'WRITE' ON !

   Creativity and memory, however defined, are quixotic muses . . . Sometimes they are 'here' in great overflowing abundance; sometimes, they go into hiding so deeply that it seems nothing can coax them into the daylight.
  
  Dad used to tell me that there was a time and place for all things. I marveled at his innovative insight until I read Ecclesiastes.  Or, as the author of a comparative philosophy text used in undergrad school phrased it, there is 'a principle of alternation'.  Freely translated for these purposes . . . 'sometimes you got it and sometimes you ain't ; sometimes they flow and sometimes they don't'..

   Some of the posts that have appeared on this blog were written with great ease (almost wrote themselves; now, I know. . .I'm not talking 'great literature' !); others, were a struggle.  So it goes. It is becoming clear that attempting to 'force' the 'juices' is futile. At times like those, I find it best to 'sit still' and pay attention to what bubbles up and to remember why I even initiated a blog and why I consider writing to be important.  Among the 'answers' that I receive, some seem  more pertinent than others.

    Many years ago, my counselor would coax me with "How are you going to know what you are thinking if you don't hear yourself talk?"  I wanted to say, 'But I'm an Introvert; I think  inside."  And now when posts take on a life of their own, I wish Vernon were still living so that I could point out the times when I didn't know that I thought, believed, felt in a particular  manner until I 'heard' it written.  Those are the Musings . . . just thinking 'aloud' . . .a kind of 'layman's philosophizing', I suppose.  For example, the post about the old truck:

   The last post about my Uncle Ken was 'fun' to write. I love to tell stories and there are lots of good stories in most  (reasonably) normal families, especially one with as many kar'akters (see earlier post by that title) as are in our entourage.  As the oldest grand-son of a large extended family (I have two older female cousins), I 'was there' and saw, heard, experienced family interactions in ways that my younger cousins (born soon before or after the deaths of our grand-parents) did not know first hand.  Obviously, the cousins are 'storehouses' of a wealth of lore as well.  Maybe we 'older ones' have the opportunity to remember, preserve and make available 'family treasures' . . .some very valuable, some just pedestrian . . . for the next generations.  And, while the specifics are relevant for but one family, I am learning that what resonates in specifics often resonates in the generalities.  Readers who do not share blood kinship with me and my families report that occasionally they recognize traces of their own clan in something written here.  I suppose that those posts are the 'Meanderings' .

                  My cousins and me.  Find the oldest grand-son.  Clue: he is not standing.
                                                Five cousins  are not pictured.


    The 'Mutterings' ? . . . Well, a synonym might be 'grumblings' or 'kvetching'.  Those I prefer to minimize. ( An exception would be the early post 'Curmudgeon'.) There are allegations that we 'old timers' take such as our perogative.  Ah, now there's a stereotype: 'the Grumpy Old Man'.  I have met a few of those of both sexes but I donot believe that persona is the norm.

      The motivations for and benefits of writing are many.  Several of my clients utilize writing as an adjunctive aid for their therapy, as I was urged to do in the 1970's.  A few write blogs, others write poetry, some keep journals, and still others explore meaning & purpose in their sermons.  

     In an earlier career as an academic historian, after MA thesis and doctoral dissertation, I published a few 'scholarly' articles and papers.  And, at the time, those were reasonably enjoyable. But not like the blog writing is proving to be.
   
    An undergraduate fraternity brother began his career as newspaper reporter and columnist then went in diametrically different directions as Urban planner and later Congressional lobbyist.  In his mid-late 50's, he returned to his first love and has since published several acclaimed novels and, most recently, a non-fiction work.  Along the way, he teaches creative writing in nearby colleges and does book readings.  He is a 'fulfilled man'.
(See his website: www.charlesfprice.com which also has a link to his blog.)

     Trained as a journalist and later as a clergyman, my younger brother for several years was the editor of the local county weekly newspaper.  Additionally, he wrote a column of opinion, local lore, legend and personalities, as well as some wonderful stories.  Along the way, he has picked up several state press association writing awards. "Aunt Bea" of Andy Griffith Show fame is buried in our town. The funeral  was a 'By Invitation' service and although not among the invitees, he wrote a story about the event that won a North Carolina Press Association award. It was all factual, though sprinkled with a bit of the Blarney Stone effect.  Although no longer the editor, he continues to write the column.

     A story has three parts . . .beginning, middle and end.  So, in conclusion, " 'Write On' about whatever you feel like you need to say" .

     Satchel
     

   
    

BASEBALL and UNCLE KEN

     Perhaps it's just the time of the year for baseball. Perhaps it's because the perennial 'swoon team', the Red Sox,  are currently in first place in their division ( though barely).  Perhaps it's because I would like again to take a swing at 'Junior's' curve or once again make the first-baseman's stretch.

   For whatever the reason, I have been reading 'baseball books' recently  . . .half-dozen or so in recent weeks, a kind of respite from my usual reading fare.

    As a high school athlete, I was smart enough to know that football was not my game.  I did not like to hurt.  I was barely o.k. at basketball.  My game was baseball. 

   I came across some of my 'stats' recently. My batting average in my Senior year was respectable, .300 + in county competition, even managing one home run. It happened like this: playing a cross-county rival, we were having 'batting practice', peppering their pitcher pretty soundly. I went to bat with 'home run' in mind, only to hear the coach call my name. I turned to see him flash the bunt signal...crossing his arms.  ( Crossing his legs meant 'steal' a base. I missed that signal in another game .  To make it up, I ran on the next pitch only to be called 'out' by the base umpire. I was lectured. ). Back to the bunt . . . after a half- hearted attempt went awry, I didn't look at Coach again. I sent the next pitch over the centerfielder's head. When I tagged home plate and sat down, Coach merely said, "Nice bunt, MY NAME !"

    I often speak of 'heroes' in these posts.  'Heroes', role models, 'examples' . . . these can be good, even necessary, persons, especially if chosen with care.  My bias is that very few contemporary professional athletes qualify.  And, it may be a moot point as to whether they ever did.  For example: "Say it ain't so, Joe" the young boy's plaintive plea  to his 'hero', 'Shoeless' Joe Jackson, in the aftermath of the 'Black Sox Scandal' of the early 20 th century.  (Several players on the Chicago White Sox were bribed to 'throw' the World Series.)

    As a child, my baseball 'hero' was my Uncle Ken, though the idea  probably didnot occur to him.  "Pshaaw", he would have said. He was just being himself. He was the main pitcher on the local mill village's baseball team. In the early-mid 20th century such teams were a source of much civic pride in those places.  Sometime in 1949, the Durham (NC) Herald had a lengthy article about the town where he and much of our family lived.  The article's title was What We're Really Proud of Is our Baseball Team.  Ken  was featured prominently in the article and there were two pictures of him, one of his being shaved by his brother, Lewis, in the latter's barbershop.  (The original of that clipping is somewhere in my 'archives'. )

   Uncle Ken's pitches were fast and often, WILD.  He was not the kind of man who would deliberately throw a 'beanball'. But this was the era before batting helmets and it was a brave ...or foolish...batter who would 'dig in' against him.

   He was discovered by professional scouts and played a few seasons of minor league baseball in North Carolina. I was perhaps 10 years old when he took my brother and me to one of his pro games in Raleigh. I was in awe.  He was at a Spring  Training tryout camp for the Pittsburg Pirates in 1951when he received the urgent call to return home . . .his dad had had a fatal heart attack.  He never returned to the tryout camp.  Instead, he turned his attention to business pursuits and became a prominent local businessman.  Still, late in life, he acknowledged that every Spring the 'bug' would bite and he wished he could play again.

    The group picture below (my technological limitations prevent my being able to rotate it) is of a team for which he pitched in the late  1940's.  Although no identification was provided, the man on back row left bears a strong resemblance.

     As a boy in the mill town, he was early known to have

a strong work ethic and financial 'savvy'.  My mom often told of

adults who would borrow money from the 'newspaper boy' and promise to repay him on 'payday'.  He enlisted in the US Navy in   World War II as soon as he was age eligible, following the military death of an older brother.  Somewhere in those same 'artifacts' is a huge coconut that he mailed to me from Guam when deployed there.

Ken (we rarely used 'Uncle') was mom's youngest brother and her sons often teased her that he was her fourth, and perhaps favorite, son.  It was not unusual for him to appear in the Summer with a large supply of cucumbers, asking mom to make him some kosh '-er pickles.  The most upset I ever saw her usually-Stoic demeanor was when he was hospitalized and near death.  (He later recovered and lived several more years.)

        It was after WWII that our Summertime Saturday ritual was for dad, other relatives and me to go wherever the team was playing.  They usually won, due in large measure to Ken's strong right arm.

      Retrospectively, I am sure that my initial affinity for baseball came from seeing him pitch.  So, I also aspired to be a pitcher. Dad bought a catcher's mitt for our games of 'catch'.  My first ever pair of spikes were hand-me-down's from Ken.      

            (  Mid-to-early 1940's )

(The above two pictures are of Uncle Ken and his youngest sister, Rachel.  The top one was made in the early to mid- 1940's.  The second was made in 2007 on the occasion of her 80th birthday.)

A few days from now will be the fifth anniversary of his death.

Increasingly, I am aware of the importance of family, community, heroes, institutions, traditions, values, etc., that provide stability and guidance for youth who are striving to establish their own identity.

       Such roots are steadying, enriching and empowering.  I am grateful for the influence that Uncle Ken provided in my youth and adolescence . . . in baseball and in life.    

           Satchel


                                                                                                       

"IT'S ALWAYS 15 YEARS FROM NOW . . ."

    ( A 2018 revision:  "Now that he has been convicted of sordid deeds in his past, it is painful to remember that Bill Cosby was once consider a  'funny man'.  And one of the earliest recordings of his monologues had a title somewhat like that.  I used the following quote before the accusations became public, to the great disappointment of many who had liked his persona. While he has been discredited, the following quote need not be.)  

  When Bill Cosby turned 50, he expressed his hope that "old age is always fifteen years from now."  Many Americans are discovering the truth of his book title, Time Flies, as they count these flying 'fifteen years'.  Statistics from the late 20th century ---1995 --- gave something of the dimensions
of the greying of the population.  In that year, there were  approximately thirty-three and a half million Americans sixty-five and older, or about one in eight persons. Some counts reflect a female/male ratio on 145 women for every 100 men.

     Stereotypes abound ---most of them denigrating to older persons.  A kind of 'if you have seen one, you have seen them all' bias persists, though, in fact, there is greater diversity among the sixty-five and over population than among any other age cohort.
And, despite popular assumptions to the contrary, a very small percentage of those 65+ live in retirement homes, nursing homes , and other similar institutions.

    Now that the counting has begun on my own 'fifteen years til old', I sometimes think of two of my personal heroes that defied age-stereotyping.  One was William Jenkins, a retired Methodist (pre-United) minister, who at 89 built a bookcase that I still have.
He would also borrow my seminary class texts, and on returning them would ask me, "What do you think [Paul] Tillich meant by such and such?"  The year that I turned 50, I ran a fifteen mile road race through the hills of Charleston, West Virginia.  Later I discovered that my respectable time had been bettered by half and hour by 81 year old John Pianfetti. The next year he was 'only' a quarter of an hour ahead of me at the finish line.  His hometown newspaper later did a feature on him with the title, "The Fact That I Run is Why I am 93".  I was told that he died at 97.

                                          (She is Stretching our definitions of "Old")


  Another damaging stereotype is that 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks.'  Older people, like anyone else, can change if they are motivated and have the requisite health.  They (we) are not too set in their (our) ways to experience  emotional change and growth.  Many years ago, Hugh Downs wrote Thirty Dirty Lies About Old.  I would add a "Thirty First" lie: 'Counseling for older persons is useless.'  In truth,  "the mental health needs of older persons are increasingly becoming the central counseling concern of those in ministry." (Koenig and Weaver,  Counseling Troubled Older Adults)

   Among the mental health needs of the older adult, late life depression is a significant public health concern.  When older persons become depressed, many erroneously assume that this is just a part of 'getting older'.  Depression can be precipitated by various causes--biological and physiological reasons, health changes, grief and losses, and life disruptions.  Older persons' depressive symptoms can also be mistaken for dementia.  Tragically, depressed older adults commit suicide at a rate greater than any other age group.  In truth, depression among this age group can be treated with a high rate of success.  

    For others, an emotional-health possibility is a life review--an opportunity to assess the meaning of our lives.  And, putting 'the story' in a written form for our progeny can be an inestimable gift.  I often wish that I had my grand-parents' and parents'  'autobiographies' in a written form.  

   Those '15 years' move at an inexorable pace.  May we not 'get too soon old and too late smart' . . . nor 'old' too soon.

    Satchel

     Satchel

WHEN THE MAP AND THE GROUND DO NOT AGREE

      Daniel Boone, the legendary pioneer and explorer, was asked if he had ever been lost.  He supposedly said "I ain't ever been lost but there were them three or four days when I was powerful confused about where I was."  Much of his travels were without the convenience of a map.

    I saw the map pictured below in a restaurant in Georgetown, South Carolina, several years ago.  I knew that it 'looked different' and close examination revealed that it was a 1935 map of the US 
. . . notice the absence of interstate highways.  Likely, most of the roads on there still exist . . . but travel with this guide could be slow, cumbersome, and just plain inconvenient. . . or, powerful confusing.  We contemporary 'Boone's' often find ourselves 'powerful confused' about our location and bearings because our life 'map' is outdated and no longer reflects the new terrain.

   Dr. Gordon Livingston in his book,  Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart: Thirty True Things You Need to Know Now, wrote of a field exercise that he as a young army lieutenant experienced at Fort Bragg, NC.  His sergeant saw him studying his map and asked if anything were wrong.  Livingston replied that according to the map, there should be a mountain over there and he saw none.  Whereupon the sergeant replied, 'Sir, if the map and the ground don't agree, then the map is wrong.'  He said he knew that he had just heard wisdom spoken.

     How do our 'maps' become outdated and at variance with 'the ground' ?  And, what can we do to prevent them (and ourselves) from becoming obsolete?  As for how, we can inquire about forces and factors ---within ourselves and in our world --- that cause CHANGE.  It is a 'challenge' to come to terms with this process that happens to our bodies, our institutions, our relationships, indeed, to everything.

     In 1971, I heard my grand-father at 87 recount the changes that he had witnessed since he came to America around 1890: the automobile, the radio, the television, airplanes, man on the moon, penicillin, nuclear  weapons and energy were among the most obvious.   And  he died before computers, the internet, smart phones, and all that goes with the new technology.  That's a lot of new 'Ground' around which to redraw one's life 'maps'.  

   On an individual level, life-expectancy far outdistances that of even a century ago.  That change can be attributable in large measure to improved nutrition, medical innovations and discoveries, as well as to levels of public education.  This demographic shift brings with it new implications around a long-standing query: 'how old is  OLD?  Once, when as a 66 year old I was bounding up a flight of  steps, a stranger informed me that to her 58 was old.  I would not want to navigate my life using her map.

    What to retain, what of the new to embrace?  A young woman once said to Thomas Carlyle: "Sir, I accept the universe." To which the crusty old man replied: "My God, you'd better !"  Conversely, dad enjoyed telling the story of a young minister who reviewed with one of the deacons the many changes in the parish that had occurred since the pastor's arrival. 'We've changed this and we've changed that'. To which the Deacon replied, 'Yes. And I have been against every damned one of them.'  To dad, the hero of that anecdote was not the stubborn old man.

    I have noticed that the 'Maps' by which I lived my 40's, 50's and even parts of my 60's no longer agree with the ground on which I now live.  And, like Dan'l Boone, sometimes it has been powerful confusing.  Listening to friends and to clients, I know that such is the case for all except for the most encrusted dinosaurs among us.  And, even for those long-extinct creatures, their inability to adapt meant that their maps no longer coincided with the ground on which they lived.  "And the rest is History." By contrast, folks who strive to keep living by updating their maps have some impressive names . . .like Pioneers, like Explorers.  I much prefer to be called one of those than Dinosaur.

     Satchel

    

"ONCE UPON A TIME . . ."

      Do you see any of the same persons in the progression of Reunion pictures?

                            Class of 1956 . . .Twenty-five years later.

                                                       Forty years later

                             Class of 1956...forty-five years later

                                                        Fifty Year Reunion

         Lots of Seventy-Five Year Olds... 57th Year Reunion



        "Hello, My Name is . . ."

      "Your face looks somewhat familiar . . ."

    "You haven't changed a bit in ______ years."


    Well, there were not many of us . . .even in the beginning . . . who graduated from high school that May evening in 1956.  There were 43 of us, or was it 44? Can't remember and at the moment , my yearbook is packed away.

      Some of those folks I have not seen since that night; others, rarely; still others, sporadically. I now live only 15-20  miles away from what was then the high school.  But, in many ways, it is light years distance. The town has grown in geographic size and in population.  ( I attended worship service in the United Methodist Church there last Sunday ...the same church that I attended during my last two years in high school and on college week-ends when home.  I saw 'Zero' persons whom I knew, although there were a couple of familiar names in the bulletin.)

    The class has had reunions marking 25, 40, 45, 50, and 57 years.  (There may have been others that I cannot remember.) I attended those of  25, 40, 45, and 50 years.  While their appearances have changed, many of the same persons are in all the above pictures. Some attendees are 'regulars', others are less so; and some, alas, have died.  From our small graduating class, nine are no longer living and a few others have or have had health crises.  There apparently are tentative plans to have annual get-togethers while those who are alive and able to travel can see  each other yet another time.

    Many of the stories are re-told for the upteenth time ---and sometimes are as fresh as when they first occurred:  The 'White Rats' escapade on the Principal's yard. (There had been 'allegations'. . .); the water-filled item that fell from Sam's locker right at "Mrs. Lossie's " feet  with Coach (aka 'Curly' ...for his bald pate) looking on; the auto collision with the train on a Spring evening. Gratefully, no one was killed. Carl actually returned to the baseball team and hit a home run, until it was discovered that he still had a damaged bicep; Have you ever seen a Six-Man football game? It's 'different'.; DWT 'ratting' out the perpetrators of the cherry bomb explosion in the boys' restroom; 'Fizz Merrel' trying to explain the intricacies of Algebra and Plane Geometry, Mrs. Yates having us to diagram sentences and to memorize (!) lots of poetry.  Some I still remember. ; Billy Joe's telling the 'newbie' History teacher that his class absence was because of his appointment with 'Dr. Friday'. She didn't know that 'Friday' owned the local pool hall.; Coach's car (known as 'The Goat' for the ram ornament on the hood) rolling down the incline beside the gym as he conducted infield practice many feet away.  When the catcher couldnot contain his mirth and literally rolled on the ground, Curly drawled in his nasal twang: 'Ain't funny, White !'; Some of the distinctive nick-names given classmates: Lightnin', Razor, Shane, Chubby, Whip, Speedy, Moosie, Tex, Red (aka Chico)...and those are just the ones that I can recall/or put in print.

    One of my dear friends recently chided me about the unhealthy effects of focusing on aging.
Actually, he said, "I worry about you worrying too much about aging. It ain't healthy!"  I have noted several times in this blog that the past is an interesting place to visit ...we just cannot 'live' there.  A former neighbor once commented that 'everyone wants to live in Mayberry'. . .a reference to Andy Griffith's idyllic little town.
    
       While our town and school district were hardly 'Mayberry', there were many positive circumstances, events, and influential people that provided us with structure, mostly good values, and directions while we were formulating our own set of values and life guidelines.  Those are good things to remember and share again with those who were our early 'travelling companions.'

    Satchel

TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES . . ..

   

   I never met the Reverend Doctor Richard "Dick" Young.  He died before I became affiliated with the hospital where I now practice.  In 1947, he began the program out of which has emerged our counseling network.  On his office wall he had a framed needlepoint: "When you walk around in people's lives, take off your shoes.  You are on Holy Ground."

    "Holy Ground" refers to the call of Moses to be Yahweh's advocate for the Israelite captives in Egypt. (See Exodus 3:1-6)
As I understand and experience it, when a counselee becomes aware of touching a profound dimension of their Being and we both know that it is not of our making ...either of their own intellect or my professional 'know-how'...then we are on "Holy Ground", something greater than ourselves. (Don't get nervous, I hardly refer to 'hearing voices'.) 

    Many of our once honored words have lost much (or all) of their luster, potency and maybe even meaning.  Words such as 'reverence', 'respect', 'awe', even 'holy' slide off our tongues and out of our mouths with little reflection about the "OTHERNESS" to which they originally pointed.  'Causes' or 'Reasons' for this debasement abound.  I think a major culprit is the sheer acceleration and distractedness that many feel.  It is almost counter-cultural to suggest that someone 'slow down, you're moving too fast. Gotta make the moment last . . ' (somewhat akin to the Simon and Garfunkle lyric.)  If the only thing that is "Real" is that which is in front of me and apprehended exclusively by the five senses,  then my vision and comprehension become narrow, superficial, and even profaned.

    "Holy" is associated with something considered divine and transcendent that deserves special respect and reverence.  My clients and I seem to experience that more often when two circumstances prevail: we are asking good questions and we are paying attention.

   'Counseling' or 'psychotherapy' (at least in my understanding and practice) is not so much about giving "Answers" as  in "Getting the Questions Right".  [Personally, I get more than a bit skeptical of someone who purports to know the 'Answers' to Life's BIG Questions.  So here I am hardly speaking of the everyday, routine 'think it will rain?' types of inquiries.]

     'Data' is important and not to be despised.  But standing alone, it is not the totality of Truth, particularly matters that pertain to Meaning and Purpose.  The French writer, LaRouchefoucauld, claimed that the Heart has its reasons that Reason does not understand.  So, back to "Holy Ground".

    My colleagues and I sit with people who are often stirred to the deepest parts of their Being.  What superficial answer is there to offer someone whose world has crumbled?  The Biblical character Job has decendants who regularly wrestle with "Why?"  and "What Next?" in matters as diverse as: loss of a child whether through 'natural causes', accident,  or suicide; betrayal; aging and the loss of vigor; job or professional pressures; forgiveness or score-keeping; 'another chance' in life; and the list goes on.  An unknown author wrote that we get good answers by asking good questions.  

   One of the ancient Names for the "Holy One" was Wisdom.  On my office desk is a watercolor of an owl, traditionally associated with wisdom.  For me, it is a non-verbal reminder: that my counselees often have a portion of wisdom that for the moment is difficult for them to access; that having lived for 75 years, I have learned a few things that I hope qualify as wisdom (including learning when to be less verbose); and that whether acknowledged by us or not, there is a Wisdom present that moves us toward greater Awareness and Clarity.  At times such as those, 'take off your shoes . . .'

    Satchel

     

RITES OF PASSAGE, or IT'S DIFFERENT NOW THAT IT'S CHANGED

   Twice in  the past week I have  attended ceremonies that meant 
"something is now different in my life" for the honorees.

   Anthropologists and other academics refer to these ritualized times as 'Rites of Passage'.  So, a couple of definitions:

RITE OF PASSAGE:  
  ...Rituals/ceremonies that indicate that a  person has reached a transitional place in life. E.g., births, puberty, marriage, graduation, career change, having children, death.
  ...Ceremonies marking a change in status
  ...These rites help the person understand their new roles in society.

  Seth and Kiira were married last Sunday afternoon.  The Bride was 'stunningly beautiful'; the Groom barely able to contain his great joy; the day was 'sun-drenched'; the great outdoors capturing the expansive love and good-will of those attending; etc.  ALL those cliches are true !

   
   I met Seth Carper, the teen-ager, when I became pastor of his church.  He's now on the cusp of 34 but it was 'like yesterday' when I gave his 8th Grade Graduation Address.  Suddenly, he is an adult. 
  
    A jazz musician and human being extraordinaire ,  he has channeled his creativity through a range of professional expressions:  public school music teacher, member of several bands, performer on cruise ship lines as well as Carneige Hall, instructor at CCNY...and probably others.  (Google: Seth Carper.  Note ...get the musician. There are others.)

   Kiira has also achieved significant professional stature and recognition.  (Google: Kiira Schmidt.)  

     This Fall, they will be living in the Southwest U.S. as Seth begins Doctoral studies.

     Watching the wedding service of vows and rings, I felt gratitude for their friendship and for the anticipation and Promise that their new 'status' and relationship hold.

    Then on Thursday evening, I attended the graduation for the Residents in our Network's  training program.  Among the five  graduates were three men with whom I had worked.  Their Professional 'apprenticeship' has included --beyond their MA degree and Internship --a three year Residency with a 3000 hour  clinical component.  They are now Licensed Professional Counselors.  Watching these exercises, I felt tremendous admiration for their commitment and perseverance as well as their personal integrity.  Their backgrounds diverge greatly and each of them is uniquely talented to provide competent, sensitive counsel for their counselees.  Nick has more energy than anyone I have known in a long time.  He balances many tasks well.  Carleton and Jaime have made career changes...that within itself is a special kind of challenge.  Jaime also gets an additional salute as the Elder Statesman of the cadre who became our Intern after a distinguished military career, including three deployments in Iraq.  I am honored to have them as colleagues.

 

                                              With l-r  Carleton, Nick and "Colonel" Jaime

    Having achieved this transitional milestone, their lives also will be different as they fill their new societal and personal roles.

      On both of these occasions ...a beautiful wedding  and an impressive graduation ceremony ...it occurred to me that not only are these persons now different than they were previously,  but also those of us who have the privilege of being their 'cheerleaders' have been influenced and changed because of our relationships with them.  

    They are beneficiaries of many person's love, encouragement, influence, and hopes.  On the other hand, we of the 'older generation', chronologically or experientially, gain by their influence upon us.  They can help in 'keeping us young' in our attitudes and openness to new experiences and understandings of life.  

    Jaime says it well: "Life is Good" !

        Satchel




  

EVERETT . . .A FIDDLER AND MORE

           Everett on left with Bob (guitar) and Stan (banjo) at Maple Springs Church, Around 2006


  As best I can determine, Everett turns 93 today .  So, Happy Birthday !  

   { About the only way he has not entered the 21st century (and I may be wrong about this) is that he and Ruby do not have a computer and hence, the internet.  So, may I ask that someone from the Maple Springs blog readers convey this electronic salute to one of my heroes . . .someone who personifies 'aging with grace and dignity' .}

   I met Everett in 1991 when the Bishop appointed me as pastor of the church he attended.  He was 71 at the time.  'Old' to my 53 year old mind-set.  Not so now that I have passed  that marker , and then add a few.  I remember asking him if I would be able to play the fiddle as he could when I was 71.  He  said "Sure" and then indulged my 'corny' humor when I said, "Good; because I can't play it at all now."  My apologies, Everett, for that goofy 'joke'.

   By that time, he had been playing with various 'country music' bands across piedmont North Carolina in all kinds of venues, including a nearby television station. He also plays a strong bass fiddle.

    During my time at that parish,  he was a regular in the 'Maple Springs Strings', a half-dozen or so members of that congregation who volunteered their talents each Sunday.  This group and another in which he played often visited area nursing homes to play for residents there.  His 'signature song' has been This Old House and he can get down REALLY LOW on the low notes.

     He and Ruby are doting, devoted grand-parents.  He taught his two grand-daughters to play the fiddle when they were still young girls.  And while he is vegetarian himself, he frequently takes his grand-son, Lee, to get his Hardee-burger.

   Besides his music and family, let me tell you some other traits of this magnificent fellow who can teach us much about getting older without 'getting old'.  I mentioned that he is vegetarian. His mind is as 'sharp as a tack'. He still drives, rides his horse, and works 'public work'.  Recently, while the establishment where he worked was undergoing renovations and hence closed, Everett likely was one of the oldest recipients of unemployment benefits in the state.  Now that the motel has re-opened, there are tourist who regularly pass through, asking specifically for Everett's Continental Breakfast.

    Without benefit of 'cosmetic surgery', he still looks pretty much as he did when I first met him 22 years ago.  He epitomizes 'sartorial elegance' or , if you prefer, he's a fashion plate, always color coordinated, neatly pressed, or as the term is sometimes used around here, he's 'spiffy'.  He is a gentleman in every sense of the word, including a 'gentle man'.

   
                                     Ruby and Everett in 1991 . . .hardly changed 22 years later.

     These words of Albert Einstein seem fitting for Everett: "Do not grow old, no matter how long you live.  Never cease to stand like curious children before the great Mystery into which we are born."

  And for all of us who see more and more candles on our birthday cakes, these thoughts from the inspiration of my nom de plume, Satchel Paige: "Age is a question of mind over matter.  If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

    Satchel





    Again, 'Happy Birthday, Everett' and thanks for being the inspiration that you are.

    Satchel

THE RUSTING, ABANDONED TRUCK

         I miss my pick-up truck.

         No, it was not this one.  Mine was a 1997 Ford Ranger with 'backseat'.  Some might attribute the longing to having a tad of 'residual redneck' . . .but I plead 'Innocent'.  It was just a fun vehicle.

   A client once told me that his brother's dying words to him were "Keep on truckin'". That encouragement has meant much to him at times when the temptation was to put life in 'neutral' and 'coast', if not even to put life's transmission into 'Reverse'.  But, to this particular truck.

     I wonder about this one.  Happened upon it recently on the grounds of a nearby Conference/Camp center.  Looks as if it has been there for some time.  Judging from the size of the trees around it, several Springs have come and gone since it was left here.  No doubt there was good reason at the time to 'park' it here, permanently.  

    The sight resonated with me for reasons that are still unclear.  My initial responses were sadness and curiosity woven together.  Sadness perhaps has to do with the transiency of things we considered, if not durable, then at least 'long-lasting', including our selves.  We are a 'use it up, throw it away, get another one' society.  When the attitude extends to people, 'Bad Things' happen.  It becomes particularly pernicious when individuals  adopt that cynical view as 'self definition'.

   Lucky Strike cigarettes  used the motto 'LSMFT' for their own advertising purposes.  In human terms, it can mean "Low self- esteem means Friction and Trouble".  But I digress and  this does not answer the meaning of the 'Parable of the Rusting Truck'. 

   Sad, also,  that what had at one time been a 'healthy individual' and 'contributing member of society' had been relegated to Junk.
So absolute, so final.  Could nothing be recycled; was there no 'organ bank'? Was there 'potential' yet unrealized, unused?  Well, obviously, the answers are unknown. Circumstantial evidence, strong.

    The curiosity focuses on matters such as 'whose truck was it', 'for what purposes was it used'; 'when was it in its prime'; 'what brought its demise'; 'how did this place come to be selected as final resting place'; 'how long has it been here'; succinctly, 'what is (was) the truck's  'Story' ?  Among the saddest of sights on the landscape are abandoned houses, abandoned churches, abandoned schools, abandoned  vehicles, abandoned  people. Tempus fugit . . .time flies.  Left there, it is enough to cause terminal cynicism. Is there nothing that is durable ?  What can we carry with us? 

    I am not ready to allow cynicism to have the 'final say'.  There are what a poet  (Wordsworth (?)) has  called  'Intimations of Immortality'. I prefer to continue scratching around for larger unfoldings, understandings of the intimations. 

     In the meantime, my client's brother's final admonition has merit, "Keep on truckin'". **

       Satchel

**  That client died a few months ago after a courageous struggle to keep his dignity and relationships.  He made his last visit to my office just a couple of weeks prior to his death.  He "kept on truckin' " to the end.  RIP  Butch.
     

"WISDOM WAS HIS TOOL . . ."

     "He had an edge on education;
      Wisdom was his tool.
    He could tell three days before it snowed
      And you can't learn that in school."
                 The Statler Brothers, Dad



          Someone asked me recently how I choose topics for blog posts.  Well, some seem to present themselves almost written (not ready to call this inspiration.)  Others, are prompted by what is going on in the world around me.  Yet others arise from snippets of conversation or something that I hear.  As best I can determine, today's meanderings and musings have arisen because the above lyrics have been singing themselves to me since a conversation last week with my friend, Rick.  Do not now even know the context in which they arose. Or, maybe it was hearing again Malcolm Gladwell (Outliers) reflecting on the confluence of circumstances that make for "success", however defined. (If interested, see the earlier post Whose Shoulders do you Stand On?)

   Trained as a therapist as well as academic historian, I know something of the  allure and pitfalls of 'retrospective enhancement' as well as 'retrospective distortions'. . .flattery or glossing over illustrate the former; for the latter, flattery can fit here as well, along with scapegoating.  Still, indulging neither enhancement nor distortion,  there are some males who are (or were) 'jerks' and even less flattering labels, who do and have done immeasurable damage to their children's bodies, spirits and psyches.  Our father, though not without his limitations, gratefully was not one of those ogres.

   John McDermott, one of the Irish Tenors, sang in The Old Man
(ostensibly about his father): "He was more than just a father; a teacher, my best friend . . ."  My brothers and I were in the 'right' place at the 'right' time with the 'right' parents who because of the formative influences they had experienced encouraged us in many ways to grow.  We acknowledge that we were fortunate or lucky, or both.  Personal ability, intelligence and "smarts" are but part of the story.

   Essentially abandoned by his biological mother while he was still an infant, dad was fortunate that his own father recognized that he alone could not care for his sickly child.  Consequently, he enlisted the aid of a woman who comes close to being a 'Saint'...my Grandma Ida ...and she more than any other cared for dad through his early years and provided the stability and nurture he needed. 

           
Left: Grand-ma Ida Smith early 1950's; Above: Dad in Burlington, NC around 1920




   By adolescence, dad had returned to live with his father in another state.  Then the man he had known as 'Daddy Bob' had a health crisis and was unable to return to work in the cotton mill.  Dad returned to North Carolina and took Daddy Bob's place in the mill, thereby providing some degree of financial underpinning for his foster mother. Among other consequences of that decision, though, dad's formal schooling ended  at the tenth grade, at a time when completing the eleventh grade meant graduation. 

    He and mom were married in 1933 as the Great Depression made life difficult for most blue collar workers.  Dad in time was able again to find work in the  local cotton mill and remained there until after the births of their first two sons.  Do you know the definition of a 'lint head'? It was a prejudicial term of derision tossed at cotton mill workers by those who considered themselves 'too good' or 'too smart' to do the menial, manual labor.  Dad taught us that any honest work is honorable and not to be despised nor 'looked down upon'.  At the risk of being considered curmudgeonly or dinosaur-ly, I have observed that his perspective is not universally shared today, especially by those 'just starting out'.

    World War II brought some financial buoyancy to the lives of 'average Americans'.  Dad failed the physical examination for military service but his life-long 'hustle' (in a good sense) to supplement their income led to a new job in a new town around 1942.  He began driving a dry-cleaning route truck and in his 'down time' around the plant took the initiative to do what some might have considered 'menial tasks'.  The owner asked, "Do you know what you have done?"  When dad said no, Mr. Tunstall said, "You have just earned a $5 a week raise." That was a LOT of money at the time.

                            Dad with my brother, Dennis, around 1947.
                                          Dry cleaning truck in background.  For several
                                          years, this was our 'family car'.

   When I began working in the small-town 'supermarket' in the early 1950's, he admonished me to stay busy.  If there were few customers in the store, dust the shelves or sweep the floor.  Already as a boy, I had spent many hours with him on his truck.  We had 'contests' to determine who could deliver the most bundles.  Like Tom Sawyer enlisting helpers to whitewash the fence,  dad allowed me to 'win'.  For this, I earned a supplement to my weekly base pay of $2, (thought generous at the time) plus all the soft drinks and candy bars he deemed acceptable for my health.  Being trusted with significant sums of money for making change when collecting accounts on 'pay day' in the mill town gave my youthful self-confidence a huge boost.

     In time, dad and his brother-in-law bought that dry cleaning plant and were partners until 1954 when at 42 (old then), he began working with Metropolitan Life Insurance Company ("Mother Met" he called it because of a new level of financial security this brought.)  Another family move ensued, bringing for me the opportunity to participate in high school athletics and to learn who my #1 fan was.  Before schools had Activity Buses for team transportation, dad often was one of the car pool drivers carrying my teammates and me to our away games.

     As our high school graduations loomed, my brothers and I frequently heard, not "If you go to college . . ." but "When you go to college. . .  ".  I probably didnot know that I had an option until after the fact. It was part of their cultural ethos , something they thought would be important to and for their sons. "We want you to have opportunities we didn't" was frequently cited. Then there was the confluence of his work ethic and emphasis on formal education.  He sadly told me that going to college in the Fall meant that I would not be able to play American Legion Baseball.  Thus ended my 'career'. 

   Fifteen or so years as a college professor strengthened my conviction that a college degree per se does not mean that one is somehow  more intelligent, more  blessed, 'more better', more special than anyone else.  Maybe there is something to the aphorism that claims  'we often do for our children what we wish had been done for us when we were their  ages'.

                                                            My parents around 1980


     In his later years, the once vital, strong man that I had known became increasingly infirm.  Chronic arthritis and coronary disease rendered him a shadow of his former self.  While his physical strength declined, his capacity for expressing love and affection did not diminish.  Sometime while I was in college, the 'manly' handshake upon reunion was replaced with the outright bearhug.  Their eight grand-children loved their grand-parents and found each of them in their own way sources of wisdom, warmth, and welcome.  They were called 'Pa' and 'Ma' because , as family lore has it, my daughter was unable to say 'Grandpa' and 'Grandma'.

                            With his two oldest grand-daughters around 1970

 Two nights before his unexpected death, my parents telephoned 'just to chat'.  The last words dad ever spoke to me were "I love you".  The Statlers were right : "Wisdom was his tool."

         Satchel




     
          

MORE MILESTONES . . .OR, HOW OLD ARE YOU?

      Two men who hold important places in my heart and in my history are having 'special' birthdays later this week. Two others have already had their 'symbolic' birthdays earlier this year and another is reaching the threshold of the 'Big One' coming next year.

    Earlier this year, John whom I have known for many years as friend and colleague turned 60 in March and Willard, a former parishioner and guitarist in the Maple Springs Strings, met # 75 on May 1.  Stan, my banjoist friend mentioned in the previous post, will be practicing 'getting older' when he turns 59 this Friday.  And, now, there are the two whose "Big" birthdays, ending in "5" and "0",  come this week.

    My 'baby brother' becomes 'officially old' on May 31 when he observes his 65th.  Just to show him that I can be the epitome of generosity, I have offered to buy his breakfast that morning.  Funny, when I was 18 and a college freshman, those 10 years between us were a chasm.  Over the years, the gap has narrowed to the point that it is now nonexistent.  In those days, he could not understand why it was not 'cool' for him to accompany me on a date with a girlfriend.

   On Tuesday, quite unexpectedly, I had a telephone call from my long-time friend, Rick, who was driving back home to Florida and was nearing my hometown.  Alas, I was 60+ miles away in my office and unable to enjoy an impromptu visit.  We met in 1990 when we were Clinical Residents in the same training program.  At the time, he was a 'mature' 27 year old and I was the 'old man' of the group at 52.  Now he will be a half-century old on Saturday. Ouch!

    Nostalgia can give a lot of pleasure.  'Homesickness of the Soul' someone has called it;  Or, a 'longing for the good old days'.  But, 'Living in the past' can be tricky.  There is, however, another richer dimension.  Awareness of, appreciation for, formative times and relationships can offer a kind of enrichment of the 'right now' as well as hope for the 'yet to come'.  Friendships are 'gifts', 'treasures' if you please.  I know that they require time, attention, caring to nurture.  And, in marking these birthdays, I become aware that there are other friendships . . . for whatever 'reasons' . . . that I have allowed to fall into disrepair and I have some 'catching up' to do.

    My life has been greatly enriched by having these good men as fellow travelers.  The relationships are of totally different kinds ...one a biological brother and 'kindred spirit' in many ways; the other an esteemed former colleague and warm friend who now lives too far away and with whom reconnecting after absences seems to come easily.  

     

     "Happy Birthday" this week to Bob and to Rick.  And, as Bob Hope used to sing, "Thanks for the Memories" and here's to many more good years and good times to come, with you and with Life. 

       Satchel

     

MUSIC TO MY EARS . . .

      My daughter once correctly noted, "Dad doesn't have any rhythm."  She could also have correctly added: singing ability or musical talent.  
  
    I once told a friend that my parents had paid for me to have seven years of piano lessons.  "You have had seven years of piano?" was the obvious question.  The truthful answer was "No. I have had one year of piano lessons seven times."  Playing ball, hanging out with friends (though we had not heard of 'hanging out' in those days), and other youthful interests pushed piano lessons to the proverbial back burner.

   In college, when our fraternity would serenade someone's girlfriend or we were in inter-fraternity competition, my part was to 'lip sync' (although, again the term had not yet been born).  And, I did my role well.  On two of the three occasions that I 'sang', we won the trophy.

   Stan is a church member in a parish where I was once minister.  He is 'world class', having played at Grand Ole Opry and with the legendary Bill Monroe's Blue Grass Boys.  So, I offered him a 'deal':  he would teach me to play the banjo so that I could offer that during a worship service and he would , in turn , preach the sermon.  Well, he tried.  My right hand progressed pretty well through the rolls.  Chords with the left hand?  Those were another matter.  And, along with the thing going constantly out of  tune (even my deaf music ear could detect that), I surrendered to the obvious.  However, I concur with someone's definition of banjo:
"It's Spanish for 'out of tune'."  Still, I love it and love hearing Stan play.

    Lacking the knowledge to discuss the nuances of musical composition and  artistic performance, I fall back upon a position no more sophisticated than "I just know what I like and what I donot."  To the despair of an undergraduate girlfriend who was a music major, I was slow in learning not to applaud between movements of symphonies.  At least  I was not like my high school coach who once told our class that he did not like music by 'sympathy orchestras.'

    Several years ago, a neighbor came into our house. Music was playing on the stereo (remember those?).  She said, "I don't understand you."  I answered, "Take a number and get in line. But what are you talking about?"  She said, "Sometimes I come to visit and you are listening to the Statler Brothers and at other times, it's Beethoven."  "I like it all" was the honest answer.  Today, it would be a stretch to say that I like all that gets called 'music'. 

   Shakespeare wrote that "music has charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak."  Sounds like circumstances that occasionally visit most humans.

    This morning while preparing for a rather solemn responsibility upcoming later today, I have found solace, strength, a balm from an array of music.  Along with songs that promise strong faith perspectives, I have again been 'charmed' by some of Mozart's early symphonies.

    I wear hearing aids as a gesture of accomodation to advancing years and having stood too close to a chain saw while wearing no hearing protection when a younger man.  But just now I am aware that I am hearing the Mozart from the computer and do not have those instruments with me.  What a delight !

   Listen to the music today.
  
     Satchel