"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

WE GATHER TOGETHER . . .

      With Thanksgiving Day coming soon, the hymn

"We Gather Together" likely will be sung often.  Except for the most introverted and reclusive persons, "gathering", "belonging" and sharing life with like-minded and affirming persons are strong yearnings of the human spirit.

     While much of life is a solitary endeavor, there is a huge difference between solitude and loneliness. "Lonely" can occur  even within a large group. And,

FAMILY  is the large group most in our cultural psyche at this time of the year.  Undoubtedly, there is much authentic love within many families.  Still, there are families where the best that can be mustered is to "make nice".

     Recently when I mentioned "We Gather Together" to a client, she replied, "But no more often than we have to . . ."  Just this week, two clients have graphically emphasized that they want nothing more to do with members of their families.  Long standing conflicts, disputes, hurts,  and dislikes have a way of surfacing (some  might say "exploding") during the holidays, even when there are not face-to-face gatherings.  Holidays get-togethers are not always Norman Rockwell-ish.

     Having honored that caveat, what about folks who are genuinely glad to see each other ?  Shared experiences, shared memories, mutual respect,  shared accomplishments as well as losses . . .these ties can have the effect of knitting otherwise lonely, isolated persons into something that transcends our individual identities.  And, sometimes we are fortunate that our 'Families' include those with whom we share 'blood kinship'.

   Happy Thanksgiving !

     

      Satchel

"ARE YOU STILL IN THE BLOGGING BUSINESS ?"

    So began a recent e-mail from a niece when I had not posted after a longer than usual quiet time.  Allowing for the hyperbole of her inquiry, the interval had been longer than typical.

     When in seminary in Boston, I made the acquaintance of a then-notable Episcopal rector acclaimed for his pulpit eloquence and substantive sermons.  Following a rejuvenating vacation on Cape Cod, he acknowledged that he had "about reached the stage where I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it."  I admired his candor and wish to avoid platitudes and inanities.  It is not always possible to be creative on   a schedule.  Friends who are professional writers have told me that there are times when 'the juices do not flow' and various 'techniques' are helpful in moving through those times.

      Sometimes the "well is just  dry".  Ernest Hemingway when asked what made good writing said something to the effect of making the seat of  his pants adhere to the seat of a chair for long  periods of time.  No doubt, there are times when the answer is to 'keep digging' and maintain the discipline.  At other times, backing away from the effort and allowing the  springs to refill on their own timetable work better.  While 'Papa' Hemingway and I move on differing planes of literary skill and style, I also do not 'write for  
a living', so other matters intervene.  

    "Stay tuned."

        Satchel

      

THE NEXT GENERATION . . .

      This week I received from my nephew a text message telling me that he and his wife have a healthy 7 pound 9 ounce baby girl.
The previous day his sister posted a picture of her baby girl born last Spring.  And, earlier this year, another niece had twins . . .a daughter and a son.

     Just in the ten-years-and-younger generation of our extended family, I count my daughter's two adopted children; one brother's children have six 'little ones'; the other brother is the grand-father to three.  And, I have four grand-children over twenty years of age, and one of those has two sons.  How did these 'children' get old  enough to be married and having children?  No doubt, our father who would have been 102 last Tuesday and his father who would have been 130 (!) on Friday, once wondered something comparable about their progeny.

     Over Thanksgiving many in the extended family will gather (as has been the custom for many years) at the North Carolina brother's farm.  Already we know that some of the 'children' (over 30, mind you) will be unable to attend this year.  Others will have their 'introductions' to wide assortment of individuals known collectively as 'family'.

    Somewhere in Holy Writ is the reminder that "a generation comes and a generation goes".  But while we are here together . . .
(complete the thought . . .).

      Satchel

Hill Country

     The colors, the chill in the air, seasonal symbols and images, driving through the clouds (or was it fog) of the mountains, (somewhat) vigorous walks . . . October up here 'restores the soul'. 
A week is an appetizer, just enough to stimulate a strong desire for 
MORE.

    I find great   fulfillment in my profession; still, sometimes it 'makes sense' to get away, to 'recharge'. Leonardo daVinci said it well centuries ago:
   
   "Every now and then go away;
     Have a little relaxation
       for when you come back to your work
         your judgment will be surer . . .
    Go some distance away because more of the work . . . can be seen at a glance, 

   and a lack of harmony or proportion
     is more readily seen. "

October Golds

&

Reds  

Morning is Breaking   

Getting away bears looking into  . . .

       
       Satchel

"Now October Has Come Again . . ."

       "Now October has come  again which in our land is different from October in the other lands.  The  ripe, the golden month has come again . . . October is the richest of the seasons: the fields are cut, the granaries are full, the bins are loaded to the brim with fatness, and from the cider-press the rich brown oozings of the York Imperials run. . . .There is a smell of burning in small towns in the afternoon . . . The oak leaves, big and brown, are bedded deep in the yard and gutter . . . Fire drives a thorn of memory in the heart. . . . All things on earth point home in old October."
      Thomas Wolfe, Of Time and the River

    
               This is my favorite month.  Lots of memories, images, and hopes cluster around these 31 days.  During sweltering summers and frigid winters, I often quip that it is a good time 'to have an indoor job'.  Not so in October.  Not too hot; not too cold, the variations of temperature beckon to the outside. 

     And, the colors!!  The expanded version of Wolfe's quote extols the splendor and  variations of the hues across the land.  The sunlight is liquid gold and flame red.  There simply is an unparalleled beauty and fullness about the 'right now' of the month.
"The ripe, the golden month" the author rightly called it.  A colleague told me that the tastes are what make this a special time for him . . . the pumpkins, the apples, the spices.  All five of our senses are energized in particular ways in this glorious month.

     Yet there are also strong suggestions of the transitory nature of life wrapped into the beauty.  My dad who was born in October (22nd) and died in October (2nd) referred to the month as a  'melancholy' time.  Summer is dying and, as Wolfe noted, "over all the earth there [is] the premonitory breath of frost".  The awareness that nothing is permanent (including ourselves) brings great resistance and protests.  Can we not 'freeze frame' this beauty and hold onto it for as long as we wish ?!

     Among the strongest images that Wolfe's passage evokes is the longing for Home.  In the novel from which the quote is extracted, the young man has returned to his parents' home after the death of his father.  The cry of absence for what is gone is more than palpable.  Few words come close to capturing what is likely a universal human desire . . . home . . . real, idealized or wished for (I know, do not end a sentence with a preposition .).
Sayings and slogans about home are everywhere, some bright and cheery; others conveying a harder edge: "Home, Sweet Home"; "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home"; "I'll be Home for Christmas"; "Home on the Range"; "Home is where you hang your hat"; Robert Frost: "Home is where when you have to go there, they have to take you in"; or, as  the Statler Brothers once sang about a 'successful' music star: "He never sees the lights of home, 'cause there's no home to see."

    What then is the power within this image- HOME - whether or not one has had a nurturing experience ? (And, listening to some of my clients' stories, I know that 'home' was not always a safe haven.) Among the nominees,  I would include a sense of belonging, of being connected to something  beyond just ourselves . . .  a place , a people, where and with whom we could (ideally) be ourselves and have that be accepted and acceptable.  Mary Pipher's title comes close filling the 'spot' . . . The Shelter of Each Other.

     "The ripe, the golden month" . . . one of Nature's gifts to us !
Enjoy.
     
         Satchel

NOSTALGIA or . . .

         Nostalgia has its  origin in a word that means a 'homesickness of the soul'.  At least that is what Professor Mowry
(known by some of his graduate students as 'Uncle George' . . .but never acknowledged to him) told our History Seminar.  For some people it manifests in a desire for 'the good old days'.  It seems to be more in the wind at times when lots of changes are occurring. . . . whether in the external world or the world within.

        Remembering our origins, our 'roots', important people and events can be enriching and stabilizing. [Earlier post "Whose Shoulders do you Stand On?"]  To me, that is not the same matter as 'living in the past'.  Actually, there was much about 'the good old days' that was not so good: Polio was rampant until the mid-1950's; typhoid has not been removed as a public health hazard for until recent times; life expectancy has increased greatly,  etc.

     All this came to mind today when we attended worship service at the United Methodist Church in the little, once-upon-a-time mill village near our home.  My first memories are of living here in the early 1940's.  Many of  my relatives lived out their years in that place and a few still live there. The mill is a distant memory, having closed many years ago; the company houses on the 'mill hill' have long been privatized. We lived in the one that directly faced the mill.

    Prior to going into the church, my wife asked who we might see that I knew.  I answered that it might be many or it might be none.  Actually, within the small congregation (after all, it was 5th Sunday, a virtual holiday from church for many) I recognized several or was recognized by others : A first cousin was there along with his daughter and grand-daughter; a woman called me by name and I was embarrassed not to know her. She said she had known me when I was a boy !  Well, I put my computer memory on 'scan' and within a few minutes I remembered her name and  several of her family.  One of her family there was a man who had been 'Mascot' of my high school Senior class in 1956.  A firm clasp on my arm told me that Charles Ray, the sole surviving member of the town's baseball team, recognized me. Our fathers had been good friends. We had a delightful few minutes reminiscing.

     Perhaps that is something that we in our older years do.  On one level, it is understandable.  As Charles Ray observed, "there are more gone [from the 1940's-1960's] than are still here."  Yet, there was nothing in that comment that  seemed to me to be morose. As much as any single sentiment, I detected a sense of gratitude for having been part of that relationship landscape.

     I was reminded of something  Joan Chittister wrote in The Gift of Years :  "When a lifetime of old relationships disappear or new conditions engulf us . . . the major task of life . . . may simply be not to fear the fear."

     Satchel

DON'T USE THE 'KIDS'

     Have you seen the scathing obituary that has gone viral?
A woman (apparently not 'mother' , though she brought children into the world) recently died and some of the adult children said, in effect, 'Good Riddance'.  It seems that she abused them and used them for her own distorted, evil, pathological purposes until finally, several years ago,  they persuaded Nevada lawmakers to give them the right to 'divorce' her.  Since then, theirs was an estranged relationship.  (Google obituary for Marianne Theresa Johnson-Reddick)

     The graphic details of her abuse certainly mark her as 'extreme' and 'evil'.  But in seemingly innocuously implicit and explicit ways,  many parents communicate to their adult children "It is your responsibility to see to my emotional and physical well-being - - -regardless of what that 'duty' may do to you."  

     My clients sometimes seem surprised, no, shocked, when I maintain that children are not in this world to take care of their parents' emotional needs. . . even beginning early on.  Rabbi Ed Friedman, widely recognized as having been an insightful family systems therapist, insisted that Maturity (not necessarily tied to chronology)  is "the willingness to take responsibility for one's own emotional being and destiny." (A Failure of Nerve: Leadership in the Age of the Quick Fix).  Often, those whom society calls 'the parents' (caregivers) turn the tables and give the message: "I am your responsibility.  See that I am never displeased with you."  That does not mean that children . . . of all ages . . . may not act in outrageous, intolerable ways.  Setting limits can be a function of maturity.  Empathy can be a good thing; but valuing empathy over personal responsibility can result in unhealthy relationships.

    If anyone owes anyone, it is the parents who owe their offspring life's needs --physical, emotional, spiritual safety and nurturance --hopefully given in love.  No child ever asked to be born.  If I were nominating misunderstood words today, high on my list would be authority, particularly parental authority with children.  One of my mantras was  (is) "Parenthood is not a popularity contest."  Authority is not synonymous with authoritarian --- though they may sometimes appear  to be the same, especially to the child.  The care relationship is a one-way street until such time as the child reaches maturity. Then, ideally, the relationship can be a mutually respectful one, not a dutiful one. Within the parameters of mutuality, there can be great diversity of opinions coupled with the willingness to act with maturity.  (see above, 'responsibility')

    In my office, I hear many stories of 'guilt trips' laid on by parents who would use their children to 'take care' of them. I cringe when I hear parents spell out the what they want from their children, coupling that with 'after all I have done for them'.  (An excellent exposition of this idea can be found in Dr. Charles Well's, Dear Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old, pages 41-44)

     I once asked a client (in her 50's) if she would tolerate treatment from another adult such as she was receiving from her mother.  She gave me an incredulous look and said a firm "No".
Then why, I asked, is it tolerated from her.  "Well, she's my mother" was her answer.  "What does that mean?  How does that give her  permission to be disrespectful and demanding towards you?" was my next question.  "Well, you know, it's in the Bible to honor our parents."  Since she couched it in religious terms, I replied, "And there is a  passage that says something to the effect, 'Parents, do not provoke your children to anger.'"  With what I took as amazement, she asked, "Is that in the Bible."  "Yes. Something like that; although I may not be giving a precise quotation. Sometimes parents do things that are not particularly honorable."

   Relationships between parents and their adult children can be among the most satisfying in life . . . but  only if they are based on mutual respect and taking responsibility for one's self.

    Dr. Wells in Dear Old Man addressing  himself on this subject wrote:  "You must not expect your sons and daughter to do anything for you in your old age in repayment for what you did for them in childhood  You will doubtless need and want their help, but you can accept this help only if it springs from their love for you and their desire to live up to certain standards they set for themselves as sons and daughter.  I hope you will be able to reject any help offered as a repayment for having bred and nurtured them."  (page 44)  I like that.

    Satchel

"PAPER WORK"

     
     "Of the making of books, there is no end, and much study wearies the body."  
           Ecclesiastes 12:12

I would like to offer a kind of parallel sentiment:  "Of the making of paperwork and forms, there is no end and too much of it becomes a  pain !"

        For the past several hours, I have been 'up to my elbows' in paperwork, specifically completing applications that require 'professional disclosure' statements.  Certainly, I support competency and adherence to ethical guidelines in my profession
(and all others, come to think of it).  But sometimes it begins to feel like 'busy work'.  

      It seems that I have been completing applications, writing 'essays' about my perspectives on many topics, and filling out forms and more forms  for most of my 75 years:
   Let's see; those that I can remember:
      .College applications
      .Seminary applications
      .Graduate School applications
      .Academic 'self-study' reports for the college's accreditation
      .Application for Residency in Psychotherapy
      .Ordination examinations in two separate Protestant denominations.
      .The innumerable forms and reports required of United Methodist pastors
      .American Association of Pastoral Counselors membership application
      .Professional licensure application
      .Various job and professional applications
      .Commercial financial transactions, e.g., house and automobile purchases
      .And, though my military service time was short, the motto seemed to be: "THINK . . . in triplicate"
     
 For one of those that I am currently completing, transcripts of my graduate work of almost FIFTY years (!) ago were required.  This notwithstanding that the organization to which I am  applying for a supervisory status already has had these on file for almost twenty years. (Now, I know, this  is one of the 'muttering' posts that comes along occasionally.)

    Many years ago, I saw No Time for Sergeants.  I seem to recall a scene in which someone was trying to educate Andy Griffith, playing the new soldier, on how to put 'last name first, first name in the middle, and middle name last'.  I had not thought of that scene (likely recalled with only partial accuracy) in a long time.  Isn't  'free association' wonderful !!  Beyond that, though, I find in it a delightful lampoon of 'forms for the sake of having forms'. 

   Rabbi Ed Friedman, who was a renowned systems therapist, once commented that great focus on forms was likely a strong indicator of the degree of anxiety floating within a system.  Now, what if the  anxious 'system' that impacts us all is our very society !?

   Henry David Thoreau complained that "our life is frittered away by detail.  Simplify, simplify, simplify . . . "  There is some question as to whether Albert Einstein actually said : "Everything should be made as simple as  possible, but not simpler."  Regardless of the specifics of the quote, I like the idea.
I wonder if I could apply it to the ream of forms that I am currently completing . . .
  
      Satchel

A TALE OF FOUR CHIMNEYS

When was the house here?

We have just made an overnight trip to the mountain region of our state.  Hiking and exploring, we saw these chimneys within a few miles radius.  The one pictured to the left was a long way off 'the beaten path.'  The one below now stands alongside a secondary paved road, yet still somewhat remote from 'the hustle and bustle.'

When was the nearby road built?

    In the 1970's and for a few years thereafter, wood heat was the rage.  Wood stoves, fireplaces and fireplace inserts were . . .well, 'hot items'.  There has been a distinct 'cooling' of the market for these items.  The time was when such were basics.

    However, seeing these structures prompted my reflections in a direction other than home heating.

"This Old House Once Knew My Children . . ."

     As a therapist who places great stock in "Family Systems Therapy", I often engage my clients with an instrument known as a genogram. (Google: "What is a Genogram")  While also an academic historian, I have little interest in mere genealogy . . . or, as I call it,

'who was kin to whom was kin to whom'.  Family relationship patterns and dynamics and legacies are other matters.

    It is a lamentable fact that very few of us know a great deal about anyone on our 'family tree' back more than two or three, at the most, generations. (What is also lamentable is the 'dysfunction' and regressive behavior that characterize so many families.) Those of us with grand-children and even great-grand-children know how tenuous the ties of relationship can become, especially with geographic mobility. 

    Sometimes clients seem a bit startled when I mention the obvious (to me) fact that their parents had parents who had parents who . . .  Here is an exercise that might yield novel perspectives: Consider the oldest 'ancestor' whom you knew . . . grand-parent, great-grand-parent, whomever . . . as having once been, say, four years old, then being 25, then middle-age.  Such an endeavor has 'humanized' the 'dead past' for many. 

    Ostensibly, within the structures that were around the first three of the above pictures, families went about many of the routines of life that still endure.  With some imagining, I can believe that there was birthing, chickenpox and whooping cough and flu epidemics, shared meals, work, hard times, games, laughter, Christmas, death, children growing up and moving away all taking place there. 

    And there are situations where not even a chimney is left to mark the place where important matters occurred.  Several years ago while visiting an uncle in Alabama, he drove me by the address where he had grown up and where my grand-parents had lived for many years.  Nothing there but a vacant lot!  Regretably, I have cousins in that area whom I have never met. 

    What became of those people in all the vanished cabins?  For that matter, what will  become of us?  Nor do I believe such ruminating to be 'morbid'.  I remember Dr. Fred Craddock's commenting that anyone whose perspective was no larger than the years between one's own birth and death was an orphan in the universe.  

   One possible consequence of  such an exercise (of imaging one's forebearers as 'young' ) could be a reconsideration of priorities or what will endure.  We learned that part of the local lore and legend in the area where these chimneys are located was that one particularly ambitious entrepreneur would often accept parcels of land, even homesteads, as payment for debts in his store.  Whether he was 'grasping' and 'cruel', we did not hear.  We did see his former place of business, now boarded up and dilapidated.  "A generation comes and a generation goes . . ."

     Now, this kind of thinking can be said to lead to a cynicism . . .'eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die'.  We in the 'right now' are part of a link in the parade of humanity. As such, we are the benefactors of much that has preceded us.  In earlier posts, I have noted my belief that there is no such entity as the 'self-made person'.  Many people, events, circumstances, and 'chance' along with our own efforts have gone into helping make us who we are.  Unless we adopt what someone has termed a 'to hell with posterity' attitude, we have debts to and will leave legacies for people who will perhaps never know our names or where  we fit on their genogram.  I have just begun reading my fraternity brother, Charles Price's book, Nor the Battle to the Strong.  Though the genre is fiction, it is a thoroughly researched and well written narrative that gives tribute among others to a long ago kinsperson whose efforts helped 'make a difference'.  (And, that was neither a paid nor requested endorsement by Charles.)

      We also saw one other chimney on our explorations.  This one still has a house attached.  How long the house will endure, who knows.  I hope that what occurs within will 'make a difference' ---to those who are now there and to many who will come along when only a chimney is left standing.

    

                        Satchel

HOME TOWN (?)

   Ten days ago I was briefly back in the town where I lived from ages 4-16.  Except it was not the same town.  Proximity to the state's capital, the Research Triangle Park, several universities, along with burgeoning population growth has transformed this once 'small town USA' into something barely recognizable from 'once upon a time'.

    Nor was this my initial encounter with the changed landscape.  Almost thirty years ago, I wrote an essay for the local newspaper noting some of the differences.  I came across the article yesterday while searching for another item.  Re-reading it so soon after the most recent visit highlighted how many of the 'changes' have themselves been 'changed'.  Even so, I still resonated with many of the earlier observations.  What follows is an abridgment  of the 1985 article:

   "My boyhood friend Charlie is shutting down --or closing up.
Regardless of the directionality, the result is the same.  Victim of too many work hours, too many people who will not pay their bills, the proliferation of discount chain department stores that are called 
'drug stores', and the nation-wide growing distress of 'downtown', he's turning the key for the last time at the end of December. . . .

    [His] drugstore is the current version of a long-time locally-owned pharmacy on [the town's] main street, kind of a basic ingredient to the town for a long time. . . . Changes have come relatively slowly to [the town]. (The pace has definitely accelerated in the years since I wrote that last sentence.)  I remember the service station philosophers . . .of the '40's and '50's saying that 'the only way this town is going to grow is for there to be a few funerals', meaning apparently the deaths of those who controlled the real estate.  Never did they specify the obstructionists.  Still, there are today some surface changes --one wonders about the less visible changes of the heart of a small town. . . .
     Personally I am still a little jangled every time I see a swimming pool where our house once set, just a block down the street from where Charlie lived when we were kids. . . .

    Recently, when passing through town, I thought I would indulge my nostalgia and ask the principal of the middle school (which had been the old District School, not high school) [a new high school had been built on the edge of town.] if I might wander the halls and the campus.  Have you ever tried to kiss a ghost?  Gone!  Never again can we see the blackboard where Miss Linda Newton made us stand until we had figured the answer to the algebra problem or sit in the auditorium where the Sauline Players annually brought dramatic culture and couth to the provinces.

    First the house and now the school.  At least the Methodist Church was still standing.  For years Phil Tillerson, my brother Dennis and I were the only guys there, all our friends went to the immersin' church up the street.  Now that Baptist Church which in my boyish eyes had been about twice the size of the Vatican will soon give way to a more aesthetic and functional building.

   Will nothing stay the same?  But who wants to stand in the way of 'progress'?

    But anyway, back to Charlie and those less-visible changes of the heart.  I have never liked stores that want to see a drivers license, two other forms of I.D., my birth certificate, take my picture, make a thumb print and a voice print every time I pay for my purchase by check.  As a matter of fact, I avoid those places whenever possible.  Maybe I am an incurable romantic and out of step with the modern era, but I still appreciate a merchant or clerk's recognizing me and not wanting to see my life's credit history every time we have a commercial transaction.

   Someone once characterized Southerners as being a 'people of place'.  A predictable place surrounded by known and caring faces provided a sense of stability for lots of us during our formative years when we were trying to figure out who we were  and what life was all about.  As we became older we began realizing that the real world is never as cozy as it seemed during that brief time and that the way to survive mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and 
probably physically, is to make peace with the fact that life, ultimately, can't be controlled.  An ancient Greek philosopher observed that we "cannot step  twice into the same river."

    Even so, I think we are all diminished whenever the personal, human touch gets bowled over by 'progress' and that's why I am saddened by Charlie's closing and come January another [town] institution will be gone. "

     Satchel

AND THEN THERE WAS ONE . . .

           She was her parents' 'baby' . . .the last born of  twelve.  She was twenty years younger than her oldest sibling.  Of that 12, ten grew to adulthood; two died as infants. Now, she is the sole surviving sibling.  





        After 


completing high school, she came to live with us while pursuing cosmetology training in Raleigh. While there, she met Wade, her husband for over fifty years until his death several years ago.  They raised three of my cousins --each a distinctive kar'akter in their own right (as are many of our other cousins).

     Being only ten years older than I, as well as our having lived for several years in the same town, she has been a combination of aunt and 'big sister' for me.  When I was an adolescent, the older sister of my first 'girl friend' lived directly across the street from Rachel.  I have distant memories of 'courting' in her living room.

     There is a family story . . .mom told it as 'truth'; Rachel says it is more 'myth'.  One Summer while she was in high school, part of her family responsibility was to have a meal prepared when her dad, the village postmaster, came home for lunch.  Allegedly, she would often become immersed in a radio program (no t.v.'s at the time, remember !) and at the last minute open a can of English peas for grand-pa.  After a few times of this, he asked her if she liked them?  'Yes'.  Grand-pa: 'Good, because if you cook those again, you get to eat them all.'

    Now, even if there is an element of truth in that narrative, she has more than 'redeemed' herself.  Do you like chicken and dumplings?  Angels in heaven will eat hers.  Lemon pie?  She has no equal.  When her son operated a cafe in their hometown, Rachel's dumplings were a menu mainstay and always disappeared quickly.  Leaving her house last week-end after I had extracted a promise to cook some chicken and dumplings soon for us, she wryly noted: "I can cook other things as well."  My mom's three sons used to tweak her when one of her meals was especially good: "Has Rachel been by here?" . . . a supreme compliment.  

     'Growing Old' has not been part of her vocabulary or experience.  She has seen more of this globe than Marco Polo did in his travels.  She continues to be active and engaged with life in many ways and her 'friendship network' is extensive.     

                      (Always adventuresome.  One of her and Wade's many trips.)

     Many persons have commented on our strong family facial resemblance.  During our brief visit last Saturday, she told us of having been on an elevator at UNC Hospital years ago.  A brother and a sister worked there at the time and yet another sister (my mom) had once been there.  A man unknown to her but apparently the brother's co-worker entered the elevator, looked , no, stared, at her and in time exclaimed, "Another damned Cooper"!  Whoever that man was, he could have learned something of Gail Lumet Buckley's observation that "family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present and future."  Among the threads that hold her close to my heart are the memories of the many ways she continued to show her love to my mother during the latter years of her life, spent in an area 'nursing home'.  The 'family resemblance' included more than facial features . . .more like 'the heart'.
  
     She is a 'family treasure' . . . a link between the generations.  She is among but a handful of people who have known me for all my 75 years.  There are lots of good stories from that large family's past that need to be told and re-told and passed on to 'the next generation'.  'Stories' can be wonderful 'connectors' and given the fragmentation that is so ingredient to contemporary society, 'connectedness' can actually enhance our self-knowledge and functioning.  
  
   It could be said of our extended family that "some family trees bear an enormous crop of nuts."  There is absolutely nothing disparaging implied in that statement because as someone else has noted, "Family is a bit like a runny peach pie-not perfect but who's complaining ?".  Ogden Nash wrote that "family isn't about whose blood you have. It's about who you care about."  And, as some unknown (to me) person has written: "If you don't believe in ghosts, go to a family reunion" . . . you might just meet someone who reminds you of  . . .you.

                            (Second from right with several of her siblings)


And, an early 'Happy Birthday, Rachel !'  "Tell us some family stories."

     Satchel







  

     

BACK ON THE WAGON . . .

       I'm back 'on the wagon'.  NO, not that wagon !  Haven't been 'off ' that one.
     
       But, first a confession.  In a post last April (Solvitur Ambilando), I noted that I had begun to 'get back in shape' by resuming my walking regimen.  Even was feeling so self-confident that I issued a kind of 'challenge', especially to readers 65 and over, to walk various distances before Labor Day and to let me know of those achievements.  Then, it happened . . .the Season of too many "too's":  too long for Spring to arrive, then too hot, too humid, too many rain-storms, too busy, too tired, too many meals eaten out [we have been without a kitchen for five months], too many desserts [I love desserts], too . . . And, of course, there was always mañana. 

     If I did not 'fall off the wagon' of fitness, I had begun to slide --significantly.  Chose not to challenge the scales but did notice that my belt seemed to have shrunk.

     Once upon a time I could have claimed it as an occupational hazard . . . few pastors have ever met a covered dish dinner they didn't like.  And, while no longer a pastor and having attended but few of those events recently, the culprit lay elsewhere. 

     Several days ago, my wife made a loving observation which scuttled the other "too's" with an undeniable trump card: "You have worked too hard to gain back all the weight."  So, on went the sneakers and out the door I went.  An insight came during one walk: Discipline is not the same as Punishment.

    About this time, I was preparing a presentation for a group of area ministers on the topic of "The Emotional Health of Ministers".  The percentage of overweight ministers is, well, huge. Increased health care claims on self-funded insurance programs among several denominations led to the Clergy Health Initiative Program at Duke University Divinity School.  The connection between physical and emotional health is obvious.  (For more on this subject, Google the Clergy Health Initiative.)  I am very grateful for my good health at 75 and want to maintain that.  There have been a few challenges : gall bladder, prostate cancer (if you are a male over 55, see a Urologist NOW !), cataracts, slight PVC's, but able to go strong.  The physical maladies that potentially accompany 'poundage' are legion: e.g., cardiovascular disorders, g.i. disorders, arthritis, inflammation, sleep apnea, to list some evident ones.  There has been no lack of data; usually, something else is missing to influence behavior.

    Yesterday, we 'met' a couple of Feasts head-on with minimal damage.  At noon, dear friends of many years celebrated their Golden Anniversary with a Reaffirmation of Vows.  There followed a sumptuous Buffet.  Such restraint on my part !  Last night, a congregation that figures prominently in our lives had a Covered dish dinner.  More restraint . . .sort of.  Too many desserts to restrict the choice to one . . .I 'sampled' two.

      ("After the people had all eaten their fill, twelve baskets of leftovers were gathered up.")
                                                                Luke 9:17 b


   Then, today, a niece had a 'Surprise' 40th Birthday party. Since it was at a local restaurant, entree portion control was no problem. But, then there were the cakes . . . "Let them eat cake".  Whoever said that lost her head. (Sorry.)  Fortunately, I remembered what occurred a few hours earlier and did not totally lose mine.

    This morning, I met the challenge: 6.5 miles.  Time? Inconsequential.  Are my feet sore?  Is New York a large town? Sense of achievement?  Well, try it for yourself if your health and disposition allow.  Guaranteed that you will not look like this:

                                                         (After six and a half miles)

The original Satchel admonished: "Don't look back . . .They might be gaining on you."  Wonder if he were thinking "pounds"?

     Satchel