LEAVING THE DECORATIONS UP . . .

Among the decorations in Los Angeles Biltmore Hotel, 2015

    Yesterday (December 26), I saw a cartoon about  someone's having their house already decorated for  Christmas 364 days early.  Then, a perceptive wag corrected the math to 365 due to 2016's being a Leap Year.  In mid-January 1972, on a research trip, I interviewed a retired National Guard officer in his middle-Tennessee home.  A very large, very brown Christmas tree commanded a prominent place in the living room.  And, Jack and Violet, long-ago acquaintances, left their outdoor lights up year round. Why take them down, Christmas is coming !

  I remember being sad as a child on the evening of December 25--the huge build-up and poof !, it was gone, just like visits with Santa. [ Do you remember your first Santa sighting?  Only later did I learn that Mr. Walt Hatley had been subbing for Santa that day.  I was not as brave as my friend Danny who tested the authenticity of the beard (see his hand).]

  

  By contrast, the experience of advent, or preparation, of anticipation, has long been overwhelmed, drowned out, as it were,  by the culture's commercial co-opting of 'christmas' (lower case deliberate).  With few exceptions, liturgically focused churches  retain and promote the understanding that the festival of Christmas begins on December 25 and continues for the next twelve days.  When a parish minister, I steadfastly avoided Christmas songs during the Sundays of Advent, much to the consternation of some. (There just are few singable Advent hymns.) By now, though, many people are past-ready for the music to stop, the decorations  to come down, and let's move on to New Year's Eve and all that comes thereafter.  Little wonder, given the duration to which we have been exposed and over-exposed. Even given the symbolism encoded in its words,  The Twelve Days of Christmas  remains one of my personal least favorite "seasonal" songs, right up there with Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer.

    While the ornaments and other decorations soon will be returned to their places in attics and basements and Santa will go into hiding to await next year,  I have been periodically reflecting about other aspects 'Christmas'.  Re-reading Borg and Crossan's, The First Christmas, has provided reminders of the subversive and counter-cultural dimensions in Matthew and Luke's nativity stories, as well as offering alternative interpretations of enduring Christmas.  A motif that continues to resonate for me is "Light".  In the Genesis account of Creation, the first words of the Holy One are "Let there be Light!" . . . not the reflected light from the sun, moon and stars, those come later.  (The Reverend Doctor Harrell Beck used to maintain that the words were not spoken, but sung joyously to the initial four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony !) Much of human experience has been a striving to realize or avoid that command. Long, dark Winter nights loom just ahead.  Leaving festive lights burning (literally and symbolically) is a good  'push back' against 'the hopes and fears of all the years' that have accumulated, individually and corporately.  Maybe, Jack and Violet had it right, after all.

    "LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT !!"

           Satchel

   

"UP IN THE AIR" or "DOWN TO EARTH"

ALMOST  THERE !



 I think that it was A.Einstein who observed that 'time' is relative.

     In an earlier post --"Getting There is Half the Fun"--, I muttered about a seemingly interminable flight from Anchorage to Chicago.  Actually, it lasted only six hours; just seemed much longer.  By contrast, this week's flight from Raleigh-Durham to Los Angeles was but slightly less 'clock time' and passed much more quickly.     

The flight tracker screen (above) was a 'mixed blessing'; once becoming aware of the remaining time, I began feeling like my kids who on long trips constantly asked, "Are we there yet?" 

  How do you use 'time' when flying?  Being six feet tall, I know that long naps in the cramped rows are unlikely, so I seek other ways to 'pass the time'. Looking around the cabin on this week's trip, I spotted: sleepers, readers, movie-watchers, blankstare-ers, workers (or at least, I suppose that is what the brief cases indicated), and other 'people watchers'.  Among the passengers was a large contingent of young Australian basketball players en route home after several 'travel ball' games in the Carolinas.  Many of them apparently had  sleep deficits and used the trip to refuel.  Several of them were TALL. For them to find comfortable sleep position could have earned Contortionist certifications.

Flaps down.  Back to Earth


If credit for the 'First Flight' belongs to the Wright brothers' efforts on North Carolina's sand dunes on December 17, 1901, air travel is relatively new in human history.  Our flight was 114 years to the date after that and looking out the window on the mountains below, I thought of the weeks of struggles by earlier travelers heading West.  So,  a not-so-trite question : How long is a LONG time?

I wonder if the children in those  long ago wagon trains ever asked, "Are we there yet?"

Satchel  


P.S.   A reader with an eye for historical accuracy noted that the Wrights' flight was in 1903 rather than in 1901.  He (she) also disclaimed having been there !

   

Les Mots Justes

                         Or, how to say the 'unsayable' ??!!

    Being at 'a loss for words' is seldom my lot.  However, lately I have struggled to capture the vowels, consonants, nouns, verbs that could carry the freight for expressing the impact of the scenes that have been unfolding at warp speed.  French: Les Mots Justes,  "the precise words" are elusive.

    Paris on November 13 was not the 'beginning' of the madness, nor , unfortunately, will the murders in California be the last.  Just prior to those were the bombings in Beruit, and ...., and ... as well as mass murders, almost daily.  Beyond that, come literally countless local shootings.  Egregious violence and inhumanity have been on display since humanity began.  But there is something about the past dozen-plus years that portends a tilt towards a new kind of barbarity.

   Propensity for "Violence" is not a racial or cultural monopoly.  In the United States, perpetrators come within an array of racial, ethnic and religious groupings.  "Motivations" and "causes" also vary widely . . . drugs, vengeance, racial, mental disorders, jihadist, and, as might have once been  termed,  'plain old meanness and evil'. 

      Whether the killings originate as societal violence or international terrorism, a climate of fear and distrust and radical counter-measures is emerging.  And, there are opportunists more than willing to 'stir the pot' of societal anxieties for their own aggrandizement. As an example, in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the focus on barring Syrian refugees within several American states seemed a knee jerk 'answer'.  Many years ago, an esteemed historian, Richard Hofstedter, identified a legacy of The Paranoid Style in American Politics.  Current Presidential campaigning  could offer opportunity for thoughtful approaches for addressing the violence.  Such has been largely lacking thus far. 

    So, how do 'civilized' people of good will respond in this climate?  The admonition to be 'wise as serpents and harmless as doves' comes to mind. Living that becomes another challenge.
President Roosevelt's 1933 assertion that  "the only thing we have to fear is Fear itself" is still valid.  Such is not being naive; nor is it capitulation to barbarism.  

    Easy answers and posturing have limited 'shelf life'.  Prudence is always appropriate. The very randomness of violence heightens the anxiety.  Not knowingly putting oneself in 'harm's way' can be a good start.  But just 'going about one's own business' has not always been 'safe'.  Self-defense has increasingly come to mean
concealed or open carry weaponry. Instances of excessive force by sworn law enforcement have polluted trust among many.

    For me, I'm back to Mark Errelli's lyrics cited in an earlier post:
"Sometimes injustice and indifference are the only things I see. But I refuse to let my hope become the latest casualty. . . . And, if I can't change the world, I'll change the world within my reach."

     Satchel


     
   



          

FALL HAS FALLEN

       If you are a resident of the U.S., do you  remember your Labor Day celebration ? Seems like long ago that this traditional 'end of Summer' passage took place.  Even though Autumn does not officially begin til later in September, things just are not quite the same after the  first Monday of the month. 

     Fall has, well, fallen or is at least falling. (And, here I am not speaking of the piles of leaves.)  Some even claim that Fall is in the Autumn of importance in our culture.
If that is correct, then that's too bad.  Saw a 'cartoon' yesterday (November 1) saying now that November is here , we can now officially start talking about Christmas.  Good grief, I saw my first Seasonal display of Christmas trees almost three weeks ago, well before Halloween. So the 'mad dash' towards Christmas, New Year's, etc. has begun.  Even the classic Autumn Leaves laments that "the days grow short when you reach September".  (I like that title better than the French, Les Feuilles Mortes translated The Dead Leaves.)

   Well, there are still some leaves with their brilliant colors that transform even the drabbest of landscapes.  I have been creating song titles that might help slow things down in order to celebrate the 'NOW':  I'm Dreaming of a Red and Gold Autumn (think Bing Crosby could have made that work?); or, Dashing Through the Leaves; or Oak Leaves Roasting on an Open Fire. 

     Every Halloween Charles Schulz placed Linus in the pumpkin patch to await the Great Pumpkin who never arrived. The poor kid was the object of derision.  What ! No gifts !  Judging by the "get up's" (colloquialism for costumes) seen last week, Halloween received at least a tip of the Seasonal hat.  And, now that that is done,  on to "T" Day. . . television, touchdowns, turkey, tummy aches, and the day after-biggest-sale-of-the-year.  After what ?  Thanksgiving. Come, Ye Thankful People, Come is not exactly at the top of many playlists. After originally posting this,  just now, I checked email and . . . there it was from Amazon: "Countdown to Black Friday Deals, and More" !

    So, now our society seems to say, 'we can get on to the MAIN EVENT --- Christmas.'(I have no need to enter the "Merry Christmas" - "Happy Holidays" matter.)  Whatever you choose to call those December days, the effects are rather uniform . . . overspending, too much on the calendars, attempting to fulfill 'obligations' of travel, family, gifting, emotional fatigue, etc.  "All is Calm" ?  I observe otherwise.
Fall officially ends just a few days before Christmas . . . at least the calendar so indicates.  By then, some locales have already had their first (or more) snowfalls and Labor Day, Halloween, beautiful leaves, and Thanksgiving likely have become memory blurs. At least one of the effects of largely overlooking Fall is captured in this hand towel:

  
          Satchel

"CALL YO' [FRIENDS]" . . .

       Paul "Bear" Bryant, legendary football coach at the University of Alabama, long ago filmed a t.v. commercial for a telephone company with the rehearsed line: "Call yo' mamma."  His ad lib comment was retained in the final production: "I wish I could call mine."

    Recently, I remembered that segment when reading a column by Barry Saunders of the Raleigh (NC) News and Observer.  Mr. Saunders (who is one of my favorite columnists) had recently lost a long time friend to death.  Admonishing his readers to cherish rather than neglect their friendships and to call them while we have the chance, he wrote,  "Good Lord! How much effort does it take to press one button on speed dial and say, 'What it is?' or 'How ya' doin', pal?' "  To his chagrin, he  replied, "Too much, apparently, for me. Don't let the same thing happen to you."

    I often commend to my older clients Dr. Charles Wells's book, Dear Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old.  Just yesterday in rereading it, I noted his observation that "aside from good health and a caring family, friendships are probably the most valuable assets a person can carry into old age."  (p.102)  About a year ago, I and other former ministers were invited to a celebration of a congregation's 100th year in their building.  Mr. Davis in his brief remarks observed that he had learned that Relationships were to be prized above all else among humans.  

   Alas, like Mr. Saunders, I have had long-time friends die without having seen or spoken with them for too great a time. Last Fall, my undergraduate fraternity brother, Charles, his wife, and I drove to see our friend, Bob.  Knowing that his health was fragile, we acknowledged that this was our Farewell visit and indeed, he died within a couple of months. Even in the midst of profound sadness, there was a celebration of precious memories and gratitude for our friendships. Bob's roommate from those years, Fred, has also died since the last class reunion five years ago.  Both were good men and I lament still their passing with a strong intention to nurture remaining friendships and be open to developing new ones.

    This Summer I attended the annual reunion of my small high school class.  Then,  a couple of weeks ago, I returned for a 55th year gathering of my undergraduate class.  While there, I learned the whereabouts of a college friend who had been like another son to my parents.  Ben, originally from Bolivia,  was often in our home in those years and when I 'found' him on FaceBook, I promptly invited him to renew the long ago tradition of spending Thanksgiving with our extended family.  And, Harold, another close friend from those years, recently sent me pictures of him at the end of a LOONNGG  Bike ride.  Today, we met David, a friend  from Wake Forest University grad school years, and his wife for a glad reunion after many years and we spoke of getting together again soon.  Because of increased geographic distance, we don't get to spend the time with J.R. and Bev that once occurred. Our friendship goes back to our year together at Boston University School of Theology.  We have seen each other through some of life's 'tough spots'.  At his wedding rehearsal dinner, I gratefully offered the toast, "J.R. and I are brothers.  We just have different parents."  A couple of years ago, we met at a 'half way point' for couple of days visit and plan to do that again early in November.

With Fraternity Brothers  October 3, 2015

With Dr. Dave and Judy , October 20, 2015

Ben, from his FaceBook page

With J.R. , Fall 2013

    Critics have long noted that warm, intimate friendships seem to be more difficult for men than for women and, as a generalization, I think that is a correct assessment.  There are several 'reasons' for this impoverishment. Maybe in a subsequent writing I can ponder some of those. For now, I need to express my gratitude to friends whose companionships have enriched my travels.

     "Thanks" to Coach Bryant and to Barry Saunders for their 'spot on' reminders.
                            Satchel

    

MOVING EXPERIENCES

      Judging by a recent flurry of activity across the street, we are about to have new neighbors.  Someone is preparing to move in.

    How  many  times  have  you moved ?  Changed places of residence, that is?  My SWAG statistics survey indicates that few people list 'moving' among their favorite life experiences.  The topic came to mind recently when two separate clients talked about their moving travails . . . Packing boxes,
              lifting boxes,
                 deciding what to trash/what to keep, 'that was Baby Sue's favorite doll 25 years ago', 
            'do we two really need a house this size ?', 
                    hire a van line or Haul it ourselves ?, 
                         where to place that chair and sofa,  
    . . .  on and on the tasks multiply.  
                And what is the saying about three moves being comparable to a burn-out?

    In the days since I began ruminating on this topic, moving vans seem to be 'everywhere'. Don't know who said it, but I remember someone's assertion that the Moving Van should be our national symbol.  In 1972, Vance Packard, American journalist and social critic, wrote A Nation of Strangers, describing ways in which society was being negatively impacted by "frequent geographic transfers of corporate executives." (Wikipedia) Geographic mobility on the American continent, however, is hardly a  post-World War Two phenomenon impacting primarily corporate executives. Horace Greely's "Go West, young man" advice summarized a pervasive nineteenth century sentiment.

    Americans move . . . to say the obvious . . . for many reasons. 
(Currently on a global scale, thousands are 'on the move', many not by easy choice. E.g., the Syrian refugees.  For the moment, my focus is more narrow.) Improved economic opportunity has long ranked high as a reason for relocating. The first family move that I remember occurred because dad seized just such an opportunity to better provide for us.  And, during my sophomore year in high school, he again took advantage of 'upward mobility' by becoming employed by Metropolitan Life Insurance Company.  This also necessitated our move to another town some 15-20 miles away, not a great geographical distance, but one with many new 'ground rules'.  As a 16 year old, I outwardly made the transition o.k. but there were also several adjustments that required longer.

    This is not a SWAG statistic but actual count . . . I have lived in twenty-seven different residences (counting college/university dorms and army barracks).  Prior to college, I had no say-so in my parents' decisions.  But the subsequent nineteen moves were different. Usually they came as consequence of graduate school or new employment.  A ten year stint as a United Methodist minister brought two moves. 

    In none of those did I engage professional movers.  Instead, family, friends, college fraternity guys, church members, and occasional neighbors gave a hand.  Truck rental agencies should have given me 'frequent mileage points'.  Sometimes I boasted that I was 'learning a trade'.  Memories from my 'internship' include a power line  brought down in one front yard in 1966 when  the height of the truck relative to the height of the line was underestimated.  I honestly do not remember who was at the wheel at the time, but do not think it was I.  My younger brother occasionally reminds me of the time in 1984 when a State Trooper stopped him late one night to ask why he had been following a particular U-Haul truck so closely for so long.  With the tail lights ahead quickly disappearing from view, he explained to the officer that he was helping me move but not knowing directions had been trying to keep me in his sights. . . and now I was gone and he was still 45 miles from his destination.

     Earlier in that same move, one of the college guys walked into a sliding glass door and the impact put him on his derriere to the great amusement of his fraternity brothers.  I had engaged four or five of them in exchange for a keg of their favorite libation for their social gathering. They were satisfied that they were receiving a good deal.  My then-16 year old daughter became very upset when the same guy who bumped the glass door also backed the  truck into the  Toyota station wagon that was her primary set of wheels.

    The fourteen years at my current address is my lifetime record for living longest in one place.  While not having been exactly a nomad, I recognize that my mobility has meant missing some of the presumed benefits of the 'roots' of 'place' and long-term relationships.  

     If you are contemplating a move and need a how-to manual, pick up a copy of my How to Keep Smiling While Packing and Unpacking.  You will find it in the bookstore's Fiction section.

    Satchel
    

NEW "FAVORITE SONGS"

NASA photo of Earth from space



In the years that I have been a counselor/psychotherapist,
there have been two clients who have brought their guitars and sung their "agendas".  Several years ago, a man who was experiencing difficulty articulating in conversation his pain was eloquent when singing several of his original pieces.  Then a couple of weeks ago, a man who  articulately expresses his 50+ year perspectives sang a particularly poignant concern in a song that I had never before heard . . . but which has become my new "favorite song",  Mark Erelli's Passing Through.

I remembered the title before I did the artist's name and when I looked for it on the computer search engine, I discovered yet another by the same title, this one sung by Leonard Cohen. And, I claimed it as another new "favorite".
(Both are available via YouTube, so I will not include extensive lyrics here.)  While you may not care for the instruments used, I recommend focusing on the words.        

Perhaps a case could be made for a certain fatalism in both; but I hear instead a call for transcending the 'muck and mire' that seems often the human lot.  Many years ago, I heard a lecture entitled, To Hell with Posterity. Among the implications --we are owners, not tenants of this world and all that lies within. Along side that, I remember The late Rev. Dr. Fred Craddock saying  something to the effect that the person who can see no more than the timeframe of his/her own birth and death is an orphan in the universe. In neither version of Passing Through did I hear anything resembling "to hell with posterity". Nor was there a "eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die" attitude.  More of a "make a contribution while here because it's not just about the Right Now".  A couple of illustrations from the lyrics:
Erelli: "This big blue ball keeps shrinking . . .  [and] for better or for worse now this whole world's our neighborhood . . . . we all need to get along and not just get our way --not only for each other but for our children's children too."  Then these potent LEGACY issues :"And I wonder sometimes what will I pass on . . . Sometimes injustice and indifference are the only things I see but I refuse to let my hope become the latest casualty. . . . And, if I can't change the world, I'll change the world within my reach and what better place to start than with me and you !"

HOPE  (according to an on-line dictionary) is a feeling or expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen."
The author of the Christian New Testament book of Hebrews called it "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" , suggestive of being unmoved by the circumstances of the moment.  This is , to me, quite different from Wishful Thinking that believes things such as "One day my ship will come in" , a kind of magical thinking.  My mentor, the late Dr. Harrell Beck, observed that he once thought Hope to be the icing on the cake but in time came to realize that Hope was THE CAKE that sustains life.  And, as Erelli noted, injustice and indifference do not necessarily get to have the final 'say', despite often compelling circumstances.

Cohen's words capture something within, what . . . the human spirit, the awareness of something transcendent, the limitation of 'logic', the power of the NOW.  (Again, for the full text listen to the songs)                                                  
"I saw Jesus on the cross on a hill called Calvary. 'Do you hate mankind for what they've done to you ?' He said, 'talk of love, not hate. Things to do, it's getting late. I've so little time and I'm only passing through."  And, "I was with Washington at Valley Forge, shivering in the snow.  I said, 'How come men here suffer like they do?'  'Men will suffer, men will fight, even die for what is right. Even though they're only passing through.' "   Then, in the final verse, attributing sentiments to President Roosevelt: "Yankee, Russian, white or tan,' he said, 'a man is still a man. We're all on one road and we're only passing through."

"Passing through, passing through. Sometimes happy , sometimes blue. Glad that I ran into you.  Tell the people              that you meet that you saw me passing through."       
                                                           
Satchel                                   

"DO YOU REMEMBER . . . ?"

Rodin, "The Thinker"

           How  often do you say 'do you remember ?' or 'let me think about it' ?

     I have been thinking a lot about Memory in recent days. 
It shows up everywhere in our society. Song titles and lyrics: "Try to Remember"; "What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget" . It is written on innumerable Christian communion tables: "Do this in Remembrance of Me". Everyday conversations: "I don't remember where I put my keys (glasses, briefcase, etc)."

     Lots of memories and associations are stored in a healthy brain.  E.M. Forster maintained that "unless we remember, we cannot understand" and Aeschylus claimed that "memory is the mother of all wisdom".

    The late comedian, Fred Allen, quipped that he always had trouble "remembering three things: faces, names, and ___ I can't remember what the third thing is".  Sometimes I can chuckle when I find the 'lost glasses' on top of my head and there are innumerable quips about 'absent minded professors'.  And Will Rogers spoke wisdom with his observation that "the short memories of American voters is what keeps our politicians in  office."

    However, there are dimensions of memory and an inability to think that absolutely are not humorous.  I just completed Lisa Genova's book, Still Alice.  Originally published in 2007, the novel has been made into a movie of the same title. It is the story of Dr. Alice Howland, a 50 year old Harvard professor, stricken with early-onset Alzheimer's Disease and the irreversible changes that come to her life.  I will forego a book review here since those are readily available on the internet.  I found it an elegantly and sensitively written book about a gut-wrenching topic.  With her own Harvard PhD in neuroscience, the author had entree into conversations and consultations with leading researchers and clinicians. I highly recommend her book. It has prompted me to think and to remember.

    In recent time, I recall at least two clients afflicted with the insidious monster.  One was an elderly man who in his early years had graduated from Yale, served with distinction as a military officer, then as a successful businessman.  Another, in his early 50's, had been diagnosed with early-onset AD, ending his career in a medical profession. 

   A few months ago, I became aware of Ike's death from AD.  When we had lived near each other in the 1970's, I knew him as a witty, astute Georgia Tech graduate whose insights into human behaviors were extraordinary.  More recently, one of my high school friends has been robbed of her memory.  The wife of another high school friend has begun to experience forgetfulness and disorientation.  In an earlier post, I wrote about a former parishioner's transformation. And now, I have learned of a second one. A local friend, long adept in the utilization of words no longer can express himself.  Not unlikely, you are acquainted with someone facing comparable struggles as brain cells die, causing memory loss and cognitive decline.

    Reading this book confirmed my own worst 'end of life scenario'.  Yesterday I had my annual cardiology check up and everything was "normal"; about six weeks ago, my urologist found my PSA to be zero and no concerns about a recurrence of the cancer removed ten years ago.  (Forgive all this personal health reporting.) And, while there are, of course,no guarantees, there are actions that can possibly provide some degree of protection for these and other diseases.  AD, on the other hand, strikes without warning and seemingly with little regard for one's life habits. I choose not to live life in fear but in cherishing relationships, meaningful work and in making new memories that I hope to enjoy. 

    While more is known now about this insidious affliction than was just a few years ago, the need for  Aggressive research continues. For information about AD and clinical trials, go to  http://www.alz.org/alzheimers_disease_clinical_studies. asp.   And the Alzheimer's Association provides extensive information on their website and is a worthy recipient of individual financial gifts. 
   
    Think about it.

         Satchel

   

OLD PICTURES

"Here's the last one that I ever took of daddy . . . "

 "You must be going through your archives," my cousin wrote.  I had sent her some OLD family photographs.  (Except the one above is not old; it dates just to 1992.  More on that later.)

  The Statler Brothers sang about "Pictures" and the song has been 'playing' in my mind today.  Several of the lines were  especially poignant . . .  such as "Can you believe the dresses that you wore ?"; "Here we are at graduation"; "And here I am when I was just a kid"; and, apropos of the above picture: "Here's the last one that we ever took of daddy".  I took this one in September  1992, just a few weeks prior to dad's death.  He had wanted us to ride over the old dry-cleaning routes we had known in the 1940's and early '50's.  Mr. Markham's rural store had been one of his collection locations.  I have great memories of snacks he bought for me there, especially strings of black licorice.  In the intervening years, nature has overgrown the edifice and I could barely see it when we rode by it this past Spring.
  
    The song continues, "it's so much fun to be reminded of how we used to look and what we used to do. . . "  That sentiment is not universally held.  I do not believe that any of the lines quoted above were intended to be derisive.  Ridiculing pictures of the past can be a mean precedent for looking at today's prized pic's in, say, 30-50 years from now.

   The faces in the pictures that follow will be known and recognized by but few of those who read this.  I post these as encouragement for you to review your 'family archives', especially if those can be reminders of 'the goodly part of your heritage'.

"And can you believe the dresses that you wore . . ."

(With due apologies to high school classmates. Early 1950's)




                

"And here we are at graduation" . . .

May 1956.  Delana and I received an award.

"And here I am when I was just a kid . . ."

    Probably 1940 in the Southern U.S. mill village where we lived until I was approximately 5 years old.







  "It's so much fun to be reminded, of how we used to look and of what we used to do . . ."

Dad's foster-sister, Louise, and her son, around mid-1920's.










                                                             My mom (who would be 97 were she living) on right and her recently deceased sister-in-law around 1942.

   As mom grew older she had a distinct aversion to being photographed.











How the 'younger generation' looked:

My daughter on far right and her cousins, around late 1970's







   Take lots of pictures . . .  you and others probably will be  glad "one of these days".

       Satchel

MAKING A LIST . . .

         Okay; I admit it. This has nothing to do with Santa, or Christmas, or have you been a good or bad child.  But I did not want to insert a picture of my own list of 'to do's'. 

   Do you make lists ?  Perhaps here is a pertinent research topic . . . what percentage of persons make lists.  I am sure that folks other than card-carrying obsessive compulsives write reminders.
Even the smart phone  has an app for 'Memos'.

     All this came to mind just now as I was packing my brief case and consolidating items to take to my office tomorrow (Monday) morning.  And there it was . . . the yellow legal pad with already two-thirds of a page of 'forget-me-not's'.  Some are extra important . . . tomorrow is a grand-son's birthday.  Those kinds of things must not be overlooked.  Other  items, while  important, are less 'right now', perhaps 'soon'.

     While it might be a temptation to claim that this is a  recently adopted practice . . . [a kind of hedge against elderly 'intellectual interludes', a term that a friend recently offered as an alternative to the pejorative,  "Senior Moment"] . . . I have kept lists since at least high school (Now well over a half century ago). For a time, I also had a 'socially acceptable' rationale for lists . . .  I was an 'absent minded  college professor'.  That cover is long gone, not having been in a college classroom to teach since 1982.  

    I derive great satisfaction in marking through a task completed.  And I have been pleased to hear other 'listers' acknowledge that sometimes after a task has been done that was inadvertently omitted from the original list that they add it for the pure delight of striking through.

    Try it; you might like it.
        The next item on my list now is  "Publish this non-sense and go to sleep".

      Satchel

          



     

     

" . . . HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW ? "

A view from the upper balcony

  What  color is  your  thumb ? . . .  for  growing  flowers, fruit, and veggies?  Mine once was reasonably green, but years  of  disuse have likely wilted and discolored it. 

   At one time I had almost a passion for growing zinnias.  Had a sizable portion of the yard devoted to multiple colors and varieties. Even had a few rose bushes. When serving a United Methodist parish, I continued the practice.  I even branched out with sunflowers,marigolds, and cockscomb.  Results with the latter were mixed even though the areas were reasonably enhanced with "nature's fertilizer" provided by dairy and poultry farmers in the parish.  

    Once in the 1970's, the zinnia 'crop' was so abundant that I loaded a Radio Flyer wagon and urged my daughter to offer them for sale to neighbors to supplement her allowance.  She initially was resistant, thinking that I was having her do it for the family budget.

    Today I thought of 'green thumbs'  and landscaping after an area newspaper's insert yesterday featured several residential lawns and gardens.  Then today the publication was 'spotlighting' lush vegetation from other gardens.  In the former, there was a picture of a boyhood friend practicing his skills on his backyard putting green.

     Unlike me, my wife has a luxuriously verdant thumb and our yard reflects her talent. In addition to various Annuals and Perennials, over the years she has regularly added to the rows of daylilies and from late Spring there is an on-going competition with the deer as to who will enjoy them more.  A few years ago, she surrendered to the deer and removed several rose bushes that were regularly serving as Breakfast Buffet for the wildlife.

Survived the Deer

The only Roses are  now grown in a pot on upper balcony 

 Moreover, she regularly spots items that to me seem just curiosity pieces but with her eye for design and placement those are transformed into art.  Such as this angel:

     Or, this 'guard dog':

      Despite the gruesome face of this sentinel, the second sign really does reflect our sentiment:

      
     The overall effect is enhanced by the professional landscaping talents of our friend, Jim. 

Jim and a recent 'project'

    As well as the fence mural by son, Tommy. (See  earlier post:"Tommy saw(yer) fence").

Earlier this Summer during his "vacation", he worked several LONG days moving lilies, removing ivy, digging out wisteria roots, and assorted other tasks.

The work of yet another artist 

     Among the 'projects' she and Jim have designed and executed :

Meditation spot; Chair out of the view

Bridge and Gate to upper side yard. Note the different view below.

Gazebo

     To accentuate the current seasonal pleasure, here are a couple of views of the 'lawn and garden' from another season.  

              Vive the Summer !
      
                   Satchel

SIGNS OF THE TIMES . . .

They were  everywhere !

    At my age, antique malls can be a "mixed blessing". . . often wondering how an item used in my youth has suddenly been  deemed 'Antique'.

 Yesterday, we were poking around one of our favorite 'treasure chests' when I spotted the above beauty.  Quite likely the picture will not resonate with many below 'a certain age' because

the signs are no longer a feature of the American highways.

In 1960, John Steinbeck travelled across  the United States with   his French Poodle, Charles le Chien, and from that trip wrote Travels with Charlie.  Interstate highways, aka 'Superhighways', were just becoming  common and Steinbeck lamented  that the time was soon coming when it would be possible to travel coast to coast without seeing anything distinctive on the landscape.

    Hasn't always been that way.  Until thirty or so years ago, rare was the town or city with its own bypass for avoiding the numerous stoplights. Consequently, it required much longer just to get from here to there.  Today, billboards along the Interstates loom large in order to be read quickly when cars  are zipping along at high speeds.  Among the first highway advertisements, Burma Shave jingles 'were everywhere'  until around 1963.  The slower speeds of those years permitted reading the poetic segments which were placed on slats, each on a pole about ten feet above ground and placed perhaps fifty yards apart.  So the 'poem' pictured above likely was not a solitary entity.

(To read about the history of the Burma Shave signs, enter that in your  search engine.)

Between my hometown and Raleigh, the state capital, on a rather winding  road, I remember this ditty:

Spring has Sprung/

The  Grass has riz/

Where last year's/

Careless Driver Is/

Burma Shave

Always the tag line was the  same:  Burma Shave.

If 'ubiquitous' means 'everywhere', then the only  ubiquitous competition those advertisements had in this region was "SEE  ROCK  CITY", the admonishment painted on the side of many farmers' barns.  I never felt deprived during my youth that I never saw the place which is just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee.  

I wrote my own little jingle about these signs from another time:

While traveling down/

 the 'Road of Life'/

A sign you'll see/

'No turning back'/

For you or me/

Not even to find Burma Shave signs, though Rock City still awaits my visit.

Satchel