"Sorryness . . ." or is it "Sorriness" ?

       When I told a colleague that I was spending Christmas vacation in Los Angeles and Palm Springs, California, he predicted 'You're going to get sorry.'  He was not suggesting 'sorry' in the sense of 'regret' or 'remorse'; rather, he was jesting that the experience would render me 'worthless'.

     Over the last week and a half or so, there were times when I was convinced that Will was correct.  The contrasts ---between
what we experienced on the West Coast and the routines of home; and even between LA and Palm Springs --have been striking.  Our son's apartment is on the 12th floor of a building in downtown LA. From there we had a panorama of 'skyscrapers', traffic, holiday lights and even the 'Hollywood' sign on the distant hill.  Palm Springs itself was , well, 'different' and with more  allure to decadent 'sorriness' in the form of warm temperatures (70's and 80's compared to the chilling 20's, 30's and 40's back home), an outdoor pool and jacuzzi, delicious food served in a most comfortable ambiance {Not a paid advertisement: in Palm Springs, go to Billy Reed's restaurant.  We became 'regulars', recognized and warmly greeted by the staff.}, and grapefruit trees just outside the door - - - from which a few were 'liberated' for our enjoyment.  And, naps became a regular part of the daily rhythm in both locales.

                        (A study in contrast: Los Angeles at night and a 'typical' view in Palm Springs)

   (Invitations to 'sorryness' in the form of Billy Reed's trademark cinnamon roll and the strawberry cake)

      Immunity against total decadence came in several forms:

i) Walking.  The apartment is conveniently located near several good restaurants.  Beats searching for a parking spot and I am certain that we logged a few miles.

ii) Hiking . . . many miles on some  rugged (for me, at least) mountain trails around Palm Springs.  Both the Indian Canyons area and the wilderness of Mount San Jacinto provided exertion as well as awe-inspiring vistas.  Retrospectively, I wish  we had gone to the latter location earlier in our visit and  spent the day 'soaking it  in' with time for reading, writing, reflection as well as exploration.

     No Rattlers seen;  Reflection of tram car on mountain
   side;  'on the trail'     

iii)  Christmas Eve Eucharist service.  Being reminded that there is 

a transcendent 'More'.   

iv)  Being with people I love, 'missing' others who are important in my life, and remembering those now dead who enriched my life along the way.

I hope that your Christmas was enjoyable, restorative  and not too 'sorry'.

Satchel

"Digger" and Laura

             I have noticed the interweaving of a few 'themes' in these posts: Karakters appears pretty regularly; as do Nicknames and Whose Shoulders do you Stand on?  And, I have been chided . . . gently . . . that another theme is "I grow old".  I prefer not to think of it as  'getting older' but as attaining new vantage points or perspectives.

       Sometimes there is a kind of merging of themes as I reflect (or muse) upon important people, times, events that have been influential in setting or modifying the course of my life.  Such it is with this post.

    How could someone with the nickname of Digger not be a Karakter, in a good sense.  And, a spouse of that same karakter is one in her own right.  Have you had enough birthdays to remember the radio personality, 'Digger O'Dell, the friendly undertaker' ?
Well, the Digger of my acquaintance is now a retired United Methodist minister.  Before our lives intersected in 1960 at Boston University School of Theology, he had earlier been a mortician ---
hence the moniker.

     Since that year, as often happens, our careers have put us in different parts of the country with infrequent opportunities for face-to-face visits.  That one year has proved to be among the 'pivotal' nodes in my life.  And, Digger and Laura and their one year old son were major influences.

    A bit of context . . . our parents, though not wealthy, had largely underwritten my undergraduate education and in that last year, a second son had begun his studies at the state university.  Mom and Dad continued to be supportive, including financially. While I had a tuition scholarship and a couple of part-time jobs, often there was "too much month at the end of the money" and I was reluctant to ask more of them.  Consequently, there were some slim times along the way.  Somehow, Digger learned this.   I began having invitations to their home on week-ends; occasionally an envelope with a bit of cash would appear on my dorm door.  The inscription was something like "Have a peanut on me."

    Their residence in the Boston suburb of Braintree became 'home' and as part of saying 'Thank you', I would occasionally baby-sit their young son.  That 'child' is now an internationally respected PhD research scientist.  How quickly they grow up ! while we sometimes flatter ourselves that we are the same.

    Digger and Laura have shared their creativity and talents in many ways.  Though she was not enrolled at the seminary, her voice instructor recognized her great ability and had her become a member of the venerable Seminary Singers.  A nurse by training, she and Digger have enriched the lives of many persons in the places where they lived.

    A few years ago, upon retirement, they moved to Florida.  He became a  staff member of the large United Methodist church in their city.  There he continued to provide numerous creative touches, including  the annual Christmas festooning of the sanctuary.

    I was somewhat surprised when I realized that we were last together in 2006.  I was certain that it was just a couple of years ago.  He had come our way to say 'Good bye' to his former secretary who was dying.  He stayed with us for several days and it was a much too short visit.

     Recently, I had attempted to contact them and discovered that my information was outdated.  They had 'vanished'.  So, I went to their son's website for his email address and within a day had the new information.  Because of new health circumstances, they had moved to a retirement community in Venice, Florida.  I called them the next day and 'caught up'.

   I learned that they are expecting Jamie and his new family for a Christmas gathering.  Here's a heart-felt wish for the fullness of the time: "Have a peanut [of gratitude] on me."
     

    (The top photo of Laura, Digger, Jamie and Rex was actually taken in the Spring of 1961; the lower one of us  was made in the Summer of 2006.)

   Satchel

Marlin . . . In Memoriam

                                 Kenneth Marlin Mathiesen, Jr.
                            1938-2013

      Today I received notification of the recent death of a man who was one of my best friends in high school.  I met Marlin in 1954 when my parents moved to a new town between my sophomore and junior years.  For those two years, we were great friends.  After graduation and my college career beginning a few days prior to his, he accompanied my parents as they drove me to the beginning of a 'whole new world'.   Personal and professional moves over the intervening 57 years meant that we 'lost touch' and saw each other infrequently, primarily during holiday breaks and, later, at class reunions.  We were last together in 2006 at the Fiftieth Class Reunion.

     But during those two years, we accumulated a gamut of experiences that still live in rich memory.  He was a stellar high school football player . . . a hard running half-back on our six-man team.  Even more, he was an outstanding student. (He went on to become a physician like his father.)  Mathematics has never been one of my strong academic suits . . . and the Physics class we took demanded some precision with formulae.  Our combined efforts (with frequent assistance from his dad) produced some intriguing (to us ) experiments: we learned why the surface of bridges cooled more rapidly than roadways; we built 'radios' powered by razor blades, coiled wire and wire antenna that actually picked up the broadcast from a station in the state capital, some 35 miles away; but the one that was the most  fun was  building a still.  The only product that came from that was distilled water, but  we learned the fundamental "how to's".

    We double-dated (the term will mean something to those of us of a 'certain age') to a Perry Como concert at Duke.  He frightened me and our friend, Larry, one Sunday afternoon by driving his dad's big Oldsmobile 105 mph on a straight stretch on US Highway 64.  Thank goodness we lived to remember that craziness.  It was still a topic of conversation for us at the last reunion.  Though his family were 'pillars' of the local Seventh Day Adventist Church, he was active in our Methodist Youth Fellowship, probably owing in large part to a girl friend's presence. 

     Of the 43 of us who received our high school diplomas that Spring evening in  1956, nine have died.  First there was Irene ("Moosie"), followed (not in order) by Herbert ("Shane"), Nancy, Velna, Billy Joe ("Chubby"), Steve ("Speedy"), Tommy Louis, Newton, and now, Marlin.  Something within wants to deny the rapid passage of those years and the subsequent mortality of those (then) youth.  Perhaps there are "lessons" to be derived from pondering all that; but for now, as Mr. Hope sang, "Thanks for the Memories".
    
   Satchel

". . . WITH EVERY CHRISTMAS CARD I WRITE . . ."

        Forget the "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" part.
We had one of those just three years ago.  The storm warning caused us to abbreviate our Christmas at the beach and scurry home . . .bread and milk in hand . . . arriving just minutes before the snow began.

        This year other words in the song have renewed significance for me . . .   those of the title of this post.  Last night we sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed the annual tradition of writing Christmas cards.  (When I googled the history of Christmas cards, I read that the custom originated in the UK in 1843 and migrated to the US late in that decade.  So much for the arcane history.)  Notice that the word is "write" rather than "address". We included a brief note in each card.  Sometimes our cards are the sole contact we have with folks during the year.  The card and note are ways of saying "We remember you and your place in our lives."

     As a youth and teen, I did not like cards addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Parents and Family".  For some reason, that felt like second-class. We (the brothers) had names and when someone included us, I was pleased. Over time, I suspect that I have continued that  slight; but I am trying 'to do better'.  Our parents received lots of cards, in part perhaps attributable to a  3 cents postage stamp. (It was the 1950's after all !)  I choose to believe that it was also because they had many friends and family. For a few years, they actually incorporated the cards into their interior decorations by attaching them to door frames. 

    Mr. Hall and his brothers expanded the options of card styles, etc. and hence put their hallmark on the custom. (Forgive the deliberate and lame pun; but there actually were the Hall brothers.)  

   When I was in college I learned that not everyone sending a card was motivated by seasonal cheer.  Home for Christmas break, I received a card from an upperclassman whom I hardly knew. Likely I thought something like "that's nice" but wondered 'why?'.  The answer came in the Spring when he ran for Student Body President.  And, of course, there are the "We are glad that you are our customer" kind.
Usually, my curmudgeon side kicks in and I just trash those.

    Among the more memorable was one from a friend, claiming financial difficulties and written on a folded sheet of paper:
    "Money's tight and times are hard.
       This, my dear, is your Christmas card."
In the years since, I have seen variations (some not here repeatable) and suspect that the ploy was not original with him.

     Alas, postage is no longer 3 cents . . . so that may impact how many cards we send this year.  Yet I am not ready to adopt the above  sentiment.  Remembering family and friends --of then and now -- is increasingly important. Since it is now the 21st century, even a greeting sent by email is acceptable.  

    And, who knows ---if I become too sentimental, I may just write about 'Fruitcake' next time.

     Satchel

"How are you going to write about THIS ? " . . .

      ... My cousin Pam asked during last Friday's Family Reunion.  THIS was the evening-after-Thanksgiving gathering of  some hundred or so relatives and in-laws from my maternal grand-parents' family. The occasion was  our more or less annual get-together. Cousin Jenny and husband Ray again offered the spacious Family Room of their home for the evening.

     It was a well-fed crowd . . . continuing the talents of my grand-mother, there are many excellent cooks among her progeny.  My personal favorite remains Aunt Rachel's Chicken and Dumplings.  When I arrived, a couple of my cousins told me that had her delicacy arrived before I, they had intended to hide them from me. "Thanks" guys !

    Rachel is the only one of my grand-parents children still with us.  She and Uncle Lewis's widow, Ivy Marie, remain a cherished link to other times and people. Not unlike many of their contemporaries, our grand-parents had many children . . .12.  Of those, ten grew to adulthood; one was a World War II casualty; the oldest daughter's only child was still-born. The other eight provided 24 first cousins. Two of those are deceased, one having died just a couple of months ago.  Eighteen of the remaining twenty-two were present, along with spouses, children, and grand's. My own two living children had to be elsewhere. (My daughter and her family were en route home after a several day visit with us.)

   Not surprisingly, there is a wide age span among the cousins . . .78 to 48. (Good grief ! In writing that , I realized that some of us are old enough to be the parents of others of us !)  Six of us were born during or pre-World War II.  So, several of my cousins belong to the "Baby Boom" generation.  Clarice's daughter, Mona, orchestrated photographing the various groupings within the family.  Given the census, that endeavor took several minutes.

     Cousin Roy (of hiding the dumplings plot) gave us his annual gift of Birthday/Anniversary/Pictures calendar.  Over the years these have become treasured repositories of photographs of the "dearly departed".  This year he added some statistics . . .  243 birthdays and 54 wedding anniversaries are included in the current edition; of those, only 24 actually have our Grand-pa's surname and two others have it as their first or middle name; attendees' ages  ranged from 90 years to one month.  And, he added, "the most interesting fact …most of us still speak to each other".

    A lot of good stories were told . . . and retold. My oldest cousin Clarice told some about me that I could have sworn were fabrications.  She insisted otherwise.  The 'noise level' was at several decibels.  And a frequently asked question was "who is that over there next to … ?"  Sadly, there are many stories that will never again be told because the tellers are deceased. My wife aptly observed that along with the many photographs, we need to record some of that rich (and otherwise non-repeatable) lore for future generations that might have interest.

                     (The stories they knew. Grand-parents with their surviving children around 1926. Rachel was not born yet.)

      As I have frequently noted in these posts, "Family" is not a universally good experience.  When it is basically healthy, it provides much that enriches.  A lot of that was evident last Friday.  Thanks.

   Satchel