THE LIFE WE LEARNED WITH

  Movies used to  be the exception and not the rule but Pandemic has changed that for me. My DVD library is small by others standard but it takes up several book shelves. I also hooked up with Netflix and their shelf is endless; not very good but what they lack in quality they make up for in volume. Whenever I have exhausted the Netflix offering and come up empty I turn to my DVD’s. Last night I went back to my DVD’s, watched a 1984 film made when Robert Redford, Glenn Close and Robert Duvall were young, set in the 1930’s, revolving around baseball, as close to a perfect pairing as I can imagine. I’ve watched it several times, many times and it doesn’t get old. 
I’m not about to review the movie. If you haven’t seen it, go see it. But near the end Redford (the ball player) is trying to explain to Close, (his boyhood sweetheart) why he never came back to her. The best he could do was to tell her, “My life just didn’t turn out like I thought it would.” Her reply was the hook line for the movie. She told him, “I think we live two lives; the one we learn with and the one we live with after that.” In the movie, the good guys win, the bad guys crash and burn. The separated lovers reconnect. Redford meets his teenage son who he never knew existed and all the bittersweet turns to sweet. 
I think we live two lives; the one we learn with and the one we live with after that. When I hear great lines like that in movies I want to give a big thumbs up to the writers. This one captured nearly two hours of struggle and last chances, compressed into a single sentence. It spoke to me personally: some things need to be let go and other things need to be nurtured and kept safe but still, who has a crystal ball? All you can do is all you can do. You hope the learning was sufficient and the present is clear. The idea presumes that you know when you’ve bridged from the learning to the living. You pray for the power of hope and a shred of courage. There it is: if you can just muster some courage. I don’t think it comes with a handle. You can’t just grab hold and hang on. Courage isn’t easy, somebody has to move their feet. 
The life you learned with and the life you live with; one line made the difference between a good movie and a timeless life lesson. With Robert Redford and Glenn Close you knew it was going to end well. That’s what movies are for, to leave you feeling good. But tomorrow the sun will come up and I will have to improvise my own script and recruit a cast of characters. My movie has no guarantees and the ending, happy or sad, will be just a springboard into the next episode. 

HITCH YOUR WAGON

  Winter Solstice is observed on December 21 but to be honest, the shortest daylight day of the year (in actual hours and minutes) can happen sooner or later, give or take as much as a week either way. There are several variables that affect timing Sunrise to Sunset and if one does not enjoy or appreciate the study of astronomy/meteorology there is no reason to dig in that hole. But I do, and I do. The most notable (variable) is Wobble, an unsteady, rocking motion. Ever so slightly, our Mother (Earth) wobbles on her axis, back and forth. At any given moment, anywhere on the planet, we are wobbling toward or away from the sun itself and that can (and does) affect when we first see and when we lose sight of the sun. Add to that, other lesser forces that act in concert with the wobble, (we measure in milliseconds, even microseconds 1/1,000 of a millisecond now) making exact, precise timing nearly impossible. 
It has been almost a month to the day since I celebrated Solstice which is just over 8% (that’s a lot) of the year. But yesterday at my house the sun rose at almost exactly (within a couple of minutes) at the same time as it came up on December 21. Sunset was over half an hour later, from 5:00 P.M. to 5:32 P.M.. My daylight time is increasing but not uniformly at both ends of the day. It seems illogical and there is nothing I can do about it but like Druids of old, I marvel at what seems miraculous and mysterious. Over time; telescopes, calculators, science and its growing body of knowledge have lifted that cloak of mystery. But it doesn’t diminish the sense of awe and wonder; it only adds to it. This would be a good place for a Carl Sagan quote. If you aren’t already privy to his thoughts you might think one of his quotes sound like something I would say but he shapes my thinking, not the other way around. 
So for the past month our days have been getting longer at the end of the day rather than spreading daylight out evenly, like butter on toast, morning to dusk. It will balance out  before long and there is a good reason I just don’t have it. I’m sure it stems from those variations in the wobble and other combined forces. By mid March daylight and darkness will be nearly equal, 12 hours daylight and 12 hours day-dark. Some people will hate it but never the less, we will go back on Daylight Savings Time. I don’t care one way or the other. It seems they (haters) need something to be angry about and waking up to a slightly different rhythm is sufficient to their displeasure. You have jet-lag for a few days twice a year but you don’t have to fly or unpack luggage. In any case, there is nothing awesome or mysterious about either the switch from daylight to standard time or the switch back in 5 or 6 months. 
I am attracted to if not hooked with the wonder of baffling, natural phenomenon. Somewhere in the mix there are keys to unlock those mysteries and I can put my hands on some of them. The others, I’ll keep looking. I would recommend the same awe & wonder solution to any and all skeptics, even to short sighted, self-consumed, wannabe thinkers who piss and moan over every little ripple in the flow. I suppose I am no different, but pissing into the wind seems self defeating so I aim downwind and I do my moaning in private. I’m not blaming anyone and in this case, angst against human folly is a dead end. They think you are a fool too. 
Check the charts and the forecast for a clear morning and get up early to watch the sun rise. It is empowering. Some people prefer sunset. You are already awake and it is great for peaceful, settled reflection. Sunrise would be more about new beginnings and expectations, a kick-start. Find a high place with a long view, listen to some of your favorite music and watch the red ball clear the horizon and turn to orange, then creep up above trees and go to gold. When it gets too bright to look straight at you know it is time to hitch your wagon to that rising star. It is good for the soul and I recommend it. 

A MEASURE OF CONTENTMENT

  I sit down to write with, if not optimism then at least a measure of contentment. Feeling good is its own reward even if you have to talk yourself into it. But this is a true story. My dad never thought of himself as a storyteller but often he was the story’s instrument and it would channel itself through him. He was like our lawnmower, touchy and difficult to get started but once running nothing could turn it off. He was at his best when retelling stories from his childhood, either from his own experience or those passed down through oral tradition. Like the lawnmower’s first putt-putt-putt, those stories always began the same, “In those days . . .” 
In those days: we didn’t have refrigerators, no ice in the summer, no need for it in winter. What we had was a root cellar that stayed cool year-round. Milk from the cow was warm and frothy in the bucket. It was set aside and covered until the cream rose to the top. They skimmed it off and transferred it to a glass jar. Then the milk was strained through a linen cloth and both stored in the darkness of the root cellar. It may be hard to imagine a kitchen with a cast iron, wood-burning cook-stove and no refrigerator but this story was hatched on a small farm around the year 1920, over a hundred years ago. My dad (a little boy then) would have been about 9 or10 years old. A late night snack would be found in the root cellar.
In the darkest dark he knew exactly where the cream jar was and it was his favorite treat, thick, rich and sweet on his tongue. He had a favorite long handle tea spoon, just right for scooping deep into the jar. On his way back to the house he might stop at the well to wash the spoon and no one the wiser. Of course they knew what he was doing but as long as it wasn’t a problem, it wasn’t a problem. If it was too cold or too wet he might settle for a leftover crust of bread and butter from the breadbox on the table. But a spoon full of sweet cream from the root cellar was his first choice. 
One night in the dark, spoon in hand, he made his way down to the shelf where milk and cream were kept. Unscrewing the lid on the cream jar he dipped to the bottom and drew up a mounded heap of white delight. Without a second thought he popped it in his mouth. Before his lips could close over the spoon he froze, his breath taken away and no way to escape what must have felt like a mouth full of stinging bees. My father though he would die then and there. Instinct kicked in, spitting out the painful concoction out of his mouth made his tongue burn all the more. Surprise, surprise. 
What he didn’t know was that a neighbor from the next farm had ground fresh horseradish that day and given a jar to my dad’s foster parents the Coles from Sheldon, Missouri. Ida, my surrogate grandmother had put it in the root cellar on the same shelf, in front of the cream jar. Their economy was as much share and barter as it was cash money. Times were hard and they were poor and that calls for creative cooperation. Even if there had been ketchup or mayonnaise on the shelf at the store in town they wouldn’t spend precious pennies on it. They seasoned food with home grown herbs and spices. Horseradish is related to radishes, mustard and other tangy seasonings. It has a large, white taproot with no odor or taste until it is broken or crushed. Freshly ground it rivals jalapeños for burn, enough to make little boys think they will surely die. Over time it loses its bite but as long as it is kept cool and sealed away from the air, you only put a very small portion on your plate. 
My dad got over the burn and started breathing again, lived to be 90. A few years after my mother passed away my son and daughter were with me, stopping to check on their granddad. They went ahead, banged on the kitchen door but didn’t wait to be received. They walked straight into the kitchen. Before the door could close behind them they came scrambling back outside, coughing and fanning the air. Granddad was grinding fresh horseradish. Even if you know what is coming it may be too much for the mucus membranes of eyes and sinus to bear. The old man’s legacy for hot, spicy foods goes all the way back to an old root cellar in 1920. 
That is a good story but in fact it is the back story. The here and now story is that in my kitchen, in a drawer there is a long handle tea spoon. The handle end is still silver plated but the spoon end has been worn thin by friction and chemical reactions. Its brassy color and patina speak to a century of spicy, dicy food and four generations of people who stirred and spooned with it. Stories never end. They just shuffle their feet and change direction; this one is still unfolding. Maybe someday one of my descendants might tell their friends and family about their great or great-great grandpa’s horseradish spoon. They might even reach in a silverware drawer and pull out the family heirloom. By then it could span five or six generations. Right now I have that good feeling, maybe not joy or bliss but certainly content with a long lived, much loved story and that is good enough. 

WHAT WE DESERVE

  I have friends (married couple) who either live near Kansas City, MO and winter near Edinburg, TX. or live there and summer here. Right now the only thing between them and Reynosa, Mexico is the river. I texted her a photo of last night’s snowfall. She thinks it is lovely. Keeping in touch, if not a necessity it is certainly a comfort. The little stretch of January thaw came and went and it is winter again. Streets are treacherous so not much to do other than set something out to thaw for lunch and be thankful I don’t live in a cardboard box under an Interstate overpass. 
Two nights ago we (amigos) put ham & cheese (275) sandwiches together for homeless and food-insecure people in K.C.. By the time we put things away and cleaned up, those sandwiches were on their way to the distribution site (a park) not far away. By the time I got home the feeding was underway. The food is all donated but it takes hands to bridge between the source and the need. So we do that, every week.
I am not going to invite homeless strangers into my home or throw money at them but nobody should go ‘Hungry’. Missing a meal is one thing but ‘Hungry’ is another. Winter only cuts the wound a little deeper. I don’t think myself a bleeding heart but I care enough to put meat and cheese between slices of bread. 
Everything I have to say today I have said before and I know my friends get tired of it. But I think it needs to be said and even more so, it needs to be heard. We are Super-Social animals. It means that without a highly functional network of contributing peers and cohorts, people perish, sooner than later. We need each other, not just for the feel-good company but to lean on when intelligence and industry are not enough. We all need to know what my mother never-ever said. She would have never said anything like, “There but for my own intelligence and good decisions go I.” She attributed everything good to the Grace of God and life was good at our house. Nobody ever had to share food or shelter us. 
It would be very easy for me to criticize others who judge the wretched poor (bad decisions are self inflicted). I try not to do that. Any decision that involves any risk at all is neither good nor bad until it unfolds, too late to go back for a redo. With a clear eye I would default to my mother: but for the Grace of God. 
Today will be cold, all day, and tonight even more so. But I am in a safe place and my lunch has thawed enough for me to put it on the stove. There will be football games on the tube and I can reach friends and family by text or telephone, even face time. I don’t have to shovel snow or even open the door today. My little life is probably better than I deserve. But I believe, I am convinced that none of us get what we deserve. We simply get what we get and do with it what feels right in the moment. If it turns out good we take credit; if not, we suffer the consequence and get the blame. Life isn’t fair, it never has been. I have quoted Lefty Gomez many times and this is a good time again. The NY Yankees, Hall of Fame pitcher said, "I would rather be lucky than good." Shit still happens. A good decision may not be good enough, turn to crap, deserved or otherwise. 

POWERS OF THE NORTH

  Indian Summer; I checked Wikipedia for a definition; not that I needed one, just checking. It said Indian Summer referred to a period of warm, dry, pleasant weather late in the fall. It also alluded to a period of success or happiness late in one’s life. I had not made the Late In Life association before but by my sense of measure, I don’t feel like 'Late Life' yet though I know it won’t be long. I have plenty of time to beg the question or maybe not, depending on how you frame the thought. I always thought Indian Summer required a consecutive three-day stretch of warm-sunny reprieve sometime after the first hard freeze. Still it never escaped me that it was indeed that, a reprieve. 
Winter in West Michigan can be unforgiving. Canadian Clippers blow down out of Alberta and Manitoba only to sweep across Lake Michigan. Their frigid temps and snow can hang around until mid April. I remember a three or four day stretch of balmy, shirtsleeve weather at Thanksgiving in ’77 or ’78. We raked leaves into huge piles, buried each other and played like we were searching for them to no avail, crouched under all those leaves. It wouldn’t be all that long before snow and cold drove us inside. Outside fun and games didn’t last long. Coming back in, time spent next to the wood stove was equal to the frosty adventure. 
Indian Summer has a cautionary element, as if the Powers of the North are making known their intentions. “Take it while you can because it won’t last long.” I still think of it that way. For happy times late in life I milk the moment for all it is worth. All I have is the moment, it’s all I’ve ever had. It is always ‘right now’. If it is a sweet time then I want to make it a lasting memory. 
Today is the fifth straight day of shirtsleeve weather in mid January. It comes after two weeks 10 degree freeze and bone chilling wind. I wouldn’t call it ‘Indian’ anything, just another spontaneous reprieve. Still it is what it is and I don’t take it for granted. We are nowhere near the end of winter, even for Missouri with Global Warming. I am still wearing wool socks. Today is happening right now but it has brought with it fond memories which only make it better. 
In ’78 I was younger then than my children are now. That is unsettling. I want to think of them with their lives stretched out in front of them, full of promise and possibility. Indian Summer is the reminder that all things come and then they pass. King Solomon really was a smart man to observe, there is a time for everything under the sun. Maybe that is why we serve dessert last.

60 MPH ON SLICK TIRES

  My wake-up, get-up chores in the morning take about half an hour. Usually, in the first few minutes I hear the wall clock in the living room call out the half hour. Then, unless something upends the routine it chimes again while I am making coffee. I often reflect in that moment, “I am so predictable.” But we do that, fall into tedious but comfortable patterns. Then a half hour later at the next clock-strike I am at the computer sipping on a second cup. 
I used to get my coffee fix with a dozen or more friends at a local Panera’s, several times a week. We are all old and some with compromised immune systems so that morning ritual came to a screeching halt with Covid. Some of us still find ways to connect either in isolated 4’s or 5’s and at ‘zoom’ get-togethers. It looked like we were coming out of that storm but then the virus did a little dance and it’s déjà vu (all over again). Except for an economics professor who is moderate conservative, we all lean left. Some things don’t change, we still (nitpick) defend our views on controversial issues like adversaries.
Debate (disagreement) is usually civil and much more about enlightenment than competition. Even at that I tend to avoid those exchanges. At best they can break down into arguments where both agents care only about having the last word. I opened my mouth last week and still wish I hadn’t. A woman (friend) was ruminating on the disparity between medieval morality (misogyny, racism, etc) and advanced technology. “How can they live in the same house?” She is a really smart lady. I, on the other hand, think of myself as patient and thoughtful but not necessarily smart. ‘Smart’ has a double edge, cuts both ways. I associate smart with 60 mph on a curvy road with slick tires; no margin for error. 
I suggested, maybe more than suggested, there is no necessary link between morality and technological wizardry. It is apples & oranges. One is driven by human nature and the other by centuries of a disciplined quest for knowledge: and you don’t acquire human nature. It is inherent. “You mean that the same brain that designed the Hubble telescope can justify white supremacy?” I said, “Why not?” The one is driven by a conscious, rational instrument while the other’s source is subconscious and emotional: Human Nature. She didn’t like that.
I had opened a can of worms that we could not close, not then and there. We avoided a (have the last word) situation by moving on to something new. Our ‘zoom’ friends were happy to move on with us. It prompted me to rethink the question which is always good. We, she and I, come from different places in our experience. What pushes our buttons and how we react did not bloom on the same vine. From my point of reference Human Nature was a done deal long before we were born, something we inherited, not puzzle pieces we manipulate. Creative expression (technology) doesn’t just happen. It is acquired through reason, skills and purpose. She thinks, if you are smart you can manipulate the subconscious puzzle to satisfy the conscious one and I don’t.
My coffee mug is empty and the pot has run dry. Time to move my feet. Still, I will avoid strangers and crowds. Even though the odds are in my favor, critical care beds are few and far between and staff shortfalls compound that. I remember when I was ten feet tall and bullet proof but (years) have debunked that myth even if human nature would still take me off a cliff. 

MIRACLE IN THE PARK

  I belong to (All Souls) church in Kansas City where the members generally agree that the Bible is a good book, that when Jesus died he stayed dead and that God is a metaphor. We pay a lot more attention to the here and now than to the here after. Every Thursday, in that narrow slot when afternoon gives way to evening a small group of volunteers meet there. We assemble sandwiches and food packets for the homeless and the hungry. By 7:00 p.m. a miracle takes place; homeless, hungry people materialize out of nowhere at a city park near Union Station. Numbers vary from week to week and season to season but we never have food left over to dispose of. It takes more hands to prepare food than to pass it out so I haven’t been going to the park since pandemic came to town. 

We are in a cold streak right now. What else? It’s January. But the difference between freezing and 10 degrees is numbing. When I left the parking lot yesterday it was 10 degrees. No illusions; the homeless and the hungry come from who knows where but none of them set out intentionally to end up homeless or hungry. Many are mean, ill tempered, even violent but as a group they are self-policing. When they accept food all you see is appreciation. There are no pamphlets, no witness for Jesus, no pious prayers, just meeting their immediate need because we can. 

In the years before Covid we opened the church when the temps were forecast to reach 10 degrees. A warming center simply lets people come in out of the cold. But you can’t just give homeless people the run of the place. It takes all day to prepare. Things have to be moved, areas posted and locked so there is nothing to steal, nothing to abuse. All of their possessions except for clothes they are wearing and a telephone are locked in a guarded room. From 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. it took 30 supervisors wearing All Souls uniforms (aprons) taking turns, working shifts. Sleeping in chairs or on the floor, morning comes around and those derelicts must go back out into conditions we wouldn't wish on anybody. We had a limit of 50 guests but I can’t remember turning anyone away. 

I am an old man and have never in my life gone to bed hungry or not had a safe place to sleep. I have been able to anticipate my needs and stay out of harm’s way but that speaks less about me and more about the cards I have been dealt. This life is very forgiving if you hold Queens & Kings or even 2's if you have four of them. The idea that poverty is self inflicted is a thin attempt to accommodate one’s own good fortune and privilege. The study of human behavior explores many dead ends but it also shines light in dark places. Still we know this; Concerning one's station in life, the fear that someone will displace us from below is greater than of being oppressed from above. What is more common than judging the poor harshly and thinking the rich must deserve their riches. The volunteer experience does not make me feel good or better about anything. All it does is meet a temporary need. Hunger can be satisfied quickly but comes back around before you know it. If they could do better (clear the hurdles) they would. My place in this story is somewhere in the middle: do unto others as I hope they would do for me. Next Thursday there will  be bread, ham, cheese and ziplock bags to keep us busy for a couple of hours. I have no doubt the miracle in the park (the convergence of the hungry) will manifest itself again. 

YEARS RUN TOGETHER

  Celebrating the New Year’s arrival was my mother’s idea. If I had been 9 that year it would have made it 1948. It could have been any year from ’46 to ’50; years run together and when memory fails it can substitute a plausible, alternative story. Staying up until the midnight hour was not in our playbook. Dad milked the cow and tended to the morning chores before breakfast. His morning routine was geared to their needs and that meant early to bed - early to rise, every day. His ride picked him up at 5:30 A.M. for the long ride into the city and his (tool & die maker) factory job. After that Mom rolled us out and made a second round of breakfast. Weekends were more relaxed for us but with barn animals, their days are all the same.
On New Year’s Eve we listened to the radio. Guy Lombardo’s big band broadcast their annual show from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York. They were an hour ahead of us so we got to hear the countdown at 11:00 and again at midnight our time. As the hour grew near we took on popcorn and Kool-Aid, trying to sing along when we knew the words. The weather was mild that year so we went outside, left the door open and the radio turned up. As the band struck up, Auld Lang Syne we started shouting “Happy New Year”, banging on our pots & pans, improvised orchestra. From up and down the road our scattered neighbors were doing the same with shotguns, bells and horns honking. Once back inside, lights out and sound-asleep came without delay. 
New Year’s Day, whatever the day of the week, Dad had milked the cow and was back in the house before we woke up. It was special when we all sat down to breakfast together. Poached eggs on toast with oatmeal was good as it gets. It would be six weeks to Valentine’s Day and that meant exchanging valentines at school. If we gave valentines at all we gave one to everybody. You didn’t leave anyone out. There was a moral principle there. But from January 1 to February 14, there was nothing to celebrate. It was just cold and winter. So we milked as much satisfaction as we could from the end of year calendar. Had I known about Winter Solstice I could have measured shorter shadows and timed later sunsets. 
2022; OMG. I remember KY2, the calendar rolling over like my car’s odometer, not just one century to the next but millennium to millennium, 1999 to 2000. Twenty two years ago computers were all calibrated to the 20th century with no guarantee they would not crash when the #1 flipped over to #2. It all panned out without a crisis and we went on as if nobody cared. I was 60 with a boss, students and my own keys to the building. It was another century and I didn’t give much thought to a future 22 years up the road. It was before 9/11, before mass shootings were the norm and conspiracy theories were laughable nonsense.
At this point the idea of being born into the 21st century is scary. My culture was forgiving but then I was a poor little white boy. We got to live wherever we could afford and my dad made it into the skilled trades. My parents were God fearing, hard working survivors of the Great Depression. We had enough to get by. Sometimes things broke down but the only response to falling down was getting back up. People of color my age would certainly tell a different story. To be honest, I don’t know what my grandchildren are up against. There are no guarantees and no one is in control. I hope their ride is as rewarding as mine has been. But like my grandpa told me when I said I wanted to be like him; he said, “I don’t think you will be that lucky.” It may be too much to believe that they will be that lucky.