"Hot, ain't it ? ! " . . .

. . . or so goes a phrase often heard around here at this season.  Occasionally, the weather forecast includes a reference to these being "Dog days", followed by pictures of cute puppies being lazy. And, such may be the general understanding of the expression. It's a time when pet dogs and people lounge around, not wanting to over-exert and get 'dog tired'.  The phrase generally refers to the hot, sultry time in the Summer from early July til early September when rainfall is lowest.  The history of the expression lies with the Romans who realized that the stifling weather coincided with the time when the Dog Star, Sirius, rose and set with the Sun.  

    Wikipedia notes that the ancients considered dog days to be an evil time when "the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid."  Indeed, the weather of the season
can produce a stagnation of body, mind and spirit. . . tempers can be short, irritants more numerous (think, mosquitoes, ticks,gnats and  flies), energy is minimal (a former neighbor from England said that the season was 'Damned Debil-i-ta-ting'), and little seems to interest us.  Sometimes we 'drag around' , seeking relief. 

    For many the advent of air conditioning has brought options other than opening windows and doors, or sitting on the porch or under a shade tree. Someone once wrote that the American South at this time of the year is a place where it is 'always 90* in the shade'.  A brother who lives in New Hampshire where the Seasons are but Winter and July 4, has vowed that only a family emergency can bring him to N.C. in August.

    Last Winter I made a solemn promise to myself: "I will not complain about the Summer's heat after all this snow and cold."  So far, I have kept the promise (if this post be excepted). Although there have been ample 90* days this year (yesterday was one and today 'has promise') . . . and more are forecast. . .I am grateful that the challenge of 'dog days' this year has not been as  formidable as in the recent past. 

    Dad often advised 'don't let the monkey get you', meaning don't get overheated. I began musing about various ways we attempted to 'stay cool' when I was a youth.  Before Dr. Salk's vaccine eliminated polio epidemics, my brothers and I spent languid afternoons on a pallet on our back porch, reading comic books and listening to a nearby radio station whose afternoon programming was for kids.  I won a $1 savings bond starter from  WNAO , a Raleigh station, when they telephoned, asking me to name that tune they were featuring.  I missed it, but got the consolation prize rather than the bountiful $2 cash that the correct answer would have fetched.

    'Water' often provided relief.  We called it 'getting under the hose' . . . spraying each other with refreshing coolness.  Dad or other fathers of our group often drove us on Sunday afternoons to Pullen Park in Raleigh, there being no community pool in our town. Returning home, there was always the stop at Dairy Queen.  Mr. Schaub, the father of a school mate, built a pool at their house and often invited my brother and me to swim on Sunday afternoons.  In time, he filled it in with dirt because they had so many uninvited guests. 

    And, there was 'home-made' ice cream, oscillating fans, and ceiling fans and awnings, especially in stores.  'Hand-held funeral home air conditioners' provided some relief.  These were fans that were imprinted with advertisements for local merchants, often the morticians.

      Perhaps the late Nat Cole overly romanticized the 'lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer'.  Still, I prefer this Season to the 'stuff' we had several months ago.  
   
     Stay cool ! (not cold)
        
         Satchel

CLISBY

         Last night I learned that Clisby had died; that he had been gone for almost five years.  I was shocked, saddened and embarrassed.  I called to wish him a 'Happy Birthday', Number 77, something that I formerly did with some regularity.  Last year, the date had slipped my mind . . . but what of the other 3 omissions ?!  I would have bet that I had called the previous year.The shock was in the realization of the rapid passing of years; saddened and embarrassed that I had failed to stay in contact with someone who had once thrown me a 'lifeline'.

     In 1982, having lost my teaching job, I became an entrepreneur . . . as a broker of college textbooks.  Through an intermediary, Clisby took note of my business volume and offered me employment as a representative of his company.  The arrangement that eventually evolved was that I would work with the company but not for them.  There were subtle nuances in the arrangement, for certain.  One such was the irregularity of cash flow. . . not exactly 'feast or famine' but somewhere close.  Going far beyond what our agreement  obligated him to do, Clisby found 'creative' ways to assist me through several financial hard spots.  Simply said, he trusted me . . . in many ways, including with large sums of money on occasion. And it was more than a business association. At least once during the brief time we worked together, I was a dinner guest in their home.

     I well remember an occasion when a house payment was due and I had to ask his assistance.  Receiving (or so it seemed to me) some words of displeasure from his boss, Clisby found a way to provide me an 'advance' of compensation.  Working with him and his organization made possible a relocation to another part of the state, a development with unforeseen future implications, notably a entirely new professional career.

    After his retirement, he and his wife moved to the South Carolina coast.  On several occasions when we vacationed in the area, I would arrange to meet Clisby for breakfast and each time again to say 'thanks'.  Last night when his wife answered my call and told me of his passing, I offered my much belated condolences and apologies.  She was very gracious.  I told her again of my gratitude for his friendship and 'saving me ' at that crucial juncture.  She called him 'a white knight'.  He certainly rescued me at a time I was in 'great distress'.  

    Now, each August 9th, I want to remember to say a prayer of appreciation for one who extended a 'helping hand' when I was struggling.

    "Thanks, Clis."
         Satchel

THE JOLLY ROGER

Jack's 75th birthday was last week.  We were undergraduate fraternity brothers back in the 1950's. Then for nine years in the 1990's, I was minister at his home church.  I had not seen him in several years.  For some unknown reason, he was strongly on my mind that day.  So, following an impulse or an intuition, I drove over to his house to say 'hello'.  There was no one at home when I arrived but as I was writing a 'sorry that I missed you' note, he and his wife drove up.  We visited for a half hour or so and it was then that I learned that was his birthday.   It was good seeing him and  catching up on personal and family matters.  Little of our conversation was around 'the good old days'.

College fraternities receive a lot of 'bad press', much of it deservedly, for transgressions ranging from alcohol abuse to adolescent  'pranks and hijinks'.  A nearby university has frequently been in the news for fraternity members allegedly being implicated in a pledge's death.  Another endemic criticism has been snobbery and exclusive-ism.  Selecting members by the secret ballot method known as 'Blackballing' has inflicted great hurt upon countless youth seeking inclusion.

Periodically, I receive mailings from the national office of my undergrad fraternity.  Usually, I do a  'quick read' for any mention of someone whom I might know.  Otherwise, it finds a  quick home in the recycle bin.  Somehow, stories about current members or how old alums are serving as mentors, etc hold no interest. I once knew a man who in his 60's was "Grand President" of the fraternity of his youth.  His vanity license plate bore the 'password' of that group.   My 'fraternity' were the guys in our local chapter at a specific time and place.  In my personal 'archives', I still have the fraternity pin that I wore then.  I guess the 'skull and crossbones' had (have) some kind of symbolic meaning.  If so, that is long lost in the recesses of my remembering.  An undergraduate acquaintance referred to the pin as a 'Jolly Roger', the symbol on pirates' flags with skull and crossbones.

Ours was a small student body where practically all the residential students knew each other.  While there were six national fraternities and four national sororities with chapters represented, it was not unusual to have close friends among other 'Greek' organizations besides one's own.  We doubtless had our share of the 'silliness' and yet, there were shared times and events that made us glad that we  were  part of something 'larger' than our own self interest.  Toward the end of my Senior year, several guys were seriously injured in an automobile accident while en route back to campus.  Four of the Sig Eps were unable to return to classes that semester. I was deeply moved by what had happened and am forever grateful to my 'brother' Charlie (as he was then known) who held me while I sobbed.  Fred recently died 50 + years later, supposedly from complications from that ill-fated afternoon. 

'Naming Names' can be risky, especially when I rely upon my 76 year old 'remember-er'.  But immediately there come to mind:

Reid ('Sunshine'), John, Charlie, Bill, Nesbitt, Fred, Bobby, Ken, Danny, Mickey, Vance, Chetchie ('Big' and 'Little' . . . biological brothers), Jack, Bill Tyson, Shepherd,  'Sweat', Pete, Benny, . . . (No slight intended for omissions.)  Three of them are deceased.  Of the others, we see each other rarely, if ever, and communicate by email, occasional telephone call, or text.  There is a respect and appreciation for our shared past but more importantly, I believe, is the ability to 'meet' in the 'right now'.  There have been mumblings about a get-together, or as Ken wrote me last week: "We ought to try and gather for a shindig one of these days before it's too late.  You do know what I mean."

Yeah, Sully, I think I do know what you mean.

     Satchel

Tom(my) saw yer fence . . .

. . .and painted it.   OK; it's a weak pun, at best.  If the allusion does not resonate, check Mark Twain's narrative about Tom Sawyer and whitewashing the fence.

     A few weeks ago, we attended a lawn and  garden tour and saw a small tool shed that had a mural painted on the side. Thus was born the idea of adding a mural onto our privacy fence.  Our son, Tommy, (my wife's biological; my relational) who lives in Los Angeles is a talented artist with an MFA.  While here last week, he painted a mural on a  section of the fence . . . with the possibility of adding "touch-up's" and more panels on future visits.

    Watching the progression of steps involved was something of an education.  His work reflects vivid colors and shapes (see his website, www.tommybeane.com, and the various tabs thereon).  After the initial whitening and the addition of the first colors, as a 'non-artist' , I had difficulty envisioning 'where this might be going.'  Fortunately, he did not.

   Over the years, my wife and our friend, Jim, who is a professional landscaper have created a beautiful backyard for us.  Now, with the mural. . . well, as they say, 'a picture is worth a thousand words'. We think that it is 'the perfect addition.'

First, the primer

Q, our Shitzu, 'stands guard'

For perspective, this is from about 40 yards away

  

I had thought it basically completed with an ice field in the foreground.
Little did I know . . .

Tom Sawyer's fence never looked so good !






Satchel                                                  

IT CAN'T BE DONE . . .

       I had intended to keep count . . . of the number of times last week clients said that they wanted "to make sure that . . ."  I wanted to tell them that as noble as the aspiration might be, its deliverance is an impossibility.

      As it is often used, "making sure" is a throwaway phrase implying that a full exertion of effort will guarantee an intended and expected outcome.  A 'Guarantee' in the purchase of an appliance, automobile, etc. usually is desirable.  At least, a replacement can be offered.  In human terms, however, there are just too many variables.  Consider, " I want to make sure ['certain' if you prefer]  that our team wins tomorrow's game."  For starters, the other team may get a 'vote'.  In 1949, the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox seasons came down to the last game. . . the winner would go to the World Series. The brothers DiMaggio played for opposing teams ...Joe for New York and Dom for Boston.  They were driving together for dinner on the eve of the game and Joe apparently said something to the effect that he would have to win the game for his team the next day.  Whereupon, his brother reportedly said,  "I'll be playing in that  game also."  Well, it happened that the Yankees won and Joe certainly contributed.  What might have caused a different outcome?  As talented as 'Jolting Joe' was, he could not have had perfect control over all the variables of the game.  What if an errant pitch had 'beaned' him in the first inning?  After all, pitchers do occasionally throw wild pitches and there were no batting helmets at the time.

      An athletic contest could be construed as an overly simplistic illustration.  What would you like to "make sure" occurs.?  In the first session with a new client, I specifically say, "I do not guarantee outcomes.  Someone else has a say-so in how this goes and that person is sitting in your chair."  I do, however, promise my best effort, training and experience.

     The late Rabbi Edwin Friedman, a preeminent Family Systems therapist, maintained that the pursuit of total "control" is a modern form of idolatry.  It is beyond the achievement of mortals.

     Where does that leave those of us who want to "make sure . . ." ?  At the risk of being 'trite', I would suggest accepting responsibility to utilize  our  Best efforts in terms of thought, action, talent, consultation, exertion, timing, and the recognition that there are factors at work beyond our own doing.

      That reminds me . . . I need to go remove the bird feeder from the deck to make sure that the raccoons do not eat the seeds during the night.

     Satchel

      

As the years rock on , , ,

           Fifty-Eight !!  58 !!  Most of the time I do not even feel 58 years old.  Then the math unremittingly insists that it has been that many years since high school graduation.  I missed last year's gathering.  Had not been to one since #50 and it , like the one today, was but a couple of miles from where we live.   (While I did not attend last year's reunion, a picture from the event prompted my writing of the earlier post "Once Upon a Time".)

      Our numbers have declined . . . of the original 44, eleven have died ... eight of the men and three women. Two men died within the past year.  One of those had been a close high school friend. ("Marlin . . . In Memoriam")  The other had been the class prankster.  Today, there were 17 of us who gathered, along with guests.  

      Evidences of accumulating years and health challenges were unmistakeable.  At times, the mood turned 'heavy' as 
we remembered losses and spoke of rough spots along the way.  Despite that, there was an authentic delight in seeing  each other and in re-hearing some old stories and a few new ones:  Carl's telling of cheerleading for NC State:"Give me an 'S', Give me a 'T', Give me an 'A', Give me an 'E'."  Whoops, left out a letter. ; Ray's comment, "Well, none of us has been in jail", being met by a lone voice that said, "I have".
And there are yet a few of us still working  full-time.

      The strong spirit of endurance and survival there today bespoke again the adage, "Old age is not for sissies."

    Satchel

"Not off our rockers !"

PARACHUTES AND PARATROOPERS

     I have never jumped from an airplane; nor at this stage of my life do I anticipate doing so.  We have a friend who was a member of the famed 82nd Airborne some years ago and he still has fond memories of the time.  During my Army basic training at Fort Jackson, S.C., in 1962,  there was an airborne company just across the street from our company area and we thought them a bit macho, always chanting 'Airborne, airborne' during their morning run.

    My sole close encounter with a parachute occurred that Fall.  After basic, I was assigned to the Third Army Flight Detachment at Fort McPherson in Atlanta.  My grand-parents lived close by in Alabama.  One Friday, two Captains flew in from Fort Rucker, Alabama, for a brief errand on post.  I asked if they would be returning via Montgomery and if so, could I catch a hop.  Well, they could go that way and since they were in a single engine L-19, I would need a parachute.  My section sergeant gave me a week-end pass and orders not to let the pompous First Sergeant know.  I checked out a parachute from the Supply Room, stashed it in their aircraft along with a few personal items for the week-end.  Though given a quick tutorial in how to use the parachute, I had already concluded that if matters reached that level of severity, I was likely already dead from a coronary.

   It was an uneventful flight and I had a good visit with kinspeople, even though my Uncle Sam (really his name) who did not know of my arrival was a bit surprised to see a parachute on his living room floor when he came home from work.  Getting back to my post became another matter altogether.  Not daring to check the parachute with luggage lest a clerk pull the wrong lever and have open parachute all over the place, I kept it with me on the bus ride back to Atlanta.  I was billeted off post in a private residence some dozen miles or so from downtown.  My plan had been to call the hanger and have someone provide transportation to my quarters.  No one was there except the CQ (Charge of Quarters) who was prohibited from leaving.  By now it was late on Sunday night and being AWOL at roll call the next morning was not an attractive outcome.  Finally I hit upon a  'life saver'.  I telephoned the fraternity house at Georgia Tech of the same national fraternity of which I had been a member some years earlier at another college.  I explained my situation, adding that I would be recognizable outside the bus terminal because I was in uniform and carrying a parachute.  There was a long silence and I realized how 'odd' that must have sounded.  At any rate, in a few minutes a couple of guys appeared and drove me home.

    All of that is frivolous compared to the 'real stuff' that occurred seventy years ago today (June 6, 1944) as paratroopers jumped into German Army-held regions of France.  As a small way of remembering and honoring, I have again watched portions of Band of Brothers.  "Hero" is a term that gets tossed around much too easily but those men, who frightened though they were, were heroes all.  I have especially thought of 'Mr. Len' (see earlier post with that title) who was part of the D-Day force, as well as two other men whom I knew when a boy and later learned that they had survived that 'Longest Day'.

    And, now on today's news, there is a story of Jim 'Pee Wee' Martin who was among those jumping into Normandy that morning and now at the age of 93 just jumped again.  Of this last jump, he said, "It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. . . . I did not compare [with 1944] because there was not anybody shooting at me today."   (Mr. Martin maintains a Facebook page that can be accessed by doing a web search with his name.)

    Often in these posts, I note what I deem the necessity of contradicting the stereotypes of aging.  Horrible things do occur to folks in the post-65 cohort (as noted in my last post).  However, there are things we can do to 'hedge our bets', such as good nutrition and exercises like walking.  While I include Mr. Martin among the WWII heroes, he also deserves that accolade for his recent actions and attitudes.   He acknowledged that he was motivated in part by 'ego' in making this last jump to demonstrate that "I'm 93 and can still do it. . . . And also I just want to show all the people that you don't have to sit and die just because you get old. Keep doing things."  He plans to jump again next D-Day.  While I do not plan to join him in this endeavor, he is a great encourager for keeping fit and healthy.
    " Geronimo !!"
                              Satchel

REBECCA

     Rebecca has Alzheimer's.  More accurately, Alzheimer's has Rebecca.  For this once elegant, kind lady would never have willingly submitted to the indignities that this thieving disease imposes.  I learned this sad news when I saw family members this week in a local restaurant.

   I initially met Rebecca and her family in 1991 when I became pastor of their United Methodist congregation.  From then until 2000, when I was reassigned elsewhere, I knew her to be one of my trusted advisers, confidantes, and friends, although she was not a member of the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, the formal Personnel group. When I was completing the various requirements for Elder, i.e. Ordination in our tradition, Rebecca provided feedback and insights for the many 'hoops' that I needed to satisfy.  Along with Clarice and Lola, two other loving matriarchs of the congregation, she was always a leader in the church's  work and an 'example' for the younger generation--women and men.

    In the years since leaving that community, I have seen her infrequently, most recently at the festivities around weddings of two of her grand-sons.  Last Summer at Seth's wedding, she seemed quite lucid, although other indignities of aging  were 'slowing me down'.  Retrospectively, she was already becoming adept at concealing the early manifestations that have since become obvious.

    Earlier I wrote about people who allow us to 'stand on their shoulders', and hence make it possible for us to 'see further and more clearly', as well as about 'kar-ak-ters', folks whose individuality adds seasoning to the 'vanilla' of the mundane places of life. Rebecca has been such a  person for me. 

    I mentioned that she was 'elegant'.  But that did not preclude her working alongside Scotty in the gritty tasks in their large chicken houses and other farming jobs.  They also liked to 'go places and do things', especially when he still had his own airplane.  A favorite story, often retold, was of their drive to Alaska.  The original plan was for shared driving.  According to Scotty's version, sleepiness overtook her on one monotonous stretch and thereafter he opted to do all the driving.  Ocracoke on the Outer Banks of North Carolina was a longtime favorite fishing destination.

    Books were a passion for her and she read constantly.  When we first met, she worked part time in a bookstore in a nearby mall.  For her, that was like being a child in a candy store.  As Alzheimer's has exacted its toll on her cognitive strengths, her reading fare is no longer of the same depth and literary styles.  No doubt, Rebecca could have written her own book because she and her husband have been raconteurs extraordinaire.

   The many insults to the dignity of one's previous Being that Alzheimer's can bring are now often Rebecca's experience.  Her son and daughter-in-law who live nearby are primary caregivers who know the many challenges described in The Thirty-Six Hour Day, one of the best books about caring for someone with the disease.

    Selfishly, I hope that my earlier efforts to express  appreciation for her influence were adequately conveyed and heard.  Because now, alas, although I know my debt, I also know that she can no longer 'hear' it.  At the risk of sounding trite and trivial,  I am aware that there are several other 'Rebecca's' to whom I would be remiss not to say 'Thank You'.  Do you have any?
    
       Satchel

      

    

   

THE PAST AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE

  
Have you said or heard anything like . . .

  "That's in the past; what does that have to do with now?";  "Get over it, suck it up; it happened long ago."; "I'm not interested in the dead past."  Or, by contrast, "Those who forget the past are doomed to relive it." (George Santayana); . . . Perhaps you have your own quote about the past and how you interpret its place in your life.

    [An acknowledgement of the bases of my biases: by formal training, I am both an academic historian (PhD, UNC-CH in 1977) and a clinically trained psychotherapist.  In both of these vocations, I have grown in an appreciation of how 'the past' influences, informs,  intrudes into the present.  Part of my therapy training has been in EMDR (a modality for treating trauma of various types and severity).  A fundamental premise of EMDR is that 'the past is alive in the present'.]

      ***I believe that there are at least two approaches to this PAST business and making the two synonymous probably confuses matters.  

    Often in these posts, I have stressed my belief that while an occasional visit to the past can be pleasant, 'living in the past' is unhealthy.  This is Nostalgia in the extreme.  'Uncle George' Mowry, my dissertation director, told our research seminar that the  word's origin connoted a 'homesickness of the soul'.  We might call it a longing for 'the good old days'.  
A few years ago, I saw a newspaper story with the headline: The Good Old Days: They were Awful".  "Retrospective Falsification" someone else has labeled the nostalgia. Not surprisingly, its appeal is strongest when the present is filled with anxiety and uncertainty and there is a great desire for Escape.  By contrast, for many persons the past is 'where' horrible things happened and 'who wants to return there !?!'  So, the common thread in this posture toward the past is "escape" . . . either escape the fearsome present by returning to 'the good old days' or escape the god-awful past by denying its importance.

     When my therapy clients tell me (in various ways) that they are uninterested in 'the dead past', I concur . . . up to a point.  And, here is how I have a  different  'use' of the past.
'How do events, relationships, choices, etc. from another time
still impact us, whether we can immediately identify them or not and how can we use this awareness for improving the Present and Future?' Several years ago, a sentence from a book that I was reading impacted me so much that each year after I purchase a new appointment calendar, I inscribe this on the front page: "The emotional processes that basically steer our lives will influence us, whether we recognize them or not." [Haverick,  The Therapist's Own Family]  (And, as you perhaps noted, I continue to use a 'paper calendar' rather than utilize  one of my electronic devices.)

      This particular post has been in embryonic form for a few days.  Then, in this morning's newspaper, came a powerful and poignant narrative illustrating "my point".  The author has given her permission to cite and quote from her story. For her account, see Greensboro (NC) News and Record, May 10, 2014, "Motherless daughter finds her calling" by Leigh Olsen. The article is more accessible by an internet search for "Personal Adds: Motherless daughter finds her calling" by her name. 

     When Ms Olsen was  11 years old, her mom died at age 36.
Her early reactions were to avoid overt grieving in order to 'protect' other family members.  "What I never realized, until recently," she acknowledged, "was that because of my need to protect others from experiencing pain, I kept myself from beginning to heal."  When she found the book, Motherless Daughters, by Hope Edelman, her ex-husband criticized her for "living with too many ghosts" and she put the book away.  In time, her new husband learned of the book and enthusiastically encouraged her to read it.  "Finally," she wrote, "the healing process had begun"  and that included correspondence with and meeting Ms Edelman.  She has subsequently begun a Motherless Daughters support group in her area as a way to help other women in their healing.  More details can be found on her blog, http://momlesslife.wordpress.com . 

    While I did not ask her opinion on the title, I would not be surprised if Ms Olsen might concur that the past ain't what it used to be. (with apologies to any and all for whom the slang, ain't, ain't good grammar.)

    Satchel

My gratitude to Ms Olsen for allowing me to include portions of her article and to my wife who initially spotted the article and called it to my attention.

     

AIRPORTS AND AIRPLANES

     I began this post after spending three hours in the waiting area of the Charlotte airport to begin a flight of projected duration of an hour and  a half.  Several variables of unknown impact ... Thunderstorms, possibility of tornadoes and flooding, traffic conditions, unfamiliarity with this airport . . . had prompted me to leave much earlier than proved necessary.  I was scheduled to reach my destination  two + hours from the time I began writing ... approximately the time I would have arrived were I to have driven, having departed at the same time.

    There were benefits this way: limited traffic on the interstates; when I made FOUR passes through the airport and around its perimeter while attempting to locate the entrance for long-term parking, there were few cars adding to the frustration; I had passed through TSA security and found my gate prior to 7:30; opportunities to 'people watch', nap and begin a new book, and being less fatigued when I arrive.

    By Atlanta, O'Hare, LaGuardia, etc. dimensions, this is not a large facility.  There are the usual "Do not leave your luggage unattended",  beware of "suspicious" persons routine announcements.  Arrival and departure announcements are generally intelligible . . . quite different from those formerly heard in train and  bus terminals. "The train for Hackenburdgsackentbridgere will be leaving from gate twentylevenbluemillion at eleventyeleven . . ."

   Airplanes and airports and I have a long history.  Contrary to what some might allege, I was not at Kill Devil Hills when Wilbur and Orville Wright made their initial flight. It was, however,  a 'big deal' in the 1940' and 50's when our parents took my brothers and me to the old Raleigh-Durham Airport observation deck to watch the planes come and go.

    Do you remember your first-ever flight?  Mine was in 1962, flying from Greensboro, NC,  to Lexington, Ky.  At that time, the airport in near-by Winston-Salem was still a commercial facility.
Almost immediately after takeoff, the pilot began the approach to Winston-Salem, a part of the itinerary of which I was unaware.  The plane shook, the retro engines whined and roared and I was sure that I was about to die.

    Even so, the following year, when "Uncle Sam" began expressing an interest in having me in 'his' military service,  I went to Seymour Johnson Air Force Base for tests for Officer Training School.  I passed the general exam and the navigator exam.  I knew that my math skills were not adequate for the pilot test.  The following day, I 'failed' the vision exam.  Thereafter, I joined the only Army Reserve Aviation unit in the state and my MOS (military occupation) was aircraft flight dispatch.  Being stationed at the Third Army Flight Detachment in Atlanta, I often had opportunities to fly on 'hops' with the pilots.  After the Cuban Missile Crisis had passed, I flew one Saturday with a couple of Captains who were transporting a "Bird Colonel" to Cape Canaveral.  It was a small two engine L-23 with the door beside the co-pilot's seat.  Soon after becoming airborne, the door 'popped open'.  The co-pilot managed to hold it shut and the pilot received permission for emergency landing at the Atlanta airport.  The door was secured (or so it was thought).  Again, when we were once in the air, it reopened and we flew back to our airfield and switched to another aircraft.  I am uncertain about who was more frightened, the Colonel who from his rear seat actually lunged to catch the door or the lowly Private sitting next to him.

     Over the next couple of years, three friends died in crashes and my interest in flying cooled and many years elapsed before I again entered an airplane.  Within the past dozen or so years, I have flown cross-country a couple of times, many several regional jaunts, and flown once to Europe.  Still get a tad nervous when there is turbulence.  My wife alleviated much of that with her observation that those  who built the  plane took into account that it would encounter occasional turbulence.

     The hay-day of rail transportation has passed.  But were it not for time factors, fewer routes, and other  realities, trains would be my preferred mode of travel.  And I am yet to hear an airplane song that can match some of the poignant railroad songs.  For me, Leaving on a Jet Plane does not have the same tug as City of New Orleans, especially Arlo or Willie's versions.

    An advantage of accumulated birthdays is that I no longer have to remove my shoes when going
through airport security.  If you are 75 or more, the next time you fly, be sure to inform the TSA person of your special status.  My mother, who was not particularly fond of air travel, had her own coping explanation.  She said, "I don't put all my weight down."  It 'worked' for her and has become a kind of family mantra.  I recommend it.
 
     Satchel

THE CHAIR

           Seat belts as a safety feature in automobiles began, apparently, in the mid-to-late-1950's.  Before then, driver and passengers alike were always at risk in the event of an accident.  As naive as such may now be, that  was 'just the way it was' and fortunately for us, many were spared.

         Which brings me to the chair above.  From the early 1940's until 1954, my dad drove two dry cleaning pick-up/delivery routes.  "Number 8" was MWF and "Number 6" was TTh&abbreviatedS.  Beginning at about age 8 through maybe  age 13, I rode with him during summers, often on Saturdays and many school holidays. The chair was my spot right beside him.  From there I imbibed many 'life lessons'.  My Pay?  Two dollars per week . . .  plus as many soft drinks and snacks as dad thought acceptable.  Fringe benefits?: Huge was being trusted with significant amounts of cash and coins for making change when collecting accounts during 'pay day' in the mill village that was a mainstay of his business.  No 'big deal' was made of this responsibility but with such did he foster a sense of  confidence and competence.  

     Much of his and mom's youth and early adulthoods were spent in this town and many relatives were still living there.  Consequently, another fringe benefit was having frequent noontime meals with either my maternal grand-parents or dad's foster sister and her husband.  They were the personifications of Homecooking and affection.  

    The panel truck's 'air conditioner' was a small oscillating fan on the dash.  But there was a radio and we often sang along.  And I heard many stories of relatives and friends and his and mom's lives in the early 20th century (though not nearly as much as  I now wish).  'Attachments' . . . relationships, a sense of having a place, belonging . . . are vital for a sense of security and well-being in childhood development.  

     A common perception of psychoanalysis places huge emphasis on the Mother-Son relationship.  A more balanced understanding also recognizes the importance of the Father-Son  relationship, whether present or absent.  In an earlier post, Wisdom was his Tool, I paid tribute to some of dad's influence and do not mean to be overly repetitious in this note.  

     I like the term 'surplus meaning' that denotes the added significance inherent in everyday items.  A diploma viewed in one way is but a piece of paper; likewise, a marriage license, a birth certificate.  A ring  can be but a bit of molded metal until it becomes a wedding ring.  The old chair now hangs in a storage area of our home.  Its  material value is very limited. . . perhaps a few coins at a salvage store.  When I look at it, however, I remember the hours spent in that sawed-off straight-back'er and the influence coming from the driver seated next to me and am grateful.

    Satchel

'GOOD SENSE'

      Feedback on a blog is a 'sometime thing'.  A few comments to the most recent  . . . "Nonsense" . . . were posted on the site and I  also received several emails.  These responses indicated a resonance with my expressed sentiments.  I believe that many of you would have your  own additions for the 'nonsense' list.

    Further reflections yielded nominees for a different kind of list: 'Good sense'.  In the cultural milieu in which I grew up, if something made 'good sense', it was close to 'wisdom'. Life is much too complex to attempt encapsulating into a few maxims.  Rather than a 'destination', I offer some  'signposts' for the journey.

     To Ask for Help when we cannot do something by and for ourselves is not  an indication of Weakness but of Intelligence.

Rather counter-cultural, isn't it,  with all the bravado about 'pull your own red wagon'; 'paddle your own canoe', etc., that abounds in our world.  As I stressed in the last  post, 'self reliance' is hardly 'self sufficiency', the latter never fully possible.  There simply are some things we can not do for ourselves and to attempt such would be worse than folly.  Maybe you know the saying, 'He who has himself for a doctor has a fool for a physician; He who has himself for a lawyer has a fool for an attorney; He who has himself as a therapist has a fool for a counselor.' And on it goes and it is not gender specific.  It is good to have the expertise that one's occupation can provide but 'two heads are better than one' is often wisdom.

    You Can't Sell from an Empty Wagon.

Peddlers who sell their wares throughout the isolated countryside are pretty much extinct.  In my youth, I knew a man who enclosed a flatbed truck and called it his 'Rolling Store', selling everything from washtubs to sewing thread to food items.  Luther, however, did not have an inexhaustible inventory and periodically had to return to his 'warehouse' for replenishment.  Similarly, attempting to meet the demands and rigors of life without physical, emotional, and spiritual replenishment means we 'run on fumes', increasing the likelihood of exhaustion.

    Old Dogs Can Learn New Tricks.

Certainly runs counter to the old  saw about the non-receptivity of old dogs to new information and processes.  In its stead, I believe an 'old dog' can learn something new if two circumstances hold true: i) the 'old dog' has mental acuity
and ii) he/she wants to learn the new trick.  I.e., motivation.
That old people are 'set in their way' is a stereotype that while numerous examples abound is hardly universal.

   Put your oxygen mask on first.

I sometime call this the 'Lesson from the Flight Attendant' . . .
"In the unlikely event of a loss of cabin air pressure, an oxygen mask will fall from an overhead compartment. . ."  When asked,  "When traveling with a child or a person who cannot put on their mask, whose mask do you put on first?", 
perhaps a slight majority correctly choose the counter-intutitive answer: my own.  This is altogether different from a narcissistic self-centeredness.  Unless a person is 'sucking oxygen', they run an heightened likelihood of causing injury to themselves and the one(s) needing assistance.

   The World Doesn't Revolve Around You, Son . . .

My dad was hardly a cruel man, trying to damage his son's 'self-esteem'.   To the contrary, I recall many instances of his fostering a sense of worth for my brothers and me.  His message was intended as a preventative for any notion of privilege or entitlement that might encroach.  Dad had no tolerance for the self-centeredness portrayed in the notion of 'looking out for Number One'.  While I never recall his quoting For Whom the Bell Tolls : 'send not to ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee', he communicated an equalitarian valuing of people because we are all in life together.

     I think it was St. Paul who admonished that 'we not think more highly of ourselves than we ought'.  I have noticed that quite often this gets lived out as self-denigration.  Do you remember the slogan, LSMFT, once used by a tobacco company?  In human terms, that can be short-hand for Low Self-Esteem Means Friction and Trouble in interpersonal relationships.  Having a balanced, healthy sense of oneself within the context of human relationships seems to be a thread running throughout this 'good sense' list.

      Satchel
    

    



    

NONSENSE !!

         I have found that there is often much wisdom in bumper stickers.  I like "I may be getting old, but I refuse to grow up" and "Old Age is not for Sissies".  But yesterday I saw one that made me (as a psychotherapist) cringe:  "Too blessed to be depressed." Having sat with numerous clients struggling with clinical depression, I find the notion that  depression is a choice to be worse than cruel and shaming. And I detected even a tone of self-righteousness and self-congratulations in the sentiment. Even 'persons of faith' experience variations of the 'Dark Night of the Soul'.  

    Yes, there are steps that one might take with the hope of  decreasing the pain ( and, painful it can be).  I remember an acronym that my own counselor, Vernon Wall,  offered me back in the 1970's when I was skirting the edges of a funk:

MACE:

   M = medication, if indicated.  And, anti-depressants (unlike some psychotropic meds) do not carry the likelihood of 
addiction.  Moreover, since the advent of SSRI's, the efficacy of anti-depressants is significantly improved.
  
   A=  activity.  Move.  Not as in 'train like an Olympic athlete', 
but put the body in motion, do something, even if we do not 'feel like doing it'.   Or as Cognitive Behavioral Therapy has it, 'you can not feel your way into new modes of behavior, but you can behave your way into new ways of feeling'.  Modifications in brain physiology that follow consistent exercise and activity can improve mood.

   C= counseling. Hearing oneself talk aloud with someone else often brings new, life-changing awareness and behaviors.

   E= education.  There is no monolithic entity called 'depression'.  Rather, there is a great range of presentations.
Awareness of those variations can offer relief for many who fear 'the worst'.

     As a novice writer, I am often surprised  at how a post seems to take on a life and direction of its own, regardless of my original intent.  Thus it is with this one.  My intent was to 
indicate some of the 'sayings', folk-wisdom, and cliches that I find to be 'non-sense'.  The one about 'too blessed . . .' was but the most recent.  Among other 'nominees', I would include these one-liners:

     ...BIG BOYS DON'T CRY.  Instead, there often are coronaries, ulcers, violent rages, etc.  Visit Rosie Greer's YouTube rendition of  "It's Alright to Cry" for a healthier perspective.

     ...TIME HEALS ALL  WOUNDS.  The passage of time alone means only that 'the clock is ticking'. What occurs during the time is what matters.


     ...I DON'T GET MAD; I GET EVEN.  And, thereby, increase the likelihood of fueling the fire of escalation.

   ...ALL 'OLD PEOPLE' ARE JUST ALIKE.  There is as great a variation of interests, intelligence, activities, and mobility, etc. among the 65 and older cohort as with any other 'age bracket'. Shuffleboard and Bingo can be 'fun'; many of us have other interests.   Often such comments are thin masks of someone's own fear of aging.

    ...YOU'LL GET OVER IT  ('IT' often meaning a death or other significant losses).  At best, we learn to adapt in new ways but to  act as if the loss is insignificant is worse than nonsense.  We will 'walk' again, but it will be with a 'limp'.

And, one last one (though there are lots more that qualify as 'nonsense'):

    ...I AM SELF-SUFFICIENT.  To put this into 'religious' jargon, such is 'idolatry'.  I prefer 'self reliant'...I can rely upon myself to seek out the things I need for life but cannot provide for myself.  Frederick Buechner has a character in a novel observe: "We was cripples all of us . . .'To lend each other a hand when we're falling. . . .Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end.' " *

    Satchel


*Cited in Listening to Your Life,  p. 76


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