines.  Yes, I exercise caution and avoid certain areas and conditions that might compromise those feelings.  But they are few compared to how and where I spend my time. 

 I usually start my day with a journal/planner.  The first prompt asks me to list the things that I’m grateful for.  Along with my family and my health I always acknowledge my freedom to choose.  For now, I choose to spend more time with what’s working than with what’s not.

Life is good!   

“Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.”— Lao-Tze

“Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.” — Grandma Moses

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” —Mahatma Gandhi 

I love spending time moving through nature.  Before I relocated to Delaware I had the advantage of hiking daily from the front door of my house as well as driving to known hiking trails to join several area Meetup groups whose leaders and regular members were familiar to me.  In November of last year, I decided it was not enough to walk around my apartment complex or at the nearby park alone with Duke.  First, Duke has his own pace.  Duke is part Shepard and part Elkhound.   The latter breed is known for their instinct to track and hunt.  And so it is with Duke to sniff out the scent of every animal that has gone before us.  Thus, with this walk and stop and sniff and pee and repeat pace, I was getting fresh air but not much aerobic exercise.  Second, while Duke is friendly and handsome and is, at first-look, a people magnet, while on a leash he feels obligated to bark and act more protective than welcoming.  As a result, the odds of meeting potential friends during these outings are greatly diminished.

Last November, I decided it was time to join a local Meetup group.  It was a bit of a challenge at first to show up to new locations and without knowing any of the people with whom I would be spending three hours over a six or seven mile course.  However, as I quickly remembered, being with others who share a common interest and having the opportunity to chat with multiple folks throughout the experience, feeling comfortable and at ease comes quickly.  Six months later, I now hike with a group every Saturday and Sunday (and sometimes on Tuesday), take advantage of social gatherings during the week, and find I form new friendships along the way.  Of course, even though I show Duke the mileage I’ve already covered on my health app, he still expects me to join him for our regular outings.  Needless to say, I’m doing well in the suggested daily steps category.

In addition to making the commitment to increase my physical activity and to improve my socialization interactions, I’ve been focused on letting go of a lifelong mindset that no longer serves me.  Replacing the belief that life (people, weather, pets, etc.) should be fair, with the nonjudgmental acceptance of life as it is, removes (for now, reduces) the triggers for upset, disappointment, and anger.  Inspired by Living Untethered, by Michael Singer, I have been making a daily effort to transform my old way of thinking to an approach that not only makes me feel better but also, when I stop to think about it, makes more sense.  

A couple of weeks ago, I took Duke to Lums Pond State Park, a nearly 1800-acre site brimming with activities and adventures to be had.  The focal point is Lums Pond, which I had been to before.  During those times I had kayaked briefly with my family, hiked short distances along either side of the boat dock, and explored each end of the pond. On this day, I decided I would take advantage of the warm temperatures and walk with Duke around the full perimeter.  I had an hour before I would need to leave to meet my grandson as he arrived from school and even then, there would be time to spare.  As I began the trek, I took note of what parts of the pond I should be able to see from the other side and when.  I didn’t bother to look at any maps as this looked rather straightforward and relatively easy compared to the many hiking adventures I had experienced during much larger and more challenging excursions in NY.  I also took time to remind myself that we’d be traveling at a “Duke Pace” and I was there to simply relax and enjoy, come what may.

Little did I know that this would be a test day.  My one-hour walk turned into a three-hour struggle.  Unable to see the full shape of the pond, it turned out that I had underestimated the size and even though I tried some shortcuts (that weren’t), we had exceeded Duke’s capacity to keep walking as his body absorbed the heat of the sun through his yet remaining winter coat.  I became confused and not sure of where I was and felt all of my former habits of thinking flooding my mind.  Fortunately, I had cell service and was able to let my grandson know that I wouldn’t be there to greet him; something I wasn’t happy about.  And while I went through each stage of this ordeal, slowly realizing that I was not in the kind of control I wanted, I began to blame not only myself but poor Duke.  At one point late into the afternoon, he ran out of steam. Panting and with no water nearby (we were now well out of sight of the lake-sized pond) he found a shady spot on the trail and lay down.  He would go no further without resting.  Duke weighs 70 pounds so picking him up and carrying him was clearly, only, a last resort.  So, I sat with him.  And, slowly, I realized that I was in the woods on a beautiful day with my dog and even if we had to inch our way forward, we’d eventually find our way out, whether I worried, or fretted, or got angry or not.  I also began to think more clearly and discovered that where there had been no access to Internet service previously, I could now see where we were on a map on my phone.  After about 10 minutes of rest, Duke was willing to push on.  Shortly we found a small stream into which he walked, cooling his feet and drinking its refreshing water.  Less than an hour later we were back at the car.

It will take me many more such experiences before I no longer default to my old and practiced habits of panic, anger, and blame.  And while I expect I’ll fair better and better, especially while doing what I love, which is to spend time walking in nature, I will also have an added advantage.  That night, I subscribed to the version of AllTrails, which allows me to download interactive maps!  Maybe, I’ll even invite a friend or two to travel along with us.

“All who wander are not lost.”  

 (the second line of J.R.R. Tolkien’s poem “The Riddle of Strider”)

I Wonder as I Wander

I have always wanted that adventurous spirit and a constitution to support that.  But unfortunately I never was afforded those traits.  As a kid I would watch adventure shows on TV and imagine myself as the main character. However, I couldn’t even sleep out in a tent in my backyard at night.  I was afraid of everything, especially darkness.  So nighttime adventures in the wild (or even in my dark basement) were totally out of the question.  I am not clear on why the woods seemed so frightening to me.  Perhaps as a city boy, growing up in the urban wilds of Manhattan and then the suburban forests of Flushing, Queens may have contributed to my fears.  Streetlights and sirens were more comforting to me than crickets, and far off coyote cries.  l had never even heard of peepers til I went upstate to college, which up until that point was the most adventurous step I ever took.   By 18 years of age I had to try and shun that part of me that was afraid of my own shadow.  Leaving the safety of home seemed like a good way to start shedding the old fears of youth.  I actually hid my acceptance letter to City College from my parents hoping that I would be accepted by one of my State School choices.  Going to City College was like transplanting my entire high school just in new buildings.  I was starving for adventure and had no idea if I was up for the task.

When I was a kid, I had a friend named Adele. She lived up the block from me and  was quite adventurous.  Her mother was a local realtor and she and Adele would go around the neighborhoods at night and enter into vacant old houses up for sale.  Adele always wanted to drag me along and as per usual I was scared but would swallow my fear cause i couldn’t let a little girl show me up.  I remember one house in particular just on the next block from my house.  It was dark out and probably around 8 pm.  Her mom had the keys and wanted to preview the house so in we went. It was dark and cold, empty and scary.  There is something eerie and spooky about a cold empty house.  My goose bumps were already preparing to pop as we went from room to room on the ground floor of this old Victorian 3 story house.  Adele challenged me to race her up the stairs so off we went.  I made it to the top step a few seconds before she did. We turned around to head to the front of the house and I let out a scream that made my own blood curdle, Adele also screamed and  we ran down as fast as possible.  Her mom came running to the stairs to see what was wrong.  Adele explained there were people upstairs.  Her mom said that was impossible so she headed up with us following carefully behind.  She reached the landing before we did and started laughing.  It seems the “people” were Adele’s and my reflection in an old mirror on the well.  That was the last time I went with them on their adventures.

When I met Hen back in ’65 I admired his adventurous nature, his easy way with trying new things and adjusting to whatever challenge he faced.  He was comfortable in the woods and with night animal sounds.  I was easy with people, but a cry in the night would make my skin crawl.  I enjoyed meeting new people and being in situations where I was forced to introduce myself and to make me and the other person comfortable in a short period of time.  Just as an aside, I think it was Henry who introduced me to peepers on the pond behind Capen Hall at New Paltz State. Add to my fear of the woods, I was blessed with the worst sense of direction ever so unlike Henry being lost that day but knowing he would make his way back, I would have been trembling in fear that the bears would find me before the search party would. Even now at almost 77!  But like Henry, over the years I have learned to love nature.  I love now the call of coyotes at night, peepers are my friends, I even get a thrill when I hear the scary screech of the fisher cat around midnight, but unlike Henry, I enjoy them from the safety of my screened in porch, somewhere where I can escape behind a closed door for safety.

But I digress, I do like to wander, but unlike Hen I enjoy wandering through flea markets, garage sales and antique shops.  I love looking at the old brown furniture ( the new term for furniture in a natural wood finish).  Brown furniture is no longer in demand as the younger generations are not into it anymore.  Slap a coat of milk paint on it and that makes it desirable today. But I like to look in the drawers, open the cabinet doors and imagine the room that it was located in.  I take in the smells from the open drawers, sometimes even finding a treasure left behind by the original owner allowing me to wonder who this person was and imagine the circumstances that led to this treasure winding up in an old yard sale. I love finding small personal trinkets that may have been carried around by the owner, a money clip,  a locket, something that would help define who this person was.  I found a handmade wooden toy train in an antique shop once and rolled up in the cabin of the engine was a short written note from the kid who once owned it saying it belonged to him in 1927-28.  I could picture this little kid playing with this beautiful toy made especially for him by his grampa!  There is so much history in these places but because it isn’t spelled out clearly, it allows my imagination to spin and invent the whole story of these artifacts. I can spend hours in such places and without the worry of darkness setting in or monsters coming out from behind a tree.  So I have grown up a little, not quite as afraid of the dark as I used to be, and open to new challenges, as long as they are safe!  As I wander from aisle to aisle, up one and down the next, lifting objects, studying them, imagining how they were used, who they belonged to, I always know my way home.  I do admit to one unpleasant feature of these places.  Wally and I have talked about this over the years.  I stumble upon a bowl or a box of old photographs- wedding pictures, babies, groups of people, their pets and I am saddened that this is where a family wound up, thrown carelessly into a pile to be looked at or ignored by total strangers.  That makes me very sad!  But though it doesn’t help me with any of my fears or personal struggles, It allows me to wonder as I wander through these museums of the common people.

Roads Go Ever On

Hen’s piece really strikes a chord – it not only got me thinking about the times when I was really tuned into hiking as a pastime, but also as a reminder that I need to rededicate myself to the walking culture. Well, hiking, trekking, walking, strolling — whatever – but moving mindfully through nature is the important feature. 

It’s been said that walking is the way we measure our bodies against the earth. That’s a great sound byte, but I think it misses the point. The point is that activity and exploration are the real benefits. Some studies indicate that the complex stimuli of being in the great outdoors are helpful for fostering neuroplasticity in the brain, especially for older individuals. Others simply say that it clears the mind for creative thinking. 

The grand European walking culture has benefitted people for generations. Making nature observations, collecting mushrooms, bird watching opportunities, and discussing ideas with walking mates are traditional. Two of my favorite authors, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, were walking enthusiasts and their writings abound with references to being on the move in the woods. Here’s a quote from George Sayer (a friend and student of Lewis) that is descriptive of their different walking styles: 

 “You should have seen Jack (C.S. Lewis) trying to walk with J.R.R. Tolkien! Once Jack got started a bomb could not have stopped him and the more he walked, the more energy he had for a good argument. Now Tolkien was just the opposite. If he had something to say, he wanted you to stop so he could look you in the face. So on they would go, Jack charging ahead and Tolkien pulling at him, trying to get him to stop – back and forth, back and forth. What a scene!”

Many a philosopher and scientist worked out seminal thoughts while on the trail. However, I am really impressed by the walking badges affixed to canes and hiking staffs – and the stamps of kilometers walked in special ‘passport’ style books that are encouraged by the European walking culture.

I kept one of my own for years, logging hikes and reminisces for each walk. While I never engaged in long treks, my notes eventually filled up an entire journal. Occasionally, I will consult the pages, but sadly have not added any in quite some time.

An organization dedicated to the continuance of the walking culture is the Internationaler Volkssportverband (the International Federation of Popular Sport). The stated purpose of the group is

• To encourage public health through non-competitive physical activities in a natural setting. 
• To provide opportunities for social engagement, voluntarism, and community leadership. 
• To contribute toward peace and understanding among people and nations by fostering international friendship.

Sounds like great goals! In order to reach those goals, the organization sponsors ‘volksmarches’ or group wanders – generally in the 10km (6.3 miles) range. Some are family traditions. Recognition is provided through points provided, as well as ribbons, pins and certificates. However, comradery and exercise are the main prizes. Hen’s meet-up group sounds like an entity on the same family tree.

Hen and George both reference the possibility of becoming lost while on a walk in the woods. But a little risk is part of the draw for exploring – it wouldn’t be fun if the route held no surprises. Being lost is not fun, but being resourceful is. Hen has already thought of methods to reduce the probability of issue. Preparation of course is the key – always.  

I’ll just say that the times I remember most from walks are 

• The smell of pennyroyal on the Shawangunk ridges
• The friendly chirp of a towhee that seems to follow along with you
• Friendly banter along the walk, each friend picking up the other’s energy
• A warm rock to sit on during nice weather or a dry rock during not-so-nice weather
• The taste of mint tea after a tiring walk (interestingly, it’s the only time I like mint tea)

These aren’t spectacular moments – not even breath-taking views. They are just quiet features of a nice walk away from the hustle-bustle.

Hen ended with a quote from Tolkien… and I’ll end with a few selected stanzas from one of his longer poems:

Roads Go Ever On: JRR Tolkien

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

Still ’round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

I’m going on two years now in my attempt to find and buy my next and likely last, home.  Each week, when I participate in my Zoom call with the other two “old guys” my blog partners inquire about my search.  The last time we spoke, they suggested that this might be a potential blogging topic or at the very least, the experiences I’m going through as I decide which houses to pass, which to consider, and which to finally make an offer.

The first thing I do upon waking and the last thing I do before turning off the nightstand light is to check my online sources for new or adjusted listings.  Throughout my life I’ve subscribed to the belief that keeping a sharp focus on what I want often to the exclusion of other things and people, yields results.  Over the years, my rather arrogant and singular viewpoint has shifted into more of an understanding that while setting and keeping a goal front and center is a powerful and positive factor, I have less control than I once believed.  It will happen, but not necessarily when and exactly where I want it to happen.  Thus, I do what I can to take advantage of daily opportunities, but then sit back and let the universe do its thing.  This approach is not without some drawbacks.  While I would prefer to spend a portion of my winter days with Teresa in Florida, I accept that I may need to readily available when the right home presents itself.  Therefore, I remain ready and present, (fortunately with Teresa’s support) albeit 915 miles away from where I prefer to be.  In the interim, I remind myself to enjoy where I am and to appreciate what I already have. 

My quest is not a solo one.  I receive regular notices of properties for sale within my parameters of price, house size, acreage, and distance several times a day from my real estate agent.  In addition, my daughter and granddaughter send me possibilities from alternate sources on a regular basis.  My son is my voice of reason and is a perfect sounding board and advisor when it comes to tweaking buying preferences, financial considerations, and keeping me level headed when my emotions kick in.  My blogging buddies, check in regularly, offer alternative suggestions, actively listen, and offer good old-fashioned support despite the same old story I tell them week after week.  (Somehow they haven’t yet figured out that if they each gave me a couple hundred thousand dollars, my search would be over and they wouldn’t have to hear my boring Monday night monologue.)  Finally, Teresa, who is in the most difficult helping position as she has extraordinary real estate experience and expertise but is also my partner and has a vested interest in whatever I end up buying, parses her advice well and tells me what I need to hear even if it’s not what I want to hear.  So, when I start to feel sorry for myself as I drive by a property or go on a tour, alone, I’m reminded how fortunate I am, that not only am I living near my family and in a beautiful apartment, but I have so many caring people only a phone call away.

Like so many things we seek in life, despite our best planning and disciplined focus, there is always that subjective ambiguity that comes into play.  The questioning of whether to present an offer or not reflects a combination of my desire to finally be in my house with property to explore, a woodpile from which to fuel my fire, and a house with charm and character with my uncertainty that this is as close as I’ll likely get so should I settle?  Should I practice my gratitude mantra and be patient a little longer or do I grab what’s in front of me before the mortgage rates go up yet again and the investments I’ll use to make my home another welcoming retreat, continue on a downward spiral?

Of course here’s where I take a deep breath and remind myself of two things.  First, it will all work out whatever I decide, it always does.  And second, as I look around me near home and around the world, I realize this is a blessed choice that I have before me, not a problem.  The journey continues…

“There have been few things in my life which have had a more genial effect on my mind than the possession of a piece of land.” – Harriet Martineau

Home Sweet Homes!

Since I left my parents’ house in 1964, I have owned 5 homes.  Each and every home that I owned I have loved with all my heart.  We moved out of Manhattan in 1951 when I was about to go to kindergarten.  My brother was 8 years older than I and he had to pay 25 cents a week for protection to and from school to one of the local gangs and  my parents did not want their kindergartner to have to do the same thing.  They decided to move to the country, which at that time was Flushing, Queens.  As a result I don’t remember much about apartment living and very little about the railroad flat we lived in other than the dumbwaiter in the kitchen which would take our garbage up to the roof every week on garbage day to be incinerated.  The house we moved into in Flushing was a big old majestic home with plenty of charm and hiding places for a little kid to get lost in.  That has always been one of the features I looked for in a home.  Not to get lost in but perhaps a place to curl up with a book and get lost in that!  I actually measured all my subsequent houses against it.  The year I left for college, developers came in and bought up all the homes, demolished the beautiful architecture and put up brick two family houses all up and down the street.  The architectural diversity of those old homes was lost forever.

College years came and went, I began my teaching career in a small, rural community in upstate NY.  As  a wedding present my parents gave us a check for $2500 to use as a down payment on a house.  We finally found this old cobblestone house in the middle of nowhere but only a short distance from my school.  The purchase price was $11,500.  What  a bargain!  I remember our mortgage payment was $71.00 a month which included  our taxes.  Life was very simple then.   A year round stream ran down from up the road a piece, just  a few steps away from our beautiful side stone porch.  Another feature I have   always looked for in a home.  That  brook lulled us to sleep at night for the two short years we lived there.  The house needed work inside but we were young and naive and felt we could do all that needed to be done.  The living room fireplace was the center of our life there.  But as we came to find out, city folk were not always welcomed and accepted in the mountain towns of the boonies and an episode involving our dog who was shot by a neighbor became the deciding factor to get the hell out of there!  So much for home #1!  We were in the process of adopting our first child and felt our location would be a hindrance rather than an advantage to the process and so we began our search for Home #2.

This time we were a little more realistic in our capabilities and desires and after a fairly easy and quick search stumbled onto the perfect house.  Home # 2 was situated in Kingston, a nice small city in a neighborhood that had a local school and a lot of young families like ourselves.  The location was perfect and one step in the door we both knew this was going to be our house.  Original chestnut woodwork, pillars between the foyer and living room, and a split staircase.   The only thing missing was a fireplace and we decided we would put on a room with a second bathroom, laundry room and a wood burning fireplace surrounded by book shelves.  It even had our required rocking chair porch and several nooks and crannies that we loved.  We had the usual inspections done and everything seemed to be up to snuff and within two years we had saved enough to put on the additional room with all the character we wanted.  It seems we were more concerned with how the house felt and looked than how efficient or secure it was.  We were looking for a home rather than a house, and that particular structure provided us with that home.  Come to find out it was a Sears Roebuck Kit house and there were many of them in that area of Kingston.  We lived there for 13 happy years and loved that house.  Life has a way of getting in the way every now and then and we decided it was time to move closer to my work and the search began again.

This time we had expanded to 2 adults and 2 kiddies.  We thought it would be nice to have a little more property for the kids to play on without fear of the traffic on the road.  And with all of our usual “must haves” like a fireplace, modern kitchen, porch, etc. the search began again. I got a call at school from my wife telling me that our realtor found the perfect house for us but we had to see it that day. Right after work I drove over and met her at the house. Didn’t even have to go in!  It just “felt” right. Beautiful side porch, wood burning fireplace, 2 acres of lawn.  It checked off all of our boxes.  So what if it had a 1956 GE oil hot water Furnace.  I was 10 years older than that and still going strong.  That burner was still operating efficiently when I sold the property 18 years later.  The only thing  missing was the   built in bookshelves in the living room which my son and I added soon after moving in.  Home # 3 was just perfect for us  Sunlight streamed in  to all the rooms and I had a favorite spot that would heat up from the sun next to a large window in the living room where I could read the paper and relax.  Life couldn’t get any better than that and we felt very fortunate to have found the place.  Once again life comes rolling in and says it  is time!  My daughter went away to college, my son had moved into an apartment near his work and my wife and I divorced. The house was just too big for me.  Retirement was looming in a year after 35 years in the same little school.  I didn’t need all the rooms and all the maintenance and was starting a new relationship with a person whose dream it was to own and operate an inn.  So for the year prior to my retirement, every weekend we were gallivanting around the northeast looking for the perfect inn.  Our only requirement that was a true necessity was that there would be separate owner’s quarters.  We quickly discovered that that was a rare commodity and most innkeepers just lived in one of the rooms.  No way, no how!  So the search took several months.  One bright Saturday morning we walked into the Deer Brook Inn in Woodstock, Vermont and fell in love.  Not just with the 1820 structure but with the people who were selling it.  It had everything I always wanted.  Beautiful large front porch, wood burning fireplace, an outdoor dining patio for breakfast in the nicer months.  The Ottaquechee River whispered right across the road from us. We made an offer and were waiting for approval and when it didn’t come right away we began to get worried.  Finally we were invited up for dinner one Friday evening to discover their entire families were present. What we didn’t know was that the inn was owned by all of them and we had to be approved before the offer could be accepted. Apparently we got the nod.  They wanted to make sure that we would love the place and care for it he way they did.  The place was incredible.  We did all the work ourselves, 5 guest bedrooms all with private baths, a lovely 2 bedroom owner’s quarters  separated from the inn by the kitchen.  It was just perfect.  Even Mr Kole, our live in ghost was mischievous but pleasant.  We became good friends.  He built the house and ran the  dairy farm back in the mid 1880’s so I had to be respectful.  We ran that beautiful inn for 14 years.  Living in Vermont was very special and until life began getting in the way again we were very happy.  AIR BnB came along and destroyed all the small hospitality businesses in the area and our business began to fail and our occupancy rate just dropped right off.  We sold the inn at a loss but that was ok.  We felt relieved to be out of Home # 4 and I went off to search for Home # 5 alone once again.

I decided to head back to NY to be near the kids and started the search.  By this time I was running the inn all alone which was no fun at all.  After viewing somewhere around 30 possible houses with no    success my realtor and I were walking down the street of a house we had just looked at and I said to her, “See that house on the corner?  If that ever comes up for sale call me immediately.”  Two weeks later I got that call, raced down to NY, walked inside and fell in love.  Beautiful small brick cape cod, on a corner lot, oozing charm and coziness.  I was hooked.  Within a month I was moving all my furniture and belongings from Vermont to NY.  1300 square feet seemed like nothing compared to the 3800 square foot inn.  But I have come to appreciate the reduced size and maintenance required.  I love this home, the light coming in through my window on the world, the back porch that is totally private and all my neighbors who are there when I need them and fade into the world when not.  This time if life gets in the way again, at my age I imagine I will have to ignore those features that made me love the place and look for where i can get the most help needed, perhaps a communal living situation,  with meals included, a small apartment and any kind of care required.  But still a wood burning fireplace would be nice in the community room for me to share with the other residents.  Also a nice glass of red wine to complement the surroundings.  So much for Home # 6!

House Hunting

I admire Hen’s patience for waiting for what he wants. He has criteria which are specific; which must be met before he engages in a new household. And he does the due diligence to be as certain of the facts as possible. This what a rational person does. I am not that person.

My bar is set low. I believe that I could adapt to almost any house as long as safety, privacy, and sanitation issues are met. But that’s easy to say, because I have no intention of house hunting. We’ve lived in one house for almost fifty years. This house is small enough to be maintained by older people (us!). It’s a house my father-in-law recommended – and being young and inexperienced, we quickly made an offer. Certainly, this house is not ideal… sometimes this house irritates the bejesus out of me, like a suit jacket that doesn’t fit or the complaints of a needy acquaintance. It wants my attention; it is a dependent entity. Hen would not choose to live in this house.

When we moved into our house, we cherished the independence of being in a space we controlled. We bought the house from the man who built it when he was in his 60’s… and he had lived in it for over thirty years. His wife passed away in this house; at 92, he cried every time he mentioned her. Her touch was evident in the lilacs bordering the property; the bleeding hearts by the back door. This edifice had a presence – and memories of a good person. So whenever, I get frustrated, I think of her and how she made this home a happy place.

Perhaps house hunting is a metaphor for what a person wants out of life. It’s about choosing and acceptance.  I’d look for promise: what potentially could be made in concert with a new place of living. After all, it is a partnership – there’s give and take in what opportunities the structure and you are willing to provide to one another. Acceptance is key, but also is the willingness to create something better — within the framework of your energy reservoir.

After all, charm is where you find it. Even the least attractive structure will have nooks and crannies where dreams can fit. That may be enough of a basis to build upon. Of course, give me a house with good joinery: nice moldings and trim, sunny windows and some clear north light — and that would be a bonus. 

Even at our modest living quarters, we felled trees, knocked down walls, changed each and every window, rebuilt the small barn; paved the driveway, resided and reroofed the house, added a new porch and deck, put in a new well, furnace and oil tank, water heater, electric service… and of course, after 48 years, it all has to be redone. I have a friend who is restoring a home built in the early 1700’s. He realizes that the work will not get done in his lifetime… and I guess I feel the same way. I do not plan on looking for a new home, but if I were, I would not look for a finished product – even at my advanced age. I’d be looking for a structure whose personality I could partner with. Because every page should leave some room to write additions to the story.

House-Hunting: Edgar Albert Guest

Time was when spring returned we went

To find another home to rent;

We wanted fresher, cleaner walls,

And bigger rooms and wider halls,

And open plumbing and the dome

That made the fashionable home.

But now with spring we want to sell,

And seek a finer place to dwell.

Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes;

We want the latest thing in homes;

To life we’ll not be reconciled

Until we have a bathroom tiled.

A butler’s pantry we desire,

Although no butler do we hire;

Nell’s life will be one round of gloom

Without a closet for the broom,

And mine will dreary be and sour

Unless the bathroom has a shower.

For months and months we’ve sat and dreamed

Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed

And built-in cases for the books,

An attic room to be the cook’s.

No house will she consent to view

Unless it has a sun room, too.

There must be wash bowls here and there

To save much climbing of the stair;

A sleeping porch we both demand—

This fad has swept throughout the land—

And, Oh, ’twill give her heart a wrench

Not to possess a few doors, French.

I want to dig and walk around

At least full fifty feet of ground;

She wants the latest style in tubs;

I want more room for trees and shrubs,

And a garage, with light and heat,

That can be entered from the street.

The trouble is the things we seek

Cannot be bought for ten-a-week.

And all the joys for which we sigh

Are just too rich for us to buy.

We have the taste to cut a dash:

The thing we’re lacking most is cash.

Feeling very nostalgic lately.  Always, after Christmas, the ritual of taking the tree down is bitter sweet.  Since the kids are grown that job is left for me to do all alone and stirs up the memories quite strongly.  I take the ornaments off one at a time and by categories.  The home made ones always the most precious come off first.  The little clothespin angel my daughter made in kindergarten out of a clothespin and a paper doily for angel wings, colored with crayon in art class is always the first on and first off.  The little woolen teddy bear my son dragged home from school one day is next and this ritual continues till all of the homemade decorations are down and counted.  The routine goes on til the tree is naked.  But with each one that the tree sheds, there is a story attached and as I hold it in my hand and look down on it the memories come flashing back.  There is no one there with me to share it with so it often brings a smile to my face or a tear to my eye.  Each ornament has a significance.  It might be one of our beloved pets, something from my parents, car replicas, a souvenir from a place we visited, anything that was a piece of our lives throughout the years. And when viewed in these moments of undecorating they actually tell the story of our life together as a family.  Nothing else chronologically tells this story the way the dismantling of the Christmas tree does every year. No doubt an arduous task but one that causes moments of pleasant reflection and nostalgia, laughs and tears, only to be boxed and put away til the following Christmas season. This was what I wanted to write my piece about this time but while in this process something else came to the forefront.

Those memories are precious and tender and I value them tremendously but there are other profound memories that come to mind that have much deeper impact.  Perhaps those impactful memories might best be described as traditions.  Memories that do more than just call to mind pleasant times from the past.  This year one of those traditions occupied my mind for pretty much the entire season bringing me back to my childhood.  The 1950’s and early 60’s were perhaps a gentler time personally for me.  Christmas didn’t even enter the psyche until the second week of December when stores would begin to be decorated.  The expectation of its arrival made it special and exciting, unlike today when right after Back to School displays are often replaced with hints of Christmas to come, elongating the Christmas season from the beginning of October taking away the mystery and special nature of the season.  Stores were open week days til 6 and on Friday til 9pm.  Nothing was open on Sunday.  Life was kind of slower.  I think I have mentioned before that the only thing my brother, father and I did together was centered around our model railroad.  I guess it started when my brother, who was 8 years older than I was born and my dad bought him a pre war Lionel train set.  My dad went away to war and I was born about 9 months after he returned and about 4 years later I got my Lionel train set.  Due to our age difference, my brother and I had very little in common and by the time I could run around the house and talk he was already in intermediate school and I was just a pesky little brother.  It wasn’t until one Christmas that my dad decided to build a platform for our trains on the living room floor that we began to work together on anything.

The platform took up half the living room floor 8 ft deep and about 12 feet long.  It stretched from one end of the living room to the other.  The tree never went up til the last minute.  My dad would go out just before Christmas Eve and buy 2 trees for 50 cents each, cut all the branches off one and drill holes in the trunk of the other where branches were needed and plugged in the cut branches.  My brother painted roadways on the platform and he and dad laid and secured the two sets of tracks on the community.  I was too inexperienced to be much help but that changed pretty quickly in subsequent years.  The wondrous thing about this memory/tradition is that it was more than just a function of the brain.  I remember the smell of the electric engine running around the track, the puffs of smoke pouring out of the engine as it came around the bend.  I can hear the sound of the wheels on the track and the sound of the whistle when one of us engineers would make it blow.  The little neighborhoods came to life for me as the structures became real and the little plastic figurines became families.  I could almost smell the exhaust from the small metal 1950’s Oldsmobiles and Fords traveling through on the painted streets my brother invented.  It was a thrill and there we were, my dad, my teenage brother and this little skinny 6 year old lying down on the floor watching for the engine headlight to come out of the tunnel in the pretend mountain in the corner.  For brief moments we were locked together in that little community imagining living in that little cottage or visiting a friend in the Plasticville Hospital.  lt allowed the three of us to escape reality for a brief moment and be imaginary citizens of this little make believe town.

Of course, as brothers, as the years passed we would fight and as a little kid at a disadvantage I would say to my brother, “Well I think this year I will put the church over in this corner and the 5 and dime can go across town and he would get pissed off!  But every year as the season approached Lionel and Plasticville would have a whole new line of structures and railroad cars for us to add to our village.  The local Woolworths was a treasure chest of trains and model buildings and it was always a big deal.  We did this every year til I went away to college and my brother no longer lived at home.

This is more than just a great memory, partly because all my senses were involved in the tradition and I can still bring them to mind and relive them!  Years later we did an abridged version around our tree with my kids and turned a bedroom in my house into a train room.  But even today, I go down to my basement and see all the boxes and accessories and the tradition comes rushing back and warms my heart.  Half of the pleasure was doing it with my dad and brother and to do it now seems overwhelming but that is not out of the question!

Aperture

As George talked about what he proposed to write – The Memory Tree – I had staked out a rejoinder based on our own Christmas tree. It brought to mind that the tree is a story of our life: saved ornaments from childhood and those added as our family grew, and finally from our departed parents. Our tree seems more like a legacy than a tradition. Linda has a cheap plastic reindeer that must go on the tree each year – a holdover from her toddler days. I have grown to love that ornament as well with its pure red luminescence. My favorite is a three dimensional, anodized gold star that was purchased at the Little Red House of Gifts for the first Christmas we spent in our new apartment; that always has a place of honor. Decorating the tree always brings back memories of my brother and I as kids laying under the tree looking up at the reflections from three large glass balls, each separately colored a beautiful deep green, blue and red. When I think of my favorite colors, these deep, true colors always come to mind.

But then George widened his aperture and described his train set and the wonderful exchange among his family when constructing the layout every year. That’s a special memory!  However, it got me off-track (pun intended) in considering what to write.

When George, Hen, and I later discussed George’s piece, Hen said that the broader perspective was about tradition and perhaps that would cause him to think about – and possibly write about — the traditions he has enjoyed. Hen’s traditions did not include a Christmas tree, so that also widens the parameters we might use to generate a response to George.

Tradition isn’t something I fixate upon, although I have many repetitious behaviors! Sure, we have Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas Eve services and Merry meatballs, New Year’s Eve herring, and New Year’s Day pork roast – wait! – are all my traditions food-related? Maybe, but it’s really who you share the meal with that’s most important…. And that can be accomplished in non-traditional venues.

So, I don’t wish to catalogue traditions just now. But in thinking about George’s piece, I realized how ‘one-track’ my mind really is (okay, I’ll stop with the RR connections).

 I once attended a seminar conducted by two professors from Bowling Green University. They declared that each written communication in the business world ought to have only one topic. If you have two subjects to bring up, then write two memos. Made sense to me… and I’ve tried to follow that dictum ever since.

However, I am no longer in the business world. And sharing a story is different than goal-oriented writing. Stories are rarely about one subject. They may have one title, but all kinds of details and sidebars attach themselves to the main narrative. Some may say that is the essence of a good story. I think George is a good story-teller. Me, not so much. But one thing George’s writing has taught me is that a widened aperture takes in a greater field of pleasure.

On Memories and Traditions

George writes about the “sentimental gallery” of ornaments (thanks to my friend and songwriter Leo for the phrase) that brings him to a yearly celebration of the symbols and gifts that came from a life well remembered.  As we grow older, it seems we spend more time remembering than perhaps looking forward.  The memories we place in the fond category, help us make sense of the life we’ve lived and maybe even guide us toward using our remaining days to fill any uncovered voids we discover during our many journeys down memory lane.

My mom was fond of traditions.  Every Halloween, our house was more than a pit stop for costumed candy grabbers.  It was the place most youngsters stopped to enjoy some hot cocoa and dunk for apples and get extended oohs and ahhs for the costumes they wore…especially if they were hand made!  

In our neighborhood of some 60 families, only three of us celebrated Chanukah instead of Christmas, yet it was a yearly tradition for all of us children to go house-to-house singing Christmas carols, hand in hand, with a joyful sense of togetherness. 

We lived with very little money and so vacations and going out to dinner, while common for our friends and neighbors, were not something we could afford.  However, at the end of every school year, my mom would take us out to the Chinese restaurant in the neighboring town to celebrate our promotions to the next grade.  I can remember climbing the steep stairs to the restaurant, the aroma of food as we passed by the kitchen on our way to our table, the waiters standing by ready to fill our water glasses every time we took a sip (it seemed), and the enjoyment of eating foods that were not served at home. Oh how we looked forward to that day each year.

There were other great memories that happened regularly.  Every spring we planted and tended our vegetable garden.  It seemed we always had a successful, ongoing harvest of tasty greens and too many tomatoes.  One of my sisters and I continued this practice but it didn’t catch on with my children or my nieces.  That’s the way it goes, I suspect.  Some behaviors and practices are kept, some modified, and some seem to disappear.  Perhaps they will resurface down the line, perhaps not.  But for sure, there are new traditions established and new memories made.

“Every man’s memory is his private literature” – Aldous Huxley

I have always enjoyed driving.  Car selection for me was as much for the style and fun factor as it was for function.  Each purchase provided me with a host of experiences and stories, some of which I find interesting enough to share.

My first car was a used 1957 Volkswagen that I bought in 1967.  It was a rear engine bug with a full sliding sunroof and a center stick shift.  It was in that car that I invented the first mobile phone!  For fun, I attached a big clunky home phone receiver to the console and, at red lights I would pick it up and start talking into it.  I loved the look on people’s faces when they saw me chatting away in this old beat up VW.  Of course the rest is history.  By 1973 mobile phones became a reality.  Just sayin’.  Because it had a sunroof that could inadvertently be left open during a rainstorm, the floors were outfitted with two large rubber plugs that one could open for drainage or, to watch the road go whizzing by as you drove!  The other unusual feature was that it had no fuel gauge.  What it did have was a lever on the bottom part of the firewall just to the right of the accelerator.  When I would run out of gas, all I had to do was to turn the lever to the right with my foot and that opened up a one-gallon reserve for me to get to the next gas station.  Of course, on more than one occasion, I forgot to manually reset the lever after fueling and when I ran out of gas…well, I ran out of gas!

My first new car was a 1968 green VW Fastback.  It was unique in that it gave me a shallow trunk as the engine was underneath the rear storage area and a frunk, which also appears today in the Tesla cars.  Unfortunately if you closed the rear trunk gently, it didn’t latch as I discovered one day while driving my sister back to college and watched, through my rear view mirror, her unstapled term paper get sucked out of the trunk, page by page all over the Bear Mountain Parkway extension. She still hasn’t completely forgiven me. L

Then followed a 1972 blue Pontiac LeMans Sport and a 1963 used Austin Healy Sprite.  The Sprite had neither door handles nor any way to lock the car.  In order to enter, one slid the plastic window to the right and reached in to open the door from the inside.  Another interesting option to this canvas-topped convertible was that not only could you unscrew the windows but also a large Philips screwdriver could detach the windshield!  In size and design it was more of a toy than a safe transportation vehicle.

Around that time I graduated to a used, yellow 1970 Triumph TR6.  It was a two-seater British made sports car convertible.  I traded that one in in 1974 for a new blue one that continued my cruising pleasure for a short time.  By the end of that year my daughter was born and cruising around in a two-seater was a luxury I could no longer afford.

In 1978 I bought a Toyota Celica Fastback in the late fall.  One day in June, I was driving home along route 684 from White Plains to New Fairfield, CT.  It had been a hot day teaching in a hot classroom and as I drove in traffic with my windows wide open but doing little to keep the perspiration on the back of my shirt from sticking to the car seat I watched in envy the many of the cars around me with windows closed and their drivers enjoying air conditioning.  As I looked over my dashboard I noticed a single blue button labeled “AC.”  As I had never owned a car or a home with air conditioning and when I bought the car temperatures were in the 30’s, I had forgotten that my car came with air conditioning.  I remember pushing that button and feeling like I had just hit the biggest jackpot of all time!

Next came a secondary car that was a used white, VW that served more as a gasoline storage tank during the gas crises of the late 1970’s than for primary transportation.  At the time, one could only get a gas on alternate days depending on the last digit of your license plate.  Odd numbers were allowed fill ups or rationed gas (depending on the availability of the local gas stations) on odd-numbered days and even plates on even-numbered days.  When filled (it was either a 12.5 or 14.5 gallon tank), friends from Long Island could visit us in Connecticut and be sure to have enough gas for the return trip home!

Meanwhile, my family car, the Pontiac LeMans gave way to a Chrysler “woody-looking” station wagon that eventually became a black 1987 Jeep Cherokee.  My first Mustang a 1976, 3-speed, was a used purchase and served me well until I bought my friend Ralph’s 1982 blue 4- Speed Camaro.  This one came with a high-end sound system that allowed cassette tapes to create my first intense music experience in a car. 

In 1986 I bought a black Nissan 5 speed 300ZX.  It featured twin glass T-tops and remote controls on the steering wheel for changing the radio station and volume.  It also included a recorded voice that alerted me to low fuel levels as well as when my right or left door was ajar.  It was another first for me to have a talking car.  It was my version of the Knight Industries Two Thousand (KITT) as portrayed in the 1980’s TV show, Knight Rider!  This one lasted many years and eventually went to college with my son, nearly 200,000 miles later.

In the early 1990’s I bought a Nissan Pathfinder with off road capability. I not only explored wooded lots to collect firewood but enjoyed several vacations that permitted four-wheel vehicles on miles and miles of beaches.

In 2000 I took possession of a new black, Nissan 4X4 Frontier Crew Cab.  This enabled me to drive through the woods to collect firewood and generally go where I didn’t think possible.  Once, I tree I cut got hung up on another tree as it fell.  I tied a towrope to the base and the other end to the front of my truck and threw it into reverse to pull the tree down.  Unfortunately, as I pulled, the base of the tree struck a large root and stopped moving as the top of the tree continued, falling forward rather than backward.  With no room to back up any further I sat in the truck and watched this rather large tree come crashing down on the hood and roof of my Nissan.  Yet another lesson learned at an age when I surely should have know better.  

After I paid this truck off in 2005, I decided to treat myself to the newly redesigned Mustang GT convertible.  At the time, they were in extremely high demand and not only were they going above list price but there was a six-month wait for them.  Thanks to the Internet, I was able to locate one and put a deposit on it provided I picked it up by the end of the week.  I lived in New York and the car was located in a showroom in Los Lunas, New Mexico.  I called my good friend who lived in Bronxville at the time and was always open to an adventure and two days later we were on a plane heading to New Mexico.  We literally drove the car out of the showroom on a Friday afternoon and headed east.  Unfortunately, my buddy had to be home by Sunday so we tag-teamed driving the roughly 2100 miles back like two 20 year old kids on a road trip.  At the time, I was pushing 60 and he was 66!

My Frontier Crew Cab gave way to a white, automatic, new version in 2011.  By 2019, my awareness of driving vehicles that were continuing to contribute to the worsening climate crisis was growing.  One day as I was visiting my family in Delaware, I mentioned to my then, 13 year old granddaughter my need for a more environmentally friendly car.  She asked if I would consider an electric car to address my concerns.  The next day, while in the Christiana Mall, Kylie, Ben and I visited the Tesla showroom and scheduled a test drive for the next day.  Meanwhile, the dealership sent instructional videos (mind you there are no brochures or manuals to look at in a Tesla showroom) to watch prior to my appointment.  The test drive was more impressive than I could have imagined and a few months later I took possession of a black Tesla model 3.  There are too many features and attributes to write about but several are noteworthy.  The car comes with regenerative braking which acts as if you are downshifting every time you let up on the accelerator.  As a result of this one-pedal driving, I feel much more in control in traffic and around curves, it’s continuously adding additional charge to the battery, and I almost never need to use my brake.  Plugging the car in each evening assures I’ll have as much mileage in the morning as I’ll need and I only stop at charging stations for long road trips.  I also bought the full self driving feature and am now using the beta version which, takes me from my home to the destination I’ve entered, requiring me to only keep my hands on the wheel. (And, if I’ve already entered my destination in my apple calendar, it extracts it from there and I don’t need to do anything!)  Yup, it speeds up and slows down, stops and goes, signals and turns all by itself.  This is a fascinating but yet unnerving experience!  Tesla also makes the car playful which appeals to my inner boy.  It has built in whoopee cushions that can be directed to any seat an in a variety of styles, a light show that turns lights on and off, opens and closes windows, fold and unfolds mirrors and the charging port orchestrated to a complementary musical selection.  It even has a “dog” mode so when I need to leave Duke in the car while I’m at a store, it presents a large screen display that verifies that I (his driver) will be back shortly and he is sitting in the car at a comfortable 68 degrees!  Did I mention the summon feature?  The other day, Teresa and I left a restaurant with my granddaughter, Kylie.  She took my iPhone and held the target button.  We watched as the car drove itself out of the parking space and over to where we were waiting by the front door.  When I think of my first car and look at my current one I can’t help but think of the old ad for Virginia Slims cigarettes, “You’ve come a long way, baby!” 

Did I mention that I’ve already put down a deposit for the Tesla Cybertruck?  

Soon, one will be able to address the following quote by giving both the proper focus!

“Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.” ~Albert Einstein

True Love

It all started as a young lad attending New Paltz State and preparing for a spring semester of student teaching.  Coming from NYC I only had one friend who had his driver’s license because anywhere we had to go we went by subway or bus. So here I am in my second quarter of my junior year preparing to student teach in the fall.  Then suddenly it occurred to me that a) I didn’t have a car and b) I didn’t have a license.  A generous friend patiently taught me how to drive in her big 5 speed Buick on the mountain roads around Mohonk, including the S curve which was difficult to maneuver in her Buick.  And furthermore she let me take my test in her car and I remember having to drive up the steep hill on 44/55 in Poughkeepsie and praying I could stop at the light without sliding way back if I slipped off the clutch prematurely.  Anyway, she was a very good teacher and I passed the first time.  One major issue resolved.  Now this young lad had to cajole his parents to get him a cheap car for student teaching.  All that summer my parents discussed and lectured me about the responsibility that goes with car ownership.  I all but signed in blood that I would be a responsible adult.. First weekend of fall quarter my brother, mom and dad delivered my very first car- a 1962, it was now 1967, tan Studebaker Lark.  It was considered a compact car but once inside it was like a taxicab. I could have easily fit the entire floor of my dorm in it.  This was a new kind of freedom I had never experienced before and it was intoxicating.  I loved that car but unfortunately after attending my fraternity’s rush party and feeling less than clear headed I looked for someone to drive us home in my place.  My judgment was obviously impaired as he was worse off than I was and on the way home on the Post Road from Gardner, he drove off the road, flew into the air and we landed between two trees.  No one was hurt except I could hear my parents’ rebuke.  And now I needed another car to student teach the next quarter. I will spare you the details of dealing with my parents!

Car #2-1964 Plymouth Valiant.  Silver with an imprint of a tire on the trunk and a push button transmission. Loved it!  Occasionally it wouldn’t start but all I had to do was open the hood and play with the rotar and magically it would start.  Loved, loved that car.  One morning on my way to my student teaching assignment I had stopped for something in a parking lot in New Paltz, got back in and drove off.  When i go to my school I didn’t have my briefcase and realized I had put it on the roof of the car  when I stopped and drove off with it up there, never to be seen again. I passed student teaching anyway!

Car #3-1968 Plymouth Valiant- brand new- dark green.  Served me well- great dependable, practical car but small. Started really liking Chrysler products by then and Car #4 was I think a 1970 Dodge Dart, hard top convertible (which simply meant there was no bar between the front window and the back window).  Light green with a white top.  Loved that car too, but by then the family was growing and we had problems with the Dart so we traded it in for a used Buick Wildcat.  Monster in power and L A R G E.  From there we moved on to used cars rebuilt by my neighbor across the street.  We had 2 Volkswagon 411 station wagons which were constantly breaking down and in his garage for repair and then 2 Chevrolet Citations.  Nice roomy cars but not as gigantic as the Wildcat.  Those were cars 5 through 8.

My dad passed in 1975, so after that point we expanded our catalog of vehicles to non American made cars. The first was a Toyota Tercel Hatchback.  Fun little guy, great on gas, followed by a sequence of Honda Civics.  Drivers in the family were beginning to expand both in girth and number  and the Hondas were a little tight and therefore passed down to the kids.  I moved up to a Nissan Sentra Wagon, my first 4 wheel drive vehicle. and then from there moved on to a Nissan Frontier, their small pick up. From there to a Nissan Xterra which was a great car.  By then I had retired from teaching and opened our Bed and Breakfast in Woodstock, Vermont.  I needed a workhorse for the inn and switched to a Daytona Pickup and eventually to my all time love of a vehicle- a Jeep.

I needed a car that we could lug things in for the inn but I had had enough of pick ups.  I had developed a relationship with our local Chrysler/Jeep dealership and the salesman, Don, knew me better than I knew myself.  He called me and said they had a new product coming out that he thought I would like.  He was right, the 4 door Jeep Wrangler.  It was the size of a pick up but had the comfort of a passenger vehicle.  I had a supernatural experience when I sat in it.  I had to have it.  That was in 2009. Each year new features were added to make it even better, sound systems, heated steering wheels and seats. Traded up to a 2011, lifetime extended warrantee, who could pass these things up?  Stereo radio with free Sirius/XM radio, navigation system, blue tooth, then 2015 Wrangler then followed by a 2018 Jeep Wrangler Sahara.  This is the best car I have even had!  It greets me when I approach by blinking its lights hello to me, and unlocks my doors so I don’t have to put my packages down to get inside.  On cold days it starts while I am still in the house and warms my seat and steering wheel so by the time I get in it,  it is cozy and comfortable.  Who could ask for anything more?  Oh wait, that’s Toyota!  Scratch that last line.  And the best part is everywhere I go friends wave at me with that special wave and sometimes when I go to get in my Jeep there is a little rubber duckee waiting for me!  How cool is that?

P.S.- During our Zoom call Wally and Henry reminded me that I had a few more cars than I described.  Somehow I totally overlooked them during the writing of this piece.  While driving through Europe in 2008 in our little rented Smart car, I fell in love with this tiny little motor car that got incredible gas mileage and felt like you were wearing a glove while driving through the beautiful country side. I said to my partner driving this little toy, how cool it would be to have one in Vermont.  At that point they weren’t available in the States but I just never forgot how cool it was driving around in this cozy, comfortable pretend vehicle.  But shortly after returning home it was announced that the 2009 Smart car would be available in the States through the Mercedes Benz Company beginning in the Fall of 2009.  I could not contain myself and justified ordering one to complement my new Jeep so that we could scoot around Vermont   and conserve gas.  We drove that little guy everywhere.  And I felt like a big man owning two vehicles!  Two years later when I was turning in my 2009 Jeep for a brand new Wrangler, a guest at the inn offered to buy the Smart car at a price I couldn’t turn down.  That January we were in our condo in Florida and going through one of the malls and on display was this beautiful Fiat Cinque Cento in Red with a white racing stripe down the middle of it and it called my name.  I drove it back from Florida in absolute comfort.  To make a long story short, when I turned in my 2011 Wrangler in 2013, once again in Florida I turned in my little red Fiat and purchased a beautiful 2013 Fiat 500 S, which was a station wagon in a dark racing green.  Kept that little beauty until we sold the inn and I traded in both the Fiat and the 2013 Wrangler for my  2015 Jeep Wrangler which I kept until I purchased my present Jeep that I absolutely love and will probably keep for a long time to come.  But I can’t emphasize how much I loved touring the country side in those tiny, 5 speed standard transmission little European roadsters.  That was during my second childhood and I am much more mature now and no longer need as many toys as I did back then.

Arc de Triumph

I really enjoyed Hen and George’s recollection about their vehicles – and I hope to ride in Hen’s cybertruck one day, assuming Elon actually delivers one after all this time! Spurred on by my two old compatriots, I created a list of cars/trucks/vans that I have owned: eighteen up to the present day. How do you write about each of those machines which have provided immense freedom — and sometimes, immense headaches? I think I’ll just focus on one of them – the first!

Before doing that, I need to give a shoutout to my father, who really knew how to pick cars with panache… and could actually fix them as well. This is kind of a backstory to the car he gifted me when I was a college sophomore. My Dad loved British sportscars, so my growing years were spent as a passenger in a variety of British imports: MGA, Austin Healy MK2, TR4, and finally – the epitome – a 1961 XK150 jaguar drophead coupe convertible. The XK150 was a short-lived specimen which bridged the XK140 to the XKE classic sportscar. XK is the Jaguar motor type and the 150 was the miles per hour of the max speed. White with red leather seats and wire wheels, it sounded like a pocket jet engine… I remember being awestruck looking at the speedometer where the 80-mph marker appeared at the middle of the gauge!

Thanks to my Dad I went to my senior prom driving a 1961 Cadillac convertible (which I drove over a median on the way to the restaurant) and departed our marriage ceremony in a 1964 ½ Mustang (which my buddies decorated with white shoe polish). I was a living testimony to his trust – and patience.

Eventually, I inherited the 1963 TR4 – and like Hen – really enjoyed this ride. The TR4 was a step up from the MGA, which featured canvas convertible top and side curtains attached with snaps. The Triumph engine evolved from tractor motors and required constant tuning. While my father and brother dedicated a portion of each weekend to home auto shop skills, my interests lay elsewhere. Cars have always seemed magical to me (how on earth do they work?) and I fully appreciated the magic carpet ride of the TR, particularly up the hairpin turn approaching Mohonk Mountain House, where George learned to drive – what exhilaration! Until the door wouldn’t shut, or the engine wouldn’t start. Luckily, Dad and Bro would fix the window track and replace the burned exhaust valve – and other ailments brought on by my clueless mistakes. 

The TR served me well through college. Once I went to the parking area behind my dorm to find that someone had pried out my gas cap and filler tube! I did remember seeing a TR3 driving around with a rag in the gas tank (a rolling Molotov cocktail). Accompanied by my friend Gube, we drove around college parking spaces until I spotted it – with a new filler cap, which looked remarkably like mine. I confess to prying it out with a long screwdriver and replacing it in my vehicle – does that constitute theft or auto repair?

Well, my British Racing Green TR lasted right up to my first day at a real job in 1970. We drove from Long Island to our new apartment. Linda held our infant son in her lap the entire trip (infant car seats were not mandated until 1986 and the TR had only had jump seats in the back). We pulled into the parking lot and the steering wheel actually disengaged from the linkage. At that moment we realized it was time for a safer, more practical car (which turned out to be a hair-raising saga with a $400 VW411 squareback – a story for another day). 

You can never forget your first love – and I have kept the original gearshift knob and instruction book from my heroic TR!

Even as a youngster I was always interested in going to antique shops and what we called junk shops back then.  My friend Adele and I would go through old deserted houses with her mom to see what was left behind.  In the darkness of an old house we would go from room to room to see what was left of the family that used to inhabit the place.  It was kind of scary and I remember one time going up a flight of stairs and in the hallway of the second floor was a floor to ceiling mirror.  As we got to the landing with Adele ahead of me, she saw her reflection in the mirror, jumped and screamed thinking she saw a ghost!  We were able to laugh about it later but that night we ran out and sat in the car.  I can even remember the smell of the antique shops and vacant abandoned houses and getting comfort from them.  I remember rummaging through things at a favorite shop and if I found a piece of furniture that I liked I would close my eyes and try to imagine where this night stand, or whatever, was located in the owner’s house and tried to imagine the family that used it.  I would imagine the members of the family and give them names and I imagined them using the night stand in their lives.  I always had a very active imagination that way. Even created stories about the family- what the father did for a living and where the kids went to school and had this whole scenario of these people. I felt at ease in these places and among the old treasures I discovered. The only thing that would interrupt my pleasure in such a situation would be a box of old photographs of people’s weddings, or family photos of little kids.  I find it incredibly sad and invasive into the privacy of people’s lives that all these prized family mementos are just dumped in a box for total strangers to view until eventually they are disposed of in the trash.  Very sad!   I think it must be some kind of sentimentality that I suffer from and explains a lot about my entire life.

As a senior citizen who is currently the oldest living member of his family I treasure such things as those photos of my family but also I have coveted certain family objects and pieces of furniture that I love and could never part with.  My home is furnished with many family heirlooms and many antiques I have purchased over the years.  On my twelfth birthday my Italian grandmother gave me a Miraculous Medal to wear on a chain around my neck.  She was a devout Catholic, purchased the medal and had it blessed by Bishop Fulton J. Sheen. He was a patient of the doctor my dad worked for and a good friend of my dad. We all had to sit around the tv and watch his show, One Life to Live, every week.  Anyway, to this day I still wear that medal around my neck and have never taken it off except once, 6 years ago when I had to have my carotid artery scraped.  Even then I held it tightly in my fist while I was being roto rootered!  I remember my dad always carried a money clip for his paper bills. He had probably gotten it as a promotion from Manufacturers Hanover Trust Co. when he opened an account with them sometime in the 1950’s. It isn’t very valuable, probably made of tin with the bank’s name on it but he always carried it.  He never put his bills in his wallet, always in the money clip.  When he passed in 1975, I searched through his belongings purposely looking for that clip.  I found it and have used it to hold my bills ever since. It has to do with continuance. By my using these items I am acknowledging and continuing the existence of the people who meant everything to me.  My mom was a graduate of Bellevue Nursing School in 1933 and worked there from her graduation til 1951 when we moved from Manhattan to Flushing.  She was incredibly proud of what she had achieved and I have a cameo pendant from Bellevue that she always wore on her uniform and the distinctive Bellevue nursing cap which was part of her uniform.  Back then each nursing school had a distinctive cap that was worn wherever the nurse worked as part of her uniform.  It identified the school that she attended.  She treasured both items. When she passed in 1986 I knew I had to retrieve them both.  I gathered them up and brought them home and kept them safely tucked away until my daughter graduated from college.  I knew she would want them and now she has them to remember her grandmother by.  Those are cherished items from my family that are constant reminders of where I came from. I also have collected a few items of my own that I also cherish.

When I got married, my brother gave us an original water color painting from a Long Island artist and that started a love affair with original paintings.  I wound up purchasing another 10 original paintings by the same artist.  My brother gave my mom a painting by the same artist for her birthday one year that she absolutely loved and I also have that painting in my collection as well.  I started reaching out in search of original water colors, attending local art fairs and galleries and amassing quite a collection of over 100 original paintings.  I made it a point to try and meet every artist whose work I owned and succeeded with the exception of original artwork I purchased in Europe during several trips there.  These paintings bring me sheer joy.  When I see a painting I like, I squint and if I can imagine myself in the painting, I have to buy it.  I was telling that to an artist one time at our inn in Vermont, and I told him how I imagined myself in the painting and he was so impressed and had never heard anything like that, that he gave me a huge discount.  I said I couldn’t ask him to do that because i understand the work and love that goes into the artistic expression of an idea and he said , “You didn’t ask, and I would rather the painting  be with someone who loved it than to sit in a gallery for weeks.”  That day, I purchased 4 beautiful paintings of his.  The walls in my house are literally covered with artwork and when I enter each room I am reminded of the artists who created all this beauty and the circumstances that led to their purchase.

One more thing I want to mention in my charm bracelet of memories- an 1864 Welch and Spring Co. Perpetual Calendar Clock.  It was left in the attic of the house we moved into in Flushing by the previous owners.  It sat in the attic leaning against the eaves for 14 years from the time we moved until the day we moved out.  My dad would refer to it every now and then with a great deal of respect saying he was going to get it fixed and hang it in the living room, but he never did.  When they moved to the new house in 1964, after I went away to college, I came home for Thanksgiving and discovered my dad brought the clock with him and of course he was going to get it fixed and hang it.  Well, when I graduated 4 years later the clock sat in the same place on the sun porch.  I brought it to my new home.  I had a friend from college whose dad worked on old clocks.  He fixed it in no time and said it was a pleasure to work on such a beautiful instrument.  I absolutely love that clock which tells the time, the month, the date, the day of the week and even knows when leap year is and adjusts accordingly. I haven’t found the exact right place for it yet but I will.  At least I got it fixed!  

I can’t explain why I am so attached to all of these “things” but I confess I am.  I love all of them, enjoy having them on display or on my person to give me daily reminders of who I am, what is important to me, and where I came from.  They are silent pleasures that I love being surrounded by. There is that old biblical saying….ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  I wonder what will become of all my prize possessions.  I know my daughter wants a few things and my son has his name on a couple of things but neither has expressed much interest in my paintings so I guess they will find their way into odd antique shops and random yard sales sometime in the future.  That is how the life cycle works and in the scheme of things perhaps it is how it is supposed to work.  As the artist at the inn said, I would rather the paintings be hanging in the homes of people who love them than stored and stacked somewhere in a basement.  There are a few other things that could be listed on my attachment list – the thousands of dollars of model railroad equipment boxed and stored in my basement, and of course, my 2018, 4 door Jeep Wrangler…………but that is for another time.

Sentimental Journey

In an earlier post, In Defense of Magpies, I detailed why I’m a devout collector even in this season of minimalism. It’s not about compulsion, hoarding, or simple greed. It’s not about material insecurity and fear of being without. It is about remembrance and esteem, when objects become markers for honoring people you admire and love. It is as though part of their essence is attached to a particular object. When you handle that object, it rekindles the memory of a significant time or individual.

Do you recall that in the movie, The Quiet Man, Mary Kate tries to explain to her husband why her ‘fortune’ (her dowry, which is being withheld by her brother) is so important to her? She says:

” Haven’t I been tryin’ to tell ya? – …that until you have my dowry, you haven’t got any bit of me – me, myself. I’ll still be dreamin’ amongst the things that are my own as if I had never met you. There’s three hundred years of happy dreamin’ in those things of mine and I want them. I want my dream. I’ll have it and I know it. I’ll say no other word to you.”

Three hundred years of happy dreamin’– George hits it on the head when he talks of ‘continuance’. After all, what is there to a life, if there’s no shared memory of what preceded the current moment? Sometimes, an artifact is a bridge to those that went before you. Even your own objects from a younger vintage make a connection to important times: markers along a sentimental journey that led to the place where you are now standing.

One might say that objects are not necessary to remember and honor important people – and I won’t say they are wrong. But the memories are richer when you have your father’s money clip or the miraculous medal gifted by your grandmother. Among my prized possessions are my grandfather’s well-worn fedora, my dad’s tobacco pouch, my mom’s high school art medal, and my brother’s small, unfinished sailboat model – they have no practical use, but I wouldn’t be without them and the memories they evoke through touch, sight, smell or feel.

Now, I don’t for a minute believe that all these items will have the same meaning for my children – or their children. Nor do I wish to saddle my kids with the obligation of unwanted objects. However, I do believe that it’s up to me to pass along the stories associated with the objects around me and to help them curate those items which hold some significance. They no doubt will preserve a few, as well as select new ones as markers on their journey – and to enjoy for many years of happy dreamin’. 

Essentials – Oskar Leonard

In comfortable life, one might
find artifacts, of a kind,
spreading upon dusted surfaces:
amassing an army over the years.

Not incredibly valuable, on their own—
a half-used candle, half-full stapler,
nearly empty Christmas deodorant
and three unused money banks—

but they bring thought to one’s mind,
soft memories, tinged with kindness,
a bright, youthful joy, and therein
lies their true value, these essentials.

On Remembrance

In this piece George reflects on his relationship with antiques and their importance to him.  He also talks about the notion of continuance and what it means to him and what it might mean for his children.   

Like George and Wal, I have a few articles that remind me of my mom.  However, one stands out from the rest.  When my mother died, my sister took pieces of her unused sewing fabrics as well as some of her dresses and had quilts made from them for each of us and our children.  In each one, there was a cup of coffee, a thimble, flowers, and music notes.  Each represented the things in life that brought her joy and contentment.  With the simple act of brewing and enjoying a small cup of coffee with a splash of cream, each morning she began her day with peace and calm.   A replica of her tiny one-cup percolator sits on a shelf in my cupboard.  I remember how she gently lifted her cup of freshly brewed coffee with her hand leaving her pinky finger outstretched as she savored the flavor of each sip through closed eyes.  The thimble stood for her sewing and quilting prowess, her patience, and her devotion to detail and excellence.  The flowers remind us of the beauty she brought into our home from homegrown fresh cut flowers to the most gorgeous and tasty vegetables.  Her connection to plants and her love of nature and gardening live on in me.  The musical notes symbolize her love of classical music and her extraordinary talent and passion for the piano.  Writing about this quilt reminds me to be sure to tell (or retell) these stories to my grandchildren so, in time, they will be able to pass along a piece of their family history.

What is not in the quilt but is significant to me is a symbol from the kitchen.  My mom’s rolling pin resides in my kitchen cabinet.  It reminds me of how extraordinary she was at baking and cooking.  And although I rarely use it, this is the item that brings me closest to my memory of her.  The smell of her cooking and delicious meals were a daily occurrence when I was a child and the cakes and pies she baked were so good that I still can’t find the right words to describe the overall experience.  

I don’t know what items I have that might remind my children and grandchildren of me.  But what I do have are stories.  When I lived four hours from my grandchildren I would often pick them up and bring them to my house for a long visit.  Before we got to the end of her street Kylie, my granddaughter, would ask me to tell her a story.  Sure, she enjoyed my made up stories or stories from books we had read, but her favorites were those from my life.  I remember wishing I could understand what she was thinking as I glanced at her expressions though the rearview mirror while I told and retold adventures from my childhood through present day experiences.  What I do know is that she absorbed them and through thoughtful questions gained an understanding of who I was and what I learned.  Both Kylie and Ben are engaging, entertaining, and humorous storytellers.  I suspect that if they choose to have children, they will continue their knowledge of our family through the stories they tell them.

Each of us, it seems, will remember those who have gone before us in our own way.  While I will continue to tell my family stories when the opportunity presents itself and I will have this blog of personal beliefs, stories, and reflections to leave them, I suspect they will pull from their time with me what they decide was important to them and how and what they feel will be worthy of passing along to future generations.

“Good bye may seem forever. Farewell is like the end, but in my heart is the memory and there you will always be.“

– Walt Disney

How good are you at estimating time?  That is, how accurate are you when you guesstimate how long it will take you to finish something or arrive somewhere?

Teresa and I spent one day last week visiting nearby Pennsylvania.  Our plan was to visit Kennett Square, known as the mushroom capital of the world for growing and distributing 500 million pounds – half of the total mushroom crop in the US, and then spend the late afternoon and evening in nearby Longwood Gardens.   We arrived around 2:00 pm with plenty of time to explore the village and mushroom venues before driving the ten minutes it would take to get to our 4:30 reservation at the Gardens (after all, they allowed a 30 minute flex time for arrival.)   We enjoyed a leisurely walk through town and it’s quaint shops and explored The Mushroom Cap store/mini museum on the main drag.  Finishing early we found a splendid nearby park with hiking trails and spent one of those ideal fall days walking over streams and through fields and stopping at a playground to remember what it was like to swing as high as we once did as kids.  As we neared the time to leave, we remembered there was one more mushroom farm/store we had heard of that was about a mile out of town but, based on Apple Maps, well within range of getting there and then out to Longwood Gardens on time. (after all the latitude provided by the reservation guidelines allowed us to arrive as late as 5:00!)  Who knew how fabulous the store would be or how friendly and accommodating the proprietor was as we arrived just after closing time but were welcomed in to explore, just the same.  Yup, you guessed it, we found lots of mushrooms and other items to buy as gifts and for ourselves, listened to the history of the farm and received numerous recipes and ideas for cooking with mushrooms whose names were both common and unknown to me.  What seemed like a few minutes turned out to be more than a half hour and all of a sudden, we found ourselves reading a GPS arrival time of 4:51.  Fortunately, the reservations allowed that 30-minute delay; unfortunately, we found ourselves enroute at the height of tourist traffic.  You likely know the scenario regarding what we were thinking and feeling as we realized we were possibly going to miss the water-light show we had been planning to see since July.  We arrived, were directed to park in the lot furthest from the gate and proceeded to fast-walk/run past 50 or so slower paced walkers to get scanned-in just minutes before our time limit. Not the best way to start a garden walk…

More often than not I underestimate how long something will take.  My research on the subject tells me that this is likely the result of two factors: we fail to consider how long similar tasks have taken us in the past – we ignore past and recent history, and we remain optimistic that obstacles and unanticipated hindrances will not interfere with our timeline.  Guilty and Guilty!  After all, I reason, I’ve taken the route before, I’ve painted this room before, I’ve run this many errands before so surely I can do it faster this time because I’m more experienced and clearly today nothing will interfere with me getting them accomplished on time, last time was a fluke!

Yes, I’ve gotten better about leaving extra time for travel and I’ve also been more conscious of saying no to squeezing in an extra chore or errand into my plans.  But the allure of doing more, especially when I’m with others, still pulls me quickly into the abyss of missing my mark when it comes to accurately estimating how long something will actually take.  

Some thoughts on the subject that I used to believe but have relegated to the trash bin of things I’ve let go of…

If I don’t try to fit everything in, I’ll miss something.

If I overestimate the time it takes, I may end up sitting idle and wasting time.

Life is short, there’s no time to waste.

Where do you fit into this conversation?  Don’t worry, you’ve got lots of time to write it down and send it in to the comment section!!  J

“The trouble is, you think you have time.” – Jack Kornfield

Time is on My Side……No it’s Not!

I have always had a very specific relationship with time from the time I was a little kid.  This might have been due to having to wait for everything and everybody, whether it was a friend to go bike riding or a doctor’s appointment where I had to sit in a waiting room for 20 or so minutes getting nervous.  Early on I decided I would never make anybody wait for me. But I overcompensated by getting to scheduled appointments at least 15 minutes early but often as much as  half an hour.  I didn’t want other people to feel the way I used to feel because of me.  As a result and to this day, I always allow time for me to get to a meeting place or an appointment that will allow my arrival a good 15 minutes before the scheduled time.

Add to that, is the problem that I still have trouble with the estimation of how long things take. If I am meeting friends for dinner, especially if we are going to a place I have never been to before, I have to estimate how long is it is going to take for me to get there. I not only figure in the travelling time but what about traffic? What about unexpected events lengthening the time, and yes, even parking?  Then I have to add on the additional 15 minutes early that I want to arrive.  Very complicated but I go through the process everywhere I go. If it is a far distance, like to a city or out of state there are other factors I have to consider.  Traffic jams, tolls, not knowing where I am going and the possibility of getting lost. It sounds complicated but it is a process I go through silently in my head before I am prepared to leave my house.  I have gained the reputation of always being early.  When the doctor’s office calls to remind me of my appointment and request that I arrive at least 15 minutes early for me that means a half an hour.

One would think that at my age, I would relax and chill but I have discovered something with old age.  Time goes much faster than it used to.  Some mornings I wake up and the next thing I know I am tucking myself in bed and wondering where the day went.  I make an appointment with the doctor, annoyed that it is so far in the future and the next thing I know, it is tomorrow..  Days go by so quickly and weeks go by even faster.  Not sure when that started to happen but somewhere around 70 I began to take notice of it..  I will sit down with my phone to read something on the  internet and I look up and an hour has passed.  It just seems to slip away, slip being the operative word. It suggests you lost control of where you were walking and your foot lost its traction.  Same is true of time.  Our lives have lost traction and things just happen before you know it.  We use that expression all the time. Before you know it, it will be Christmas.  This flu shot won’t hurt, it will be over before you know it!  Calm down, you’ll get your driver’s license before you know it!  And it is all true but in youth time, “before you know it,” seems like an eternity.  Unfortunately, that eternity lasts for decades until one day you hit  elder time like I did around 70.  Suddenly, before you know it really happens before you are aware of it. And year by year, that time squeezes itself more and more into imperceptible moments.  Just look at your kids. Somewhere between college and now, my daughter turned 51…….51, how the hell did that happen so fast?  It probably wasn’t fast for her, but I blinked and it happened.

I guess what I am saying with the time speedometer on high, at my age it gets harder to estimate the time it takes to do anything. Time seems to speed up but the body seems to take much more time to accomplish the usual activities we do each day- showering, getting dressed, feeding the dog, yada yada yada!  So now into the equation of all the surprises that can occur on your way to reach an appointment now you have to add in extra time for the extra time required to get the old body to move.  Damn, life is complicated..  Maybe I don’t have to be early anymore. After all, I’ll get there before I know it!

The Planning Fallacy

Hen tackles the issue of why we tend to ignore history when we estimate the amount of time needed for a particular task. In his example, Theresa and he planned to be at a venue at a certain time, but got sidetracked with other interesting activities. Of course, you could say that they simply amended their original plan to accommodate a more attractive alternative. That’s the way I’d look at it, anyway. They added one more item of enjoyment to the plan.

If you consult the literature, there’s all sorts of research as to why we tend to gloss over history and underestimate time demands. It seems that this is a common occurrence – one which each of us would find it easy to relate. Psychologists Kahneman and Tversky called this the Planning Fallacy. In experiments, subjects consistently underestimated the time needed to complete a task. One result showed that students estimated the average time needed to finish a senior thesis was 33.9 days – they actually took 55.5 days on average and only 30% of the students finished in the time that they had predicted for their thesis. 

George weaves in the theme of aging in the propensity for underestimating time. Despite Geo’s self-professed bias toward “glass half-empty” outlook, some have pinned the blamed for poor time management on a different bias: ‘optimism bias’. Buoyed by enthusiasm, we tend to assume that we can brush aside typical obstacles, because we have been there before. Despite the fact that folks usually recognize that their past estimates have been overly optimistic, they still believe that their new (optimistic) estimates are realistic. Unfortunately, ‘we don’t know, what we don’t know’ – those new variables that tend to be attracted to our easy-peasey, straightforward plans.

I’ve spent a good chunk of my working life as a planning manager or consultant to international projects. Delays and unforeseen problems are always expected, be it budgetary, resource turnover, or internal/external political conflicts. Mitigation is an oft-used term in project management. In these circumstances, a team of capable folks is on hand to catch problems early and provide opinions about realistic plan revision. Feedback from others is an excellent tool for modifying overly optimistic time estimation.

However, I’m always surprised that the approaches we use professionally do not necessarily become integrated with our personal tactics for estimating time. Like Hen and George, I’m a hawk on arriving early. I agree with George that the steps required for punctuality seem to multiply the effort. Oscar Wilde noted that “Punctuality is the thief of time” – maybe he’s referring to the extra overhead assigned to early arrival?

So why am I frequently racing for a self-imposed deadline? I’ll assign two reasons, of which the root cause is inadequate preparation.

The first has to do with dependence on other individual’s priorities. Rarely do my plans involve only myself. Loved ones, vendors, and service providers may not buy into my timeline. Worse, their plans may conflict with my vision of successful task completion. Time management always involves negotiation with others.

Second, I will agree with George that aging is a factor. But not because time moves faster. Rather, it’s because aging has introduced a certain brittleness in my task management approach – a bit more anxiety in executing. In turn, this task-anxiety reduces my ability to stay with the flow and I forget things. Halfway to an appointment, but forgot my wallet. Arriving at the tennis court without my racquet. You get the picture.

Linda says, make a checklist. Um, I’ve currently got six different checklists active: one for the restaurant, two for properties, and three for organizations. Add to this, a separate daily checklist (‘One list to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them’, as they say in Mordor). So many checklists, that I forget to consult them. My method of dealing with this has been to overcompensate. I’ll break a task into component parts (‘work packages’ for you PM 101 enthusiasts) and knock off each smaller task in turn. It works, but takes considerable energy. How I look forward to simply going into my shop and creating something! I don’t use checklists there (although I could – and maybe should). But, it’s my checklist-free zone.

In short, I find that it is in the doing where I’m happiest. And in those situations, I don’t worry about estimating the time needed – it takes what it takes!

Fly Like an Eagle: Steve Miller Band

“Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’

Into the future

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’

Into the future

I wanna fly like an eagle

To the sea

Fly like an eagle

‘Til I’m free….”

Linda and I are doing our monthly drive to the Adirondacks, and she says, “Did you see all those turkeys by the side of the road – there were eighteen of them along with two jakes?” and I reply: “Nope, I’m watching the road.” She says, “Look at where those wildflowers used to be in the median, did you notice that they were mowed down.” I reply: “Nope, I’m watching the traffic.” She says, “Those guiderails are out of date, I wonder why the DOT hasn’t changed them?” I reply: “What guiderails?”

Now, the significant part of this interchange is that Linda is driving and I’m in the passenger seat. She notices every license plate and every person using their phone. She has stories about each of them. She spies every live creature. Our running joke is the vast amount of activity she takes in while driving — and in almost every other situation, actually — leaving me to wonder if I need new glasses or a brain transplant (where are you, Igor?). In my defense, I argue that one of us ought to be looking at the highway (but I know this is simply deflection – Linda is a good driver)!

Now, I am talking about observation while in motion… not the watchful stillness that challenges you to keep still and take in all the detail around you without reacting. I’m also not talking about forest bathing (which until recently I thought was washing in the woods). Most of the time, I am in motion – rushing to get something done, planning ahead, because I’m always behind. I miss a lot. For instance, Linda and I are on a walking path in Old Forge and we pass a property sprouting garden gnomes under a copse of old pines. When she stops to look, I remind her that we trying to achieve an aerobic experience. She replies: “Details are important – and you miss them. How many gnomes were there?” I say: “Seven… and Snow White was in the tree?” She says: “There were four gnomes — I really worry about you!”

Well, true dat! Then I read this contribution in Quora… and it got me to considering….

As Told by Jay Matthews in Quora:

———
A student visited a Zen master and was shocked to find him naked in his cabin.

The student said:

Why don’t you put on some pants?


The master replied:

The world is my body and this cabin is my pants.

What are you doing in my pants?

“This cute story is designed to get us thinking about whether awareness is actually located in the body.

When you look at a tree, where exactly does your looking stop and the tree begin?

What we call “the world” is a collection of sense-impressions. Beyond and apart from these impressions, there is no world. The Vedic sages had a brilliant way of describing this:

They said what we think of as the body, mind, and world can be better described as a series of layers, like Russian dolls.

“The world” is visual, auditory, and tactile sense-impressions.
[I’d add gustatory and scent as well– wc]

“The body” is impressions of pleasure or pain.

“The mind” is emotions and thoughts.

When we don’t have any impressions, there is no world, body, or mind. When we have impressions, all three arise together.”
———

Linda clearly is open to the world-impressions. So what impressions am I working with? It seems to me that I tend to retreat inside mind-impressions. When I’m driving a distance, I either drift into daydreams or focus on counting regimented items, e.g., how many Walmart vs. Target trucks we pass. If I’m really inspired, I add Dollar General, Family Dollar, and Amazon. (If you’re interested, Walmart trucks generally out-number the rest of this group two-to-one). In order to remember the count, I keep repeating the count to myself (e.g., ‘28-9-5-3-1’) and so forth, upping the count with each new truck. Well, this becomes a mantra while I drive and after a while, I fall into a frame where the flow of traffic and branded highway haulers become a drumbeat.  My mind flows to another place. Is this meditation – or just a mind-numbing trance? Maybe I’m just an enumerator? Who knows?

Now, I’m curious — what do you spy, when you are in motion?

Return to Sloansville by LL Barkat

I close my eyes,
blot out one hundred
and fifty shale driveways
pickup trucks, Ford
pintos, trailers barely
tied to this ground
by wires, gas lines
cable TV.

I can still see
dirt road, Queen
Anne’s Lace, goldenrod
blue chicory,
field mice nesting
under leaning timothy
and the apple orchard
rooted beyond tall firs

where a woman
in navy sweat pants
and red Budweiser t-shirt
is just now hanging laundry
to drift upon the wind,
sing with ghosts
of spring white
blossoms, honeybees.

Observation in Motion

This topic has me puzzled.  I tried doing some research on how one makes observations while in motion; more specifically, what equips an individual to make accurate and lasting observations of unrelated objects while attending to the priority of safe driving?  Other than the scientific explanations of the role of neurons in the frontal section of the brain, I was unable to find any useful information.  This is likely due to my inability to construct a meaningful (to Google) question that gets at my intention.

In Wal’s scenario, Linda is able to read license plates, notices drivers talking on cell phones, and sees turkeys on the side of the road while safely driving but Wal, a passenger with no obvious responsibilities for arriving safely at their destination, does not.  Now one could infer that noting the license plates indicates where the cars are and how close, drivers on their cell phones could become distracted, and turkeys on the side of the road could decide to cross the road.  All of these are potential threats to safe driving and we could conclude that Linda is using her powers of observation to support her defensive driving mode.

I am rarely a passenger so I easily defer to my lack of seeing what my partner Teresa sees while we’re driving because I’m clearly focused on driving.  However, she too, observes far more details when driving than do I.  And, she too is a good driver.  So, in this sample of two – Linda and Teresa – one might point to a gender-based difference.  After all, based on Jose Mathew’s very clever and funny explanation (in my humble and biased opinion) of how men and women’s brains are wired, the explanation is quite evident! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQJTbCAAc6w)

Or is it possible that Wal and I notice different things to inform us to also drive safely?  Or, could we see the same things but send a latent message to our brain to ignore the details and focus only on the big picture of how any of these might impact our driving?  Is one style better than another in terms of driving safety? In a NY Times article written by Nicolas Bakalar on April 27, 2020 he states,  “Women tend to be better drivers than men — much better, judging by the number of deaths they cause on the road.”  And, in an article in The Blog, written by Rebecca Shambaugh in March of 2016 she states, “Women tend to absorb more information through their senses and store more of it in the brain for other uses than men do. Therefore, women generally have more interest in details and pay more attention to them than men do.”

While I don’t know if there is a direct correlation between safe driving and attention to details, based on these findings, I may want to spend more time training myself to use both sides of my brain more often than does a typical male!

I also suspect age may play a role here.  I process things much more slowly and tend to remember less, especially details.   Perhaps I used to see many more things while still paying attention to the road.  Of course, in my over-confident youthdom I may have done so without paying the attention I should have to my driving and was just lucky.  Unfortunately, I’ll never kqnow because…I can’t remember!

On the positive side, I’m grateful to Wal for posing this topic for consideration as I now find myself spending a little more time looking around at my surroundings while appreciating even more, Teresa’s ability to notice so much.

“All of us are watchers – of television, of time clocks, of traffic on the freeway – but few are observers. Everyone is looking, not many are seeing.” Peter M. Leschak

Do You See What I See?

I never gave this much thought until Wally brought the topic up. But since then, every time I drive now I’m paying attention to what I am observing.  I should start by saying that in general I am observant.  I usually observe the little details as opposed to the big picture! If I’m sitting on my porch looking out over the yard, I tend to notice not just visual things but noise as well, and smells.  But they usually aren’t the predominant visual, sound or fragrance.  I see the mole hole in my grass but not the gully formed by the rain running off the gutters. I hear the mourning dove on the garage roof before I hear the ambulance siren going down the street.  It must be just the way I’m wired! 

So now when I drive away from my house I am trying to catch myself observing things without purposely trying to manipulate what it is I am observing.  I haven’t had a ticket in 7 years so I am assuming I am an ok driver.  For two of those years I was driving to Vermont and back every weekend so I was putting quite a few miles on my jeep. What I have discovered is I study the cars around me. I don’t always identify the make as many of the models today all look similar.  But what I realized is, I study stickers and decals from places visited.  I get annoyed at the “Baby on Board” ones like if there aren’t babies can I crash into your rear end?  Or the cute little mommy and daddy with 5 or 6 little stickers next to them and maybe a pup or kitty.  I had to laugh the other day seeing such a sticker with 7 little stickers following them and someone finger wrote on the dust of the trunk, “how do you have time to even drive around?”  Something I might have written myself!   I also read license plates, especially the vanity plates and if I can’t figure out what it is supposed to be saying I invariably remark to myself, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”   Unfortunately, I don’t notice the big things, just the details! 

Now, here is something I realized I go out of my way to do when I am driving after dark and on local roads in my neighborhood.  I discovered I do it all the time when driving alone.  I look into people’s houses. Into windows that have lights on just to try to imagine what their lives are like. I like to see how the room is decorated and imagine their lives and then I develop an entire history of the family.  The husband is a school bus driver and his wife is a registered nurse. They have one daughter who is an honor student in high school.  Christmas times is especially fun to see the Christmas trees and decorations as I drive passed the bright windows.  If there is a silhouette that I can see from the car as I drive by, that is an added bonus and helps me fill

in the details of their boring or exciting life bed judging from what I observed as I passed by.  Making up stories about their lives just prevents me from getting bored while I’m driving.  If I am not near any buildings then I have to check out who is in the car next to me, assign a destination for them and a story as to why they are going there. 

Thanks Wal, I never realized how weird I am until now.  The observations are important but creating the stories that go along with them is really fun.  I’ll go away now!

In junior high school, a concept that no longer exists, we were required to take a course in typing, to prepare us for the future.  We each sat in front of a typewriter, a machine that no longer exists, that had no letters on the keys.  Instead we had to look up at the blackboard, replaced by white boards, with a chart that had all the letters on the keys. We were not allowed to look down at the keyboard but had to learn which fingers were used for which letters.  Home base was “a,s,d,f—j,k,l,;” The thumb was only used to hit the space bar! I got pretty good at it and could type a lot of words a minute- which was how we were scored- words per minute and accuracy, another obsolete concept.  You always indented 5 spaces to start a new paragraph, and after a period you had to have 2 spaces.  Simple, easy to understand and easy to read!  All that has changed over the years.  My life is like the typing class!  Things were simple and consistent giving me a sense of security and comfort. 

     But just lik….ooops

But just like typing, life as changed as well.  Things that I used to feel comfortable with and safe have evolved to things that are not as comfortable for me today.  I would like to say Change is my middle name!  But I would have to change my first name to Can’t!  Of course I know change is inevitable, I grew taller, went through puberty, my voice changed, hair styles changed, friends moved on and new ones entered my life, I couldn’t wait to be older!  Sorry I spent so much time wishing for that one!  Life goes on……and most of the time we don’t even realize it is happening.  The changes just get incorporated into our lives and we don’t even realize it.  

I have been thinking about my Aunt Eleanor, who was born in 1907 and lived to be 99. In her lifetime there were incredible changes, advances in every possible field and life in general. I wish I had asked her how she dealt with it. From horse and buggies, to motor cars, from walk up apartments to elevators, ice boxes to refrigerators, it is mind boggling.  But through it all she survived and prospered.  She went from being a tatter in the garment district in NYC to being a key punch operator for Horn and Hardarts.  No such jobs exist today.  Things are constantly changing. As kids we used to make crank calls. Picked a number from the phone book (remember those?) called the number and when the person answered we would ask, “Is your refrigerator running? and when they would answer yes we would suggest they better run after it!  Harmless!  Today I get crank calls all the time that there is a problem with a bill but they can fix it if I send them $200. in gift cards. I’m too smart for that, but there are many people, especially seniors who get scared and do it.  I guess my point is that change isn’t always good.

I wonder what Aunt Eleanor thought when a man walked on the moon?

I have adapted to change out of necessity!  Can’t say I like it all but I have to learn to live with it.  At my age now, with my body working slower and my mind in rhythm with my body, things can sometimes be difficult.  I have a lot of friends who are pretty technical and can ride with the tide all of these computer advances, while a smaller group of us have to be pulled along into acceptance whether we like it or not.  My friends schedule activities and say they have to check their phones.  Phones are for calling people not for keeping track of stuff!  I, however have to wait to get home and check my wall calendar to see if I am available on that date.  Laughter and jeering subside after a few moments.  I also get all my bills through the US Post Office, an admirable institution and neatly pile all my bills on my desk until it is time to write the checks and record them in my little register to make sure I don’t over draw my resources.  You should hear my friends then……guffaws, you still write checks????  Yeah! I still write checks and still balance my checkbook, how else do you know how much money you have?  I can take being the dinosaur of the group and being the brunt of all the jokes but it is one place where life slows down and I can comfortably deal.  I will let you in on a little secret… I still double space after a period and no amount of joking will make me change.  And even though I have learned to text on my phone, I can never do it with my thumbs.  My one pointer finger sends all my messages and I’m proud of it.

Call me old fashioned, I have been called a lot worse.  I sit on my back porch with a glass of wine and my dog and in that peace and quiet, I take solace from that one brief moment where nothing seems to change, and all is good with the world!

Doing the Two Space

It’s interesting how we all criticized our elders’ resistance to change – until we became them! Is it possible that each generation enacts change partially to distinguish themselves from their forebears?

A lot of change is effective technical or cultural enhancement, but a portion is simply fashion…  like demonizing punctuation (and maybe the two-space guidance after a period). That sort of change for change’s sake leaves me cold if I can’t see a tangible benefit. In fact, I see a degradation of information by eliminating periods or other markers which help stage manage communication. A continued trend toward simplification in language increases the speed of communication, but not the quality. If you figure that George has inserted those two spaces between sentences at least 100,000 times in his life, you have to conclude that it is a pretty well-worn behavior – and that he’s really good at it. So why change? 

Needless change distracts from other important tasks – and it’s made more difficult by ‘proactive inhibition’. That’s when the old behavior competes with the new resulting in a lot of inconsistency. It’s worse, when the change is not much different than the old behavior (one space after a period). Change is also practice. The temptation is to stick with the tried and true (e.g., adding two spaces after the punctuation). It not only (literally) makes a statement, but it also expresses homage to those who taught you – a mark of loyalty. And it sets the azimuth of reality at a comfortable angle.

Yet, there are plenty of innovations that are worthy of adoption – perhaps even necessary for safety and survival. Years ago, I took a class with Margaret Mead titled Culture and Communication, in which she underlined the speed of cultural acquisition – the ability of disparate cultures to integrate breakthroughs introduced in far-away places. Good ideas travel quickly! However, she also believed that the rate of change was rapidly accelerating, leaving some individuals incapable or unwilling to make the leap that cultural change demands. Her example (at that time) was how the children raised on TV differed from their WWII predecessors who lived in a world of radio and print communication. I wonder what she would have thought of the generation raised by the holy trinity of internet, wi-fi and cell phone?

To large degree, we all tend to stick with the tried and true, but what might work at low-tide, is a losing proposition at high-tide. Settling-in can also mean sinking under. Some of my older friends eschewed computers and internet service as unwanted complications — and found that neighbors knew more about their children’s activities (through social media) than they did. They discovered that vaccination appointments had to be made online. One could rightly argue that there should be safety nets for the vulnerable (or simply stubborn) segments of our society, but the message is clear that it is unwise to ignore the tidal influence of change.

“We’re Only Haunted…” by Bridgett Devoue

we’re only haunted

by the things

we refuse

to accept

Embracing Change

Experience has provided the opportunity for me to understand and embrace change.  Like George, I don’t always seek it or relish that which is thrust upon me, but I accept that change is inevitable and ongoing.  Nothing really stays the same.  Just like the saying that you can’t step into the same river twice, everything around us, including us, is in a constant state of change.

I remember watching my grandmother forcefully resist change.  What she was taught and what she taught her children was the right way.  She was certain that her definition of manners and discipline were everlasting and the modern, more casual behaviors with dress, how children treated adults, and dating outside one’s religion would lead to society’s downfall.  Her children’s taste in music was questionable but listening to and watching such wanton people as Elvis Presley convinced her of the demise of my generation.  And when Russia launched Sputnik in 1957 she knew that climatic anomalies were the consequences of dabbling in areas we weren’t meant to be.  She knew what she knew and no logic or other forms of reasoning were going to change that.  When I entered my twenties, I vowed to remember the things I so loved about my grandmother but not to close my mind to an ever-changing world and isolate that part of myself from my children and grandchildren.

Fast forward to today and I find myself better understanding from whence she came as well as George’s happy place on his porch, with his dog and a glass of wine.  But I also appreciate that my high school typing class allows me to use the computer with relative ease and my enthusiasm for learning new things has endured these many years so that I look forward to the latest IPhone, the software updates on my Tesla, and learning the sport of pickle ball in my seventies.  I admit I sometimes vacillate between the “simplicity” of the good old days when there seemed to be fewer choices that then seemed limiting but now feel less complicated, and the wonders of today’s limitless technologies that help make our lives easier and medically, more repairable.  And I also realize, that it’s how I bring myself to each change that I face, that helps decide whether it is friend or foe.

Change is inevitable

Growth is optional

– John C. Maxwell

“Change is the law of life, and those who look only to the past and present are certain to miss the future” -John F. Kennedy

The need to be heard is deeply embedded in me.  When I feel the listener gets what I’m trying to convey (even if they don’t agree) a physical sense of contentment comes over me.  On the flip side, when my words are ignored or replaced with the listener’s own story or interests, a combination of anger, upset, and frustration consume me.  It’s the way I’m wired.  

As a result of being this way, I purposely remind myself (because I still forget to follow my preference for being a good listener) to use one of the seven habits of highly effective people created by author Stephen Covey: Seek first to understand, then to be understood.  I actually prefer to listen first.  It helps me determine whether it is a good time for the other person to engage in an open dialogue or not.  What I hear gives me clues about what they are interested in and enables me to make a connection before I enter into a dialogue that might be important only to me.  Often, I’m not even aware that I’m doing this.  Only now, as I develop this piece on listening, am I cognizant that this seems to be what I do and why.  

I’m not sure why I get so frustrated by those who appear to be disconnected from what I say or disingenuous when they ask me a question and then choose to ignore my response and follow a strand that leads them to tell their own story.  I remember vividly, being in a meeting with about 15 school administrator colleagues and the topic was an issue that I felt was extremely important to the future of the district.  We were asked to prepare our comments ahead of time and we would all be given a chance to present them for discussion before a decision was made. When it was my turn, I spoke with what I felt was intention, clarity, and passion.  When I finished the facilitator simply said, “Okay” and when on to another person.  There was no asking if anyone had any questions, how they felt, the pros and cons of my proposal on the issue, or even a thank you for my thinking.  It was as if I hadn’t even spoken.  I didn’t know it at the time, but my friend and colleague seated next to me said he felt me rising out of my chair and, sensing my immense frustration, rubbed my back as one would do to a small child who was about to explode with rage.  The final decision appeared to be a fait accompli and therefore, in the end, none of our ideas or suggestions seemed to matter.

As I thought about that incident throughout my career, I vowed never to allow any of my constituents to feel dismissed or unheard.  Of course I had no control of how people might feel and even though I worked hard at getting to understand what my staff and teammates might be saying, I’m sure I missed some along the way.  But I realized that as long as I tried to understand and acknowledge their meaning and intention, they should never feel as dismissed and unheard as I did at that meeting.

I have known both extremes to the behavior of listening.  I once worked with a woman who had developed such a devotion to listening to others that she never spoke of or about herself.  She deflected questions with one or few word answers and immediately defaulted to asking about the other person.  She remembered details about their last conversation and quickly engaged them.  People felt heard, cared for, and valued by her.  Somehow, for me, there was a void in not knowing her opinions or more about her own life.

There are others, of course, who have such a need to share or vent or explain that they often dominate a conversation or take what I say and link it to their own story.  Sometimes, it enhances what I was trying to illustrate but much of the time it misses my point and becomes more about them.  It is in those times that I become quiet.

I’ve learned a few things about myself when it comes to listening:

• I need to increase my tolerances for listening, interruptions, and storytelling             
• Less talk and more thought make conversations more fulfilling
• Blogging gives me all the time I need to tell my stories and share my opinions

“When we listen, we hear someone into existence.”― Laurie Buchanan, PhD

The Wise Old Owl

I have a problem.  Ask Henry or Wally and they will tell you.  But there is a reason, and I know I have used this excuse before in defense of other bad habits, but it is fitting.  I am Italian.  As Henry and Wally let me know every time we are together, either by a roll of eyes or a forced cough, I interrupt, break into their discourse and have to share an idea. A jury would find me guilty. But back to the Italian thing.  My extended family consisted of about 15 free ranging Italians all hungry and waiting for dinner to be served.  Momentarily while the food was being placed on the table there was a hush that came over the dining room.  As soon as my dad sat down at the head of the table all Hell broke loose.  My aunts would announce that they weren’t really hungry and they would just pick, as they filled their plates with everything in sight.  At first the conversation was, “please pass the macaroni” and then evolved into ,”Gimme the Italian bread!”  This wasn’t done in polite courteous discourse, it soon became cruder and louder and all at the same time.  As a child I learned that I couldn’t just wait for a pause in the chatter because there was never a pause, so you had to raise your voice and as a kid occasionally stand up and point to what you wanted.  If I just waited for a pause in the conversation I would starve plus after a few minutes my mom, my dad or my aunts would shout across the table to me with, “What’s the matter, why aren’t you eating anything? ” So with that as my background it is a hard habit to break.

On the other hand, my Welsh grandfather would quote the wise old owl (not sure what scholar really came up with this so I can’t include his name in the credits) and tell my brother and I that we were born with one mouth and two ears, so we were meant to listen twice as much as we spoke. Not bad advice at all.  But being a little kid and a snarky one at that, I would always say he should come to one of our Sunday dinners and bring that owl. But Grampa would just say, “When in Rome……” which I didn’t really understand because we lived in Flushing  So breaking the habits of interrupting and speaking loudly has been a life long goal and obviously one I have not yet achieved.  I don’t do it to be rude, much of the time something that was said got me excited and I wanted to contribute and having no vocal boundaries I just jumped right in. I do admit that sometimes during a conversation, a pretty bird or an insect or something attracts my attention and I want the other people to see it too so I interrupt again.  Habits are hard to break and having little self discipline interferes with my success.  To this predicament aging is also a contributing factor. If I don’t tell you my idea right now, by the time you stop talking I may have lost it…….just sayin’.

I was a teacher for 35 years and a union president for the last 10.  So I had to listen. The union position was especially difficult because I had to listen to a teacher’s problems. If I was sitting at my desk in the office I would be pinching my knee beneath my desk reminding me not to interrupt.  And that worked for the most part.  Everyone wants to be heard. I know that and it is probably because of my insecurities that I force myself on others to be heard.  It isn’t because I’m not listening or not interested, it is just that I am convinced I have something so important to share that I just can’t wait for the pause so I watch very closely to see when the person takes a breath and jump in.

I have a lot of work to do still and I’m running out of time.  Old dogs take a lot longer to learn new tricks.  Shiny objects always attract my attention and I am so sorry to hear about your broken leg, but Look, an army tank just drove passed the house!

Vocal Boundaries

I think George is onto something in raising the issue of vocal boundaries – and crossing them in order to be heard. I suppose that in a competitive environment, you need to be assertive to make a point, even if that means interrupting or changing the topic of conversation. But is all conversation really competitive? Is conversational space a scarce resource?

George and I kid about interrupting Hen before he can say 25 words.  It’s a joke, because Hen does not blather on, but rather gets to a point pretty efficiently. We can tease Hen, because he is generally pretty tolerant about being conversationally short-sheeted. Similarly, I might roll my eyes at George, whenever he jumps in to take the conversation in a different direction. The eye-roll is not meant to be demeaning:  I (and Hen) appreciate George’s spontaneity and wit – and the conversation usually becomes more interesting. The bottom line is that we are comfortable with each other and realize that we all care enough to eventually give one another the opportunity to express a point of view, despite eye-rolls, interruptions, and lots of laughter.

Caring is the key. George’s family could cross vocal boundaries, because they demonstrated in a hundred ways that they recognized each other as people that mattered. It seems to be a different story when someone demonstrates that you are not valued enough to be allowed conversational space – and worse — gloss over your ideas without really listening. Unfortunately, I’ll bet we’ve all been on both sides of that discourse!

It seems to me that the urge to dominate the airwaves increases with age. Many of my senior friends feel compelled to share their stories — either before it’s too late, or before they forget. There is rarely a drop-the-mic moment, because the mic is held in a death-grip. I don’t buy George’s point that the urge to share doesn’t interfere with listening (sorry for the double negative!). Of course it does: the teller is focusing on the next point instead of asking questions for clarification. 

To go even further, I suggest (as many others have suggested) that the inability to repeat back what another person has said to you – in a manner that causes the other to signal that you heard correctly – is a major national problem these days. Wonder what would happen if we took a rule to share stories, one-for-one and asked as many questions as we used declaratives?

excerpt from Please Just Listen by Jessie Swick

…”Perhaps that’s why prayer works—because god is mute,
And he doesn’t give advice or try
To fix things,
God just listens and lets you work
it out for yourself.
So please listen, and just hear me.
And if you want to talk, wait a minute
For your turn—and I will listen to you.”

When we started this blog, it was our goal to depict a first-person record of our thoughts for our friends, children and grandchildren. Maybe this record could start a conversation or provide an insight that would benefit someone. Sometimes this writing is tough for me, because I’m just an ‘everyman’, whose experiences are mostly alike to just about all the folks who read our posts. So, here’s a recent dilemma – perhaps you’ve felt the same.

I believe that most people make decisions with their heart and then rationalize why they are logical decisions. However, there are times when logic and doubt put the brakes on that decision, rendering a full-hearted decision into a half-hearted enterprise. I tend to do that frequently. A case in point:

An acquaintance asked me for a favor, a man in his later nineties. Would I act as the executor for his will as he had no family or close friend to help him? Sure, I said – of course. “Whoa”, my brain’s executive function replied – “What are you getting us into?” Well, said I, it’s the right thing to do, after all, he’s alone and I’ll just provide the administrative work to satisfy his last wishes, which were to donate his estate to a charity that helps burn victims – and to ensure that the ashes of his deceased dog get buried with him.

It started off with some bumps. I realized soon into the process, that my friend (I will call him friend, because we now have a certain relationship) has a communication style which tends to alienate quite a lot of folks. If asked a question he does not wish to answer, he simply refuses to acknowledge the query, stares straight ahead, and pretends he doesn’t speak the language (yet English is his only language). If the question is repeated, he may deflect by becoming antagonistic. This pattern makes it very difficult to deal with lawyers, who want to define the set of assets and stipulations in his will and funeral directors, who attempt to identify the conditions of being laid to rest. Later, I found out that this style also doesn’t help medical professionals who are trying to determine what hurts and under what circumstances. Clearly, his needs were less for an executor, but more for a care-giver and public relations specialist.

It became starkly apparent when my friend slipped in his steep driveway and had to go to the emergency room. From there, he was shunted to a rehabilitation center for two months. During this time, we worked through his bills and arranged a safe return to his house, with added handicapped assistance and occupational therapy. Bill-paying took some time, because my friend only pays with a credit card and only by telephone, and only when his hearing aids worked. His philosophy is that if creditors didn’t make it easy to pay (e.g., no checks, no computer, no long telephone menu, no foreign accents), well, then they didn’t need his money. Shopping also became an issue, because he has specific – and limited — tastes which are distributed among several grocery stores.

Around this time, I became half-hearted. Although I wanted to help, nothing seemed to satisfy my friend. Every problem had a particular – and not quite obvious — acceptable solution. Also, running around to different stores for special cereal, orange juice brands, bread, and non-dairy creamers is just not my thing. In addition, desired brands were not always available due to stocking and supply chain issues. Bananas with absolutely no spots, white bread with expiration dates of two weeks or more, one brand of cheese, two types of cereal in a particular volume, razor-thin sliced angus, and one type of non-dairy creamer – a gallon at a clip, were judged to standards beyond my enthusiasm level. Products and people all seemed to be sources of irritation to my friend, even those people who were helping him in some fashion. I found myself parlaying excuses for delaying my visits. I kept saying to myself, I’m supposed to be learning something from this situation, but I could not figure it out.

I was mad at myself for not really engaging; resentment was weighing me down. Being half-hearted is bad for your health. The Bible has a relevant verse about this:

“I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

Boy, that fit. Yoda also has a verse:

“Do or do not. There is no try.” 

Well, that pinned me – either do or don’t. I realize that I needed to see this as a situation where I should be happy that I’m able to do something to help my friend… and lucky that I have a wife who is game to assist. Finally, I became content with understanding that I may never figure out what I’m supposed to learn from this experience. And as soon as that happened, I learned some things!

1. People, particularly seniors, want to be recognized: they are afraid of becoming irrelevant; want to be seen and understood. But that’s not enough
2. People want you to care. You cannot do that in a half-hearted manner. Showing up isn’t enough: you have to listen to their stories and be invested. Regularity and attention to detail will also help
3. Understand that even if help is required, it is rarely welcomed. Folks may not show their best side, particularly if that have reason to come from a position of general mistrust. In my case, being judged for shopping skills was not the point. It was to ensure that I listened to my friend’s needs. Once that was satisfied, he compromised on his brand requirements
4. Those abrasive and judgmental behaviors could easily be my personality style in similar circumstances. Look at yourself and learn to age with grace.  

Age with Grace

I was having trouble trying to connect with Wally’s half-heartedness.  I have never been in a situation like that where I have been tested.  Wally is his own worst critic and I admire how he stepped up and helped this guy out.

I aspire to be like him, Wally not the cranky old guy.  Perhaps I have never been in that position because I have been too afraid to make that leap of faith and people recognized that in me and never approached me. Wally has shared his experiences with this gentleman, and I often thought were it me I would be stomping my feet, throwing things, and cursing at the moodiness and abruptness that Wally’s generosity was dealt with by this guy. I just couldn’t ‘relate until the last three words of Wally’s text….. Age With Grace.
I immediately was enveloped in the snarky state that I am known for…. But Wally, your wife is named Linda!  Sometimes I do that because the topic of discussion is too painful to address intellectually.  I have accomplished much in my life that has made me proud but doing it with grace is not one of my strong suits.  To age with grace is quite a concept., and quite a task to accomplish.  Those of us who are fortunate enough to age, do it in various ways. Our culture doesn’t revere aging the way other cultures do, and as a result we are often taken advantage of, teased, or discounted.  Aging gracefully may be more an aspect of how those around us treat us rather than anything we do “gracefully.”  I often joke that I have earned my curmudgeon license and enjoy using it. Old people are known for their crankiness, and ornery-ness.  Our society doesn’t always treat seniors with patience and respect, and as a result many seniors respond to society without that value and respect, they/we expect.  Just look at all the hackers and computer thieves who prey on seniors to get our money over the phone or through the computer because we aren’t smart enough to know better.  Throw in some fear and add confusion and we are easy prey to these crooks.
I fear growing older more like Wally’s friend than Jimmy Carter and that troubles me.  Being alone late in life is very difficult.  Sure, I have caring kids who will always take care of me but I don’t want them to have to do that.  And having kids is different than having a partner.  You can’t talk to your kids the same as you can with a spouse or close friend.  At least to me it seems inappropriate to talk about certain things with my kids that I could easily share with someone who has known me intimately for a long time.  I guess I am quickly approaching the category of cranky old geezer and leaving behind the helpful younger caretaker who graciously gives his time to help out someone in need.
I turned 76 a few weeks ago and suddenly felt old.  Nothing changed from how I felt the day before, but the number was scary.  Sure, 76 trombones led the big parade but I don’t have a parade in me anymore.  I have friends around my age who are dealing with problems with their hands and feet, pain and numbness like I do.  I am waiting for the day to come when my kids decide dad shouldn’t be driving anymore- one of the last strongholds for seniors to feel independent Thank goodness for back up cameras because I have trouble turning my head around to see what I am backing into.  The camera allows me the security of signaling if I am in danger of crashing into anything.  But there are so many little reminders like that that seniors experience in a day, and the indignity that accompanies them.  You really have to be brave to get older, the body slowly deteriorates and so does the mind.  In the course of a conversation, we lose words.  That bugs me most of all, when you have to use the definition of a word because you can’t retrieve the word itself. I went to the, ah, you know, the heart doctor….. right the cardiologist.  So, I understand what Wally’s friend is going through.  Sometimes I wonder if he gives Wal a list of things just to see how far Wal will go to get everything.  But you can tell even with this gentleman his recent life has been very lonely and having a human to talk to every now and then is essential. I know the guy has a good heart because he wants his best friend’s ashes to be buried with him.  I know how deep that connection is.  I wouldn’t have made it through Covid without mine.  I will strive to age with grace…….or Rick, or Mary….or Fred, but perhaps that aspect of life will escape me.

With a Full Heart…

In this thought-provoking piece, Wal asks us to think about how fully we bring ourselves to the task of helping others, how we respond to those things that get in the way of making it a fulfilling experience, and what we can learn from the entire experience.  These questions also apply to relationships and work. 

There have been numerous times when I did the right thing for the right reasons but not with a positive attitude.  I was unhappy about my commitment and wished I was somewhere else, but I had given my word and felt I needed to honor it.  And while I’m sure it was apparent to everyone around me, I still felt that they should accept my unsmiling face with appreciation since, after all, I was doing what was expected.  This was not how I wanted it to be, but, at the time, didn’t feel there were any viable alternatives.

I remember one time when I was to accompany my former partner and her daughter to the wedding of her friend.  I hardly knew the friend or the groom and it was a weekend long affair.  To add insult to injury, it was one of those spectacular fall weekends when the weather was perfect for hiking, biking, or anything outdoors and I was really unhappy.  Then, I realized that I had a choice!  I decided that it would be better off for everyone if I stayed home and excused myself from the wedding event.  My partner and her daughter could enjoy the event and they wouldn’t have to worry about me sitting indoors with people I didn’t know and wishing I were somewhere else.  I assumed that this was a legitimate request as my partner had excused herself from an outing or two that she wouldn’t have liked and that had been acceptable to me.  I was wrong.  Even though I was clear and direct, they both were adamant that I should come, that I would have a great time, and they would be extremely unhappy if I didn’t.  So I went…begrudgingly, angrily, and more moody than I’ve ever been.  I was miserable and so were they.  We arrived, they got out while I parked the car, and when I entered the venue, I discovered it was actually a surprise party for me for my fiftieth birthday!

Eckhart Tolle offers three healthy ways to address such issues that move us closer to acting with a full heart and with less suffering.  He suggests that when we are faced with a situation in which we are a participant who is struggling with the conditions or circumstances of what we are doing, we can actively seek to change it, completely accept it, or leave.

In the case I described above, I did first seek to change the situation by offering to stay behind and supporting their interest in going.  However, instead of accepting the situation after I agreed to go, I feel back into a less than half-hearted position.  I made myself miserable and those around me who were, in fact, trying to surprise me with something I would truly enjoy.  I have never forgotten that lesson.  All I had to do was take a deep breath, let go of where I wanted to be, and enjoy the ride.  Instead, I not only lost those hours of living well but numerous minutes and hours regretting it.

“If you’re willing to give me
Give me your all
I like things whole and imperfect
So don’t give me perfect halves
For I don’t like to go for things
half-heartedly
and I don’t like to be gone for
half-heartedly.”
― Sherihan Gamal

Not long ago, while meeting friends for lunch in uptown Kingston, I happened to park where I have many times before. Kingston is known for its old stone houses, In fact, the “Stockade” four corners is an intersection whose claim to fame is that it is the oldest four corners of original stone houses from the late 1600’s in America and survived the burning of Kingston by the British.  I parked on a side street not far from there in front of one of those old stone houses, abandoned and roofless with grass growing inside the walls.  Normally I park the car and head to wherever I’m going, but this time I really looked at this skeleton of a house.  It captured my attention.  Perhaps it was the stonework, or the sun shining inside the empty rooms with dirt floors and vegetation growing between the rock walls.  I decided to invite myself inside and sat in one of the rock chairs placed awkwardly around the structure.  I sat silently for a moment and just looked around.  I could identify the boundaries of a few rooms and tried to imagine the kitchen, living room and whatever other rooms might have been in the floor plan.  The floors were rocky also and covered in grass and weeds.  My imagination was running wild as I purveyed the scene and imagined what life was like In this house 400 years ago. What did it look like, what sounds did they hear back then! 

I could see the remnants of two chimneys, and as I looked out what once were windows I imagined what the view would be like.  Certainly different from the firehouse next door and the parking lot of a popular bakery and restaurant across the street. I imagined fields of corn, maybe a few barns or sheds.  Maybe a plow or two strewn in the barnyard. I imagined settlers tending the crops, women preparing food and doing chores.  But what I tried to imagine the most were children. We’re they out playing games in the yard or helping dad with the crops.  Those were the boys of course because the girls were helping mom in the kitchen.  My mind went to an image of today’s kids with video games, phones, and tv, not helping their parents but just obsessed with the technology.

I looked around more and wondered what life was like back then for the family.   I was always interested in history but never really thought about how different life was.  For example, were they worried about money, was there money?  They worked the farm and “sold” their crops or did they barter for what they needed. Did they have bills to pay, and how did they do that? When the day’s work was done did they all sit by the fire and talk, did they read and chat about the neighbors or the kids?  I imagine a much quieter household than we are used to.  I suspect the children listened better and knew better than to question their parents’ words. A much different vision than today’s homes with everyone on some device or other without any interaction. What was hanging on their walls, no photographs obviously, but did they decorate the walls? I can visualize the kitchen but the other rooms are harder to picture.  The kids probably lived in a loft tucked under the eaves, with small wooden beds and mattresses of straw, all home made.

Then the judgments started.  Were they better off than we are today?  Life was definitely harder, people had to be self sufficient, independent and families had to care for themselves without the help of specialists.  They had to be carpenters, stone masons, and any other skilled laborer that was needed. I think about it and wonder how I ever would have survived in a culture like that. I forgot about lunch and kind of woke up from my stupor.  I politely excused myself to the gracious hosts of this long ago thriving household and joined my friends in the noise and rush and clutter of today’s world and wondered once again who was better off!

Past Tense

I’m pretty familiar with the remnant of the stone structure that George describes. It does lend itself to thinking about times past and how people lived, particularly, since it was also the site of the Esopus Massacre. 

Imagine a great fence of upright poles surrounding several blocks of the settlement where this house stood: basically, a fortress. The stockade was built by Peter Stuyvesant in 1658 to protect the fledgling settlement of Wiltwyck, now Kingston. During the day, the men went to work the fields near the Esopus River and the gates were closed. However, there were also days where the Munsee tribe of the Lenape were admitted for purposes of trade.

On one of those days, a coordinated attack of the settlement of Nieuw Dorp (New Town) and within the stockade of Wiltwyck was commenced. Nieuw Dorp was burned to the ground and eighteen inhabitants of Wiltwyk were killed. Forty-four women and children were abducted. Thus started the Second Esopus Indian War in 1661.

It was a pretty dangerous and difficult existence 350 years ago! 

While I do believe that happiness is relative – people will find purpose and satisfaction in any given time period – I don’t have any yearnings to live in earlier times. Eric Sloane chronicled the diary of fifteen-year-old Noah Blake, originally written in 1805. Circumstances still do not seem so appealing:

March 27:  Father was wrong about the weather, for it snowed again today. We kept within the house, sharpening and making ready tools for the year’s farming.

March 28: Snow stopp’d during the night, but it is very cold. My window glass is frosty and my ink froze.

April 9: Flooding all but washed our bridge away. Father says the new bridge beams are seasoned and ready. When the waters subside, he shall begin to erect it. We are shaping up the abutments.

Focus tended to be on the many tasks that needed to be completed: plowing, mending, transporting stone for the bridge, building sheds and mills. It’s clear that neighbors needed to stick together to finish larger tasks – a real positive, given the reality of today where folks might not even know their neighbors. 

Kids like Noah had friends – and helped their parents with tasks. Faith was a social glue as well: many of Noah’s entrees highlighted church services and the opportunity to visit with a girl his age. I have a church pew taken from a demolished church which dates to 1804… I know this because children carved their names and dates into the back of the pew – likely during a service. I was struck by the neatness and skill of the graffiti. 

While I admire the craftsmanship that was in the DNA of folks 200 years ago, I would not want to live in that time: if for nothing else, think of the learning resources we have at our fingertips – we are ignorant only if we want to be. So, thanks for the efforts of our forebears – they had challenges and enjoyments suitable for their circumstances – but I’m happy to be in this present… even with its problems.

Excerpt from The Present by Adelaide Anne Proctor

Do not crouch to-day and worship

   The dead Past, whose life has fled

Hush your voice in tender reverence

   Crowned he lies, but cold and dead:

For the Present reigns, our monarch,

   With an added weight of hours;

Honor her for she is mighty!

   Honor her, for she is ours!

Hard But Simple

I often think of living life in the days described by George’s visit to the late 1600s “Stockade” in uptown Kingston.  It generally finds its way into my thoughts when I’m cutting and splitting firewood, repairing a piece of furniture, or working in my vegetable garden.  During these physical exercises, I find myself more focused.  I am less distracted from the daily interruptions, less likely to daydream, and more attentive to the task at hand.  However, I do wonder what it would have been like to conduct these chores without the power tools I use to carry them out or the consequences of failing to cut enough wood to cook and heat the house or to successfully grow enough vegetables from the garden to feed the family.  Never-the-less I get a great deal of satisfaction feeling I am capable of managing to provide the bare essentials for myself if I need to.  

Fourteen years ago, I built a run-in (a roofed, three-sided shelter) in the woods at a campsite I created behind my house. The process entailed getting lumber from a local lumber mill delivered to an area near the front of my house.  From there, beams, flooring, siding, roofing, hardware and tools had to be moved to a location 700 feet away.  The traverse was down a very steep 300-foot hill, across a 18-foot bridge spanning a small creek, and up a 100 foot hiking trail that included two switchbacks.  At the time, I didn’t have any vehicles that would assist getting the materials from the bridge to the site.  Occasionally, I enlisted a friend to carry some boards with me.  Most of the time, I pulled, dragged, and rolled each item inch by inch to the designated target. It reminded me of what life might have been like, back then.  Fortunately for me there was no pressing deadline and I had battery powered tools to use at the site.  It was a most rewarding and instructive experience.  In fact I often felt more personal satisfaction during this project than in the work I did as an educator.  I loved teaching and being a principal but the good work we did was always the result of a collaboration of people.  This experience allowed me to feel a sense of individual accomplishment but also to understand the value and necessity of working as a team.

And, from time to time I would fantasize what it would be like to have to provide myself with food, water, and winter warmth, if the modern systems we all use would suddenly become unavailable.  Before I moved, I had a cadre of friends, each of whom had unique skill sets that would enable them to manage through such a scenario.  I often thought of the interdependence that existed during the time period George describes.  I’d like to think that those friends would see the value in setting aside our drive to function independently and would band together to help each other through challenging times.  As much as I enjoy my lack of dependency on others there is a strong appeal for communal living that seems ignored today.  I wonder if we were all forced to provide for our basic needs, would we seek to work in concert.  I can only hope we would.

Living with our wits and our hands is hard work.  Knowing that our work is to provide food, clothing, and shelter while living in community with others, seems simple in determining how to live our lives.

“It is not more bigness that should be our goal. We must attempt, rather, to bring people back to the warmth of community, to the worth of individual effort and responsibility, and of individuals working together as a community, to better their lives and their children’s future.” – Robert F. Kennedy