NO DO-OVER: DAY 288

  I wish I could say something special about New Year’s Eve this year. If I stay away from Covid-19, Black Lives Matter and the pathetic saga of Donald Trump and the myth of his stolen election, more over the unapologetic, blind-leading-the-blind devotion from his army of misled admirers, all that is left to mention is that tomorrow will be a new day. Right now, every wakeup is well received. I nurture hopes that I’ll be safe to travel again, maybe sooner than later. At any age, mine in particular, spending a year in self imposed lockdown is a big chunk of time. Time spent is irretrievable, no go-backs, no do-overs. I have noble intentions to accomplish something affirming today but I also know that good intentions can die on the vine without any symptoms so I’m not holding my breath.
As drawn as I am to quotes it’s a natural thing for me to go there when my mind slips into neutral and I find myself coasting. Aristotle got credit for noting, “Nature abhors a vacuum.” Of course they couldn’t agree if a vacuum can exist at all so the whole point may be lost. Still, I would suggest that even with the caveat, the vacuum Aristotle alluded to was a metaphor to begin with. In like fashion my mind abhors a blank page. When I get one, familiar quotes begin to blow through like low hanging cumulus clouds in April. 
While writing just now, something stirred a memory and I recalled my favorite William Penn quote. Penn died before the American Revolution so he is not thought of as a founding father. Still, his fingerprints are all over that government of, by and for the people. He said, “I expect to pass through life but once. If, therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow-being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.” Any kindness or good thing. . . do it now. 
Spiraling off in another direction, George Lakoff wrote a little book in 2004 that compares/contrasts parenting styles as metaphors to illustrate conservative vs progressive world views. “Never Think Of An Elephant” I’ll not review the book but I do recommend it. In Lakoff’s research a reliable Republican resource shared a fundamental, conservative assumption. On the whole they see progressive liberals as ‘Do-gooders’ and that was not a compliment. From their perspective, doing good equates to assisting people who are either lazy or who choose poorly and that serves no worthy purpose. Winners win, losers lose and that’s how the world works. To the winner go the spoils. Bleeding-heart do-gooders would reward failure and perpetuate sloth. Conservative propaganda sounds really good if you already believe it but under scrutiny, it is as full of holes as a tennis racket.
‘Do-gooder’ language does strike a chord with me, comes across as an insult. My world as a child was framed at every corner with the moral principal, make your own way, earn what you get, get what you deserve. Being deserving was about integrity and industry. Play fair, work hard, don’t cheat. Charity was a double edge blade. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end but everybody would graciously sacrifice something to others in need. So for me, a do-gooder was someone who flaunted good fortune in the guise of generosity and that was prideful sin at its worst. 
Nature has equipped us with a need to cooperate within small groups and for those same small groups to compete with other groups. That worked very well for hunter gatherers but civilization has surpassed that simple paradigm. We all belong to several/many tribe-like (small groups) which facilitates conflict at every level. How does one find balance when religion is in conflict with career, in conflict between competing political and social loyalties? What then about the free market agent exploiting inherently vulnerable friends or family. Treachery under any flag is an abomination but in the name of ‘Self Interests’ exploitation becomes ‘Good Business’ and that is what we should all aspire to (I’m told). 
What I believe isn’t all that important. I’m not selling anything today but I do like Wm Penn’s quote. If that makes me a do-gooder then I’ll think of it as a righteous update to an old, out of date software package. Do good! Time spent is irretrievable, no go-backs, no do-overs. If I have to hang my hat on just one hook it would be the hook of: We’re all in this together, we need each other, take care of each other. If I blow my chance here today, I shall not pass this way again.

ARRIVING LATE: DAY 282

  Christmas morning: yesterday my family came together-apart on a zoom call. It was so, so good to see all those faces in one passing glance. Spending so much time alone, depending on technology to keep in touch, a metaphor that doesn’t live up to the expectation but still we milk it dry. In the last two days I’ve indulged myself with feel-good reflections and wistful thoughts of better days. When you grow old maybe that’s better than leaning forward, into the grinder.
Night before last I watched Dickens Christmas Carol, the Patrick Stewart version. He is so good: carried the film all by himself. But the good-feel-good was there. You know the story by heart but it’s timeless: hard edged, cheerless people are touched (the metaphor again) and they change. Human nature would take us on a bumpy, troublesome ride but, I must concede, the human condition is blessed with a gentle, forgiving, uplifting spirit. By impulse and neuron the brain gets the message. It prescribes first then synthesizes dopamine, the natural high and things begin to look up, you feel better. The effect will wear off but for a while, life is sweet. Last night, I watched The Polar Express again. Youngsters who were already saddled with unfair circumstances plunge ahead through the most wonderful, exciting ‘Chase’ experience ever captured on film. We sense going in that the train will arrive on time, safely but the Mach-2 journey keeps one on the edge from start to finish. I love the sound of the steam engine and the drivers turning the big wheels. Every year, the message I get is the same, a simple reminder that bridging the void between hope and belief is therapeutic, good medicine. Like ‘Hero’ Boy & ‘Hero Girl’, whose names we never learn: he the willing but jaded doubter and she, the trusting believer, I climbed onboard as well. I always need some of that magic. 
I am honestly enjoying this Christmas morning, by myself at home, coffee & cookies, only a text message away from all those I love. Having an awesome Solstice gathering on my patio with three, safely distanced friends was a rare but familiar blessing to be sure. It put me on a most perfect trajectory for, “Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin’, in the lane, snow is glistenin. . .’  The story of my life has been one of arriving late and unprepared. Still, there has always been a way through and a compass that could point true North. So I am happy with the movie selections, with the zoom experience, with the text message, email and with food to seal the deal. I think it was Abe Lincoln who said, “People are just about as happy as they choose to be.” I know for a fact, every morsel of condescending wisdom is debatable and this ‘Happy as they choose. . .’ thing is no different. But I’m still in a Tom Hanks frame of mind, on the train to the North Pole. Hero Boy got a silver bell that wouldn’t ring until he bridged the ‘Belief’ gap. I’ve had my bells for years and years but just dug them out recently. They ring a little sweeter today. Maybe it’s because my doubts about Santa Clause are in remission. Belief in the Clause-man will fall out of good stead by the end of summer but I’ll reboot again with the right movie and maybe we can hug again in 2021. 

CHOCOLATE & BRANDY: DAY 279

  Today is the first day of an often repeated, new beginning. Centuries before the great pyramids of Egypt were built, early Celtic people took comfort and confidence in ritual and ceremony to mark the sun’s return. Even though their civilization was primitive, they were accomplished students of the heavens and certainly to the angle of the sun’s arc as it signaled the changing seasons. In June, at its highest point, the summer’s season of plenty would soon follow. For the next six months the sun’s course would sink lower and lower in the southern sky until mid December. Measuring the length of shadows they identified the shortest day with the longest night. That signal was both grim and reassuring. It meant that the winter season would soon be at hand and with it, hardship and want. But with that harsh prospect came a harbinger of hope. The longest night forecast winter’s cold but also affirmed that the sun would begin its return, rising each day, higher and higher in the sky. It wouldn’t stay cold. Summer’s plenty would come around again. It was like a promise from the gods. Some of those old Celts were my forbearers and something about that identity appeals to me, even in modern times when others have either forgotten or turned in favor of newer gods. 
Last night was the longest night of the year. We know for certain that grain fields will lie fallow and fruit trees will go dormant for a long, cold spell. But the promise hasn’t changed over all this time. Every day, the sun will rise higher, daylight hours increase minute by minute, every day. Spring will come again as will the time of plenty. What we need do is to patiently prepare and trust the sun to find us.
Several of my friends came to visit last evening, at about Dark O’clock, on my patio, social distanced and masked. Even though we follow no particular pagan religion there is a comfortable fit with old ways. Perhaps the oldest ritual in human history is the lighting of fires to call back the sun. Bundled up in warm clothes, we sat around the fire. Sunshine was the musical theme, singing along with famous recordings, and borrowing from Christian tradition we communed with chocolate and brandy. Fellowship and the practice of community do not require the necessary doctrine and hierarchy that come with traditional religion. All it takes is willing souls and the desire to make connection. After several hours, the fire burned down to glowing coals, we bid each other ‘Happy Solstice’ and called it an evening. 
Winter Solstice is a favorite holiday. Those of us who actually celebrate the day are few compared to the many whose mid December holiday hangs on stories of shepherds and wise men but that’s alright. Whatever one needs to feel spiritually fulfilled, they should have it. But if what is deemed Spiritual must conform to popular political, or racial, or patriotic, or ethnic, or narrow religious priorities, it looses its salt. The gods of every major religion stem from universal respect and adherence to the Golden Rule; do unto others. Beyond that it’s just man made mythology that exploits fear and rewards obedience. 
My connection to those old Celts is both physical and spiritual. Some of their genetic influence is scattered across my chromosomes and passed through me to my descendants as well. Ancestor worship was simply the veneration of those who came before. There was nothing mysterious about the linkage between generations. All the way back to the beginning, whenever, wherever; life begat life. Everything that defines me has been funneled through the preceding generation, and likewise through my generation into future generations. We live in the present but carry the hopes and dreams of ancestors as well. No less, we bear a responsibility to those yet to breathe their first breath. Venerating ancestors doesn't sound so bad. That is a story that I can understand and embrace. 

PP&M: DAY 269

  Kansas City has just experienced several days of unseasonably warm weather. Whether or not it measures up to ‘Indian Summer’ I don’t know but by mid December, three balmy days in a row is remarkable. Even with global warming and rising average temperatures you don’t take Indian Summer for granted. Rain today, wouldn’t you know. Writing about the weather; what am I doing, you’ve got to be kidding. But yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday. I wish it were that simple, write a song that laments the passage of better days. Perhaps a fond recollection can soften the moment and the fall. 
I just wrote several paragraphs about Covid and American hubris. I don’t hesitate to point out flaws and faults that seem uniquely American. As a nation we suffer from, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall - we are fairest of them all’ syndrome. MAGA looses its mojo when its message turns out to be fabricated fiction and fear mongering. With few exceptions, that’s what Trump rhetoric amounts to. The biggest, most wretched lie to come out the mouths of those elected/appointed bigots is that they care about the world they leave for their grandchildren. All they care about is themselves and right now. So I deleted it; piss in the wind.
Last night I watched a PBS special, Peter, Paul & Mary at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1963. It was in black and white but the sound was clean and clear. In ’63 I was in my mid 20’s. PP&M were to us what Justin Bieber was to teenagers a decade back. I don’t know how well Bieber’s music will hold up but PP&M are still relevant, powerful and their stories are timeless. I think about those days and wonder how we made it through. Between an unpopular, unwinnable war and civil rights bubbling in a pot that could not be quelled, the country was in turmoil. We had patriotic racists pitted against egalitarian activists and nobody was going to budge from their perch. PP&M were out front, flag bearers if you will for a new generation. “Yes, and how many years can some people exist, before they’re allowed to be free.” I still had loyalties to the military and a shred of trust in government but the music was a hardwired channel to an undeniable reality. “How many seas must the white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand?” 
In 1962 I took my girlfriend, (later wife) to see them at Municipal Auditorium in Kansas City. ‘If I Had My Way’, ‘500 Miles’, ‘If I Had A Hammer’, ‘Where Have All The Flowers Gone’; OMG. I’ve never done drugs but that euphoria must be similar. Forty five years later in 2007 I was in Washington D.C., went to see Paul Stookey do a one-man show at Wolf Trap. He is a storyteller with songs that slip into and out of the PP&M days. At the time, Mary was fighting cancer and Peter was performing some other place. She would lose her battle and pass away two years later. But the music is still there, just a finger touch away. Watching, listening to them last night was to feel their energy again. Mary was so animated she looked like a cat twitching before the pounce. Then the slow songs, we were moths and they, candles. I still love them, never left them behind, I have kept them with me. I love James Taylor too, Judy Collins, Van Morrison and Susan Tedeschi as well but what good is love if you keep it to yourself.
That wasn’t so bad. Had I labored over the new normal, both pandemic and politic, that would be for naught. As it is, I defaulted to a previous ‘New Normal’, one that felt unreconcilable but we plunged ahead without knowing our fate. Had we known how profoundly the 60’s would change everything we might have stopped to ponder, stumbled, lost our way. The lesson learned was, whatever lies in wait, young people will sieze their day. Their music will see them through and then, before they can change the channel, a new, younger generation will have picked up the struggle. Kids will have grown old if they’re lucky and those before them even more so, wrinkled and gray with an attitude. In the end it doesn’t end, just keeps on, and on. We play musical chairs until the chairs are all taken and we be left standing, watching from a distance, leaning on each other. 

GOD BLESS THEM: DAY 264

  In the last week I have received several text messages and two emails from my opthalmologist telling me I am way-overdue for my next appointment, “Call us immediately.” I had cataracts removed 9 or 10 months ago, just before Covid and I passed those followups with an A+. I bet other patients like me are either responding with “no thanks” or not at all. I replied, “I’ll call you when I think it’s safe.” The ones I really want to help stay employed are the curbside ladies at Walmart. They do my shopping for me off my online order. Then when I pull up to the curb they check to make sure the order and the customer match. A short shuffle-transfer into the back of my truck and I’m on my way home to put my groceries away. God bless them and all of the employees who work for low wages, in harm’s way. 
I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’ve slipped a cog with the casual reference to God. When you think your truth is chiseled in stone, you forget that change is the nature of nature. Maybe ‘perception’ is the better word than ‘truth’ and one’s perception can change like the weather. I make the distinction between disbelief and unbelief. Belief is not an either/or thing. Disbelief is a negative belief paradigm of its own. Unbelief is an idealogical vacuum. So with nothing to gain or lose, I don’t get in arguments or debates. Extreme Belief can have a mind altering affect not unlike some controlled drugs. I think, if you need the drug for a better life, you should have it. It is also my belief that one can overdose on Jesus just like on opioids. The euphoria is apparent, maybe harmless but most likely pathetic as well. I am an unbeliever of the 1st Order, the classic Agnostic. I don’t know, don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Buddha said, in so many words, whether or not there is a god is irrelevant. I put a lot of stock in what The Enlightened One had to say. 
“God is a metaphor for that which transcends all levels of intellectual thought. It’s as simple as that.” Joseph Campbell is the source of that little treasure but I employ it frequently. There are after all, situations and phenomenon that leave me in awe. When I experience something that I know is both real and profound, that is totally beyond my comprehension and I must react in some way, I chalk it up to the metaphor. I have neither the wiring nor the capacity to tap into the mystery. Some things I’ll never know and that’s alright. I would rather concede to my ignorance than to a myth. 
I don’t know how I got off on Belief/Unbelief but the voice inside my head keeps giving me the words and I do the rest. I have learned, when that voice talks, I listen. I know it’s just my subconscious talking to the conscious me but the chasm it has to breach is one of those awesome, profound experiences that I can’t explain. If it doesn't get my undivided attention it may go away and never come back. 
Day 264, Covid is kicking ass from the Dakotas to Texas and Rhode Island to California. Incredibly, at the same time there is a serious outbreak of ‘Head-Up-Ass Syndrome’ with people who still believe the virus is a hoax, the election was rigged and wearing a mask in public is an act of treason. I actually do understand the malady. Conspiracy paranoia dates back to tribal identity/loyalty that actually worked for clans and tribes, way back maybe 12,000 years ago. Civilization has moved on with levers, electricity and smart phones while our heads are still equipped with brains that evolved to create stone tools and kill anybody that might possibly be a threat. E.O. Wilson got it right: humankind is cursed with, “Paleolithic Emotions, Medieval Institutions & Godlike Technology.” Whomever we elect, it’s like giving your Corvette’s keys to a 5 year-old with the expectation they can keep it up-side-up between the white lines. 

MY HEROES: DAY 260

  That I collect quotes is not a secret. They can come from anywhere but usually a famous person or, for one reason or another, a noteworthy source. But the quote itself has to stand on its own legs, something profound, ironic or clever. Then, we are drawn to quotes that reflect our own values and sensibilities. This morning I scrolled through several websites that catalog quotes by their source or content. I was curious to see what quotable people had to say concerning ‘Patience’. Not surprising, many quotes dealing with patience came from preachers and the like who thought patience a righteous virtue. They correlated patience with obedience and reward which seemed more like pandering than wisdom. But there was one that I liked and it lacked the wannabe morality. “Patience unresolved becomes cowardice.” 
Sometimes a new, unfamiliar quote moves you to think, ‘I wish I had said that.’ They are the ones you want to keep on a short leash. I think of Willie Sutton, the famous bank robber. When asked why he robbed so many banks he answered mater-of-factly, “That’s where they keep the money.” I can’t resist Yogi Berra quotes, not because they are funny but for his unpolished phrasing and unspoiled persona. If anybody else had spoken such, it would not have raised a ripple. Who but Yogi Berra would say, “You can observe a lot just by watching.”  If I want to wax profound I turn to someone like Carl Sagan who, unlike Yogi, was about as sophisticated and refined as humanly possible. He made the distinction, “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”  He also noted that, “We live in a society exquisitely dependent on science and technology, in which hardly anyone knows anything about science and technology.” Milking a little more of the profound I concede to Joseph Campbell, “Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it. Being alive is the meaning.”
The nature of quotes you are drawn to creates a good window into the psyche of the collector. It allows one to discover the scope of their own humor, their own moral compass and just who their heroes are. I never really thought I had heroes, certainly not sports figures or movie stars. Still by whatever hook you hang them on, they are the people who model in the flesh what you aspire to in theory. 
Back in the 1990’s, the fad was rubber wristbands embossed with WWJD. People bought and then gifted them to others who noticed and inquired. I worked with another teacher who wore half a dozen on each wrist. I didn’t then, don’t now have a clue what Jesus would do. At the time it was less about love and forgiveness and more of exclusive inclusion in a self righteous, privileged culture. I don’t think he would have approved what they were doing in his name. A WWMTD wristband would have suited me better. Mark Twain would be another hero, steeped in a clear eyed, skepticism of his own life and times. Now I’ve done it, compiled a list of heroes. I can’t leave out Kurt Vonnegut; “Scum of the earth as some may be in their daily lives, they can all be saints in emergencies.” A treasure trove, he also left us with, “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
I have often referred to what I do as, playing with words. When others play that game so well that we collect their toys, it honors them and the toys themselves are great to have at hand, like canned sunshine for a dismal day. With pandemic looming like Damocles’ sword, I take comfort in my heroes.

CAST AWAY: DAY 257

  Here it is the end of November, on Standard time. So now we wake up in the dark, it gets dark again before dinner time and there are still three weeks before daylight starts gaining ground again. What is so great about Standard time? I like Daylight time. Sunshine would be even later coming but you could get home before dark. I’ve done both winter and summer in Alaska and it doesn’t matter. You need cardboard over the windows in summer to fall asleep at night and you need Valium in the winter for dark induced depression. We are high functioning monkeys, we can do it. Get over it. 
But I will be out on my patio on December 21st, fire going in the chiminea, dance a little dance, sipping peach brandy, eating chocolate (my own attempt at pagan communion) singing along with songs about sunshine. Winter Solstice is the longest running, continuously observed religious ritual in human history, if not my favorite holiday then 2nd without a doubt. I really like ‘El Dia del Muertos’ The Day of The Dead and choosing between them wouldn’t serve any purpose. 
Back to today, the end of November; it is time to get serious about looking after my birds. I don’t go out of my way to keep them fed thru summer. They do very well on their own. But winter is God’s final exam for birds. Birds that pass get another summer. So I keep raw peanuts, black oil sunflower seeds and suet served buffet style on my patio. I watch them come and go out the kitchen window as daylight perks along with my coffee. Nobody owns the Cardinal or the Nuthatch on the feeder but you can feel engaged when they choose your house to drop in. They fuss and flutter, big birds drive off little ones but they come back around and all get their turn at the buffet. Nobody can own the squirrels either. They don’t think, don’t fret, don’t make plans, nor do they take pleasure in my displeasure. The myth of squirrel intelligence is just that. They are relentless, never give up; that is what they are. It often leads to success in ways we didn’t imagine but it doesn’t make them smart. Birds can be discouraged and retreat but they sing sometimes and they can fly. They can fly, OMG they can fly. As a kid I was in awe of birds. If I could have flown I would never have landed. 
Sometimes I struggle with Pandemic Blues. In April there were hot spots where people were dying in droves. Now the dying is spread around with only one big hot spot, everywhere. So different day, same shit. Fatalities are peaking again with serious blooms expected after Thanksgiving, Christmas and again after the end-of-year foolishness. I’m struggling today. All I can do is avoid people, keep clean, wear a mask outside my house, get some exercise, stay hydrated and eat all I need but no more. On the bright side, if there is one, I am saving money. But struggle is like gravity, always there, always pulling you down. You can leap the hurdle and the hang time is great but you come back down and there you are. The struggle will have mutated just enough to give you pause and dull your edge. All you can do is find cause to leap again. That’s what I’m doing. I feel like Tom Hanks character in ‘Cast Away’ must have felt, talking to a volleyball, trying to spear a fish. 

A SINGLE DAY: DAY 251

  My Apple computer came with some software I didn’t ask for but then it works and slowly, i’m learning. There is a little box full of small icons, all of them news outlets. If I click on one, today’s paper scrolls up and I can see what is in the news. If I want to read beyond the first paragraph I need to subscribe. Some news services are free and I’ve been satisfied to get my news there so far. As much as I like NPR News and the BBC, I have learned to appreciate the New York Times even more. They offered a one year, on line subscription for $4 per month, but only for a while. Subscribe now or the price goes back up soon. If that is high pressure tactics then shame on them. If it’s nothing more than a good deal, I can live with that. So I did the online subscription and now I have full access, any time of day.
David Brooks is a featured columnist and I trust him. His own personal backstory is credible, he or one of his interns actually does research the issues before he writes and that is to his credit. I discovered his column in 2012 when I was in Nova Scotia, have been following him from a distance ever since. He is a guest on NPR’s news hour every week but I prefer to read, often reread his column and it comes at a price. 
Brooks is a moderate conservative with deep roots in what is fair. I would be a moderate conservative myself but only if the world, this nation, were a perfect place. For as long as greed and denial corrupt perfection, I will lean to the left. I realize the big winners on the right believe that greed is good and denial cures every ill. All of Brooks’ posts are archived, going back for years and I have access to them all.  
Another writer I follow had an op-ed in the Times on 11/20. Yuval Harari is an Israeli scholar, historian, author who comes at issues with relentless objectivity. His piece was about Cabal Conspiracy Theories and the flawed logic behind them. His point about small groups of elites controlling outcomes in large, complex interactions was applicable to smaller scale conspiracies. Exercising covert control, keeping it secret and guiding it to fruition is nigh impossible in a family dispute much less with corporations, government or social hierarchy. After all, the best laid plans of mice and men . . .
Yesterday, November 23, in a single day over a thousand fatalities and 180,000 new Covid cases confirmed. At first they said it was a Liberal hoax. Then they disputed the numbers, that both cases and fatalities had been exaggerated for political ends. Then they tried to play it down by comparing it to the number of Americans who die every day of other causes. Now all I hear from Trump junkies is, "It’s old news, people are going to die so get over it." 
Thanksgiving is only 2 days off with airline bookings higher than any time since the March shutdown. Every medical/health expert on record has pleaded, don’t travel, avoid indoor gatherings this weekend. We want to be with family, I understand that. But collectively we don’t care about the consequence. It underscores a spoiled, inconsiderate culture. We love who we love and everybody else can go fish. I am not full blown angry, just a little pissed, thankful yes but nothing to be proud of on this holiday. 

A GENTLE WAKEUP: DAY 246

  Sometimes I dream at night but I don’t remember much. If I dream at all they are classic stereotypes; searching for something, being pursued, caught naked in public, etc. but they never tell a story, just keep cycling ‘round and ‘round in the same loop. Last night I dreamt a story with a plot and I remember. I was suitably dressed at a meeting of professional businessmen. There was a long table with fancy food and drink. It was clear they were all there for a conference, a quarterly report or something in between. I looked the part alright but ill equipped, ignorant in the business of business. My mother always said, “Giving us the business is about them and bad enough. Getting the business is about us and it’s even worse.” 
I was well received in casual conversation, still I tried to be inconspicuous. My primary purpose was grazing at the food and drink bar. When the businessmen moved to the next room, I was left by myself, unencumbered, consuming little shrimp on tooth picks and pecan tarts. A coat-and-tied man with an official name tag appeared at my side. In a trusting, confidential tone he asked my opinion on a situation he was struggling with. It was so business specific I didn’t understand the language or its consequence; something to do with how to choose a confidant and how to convey bad news without making enemies. “What would you do?” he asked. 
I didn’t want to jeopardize my place at the table and I didn’t have a clue but obviously, he thought I did. Eating and trying to talk simultaneously, I shared with him the fundamental principle of treating people the way you want to be treated, the golden rule. He had never heard of it, a novel idea to say the least. I turned and there was another VIP with yet another unsolved problem. “How would you handle this?” Again, what it was that made his problem so unique, I didn’t have a clue. So I pondered a bit, ate another pecan tart, trolling for something to say. Profiling a dilemma that wrestling coaches have with young wrestlers, I told him, “The first year is nothing but hard-hard work and getting your ass kicked every time. After that, there is still no guarantee that someday you will become an ass kicker too. There has to be a reward in the process and there is no shortcut, you have to find that in yourself.” He rolled is eyes as if I had shared something profound. 
I turned back to the food only to discover that all the executives had come back to the hospitality room, eyes on me, listening attentively. I had been exposed, an uninvited imposter. But questions kept coming. What about stock options and capital investments, what about nondisclosure agreements and insider trading? I felt like Yoda, sitting on a rock, telling young Skywalker to trust the Force.  I blurted out, “Don’t tell stories where you have to think about the words. If you don’t own it, it isn’t yours to tell. Become the story, trust your mouth to frame the language.”
The moguls all applauded. With a flimsy excuse to leave the room I made my escape. They thought they had been counseled by a shrewd, savvy businessman but in dreamland, only deceived by an old storyteller. I came uninvited to the banquet, reluctantly to the dream. I would much prefer dreamless sleep, nothing to retrieve, no questions, no fantasy, just a gentle wakeup and a need to pee. 

POST 543: DAY 242

  On September 16, 2012 I posted my first, Stones In The Road Blog piece. It was the first of 543 journal entries that have since made it into this collection. Today is the first time I’ve rolled back time to revisit that day and the memories it evokes. I like both the story and the writing. If I were not the source I would still give it a ‘thumbs up’. Growing up, my role models believed that if you have to ring your own bell, if nobody else shines the light on you then someone else deserves it more. Unsolicited boasting is neither note worthy nor well received. But I am going to repost that article here, today. More than anything else it is a reminder for me that good writing doesn’t just happen. I was not blessed with a talent, rather compelled to put my stories and ideas down on the page. I don’t know any good writers who can simply throw words at the page and have them land on their feet. It is solitary work, and it is most certainly work. For those of us who do not publish for profit it must be either an addiction or a love affair. 

September 16, 2012
“MOST PHOTOGRAPHED LIGHTHOUSE”

         In all of the world there is but one, most photographed light house. It sits on a heap of granite, thrust up out of the Atlantic on Nova Scotia's eastern shore. At Peggy's Cove, tourists come by the thousands. They come to see, to take photographs of the lighthouse but it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It is human history cast against the timelessness of stone and sea, a story begging to be fleshed out. I am reminded of the Johnny Mercer song, “When an irresistible  force such as you, meets an old, immovable object like me, you can bet as sure as you live....” The song about lovers pairs with metaphor the immovable sea and shore, and with people who have breached that boundary for as long as there have been boats. 
         I arrived at first light, before sunrise. Fishing boats were already setting lobster pots, so close you could hear their engines idling and men’s voices across the water but the parking lot was empty. The sky was low and broken so there was no first dash of morning against the white lighthouse. I took photos anyway. Fog came and went and finally, sun broke through and the shots I wanted were there. I was ready and it was a good shoot. 
         In the restaurant I had fishcakes, beans and coffee. When I came out a half hour later, there were several busses and hundreds of people climbing on the rocks around the lighthouse. In another hour, people would be swarming around the land mark like ants on a peach seed. There would be no more uncluttered photographs that day. Leaving my camera in the car, I took one last walk out on the rocks. 
         Some folks are satisfied to walk the path while others need to climb up on the rocks. A few venture down into the crevices and labyrinths, to either turn around and come back or climb on, up the far reaches to the point. Not many go all the way out to the edge but there were a few when I got there. On the edge, there is no place to look but out to sea. Straight out, the next dry land is Morocco. To say it’s a dangerous place is hyperbole: it’s no more dangerous than a street corner in a busy city. You are only one step away from disaster. But the metaphor rings a little truer. It is the boundary where man’s domain meets water world. The boats and their men from the early morning were out there somewhere; with modern equipment and safety features to help guide them home. They go out but they don’t all come home. Every fishing port has a monument to men who have been lost at sea. 
         The lighthouse behind us was a testament to man’s perilous relationship with the sea. It helped signal the way home and it marked dangerous headlands and rocky shores. We have radar and GPS now but nobody wants to photograph radar beacons or GPS machines. The lighthouse has history and the metaphor, like lovers, marks the attraction of earth’s immovable reality and of man’s irresistible urge to go there. 

WE DO ALRIGHT: DAY 241

  My purpose is not to recount the Lewis & Clark expedition of 1804 but I do want to draw from it. In March of that year, the Corps Of Discovery set out from St. Louis with over 40 men, up the Missouri River in long boats and afoot. Unlike Neil Armstrong and the Apollo 11 mission to the moon, Lewis & Clark knew nothing of what lay ahead. With a compass, sextant and chronometer (a good watch), their first order of travel was to create their own map. For a diverse collection of military and volunteer adventurers, the sense of duty and discipline would require rigid rules and unforgiving punishment. Most infractions drew 50 lashes.
With the Covid-19 expedition launched in March of 2020, I wonder where we are by comparison. By November, Lewis & Clark had made their way up the Missouri, north of what is now Bismarck, North Dakota where they built a fort to hunker down for the winter. It would be April, nearly 5 months later before they resumed their mission. We are looking at a year as well, through difficult, unfavorable conditions before a safe, effective vaccine will become available. 
Wintering at Fort Mandan required essential workers, hunters in particular, to foray out but mostly the Corps quarantined, if you will, close to the fort. The Mandan Indians were settled peacefully for the winter just across the river. In November, 2020 with the virus in resurgence, people are going back to April protocols. Wash hands, distance, mask etc. but not everyone. With a recurring shortage of hospital beds, overstressed medical professionals and fatalities on the rise again, there are still “Hoax Merchants” who can not wean themselves off the Trump nipple. Between them and Generation Z, there is resistance and indifference sufficient to keep the virus alive, well and spreading. 
In the end, The Corps Of Discovery spent 2.5 years in the wilderness. That’s about the same projected timespan experts predict before the pandemic’s new normal finds its natural fit. On our best day, human nature paints us with broad strokes and many colors. In this sea of humanity where people appear to be pretty much alike, there are many different personality types that all beg the same question: “When will everybody else learn that I know best? All they need to do is listen to me.” We all fall into that hole. In my hole, “That would be great.” is about expectation and aspiration. “Great again” infers that perfection is part of our resume and that reeks of self worship. Still, Monkey-see-monkey-do; and we do alright for high functioning primates. 

REINCARNATION: DAY 238

  The new normal means that I don’t engage with other people on a regular basis. Living alone it dawned on me that if I were incapacitated or worse, who knows how long it would take to be discovered? Last year I addressed that with my niece, even before the virus arrived. Now we touch base every day by phone, text or email. Likewise, I reach out to my kids more frequently. In 2001 when I retired, the new normal was about cell phone photographs and Facebook. If someone had foreseen my daily calls to let family know I hadn’t broken a leg in the basement or quit breathing in the night, it would have been absurd. 
Post election transition is being upstaged by a truculent, narcissist president who simply can not, literally incapable of processing failure. In the past, in his mind, his failures were attributed to subordinates or enemies. At the end of the day he always saw a victorious hero in the mirror. Willie Nelson believes in reincarnation, that he was Geronimo in another life. DT has a similar fixation, that he was, still is an ageless Genghis Khan, crushing enemies by day and whoring by night. 
Yesterday at 2:22 p.m. I received this text message from an 866 number (I’m serious). “We’re begging! Things are desperate. Races are uncalled & we need emergency funds ASAP. 5X matching for all Trump Patriots.”  with a link to a website. Certainly an outrageous scam, maybe a Trumpster who does know how to capitalize failure. I guess I’m not all that paranoid about who is president, but maybe I am about who it is not. I am getting him out of my system, sort of like bubble gum out of a your 3 year-old’s hair, not an easy thing to do.
Eleven thousand new Covid cases yesterday in Texas alone. Across the nation, more people were hospitalized with Covid yesterday than at any previous time. If I can keep dodging the bullet, avoiding direct contact and close proximity, maybe this time next year I can go someplace warm. Not much else to chew on here but I did hear a good Abraham Lincoln quote yesterday; “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.” In my book, that speaks of a willingness to bend in the wind. What better time for all leaders to reflect on Lincoln’s moral compass.

MI CASA : DAY 231

  Here it is the morning after the general election and I didn’t listen to any of the coverage yesterday, haven’t turned on anything yet today. I voted weeks ago and have put it all behind me. Flashback to 2016 and I didn’t really want to know then either. There were two possibilities, bad and worse. By afternoon I finally learned that we were getting the worse and I’m putting it off now, prepared for a repeat. My confidence, for lack of a better word, in the voting public is not only weak but thin. I do have hope but it’s like thin ice, you don’t want to test it. If it comes to pass, I can breathe a little deeper and take some consolation. 
I started watching a 4.5 hour Netflix program last night, ‘Barbarians’. The best review I could find gave it a thumbs up; set in the year 9 AD in Germania, the name Rome gave to the heavily forested region of northern Europe. I made it through the first half hour, will go back to it. What really registered was how arrogant and heavy handed the Romans were. Naturally, that’s how the movie’s producer wanted me to see them. Historically correct, the show revolves around the Battle of Teutoburg Forest, the turning point in a conflict between primitive, low tech Germans and the Romans. The greatest military machine of the time was pitted against a loosely aligned, tribal network. The Romans wanted tribute and their only means to that end was the point of a spear. Of course I made the connection, making Rome great again at the expense of lesser people and their cultures; sound familiar? 
Unavoidably obvious, to me at least, is that progress is limited to tools, technology and weapons that satisfy human wants and needs. In the two thousand years since ‘Barbarians’ every generation rediscovers greed, deceit, intimidation and violence. Between then and now, people haven’t changed at all, only the trappings that accompany technical advance. Like being trapped in a revolving door; consolidation of power and accumulating wealth are what drives civilization and enough is never enough. 
I know-I know, we also practice grace and gratitude, generosity and cooperation. That altruistic expression is usually manifest in small groups or at the individual’s level. Large groups tend to behave with a herd mentality, an ambitious, ‘self service’ model with little or no reservation about exercising the greed-deceit-intimidation-violence protocol.  
I know the history; the conflict between Rome and the Germanic tribes can only end one way. The Germanic tribes ultimately outlasted the Roman Empire and pillaged the city. Whatever it is that makes privilege so intoxicating, it also turns people with shitty ass holes into shitty ass holes that pass for people.
Once this election has made landfall, I’ll know if the outcome has upgraded to bad or still stuck at worse. In either case, over three hundred million Americans will still be divided into two hostile camps. On the right, the low road is home to xenophobes, like Romans, who love white privilege, exclusive religion and military might. On the left, not quite so low, you find naive idealists who love diversity and want fervently to believe that human nature can be updated. In that fairytale, inclusive, egalitarian principles would be embraced, not altogether unlike the barbarians. The two trajectories converge on different coordinates but either way, you face a long stretch of bad road. I am just one, old, altruistic idealist and by myself, I can do that. I live close to the ground, with who ever comes my way. We need each other, we are all in this together. Mi casa, su casa.

SPOON FULL OF SUGAR: DAY 228

  I woke up with an attitude this morning, stronger than disappointment but short of rage. I don’t do rage very well. It dissipates so fast I can’t find the handle and defaults into “What the . . . !”  On the other hand, low grade angst irritates like a big blue bottle fly buzzing on the window, just out of swat range. That must be my affliction today. 
I usually listen to local music radio while coffee is making. Today the DJ was interviewing a local writer/author. The subject was racial profiling. Every year about this time, all police departments in the country report their annual data on traffic stops for the past year. It is the primary source of information used to rank and rate the practice of racial profiling. In the past twenty years, what was intended to reduce the phenomenon has proven to have no effect. In fact, profiling has focused increasingly on people of color and blacks in particular. 
Racial profiling is just a peek into a culture of prejudice and privilege that weighs down on people of color. Since the Civil War, policing has been predicated on protecting white people and their property from anyone or anything that can be perceived to threaten white supremacy (White Privilege). It is an ugly reality, one that most of us would rather not address. Looking in the mirror, we don’t want to see a repulsive monster staring back. So in passive denial, we look the other way. It is a diabolical construct that leaves us with a self inflicted blind spot. Trying to explain that to a flag waving, come to Jesus patriot is like pulling teeth. At best, you will be dismissed as a misguided fool or harshly rebuked as a turncoat. ‘Nuff’ is enough, I’ve chewed on that bone enough today. 
Halloween came and went without a ripple, just like the day before and the day before that. ‘Pandemic Fatigue’ has taken root without my consent. What does that say about me and my consent? This morning, after the coffee pot stopped making noise I selected a tall, white, tapered mug from the rack. It came from the Crane Trust Nature Center in Nebraska. The logo on the side is a whooping crane set against a rising sun. It holds a lot of coffee. I bought it the same morning I took fantastic photographs of sandhill cranes rising off the Platte River at dawn. I had spent the night in Grand Island, up early, off to the river. You can get good photos anytime but the great ones come just after the sun rises and before it sets. Be in the right place at the right time and good things happen. 
They say a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down and I like that metaphor. I thought of that as I dropped a spoon full of honey into the empty mug. With careful aim I tipped the pot to pour. Had the mug been uniformly shaped there would have been plenty of space at the bottom of the well but it wasn’t symmetrical, it was tapered to a small base, not enough space to accommodate the rush of coffee. Down bound coffee hit the bottom and rushed back up the sides. That split second reaction arc, it seems instantaneous but we know better. I pulled back as coffee rose like a halo, above the top of the mug. How long does it take to blink: I don’t know but in that time it was over. I held the pot, the mug was on the counter top about three quarters full and there was no spillage. All of the ejected coffee had come back down inside the mug. 
I had to do a mental rewind and view it again but it played out the same every time. I did that by myself, without any help. If I could replicate that little trick it might turn heads but I can’t. I can do the other part, drain the mug in little sips but that is not remarkable. The physics is awesome; fluid dynamics, friction, gravity, cohesion, inertia but most folks don't get excited about physics either. My Crane mug has a great story now and stories are what we do best. Once upon a time in another century, we brought busloads of intercity kids, year after year to see thousands of sandhill cranes fly in at dusk, to study the Platte River system at the university that night, sleep-over in a motel and be on the river before breakfast to watch the cranes wake up and start a new day. The story isn’t finished; I keep going back.

IT IS REMARKABLE: DAY 224

  I remember watching my dad and my uncles roll their own cigarettes. It had all the elements of a sacred, righteous ritual. Cigarette papers came in a thin little pack, peeling off like cards off the top of the deck while tobacco came in a cotton fabric pouch with a draw string at the top. I could take a page to describe the process; simultaneously manipulating the paper and the pouch, applying the tobacco much like planting seeds in a furrow, then the lick and the stick. 
My mother relentlessly disallowed staring at people. Still I couldn’t help myself and cigarette rolling would equate to spectator sport with modern day Olympic gymnastics. With some foreshadowing I could have scored them on a scale of ten. One would, at least I did, watch the thing unfold intently. If anything unexpected or poorly done were to occur, I noticed. My dad was good, better than most but then he was ambidextrous. 
The part I was most attentive to was the pouch transfer. Once the paper had been positioned and the tobacco loaded, you would lift the open pouch to your face, take the pull string in your teeth and close the pouch with a sure and steady pull. At the same time you must kept the half rolled cigarette balanced with two fingers and thumb of the other hand. The closed pouch would slip into a pocket somewhere and the free hand would be available then to complete the ritual. To me, the pouch transfer was crucial to the overall performance, much like getting height in an aerial summersault or sticking a landing in gymnastics. 
I fixated on people smoking. For some reason I looked down on cigarettes as low class. It might be done very well but there was nothing elite about it. But pipes were different. My Grandpa Roy smoked pipe and his ritual seemed equally sacred and righteous. It took a long time for his pipe to be made ready and it carried as much imagery as lick and stick. He would tap the bowl agains his palm, removing ash left from the last smoke, then with more force agains the heel of his shoe. It would be time to unfold the smallest blade of his pocket knife and begin scraping ash away from the inside of the briar wood bowl. The science of briar wood pipes is interesting even if the ultimate result disappears in the wind. 
He could scrape the inside of his pipe until you might think he was trying to whittle it away but the wood is so tight grained, so hard; very slowly, he got all of the burned in tobacco ash out, making the reloaded smoke burn cool to the taste. Then the knife went back in his pocket and the tobacco can came out, a small, flask like tin with a hinged lid. Holding the pipe in his funnel shaped hand he tapped tobacco down into the bowl. Any stray shreds of tobacco were handily ushered into the bowl and tamped down by his thumb on the same hand. He thumb-tamped and rotated the bowl with long practiced skill. 
Lighting up was predictably slow with long, deep draws. When he pulled, the flame of his match was drawn down into the bowl, only to flare up when he exhaled. Once lit, he shook the match so slowly it was more like waving a flag. That old man, pipe clenched in his teeth, waved a burning match around with his right as if it were High Mass in some exotic Pagan religion. He could draw on that instrument for a full minute with no sign of effort, no sign of smoke. Then with a wisp of blue smoke at the bowl, more of that same blue smoke found its way out between his lips and washed up over his face. An “Amen” would have seemed appropriate.
When I was ten, maybe eleven; a friend and I went on a week long, maybe ten days of smoking cigarettes we had stolen from our dads. Jerry questioned how long we could keep stealing cigarettes without being caught and we had to rethink the adventure. It was a no-brainer for me. No matter how grown up it might make me feel, it made every part of my body revolt. He went on to smoke the rest of his life; cancer got him several years ago, don’t know the details but it doesn’t change anything. My last smoke was in 1950 and I expect that data point will not change. But I still watch people suck on those long, white, filtered, pre rolled in a flip-top box cigarettes and make smoke come out their nose. It is remarkable but so are dogs that eat their own poop.

FEEL THE KEY TURN: DAY 222

  Imagine tumbling knees and elbows, down a long staircase, end over end, and just when you think you’ve reached the end it gets a boost and the down-bound, gravity driven ride keeps on going. But then you wake up or your mom calls you to breakfast, the tumbling goes away and the illusion goes with it. Between Covid and red neck politics, I get the tumbling feeling. Yesterday, the President argued at a rally, “We’ve won the war with the virus. . .” but Johns Hopkins University reported over a thousand fatalities for the preceding day and 86,000 plus, new confirmed cases; it’s not like you don’t know who to believe.  
If only my mom would call me down to breakfast, I’m ready for a new story.  In a dream last night; I don’t usually dream in detail, I was in a crowd, too close, too many people, no Personal Protective Equipment, no distancing. It was surreal. I thought of death by firing squad. In that action, up to a dozen marksmen take aim and fire but only some have live rounds. The others fire blanks so that nobody knows for sure, who fired the fatal shot. It leaves some wiggle room for a squeamish shooter. “It probably wasn’t me so I’ll believe it was the other guy and move on.” On the other hand, which shooter fired the lethal bullet doesn’t matter at all to victims or their families. Strange, how people decide who to extend concern and sympathy for when it comes to life and death. Bullets or virus, if it’s not someone we care about, does it matter?
If I let myself, I could give up and just sink in a sea of pandemic and self righteous hypocrisy. But I’ve been to the edge of that rift and there was no relief there either, God is too busy making America great again. Maybe I’m at a stalemate, resolution would be too much to ask for. I am going to time myself out. Maybe if I sit in the corner with my face to the wall, a story from better days will let me off the hook for a while. Pick a year, any year. Try 1970; Western Illinois University. As a Graduate Assistant, I worked in a shared office with five other GA’s. Our work loads were huge, scheduled or on call 24/7, that is the nature of the system. Sometimes my wife and 2 year-old were awake when I got home or when I had to leave. So an opportunity for us to go on a date was both rare and special. In midwinter, the Student Union Board hosted a concert. Singer Judy Collins would perform on the field house stage. 
I would be in the Grad. Asst. office, on my own time, crunching numbers for a research paper. Tickets were included with paid fees up front for undergrad students. They printed four thousand tickets that were either snatched up by students on the first day or sold outright. But my office was in the building, had my own keys. With an opening act scheduled for 7:00, concert goers started coming through the lobby doors after dark. I had been there all day. At a prearranged time I went down to one of the locked back doors, opened it and let my wife in. She was dressed her best with a pint of shrimp fried rice from the Golden Dragon. We talked while I ate, into the opening act. Timing was perfect, with open seating it was time for us to go find our seats. 
It was a turbulent time; Protests against the war in Viet Nam were an everyday thing. Folk music could have been labeled ‘Protest’ music and Judy Collins was on the cutting edge. She was special. We were the same age, both turned 30 within a few weeks of each other. She sang like an angel and it always sounded like she was singing just for me. Long and tall with hair down to her waist and a big, Martin, acoustic guitar, she held us in a trance for two hours with songs like ‘Someday Soon’ and ‘Both Sides Now’. The song I was waiting for came late in the program. ‘Suzanne’, written by Leonard Cohen it begged, it lamented, it gave a voice to doubts and suspicions we all harbored over the war and the bigots who waged it. It questioned everything that we once held sacred; could anything ever be holy again!  
        “. . . Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water . . . he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower . . . But he himself was broken, long before the sky would open . . . Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone.” 
What we didn’t know was that she was hopelessly addicted to alcohol, that her personal life was in shambles. The music made her famous but it couldn’t fix the ‘broken’. I’ve never been close enough to fame to even imagine what it's like but I do know ‘broken’. Still her music lifts me up. Fifty years later, Judy has survived her addictions, reinvented herself, made her own peace. Now, all I would hope for is to steal away a few peaceful hours. Given a chance, I can remember, I can close my eyes and feel the key turn in the locked door, give my date a hug. I can mouth the words to every song, share time and space with those I love, even if it’s all in my mind, and I will be good to go in a little while.

GIVE OR TAKE A YEAR: DAY 219

  Eddie Briscoe was a 2nd grader in 1988, a little black boy at Sanford Ladd Elementary School in Kansas City, Missouri. I was his gym teacher. That job was a port in the storm, not the job I wanted but at the time I was glad to have it. He was his teacher’s pet, first in line when they came downstairs to the gym. I met them at the landing, Eddie on the first step. School rules required the class to stand in line quietly, no talking, eyes on the teacher. She announced that she was turning them over to me but that her rules were still to be observed. In that short pause, standing next to Eddie, he would reach up and touch me on the forearm with his index finger like E.T. in the movie, softly stroking the fine, blond hair. 
Eddie was always well dressed, clean and well mannered. Students at Ladd came from every kind of home environment, from the best to the worst. With no way of knowing, I presumed that he had a stable, nurturing place to go home to. On our little transitions to and from the stairway landing we often exchanged little bits of cordial banter. He was my favorite as well, the only name and face I remember from a year and a half at Sanford Ladd. Give or take a year, he would be 39 now. 
One day I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. His face lit up with a big-eyed, toothy grin; whatever his hesitation it wasn’t that he didn’t know. “A pimp. . .” he replied, and his grin expanded even more. I wasn’t ready for that but I followed up, “Why is that?” Again, he had to decide if he should take me into his confidence; “Man . . . they drive Cadillacs and have all the women.” I got more than I asked for. Eddie Briscoe was his teacher’s pet, proper in every way but he was also a child of the black culture and they grow up fast. We are the products of our environment, are we not? My presumption about his out of school experience was just a wishful parallel to my white experience. 
I have no idea where he is now or the course his life has taken. Certainly his adult role models were nothing like mine when I was 7 years old. Likewise, I was not born into the ‘School to Prison’ pipeline where children, black boys in particular are systematically funneled into the legal system as perpetrators rather than officers/administrators. But I know how it works now and my White badge of privilege is as much a burden as it is a franchise. I will not expand on that cultural breach now but I can not pass a police car or pick up merchandise in a store without being reminded. The cards are stacked in my favor. Any time the odds favor you, they are by definition against someone else. The playing field has never, not ever been level; not even close.
In 1995 I taught science at Northdale Academy, the alternative high school for East Baton Rouge Parish in Louisiana. Mostly African American, our 220 students were all in legal jeopardy with social workers or parole officers assigned and court hearings coming up on the calendar. I went there believing my previous experience with urban, street savvy kids would serve me well. Not only was I wrong about that, I was from the North. My chances of surviving that endeavor were slim and none. 
My students liked me, that was clear all along. But communicating required an interpreter. I neither talked the talk nor walked the walk. I was too white, from another planet. We spent too much time wrestling for control or them trying to teach me attitude and posture, how to appear strong, a sophisticated feat of intimidation without challenging another’s integrity. But I had no direct experience with street culture. What was second nature to them was absolutely foreign to me. At midyear I resigned. The kids were angry, they thought I had given up on them. “Your job was safe" they said, ". . . you weren’t going to lose it.” I tried to explain, “It’s not about a pay check, it’s about being good at what you do.” I had failed with them, again and again. Their academic progress was at a standstill. The question was, how long do you keep failing before you let it go and move on? They didn’t like it but they were big enough to accept my values, even if they were not shared. On the street in Baton Rouge, if you're not going to be fired, keep dancing the dance, take the money and don't worry. 
We made peace on their terms. They affirmed, “You are a good guy, we respect you.” They were sorry we didn’t connect sooner. I encouraged them, “. . . don’t give up on yourself.” It takes being in the right place at the right time and I had missed out on one or the other. That was my parting message. A month later I was teaching Physical Science in a suburban, white, Dutch Reform community in West Michigan. My students all showed the respect and cooperation that their parents required of them. It was a job I could do and I got the job done.We made good fit and I stayed there until I retired, six years later. 
In those six years I exploited White privilege, we all did. Success was the norm, struggle was just a word in a book somewhere. My Northdale students had been unforgiving with their brand of ‘Street Justice’. Every violation required a swift, appropriate consequence. Our campus was officially designated as a neutral ground. There would be no violence, of any kind there. If someone had an ass-kicking coming there would be a negotiation as to when and where. Nobody looks the other way and lets it go. That kind of ruthless justice did not exist in suburban Michigan where rules were guide lines and consequence depended on who you were. My white, Dutch Reform students wouldn’t last an hour on Choctaw Drive in North Baton Rouge. 

CHINOOK'S FOR LUNCH: DAY 215

  With what seems like a premature, overreaction, I find myself forsaking t-shirts and short pants in favor of sweat shirts and winter weight trousers. I know what month it is and where I am but I’m like the batter who steps out of the box, making the pitcher wait. The high, tight fastball (cold weather) is more than I want to deal with right now. We have an overcast sky with a sharp edge on the 40 degree breeze. This must be one of those unanticipated modulations that accompany old age. I don’t handle cold weather like I used to. I still like the message it sends and I would reset my thermostat but the damn thing is on autopilot. Sneeze, shiver, runny nose; I never had that reaction when I was just 70.
What I would really like is to revisit a story that is nothing but good. In 2009 I volunteered the whole summer season at Kenai Fjords National Park, Seward, Alaska. Assigned to the Interpretation Division, my job was to work at Exit Glacier’s Visitors Center and to lead guided hikes on its associated trails, telling the Park’s story. 
Late in the season, with schools open, we still had visitors but the numbers had dropped off. On a day off, I was invited to lunch with Jeff Mow, the Park Superintendent. We went to Chinook’s, a great restaurant on the harbor. Our table was at the window, looking out over all the boats in their slips. It was ‘His’ table. The Kenai Fjords family was relatively small and he knew everybody by name, even the volunteers. When the circumstance called for formality, everyone got proper but day to day, we were all on a first name basis. More than anything else, he wanted me to know how much he personally appreciated volunteers in general and me in the moment. He had done graduate study at the University of Michigan and we swapped stories of Ann Arbor. Then he told me the following story. 
Two years earlier during the filming of a Ken Burns documentary, ‘The National Parks’ he had brought the then Senators, John McCain and Hillary Clinton to Chinook’s for lunch. They sat where we were, at ‘His’ table: I sat where John McCain had been seated. It seems the angst and rivalry between competing politicians ended when the cameras turned away and they were great friends, comfortable in close company and equally prone to teasing and spontaneous laughter. Jeff shared with them the Park’s story, the same story I shared every day. 
As the story telling went around the table, Senator Clinton first prompted, then challenged her cohort to recite Robert Service’s, ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ After some coaxing, John McCain, sitting in the same spot I then occupied, he began: “There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold: The Arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold . . .” The work is an epic poem. It goes on and on, verse after verse to a distant conclusion: “. . . The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see, was the night on the marge of Lake LeBarge, I cremated Sam McGee.”
That was just the beginning, the backstory followed. As most people know, McCain spent five years as a POW in Hanoi, North Viet Nam. He was the son of an American Admiral and had refused to accept special treatment which drew reprisals including long periods of solitary confinement. His only means of contact with anybody was secretly tapping on a radiator pipe. The subtle metallic ping traveled through walls to other radiators in other cells. Another prisoner heard his pinging and responded in Morse Code. Over several years they communicated in secret. The other prisoner taught the maverick McCain the poem, in Morse Code. It took years. Whenever one of them wanted to study, they studied. It was one of several strategies that helped McCain prevail over his captor’s ruthless torture. Thirty five years later, with no preparation, he would recite the poem flawlessly for Jeff Mow and Hillary Clinton at Chinook’s, on the harbor in Seward, Alaska. 
At the end of each season, Jeff Mow took each volunteer who had spent the whole summer, to lunch. I wasn’t any more special than other volunteers but he made you feel as if you were. The next year he took the job as Park Superintendent at Glacier National Park in Montana where he still serves in that capacity. On paper, this is a good story but good stories are a dime a dozen. This one is remarkable, the way it came together and then unfolded across thousands of miles, it was profound. Unless you were there, you lose decades of oral tradition and shared experiences, you miss the route it took to find me. If you weren’t there you lose the linkage from person to person, from the right table and the right chair, with the only source that could bring you into that loop, that day at Chinook’s, on the harbor in Seward, Alaska.

A NEW FACE: DAY 212

  Recently, my disillusion with humankind has been renewed. It makes me wish I had a different band wagon to jump onto. Still, I’m not going to flipflop in a flash of insight like Saul on the road to Damascus. I suppose I’ve been hanging onto a thread of Hope. Unlike Faith, it abides without any promises. Still, Hope does come with motivation and purpose, to keep on keeping on.

On the other hand, the arc of history has a long, flat trajectory. Trying to glean historical meaning from this turbulent moment is like unraveling the history of Economics from only the coins in your pocket. It may be what you notice first but if all you have to write with are periods and comas, where is the story? What disarms me now is likely nothing more than the minuscule, random flicker of a long burning candle. A single, human lifespan may seem enough but history requires many generations to gage its own arc. 

I have likened human history to a train on an endless track, never going back. People are all born on board but unlike the song, ‘Hotel California’ there is no difference between checking out and leaving and that can happen any time. Passengers on the train interact, watch the scenery go by and find their niche (earn their living) right there in the observation car. Ten thousand years ago, clad in animal skins they were hunter gatherers with stone tools and weapons, tending their campfires with great care. On this end of history’s arc, passengers wear lycra and cotton, carry back packs and suit cases while text messaging and making new friends on FaceBook. At this point so far, I can recall most of my human train ride. Rather than bitch about today’s turbulence or tomorrow’s uncertainty, I would be thankful for the ride. Some days on the train are worth the remembering. 

In 1953, baseball was king. My town wasn’t really a town, no city government, no town square, just a post office, a couple of churches, open fields and scattered houses. Our little league baseball program stopped with 11-12 year-olds, but the next town down the road had a team for 13 & 14. I remember my mom driving me over to City Hall in Grandview, Missouri to sign up. At the time, being from a rival school was no big deal. I was just a new face. I swung an average bat but my arm was strong, with a good glove and soft hands I plugged into a 3rd base/shortstop/Catcher rotation, depending on who was pitching. If I couldn’t get a ride, the 5 mile bike ride was its own reward. 

Under the lights one Saturday night, a big commotion in the parking lot almost stopped the game. Former President, Harry Truman arrived with his Secret Service bodyguard. They sat in folding chairs on top of our dugout. Media reporters came by for a quote and photos. In the dugout, we were so close we could hear them laugh. One of the things I liked about catching was that I sweat a lot, it took some of the itch out of the heavy wool uniform. Changing out of my gear between innings, I got a smile and a nod from the Secret Service bodyguard. We were all too cool to covet their attention but I did return the smile and the nod. The retired President lived in nearby Independence, Missouri but Grandview was his home town when he was a boy.

I turned 14 that summer. In Grandview I made new friends and grew some confidence. Best of all, I got to play baseball. My place in the batting order was usually 7, sometimes 8 but with 17 or 18 players, I never sat the bench. Come August our season played itself out. We won more than we lost, good enough to have great fun and feel good but no place for us in the playoffs.

At my school the coaches started breaking out football equipment and I was not a new face. I would be a 9th grader and I could go out for the team. With no freshman team, I was too small to compete with the big guys but I got to do warm up exercises, run sprints and hold a dummy. At the time, freshman football was about taking your licks and paying your dues. I had two friends who were big, fast and strong enough to get some playing time but at 115 pounds, my job was to jump in the middle of every opportunity, get knocked down, then get back up with a smile.

In school, the 9th grade was better than I thought it would be. We were in the same building as the year before but we had new teachers. Playing baseball in Grandview, they filled out paperwork from my birth certificate and called me by my first name. I liked that. In 9th grade, class lists went by permanent records. From the first day, they called me by my first name, Frank. It took a while for my classmates to make the switch but come Thanksgiving, nobody called me LeRoy. 

From a career in education, I know that adolescence and early teenage years can be like navigating a minefield, still I don’t remember experiencing much social pressure or unrealistic expectations. Academically, I did just enough to get by. Socially, I was never a popular, mainstream character but I always managed to fit in. I am still on this train, still making memories. I love finishing with a great quote. This one comes from Forrest Church, a former Unitarian Minister; “Do what you can; Want what you have; Be who you are.”  

CAN'T BELIEVE A WORD: DAY 209

  From ‘Alice In Wonderland’, the phrase “. . . down the rabbit hole” has become a metaphor for a venture into the unknown. In Wonderland, Alice encountered a bizarre cast of characters, all of them avoiding the Queen of Hearts. Her simple solution for every offense was; “Off with their heads!” I don’t remember any beheadings but the arrogant presumption was consistent with her bloated ego. The active agent in the metaphor is ‘unknown’, no way to know what the queen would do or what the next turn would bring. Regardless of how you go down the rabbit hole, feet first, wanting nothing other than to go back or diving headfirst into the adventure, it is the anxiety of the ‘unknown’ that drives the story.

After seven months of tumbling down the Covid ‘Rabbit Hole’, every day presents its own set of bizarre coincidences. Like with Alice, when it all begins to feel ‘real’, something upsets the cart and the tumbling resumes. The virus alone should be enough to make people take stock, rethink what is important and what can wait. One would remember that a common threat like World War II allowed people to set aside their competing interests and collaborate. But with today’s paranoia we get the opposite. Instead of joining forces the pandemic is adding fuel to the angst between zombie-like political partisans. 

On the up-side; I woke up still not dead again today. That is the title and hook line from a Willie Nelson song from five or six years ago. I’ve mentioned it before in this journal. Still, the clever word play and its affirmation of life, it is good medicine for this old man. It goes on to complete the rhyme; “. . . the internet said I had passed away.” Watching Willie age over the years, I can only appreciate his sense of living in the moment and a profound understanding that life is short, live now. 

My house is half a mile from the interstate but there is a far reaching gully that funnels road noise all the way up the swale and through my yard. In the dark, with the bedroom window open I can hear the traffic and get a sense of how late it is. On weekends, there is a local motorcycle jockey who waits until the wee-hours to race the highway; must be young and fearless. Certainly not fat old pony tail dudes on Harleys, the sound is unmistakably, crotch-rocket. From the tight pitch, high rpm’s I can extrapolate instinctively; over 100 mph. Every weekend, several runs each night; who they are racing, I don’t know. But it wakes me up and I remember what it felt like to go fast on a motorcycle. Excitement overrides every other brain function and danger only heightens the rush. 

A boyhood friend, we were neighbors as kids, he died of cancer in 2011. At his funeral I noticed an unusual memorial nearby. It was a large, engraved granite slab, mounted on its edge with several identical grave stones arranged in front of it. Checking closer, the slab identified with a local bar and motorcycle club, paying tribute to their lifestyle. Each of the matching granite grave stones were simple with a Harley Davidson logo, a cavileer quote, a name and the span of each life. How they died was not revealed but in every case, they all died young. If I were to revisit Owen’s grave and check the Harley Davidson collection, there might very well be more recent plantings. They cross my mind in the wee hours when the scream of high rpm’s snake up the gully and in my window: and if falling back to sleep is easy it could be Willie’s and my shared observation; “But if I died I wasn’t dead to stay; and I woke up still not dead again today.” 

As I approach the end of each article my nature is to create closure, falling back on something rational, something I think everyone should know. But I resist that temptation today. Most of what I think to be interesting and important would not raise an eyebrow of someone still plotting life’s maze. There was a time I wondered what my grandfather thought, what he believed. But had I asked, one of us would dismiss the other, that his blade had lost its edge or that my shooter was unloaded. But my musical backstory has a long play list and I drink from that well. I pick the song, I listen for as long as it meets my need. I would love to engage with him now, me at 81 and he at 132. We wold disagree on how women and people of color should be treated. But we would find a common ground with the music and the stories there in. “You can’t believe a word that people say, and I woke up still not dead again today.” 

OUTRAGEOUS FICTION: DAY 206

  The piece I wrote yesterday failed the 2nd reading test. It wasn’t bad writing, just more ruminating on the human condition and I’ve about worn that out. But I had a deja vu kind of thing (all over again) yesterday. I had spoken with my daughter in law and that almost always includes a musical play list. In the pandemic I don’t listen to the radio much, if it’s not the virus it’s the president; how is that for a choice. Neither have I programmed my smart phone to be my disc jockey. But she reminded me how good music can lift your spirits and I needed the reminder. So I went to my I-Tunes library and selected a Beth Hart album. That started an unpredictably random sequence of connecting the dots. It leapfrogged from the Beth Hart album to her performance at the 2012 Kennedy Center Awards, honoring Buddy Guy. From there we went ahead to the 2013 Awards, where Buddy Guy performed to honor Carlos Santana. 
I decided to watch the entire Santana tribute. The host was none other than Harry Belafonte, Jamaican born King of Calypso in the 1950’s & 60’s.  His introduction began with a story, an outrageous fiction about the dangers of allowing immigrants into the U.S.A. Belafonte, an immigrant himself, alluded to when his career was struggling in the 60’s, that he needed a break through and sought an invitation to an outdoor concert in New York called Woodstock. But his slot was snatched up by a young guitar phenom from Tijuana, Mexico named Carlos Santana. With an absurd twist of logic, it raised the idea that Latino immigrants were taking jobs away from Caribbean born Americans. The audience went wild with laughter. The humor was so transparent, so absurd; what can I say! 
That was seven years ago. In the meantime, America has made a troubling shift away from a culture of acceptance and inclusion. In its place we have thrown out the baby with the bathwater. The ‘Me First-America First’ agenda has been legitimized by the President, whose character shortfalls personify what I was taught to detest. They may feed the super ego but I don’t want that karma coming back on me. That, I'm told, is what tycoons do. I have nothing good to say about him but my opinion and two dollars can get you a cup of coffee in most places.
Needless to say, the Harry Belafonte humor may have lost its way but the music is timeless. In his second career, Santana has modeled the hero’s mythical journey to perfection. The young warrior sets out to prove himself, he struggles, endures, maybe even prevails. Then comes a conversion, he returns a changed man. What he has to share is his trove of experience rather than the point of his sword. It speaks to the classic hero Santana has become. In comparison, DT can’t compare.
I’m old enough, it takes a while for my flashbacks to unfold. It was 1970, Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘The Boxer’; a song about struggle and falling down, about the getting up. I liked it straight out the first time. Before it had finished I wanted to hear it again. Yet, the only line I could remember was, “Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.” That was enough. I may need someone to point out my errors when it’s me, hearing what I want to hear and disregarding the rest. I’m human and that’s what we do. But I would have it that my errors fall in the Golden Rule’s shadow. We are social creatures after all, we’re all in this together, we need each other. Still, any successful, self serving hypocrite can distort the Golden Rule into an unscrupulous, Me-First scheme. Don’t let me go there. 

TIME WASHES CLEAN: DAY 201

  Rather than run with the news, I want to write about something else. The virus isn’t going away soon like he said it would, the economy isn’t coming back soon like he said it would either. Most people are so entrenched in their political fox holes they might as well be writing their own headlines. I am no different. Anything at all that comes out of the White House is either suspect or summarily dismissed. When you understand that dismal set of circumstances, where we neither trust nor believe our cohorts on anything if their political beliefs run contrary to our own, then times really are hard and it is a sad day. 
I remember a time when, from the neighborhood to the congress, people agreed to disagree and to collaborate in spite of their differences. I read this morning that Pete Buttigieg, former Mayor of South Bend, IN, and early leader in the Democratic Party primaries has written a book: “Trust, America’s Best Chance.” In it he notes; “building that trust, in both American institutions and fellow citizens, is the only way to address the other challenges facing the country.” That approach really resonates with me but then I liked his ideas before he wrote the book. Interestingly, it is the same basic message I got years before, from Jonathan Haidt’s books and subsequent lectures. The principle of qualified expertise is based on transparency and critical review. Political spin that lacks stiff scrutiny is piss in the wind but they sell a lot of it now. Who checks the facts? Without transparency and wide awake oversight, all you make is noise.
Anybody can claim anything. We are witnessing the playground bully principle in action. Rather than raising the bar for expert commentary, the bar is removed altogether. That puts us on the slippery slope to misinformation and emotionally charged name calling. All it does is change the subject away from what they don’t want to talk about. Not long ago the POTUS gave credence to his science source suggesting that bleach could be administered intravenously to cure Covid-19. Which institutions you trust does make a difference and trusting your future to a self appointed pretender is stupid. When the directorship of a federal agency is predicated on loyalty to the President rather than qualified expertise in the field, what you see is what you get. 
Today, all I can do is wait for my absentee ballot to arrive in the mail. But I can take comfort in my music. Storytellers like me, we like music with lyrics, a complete story reduced to a few lines, a beginning a middle and an end.
The Beetles are a good place to start, “. . . and when the broken hearted people, living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be.” Then, Carole King came along with: “. . . They’ll hurt you, yes, and desert you, and take your soul if you let them, oh, but don’t you let them.” Elton John touched a nerve end with, “. . . you lived your life like a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in.” This is cathartic; I could do this all day. Linda Ronstadt sang, “. . . time washes clean, love’s wounds unseen. That’s what someone told me but I don’t know what it means.” Clapton gave us, “. . . Lately I've been running on faith. What else can a poor boy do?” Don McLean, “. . . do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slow?”
Once, before grandchildren, my son and daughter in law took me to see James Taylor in concert. It is still a high point in my life, not just for JT but also for who I was with. After what seemed like a long wait, standing, applauding to a darkened stage, calling for an encore, JT slipped out unnoticed from behind a curtain and sat on the corner of the stage with his feet hanging down. It was mid-August-hot but nobody cared. He talked to us and with us, like you would expect between friends. After a long chat, with no introduction, no warning, he did a finger roll on his guitar and eased into the song, “. . . There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range. His horse and his cattle are his only companions. He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons, waiting for summer his pastures to change.”   Yes; I do feel better.