"ASK DADDY FOR THE KEYS . . .

         The title comes from a line in a Statler Brothers song, Do You Remember These.

          "For the keys . . ." ?  To many of my generation, 'the keys' meant just one thing. . .  The keys to the family automobile (singular).  The two car garage (or driveway) had not become a staple of post-war middle-class America.

THE  KEYS  TO . . .

What a Big world these Tiny keys could open for us !
Living in small towns had advantages, but being able to drive the 15 miles over to Chapel Hill or Raleigh either after a ball game or on a Saturday night initiated us into whole new realms.  Realms of geography, to be sure; but, realms of freedom, growing responsibility, approaching adulthood as well.

'Driver's Ed', as it came to be called, entered the academic curriculum years after our 16th birthdays . . . the age eligibility for the cherished license.  Dad was my teacher.  From the cul de sac at the National Guard Armory a few blocks from our house to the top of the hill near Dr. Jones's house was a distance of but a few blocks.  After dad had given the basic rudiments of driving, I spent many Sunday afternoons driving that circuit.  One of his often repeated observations was that driving per se was not difficult.  The challenge came in watching out for the other 'expletive'. Mom never got a license, although years later, as a school employee, she took the class and the on-road driving requirements.  That did not restrict  her  'backseat driving' instructions for others. ( Dad sometimes called her "Miss Daisy" for the character in the movie, Driving Miss Daisy.  But maybe that is another post for another occasion.)

       Going to the License Office on turning 16 represented a kind of secular Bar (or Bat) Mitzvah for my cohort.  Now almost 62 years later, I still rememberer my anticipation when dad arrived at the high school for my early dismissal from assembly so that he could drive me downtown for the examination.  Parallel parking was the bugaboo (sometimes it still is) and what relief when I successfully navigated the family's 'woody' station wagon between two vehicles.

          Then, with 'credential' in hand, our next move was to ask for 'the keys'. Parental assent was neither automatic nor without 'guidelines'.  In his later years, dad maintained that he would occasionally decline our request, not that he needed the car for a particular reason, but rather as a reminder to his sons that use of the car was a privilege rather than an entitlement.  I have no recollections of those refusals.  Jim Hunt, former Governor of North Carolina, in a Commencement address at the college where I formerly taught, remembered his father's constant admonition on his getting 'the keys': "Remember who you are."

   Even so, lack of experience and, sometimes, judgment brought 'close calls' and even 'bump-up's'.  In an earlier post  (Marlin: In Memoriam), I remembered how my  high school friend had frightened our friend, Larry, and me one Sunday afternoon by driving his dad's big Oldsmobile 88 down a straight stretch of US Highway  64 at 105  mph.  For sure I did not tell my parents and I seriously doubt that Dr. Mathiesen learned of Marlin's bravado.   Later I learned the danger inherent in adjusting the car's heater gauges while driving. Let's just say that I overcorrected the steering and ended with the front of the car in a roadside ditch. Like my younger brother said of  his years later ride in a New York City cab,  "it improved my prayer life" for a while.    I will spare my brother and two of my children extensive public recitation of their minor accidents.  In none of these events was there any injury (except to our pride, perhaps).

   Few of my high school friends had their own  'wheels'.  In 1952 (or '53), for his sixteenth birthday, my friend Charles received a 'surprise' new Mercury from his parents.  Charles went on to achieve some recognition as a stock car race driver.  News of that perhaps surprised few of his classmates who had ridden with him. 

            In 1961, after years of 'asking Daddy for the keys',  I purchased my first vehicle when 23 . . . after college and a year of seminary.  I had a real job at an annual salary of  $4500.  The new Ford Falcon that I bought from Uncle Ken cost but a couple of thousand dollars or so. 


  Parking lots for Residential students at my undergraduate college required very little space.  A few years later, when I returned to Graduate School at UNC-Chapel Hill, I lived perhaps a mile and a half from campus.  The Parking Decal for my car's bumper specifically prohibited parking my car on campus.  Currently, I work near Wake Forest University where I also attended Graduate School in 1966-67. Now there are         ACRES of student parking lots. 

I wonder if many of today's students have "ask[ed] daddy for the keys".  Did you?

Satchel

GETTING THE QUESTIONS RIGHT

        Whether from exasperation or for encouragement, Dad used to say to his eldest, "Son, you ask more questions than a Philadelphia lawyer."  I never understood the allusion to the Philadelphia lawyer but I sensed the appropriateness of seeking more information and knowledge.  Knowledge for its own sake can be , well, informative and also satisfying.  'Knowledge seeking understanding' takes the enterprise to another plane.

     So,  "I don't know" perhaps becomes one of the most difficult acknowledgements we can own.  Ambiguity, uncertainty, ambivalence, open-mindedness, and other such postures which indicate tentativeness of knowledge and understanding do not come readily nor easily. Nor are they often popular. Especially is this the case when circumstances and persons (sometimes literally) cry out for "ANSWERS' and "CERTAINTY".

    Tonight in casually surfing assorted blogs, I came across one which assigned to a literal flaming HELL anyone with a scriptural interpretation at variance with the author's. What CERTAINTY of having all the ANSWERS!  In the 1950's a comedian named Brother Dave Gardner had a routine that included this line: "Don't tell me your doubts. I have enough doubts of my own.  Tell me something you believe in !"  And, in the face of BIG QUESTIONS, his sentiment finds a lot of "Amen's".

   By contrast, this morning in my re-reading of Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak, I met anew his account of friends who came to "comfort" him when he was in the depths of a major clinical depression.  While his visitors meant to be helpful and kind, their 'answers' failed.
After his return to health, he wrote: "One of the hardest things we must do sometimes is to be present to another person's pain without trying to 'fix' it, to simply stand respectfully at the edge of that person's mystery and misery." (page 63) As a therapist, I am still learning that speaking as if I fully understand my client's concern can be grandiose and downright insulting. . . much like Job's 'friends' in that Biblical book.  

    Life is full of questions, some trivial, some important: "Think it'll rain?", "Who won the game?", "Will you forgive me?". It is a great achievement to ask the right questions, especially those that have to do with  life's meaning. We can live without a lot of things but not about meaning and its sibling, purpose.

    My academic and spiritual mentor, the late Reverend Doctor Harrell Beck of Boston University School of Theology,
often urged  that , "The questions of God are infinitely more satisfying that the answers of [humans]."  Questions are healthy; they mean that we are paying attention to life.  And it is important to frame the questions well which is not always easy nor pleasant.  An anonymous author wrote,  "The answers are important only if you ask the right questions."

   Ultimately, the questions are not solely intellectual. Rather they call for living, even with partial answers, partial understandings, ambiguities.  There sometimes seems to be an abundance of "Answer People." The late Dag Hammerskjold scornfully noted of an unidentified person, "Not knowing the questions, it was easy for him to give the answers."  To some of the questions, "answers" will come in time; for others, it is okay to say, "We don't know."  Our knowledge is tentative and provisional.

   Esther de Waal, an Anglian woman steeped in the Rule of St. Benedict, wrote in Living with Contradiction that God's promise "is not that we shall escape the hard things but that we shall be given grace to face them, to enter into them, and to come through them. The promise is not that we shall not be afraid. It is that we need not fear fear." (p. 116)

     What that 'looks like' and how one grows into that kind of groundedness are, I believe, life long questions that defy cliches and easy answers.  Emmanuel --- heard often during the recent Advent and Christmas season --- can provide a solid place: "God With Us".
   
     Satchel

UGLY CAKE

                                                Angels in Heaven eat  Ugly Cake !
                                                           

                                                             (a 2006 edition)

       Several years ago, my sister-in-law, Shirley, became the 'keeper of a family tradition' . . .   making Aunt Louise's Devil's Food Cake with the 'cholesterol city' icing !

    Louise was dad's foster sister and although they shared no biological kinship, she was always "Sister".  Her death was one of the few times that I saw dad overcome with grief.  She and Uncle Frank lived in the mill village where many of our relatives still remain, though the mill is long since gone.  In time he became Superintendent of the mill and she was an operative or 'mill hand' until her retirement.  But cooking was her craft and not unlike many women of her generation, she worked her magic on a wood-fired 'cook stove'. . .  even in Southern U.S. Summers !  Sometime in the late 1940's or early '50's, an electric stove replaced the old inferno.

Louise on left in her kitchen with my  mom around 1952

    As with many cooks, Louise (we came to wonder) perhaps kept some component of the recipe as her secret.  We knew that she always used fresh milk from a neighbor's herd.  She told us that "Mrs. Hatley keeps her cows out of the(wild) onions".  (If you have ever experienced fresh milk tainted with wild onion taste, then you will understand the importance of her admonition.)    Until her death in 1979, Louise crowned many family feasts and special occasions with her specialite de la maison.    For his ninth birthday son Chris received his requested special cake.  After the candles were blown out and everyone served, the sizable remainder was covered and stored.  Later that day, someone suggested 'Round Two'.  When we went to the storage area, all the cake was gone.  'Birthday Boy' had eaten it all !

Chris and His Birthday Cake 1968

   Like Aunt Rachel's Lemon Pie and Chicken Dumplings (other stories of family lore), such delicacies and delights are treasures not to be lost.  (I'm unsure whether Rachel has yet entrusted her recipes to progeny.)  In the years after Louise's death, Shirley began experimenting with the recipe.  By her acknowledgement, the first few did not look like the Louise's.  She even gave them the unflattering designation "Ugly Cake".  I assured her that a sightless person served a slice of her creation would think appearance irrelevant.  While subsequent editions are more visually aesthetic, the taste has been consistently 'Yum'.  The name, however, has stuck.

    What makes it soooooo good?  Probably the icing (which we think Louise called 'the filling').  Is it calorie laden?  Is New York City a 'big town'?  It tells the truth . . . just not the magnitude.  Each cake's icing contains :  1/2 pound butter; 2 1/2 cups sugar [sifted]; and 3/4 cups of whole milk.  Shirley said it is like  'white fudge'.  That mixture is boiled for 3-4 minutes while being stirred with a wooden spoon.  Then it is allowed to cool, beaten with a mixer and spread on cool cake. From 40+ years experience, Shirley recommends making the icing and allowing it to set prior making the cake.

     When family gathers on holidays and celebratory occasions, 
there is great 'moaning and groaning' if Ugly cake is not on the dessert menu.  Last week, my wife and I missed the Birthday gathering for my Great-Nephew, Jackson.  When I called to offer our regrets, my niece conveyed his message, "Tell him we're having ugly cake."  Ah, what a taunt !

    When 'ugly cake' is being served, the only correct question is "When do we eat?"
    Thanks, Louise; and , Thanks, Shirley !

My brothers and I survey the remnants of Ugly Cake,  Thanksgiving  2013

          Satchel












    
      

"IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD"

     Last Saturday, when entering a nearby restaurant, I asked for a quieter section because too much ambient noise becomes a roar with my hearing aids.  The  host made a joke about the infirmities attendant with his nearly 65 years; being just shy of 78, I congratulated him on his youth.  Then he uttered the well-worn cliche about old age just being in our head.  At that point, I had a revelation: "Well, not in our head alone but the head seems to be a significant focal  point of the aging process."

    "All in your head": Let's see . . . there is the TOP : 'some Hair turns gray, some turns loose and some does both'. (And some is colored and often with vibrant colors !)  Our dad was somewhere in between the 'gray' and 'loose'.  He resourcefully managed to maximize covering his pate with the limited  hair he had.  But since hair endowment comes from the mother's genes, my brothers and I have been able to retain ample covering. The beard that I recently began has, however, a different hue than those of a few years ago. The color on top and of our beards has changed significantly for two of us brothers.  How the youngest has managed to stay with original issue is a mystery.

    "All in your head":  THE EARS:  the little computers that I wear in my ears certainly help but there are limits, especially in crowded spaces, like restaurants.  After dinner with 5 of our friends last week, I told my wife that I heard perhaps 10% of the conversations.  That could cause some "communication problems" . . . perhaps similar to a cartoon going around: Wife: "You need a hearing test !" 
Husband: "Why the heck do I need a hairy chest?" To compensate, there are conversations within my head plus the added benefit of knowledgeable nodding and smiling. And the costs of the hardware?  Just say that I could have provided laptop computers for several family members for what those tiny aural enhancers inflicted on my resources.

    "All in your head": There are the INSIDE THE HEAD factors.  Alzheimers and other forms of dementia are not funny at all.  But for those of us not so afflicted, there are nonetheless Challenges.  Among those is the so-called 'hereafter' affliction.  You know, you enter a room, take a breath and mutter, "What am I here after?" The "I can't find my . . . keys, wallet, glasses, pen, etc." refrain also seems to be sung more frequently.

    "All in your head":  VISION problems are no respecter of age. I have worn glasses for many years.  A few  years ago, I added a new word to my health  repertoire : Cataracts.  Alas, since the procedure, I am still uncertain about which eye received the laser.  And now, I am told that the other eye (which? ) is 'ripe' for laser surgery.  

  "All in your head":  THE NOSE: My brother barely 'old' at 67 has been sneezing LOUDLY for years.  Allergies, he rightly claims. . . Compromised genes from our mother.  But, is there a reason that our sinuses, not always dormant along the chronological journey, nonetheless take advancing years as license to activate?

   "All in your head": TEETH:  I remember a silly ditty from youth: "Some men smile in the evening; some men smile at dawn. But the man worthwhile is the man who can smile when all his teeth are gone."  (I warned you: it's silly.)  Somewhere around age 40, I had all my upper teeth crowned at the then-handsome fee of $200 per tooth.  The cost now is a tad more.  And, implants?  Don't want to put an automobile inside my mouth because the price for the full treatment would equal the cost for a new ride for the dentist.  So, when new challenges recently arose, I  opted for a partial denture.  It's an adjustment.

   To confirm that it's not all ' in the head', my brothers began their orthopedic "challenges" many years ago.  And, my daughter, thirty years younger than I , has had hip and knee issues.  Now that an  X-ray and cortisone injection have confirmed osteoarthritis in my hip, finally I can lay claim to being an 'old hippie' .

     It really isn't for Sissies even when much of it is "in our head".

         Satchel

BIRD (HOUSE) MAN

Donnie at a recent competitive show in Chapel Hill, N.C.

           First things where they belong . . .
  This  is  not  an advertisement ...paid or otherwise.
As a  matter of fact, when our friend Donnie sees this, it will be his first awareness that this little tribute is being made to one of his many unique talents ---building birdhouses.  But not just those of unimaginative joining together of pieces of lumber.  

     Donnie's edifices are works of art.  Whimsical, creative, imaginative, beautiful . . . these are the first adjectives that occur.  In his 9-5 life, he works in a nearby high tech corporation.  But before leaving for that world and after returning home, his creativity in another realm emerges.  Initially conceived as a way to generate tuition income for his college-age son, Old South Birdhouses Company's recognition and success have surpassed his modest original goals.

  At dinner with several friends this week, someone asked where he got his ideas.  He modestly said something to the effect, "Well,I have a drawer full of junk that I try to put to use."  He gathers that 'drawer full of junk' by frequent forays through antique venues, old tobacco barns, yard sales, and salvage yards. Where others see 'junk', he sees components of pieces of art.  He has created birdhouses of fish, roosters, old automobile logo, man-cave themes,. . .  No two pieces are identical.
For a larger sampling of the diversity of his art, see the Facebook page for Old South Birdhouse Company.

   In the few years since beginning this hobby/avocation, Donnie has exhibited his work in numerous venues and won several "Best in Show" accolades.  Additionally, he has had a retail booth in some of the most prestigious craft shows in the area.  My daughter and family have a couple of his houses, given as Christmas gifts, in their Alabama yard.

Placed in memory of one of our Family members

     

DeLuxe Birdie Apartment
(Full view below right)

This Rooster is one of three of Donnie's
birdhouses in our yard.

High Rise Apartment at show at Carolina Inn, Chapel Hill, N.C.


Donnie combines his considerable intellect with an engineer-like 'hands on' talent honed from an early age. A promo piece noted that "being the third generation in a construction family, he has always been involved in building, but his birdhouses allow him to be creative on a much smaller scale."  He indicated that "all my birdhouses are designed to receive a seal of approval from the North American Bluebird Society."

As someone who has never been able to hammer a nail nor saw a straight line, I marvel at his creations.  But comparisons have limited benefit.  Creativity and fulfillment manifest differently and,  it seems to me, there is greater importance in finding and expressing one's  unique skills.  When someone asked if his son enjoyed the building projects as much as he, Donnie noted that Dolan ,while  competent in the workshop, is a writer.  At an early age, the son was already writing books.  Dad recognized and encouraged his son's special talents and today, Dolan is enrolled at a nearby university, honing his own creative skills. I have read some of  his lucid reviews of movies. He writes very well. 

We each have abilities for building our particular kinds of "bird houses".
What is yours?

Satchel      

        

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