"That Old Glove Has Some Age on It"

       "You can tell that glove has some age on it," the new client said while examining my office and spotting the 'artifact' on a bookshelf.  "Yes, it's the one I used when I played baseball in high school," I answered.  Embarrassed, he sputtered, "Open mouth, insert foot." "It's o.k.", I assured him. "It is old."

    As a newbie in town in my junior year, I decided to try out for the team as the veteran  first baseman, Robert, had graduated the previous year.  Turns out that I was not the only aspirant to the position.  Joe, knowing that the spot was open, had purchased a new mitt in anticipation of being the starter.  When the coach selected me as Robert's replacement, I struck a deal with Joe and bought his mitt (the one pictured above).

     It Happens Every Spring was a 1949 baseball movie starring Ray Milland as a hapless chemist who discovered a formula that made a baseball repellant to wood (remember wooden bats?!). (The movie is available on You Tube.) The "Every Spring" appeal to "play ball" is real.  My uncle who pitched in the Minor Leagues said that he got the 'itch' to play every Spring.  And, while my playing was restricted to high school, I appreciate the urge. And, I suppose, that was  what brought the old mitt to mind today.  The Major League teams began the season a  dozen or so games ago.

    Our teams in 1955 and 1956 played well enough that we enjoyed the game.  Our coach (all sports) also taught Chemistry, Physics, and French I and II, as well as PE classes.  Students nicknamed him Curly because he was as bald as the proverbial billiard ball.  He had two signs . . . crossing his arms meant we were to bunt and   crossing his legs meant 'steal'.  On separate occasions, I missed both signs . . . once to a reprimand when I was called 'out' on an attempted steal and the other to a mildly sarcastic 'Nice bunt, my Name' when I ignored his bunt sign and hit my only high school home run.

    In my Senior year, we were playing a cross-county rival.  With a runner on first base their batter hit a grounder to our shortstop.  Classic double play setup.  He scooped the ball to the second baseman who caught it, pivoted and threw to me. I stretched, caught the ball which promptly broke every string in my mitt and continued its trajectory.  Curly was not pleased and let me know that ---as if I had 'caused' the situation.  I finished the game with a regular glove and took the mitt to the local shoe repair shop for a retread. My 'career' ended that Summer. The American Legion coach invited me to try out for his team.  My dad told it to me straight: if I were going to college that Fall, I would need to work during the Summer to help meet expenses.

      Several years ago, a therapy client was reminiscing about his father whom he had barely known, since the man had died when his son was five years old.  As the conversation progressed, I learned that his dad had graduated high school in the same year as I, that he had played first base on his school team.  I mentioned the coincidence.  At his next session, he brought in dad's mitt. Except that his father had been a 'lefty' and I a 'righty', the mitt was identical to mine.  At the time for his subsequent session, I had brought my mitt, and I decided that an appropriate 'therapeutic intervention' was to go outside and play catch.

     So, the client called it correctly, it is an old glove, perhaps even nearly an antique.  But that's o.k., I probably am also.

       Satchel

    

IT HAPPENED AT A FUNERAL

        By definition, funerals are not funny.  But while living, we humans possess the capability to perform and witness some pretty outrageous non-funereal behaviors, even in otherwise serious moments.

    I am glad that I was not the officiant who persisted in calling the dearly departed by the wrong name until a family member stood and corrected the egregious error.  A former parishioner told me of his uncle's funeral where the first two speakers were not to be outdone in preaching 30 minute 'Come to Jesus', hell-fire sermons.  When the third man (!) began his turn, the daughter of the deceased stood and plainly told him, "I wish you would shut up and sit down!"

   Years ago, I read Dr. John Killinger's account of leading a funeral procession from a church to a distant cemetery for the interment.  After several miles, he became preoccupied and actually forgot what he was doing.  Passing a shopping mall, he remembered his wife's saying, "The next time you are by Store Name, stop in and pick up X."  He turned on his signal and as he was searching for a parking spot, he noticed a parade of cars with headlights on following him. (In this region, it is customary to have headlights on if in such a parade.)  With aplomb, he proceeded through the parking lot and took the first exit and continued on the journey.  Apparently no one asked him about the blip.   That was somewhat humorous until I almost did a variation of the same thing.  The route to the cemetery was the first leg of the same one I regularly drove on my way home.  With only a tenth of a mile to  spare, I remembered my mission and made a necessary turn.

    My brother conducted last rites for a cousin who had been a long-distant truck driver.  At the time, the funeral home fronted a major highway that carried a lot of truck traffic.  Just as the service was beginning, something inside the casket picked up and broadcast the conversation that a passing trucker was having on his CB Radio. Seemed fitting, given the rapscallion personality of the deceased.

     The late Reverend Bruce McIver grew up in this area but spent his long pastorate in Texas.  I wish that I could have met him because his book, Stories I Couldn't Tell While I Was a Pastor", recounts multiple mishaps during a funeral in a mid-Winter blizzard. Among other near 'show stoppers', one of the deceased friends had a coronary episode after delivering his tribute.  The entire gathering had to sit in silence during the interminable wait for EMS personnel. Once outside, those transporting the casket up the incline to the gravesite, almost slipped and fell.  Then the funeral director, spotting a sag in the tent, attempted to nudge it off with the tip of his umbrella; instead, he punctured the tent, sending ice water down his back.  His subsequent gyrations turned over an electric heater, almost sending it into the open grave.

     This past week, however, I heard a story that wins the prize.  Edna's late husband was a prominent Baptist minister.  Early in his career, he served a small church in the extreme eastern part of our state.  Relatives of the deceased who lived in an adjacent state sent the message that although they would be unable to arrive in time for the funeral, they planned to be present for the interment that would be a 'the old home church', many miles away.
    
     When Tom and the funeral director arrived there, the family was not there, so they agreed to wait a respectable time before proceeding.  At last, a cloud of dust from down the unpaved road announced their coming.  After a few moments, the funeral director told Tom that the family wished to have the casket opened for a viewing and Tom agreed.  Presently, he returned to say that they wanted Grandpa removed from the casket and propped against a nearby oak tree so that they could take photographs.  And, as was apparently then the custom, Grandpa was dressed only from the waist up. Regaining appropriate dignity and decorum thereafter was a challenge.

    If you have a minister, ask him or her if they have such stories that they 'can't tell'. . . yet.

     Satchel

"There's a story there . . . "

    I have just begun reading a new book . . . J.D. 
Vance's, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis.  While my family did not migrate from the regions of Appalachia and the "Rust Belt" as did the author's own, already I see some parallels between his and many of the people around whom I grew up. That part is still "percolating" for further reflection but one of the sentences that "grabbed" me (in speaking of his grand-mother's sentiment for protecting children): "There's  a story there, though I'll likely never hear it."  (Italics mine)

    Maybe that's a near universal ---  what ?, longing, perhaps.  Are there stories from your own family --nuclear and extended --- that if you knew more of the background and specifics, you would understand a great many matters much more clearly? 

   From my own families, I have some story 'gaps' that I would nominate for 'answers' that likely I will never have: On dad's side: Where did my grand-father (the once aspiring priest) and his bride (the once aspiring nun) live after their elopement; what was dad's  older sister (whom I never met) like; How did they happen to be in White Plains, N.Y. when dad was born ; What 'caused' their divorce and how did they decide who had custody of which child. And for mom's family: what were the backgrounds of her parents and how did they meet; how did losing two children at early ages and a son in World War Two affect the family; how did grand-pa become postmaster in the mill village; what kind of stories did his Civil War veteran father  tell him; and . . . well, I guess the list of questions  could be rather extensive.

   The ancient Carthaginians had a saying to the effect that when an old person dies, it is like losing a library.  My clients frequently lament the untold parts of their legacies.  Yesterday I learned of the death of a close neighbor from years ago.  Over the past 30+ years, our lives had diverged geographically and we met rarely. Remembering the years we had known each other well brought to mind again the awareness that there just are lots of stories that make up the flow of our lives and which because of more immediate cares and concerns tend to be untold. 

     When asked why he continued to write long after his reputation was established, Ernest Hemingway replied that he had lots of stories to tell.  If that  applied to fiction, well, do you have any stories to tell?
         Satchel

NO CHARGE . . .

           Some things are much more than they initially appear. . . like this simple orange dry cleaning ticket.
I came across it recently when rummaging through family "artifacts".  It has become a treasure of sorts, pointing to relationships that were strong and consequently  stabilizing factors in my youth.

     In the early 1950's, my dad and uncle co-owned the dry cleaning plant in the (then) small North Carolina town of Apex.  G.C. Cooper was their father-in-law.  He died in April 1951, approximately two months after the date on the ticket.
I earlier wrote something of my memories of him and my grand-mother in a post, Worth a Thousand Words.  Here I reflect, rather, on the in-law dimension between them and my dad.

     The "N.C." in dad's unmistakeable script, of course, meant "No Charge" and that kind of  generosity was indicative of the warmth and  love of their relationship.  Dad and their daughter had been married almost 18 years at the time of my grand-parents' deaths, but weeks apart.  I was but 13 years old when they died but I had been able to take some measure of their depth and character. I do not know how far they progressed in their formal education; I do know by recollection and family lore that they possessed a generous allotment of wisdom.  

    As frequently happened with young couples of their generation, my parents eloped to a neighboring state.  Upon their return to mom's parents' house, dad asked timidly, "should I run?". To that , his new father-in-law replied, "I think you have run enough already."  When I made my appearance about  five years later in another state, mom in her correspondence with her parents extolled the beauty of her first-born. She and dad returned to North Carolina a month or so later and upon  seeing me for the first time, grand-pa teasingly told mom "Every crow thinks hers is the blackest", which much later I learned is a paraphrase of a Talmudic proverb. Dad acknowledged that as a young man, his temper sometimes prompted his using colorful word choices, until one day, grand-pa simply said, "Frank, you are too intelligent to have to resort to using those words."

     Speed (his nickname because of his slow locomotion) read widely.  As a child, I remember mom's having a copy of Les Miserables that she had received from her father.  Mom read widely despite having but attended but seven years of public school.  She was very proud of her GED, earned after her three sons were adults. My parents' love of reading was passed on to their children and now the grand-children continue the tradition.

     In the early years of marriage, dad worked in the village cotton mill, as did his mother-in-law.  Many times, he recalled, she would come by his machine and have him share a soft drink break. Three times weekly for eight to ten years, one of dad's dry cleaning routes included the small mill town where my grand-parents lived.  Often, he (and I when I rode with him in summers) would be invited to have lunch (or as it was called at that time and place Dinner.  The evening meal was Supper.) My grand-ma was a cook extraordinaire.  Memories of her chess pie remain vivid.  Never did dad charge them for their dry cleaning.

   On re-reading those last sentences, I do not mean to give the implication that theirs was a kind of financial quid pro quo... quite the opposite was the case. Cost and indebtedness were never features of the relationship.

    In her early 60's, my grand-mother had cancer. Long-term care facilities were not commonplace and even if they had been, I doubt that their children would have consented to their living in one.  Rather, her children cared for them on a rotating basis ---in their own homeplace and in the siblings' respective residences.  So it was that in 1950, my grand-parents came to live with us for an extended time.  During that time, she taught me  the hand alphabet for hearing impaired persons, some of which I still remember.  My youngest brother has sketchy memories of grand-pa's taking him along on his regular visits to Mr. Levy Pendergrass's store during that time.

                  Grand-pa Cooper with two of his sons-in-law . . .
              Wade Baker (center rear) and Dad and two grand-sons.
              (pre-1948 . . . because "Baby Brother" not yet born)

      While dad inscribed "N.C." on the ticket, the memories are Priceless.

My Cooper grand-parents



Satchel

"Just the facts, ma'am"

     Sergeant Joe Friday (aka Jack Webb) of the Los Angeles P.D. on the long-ago tv program Dragnet immortalized the expression, "Just the facts, ma'am".   

   I find definitions helpful; so, from some on-line dictionaries:
FACT: "a thing that is indisputably the case"; "something that has actual existence"; "a piece of information that has objective reality" about which there would be unanimous agreement.  By contrast, OPINION is "a view or judgment about something not necessarily based on fact of knowledge"; "... it may deal with subjective matters"; "a belief or conclusion held with confidence but not substantiated by positive knowledge or proof"; "opinions are beliefs not necessarily based on facts."  

    In my counseling office, I regularly hear opinions expressed as if such were fact.  As a very elementary exercise in identifying the  difference, I sometimes point to a lamp on a side table and indicate that we can agree that the object is indeed a lamp.  Then I continue by insisting that we can agree that it is a beautiful lamp. (Actually, in my opinion it is not; but that is another matter.)

    Beyond those differences, I believe that FACTS have to do with another huge matter: TRUTH: "that which is in accordance with fact."  In a courtroom, the bailiff charges the witness to "tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."  Over time, I have learned that this phrase is not a redundancy but a continuum, necessitating each component. Deliberately omitting or over-emphasizing either one can produce a caricature of Truth. Then, there are LIES : "Intentional false statements."  The Reverend Doctor Richard Lischer in a recent sermon in Duke University Chapel (January 15, 2017) said of lies, "their persistence and perversity can wear you down."

     Currently, a fact and what makes something such is a   hot-button political debate with expressions such as alternative facts and fake news having entered the public vocabulary. Recently, a counselor to the President, acknowledging that he tells falsehoods, nonetheless said that those were less important than the many things he says that are true.  Expressing opinion or lies as if they were incontrovertible fact demanding universal agreement ---whether done consciously from whatever motivation or done without awareness --- forms the base of much controversy and/or damage,  whether in the realm of politics or personal relationships.

   Recently I read something to the effect that knowing how to counter falsehoods means knowing how lies benefit those  telling them. Or, as Edwin Friedman, an eminent therapist once  observed . . . we cannot  replace by data, opinions that were not created by data in the first place.

   Truth-telling can be dangerous and unpopular. To tell the truth, Lischer noted, can be "when the trouble starts. . . . When I was a kid, my mother always told me what your mothers told you: 'As long as you tell the truth, you won't get in trouble.' Our mothers lied. . . . You see, it's just the opposite. Tell the truth and that's when the trouble starts."  Just ask John the Baptist or Jesus.

     And, that's just a fact.

         Satchel

SAVE YOUR OWN SAILOR SUIT . . . or . . .

     The house was ablaze beyond control.  In the early 1930's, Clarence Emory Williams and his older brother, Alton, each had little boy sailor uniforms that at first glance were indistinguishable.  Sensing that his prize outfit was imperiled, Clarence Emory dashed into the house to the bedroom that he and his brother shared and retrieved a uniform from the closet.  Once outside, he realized that it was not his outfit that he had rescued. Back inside he went, hung that sailor suit back into the closet, grabbed his and hastily exited the burning structure.

    Allowing for child-like immaturity and fear in this true story  (often repeated by my mom), it can still be a microcosm of an attitude that currently prevails . . . "I have mine; you're on your own !"

    David Brooks, columnist for the New York Times, recently wrote The Road to Character in which he compared  "Resume Virtues" and "Eulogy Virtues". The former is a highly individualistic, "looking out for # 1" extolling of the "self made person".  The latter incorporates an awareness of and appreciation for "our being in this together".  Individuals and societies are both composites of the two; however, Brooks insists that a huge imbalance currently prevails with a large tilt towards self-centeredness.  Allowed to persist and prevail, the imbalance carries the probable dissolution of the notion of community, as well as long-venerated virtues such as kindness, compassion, caring for the marginalized and the stranger. (The book is too rich and nuanced to be encapsulated in this post. It is not an "easy" or "quick" read but certainly a worthy undertaking. Bill Gates wrote a succinct review.  Google his review.)

    When the "Founding Fathers"  had affixed their signatures to The Declaration of Independence, Benjamin Franklin observed, "Gentlemen, we now hang together or we shall hang separately." . . . somewhat akin to recognizing that both our 'sailor suits' are our concern.

    Satchel

"Weather-related delivery delays . . . "

7:02 a.m. on January 7, 2016,  in Winston-Salem, N.C

       We have had (are having) a "weather event" in North Carolina.  Much of the state has been under a Winter Storm warning.  There are 7-9" of snow on the ground here and it is still snowing.  Other parts of the state had been alerted to comparable amounts but a shift in atmospheric conditions changed that primarily to ice and sleet. Raleigh's failed forecast of 6-8 inches led one person to complain that local meteorologist "have as much in common as 2016 pollsters".

  Snow, ice, or sleet all make driving even more treacherous for us winter-driving-challenged-Southerners. Two-hundred-sixty (260) automobile crashes had already been reported in the state by early this morning. The Raleigh News and Observer's website today has this story: "N&O experiences weather-related delivery delays" and gave assurances that "our carriers are making every effort to deliver your newspaper as quickly and safely as possible."  Reading that evoked a 40 year old memory.

     While teaching at a small liberal arts college in the Eastern part of the state, I had an early morning newspaper delivery route as a way to supplement income.  The subscription rates have long since disappeared from recollection but I do remember that the option to pay the monthly fee was considerably less that paying on per diem basis which was something like fifty cents per copy.

    Snow storms in Eastern North Carolina are relatively rare but when a big one occurs, life is pretty much paralyzed for a time.  Such it was sometime in the late 1970's. When the courier dropped off my bundles early that morning, the roads were already coated / glazed with significant icing.  After a few minutes of folding papers, I concluded that safety and common sense needed to prevail and I went back into my house. And, soon, I received a call demanding to know "where is my newspaper" and I answered (kindly, I hope) that it was on my front porch and he was free to come pick it up.

     But the biggest "Wow ! Can you believe that !" came at the end of the monthly collection period when a colleague, Dr. S, remitted her fee and instead of the monthly amount had deducted for the missed delivery. I suppressed the urge to rebill her at the daily rate for the number of deliveries she had received. Perhaps all that snow had done something amiss in her humanity circuitry. I remember deciding that if she need that  50 cents that much, she needed it more than I did.
   
   Stay warm, dry and safe if possible.
      
       Satchel

     

"Welcome back to Reality" . . .

     . . .   such was the subject line of an email I received yesterday from a client who was unsure of the time of 
his first therapy appointment of the new year.  I will be interested to know what prompted that title . . . was it something that occurred in his  world over the holidays or just the return to the 'routine' after all the flurry and flourishes of Christmas and New Years?

   A couple of years ago, I wrote a blog post that I called "January-itis", basically bemoaning the season's 
cold, miserable weather conditions.  Well, this one had less than an auspicious beginning   . . . no snow where I live but gray drabness and plentiful rain.  My brother in New Hampshire sent a picture of a snowfall that appears to be a foot deep.

    With a client coming at 7 a.m. tomorrow, I opted to make my 65 mile commute this afternoon (January 2). Traffic was heavier than usual. Then came the realization that 'vacation', 'holiday', time away has come to an end for most Americans. And tomorrow is "back to reality".  An area journalist has called this "the joyless season" and "the cold depressing season of 'now what?' " and our "bleakest 31 days". (Josh Shaffer, Raleigh, NC News and Observer, January 1, 2017).  

     As a therapist, I have seen many clients who deal with Winter Blues or Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Among the  generally efficacious methods of dealing with that malaise is LIGHT,  literally and metaphorically.  Offsetting January's lethargy and tug towards sloth and indolence requires what Mr. Shaffer termed a "vow to resist January".  Reading his article prompts my curiosity to search for activities other than veg-ing and napping.  Reaching for the 'heroic' --- like lose 20 pounds this month or go to the gym twice as often --- need not be the focus.  Maybe something as mundane as reading a long-postponed book or something as archaic as writing letters to someone(s) with whom contact has  languished. 

    It may just be that 'reality' does not have to mean 'boring'.

           Satchel 


   

CHRISTMAS AT 50% OFF

                 

On Christmas morning, I went with friends to Mass at a nearby Roman Catholic Church.  In his homily, the priest noted that  "tomorrow Christmas will be 50% off and likely by Friday, it will be 90% off."  He went on to predict that

soon we will be seeing Valentine cards and candy. 

As a commentary on our commercialization of the season, he was spot on.  (And lest this seem self-righteous  carping, I acknowledge that I found a couple of sweaters at a 'bargain' yesterday ,December 26.)  A widespread

awareness of the Christmas Season has little resonance in our Western culture. "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is a catchy tune (played interminably pre-December 25) but the liturgical observance is a religious relic.

Whether one's understanding of 'religious' Christmas (separate from 'cultural' Christmas) is that of an historical narrative or as 'Parabolic Overture' (to use Marcus Borg's phrase), it seems to me that  fair questions become "What comes next?" or "What difference does it make?" And, news reports of violence yesterday in shopping malls across the United States can add to the erosion of 'joy to the world'.

CHRISTMAS, then, is counter-cultural. Rather than railing against the "Christmas at 50%", there remains that which the late Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman called The Work of Christmas : 

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flocks,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nation,

To bring peace among people,

To make music in the heart.

Satchel

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES ON SUNDAY

     O.K., it's not a Biblical era manger; but there is a story here.

     As you likely know, Christmas is on Sunday this year.  That confluence occurred twice when I was a parish minister.  Both times I heard something like, "Preacher, Christmas is on Sunday this year. Are we going to have church? [If that phrase sounds foreign, it translates "have worship service".]  And, each year, we did indeed 'have church'.  The first time was in 1988  and I have scant memory of that one.  The service of 1994 in another parish still resonates.  It happened this way:

    I was 'Senior Minister' . . . alright, 'only minister' . . . of a three-church United Methodist parish in central North Carolina.  Throughout the year, each congregation had a Sunday morning worship service - - - one place at 9, another at 10, and the third at 11, on an annual rotation.  The churches were several miles apart so my inter-church travels were often 'fast'.  Our tradition of 11 p.m. Christmas Eve joint service had been established and always filled the largest sanctuary among the three. 

   While some Christian denominations have a Christmas Day worship service regardless of the day of the week, that had not been our tradition.  Well ahead of December 25th, I announced that we would have a joint Sunday morning service at another of the churches at 10 o'clock. I do not remember whether I announced that we would also observe the Eucharist but that became the plan early on.  

    Avoiding gimmickry (always antithetical to worship services), the service was designed to incorporate all five senses.  We sang many of the traditional hymns and I preached a brief homily whose title and content are long forgotten.  It was  the Eucharist that remains memorable.  After consecration of the elements, the chalice and paten were placed in the cradle much like the one pictured above.  As each communicant approached the elements, it was necessary to lean or bow to reach the  bread and cup.  Several persons later noted the theological appropriateness of the gesture.  At a slight distance, an offering plate was set.  Ahead of the liturgy, I clearly indicated that this was not to "pay" for the gift  received; rather, a response.  The offering was made to a single Benevolence rather than be divided
among individual church budgets.

     That same service could have occurred on any day of the week.  But I remain convinced that its being on Sunday made its symbolism and significance even stronger. 

    Satchel

WHAT'S YOUR (OUR) NAME ?

   Do you recognize these names ?
     This first one might take you back a few years to the 'King of the Cowboys'; if you had said 'Roy Rogers',  ok.  But would you have known 'Leonard Slye'?
   How about . . .  Marion Morrison ? (John Wayne). Or John Dussenburger (John Denver).  And the one that some have speculated had the name not been changed from Adolph Schikellgruber there might not have been a Nazi Party and hence no World War II (Adolph Hitler).

    A few years ago there was a young man named  Michael Jordan playing in a college basketball tournament.  He was not the same  MJ who played for UNC and the Chicago Bulls.  And he was about 4 years old when UNC won the national championship in 1982.  Understandably, he took a lot of teasing. Why not change it?
He said the name was given him by his mother and to change it would be like slapping her.  

   Beginning as   children, one of the first things we ask someone: "What's your Name?".  Persons at gatherings wear tags with a greeting like: "Hello. My Name is _________".  Baptismal liturgies often include the question: "What Name is to be given this child ?"
And, wedding liturgies, "I (NAME) take you  (NAME) to be my wedded __________"

   NAME can convey a Basis Identity . . .Who We Are. . .  and "represent" us and distinguish us from others.   Should you doubt that, just notice what happens within yourself when somebody mispronounces yours or calls you by an incorrect Name.
Never give a person a first name by which they will not be addressed.  When I am called "William", I know that it is either by someone "official" or someone who does not know me. Once I was with my mom in a medical waiting area when the nurse paged her by her first name and we almost missed the call.  And, I have never understood why her sister Ruth had a  gravestone indicating that "Esther" was interred there.   We want to be called by our own Name because we have become what we were named . . . We  are our NAMES.

   And, then, our Name can connect us with family .  Our extended family is probably not unusual in having children carry part of their ancestors' names.  Further, our names also suggest what our fore bearers did to make a living: Baker, Smith, Carpenter, Cooper, Miner, etc.

   Do you think that I am making too much of this "Name" business? Consider: Several years ago, a client told me that her eldest daughter had been named for her husband's former girl friend.  That's reminiscent of what a woman, who as an adult, learned that her father had also named her for a girlfriend he had while still married to her mother.  She changed that first name and by doing so was able to put to rest a number of family issues.

  Shakespeare wrote that a rose by another name would have the same fragrance, perhaps suggesting that name does not matter.  Johnny Cash's song, A Boy Named Sue, would suggest otherwise.
So, I believe we need to be respectful with someone else's name as well as with our own.  When greeting a new client, I say something like "I go by Ron. How do you prefer to be addressed? My mom told us not to to call someone by their first name without permission."

    Let's take it a step further.  Our Name can convey a sense of purpose, what we believe we are called to be and/or do.  For example the Old Testament story of Abram and Sarai who had become their Names, her especially. In a culture that honored childbearing, she had no children and her Name meant Mocked.
After many years, God's promise of many descendants became reality and Sarai became Sarah, or Princess.  And he became known as  Abraham, literally Father of a multitude of nations.
By the way, when she as an old woman heard that she would have a child, she laughed and the son was named Laughter, or, in their language, Isaac. 

    Allow me to segue briefly onto a larger arena for a connection between Name and Purpose.  Regardless of your political affiliation and vote in the recent Presidential election, I sense there is a need for deep reflection about our NAMES and PURPOSE in current America.  Without delving into the whole matter of "American Exceptionalism", over the years our people have held some rather lofty and hopeful Names and aspirations for this country, among them : "Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave";
    "We hold these Truths to be Self-Evident, that all [people] are created equal . . . "; 
       "We the People . . . "; 
             "Democracy" ; 
                  "In order to form a more perfect  Union . . . "; 
                         "Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal . . ." . . .  and these Names have been lived out in many impressively compassionate ways, domestically and internationally.  

  In his 1941 State of the Union Address as war was already encroaching upon this country, President Roosevelt articulated the "Four Freedoms": freedom of speech, of worship; freedom from want and from fear.  He continued, "As men do not live by bread alone, they do not fight by armaments alone" and he further spelled out the benefits of democracy: economic opportunity, employment, social security, and the promise of adequate health care. (Yes. Just as we have not always lived up to our individual Names, there are far too many illustrations of times when America has failed to live by our national Ideals)

 In his Gettysburg Address, President Lincoln noted the huge test posed by the Civil War as to whether "this nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure."  During these times, I believe that his concluding words can help us remember and live our National Name: "It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause  for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve  that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people , by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

   I have met persons who sadly could respond to the calling of their Name but had lost their memories and with that, their Identity.
Two words point to such a phenomenon . . . Amnesia and Identity Crisis.  According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, Identity Crisis indicates a "state of confusion in an institution or organization regarding its nature and direction." And, a Mayo Clinic site defined Amnesia as "a loss of memories, such as facts, function, and experience" and that while such persons are usually lucid and know who they are they "may have trouble learning new information and forming new memories."

   So that our Name --- identity and purpose --- not be forgotten, I suggest that we often look to our National Birth Certificate ---the Constitution adopted after the successful War for Independence.

Our National Birth Certificate

      Satchel

'ROTTING LEAVES' or . . .

      A friend told me last week that she dislikes Autumn because it means vegetation is dying and 'Winter's coming on'.  We were talking about my annual mountain vacation to admire the wide-pallette display of leaf colors.  Instead, she said, she sees 'rotting leaves', bespeaking the transitory nature of things. An imprecisely remembered snippet from a Shel Silverstein poem catches her sentiment: "Must we always have Winter; can't Springtime just last".

    Well, this season certainly evokes awareness of change.  "It seems like only yesterday" that we were in the mountains of Virginia watching the hills become green again.  And, actually, it was as  recently as April . . . only 6 months ago. 

  [ A side-bar of free association: Writing sometimes takes an unanticipated direction of its own . . . I began this musing with the intended theme of Change.  Then, having noted the contrast of Spring and Autumn in 'the hills', I began reflecting on how mountains seem to be a magnet, particularly at this time in my life.  Perhaps the thematic difference is not so great . . . to me, this terrain bespeaks Durability akin to near-permanence.  Aware that a move to another location is improbable, my wife and I have occasionally compared the allure of the beach or the mountains were we to relocate. (We currently live about equidistant to each.) We have concurred that while we enjoy occasional trips to the coast, the mountains are our preference.]

    The pace of life in  the Western world can leave us breathless and out of step with the latest ... news, fad, technological gadget, fashion, . . . just 'the latest'. Designed obsolescence someone called it. And, even these beloved mountains have not escaped "Development" and "Modernization".  

   'What, then, endures ?' seems a legitimate enquiry in the face of sic transit gloria mundi . . . "thus passes the glory of the world" ---  or, as my friend might express it, "Rotting leaves". The always changing world of external phenomena provokes cynicism for some persons . . . "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die".  For others, there is a tugging toward an interior world . . . dare I call it a Spiritual Life . . .  that can broaden our horizon beyond the transitory events of 'now'.  Someone called this the "eternity factor", not as a form of Escape, but for a 'panoramic view of time' that can enhance both personal growth and a grateful giving back to future generations on Planet Earth.

    Accessing and living from this perspective can get us closer to the fundamental question of MEANING.  This week I read a book that has been on my shelf for several years.  While I found some of the visionary viewpoints utopian, there is much in From Age-ing to Sage-ing: A Profound New Vision of Growing Older that can point to deeper ways to live life. I anticipate re-reading with benefit several portions of the book.  But for now, there are beautiful leaves to admire !

    Satchel

    

A MID-LIFE 'CRISIS'

           A 48 year old client, Phillip, (he asked that his real name not be used and I am HIPPA compliant) has been struggling with 'mid-life transitions'.  Recently he has been doing a lot of 'soul searching', attempting to sort through the rubble . . . professional as well as personal . . . in his life. Being something of an introspective, poetic bent, he recently attempted (to use his words) "to get a handle on where I am and where I am going".  He showed me the following 'essay' and consented to my request to use it in a blog. Without editing, here are his 'ponderings' :

    " 'Once upon a time . . .'
         'once upon a time . . .'
            'once upon a time . . .'
  Good Lord, how many times had he heard 'once upon a time' ?!  Well, 'once upon a time' was here.  And there was no Fairy God Mother anywhere around. Plenty of toads though. 'So much for ^Happy Ever After^', he complained to himself. 'It's more like 
^Huff and puff and blow your house down^.'

    And what made the situation more galling was the recollection of how he had (he thought) been so precise in putting that dream house into position.  Sitting amid the rubble now, it felt more like a jerry-built lean-to. Wrong floor plan? Probably. Faulty materials? Maybe. Better yet, improperly chosen, arid location? Even more likely.

    The metaphors kept rolling even after he had scolded  himself that 'enough of this tripe is just enough'.  Then the zinger came slipping into his consciousness, 'When had the fault-line in the foundation become apparent?  What caused the shift and why had he not spotted and corrected it earlier?'
Over-confident early adulthood?  More likely it was seeing the turkies get the raises, recognition and promotions and realizing that competence wasn't its own best defense after all.

    'Some gonna win, some gonna lose . . .' came from the softly playing radio.  Even the appliances seemed to remind him. A quarter turn of the wrist choked the old Zenith radio in mid-syllable.  He wishfully thought how perfect it would be if all the problems and confusions could be solved that summarily.  Feeling the irresponsibility wrapped in that impulse, he backed off pdq.

    Then here came 'Once upon a time' again.  Unlike in the fairy tale, the shoe did not fit Cinderella and too many years of short-sightedness and wrong-turns and bad calls reminded him that he wasn't exactly the handsome prince either.  More like Grumpy or Dopey all too often.

    Stirring the  stuff of the past and a looking for the 'might have beens' held all the promise and allure of a one-way ticket to the boonies on a World War II vintage Greyhound.  Maybe the better route lay in the implications of what his just graduated 18 year old child told a mutual friend when he had cooly met a challenging crisis: 'Welcome to the grown-up world!'  Then he felt the defenses to up almost on their own and the immediate rejoinder, 'Back off; nobody's implying you've acted less than as a responsible adult.'

    'Grin and bear it'; 'This, too, shall pass'; 'every cloud has its silver lining'; 'where there's a will, there's a way' . . . now the cliches started.  Who turned those on? Where did they come from?  He recalled once hearing someone say that there had to be some truth in all these aphorisms for them to have endured.  Shallow-thinking band-aids when he had just been through major  emotional surgery was closer to his own evaluation.

    Look ahead, set goals, lay out game plans . . . that was what the self-appointed  gurus of positive thinking and get control of your rainbow 'experts' were always hyping.  And he had tried it . . . more than once.  Even bought a book about beating procrastination. 'Never got around to reading it,' he joked, feeling somehow that the joke was on him.

    Maybe the experience was still too fresh. 'Naw', he decided. He'd made his peace with all that. What he couldn't seem to get the handle on  was 'What comes next ?'
   'Tomorrow', he decided. "

Any wise words of counsel that I can pass on in our next session ?
    
              Satchel