"LET US LIVE WHILE US LIVES . . ."

         A dear friend of  many years sent an email in response to What a Mess ! His observation was a personal comment about some of the 'realities' of growing older, particularly that at some point, it's all going to end.  That awareness is causing him great existential angst...ANXIETY in CAPITAL letters.  We grow old, we die. Then what?  In greater or lesser degree, many share my friend's observation, myself included.
(And, in an effort to be fair to my friend, I realize that perhaps I have 'read into' the intent of his comments.)

      Other friends from their faith perspectives will assert with certainty that they 'know' what comes next. In this current post, I have no interest in joining a theological dialogue, conversation, or , even, argument. Perhaps at another time.

    For now, my friend's lament is causing me to focus, instead,  on what I call The Meantime.  The duration of that period obviously can contribute to great dis-ease. Posts, commentaries, opinions, geriatric stories abound in cyberspace. Just google, Growing Old, and see what you find. Some is substantive, some just plain JUNK. (I hope these musings do not fall into that latter category. I claim no profundity. . . .Just some personal musings and mutterings.)

     I went back to T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Literary criticism (to say nothing of comprehension) is not among my skills.  But these lines virtually waved to me: I grow old, I grow old.  Just previously, he had inquired, And would it have been worth it, after all ...?  

    Circumstances can make huge differences in how someone responds to that last question... matters such as one's physical health; loneliness or a strong support network; abuse and other trauma, past or present, and whether or not healed;  mental illness or health; hope or despair; etc. I do not see our 'meaning' to be that of  Sisyphus perpetually rolling that stone up the mountain only to have it roll back down upon him just as he reaches the top. ( Albert Camus's The Myth of Sisyphus comes to mind.)

     Purportedly, William James, author of The Varieties of Religious Experience, told an interviewer that he believed in a life beyond this one because (paraphrased as I remember it) he thought the Universe is not wasteful and "I am just getting fit to live".  

   Well, at 75, it is past denial that "I grow old..." I hope that I do not die anytime soon.  There is much that I still wish to do, see, accomplish, family and friends to spend time with. . . and on it goes. Which brings me back to The Until and , has it been (is it) worth it. I know 'stuff' now that I wish I had known back then.  Guess what?  I didnot know it.  Probably that means at some point I am going to know 'stuff' that could have been good to have known in 2013.  Too much obsessing on that can produce a kind of 'analysis paralysis.'  How, then, am I going to live the NOW ?  (If you wish, ask that of yourself.) 

   One of the keys for getting good ANSWERS is to ask good 
QUESTIONS.  For now, I am grateful that my 'answer' is affirmative.  Many persons, circumstances, events have assisted me in arriving at this conclusion, lest that affirmation carry some kind of self-sufficiency tenor that is not intended.

    A story has provided a kind of 'touchstone' as I have reflected on my friend's email.  In the1970's, I taught US History in a nearby college.  In Part II of the survey course, students wrote 'Family History' term papers based on conversations with family members about the impact upon their families of events such as The Great Depression of the 1930's, World War II, sociological changes, Viet-Nam,etc.
One student reported that during the Great Depression while her grand-father was working with a tenant farmer on a chore,  the tenant's child came by en route to the nearby store and inquired if his father wanted him to make any purchases.  The father drew a nickel (5 cents) from his pocket with the instruction to purchase a pound of pork chops.  As the child was walking away, the father called him back, gave him another nickel with the instruction, "Here, boy. Buy two pounds.Let us live while us lives."

     It likely is not the whole story, but let us live while us lives.

        Satchel

"WHAT A MESS !"

       While away at work last week, I received a call from my understandably upset wife...A pipe under the kitchen sink had broken sometime during the night.  Upon discovering the situation, she solicited the assistance of neighbors for mopping, sopping, and otherwise getting the 'flood' out of the house.  Unfortunately, that was only the 'tip of the iceberg'; however, it was anything but ice.  It was a hot water pipe, so there was also steam...in the air, on doors, and on windows, on everything in the affected areas of the house.  Well, once that part was finished and the disaster clean up crew began their work, something of the magnitude of 'the mess' began to emerge.
   The kitchen is on main level. Underneath are the den, the laundry room and my office.  Well, to this point, we know: the den ceiling and paneling are ruined (as in gone, removed); a sofa and a desk are ruined; my office flooring is ruined...gone, removed; A couple of rugs were damaged beyond restoration; some antiques were water damaged; we are down to sub-flooring in kitchen. So, gone is the tile floor that was installed just a few years ago by a master craftsman.  Water ran out of the house under two relatively new exterior doors. They have begun to warp and will need replacing. Kitchen cabinets will also need replacing, as will likely the tile in the foyer.  Those are the ones that I can cite off-hand. Are there others?  And, beyond the structural concerns, there are inconveniences galore: No kitchen appliances (they have been removed to allow clean-up and beginnings of restoration).  Limited seating areas (other parts of the house have been sealed off to contain dust, residue, etc.) and no desk.  (Gives a entirely new understanding of  'lap-top computer').
    Driving home yesterday afternoon, I heard an NPR item on the plight of a homeless couple in Baltimore.  It was a helpful 'keep your perspective' reminder.  We have  space limiting, confining, inconvenient messes galore.  But, we are warm and dry and safe.
(Even though the security alarm did activate around 3 a.m. a couple of nights ago.  Apparently, condensation in the sensors had caused a temporary malfunction.) We have taken lots of pictures and not just for insurance claims.  We are being told to think in terms of at least two months for complete restoration. Then I remember that two months ago was well past Christmas.  Another, 'keep your perspective' reminder noted.  And the magnanimity of heart and tangible assistance of neighbors has been gratifying.  I do not think that either of these 'reminders' means that we need minimize 'the mess'.  It's more than an inconvenience and it is highly stressful.  But, it is not 'terminal'.  In writing this, I am reminded of one of my mother's favorite sayings: "This, too, shall pass."  What I wanted to tell mom but never did was that sometimes the 'passing' is a pain in the ying-yang.
   Satchel

CAN YOU SING, "IT'S A SMALL WORLD" ?

...Or, so goes the musical ditty that  was the background song for one of the rides through a well-known amusement complex in the Southern U.S.  (Well, it 'used to be', maybe still is; I haven't been there in over thirty years.  That kind of lapse occurs when your youngest 'child' is over forty.) But,back to the song.  Question: How far away does something have to be in order to be considered 'distant' ...in miles or years?  Answer: Not as far as in other times. 

   Consider: 
     .At the time of this writing, my daughter who lives in Germany is visiting in London; my step-son (I greatly dislike that designation) is a tourist in Paris; a brother is a tourist in Tokyo; our  D-2 (second daughter, though not biological) will soon go to Nepal for three weeks teaching  'English as Second Language' to students there; two of our good friends recently visited Australia and New Zealand, as well as accompanying us on an Alaska cruise last year;  my wife and I recently returned from a trip to the eastern Caribbean.  A generation or two ago, these wanderings would have been unheard of for families in our socio-economic demographic, unless in military deployment.
   
     .There is 'Facetime' or 'Skype' and other technological 'wonders'.  Have you utilized those features of technology?  That you have the tekky-savvy to access blogs might suggest that seeing someone half a world away while you converse is not an unknown phenomenon for you. I have been writing this blog approximately two months and I am amazed at the range of geographic 'hits' that have occurred.  A friend recently told me of his company's plan to conduct the initial round of job interviews using FaceTime. Though not a very good  Scrabble player, I have enjoyed playing with the same anonymous friends from US and 'overseas' for three or more years.

  .  Then there is the X levels of connectedness experience.  You know, you are talking with someone and discover that they know someone who knows someone you know, etc.  Several years ago, my son introduced me to a colleague and her husband.  I recognized him as having been a camper at the camp where I had worked as an undergraduate forty years previously.  Surprised him and me !  During that same visit, my son introduced me to another colleague.  He ,  also forty years prior,  had been a suite-mate at Wake Forest University of a high school classmate.
    . Walking down the street in "Somewhere in the World" you see an acquaintance from 'back home' or 'back then'.  On my last visit to Disney World in the late 1970's, I was surprised to see a colleague from the college where we taught some hundreds of miles away.  Probably you have had your own comparable experiences.
    .Travel time: Even allowing for the reality of missed flight connections, delays, gasoline prices, etc.,  the ease of moving from 'here' to 'there' bears no resemblance to 'how it used to be'.
In 1971, my immigrant grand-father ennumerated some of the changes that had occurred since his 1890 arrival at Ellis Island as a seven year old: automobiles, airplanes, wide-spread usage of telephones, radio, television, man on the moon ... to name some of the more obvious.  When I was a child, his living in south Alabama was , as the vernacular had it, ' a long way off' from our home in North Carolina.  It's still not 'next door' but it's much closer now.

      Seems to me that there are some implications of this 'small world'  Reality.  The "Better behave wherever you go, someone may recognize you" aphorism suggests the great need for integrity, being consistent in one's principles and actions.  I'm not suggesting some kind of 'Peckinsniff' sanctimonious, self-righteous pretense. .. rather, 'being who we are' in all times and places without duplicity.

   Imperialistic mentality or expressions of cultural superiority are anachronistic, at best. Xenophobia isnot pretty, however it may be packaged.  'Might makes Right' likely will never totally disappear but an awareness that other People, traditions, values, and their 'ways' are also valid seems imperative.  And this does not mean some kind of 'least common denominator' and 'anything goes' must prevail. 'Diversity' has become an over-worked code word for many while the need for mutual respect and accountability are increasingly needed. Encountering 'Rude' has become an unfortunate part of travel. Not a Universal, of course, but it's  'interesting' what being  away from home seems to make 'o.k.'
While the 'Ugly American' is often still dismissive of 'foreigners' ,
'get out of my way' belongs to no nationality.

   John Donne advised not to inquire for whom the village death bell tolled.  It tolls for all of us.  The diminishment of you diminishes me.  Acceptance of responsibility for one's choices, actions, etc. meets with great resistance from many persons. (But, perhaps, that's a topic for another occasion.)

    "It's a small world, after all" ...and it's getting smaller.


         Satchel

NICKNAMES I HAVE KNOWN . . .

      In conversation with a brother after the recent post, Kar-rak-ters, I mentioned that the nearby mill village we had known when  youths was " a colony of Kar-rak-ters".  He replied, "You could tell by the nicknames!"  Since then I have been musing about some of those (sometime) colorful names ...not all from that village ...that I have personally known.  
    But , first, some 'definitions'.  According to Wikipedia, nickname is "a usually familiar or humorous but sometimes pointed or cruel name given to a person or place. . . . A nickname is sometimes considered desireaable, symbolizing a form of acceptance but can often be a form of ridicule."  These can include allusions to physical characteristics such as height, weight, hair color (or lack),etc.; personality;  titles; or lifestyle, along with other origins.
     In the musings and meanderings that follow, examples of all the above (and more) can be seen:  Runt really was the sibling of Arthur (aka, Fat). For reasons unknown to me, her husband was Slew.  Claiborne was also known as Pune (for Puny, Small) because he was a large man. When I was around three years old, I called his mother, Other Mamma, because she was so kind to me. In the same town, another large man was Tadpole (a small frog).  My maternal grand-father didnot move fast, hence his moniker, Speed.  A grand-son (not me) with a similar modality of motion on the basketball court was tagged, Lightning.  I never knew why Mr. Atwater was Turtle.  His brother was Dink, and their sister, Lillie Gander, became, Goosey. A distant cousin, Charles, was always Bones because he "didn't have a lot of meat on his bones" ...he was skinny. A former neighbor became Spring because, another neighbor said, "her butt springs when she runs."
    The amateur  (or 'sandlot') baseball team (a mainstay within that culture in the early, mid-twentieth century) in that village was itself a colorful composite of nicknames: Turkey, Shrimp or Squirt (same man...diminuitive in stature), Shike, Dub, Doc, Firty-Free (he could not pronounce the diphthong "Th" when a youth), and Shine. 
     On my highschool baseball team, the pitcher was Chubby (rather rotund) and the catcher was Tiny (6'6").  The center fielder was known by his hair color, Red. Our red-headed second baseman was Rusty. Our bald coach was Curley but was not shorn by a utility player, Razor.
    Some nicknames given in childhood persist: one cousin's  'hero' was  frontiersman, Kit Carson, but from his youthful lips that became Kit Kotton. In the event he had been born a girl, another cousin said that his parents had chosen the names Roberta Josephine.  So for sixty plus years, he has been RoJo.  My nephew had difficulties pronouncing his name, Joseph, when a small boy: "My name is Do-Dup", now almost forty years later usually abbreviated simply to Dup.  Dad's desire to attach to one of my brothers the name of a friend of compact size, Bunchy, never stuck. Probably because my brother's physiology changed.  Sonny and Junior, now in their  70's, were tagged early in life.  Trey lives nearby. Leo became Sister after he failed to convince my dad that the girl he was holding hands with was his "sister".  My sons were fortunate that Michopher and Chris-el didn't stick, except for the neighbor's child who could not pronounce "Michael" and "Christopher".
     Several of my college fraternity brothers and pledges had descriptive nicknames: Sunshine, Sully, Sweat, Squirmy, Chetchie, his brother was Little Chetchie, Slick, Rough-house, Bolo, Coon, and Wolfie.   Another, Shep, had no acquaintance with Bo-Peep (who was also the father of the aforementioned, Turkey) nor with Slingshot.  
     Back to the mill village: An otherwise nice man, Cakie was not always a Sweetie Pie when teasing me about my cousin's beating me up.  His grand-son, Corky, lived nearby, as did Goo, the brother of Hobo. Champ got his life-long nickname after whipping the school bully.  I don't know whatever happened to Hobo.
   Then, there were the brothers...Jaybird (father of Shrimp/Squirt),
Babe, and Sir Sidney ( sometimes aka, Cute to his wife. They were the parents of Champ.). To my knowledge, their brother, Lewis, never had a nickname. Their nephew has been known since  boyhood as Kilroy, the ubiquitous World War II watchdog. 
   Within our mom's family, there were: Codger, Grassie (for 'Grass-Widow', a long ago euphemism for 'Divorcee'. She and Harvey (Morris) parented RoJo), Monk (short for 'Monkey', the family comedienne. She was Babe's wife.)  Her twin (Kit Kotton and Cootie's (!) mom), Skin was , what else, 'Skinny' as a young woman.  Her husband, Weesie, was brother to Shube or Shubert (for Rupert).  Mom, Leona, became to many in the family, Cora, after a childhood friend's mother.  When I became an adult, dad and I frequently addressed each other as Wax, an often-occurring mangling of our surname.  (Otherwise, I have never had a nickname...of which I am aware ... other than Satchel (by which I sign the blog) or Ziggy, that I use in playing "Words with Friends". I am a psychotherapist and that one is meant as a playful reference to  Dr. Freud. Most of my friends have just called me by my surname.) Youthful grand-nieces and -nephews, unable to pronounce my wife's name, Loretta, have variously called her Baretta, Mizretta, and Littleretta. The father of three of those children was (is) known as Mouse.
    As noted above, some nicknames were given because of physical characteristics, and, again, some were cruel: Shakey, Hammerhead, Jughead, Sleepy, and Mule.  Shorty was Slew's younger brother. No undergrads ever addressed the Dean (with the large proboscis) by his unflattering nickname, Hosenose. One of my dearest friends became Fireplug because his short height disqualified him as a Moonfixer. 
     Others denote occupation: Before becoming a Preacher, Gale was a mortician, hence, Digger (for those old enough to remember a radio character, "Digger O'Dell, the friendly Undertaker"). When a boyhood friend became President of a nearby college, I sometimes addressed him as RevDocPrez.  He didn't seem to mind. I do not know if any of his patients ever addressed my surgeon brother as Sawbones.  In college, many thought that Dr. LeVey was so rigid because he was also Colonel (again, not in direct address).  When I was a parish minister, I began calling one good friend, Bishop, and he reciprocated by making me Mayor of the unincorporated village where I lived.
      The most cruel nickname I ever heard of, however, was Bas for the son of an unwed mother. Poopsie-pie, in my Army Basic Training Company, was a frequent target for Sarge's sadistic humor.  And, I sometimes wonder if Nip ever met Tuck and how the owner of the pool hall became Friday.  Chubby sometimes 'explained' his absences to a naive teacher as his having an appointment with Dr. Friday. She never knew that it wasn't a medical condition.  But then, maybe the propensity for giving nicknames is within itself a "medical condition".


    ( Do you know, do you have, a colorful/unique nickname?  I would welcome hearing of them if you care to leave a 'comment'.)

    Satchel

"LIFE IS GOOD"

   
      My friend and former colleague, Jaimie, who could from his own experience cite many reasons to the contrary, regularly told us, "Life is Good".  (That slogan has become commercialized and appears on numerous consumer items. So be it.  The attitude is not proprietary.)  
    I know, I know...such an outlook can easily be caricatured as 
'Polyanna-ish' and superficial.  When we have lived but a short while, we can provide an extensive itemization of the difficulties,
tragedies, traumas, injustices, that we and  others close to us have experienced.  As a former parish minister and now as psychotherapist, I know more than sometimes I wish that I knew about human hurts.  Though I opted not to complete seminary studies and went in other professional directions, I learned some 'Big Words' for 'Bad Things'.  "Theodicy" was one such...simply put, as I understand it, "Why do Bad things happen to Good people?"  My own experience is to 'beware of anyone who purports to provide the definitive answer. The position of God has been taken and none of us mortals has been commissioned to give the final answer to that one.
  
     I believe that 'a positive attitude' is often taken to imply something like 'denial'.  To me, that is a form of intellectual dishonesty.  Stuff Happens and to contend otherwise only makes us more vulnerable.
      Part of my practice involves working with persons who have been traumatized by injustices of life, using a protocol known as EMDR.  (You can Google that, if interested.)  There are the obvious HUGE traumas...PTSD from military engagement, sexual abuse, automobile accidents, etc.  Another perspective is that traumas are 'things that have happened to us that shouldnot have happened and were not deserved'. ( I learned this understanding from a nearby psychiatrist with whom I have consulted.  Not having asked his consent to name him, I will respect his privacy, but I want to acknowledge his help.)  I have witnessed remarkable healing through this therapeutic modality. At some later time, I want to reflect further on EMDR and how I am understanding its place in my practice.  But for now, I am convinced that despite all the 'bad stuff', Jaimie and his aphorism possess a kind of 'wisdom'.
     Sometimes the 'Good' is obvious...forgiveness, a new baby, goals and aspirations attained, human love and acceptance, good friends, sunrise over the ocean, a brisk cup of coffee, music, good books, an awareness that there is a 'More' that we are drawn to, a dog snoozing beside me as I write and think, 'new beginnings', and perhaps you can add your own reasons.  Vigilance and diligence are appropriate and even necessary on the 'mean streets' of life but to miss the 'good stuff' is to be less than 'alive'.
     'Thanks', Jaimie, for the reminder.
    
     Satchel

SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE BOOKS

   ."I cannot live without books."  Thomas Jefferson
  
  ."When I get a little money, I buy books; if any is left, I buy food and clothes."  Erasmus

  ."A room without books is like a body without a soul."   Cicero

  ."There is no end to the writing of  books . . ." Ecclesiastes


  ."Where is human nature so weak as in a bookstore?"
        Henry Ward Beecher

    A bookstore of 'used books'. . . warehouse, actually... has opened in our town. And, the prices !!! Today, I bought two grocery bags for $5 each.  I told the owner that having a bookstore like his in the town where I live is like opening a liquor store next door to an alcoholic.  Beecher's quote pretty well describes me. I tell my wife that she is fortunate: Some men go to bars; I go to bookstores.
      As the above indicates, it reminded me of a flurry of  'book quotes'.  I have a wall plaque in my home office: "Books to the ceiling; Books to the Sky.  My piles of books are a mile high.
   How I love them.  How I need them.
I'll have a long beard by the time I read them."  And, yet I keep returning for MORE.  Today I eased my 'addiction guilt' by remembering  that most of these will be given to Interns in our office.  
    In College Freshman Composition class, we were required to read Francis Bacon's essay on Books: "Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested. . ."  Over the years, I have encountered books in each of those categories.  Some were important, provocative, memorable, helpful enough that one reading did not suffice. Every Christmas holiday, I reread Parker Palmer's, Let Your Life Speak: Finding the Voice of True Vocation and each year, there is a new "take away". Over fifty years ago, I began the practice of keeping a log of author, title and date of each book I read.  I don't think that I am particularly OC; but those lists are 'instructors' about varying interests and events stirring in periods of my life.
   Not surprisingly, all my professional life has been spent in occupations that valued books highly. . .History Professor, Parish Minister, and now Psychotherapist.  Even my brief foray into entrepreneurship was as a college textbook broker.  My two younger brothers share this affection for books. So, might the origins be found in our early home environment? I think  so.
Largely because of the Great Depression of the 1930's and limited childhood opportunities, neither of our parents were high school graduates (though both possessed that treasured commodity, 'Wisdom').  But there were always books in our home.  Mom belonged to the venerable Book of the Month Club during World War II and I would regularly roam the bookshelves.  The Beards' Basic History of the United States;  Bill Mauldin's book of war stories and cartoons, Up Front; Bronte's Wuthering Heights . . .these and others supplemented the usual childhood fare of Tom Sawyer, and my Zane Grey trilogy of baseball books, etc. Today,  I have not yet moved into the LARGE PRINT section of the bookstore. And, while I have one of those electronic readers, I am still biased towards the 'feel of the book in my hand' school of reading.
     There is no such creature as the "Self-Made" person.  "Success", however defined, is the confluence of many factors such as native abilities, being born in the 'right' place and time, kinspersons, dumb luck, and on it goes.  A helpful book for my understanding this has been Malcolm Gladwell's, The Outliers. My brothers and I are no more intelligent, God-blessed, or special than others.  It was just 'in the air' and 'in the water' of our lives because as we heard so often, "We want you to have opportunities that we didnot have." It is the gratitude for that influence that helps me understand and resonate with Anna Quindlen's title, How Reading Changed My Life.
    Satchel
  

GHOSTS

       Last night we went to our great-neice's Recreation League basketball game in the local Community Rec Center.  Fifty-seven years ago, that building was the gymnasium for the town's high school. Adjacent to the gym is the baseball field, now used primarily for Rec League soccer games. I attended high school in the county-seat town some 15 miles away and the school here was our big athletic rival. 
    Prior to last night's game, I decided to 'stretch my legs' and walk in the area.  As it developed, more than the legs were 'stretched'.  As a high school athlete, I never attracted the attention of college and university scouts but I played well enough to enjoy the games.  Taking my seat at game time, I remembered that it was in this same building that I scored my 'career high' eighteen points, as  we who started the game, as well as the #6 player, all scored in double figures to avenge the previous year's tournament loss to this school. (Remember, this was in 1956...the numbers are indelibly locked within my brain cells.)  I 'called the roll' of our team members, sadly noting the recent death of Billy Joe, our Center.
   When walking past the baseball field which was the largest in the county, I had remembered that my now-friend threw a curve that I never solved. It was also here in batting practice try-out for the county American Legion team  that I 'knew' I had secured a uniform.  This was before dad gave me the reality lesson that my attendance at college in the fall meant that I had to have summer employment in order to help with the expenses.  Was I disappointed?  Is New York City a large town? Did I also 'understand'? Of course.  
   Stopping to look at the 'stadium' , I again 'called the roll': "Junior" pitching for 'them',  the same basketball Center was also our mainstay pitcher.  Then there was Gwen and later 'Tiny' (6'6") as catcher, Billy or Larry at third (both also deceased), Herman (deceased) or Vossie at second, Jerome at shortstop, Carl in left field, Jimmy in centerfield, J.B. played right, my younger brother was that year a 'bench warmer' awaiting his time of 'glory' later  and I was first-baseman. Both teams were coached by the same teacher who also taught Physics, Chemistry and French I and II.  How's that for multi-tasking?  Coach was essentially bald and, in adolescent fashion, we nicknamed him 'Curly', though no one ever addressed him with that moniker.
   My Alma Mater as well as this town's high school are long-gone, replaced by larger institutions that are consolidations of the 'town schools'.  The academic offerings in each now exceed the core curriculum afforded by our smaller schools. And there are teams in sports unheard of a half-century ago.  Nostalgia has been defined as a kind of homesickness of the soul, often indulged  by those of us of older age.  Care needs to be exercised here because as a former academic historian, I recognize the siren-song in 'retrospective falsification'.  The Past can be a fun place to visit; living there risks memory distortions and romanticizations.
    Were we 'good'? Well, we 'won some and lost some' and from this vantage point, the question seems irrelevant. Perhaps there were 'life lessons' gained.  Certainly, a sense of place and 'belonging' helped give stability until additional internalized guidelines could be formed and confirmed.
    As I replayed 'once upon a time' games with these 'ghosts', I wondered what our niece will remember fifty-plus years into her future.

     Satchel

IT'S JUST A NUMBER !?

       In a few days I will arrive at one of those 'milestone birthdays'...75 !  There was a time when that would have sounded, what ?...Ancient, Decrepit, OLD .  No longer .
All kinds of cliches come to mind: e.g., 'how did this happen so fast'?  A danger is to want to pontificate, to say something 'profound' about 'lessons I have learned', or 'sage sayings for those younger'.  Actually, I hope I have none of that. I am still trying to 'take it in', to assimilate some of what it means.
     Fifty was not traumatic.  Even gave myself a party, a gathering of friends that I called 'The Old Fogies Fitness Festival and Fun Run'.  A few of us managed to run a 10k.
My 60th  was on a Sunday and my three congregations each sang "Happy Birthday" after my Intern told them that it was the day; My 65th was a memorable one that will go unspecified here;  on my 70th, I went riding down the Interstate with my daughter in a Mercedes convertible with the top down. This one is , well, 'different' and still not sure about what all that means , as said above. (Guess I could say that one of the prerogatives of 'aging' is being able to be repetitive).
     Humor seems to help.  I think it was James Thurber who said that if years had 15 months rather than 12, he would be turning 60 instead of 75. ( When I told my daughter that, she 
wrote, "Sometimes I worry about you."  )  And I think it was Noel Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul and Mary who said that his physician told him that he had the proverbial good news/ bad news: The bad news: you are dyslexic; the good news: you are 47.  That's it: I'm 57.
    Giving people a birth certificate and saying you are now X years old and here are the age-appropriate behaviors is a tad restrictive. My office is on the third floor of an elevator-less house.  Sometimes I forget to be 'dignified' when bounding up the stairs. Several years ago, when I was 66, I was at the U-turn of a flight of stairs when I overheard the woman at the top of the steps muttering to herself: "These steps bother me; these steps frighten me; I had better hold on to the railing; these steps are not for old people."  My curiosity caused me to inquire: "How 'old' is old?" She said, "Fifty-eight".  Attempting some humor, I said, "I'm 66 and I run up and down these steps all the time."  She almost spat back, "That's the difference...you do it all the time." I realized that I didnot know her or her story, so I made no reply.  But she had just told me that I was OLD and I disagreed.
     Some gerontologists maintain that there are three progressions of 'old' in society: The young old who are 65-74; next are the old, old who are 75-84; and the oldest old who are 85 and above.  Mark Twain wrote that there are lies, damn lies and statistics.  I am not in denial of my numbers, but I am in resistance to being made a statistical category.
   Today I received a YouTube clip of a woman in California who just had her driver's license renewed on her 105 birthday.
Talk about 'age-inappropriate' behavior ! 
     I need to ponder further this milestone, but for now, here again is Satchel Paige's profound inquiry: "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?"
    
          Satchel

'SNO JOKE

       What a difference a week and a few hundred miles can make.
Last Saturday at this hour, we were touring Miami, Florida, and the day was warm. Now, we are back home and it is 'snowing like crazy'.  My kind of snow...beautiful while falling, not too much of it predicted and it likely will be gone within 36-48 hours...not like what happened in the northeastern part of the US last week.  Nor the kind that my daughter's family is experiencing in Southern Germany as per the photographs she sends.
    My great surprise was  the absolute delight that I experienced when it began this morning, the disappointment when it stopped after minimal accumulation, and now, wow !, it has begun again.  Watching it fall . . .well, I am regressing to a much younger age.  Other than that frigid Winter in Boston many years ago, I have never lived where snow was an extended disruption.  Occasionally, enough for a small snowman, for the making of 'snow cream', a snowball fight,  a few days out of school, etc. (Re:snow cream, Our State magazine [North Carolina] had a cover story about that delicacy a month or so ago, if you can access that.) No doubt, that limited exposure gives me an entirely different perspective and outlook than someone with a less romanticized experience.
    A family reunion for our extended family has been planned for this evening and a cousin sent an e mail a few minutes ago saying that it was still a 'go'.  Maybe I am getting super cautious at this time in life, or maybe it is the memory of doing a 360* turn on a snowy road almost   30 years ago, but we plan to hunker down and enjoy the view from the inside looking out.
     When I was in my Residency to be a therapist, our Supervisor often noted the positive effect of "regression in the service of the Ego", an opportunity to reintegrate our "Self".  Well, I am enjoying this brief "Regression".  
   Let it snow ! 
       Satchel
    

TGIF

        Do you know the acronym TGIF ?  Thank God, It's Friday ?  When I was a college professor, one of my colleagues had a small pennant proclaiming TGIF that he would unfurl with much ado each Friday.  His glee was matched only by that of his students.  Of course, there are people whose work-week does not adhere to the Monday through Friday model.  Still, somehow, that mind-set seems to hold sway in large measure in the United States.
     Another former colleague retired a few years ago and when I asked about the transition, he said, "Every day is Saturday."  My own 'work-week' is now essentially a Monday through Wednesday routine.  When that began, I commented to a younger brother (himself recently retired) that a four-day week-end was nice.  His rejoinder was that a seven-day week-end was even nicer. 
      Whether it begins on Friday or another day and to a great extent, whether or not one is 'working', the week-end holds out the prospect that for a brief time the routine is changed.
Now what?  There are numerous scenarios: leisure, travel, working a second job, 'honey-do' lists (if you don't know, and your spouse does not know, don't ask. OK, it's 'Honey, do this; honey, do that.'), 'catching up', re-creation, religious activities, ...and the list continues.
    For me, a great benefit of week-end, regardless of what occurred, has been the proverbial change of pace.  To be too long at the same task, endeavor, activity can dull the mind,body and spirit.  Even the battery on this computer has to be recharged periodically.  For a great many people, this alternative to the routine is no longer an alternative and, thereby, something precious is lost. When I was a long-distance runner, I found great benefit in alternating the pace of the run.  A 'flat out sprint' could be maintained just so long; then it was time to 'coast' ; and then on to yet other gaits.  I believe a 'week-end' (at whatever days of the week) can be vital for running the long race of life as well.
     TGIF,
           Satchel

I WISH . . .

   An often-heard lament is that 'life is too short' for all there is to know, do, be.
While I am grateful for the many good people, experiences, achievements, etc. of my life,
there remain 'growth areas', blank spots, unfulfilled wishes  as I live at the threshold of my 75th Birthday.  Some of these may yet be attained, others explored, others discarded.  If you have lived for , say, 30 years or longer, might you have your own comparable 'list'?  ( I understand this as somewhat different than the "Bucket List" idea.)

   So, here are some of those things that I wish I better understood, knew more about, knew 'how to':

.Astronomy, particularly after a friend introduced me to the Star Walk App for iPad
.Playing a banjo.  I had a world-class instructor in my friend, Stan Brown, but the fingers of my left hand just are not flexible enough to form the chords.
.Speaking German and Spanish, though I know enough words to express hunger, etc.
.The physiology and functions of the human brain
.Reading the New Testament in Koine Greek.  (Dr. Eiferd at Duke Divinity School did his part many years ago, but it was 'all Greek to me'. Forgive the lame humor.)
.Build something with a hammer, nails and saw.
.Swim. Even though I passed the PE course in college, I have on three occasions had situations that could have resulted in drowning. So, I have huge respect (read fear) of water.
.Fly an airplane
.What makes my electronic gadgets...iPhone, iPad, computer ...work
.Write a book. ( A life-long desire achieved by my long-ago fraternity brother, Charles F. Price. See his website: Charles F Price.com)
.How 'healing' occurs...mind,body,spirit, emotions
.What prompts me to 'like' or 'dislike' some persons almost immediately
.Create a stained-glass design (like my friend, Sam Zinaich)
.My great-grand-parents and their lives
.Grow a vegetable garden again
.Prepare for a Marathon  ( three 15 milers in Charleston,WVa several years ago are my personal bests)
."Make sense" of dreams
.Memory
.What an infant 'knows'
.Why some persons are generous and others stingy
.Read faster (rather than 'Oh,oh, see Jane run'. That may resonate for some of you who learned to 'read' with those books)
.Good poetry
.Remember 'good jokes'
.Sing, rather than make 'joyful noises'
.Make pottery
.Contemplative prayer
.What to keep, what to discard....and not just 'stuff'

   What is on your list  ?

    Satchel

CURMUDGEONS

Caveat emptor !! ( Don't know the Latin for 'Reader,Beware'.)
This one has more than a tad of grousing, muttering tone. Allegedly, we elders sometimes are viewed as curmudgeons . One of my younger brothers once said he was becoming one of those and I simply inquired 'Becoming?'. The same, on occasion, can be said of his older brother. A few days ago, I extolled the benefits of a balance of silence and beneficial sounds.
However, having disembarked from a 'cruise ship' a few hours ago, I am ready for a HUGE installment of quiet. Apparently, there was little refuge from
the incessant cacophony .... loud voices, amplified sounds masquerading as 'music', Muzak , cruise-line 'cheerleaders' telling us what a wonderful time we were having, etc. One night, insomnia caused by onset of a cold prompted me to leave our cabin at 3:30 a.m. to avoid awakening my wife. Even the deserted top-level aft deck had loud-speakers emitting 'racket'. (There's that descriptive term again.) And, my grand-father's strategy of turning down the hearing aids didn't help. (See 'Shhh' of a few days ago). Actually, there were times when removing the devices altogether afforded no relief.
Now sitting in the Miami Airport, waiting for flight home in few hours, I remember having been told that few things are as quiet as a snowfall. I wonder if my brother in New Hampshire where two feet of snow has fallen since last night would like to make a trade.
In the meantime, maybe we can make reservations for a few days 'cruise' to the nearest monastery!

OK, I'll be more 'upbeat' in next post.
Satchel

COLD, FROID,KALTE

     During the Winter of 1960-61, I was in school in Boston.  There is much about that city to be loved and enjoyed.  Among those, however, is not the Boston Winter.  I became a 'fan' of the then somewhat inglorious Red Sox...even saw Ted Williams's next to last game.  Ate some great food, made life-long friends.  But, my Southern derriere never adapted to the cold and the snow.  One of my brothers has lived most of his adult life in New Hampshire. In that place there are two 'seasons' ...July 4th and Winter. I remain awed by his ability to endure those rigors.

    Two days ago here the temp was 72 degrees F; today, with the wind-chill factor, it is sub-freezing.  Perhaps it is because I have less 'padding' (body fat), but the wind and cold penetrate to the core and I find myself singing and humming songs of childhood like " 'tis Springtime, 'tis Springtime, cold Winter has past; the birds are returning, their songs fill the air."

     My daughter has been living in Germany for the past couple of years, having moved there with her family from Alabama.  'Culture shock' has included a strong blast of weather differences.
Sometimes it seems she longs for the warmer climes as well as does her dad.
     
     My dad was a very wise man with many words of counsel for his sons.  Among the more pertinent ones was, "Don't wish your time away, son."  So, one of the ways we are attempting to make the best of the moment and still side-step some of Winter's rigors is to take a several-days cruise to the Caribbean.  Being newcomers to the cruising routine, I am yet to be convinced that it is the best way to vacation.  But with the temps there well into the 70's and beyond, what a way to spend the first days of February.  "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow !"

     Satchel