DIRTY LAUNDRY

  I wrote a piece the day before yesterday that began with a reflection on Y2K. In the last months before 1999 rolled over into a new millennium, someone noticed that computers might have a problem. None of them had been designed specifically to accommodate a date (year) that did not begin with the number (1). I remembered the old fashioned odometer in my old fashioned car with five little dials, each with numbers from 0 to 9. It was a mechanical device driven by gears and shafts. With each mile driven the dial on the far right rolled upward with its number, say #3, slowly disappearing and just below it you could see the #4 trailing to take its place. Anywhere on the odometer, when a 9 started rolling up and away the dial to its immediate left would advance, perfectly synchronized,  to the next appropriate number: 279 would become 280 and 6599 would turn to 6600 and so on. In 1999,(three 9's in a row) nobody had made sure the electronic digital number would change to the next millennium. If computers couldn’t determine the correct date then they could’t date a check or a contract or a permit, etc. That would be a big deal. In 1999 I thought about the odometer analogy, all of those 9’s getting stuck. It made me think of Bill Murray waking up in the movie ‘Groundhog Day’.
It was a good beginning, setting something else up to segue into. When I first used the odometer reference I knew where I wanted to go with it. The word ‘Muse’ is defined as a source of inspiration. Writers tend to experience their Muse (inspiration) personally, literally as a voice from within. Mine is incredibly convincing and I always listen when it speaks. Whatever it was that I thought I wanted to write about, my Muse thought otherwise. My idea was derailed in favor of one that calls out Man’s (mankind’s) inhumanity to other human beings. In particular it focused on the indigenous people of North America. They had been doing very well in a relatively stable coexistence with each other for over 10,000 years that we know of. Then came the Pilgrims and The Trail of Tears. The rest is well documented, shameful but then we don’t air our dirty laundry in public. 
My Muse was using me to vent (free expression of strong emotion) on a dismal aspect of the American Story. I posted it on my blog, slept on it and decided that my obligation to the Muse ended with the writing and that it served no purpose in print. So I pulled it down. Really, the only time the Muse moves is when I write. My intent is always to find something that either enlightens or uplifts the human condition. That’s not easy when mankind’s true nature is a Jekyll & Hyde tandem of both good and evil. But I knew that before I started. My job this week, as I see it, is to employ Joseph Campbell’s vision. In so-many words he drew the line where it should be and doesn’t apologize. He said in effect; Participate joyfully in the sorrows of this world. We cannot cure the the world of its sorrows but we can choose to live with joy. So I am looking earnestly for some joy and I do so with a mature understanding that sh*t happens. There is no escaping it. As a disclaimer I want to make peace with God. I have no reason to believe in the God of Abraham or identify with any of his selfish, belligerent  offshoot religions (they are all selfish & belligerent). But there are natural forces and laws in place that prevail across the universe and I am part of that paradigm. If that makes me one of God’s children, I'm o.k. with that. 

EASY TO MAKE JOKES

  It is easy to make jokes and ridicule Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia. It is maintained by volunteers and information you find there often comes with a disclaimer, if we find a mistake to please report it so they can correct the error and update the info. Still, I think it more reliable that polarized opinion sites with their conspiracies and fake news (stolen election and Sasquatch sightings). Today is summer solstice, the day longest stretch of daylight and the shortest nightfall of the year. You don’t need Wikipedia to know that but it is there anyway. 
I would be considered an amateur linguist. I love words, their origins and how they evolve over time and from one culture to another. Words are free more or less and they store easily. My kids had shoeboxes full of Matchbox cars that were neither free nor easy to keep organized. I much prefer words. So when ‘Estival’ was included in the Summer Solstice language I went to Wikipedia. I should have known it but memory becomes an issue and you just be glad you can still take notes. The word comes from Latin, associated with summer heat. Naturally I flipped the coin and got ‘Hibernal’ or, associated with winter. So today is this year’s Estival solstice. It lacks the backstory associated with the shortest day but one without the other would be like having one sock to service two feet. 
Estival solstice comes too late for the rush of spring green and too soon for the abundance of harvest. I have small, green tomatoes near the bottom and close to the vine while blossoms are still opening up at the terminal tips. There are a few early, cool season morsels ready to pick but certainly not harvest time. Before long those little cherry tomatoes will be ripe on the vine, you eat them like candy. For now the summer sun just feels good.
Vernal and Autumnal Equinox alternate, evenly spaced between the two solstices but their job is little more than a reminder that nothing stays the same, change is in the air. I can’t help but think of Bronze Age astronomers who charted the sky, counted days and measured shadows to know when to plant, when to dig up roots. Given what they had to work with it is amazing what they did. In my rooting around (Wikipedia) I came across an article on the ‘Nebra Sky Disc’ which was new to me. The Bronze Age artifact, a solar tracking device was discovered in Germany in 1999. So I am giving Wikipedia a thumbs-up here. The story is still in progress with controversy and competing theories. But my takeaway is how well they figured it out. Their best measuring devices were the naked eye and the length of one’s finger, or distance between one knuckle and the next. 
I’m sure there will be new (to me) words that come across my path and I’ll check their Etymology (origins) and get a feel for how I may or may not use them in the future. A good, new word is a terrible thing to waste. But I’ve been moving my fingers on the keys here long enough now and it is time to start moving my feet. 

WHEN I GROW OLD

  Some things set off a bell or a flag goes up and I can’t help but notice; it’s been a long time, maybe first time this year that whatever it is I had forgotten about has come back. I notice the first time in spring that I break out short pants and likewise long pants on a cool, windy day in late September. It has been 3 days in a row that I need to keep windows closed to stay cool. Four big trees in front and four more in the back are making shade and it makes a difference but summer’s heat is back. 
Last night late it was 82 inside and out so I opened windows and turned on the attic fan. Sleeping was really good, first night with no cover sheet and I slept until almost 9:00. But the temp outside was climbing steady. Down with the windows and time to reboot the AC; first time this year. It is 2:00 p.m. and 95 degrees, forecast is for 97. I try to keep the temp inside about 10 degrees cooler than outside, just bumped it up to 85. It’s enough to keep the humidity down and a relatively dry 85 is tolerable. My house stays cool better than most but should it get 93-94 inside, it takes a long, long time to come back down. 
Today makes two days in a row that door-to-door sales people have come to my door. Yesterday the guy was selling security systems, today a young woman and her trainee in the pest control business. We had a cordial exchange and they moved on. I thanked them for getting me outside: my truck windows needed to be rolled down. They walked on together up the middle of the street, in the heat of the day and I remembered walking mile long corn fields, culling genetic rogues from the rows of seed corn with a razor sharp hoe. That was hot and humid and a new cloud of corn pollen swirled around my head with every step. Those were the good old days. Selling security systems and pest control is for sissies.  
The old axiom is true however: old age is not for sissies. So I suck it up and do what needs be done. I have some things to do today and I will get around to them. The best thing about my basement wood shop is that it is always cool down there. Still, sawdust and pollen are kissing cousins. Good sandpaper and a padded sanding block can reconcile a multitude of sins if you have a good respirator and goggles. That would have worked with the pollen too but the extra heat & discomfort would have just made it worse. Anyway, there was always an irrigation pond close by to jump into. 
Growing old can look pretty grim from a distanceI but I speak from experience, the closer it gets the better it looks. After all; the alternative is not growing old and I don’t want to go there. My most important job is waking up in the morning. I used to tell my bald headed grandpa, “When I grow old I want a bald head just like you.” His response was always the same; “I don’t think you will be so lucky.” He was right. The hair on top my head may be thin but every other month it requires a barber’s touch. So far nobody has suggested they want to end up like me in a saw-dusty wood shop. Still if and when they do I can say, “I don’t think you’ll be so lucky.” I’ve been sitting on that line since 1950. 

THEY TOOK SOMEBODY ELSE

  By definition, a disclaimer is a statement that denies something, usually responsibility. I use a version of the disclaimer to let myself off the hook, often because I am either unskilled, unawares or inexperienced. In any case, I use disclaimers frequently. It wasn’t me.
In high school there was noting clever or shrewd about scheduling my classes for the year. Math, English & Social Studies were required and that left three elective slots to fill that you could choose for yourself. My simple strategy was; “Take the easiest class available.” That netted multiple years of Study Hall, Art and Gym, then once around with Speech, Drafting, Journalism, Driver’s Education and Typing. An unintended consequence with that strategy was, not surprisingly I was totally unprepared for higher education but my exposure to a diverse range of activity turned out to be a good thing. 
I liked Typing. I was a senior thrown in with mostly sophomore girls. They would go on to take Shorthand and Bookkeeping classes and I would go on to look for work and then serve in the Army. But typing was something I could do, very slowly but not many mistakes. The dexterity/coordination aspect was very much to my liking. Those big, heavy, manual machines required a  firm, uniform strike on every key stroke. Too hard and you could punch a hole in the page. Too weak and you don’t leave enough ink behind to make out the word. 
At the time, secretaries had to translate and type from their shorthand notes which meant they couldn’t look at the keys. You can’t look back and forth or you would never make over 10 or 12 words per minute and you would never get hired to begin with. On a good day I could get 33 or 34 wpm. on a timed writing with only a couple of errors. By the end of the year the girls were getting 60+ wpm. But I was never competing with them. My little pinky strike on the ‘A’ came out just as clear as the index finger strike on the ‘F’ and I thought that was outstanding. 
Crazy as it sounds, my academic skills never caught up but my work ethic did. As a college freshman at 25, a typewriter was a necessity. I bought a used Royal with a legal size carriage; really big. Not a luxury, if you wanted to piss off a professor just turn in a handwritten paper. Crazy as it sounds, I did alright in college; just needed those extra years to find my way. What defies logic is that I started writing (typing) a journal my second year of college and I’m still at it; and I don’t have to look at the keys. A few years ago my granddaughter was reading over my shoulder as I typed. I looked up at her and continued writing which freaked her out. “How do you do that?” she shrieked, “You are looking at me and still typing.” They don’t teach typing anymore, they call it keyboard skills but we always called it ‘Hunt & Peck’. 
Once in junior high I created a news paper at home on the week end. I used spiral notebook paper, tearing off the ragged edge and printed in long hand, made up stories about imaginary neighbors and what happened on the school bus. I even sketched some graphics and a headline. When I got finished my news paper ran nearly three pages but it took nearly two hours and all I had was one copy. I didn’t need to be a math wizard to know there was no future in that enterprise. The fun was in the process, not the result. 
Finally, here comes the disclaimer: I wasn’t supposed to be a writer. It’s not my fault. I was supposed to play 3rd base for the St. Louis Cardinals but they took somebody else. After my home made news paper fizzled and my typing had no place to grow, why would I start throwing words at the page? I don’t know why but I do; and I don’t really need a disclaimer. I’ll take the blame. It took me long enough to make the connection but there you are. Maybe it was me after all. 

LAST MONDAY IN MAY

  The last Monday in May, Memorial Day is a national holiday to honor military men and women who lost their lives in the service of this nation. Visiting cemeteries with flags and flowers, the custom has also expanded to remember nonmilitary family and loved ones. It has been a long time coming but this year I went to visit my parents. The cemetery is both old and large, well kept with staff on every corner with maps and locations. I remembered the spot without help, bracketed east of the mausoleum and northwest of the carillon bell tower. 
Our family plot (6 spaces) is nearly filled. My maternal grandparents are there and a cousin who died as an infant. One space next to the curb lies fallow. Mom and Dad are together under a single, white granite stone with two bronze nameplates. He would be 111 and she 107 but FDR & Eleanor were their role models and labor unions their champions. I don’t think they would have been happy in this century. Cemeteries are not on my go-to list, maybe a little denial going on there but I didn’t think it necessary; I wasn’t going to forget. But this time it was good, it felt right. Burial is a timeless ritual, what we do with our dead. Cremation is common practice now, certainly less expensive and scattering ashes puts your last formal engagement in the hands of loved ones rather than the cemetery Sexton and a grave digger. 
We were but two of many, moving to tradition, dealing with mortality. Anthropologist Margaret Mead concluded that in every known culture, rituals at the end of life have been about mourning one’s own impending demise as much as grieving the loss of others. For as long as someone remembers your face or your name, they say your legacy endures. So I pulled tufts of grass and smooth away dust from the granite. I was returning a small, living token to their legacy in an impulsive, physical way. Thankfully, their mortal remains are deep in the ground. All we get to experience directly is fresh mowed grass and rows of markers with names and dates. One’s legacy depends largely on what others remember and not so much on how we want to be remembered. Once we leave the house it’s too late to rewrite the story. DNA is the language of legacy after all and it doesn’t file a flight plan. You must do that as you go, in the moment, on the fly.
What could be more human than honoring dead warriors, a good thing I suppose but also remember those who tend the home fires and wage peace. I served my country during a lull between killing seasons, in the decade between Korea and Viet Nam. Patriotism and protecting my homeland were the farthest thing from my mind but we couldn’t ignore the unspoken caveat; “to sacrifice my life if need be.” We all understood that possibility. I was lucky, born in a good year to miss out on war’s heavy hand. So when people thank me for my service I dismiss it with a, “No need!” I would concede, “Yes I soldiered for a while.” but they weren’t there and don’t have a clue. Their remarks addressed their politics, not my service. Those 3 years were an educational, therapeutic road trip, a port in the storm for a wayward boy without a compass. I wish I were more patriotic but fire calls for burning hot and I’m sorry; the best I can do is lukewarm.
I had to kneel down to pull grass, to smooth away dust and in that moment the leaves rustled on their branches and I felt a breeze on my face. From the kneeling position I must admit I felt connection with my people buried there. It occurred to me that someday I would be on the other side and my descendants might come see me. If my wishes are carried out it will not be in a place like this, not planted in rows. Carl Sagan reminded us that we are made of stardust and that one day, some day, we will be stardust again. I would expedite the process with ashes scattered in a meadow where spiders spin triangle webs in the tall grass and cranes forage for snails in the bog. I will go back again to pull grass and touch the stone in respect for my parent’s story. I trust they are still waiting for Jesus to come fetch them. They took great comfort in their Faith and though mine died on the vine, I can’t fault them for theirs.