I’m sitting at the dining room table with my grandsons. We’re discussing the use of semi-colons. Yikes, why? Well I read a squib in The Week, indicating that young people find it hostile when older people, such as myself, use a period in a text message. I wondered why and asked my two young consultants. My youngest grand said that periods are called for at the end of a thought and are not a signal of hostility; my older agreed with the The Week, feeling that the period expressed a position of stark finality – in the vein of a proclamation from an adult — and possibly too strong for a short informal text. He felt that lack of a period leaves a sense of open-endedness in the exchange. That led to a discussion about other punctuation, including the misunderstood semi-colon. I mined Wikipedia for its guidance on the “;” and we had a lively conversation on punctuation. Who’d a’thought?
Let’s segue to the well-used pronoun “I”. It is used four times in the paragraph above – four times in nine sentences. If we add the use of ‘my’ or ‘myself’, that is nine times in nine sentences. Sounds like it’s all about me, doesn’t it? Sometimes this is called ‘self-reference’ writing. Does it seem to you that self-reference is an over-used trope in both writing and speaking? Perhaps it is a sign of the times that one’s point of view overshadows all forms of communication. When was the last time you heard a reporter simply read the news, versus opine about it? Maybe it’s time to consider a different approach.
A book (Wake Up and Live) written in 1936 explores the idea that self-reference discourse freezes a person in their own opinions and hardens his/her/they/one’s point of view. Sure, describing a personal experience requires the use of personal reference, but perhaps that need not be dominant form of daily communication. The author, Dorothea Brande, suggests avoiding the use of “I” or “my” as an exercise in damping down the subjective or egocentric nature of our thinking. Her thesis is that substituting “we” in our conversation nudges a person to find common ground with others – and may in fact make a person a more interesting communication partner.
Walther Conkite was the trusted voice of reason. In an article written by Scott Simon for NPR, Simon says:
“Cronkite was a great broadcaster. He spoke to masses, not niches. He grasped that when the news was urgent, people would turn to the broadcaster not only for information, but for sincerity and calm. Millions of people felt better to hear from this man who seemed experienced, but not jaded. He had a visible sense of grief in tragedies, and a little boy’s delight in the glory of space shots. He had gray hair and hound-dog bags under his eyes, but ageless sincerity.
Wal (another Walter) nudges us past what is, to what might be, and in the case of Walter Conkite, what was)
The notion of speaking and writing from “I” is something well practiced, especially in the United States. Emily Landon, the chief infectious disease epidemiologist at University of Chicago Medicine writes:
“In all honesty, if we say, ‘This is like the flu, we’ll be all right,’ that attitude is going to harm other people,” Landon told The Post. “And it’s really hard to wrap your head around that, especially in American culture: We’re individualistic and we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and find a way to make it through. And that’s not going to work right now.”
On April 1, 2020 Jane Hyun wrote an article for Fast Company about the impact of culture on how we approach the current pandemic.
“Geert Hofstede, renowned social psychologist, measured the differences in individualism vs. collectivism across nations. The “hugger” approach is a prime example of American individualistic culture. It is expected that each individual act for him or herself, make their own choices, and that individual needs take precedence over the group’s. In South Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, and China, where the collectivist orientation is prevalent, preferences are given to the rights of the community, team, or organization and standing out is not encouraged; therefore decisions are made that take into account the best interests of the group. Employers (and institutions) take responsibility for their employees and recognition is given to groups and teams as a whole. In times of crisis where we need to move quickly to contain a pandemic, the collectivist orientation perspective has its benefits.”
We are a country that fiercely celebrates independence, so it is not surprising to find the “I” influence in our communications. Earlier in our culture, it was more common to find families living in closer proximity and each member accepting responsibilities that contributed to the greater good. It could also be argued that family elders were looked upon for their life experiences as well as the stories that bound the kinfolk. This interdependence was often necessary for the survival and success of the family. Perhaps this is a seminal time for us to consider a shift in our way of thinking that goes beyond the “I.” Perhaps, in addition to the benefits of independence, there are significant consequences we wish to avoid and the bygone benefits of interdependence are worthy of renewal.
Me, Myself, and I
I am the oldest member of this blog group. Henry won’t be my age for another 2 or 3 months and Wally, well he’s much younger! So, I’ll just say that if wisdom comes with years, I should receive respectful deference for my opinions! I’m glad Wally didn’t talk to his grandchildren about the use of exclamation points cause I use them all the time! Not that everything I say requires emphasis because of it’s value but I’m old and need humoring! I will, however, adhere to the concept: one sentence, one period at the end. I am not very cerebral. I think with my gut. I often use wrong parts of my body to do different functions than were intended. But I digress! After several readings of both Wally’s and Henry’s pieces I began to understand the concept of I-dentity. I slept on it…I contemplated over late night snacks on it, I mused over how to write without using it. And(never start a sentence with “and” nor end one with a preposition) I questioned what the heck was I going to write about! After several failed attempts I realized my writing was about my personal feelings and experiences. I always value hearing other people’s personal experiences and feelings about those experiences. In a political time when social discourse is mainly “them” vs. “us” I would rather hear about you personally. I am comfortable reading an entire story about someone in the first person. I don’t feel that the decline of western civilization is based on our ending I-dentity in our literary genre. I commiserate with 3 important people in my life I this time of pandemics, Me, Myself, and I. Therefore, I will write in the first person. For me my ideas, experiences, and struggles are valuable to be shared. If something I write gives someone an idea how to deal with something, I have done a good thing. If you are experiencing something that I may have already gone through, it may make you feel good to know you aren’t alone! I know that has happened to me. If just for a moment something I said put your mind at ease, I have succeeded! If something I said gave you an idea of how to deal with something, I have succeeded. If you chuckled, I have succeeded. It has to do with authenticity. This IS who I am. But now, one must stop and get one’s butt into bed!
We all have different thresholds for what moves an inconvenience into the struggle category. And, because words have different meanings for each of us, to acknowledge struggle doesn’t mean the same thing for everyone – anyone for that matter.
Some define struggle as “work hard to deal with or overcome a difficulty or challenge.” Notice this is written in the singular, which implies that we perhaps “struggle” with one thing at a time. But wait! It has been my experience that when one thing stands apart from the many, I am more easily able to marshal my energies to focus on a solution or best choice scenario. In fact, I am often energized in this case because most everything else is in synchrony, relative harmony, and in alignment. I have the luxury of allowing an unrelenting focus on my issue. Yum! Nope, that doesn’t define struggle for me.
For the purpose of this post, I need to pluralize the definition to include the feeling of being bombarded by multiple difficulties and challenges for a significant period of time. Add yet another factor of not always being able to clearly identify all of the assailing projectiles, and you might better understand where I’m coming from when I say, I’m struggling. And now add the component that there is no convincing evidence to support an end-date by which most of these trials will resolve. Ugh!
I recently went for my physical exam. Prior to and throughout the process, I was asked as a matter of a new standard protocol, if I was feeling depressed. Is this not a sign of that many of us are struggling during these times?
It’s one thing to know about struggle and how to address it. It’s another thing to be able to step back to see yourself more objectively as others may see you. But it’s an entirely different thing to be able to apply what you know and what you’ve learned to move forward toward improvement and out of that almost seductive black hole that spirals downward into an emotional abyss of despair.
Throughout my life I’ve ridden the roller coaster of good and bad, happy and sad, fulfillment and desire, success and failure. When I look back though, I realize how thrilling it has been, how much joy I’ve felt, and how many people I’ve interacted with and with whom I’ve influenced and been influenced by. The bumps and bruises of the wildest part of the ride have left scars, yes. But they also taught me when to pull the seat belt tighter and when to loosen it, when to hang on tight and when to weave and bob and be more flexible. Each incident gave me more reason to keep at it. It always, always, got better.
One of my secret weapons against struggle!
If you asked me last week, I would have told you the current events in my life during these extraordinary times have given me good cause to say I’m struggling. Today I would say I’m not! Not so much has changed since last week. But the few simple things that did, allowed me to remember to have faith, that life is good, it all works out, and the struggle makes me stronger.
Some things that help me with struggle:
Reach out to friends, especially those who know how to listen.
Nature heals, even when it’s too damn hot to feel it.
Exercise, keep moving, motion is lotion (for my old achy joints)
Laugh
Hug – thank goodness for my dog Duke. (He’s much softer than the trees.)
Get back up – every time
Keep an attitude of gratitude, even when you’re not feeling it.
Drink chocolate ice-cream sodas with whipped cream. (My two secret ingredients are a splash of heavy cream and a squirt of raspberry syrup.)
Be helpful to someone other than yourself.
Life is uncertain so eat dessert first. (Did that last week with George and Wal!)
Let go
Accept
A Struggle Snuggle
I’m glad Henry raised this topic. I’ve struggled my entire life for all kinds of things, mostly trying to hide who I really was. That was a struggle that took somewhere upwards of 40 years to resolve. It was a struggle I had to manage all alone and without help, advice, or encouragement from anyone. That’s probably why it took so long!
Historically, I have always had trouble asking for help from anyone. For most of my life there have been unresolved issues that were easier to let sit and fester than to resolve by asking for help. Simple kinds of things, decisions about career and family, daily life stuff. Just let time pass, they will work themselves out. Of course my internal worry system would have time to kick in and often built the struggle way out of proportion from what could have easily been resolved yesterday.
But I notice now we all seem to be struggling. Not just from the virus and the quarantine but the news cycle as well. The struggle is an internal struggle. How do I deal with the loneliness, the isolation, the news of hardship and pain, the inertia that months of separation have allowed to set in? Things are easing a little and I find it becoming an effort to get out of my chair and do things. I miss people and touch. Reaching out isn’t easy. Each evening as I climb into bed I have an overwhelming feeling of sadness oftentimes driving me to tears. The sadness is sometimes brought on by something I saw or read about someone else’s misfortune but sometimes it is just a heavy dark sheet that covers me in self pity! The cause undetermined other than these crazy times in which we live and the lack of knowing if letting time pass will bring back NORMAL!
Things are so strange. The other day my neighbor introduced me to someone who was working on his house. I reached out automatically and we shook hands. Immediately we both apologized but it was automatic, sincere and comforting to do it. Something so natural has become another struggle. Common daily practices become part of the problem.
Living alone now has intensified my struggles. Not because I would have asked for advice or help but because my struggling is always easier with a snuggle when someone just understands you are going through something that a hug, cuddle, or pat on the back could help. I, like Henry, have a dog to hug who isn’t a bad snuggler and seems to have a sixth sense about when the dark sheet starts to cover me. We are all dealing with our own demons, and I’m afraid each of us has to find our own way to slay them!
Inertia
Struggle — whether you oppose, contest, fight, endeavor or find yourself in a conflict, encounter, or skirmish – means you are rubbing against the grain.
I admire Hen’s ability to profit from a struggle involving multiple and/or serial difficulties, but I can’t seem to embrace a positive position on this subject. Mandy Kloppers writes: ”With struggle there is no joy and rarely any reward. In fact, for some people struggle is the reward. They are a little lost without it. There is comfort in what you know.”(mentalhealthnet).
Perhaps that better describes my position – I expect to struggle, so I do. I expect to contest, churn, and endeavor – but not to enjoy it. When it seems like a flight of arrows forces you to tuck and roll – my primary focus is simply to survive. Generally, I put my head down and grind through it. When it’s over, the overwhelming feeling I have is relief – and the satisfaction of remaining somewhat intact. And perhaps a little lingering adrenaline high.
Hen says what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. The Jamaican version goes ‘what doesn’t kill you, just gives you gas’. Struggle is a case of indigestion with a heartburn topping. Struggle is roadwork on your metaphysical highway. Struggle of any kind looks just fine in the rearview mirror, but there are plenty more visible in the road ahead. What’s to like?
I suppose I’m a big fan of inertia in the sense of moving in a straight line at a constant speed, unimpeded.Inertia isn’t laziness – it’s the need to channel energy to stay on track to reach a targeted goal. George is right: most of our struggles are internal. My guess is that many internal struggles are manufactured distractions. Perhaps that’s why Matthew Wilder’s anthem sings:
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no I got to keep on movin’ Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride I’m running and I won’t touch ground Oh no, I got to keep on movin’
Granted that presumes a limited amount of self-reflection. But I can identify with the aspect of powering through some internal doubts or struggles in order to face the basic conditions of life: we do our best in the moment, understanding that we have limited control of all the variables and we may not make all the right choices, but we move on and hopefully live to fight another day. In the end, it is not clear that ‘struggling’ improves the choices that we do make. And yet, I’ll likely continue to struggle with this concept.
During this quarantine and period of reflection my daughter and I have been ordering in food on Sunday evenings and the three of us(my dog) enjoy each other’s company for a couple hours. We sit in her living room and watch movies on her super gigantic Smart TV screen. The movies we have watched are mostly historical in nature and have led to some very interesting conversations afterwards.
Let me preface this by explaining that I am the sole survivor of my family with the exception of my kids. I regretted not asking a million questions of my aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents. Not to mention my brother who for the last few years before his death was the verifier of family lore and associated historical family events!
Last Sunday we settled down with Mexican food and watched a movie called, “Motherless Brooklyn.” It took place in the 50’s in Brooklyn and Queens and dealt with racial discrimination and unethical politics. Very timely and appropriate to today’s conditions. After the movie ended my daughter asked if that was what it was like in the 50’s in the boroughs. Of course the cars and the architecture took me back to my childhood, but so did the politics of the time and the accents. And at that moment I had that “AH HA!” realization. I said to her that I regretted never asking my family about so many things. Did my grandparents ever become citizens? What was life like in the little hill town of Pietrapertosa in Basilicata? What happened to Gramma’s brothers when they arrived in Ellis Island and had their names changed from Matiacchio to Madison and why did they lose touch? And a million other questions that I am still sorry I never asked.
unanswered questions about grandpa’s family
I then told her, with tears in both our eyes, to ask away. Now is the time! We don’t know how long we have together to fill in the blanks, and I don’t want her to regret living with all those unanswered questions like I have to do. Her questions began to spill out. She had heard stories all her life about Holy Mary, better known as Aunt Mary, who we would always laugh about because she would always tell us to say a Holy Mary, meaning Hail Mary, after we prayed each night. My brother and I coined that name for her and would laugh whenever we thought of her. She was my dad’s uncle’s wife. My daughter never met her but heard about her her whole life. And who was Muddy Ette? Another name she had heard about her entire life and had no idea who we were talking about. That was Aunt Eleanor’s best friend in NYC who grew up with her. Her parents came from the same town in Italy as our family. Her name was Marietta but with our regional accent it sounded like Muddy Ette!
We sat that night laughing and crying together as her questions kept coming. I know there will be more thoughtful questions coming and I welcome them. I look forward to sharing whatever I know about our family with her. It was a significant moment in our relationship and so glad I had thought to open that door for her. It was apparent she has a lot of questions to ask. I savor the opportunity to share these moments with her! We said good night and gave each other a long overdue, real, long lasting, unmasked hug for the first time in 5 months. Covid-19 be damned!
The Story of Us
I took away two major conclusions from George’s piece: a) the sweet need to connect to a story and b) the importance of making the story interesting.
After all, we are simply the latest product of a long line of forebears – we’re one chapter in a very large book. In a world that hungers for prequels and sequels, it’s no wonder that we dig in to our origin stories – the story of us. What’s really nice is the closeness it can bring to the teller and the listener. It says you are not alone in the wide world – and we have special stories that should be handed down, so that ‘our’ people are not lost. How many of us have boxes of old photographs that are not labeled, featuring individuals we can no longer identify? I know that I do. Seems a shame.
Of course, our stories need to be interesting in the telling. Carl Jung called this myth making – in a positive sense. A friend of ours – possibly, the best story-teller I have met – explained it this way: she read a book which detailed a series of dramatic events in an elderly woman’s life. However, the book did not develop the characters very well; the facts were simply stated. So, even though the events were compelling, the reader remained disengaged, because it was hard to care about the central character. She said that it could have been an excellent multi-generational saga, if the author had spent some time putting the events in a larger context, making the character more three dimensional.
George uses the story teller’s hook to make his history interesting: providing monikers that have a back story. It makes Holy Mary and Muddy Etta special. They have earned a brand for which they are remembered! They are elevated into heroes and heroines – legends of a sort. Our story teller friend also populates her tellings with individuals whose Damon Runyon sobriquets include Wayne the Flame (alleged arsonist), Lancer the Romancer (local playboy), and Dead Betty’s house (used to be Live Betty’s). Now, here are characters who are larger than life (except poor Betty)! It makes you want to know more about them.
How do you pass along your family stories?
Tell Me a Story
When my grandchildren were younger, the first thing they would ask me as soon as we got into my car was to tell them a story. It didn’t matter if it was something I recently remembered and hadn’t yet told them or if it was one of the stories that they heard me tell dozens of times before. Over the years we’ve spent hours laughing at my childhood and family adventures and mishaps. They especially enjoyed hearing stories of their mom when she was a little girl.
As they got older and it was harder for me to infuse my energy and silliness into stories I’d told over and over, so I introduced them to a new approach. We began to use “…and then!” to mix fantasy with family memories. We took turns starting a story, usually made up, and after a few minutes of developing a character or plot the speaker would stop at a critical juncture and turn to the next person and say, … and then! Of course it was then that person’s turn to continue the story in his or her own way. It provided wonderful opportunities for us to share ideas, our fears, and, of course our silliness, while passing the time and having fun.
More recently, we would play “farm.” Each of us assumed a role as a member of a family who lives on a farm and, while tending to our animals, had to prepare for a town festival on our property. Either we were driving to pick up materials or food or delivering horses or pigs, or we would scatter about the property of whose ever house we were at, pretending to set up booths and parking areas, etc. I’m wondering if these times will be the family stories my grandchildren will tell when their children ask them about the “old days.”
George reminds me of the importance of family connection and history through story and conversation. While my playtime with my grandchildren is now limited, I do spend more time with my children on the phone or in weekly video-chats. Perhaps the next time I speak with them, I’ll ask them if there are any questions they have or stories they might want to hear of days gone by.
We’re sitting in our truck, parked along the periphery of the church parking lot. It’s a hot morning and we’re taking advantage of the shade provided by the catalpa trees. There are a number of vehicles around the lot, spaced like a string of pearls. Only two brave souls are in the middle of the asphalt field.
Each of us had options: we could have stayed home and ignored a call to worship. We could have stayed home and participated by Zoom. Or we could drive to the church and park. The folks who drove to the church are listening to the pastor broadcast from the sanctuary on our FM radio… his broadcast range is about a quarter mile radius. We are listening to the organist sing and play from her Zoom connection. I look at the other folks, all gray headed and think: how many more years can this last, before we all die off and leave the church without a congregation? What would be the consequence?
When we three old guys started this blog, one of the main objectives was to express how we experience the aging process – things that you aren’t taught when young. I would tell my grandkids that you might expect that worship in a group is an act that you may find more pleasing as you grow older. If you are wise, you may realize it sooner than later.
Certainly, I didn’t. The idea of attending a worship service seemed a waste of time when I was a teenager and young adult. There were better things to do than spend time in a boring service with hypocrites that prayed in one fashion, but acted in an entirely different fashion. Besides, who has a monopoly on the ‘real truth’?
So, why are we at this service in the hot sun? I think there are two reasons: a) the act of exercising faith is important personally and collectively b) we are community-building.
My opinion is that by worship, one humbles oneself before the great unknown. In addition, it is part of a compact to improve oneself morally. It is a discipline that is common to all faiths. It is a visible act, witnessed by others that says I’m willing to do better, to be better — to think of others. Worship in a group multiplies the effect in my mind – it’s an implied public commitment. Participants are joining in common purpose, if only for an hour or so. Is it perfect – are we perfect? Of course not. But it is brave. And what would be the consequence of never honoring the possibility that we are purpose-made? The consequence would be the negation of the second reason: community-building. As an example, our congregation is a mix of people with all kinds of varying opinions. Yet we put all that aside for a weekly meeting to focus on spiritual matters. People chose to drive to this place of worship to sit in hot cars – because we have a need to see our neighbors and recognize a common purpose. Showing up expresses mutual respect. I call this community-building. It is quiet affirmation that the larger community in which we live still binds us together, regardless of our political persuasion, personal pursuits, or aspects of our lives where we miss the mark. We are not here for a party, nor for protest – but rather to remind ourselves that there is a great beyond which deserves homage.
Note: the image is from a 1945 painting by Marianne Appel, who was a member of the Woodstock School of Art. She later focused on puppeteering with Bill Baird and later, the Muppet Show. She remained active in the arts community in Woodstock. I wanted to reference a local artist who depicted a community working together — what better than a barn raising? Although this Indiana community is pretty homogeneous, it shows inclusion of all neighbors, regardless of age or sex. In other words, I value the spirit of people working together to build something; doing the heavy lifting made easier by many joined hands.Do you have a favorite piece of art that represents your view of community building?
Being in Community
I appreciate this message Wal leaves for his grandchildren. Faith, self-improvement, and community are words that hold great meaning for me.
I no longer worship as a member of a religious congregation but I once did. I fondly remember an instance when we were all singing a well known, uplifting prayer and my friend glanced at me and smiled. It was a look that said, isn’t it great to be standing here with all these people, giving thanks and feeling good? It was a powerful moment that could only happen in community.
Years ago I was a member of The Caring Community. We defined our community as a place where people felt valued, accepted, and connected. We came together regularly for two reasons: to participate in personal growth and to provide service to others. I never thought of it as a religious organization but it served similar purposes. We were a diverse group and while we did not live in the same area we were committed to each other and to our intention. We had lots to celebrate despite (or because of…) our challenges and struggles. For five years we endured and when we realized we could no longer sustain the rigors and responsibilities of our group, we met in solidarity to honor what we had learned and experienced and then went our separate ways. I am wiser, more self aware, and a stronger person because of this amazing collaboration of people.
For fifteen years I was part of another extraordinary community – my place of work. And because we built this union of some seventy-five people around respect, hard work, cooperation, celebration, and fun, it never really felt like work. It was, in many ways, a second home for me.
Recently, I was part of an Alliance created to provide support and guidance for a friend at her request. It was an example of a brief but powerful community of service. I hope to be part of one again in the near future.
And finally, during this time of continued isolation and restrictions due to risk of exposure to COVID-19 I realize how fortunate I am to be in community with two remarkably wise and caring men, Wal and Geo. Working, serving, and playing with groups of people continue to be, as Wal puts it, the ties that bind. I always feel more complete and fulfilled when I am part of such a community.
The Need to Belong
Ever since I started school I always wanted to fit in. Even at a young age I knew I was different but didn’t understand it. (That just intensified my need to be accepted. Later on, I would define that difference and still struggle to be a part of a group). I was too small and too skinny to be much good at sports. In school it was hard to be a part of a group if you couldn’t make a basket because of your skinny arms and lack of muscle structure. Team sports was an opportunity to fit in with a group that was denied to me. And, though I was popular in high school, I never had a clique to belong to.
Finally, in college I was accepted into a fraternity and for the first time I had a group of friends with a common purpose and a place to belong. It made me feel special and accepted, and made friends that have lasted a lifetime.
The need to belong followed me into my adult life and I became a part of groups with common purposes that changed as careers and interests evolved. I became president of my kids‘ PTA, president of my local teachers’ union and active in regional teachers unions. When there was no professional group to join I helped organize one for innkeepers to talk out common problems and encourage tourism to our area in Vermont. I even fulfilled a lifelong dream and auditioned for a part in local community theatre where I achieved the official part of Salesman #1 in “The Music Man“ and suddenly I was a part of a cast of some 40 people working together to entertain our community. That further led to joining the Northeast Chordsmen, a barbershop chorus out of Dartmouth College. All of these organizations had the common purpose requirement that I so desperately needed all my life!
Now in retirement, that need is still present. Unlike Wally, my faith has always been individually practiced, praying silently or out loud at bedtime! It gives me comfort in that I usually pray when something is eating away at me and it forces me to focus on the prayer rather than the irritant until the irritant lessens!
Today I belong to two very important groups in my life with common goals that help me find purpose. I have a community of LGBTQ friends where I finally fit in like the last piece of the puzzle waiting to be positioned to create a beautiful landscape. The other and equally important group is this 3 member blog that has become all the more important to me due to this crazy pandemic with which we are all infected.
I’ve always been drawn to animals. When asked what animal I would choose to be other than human, I immediately think of wolf. But, since I can’t become a wolf or have one in my home, I’ve enjoy the companionship of dogs.
When I was eight and my father still lived with us, he brought home, what he said, was a direct descendant of Rin Tin Tin, a dog hero in a 1950’s family western TV series. We named this beautiful German Shepard, West. He was a perfect pet with one minor exception; he hated children. And, since my sister and I were children as were our friends, having a dog that growled at us and bared it’s teeth every time we approached, didn’t bode well for anyone. West was returned shortly after he arrived.
Mickey came next. My parents got him from a nearby farm when he was a puppy and he lived with us until he wandered off to some unknown resting place when he was seventeen. He was a beautiful Shepard Collie and while he was no relation, he was the spitting image of Lassie. In addition to his kind and playful attitude, he was a problem solver. We had an outdoor kennel for him but he dug tunnels under the fence and would sit on the front porch as if to say, sorry, I need to be free. When we tied a long rope to his collar and the other end to a stake in the ground, he turned around, backed up until he slipped the collar off, and headed to the front porch. So, we replaced the collar with a harness. And then we watched him from the window as he turned around, backed up, put one paw through the strap, then the other, slipped the entire restraint off and, well you know, proudly walked to the front porch. Finally, we would put him in the garage when we needed to keep him in (my mom didn’t allow dogs in the house). This seemed to work until we arrived home from shopping one day to find him sitting on the porch. The two-car garage door was closed and no one was around. The second time this happened we decided to see if Mickey had enlisted the aid of another or if one of my friends was playing a prank. We put him in the garage, closed the door, and peered through a crack in the basement door that led to the garage. He walked over to the side of the double door, grabbed the rope that hung to the side, backed up with great effort pulling the double wooden door up maybe a foot off the ground and then, released the rope and dove though the opening, as the door came crashing down. I enjoyed his antics but what I loved most was the companionship Mickey gave me.
While I was in college I met several dogs that came in and out of my life (and other dog loving students) at different times. Thor was a jet black German Shepard who would often come to the pond behind our dorm and loved to fetch the puck as we attempted to play hockey. He soon realized we wouldn’t follow him if he left the ice so he learned to run and slide, as he stayed close enough for the chase but never close enough for us to catch him without great effort and coordinated teamwork.
Wazu was a campus beagle who wandered daily for food and hugs and seemed to be one of the happiest creatures I’ve known. He would often join me on short local hikes.
Sam was a large mutt who would find me, often, and who would walk me to classes, wait for me to come out, and walk me home. In the extreme ups and downs of college life, it was comforting to know Sam and Wazu seemed to be there for me. I assume he gave many college kids a similar gift.
In my senior year, I happened upon Josh, a small, white, terrier mix who belonged to someone I knew but can no longer remember. For some reason he needed to find a home for Josh who had a personality that was compatible with everyone who met him. My future wife’s parents and Josh were a perfect match and home he went to live on Long Island. Josh was so friendly that when my in-laws’ house was burglarized, he remained in the house throughout the experience, with little to no trauma. In fact, we’re convinced he either unlocked the door for them or at least showed them around the house.
Soon after beginning my teaching career, the parent of one of my students offered me one of the kittens from her cat’s litter. My wife and I were both working and traveling about an hour each way so the idea of a self-sufficient cat seemed to fit the bill. Mew (short for Bartholomew), was jet-black, full of piss and vinegar, and used his claws, often. We were given the name of a retired vet who would neuter Mew for far less than the usual fee. You know the phrase “you get what you pay for?” With his shaky hands and uncertain manner and Mew’s fierce dedication to independence, we witnessed what looked like a movie scene where the mad scientist was chasing the cat from hell all over a large cluttered room with a hypodermic. Finally, in desperation, the former doctor (we wondered if he was ever a licensed vet) threw the syringe like a dart into the cat and then pounced on him to plunge the tranquilizer into his system. As fate would have it, it wasn’t enough and now we have a groggy but angry wildcat stumbling through the room as the determined doc reloaded for another dose. By now we decided it was too late to grab the cat and leave so we sat horrified as Mew was knocked out and neutered. After the surgery, the vet announced that our cat might not survive and needed to stay with him overnight. Convinced that this man who was nursing his bloody hands from the scratches Mew induced, was determined to seek revenge and make sure recovery was not an option, we put some money on the table, grabbed the cat and ran for the car. After a night and a day of care and attention, Mew awoke and went on to live a long and even more fiercely independent life.
Years later, I took on a second job managing an after-school center for elementary aged children. It was there that I met Cocoa, a beautiful bronze colored collie mix.
He lived in a small apartment with one of the kids in the program and the child’s mom. She would often bring him to the center to pick up her son and it was there that she mentioned she needed to give up Cocoa for numerous reasons. I brought him home for a weekend on a trial basis and while he and Mew had little to do with each other, Cocoa was hit with our two children. He was a mellow, gentle soul who loved everyone, including the neighborhood bully dog that would frequently beat him up every time Cocoa approached him. Not necessarily what you would call a quick study, but he added many years of pleasure and love to our lives.
Josh, who had been living with my in-laws, joined Mew and Cocoa after my father-in-law died and my mother-in-law moved to an apartment. The three got along well and each, in their unique way gave us joy and affection that would last beyond their years.
Fast-forward to a time when many things had changed, all three pets having lived twelve, fifteen, and seventeen years were gone and our children were now adults. My wife and I were no longer together and I was once again ready for another pet. My adult children came to visit to help me find an appropriate rescue dog at a local shelter. The match was instantaneous as we all agreed that Jeb, a three-year old black scrawny mutt who was a mixture of Shepherd, Newfoundland, and Rottie was the one for us. After we brought him home the kids went to visit their mom. When they returned they gave me a newspaper clipping of a rescue dog being advertised as needing a new home that their mom had clipped for me knowing I was in the market. Unbelievably, it was Jeb, the same dog we had just brought home. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. Jeb, who grew to over one hundred healthy pounds, exceeded his life expectancy and died well into his seventeenth year.
Now there’s Duke. His alluring photo on a dog-rescue website captured my interest and that of my partner. He was being shipped up from a kill shelter in West Virginia to a pet supply store for adoption on a first come, first served basis. The doors opened at nine but we were advised to come early, as there might be a crowd. So, despite the heavy snowfall that morning, we arrived shortly after seven only to find twenty-six other pet lovers waiting on line, in the snow and cold with almost two hours left until opening and more and more people arriving every few minutes. When we were finally allowed in to meet the dogs, we waited while one of the hopeful adopters was getting to know Duke. When she stepped aside we sat by his side and were hooked. A member of the adoption team approached and asked if we wanted him, we were clear in our desire to have him but mentioned there was another who had expressed an interest and we didn’t know how the process worked. After a quick check of the list of visitors that was written in order of arrival time, it turns out we were one place in front of our competition. We later found out that the person second in line had also come for Duke but fell in love with another dog. Another case of Karma?
Duke
Now it’s just the two of us as we give each other comfort and companionship during these limited times for social interactions. I am so thankful for this guy. And, so is my former partner who Duke happily gets to visit from time to time.
I Paws for a Moment…
When we moved into Queens I was 5. My dad and mom got us a dog. We named him Tim and he was a sweet mutt. But never having had a pet he scared me cause he moved fast and licked everything! Shortly after that my brother “found” a puppy and brought him home and now we had Tim and Tiny. I got over my fear and picked up a few cats over the early years. Tiny and Tim died when I was entering high school, and my dad bought a pedigreed German Shepard he named Baron Ludwig Von Vlushinger, better known as Sarge! I picked up a few parakeets along the way and several goldfish. One lived in a round flat bowl for 6 years and was big enough to eat by the time he passed. We called him Goldie. That was the story of my early years through high school.
In my senior year of college I snuck a puppy into my apartment every night for 4 months who moved with me to my first teaching job and our first house. He met a rather unfortunate demise at the hands of my neighbor who shot him one day and never told us. We found out months later and moved into the big city of Kingston immediately after. My wife surprised me with Dagmar when I got my masters degree. She looked like a black Irish Setter. Dagmar lived with us for 17 years. She was a sweety and learned to love the kittens and strays my kids brought home, including a great chocolate lab mix called Daisy! He came along with a beautiful all white kitty named Pegasus who lived a long and healthy life many years after moving to Woodstock. All my pets were family members! My last dog came after my wife and I split. Julie was a Shepard mix and I found him one day driving through the country when I saw a sign saying, “PUPPIES.” How can you pass something like that!
Fast forward- years go by, the dogs passed of old age, I retired and was moving to Vermont to own and operate an inn. Couldn’t own dogs cause they wouldn’t insure you if you did. But I managed to adopt two beautiful little kittens who loved mingling with the guests!
Devon
Fast forward again to the present. Sold the Inn, moved back to NY and for the first time EVER I am alone with my two kitties. But I missed having a dog! So I began my search. I went online, visited shelter after shelter , nothing! After over a year of searching I had given up but had some quilts from the inn that I wanted to donate and went to my local SPCA to help them out and just casually asked if they had any puppies. I was told they just took a mom and 3 pups in the day before. They let me into the play room and released all of them. I sat on the floor and this one guy came over to me, crawled in my lap and laid down. The rest is history! But this time is different. In the past there were other people playing with them and feeding them, usually my dad. They were always his dogs. Then my kids were there and played with them and I was at work. Suddenly there was no one but me and my little pup! Nothing took me regularly out of the house. Devon followed me everywhere, if I sat down he sat on me. If he was hungry he let me know, if he had to go out he pulled my hand. Suddenly we were reading each other’s body language. He began to sense my moods and knew when to stay away and when to cuddle. It was a whole new experience with my dog. I never shared this with my previous pets because there were always other distractions. Then came COVID-19 and Devon and I have become the best of friends. We finish each other’s sentences! Without him I’m not sure how I would have made it through the sheltering in place. I will forever be grateful to him. He is my buddy!
Dog-Gone
Well, I love pets, but dislike the term ‘pet’. I prefer ‘companion’ – or even ‘familiar’, if we can get past the supernatural subtext — or ‘partner’, if the animal is purpose-bred or used for a functional project, such as hunting or herding. The point is that there ought to be an implication of choice, mutual benefit, and some autonomy in the relationship. Pet seems entirely too one-sided.
That said, a healthy relationship with an animal companion is amazing. For a young kid, it teaches respect and responsibility – but more important: empathy and love. At least that’s how it worked with me through a succession of cats, dogs, guinea pigs, turtles, chameleons, and one surprisingly large lab rat (Rosemary). But my favorite companions have been dogs – and I’ll focus on three.
The first was a slap-happy, peripatetic Boxer provided by my uncle, after my Dad’s German Shepard (Dick) passed away. My parents asked me to name her – and without any hesitation I said “Juno Virginia”. I don’t think they expected that moniker from the four year old sitting in the back seat of the 1950 Plymouth. They laughed and the name stuck. Juno was an outside dog who was generally tethered in the dirt floor, detached garage. Letting Juno off the leash would result in a neighborhood manhunt – she was an official flight risk. Happy to follow her nose, she would have reached the Pacific quicker than Lewis and Clark – I should have called her Juneau, Alaska! Over the years, we have received postcards from Juno in a number of exotic places.
A longer term companion through grade school and college was a Dachshund titled Baron Dach von Spritzen, AKA Doc, AKA Rug Rocket. Doc’s last appellation was derived from his habit of sliding across the carpet on his belly. He would rev up, tuck up his front legs, and surf the rug, sliding past my brother and me as we watched TV or played a board game. Doc literally rubbed all the fur off his chest. When we took Doc out in our small runabout in Great South Bay, he would launch himself like a canine dolphin through the shallow water, leaping rather than swimming. Doc had a zest for life and lots of affection to share — how could you not love such a being? He was both friend and confidant. I’m reminded of the Kingston Trio song, ‘Speckled Roan’: “I used to ride a little old speckled roan. I told him lots of things I wouldn’t have told at home”. I shared all my thoughts with Doc as he laid his head on my leg in-between surfing sessions.
One Thanksgiving I came home from college and called for Doc – but no Doc appeared. My Mom confessed that she had let Doc outside to run instead of walking him, as was our custom. He ran into the road and was killed. It’s hard to tell which of us felt worse. I missed the old guy terribly – and the subsequent animal boarders did not begin to fill his absence. There was a succession of nasty, abused rescues my softhearted Mom brought home: Chico (AKA the Couch Cobra), Charlie, the four-legged prostate (AKA the Urinator), as well as the canine formerly known as Snarl – who didn’t stay long enough for a naming ceremony.
However, good things eventually happen. After Linda and I were married, we rented the first floor of a house overlooking the Hudson. Our next door neighbor was an elderly lady who was in the process of moving back with her children – she begged us to take her dog, a Collie-Shepherd mix she named Beauty. We rechristened him Toby and he was a pleasure. Toby was likely between a year and two when we received him and subsequently moved with us through several relocations over twelve years. Initially, Toby stayed outside in a fenced-in area, until our upstairs neighbor came home drunk and left the gate open – and then backed over poor Toby with his truck (he later confessed what had happened). We came home to find Toby huddled on the open porch, quietly enduring the pain. The vet reset and put a plaster cast on one broken leg, but his tail was permanently damaged – no more wagging to signal his mood. Toby made up for that by swinging his hips when happy… playfully batting our three year old son – and us around.
We had plenty of adventures… our second move was to a farmhouse near a large forested ridge and next to a stream. Toby and I tramped the many deer trails, hill and dale, summer and winter. Old Toby thrived — he loved to be outdoors. Yet he stayed close and showed no urge to follow Juno into the great beyond. However, as he aged, he began to have fits: epilepsy was diagnosed. When he started to meander in confused, tight circles, we knew he was pre-seizure. Phenobarbital would usually do the trick. Toby seemed restless with our last move to a more constrained neighborhood — whether it was the increasing bouts of epilepsy or lack of woods to wander, I’m not sure. He had moved indoors during cold weather and one day pushed the porch door open and vanished. Two weeks later the NYS Thruway Authority called to say they found his body miles away.
Old Toby
Perhaps he made a decision to exercise his freedom – maybe, he was in the midst of another confused seizure. Either way it was a heartbreak. We had a family pow-wow and reached consensus that we would not try to find another dog. The end game was just too rending.
However, that did not stop us from enjoying our friends’ animal companions. Without a canine companion, I’m so aware of the number of household dogs. Many are professional yardbarkers and I wonder if they are trying to say “Set me free!” These days I’m partial to animals who can find their calm like Hen’s Duke or my friend Steve’s Jonesy. I miss sitting on the outside steps alongside an alert, but peaceful dog, the two of us augmenting our senses in the early morning or late evening natural world.
I have always lived in old houses. Not historical old houses just old. Since I was a kid I have lived in 7 houses. I always found comfort in each house by finding a place that made me feel safe and invisible. As a kid those places were away from the family usually in the attic. The attic was a place for boxes filled with previous life stuff that for some reason was not needed in whatever house I was in at the time, but it was great for searching through stuff that used to mean something to somebody. And in every house there was always something left there by the previous family and when I found a treasure like that I could spend hours looking through the box or examining the item and wondering why it was left behind. Each time we moved I was sure to take something left behind by the previous mortgage holder to the next house we were moving to.
I felt safe nestled between the eaves looking through old boxes often mislabeled and tossed aside. I was safe from my brother finding and taunting me, from my parents yelling at me for some chore I failed to do and the treasures were so rewarding. As a young teenager I found a box of my parents’ love letters from the war. They were from before I was born and I could not match the two lovers in the letters to my parents at all. There were sweet names of affection used for each other that I had never heard. Seemed like two different people but there they were in black and white. They were in those funny envelopes with the barber pole stripes around the edges and airplanes on the stamps. Years later I shared them with my brother. We sat on the floor in the cold attic and read through every single one. He remembered some of those pet names and I remember seeing him shed more than a few tears. Years later after my parents passed away that box wound up in my brother’s attic.
Probably the most treasured treasure I found and kept, other than the love letters, is an old clock that was left in our very first house by the previous occupants. It was an old two faced wall clock, a Perpetual Calendar Clock. It was left in a corner of the attic by a window, lying on the floor with its back against the wall planks and leaning to one side. It fascinated me because not only did it tell the time on the large face but it also told the day of the week. Underneath that was a smaller face that told the month and the date. It is a Welch, Spring & Co. clock dated 1864. What I didn’t know at the time and didn’t learn til many years later, it actually kept proper time and dates even in leap years!
When developers came and bought up our entire block I made sure the clock moved with us to the new house and then eventually to my first house. It never worked and there was no key but I had a friend from college whose dad loved to fix old clocks and offered to fix it. That was over 50 years ago and it still works today with a minor adjustment of the hands needed which I am afraid to try for fear of breaking them. It has hung in every house, including my inn, that I ever lived in. I have to get the hands fixed professionally so I can again enjoy its company.
As an adult that special place evolved to sitting on the floor in front of a raging fire in the fireplace late at night staring at the flames. I guess I no longer need to hide but it still makes me feel safe!
Funny what your mind conjures up when you have a lot of time on your hands and nothing to do. With this crazy virus still attacking us I could sure use to feel safe again!
A Spectral Place
George and Hen’s discussion of special places – particularly in regard to their homes – brought up a different type of recollection.
My formative years were spent in an old two family house my parents owned. It’s difficult to picture a special place in this structure, because the house was always in flux. Early days, we had a variety of boarders and my father was constantly making changes – my brother and I had at least three different sleeping arrangements, including a stretch where the whole family slept in the same room.
Eventually, we took over the second floor and my brother and I had separate rooms… but we never felt comfortable being in this space alone. The second floor bathroom was located at the end of a very narrow corridor. It had room for one large window looking down on the backyard. My brother’s bedroom connected to an unused upstairs kitchen through a passage that likely was a pantry in past times. All the windows in the top two floors were large and seemed to grow up from the floor, providing the sense that one should not approach too closely.
However, unlike George, the one space that we never came to grips with was the attic. It was special – but not in a good way. Access was gained through a door which was always closed. A narrow staircase led to the two-room attic. All, including the staircase, was clad in floor-to-ceiling wainscoting – likely varnished spruce. At the top of the stairs was a spacious area with cathedral ceiling tapering to six foot knee walls. Large, rattling double hung windows had sills which were knee high ((for a kid). When looking out the window, I had the feeling someone was right behind. Piles of boxes populated the main room, complete with porcelain dolls peeking out, showing cracked faces. The effect was not conducive to exploration – it rather screamed “Touch me and die!” A second room contained a bed and mattress, unused for years it seemed. Our attic gave the sense that this space had been long abandoned and never contained a happy spirit. Stephen King would have been very comfortable here.
On a number of occasions, my brother would rush into my room and beg to sleep with me because of the sounds. Oh yes – the sounds. We would lay awake listening to the footsteps walking back and forth across the attic above us. We were frozen in place, too scared to run downstairs to our parents’ room. We dreaded the time when those footsteps would find their way to the staircase descending toward the closed door. It would not be good to be asleep in that eventuality.
Naturally, we reported this activity to our parents, who comforted us. They even moved their bedroom upstairs. The sounds seemed to go away after that – except one night when our parents were out for the evening and our babysitter (Cousin Paula) was sleeping downstairs. That evening kicked off a marathon of wandering above us. I t was an episode where you felt your own pulse in your ears and you tried so hard to be small and undetectable.
Years later my parents admitted that they too, did not venture much into the attic; that the boxes belonged to the prior owner; and that the folklore was that an elderly person had died in that bed in the attic.
A few years later we moved to a smaller, more modern house – with no attic!
Places of Comfort
George describes the attics of his old houses as places of sanctuary and exploration. As a child I lived in a two-family house in the Bronx that was shared with my grandparents, a relatively new ranch house in central Westchester when I was eight, and then my grandmother’s two-bedroom cottage throughout my college years. I would have to say that in each instance, the place that gave me the most comfort, was in the kitchen.
My mother and grandmother were both extraordinary in their ability to prepare delicious meals and create tantalizing baked goods. The kitchen sourced the aroma of comfort foods and was the place to go if you were feeling down, or happy, or celebratory, or bored. There was always something yummy to taste and, it was the place where I could most often find my mother or gram. Either they were cooking or baking or cleaning up. It seemed they spent most of their time in the kitchen; clearly it was their “happy place.”
Meals were always eaten together at a table tucked in a corner within arm’s reach of the stove. We rarely used the dining room or went out to a restaurant and take-out was an occasional pizza on special occasions. At the table we shared the stories of our day, tried to remember what we learned in school, renewed our membership to the “clean up plate club”, and always had room for dessert. It was a ritual I could always count on. And despite how routine and boring it may have seemed at the time, it provided a place of safety, nurturing, and comfort.
My place of solitude was (and still is) the woods. There, I could stretch the boundaries set by my mom, knowing my dog Mickey would never tell on me. I could take chances climbing a dangerous tree, set rabbit traps with a box, a string, and a carrot, jump off of high rocks, and even utter bad words! It was a place to be comfortable with myself. On rainy days, I was drawn to a section under a thick canopy of leaves where I felt particularly free and yet secure as I remained protected and dry while the rest of the world seemed to be relegated to their houses. Even today, I enjoy the feeling of being in a tent in the rain especially when I’m playing with my grandchildren.
And, like George, I am most comfortable in front of a fire, inside or out. Alone or with friends and family, it is always my “go to” place.
It’s been six months since the first COVID-19 case was diagnosed in the US. Life increasingly changed during this period, with sheltering in place beginning in March and limited social interaction becoming the new normal. Now, in June, some easing of restrictions for commercial and social transactions are rolling out – with a corresponding increase of new infections.
During this time, government programs have tried to assist businesses which were closed and/or individuals who were unable to hold their jobs. In short, this has been arguably the greatest mass change in our society since its founding.
Sure, I know that the great wars, the great depression, the great recession, and the Spanish Flu affected millions of lives – and led to separations, financial hardship, shortages, rationing, and emergency government programs. But in no case I can think of, has the daily pattern of life for every American been altered as fundamentally. Seemingly, this is the first time that social intercourse has been so universally interrupted.
Masks hide facial expression and social distancing prevents casual physical contact. Distance learning isolates students. Digital friendship has surged in absence of proximal companionship – a new form of social rationing. It is stressful, as though a pneumatic force is compressing our daily routines. The outlet for this additional pressure has led to acting out on a grand scale, whether for justifiable causes or simple rebellion against regulation.
This is a season of loss: lost lives, lost opportunities, lost items. People are losing track of the days while on this interpersonal furlough. We have lost friends – few to COVID – most from pre-existing medical issues. But I wonder if weariness plays a role – or suffering from lack of continuity. One thing that has become very clear is the effort that people will place in maintaining a sense of continuity. We don’t like tears in our social fabric. Perhaps we’ll look back at this COVID time and appreciate the positive change that endures. Honestly, I’ll likely grieve for the missing gifts – the gifts to be free and easy.
Yeah? So’s Your Old Man!
I tend to be the nay-sayer in this group so I especially related to Wally’s perspective! The last few weeks have been harder for me. Things should be getting easier, more normal but they aren’t, at least for me. Then I realized I’m angry! My entire demeanor is more aggressive and impatient.
When this started we were hearing about what we had to do. It was spelled out, Isolate, social distance yourself, shelter in place, wear a mask, STAY HOME. I felt like I was being patriotic and helping to protect myself, my family, and fellow walkers on this planet. I was contributing to the well being of all us and although it was going to be a sacrifice I was willing to do my part. And for 2 months I rarely went out except to get food. I wore my mask religiously and sang Happy Birthday to Me twice every time I got home.
But now, and I realized this is partly why I am angry, the directions are unclear. We can go out to dine, always with masks, shopping, but with no clear directions from anybody I feel less safe and less willing to sacrifice when I see people around without masks and in groups. Why bother? I know the answer but why don’t we have as clear instructions now, when the danger is every bit as great as we did at the start? Our country can’t seem to agree on what to do! No one is telling us a consistent message and the number of cases is increasing!
Living alone is difficult, too. Just having someone in shouting distance to share a comment with or a laugh, or even a testy, cranky exchange over some minor annoyance. I really miss that! Someone to build you up when you are struggling is so important because by myself I don’t have the strength to be both Dr Jekyl AND Mr Hyde! Perhaps a stronger person can do both. And that doesn’t even mention the value of a hand to squeeze, a hug and kiss before climbing into bed at night.
Thank God for Devon, my pooch. He got me through two stents and a scraped carotid artery years ago so I value his loyalty and companionship beyond reason. But he doesn’t laugh at my stupid jokes, or cry with me over a sad movie. He can’t tell me to “knock it off” when I get upset. But he does sense when I am sad and knows it is time to climb up on whatever I am sitting on and cuddle In an attempt to make me feel better. AND he does. But I still would enjoy a member of my own species for companionship!
We will all get through this!
Pause, Reflect, Reset
Wal captures the enormity of our present human condition. There is little argument, that this is a colossal intrusion into life, as we knew it. And, it impacts each of us in varying degrees of the losses Wal describes. Of course, each of us, try as we might to see or feel from another’s perspective, cannot. All we can do is share from our own experience.
Several facts/phrases come to mind that help me to frame my story.
Weather, before climate change became a global topic, has been less extreme during my lifetime, than is usually experienced. (Our normal has been historically abnormal.)
It’s not what happens to us but how we respond that matters in and to our lives.
I grew up poor without realizing how different we were.
I’ve been addicted to fairness and blinded by how it unconsciously affects my perspective.
According to an article I read many years ago, we’ve been living in a relatively calm and consistent weather pattern since around 1950. If this is true, we have lost a more long-term perspective of a violent and ever-changing planet and seduced into thinking that what we’ve been experiencing is the way it’s supposed to be. What feels like a loss, as we move into a period of more extreme weather conditions wouldn’t exist if this is what we’ve been used to all our lives.
Epictetus is credited with saying, “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” This simple to repeat but hard to hardwire into practice quote, reminds me that I can influence my daily life to a point but have no real control over what happens. I can only chose to examine my best course of action for responding and then decide how I intend to move on. I will feel the differences and, at times, miss deeply what I had but, since it no longer exists, it makes little sense to revisit or whine about it.
My mom raised the three of us, cared for my debilitated grandmother, and made ends meet without any assistance from anyone. And through all the struggles and losses, we somehow had relatively happy childhoods, food in our bellies, and a roof (albeit very small) over our heads. We stayed home a lot but had numerous distractions and options to keep busy. Perhaps, since that was my “normal” navigating today’s limitations is somewhat easier to accept.
“It’s not fair!” has been my battle-cry for as long as I can remember. I don’t know whether this was learned or I created this scenario on my own, but I always believed that hard work, good will, and kindness trumped disappointment, loss, and bad beats. Duh! Life isn’t fair, despite what I think and the more I remember that and continue to make the best choices I can under the circumstances (See number 2 above) the less disappointed and angry I’ll be.
These provide the context for how I’ve been living through the threat of Covid-19 for me and for the world around me. They have helped – a lot. But, like George, I feel the loneliness. All the logic and preparatory experiences can’t eliminate the impact of being a single senior.
But like George, I agree that we’ll all get through it. And, as Wal suggests in his closing, down the road, upon reflection, I will remember and be grateful for the positive outcomes that emerged.
Finally, I will also remember the suffering and loss of life that impacted so many and lament what might have been had we handled this better. For now, I must embrace these new rules of engagement and continue to find ways to celebrate my remaining years.
Fiercely independent! Enjoys his own company Shares moments with others on his own terms He is authentically his own person
A biker, a hiker, he enjoys the outdoors Windows wide open on an aging, weathered face Like a moth to the flame, he is drawn to the horizon A modern day cowboy, he rides solo into the sunset
A husband and father He values loyalty, compassion, and connection He enjoys a great love with his late-in-life mate Wrestling with acceptance, he struggles as a dad Tenacious and loving, he has not given up Disappointed yet proud, discontented but fulfilled
A mentor and teacher and coach par excellence A master trainer/presenter, he shared what he read, what he learned, what he loved He dug deep into the why and how and challenged my growth along the way Much of me, is because of him
A friend for many seasons We rode, vacationed, debated our readings We shared family, friends, and secrets We bumped heads and rebounded, often, until the end
Strong personalities, leaders, and men often clash around things that matter least They jockey for recognition and value around superficial triggers Recognized or not, the core issues often go untouched, until it’s too late For one, when the plug is pulled, there is no turning back For the other, the friendship remains, celebrated alone
Haiku for Jerry
Press the steel softly Peeling delicate shavings Like downtown
Hen did such a good job with his poem… but I needed a shorter venue. Reading up on Haiku, it seemed a better alternative for me. Haiku is typically measured in syllables: five in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the last verse. The twist is that in Japanese, syllables ending in “n” may count as two. The essence of Haiku is juxtaposition, which I tried in the last line… but is explained at the end of this piece. The Haiku is for my friend Jerry who died this week from cancer. We were woodturning partners for years and I always sat behind him in church. Not sure why, since he was a big man and hard to see around. I think it was the solidity of Jerry – I enjoyed patting him on the back – it was reassuring. A gentle man with a bone crushing handshake. He was a rock. It’s hard to believe that strength couldn’t withstand any assault. Jerry was a Pittsburgh native, Korean War vet, Penn State alumnus, and retired math teacher. He lived 90 years and his presence blessed us. I learned from Jerry, that learning truly is lifelong, that one can have strong convictions, but still keep an open mind for new ideas. He did not press his opinions on others, but rather enjoyed an open discourse about topics. Our woodturning group on Thursdays explored many such conversations. His favorite saying, when something turned out well, was “just like downtown”. Apparently, this was a popular saying in Pittsburgh in the 1950’s – and lived on in Jerry’s vernacular. I guess this could be a good description of his life – a life that was well lived.
The Cane Lady
She wore a long tattered woolen winter coat that almost dragged on the ground. A black knitted cap covered her head. She had old lady black shoes and was never seen without her cane and shopping cart- the kind people used in the city to bring their groceries home from the market.
Everybody on the block knew her but no one knew her name. She lived in the alley behind our building, situated under the first fire escape platform, sleeping out on an old mattress someone had discarded and covered with blankets people from the buildings had donated . All of her worldly possessions were in that frail wire cart! The first Mobil home!
She could have been in her 40’s or 80’s, like her name, no one knew her age either. She never spoke and many believed she couldn’t. She would beg on the street indicating her hunger by coming up to you and pointing to her mouth. I gave her a bag of pretzels once! My brother called her the Cane Lady and the name seemed to stick.
She scared me and most of the other little kids in the neighborhood. Some parents even resorted to telling their kids if they didn’t get to sleep they would call the Cane Lady!
Maybe it was a more forgiving time just after WWII, but people seemed concerned for her and would give her miscellaneous foods at various times. My brother would taunt me that he was going to bring the Cane Lady up if I didn’t do what he wanted.
The long and the short of it is that as much as I was afraid of her I had admiration for her and wondered how she could survive on the street. I was afraid of the dark and didn’t even want to be outside after sunset but she lived out there. She was brave! She was independent- sort of! And I worried about her! I hadn’t thought of her for years but then the quarantine came and with all the time on my hands and the loneliness, she came to mind. I don’t know what happened to her as we moved to the country when I was 6. But thinking of her struggle to live, my quarantine was nothing. I said a prayer for her that wherever she is now is better than her earth life and thanked her for the gratitude I felt for how fortunate I have been. Thank you, Cane Lady!
From early on in my life I have had people come into my life. Some came in, stay for a while and then disappear. Some others come and pitch camp here. Some of those people had a heavy impact on my life intentionally or not. Sometimes they were the people you would least expect who impacted you the most.
When I started PS20 in Flushing in 1952 I loved school. I soon became the teacher‘s pet until the last week of school. Anyone who knows me has probably heard this story! As we all remember, at the end of the day you put your chair up on the desk before leaving. I don’t remember if I put the seat on the desk upside down or simply stood the chair on the desk top but whichever way I did it was the wrong way! Mrs. McNulty, maybe had a fight with her husband that day, but she was not happy with how I did it. As she was reading me the riot act she probably accidentally hit the chair and it fell back and hit me. I ran home the 8 blocks devastated. I refused to go back to school for the rest of that last week and my parents didn’t push it cause it was the last week of school. Fast forward to the Fall and second grade. Nope, not going! We had a round dining room table and I remember my mom chasing me around it trying to get me dressed. I was determined not to go! Poor mom, she would get home from the hospital from the midnight to 8 am Shift and had to deal with me. Dad had already gone to work. This went on for weeks. Finally the school stepped in and said I had to be home taught and assigned Mrs. Duncan To me. Mrs. Duncan was a large robust lady with a big flowery hat, very little patience, and a stern demeanor! Everyday though she would bring a dozen Dunkin Doughnuts with her. She made my dad put up an American flag in our dining room and everyday I had to say the pledge to myself and sing My Country ‘Tis of Thee…..by myself! I went through most of the year that way- hating every day of it but too afraid to go back to school!
They didn’t have psychologists in the schools then but there was a thing called Child Guidance and the school insisted I go. So every Thursday my mom and I took the Q 65 bus to Jamaica to Dr. Arciary at Child Guidance. The funny thing is the person who affected my life was not Mrs. Duncan. I liked Dr. Arciary (it wasn’t him either) cause we played games together and I could talk to him about anything. At one visit he asked me if I would mind another one of his clients joining our session. I did but he had been so nice to me I agreed.
The following week Edward L. joined us. Just so happened Ed was a kid who had been in my first grade class. He was pretty severely disabled and developmentally behind. He was a nice kid but the kids at school always made fun of him. I don’t remember how the session went but it had a profound effect on me. When we got home that night at dinner I asked my parents if they and the school thought I was like Edward. My mom asked me what I thought. I said I didn’t think I was like that but why were Edward and I going to the same place for help? I went to school the next day. Already mid June. My parents had to fight with the principal to make sure I was promoted to third grade instead of repeating 2nd. To this day I attribute my success in school and my emotional well being to Edward L. I never got to thank him! But he turned my life around and I am forever grateful!
I Need Thee Every Hour
I loved Hen’s organizing principle of people entering your life for a reason, season, or a lifetime. George met Edward L. for a reason, resulting in a life altering decision. Hen made a friend for a season in Bob – and experienced the vagaries of childhood loyalty. So, I will write about a person who entered my existence for a lifetime.
Of course, this will be about my partner, lover, and friend of fifty-one years. In fact, I’m writing this on our anniversary … all the more meaningful to us, because Linda almost didn’t make it. Three weeks ago, the emergency room doctor told me that they could not treat her and she needed to be rushed to a more specialized hospital. He said that in the ambulance, Linda’s heart stopped for 45 seconds – her condition was serious, he said. I needed to confront the possibility that our limitless horizons were in fact approaching rapidly. (Spoiler alert: Linda is making a fantastic recovery).
I first saw Linda on the main quad at college – -she was racing some other girls across the green. They looked happy and laughing. A couple of years later she was assigned to help costume me for a contest the college was running. We married at twenty-one and had absolutely no idea what we were doing. We simply had a resolve to co-author a life together. I guess there’s a learning lesson in that act: if you make that vow central to your being and subordinate other impulses, well, you become part of a new creation. Together we make a statement. Our shared history defines us. Sure there is plenty of yin and yang in the installation art that is our life – and times when it unravels a bit. However, our temperaments meld well on all the important aspects of our lifework. Linda is spunky, buoyant and wise, when I am dogged, dour and doubtful. I keep us grounded, she lifts us up.
Whether the time that is left to us is measured in decades, years, months, weeks or days, my sweet wife, — as the old hymn proclaims — “I need thee every hour’.
People Who Leave People
George’s title immediately reminded me of Barbra Streisand. And yes, I need her. Unfortunately, she’s married, but this post is about people who need people, not about availability… but I digress.
It is said that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for each person.
I have often confused reason and season with the idea that each positive encounter must undoubtedly be for a lifetime. I now know better. Not in a bad way as if, now I know not to trust that someone will always be there for me and I must always be guarded. But in a peaceful acceptance way of understanding that life (and relationships) is fragile and there is no way of knowing in advance, how long we have to enjoy what’s before us.
When I was a young boy, I had a neighborhood best friend, Bob. Neither of us fit into the athletic, “with it” social groups. Both of us listened more to our parents and followed the rules than the other kids. We rode bikes together, played in the woods, and confided in each other about the things that were on our minds. I trusted him.
There was another group of kids in the neighborhood who were way cooler and, because we weren’t, had nothing to do with us. One summer they built an underground fort in Pete’s backyard but still within eyeshot of the road. One day, walking along the road with my dog Mickie, I saw Bob go into the fort with a group of them. The feeling of betrayal swept through me. Had he been hiding his friendship with them, had he told them my secrets? Later, when I asked him about it, he lied and told me it must have been someone else. Now, I not only felt betrayed but began to question my sanity. I know I saw him, yet how could my best friend lie to me? Shortly afterwards, he confessed and explained that they enlisted him in a plot against me and threatened to beat him up if he didn’t cooperate. While I understood his dilemma, I knew I could no longer trust him. That was my first but not the last example of how people come and go into our lives.
What’s interesting for me is that each time someone has changed the rules and left or caused me to leave, despite vowing never to be like the others before them, I expect it to be different. I guess being labeled a rampant optimist holds some truth. Regardless, I try to use each of the experiences with the people in my life, past and present as a way of reminding myself to appreciate their impact on me. Each left or continues to leave a gift. How I choose to view those gifts is up to me.
For me it’s letting go of the notion that “for a lifetime” is the goal and accepting that each connection, no matter how brief, adds value to my life. Perhaps that’s what it is about after all.
Hen suggested the topic of diminishment — particularly of physical decline. We wrote about a similar sense of aging in George’s earlier post The Golden Years. However, this topic is a bit more pointed. George ended that post with a poem that fits the bill – about the inevitable crankiness of the body… or as Leonard Cohen sang: “I ache in the places where I used to play”.
Ending on a poem was a nice touch in The Golden Years, George. I drift toward poetry when confronting life issues. Somehow poets seem to capture large thoughts with few words. Three poems catch my fancy in this regard:
1. Dylan Thomas’ Don’t Go Gentle into that Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night… (and further verses)
Dylan Thomas kicks it up a notch! Some years ago, this was my anthem. Thomas not only wants to resist the acceptance of diminished ability, he wants to fuel his energy with anger. Go out with a flair! In addition, this poem conjers up the lament that one feels not just at physical decline, but the accompanying despair that life is too short and accomplishments too meager to meet the first rank. Thomas wrote this lyrical poem for his father, but he himself raged so at the loss of youth that he drank himself to death at age 39. Thomas spent his energy rubbing against the grain. He never came to peaceful terms with the inevitable arc of life.
2. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses
…Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
This is the stoic solution – head down, keep moving forward. Marcus Aurelius would have endorsed this sentiment. If you ever followed Rumpole of the Bailey, that aging barrister used to quote these verses to pump himself up to face difficult circumstances. The context of the poem chronicles poor Ulysses, forced to wander for many years and fight battle after battle, who finally makes his way home and finds he has to fight one last battle to reclaim his household. It’s a call to marshal one’s infirmities and soldier on. However, I’m not sure that it encourages a person to find new solutions, but rather to make good use of what you still possess – work with what you’ve got.
3. Emily Dickenson’s We Grow Accustomed to the Dark
…The Bravest – grope a little –and sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead –
But as they learn to see –
Either the Darkness alters –
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight –
And Life steps almost straight
I find this portrayal by Emily Dickenson most apt, most human. My friend Lee recently pointed out that we are bound energy… energy can’t be destroyed, but it can be transformed. As our physical presence transforms over time, we learn to adapt. We find a way. Senses and abilities previously dormant begin to bloom. We compensate. And perhaps we better appreciate the skills still remaining in our tool bag.
Oh – so why is this post entitled Tower of Song? Well, it’s a song by Leonard Cohen. I consider him more of a poet than a performer. If you chance to listen to this wistful song, it might touch a chord. I’m pretty sure that Cohen was contemplating something other than a jukebox. Perhaps eventually some remnant of our energy will reside in a Tower of Song.
Accepting My Diminshed State
Wal’s invitation to reflect on diminishment as we age provides, as one might expect, a range of perspectives. And offering it through poetry and song only enhances the number of interpretations.
Refusing to go quietly into the night reminds me of my friend Bill who once told me that when his time comes, he wants to be completely used up, having lived fully, without compromise, until there was no more left to give. I get that, I too, fueled by a youthful spirit and sense of adventure, welcome the adrenalin rush when I can. But influenced by life’s experiences and the ever-increasing limitations of the body, they are less spontaneous and more measured. As Wal, continues in his post, the wisdom of working with what we still have and consciously honing skills we may have barely acknowledged allows us to adapt to our new normal and still live fully.
For me, it’s about acceptance. Not acceptance of defeat. Acceptance of what I can still do, with or without difficulty, and recognizing when it’s worth it and when it’s not. Acceptance that it’s time to shift my tempo, or ask for help, or be more forgiving (of my limitations.) Acceptance that it may be time to let go and revel in the joy of watching someone else dance wildly into the night. So easily said, so challenging to practice.
I came across the two following poems that represent many of my feelings. I also liked I Still Matter, by Pat A. Fleming but didn’t include it in this post.
The Little Boy And The Old Man by Shel Siverstein
Said the little boy, sometimes I drop my spoon. Said the little old man, I do that too. The little boy whispered, I wet my pants. I do too, laughed the old man. Said the little boy, I often cry. The old man nodded. So do I. But worst of all, said the boy, it seems grown-ups don’t pay attention to me. And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand. I know what you mean, said the little old man.
I like the parallel that we end in similar ways to how we begin.
Maya Angelou wrote:
“When you see me sitting quietly, like a sack upon a shelf, Don’t think I need your chattering. I’m listening to myself. Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me! Hold! Stop your sympathy! Understanding if you got it, otherwise I’ll do without it! When my bones are stiff and aching and my feet won’t climb the stair, I will only ask one favor: Don’t bring me no rocking chair. When you see me walking, stumbling, don’t study and get it wrong. ‘Cause tired don’t mean lazy and every goodbye ain’t gone. I’m the same person I was back then, a little less hair, a little less chin, A lot less lungs and much less wind. But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.”
Lucky indeed!
Diminishing Returns
Getting old sucks- sure it beats the alternative but it causes us to watch the demise of the persons we used to be. Sure medication helps- Blood pressure, cholesterol, and other old age conditions can be controlled with pills but the one thing that can’t is the mind. The mind remembers how it used to be and wants to be back there but the body says, “No way, Jose,” unless you aren’t Spanish and don’t know the expression. Things hurt, slow down or function differently than in the past. And you remember how it once was and wonder why it can’t be the same as it was. But intellectually you know that things wear out. Tires go bald, mower blades dull, plumbing breaks down. Same thing happens to our bodies. The only difference is there is no technician who can come and service your furnace, repair the elimination system in your body, or even fertilize the hair on your head. You know what I mean!
But we are complex! Our bodies consist of organs that break down, but we also have senses and sensitivities. My ears have diminished. Tinnitus and hearing loss have cause me to say, “What?” My eyes have deteriorated so I have to have my glasses on my forehead at all times so that I can see clearly. Fortunately smell and taste have not deserted me. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t smell the lilacs or taste the sweetness of an apple pie! But touch- now that is a different case. Living alone during the pandemic I don’t get to touch another person. I crave the feeling of someone’s head on my lap or a good foot rub! Sure I can feel the dishes while I am washing them, the soap when I am washing myself in the shower but I can’t feel the human touch! The feel of a hand touching my face tenderly or shaking my hand or brushing the dirt off my arm after I come in from cutting the grass. My sensations have been diminished!
In general my world has diminished. No poetry can express it! My family has diminished. From a large Italian family we are reduced to 3. My son moved south but my daughter is nearby, thank God. In the last two weeks I have lost 3 friends. I didn’t lose them, I know where they are…. they died! So my sphere of people who make up my world is diminishing as well. It is hard for me to be optimistic in this limited environment. In my youth I could always say things will get better. In my senior status I know more than likely my world will continue to diminish so I have to accept it and find a way to be comfortable within this circle of life. Life can still be comfortable! I can take comfort in the fact that over the years I have gained experience and wisdom that merely passing through years afford us. It feels good knowing that wisdom can be accumulated over the years IF you are open to it. Some people never gain wisdom. It is just who they are. I am fortunate in that I have accumulated positive information that I can apply when needed. And at this time in my life and this time in a country full of unrest I guess I have to take comfort in the fact that it may be all I have left to give and that has to be enough! As the body deteriorates, that isn’t such a bad thing!
Three Old Guys Walked Into A Bar 