TO UNDERSTAND

  I like having heroes. But who you admire and respect, who you would want to emulate speaks as much of you as it does your hero. It’s not simple as squeezing peaches to find the perfect peach. I find myself coming back to the same question; what is it about this particular peach that keeps me coming back? Elie Wiesel was a writer, professor, political activist, Nobel laureate, and Holocaust survivor. A Romanian Jew, his mother and siblings were murdered by the Nazis and his father was worked to death in captivity at Auschwitz and Buchenwald death camps in World War 2. Elie Wiesel survived the holocaust but that’s not what makes him a hero. He is heroic for a life of reconciliation rather than hate. I’ve kept this Elie Wiesel quote on my refrigerator door for over 30 years. “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” We have that connection; I know exactly what he meant. The writing, organizing complex ideas, framing the language; it is the one venue where I can create a lasting image that exceeds my reach. 
Albert Bierstadt was a 19th century American artist who painted large (very large) highly detailed landscapes of the American west. When you stand close enough to appreciate the detail the canvas is too big to grasp the whole image and you find yourself moving left and right, looking up and down at small sections. Once satisfied you can back off and view the painting’s entirety but you cannot do both simultaneously. Still, at some point the viewer is able to appreciate individual brush strokes and texture variations from memory, just knowing they are there. That is when the whole painting becomes an experience. 
When a writer draws from his or her own experience and becomes the source, the work comes together much like a Bierstadt landscape with its multitude of brush strokes and textures. That process is what Elie Wiesel was trying to tell us with his, “I write to understand . . .”  quote. I went for the same idea with, “an image that exceeds my reach.” A fully formed idea that has a life of its own doesn’t need language. But if you want to share it exactly as intended, the only way I know is with word selection, phrasing, scope and sequence. I cannot do that with a single stroke. It requires lots of little strokes and rearranging before I own it, before I grasp the whole, like Bierstadt would do. 
From the beginning I was going to segue here, into the connection between two words; Perceptive and Insight but I think this little Elie Wiesel piece is steady enough to stand on its own legs. His perception and insight were remarkable. I have other heroes but he is the one who could have raged with hate and revenge but he didn’t. Exploring Perceptive & Insight can wait for another day.

DESTINY

  By definition, Destiny would be a specific, predetermined future outcome stemming from an inevitable course of events. It may be a popular, wannabe belief but when used in the context of human experience I have serious doubts. The problem I have with Destiny is the predestination part. After the fact, one’s Destiny is a given. That's how it happened and it is what it is. In the summer of 1953 an 18 year-old walked into Sun Recording Company on Union Street in Memphis, Tennessee. He paid $3.98 to cut a two sided demo to give his mother. The ‘A’ side was titled ‘My Happiness’. Three years later he walked onto the stage with a $50,000 contract to perform on The Ed Sullivan Show. He sang ‘You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hounddog.’ After the Ed Sullivan Show, Elvis’ destiny would be realized as the King of Rock’n Roll. But his destiny would continue to unfold for the next twenty one years. Every twist and turn in his life simply updated his destiny. Who could predict where it was going, how his career would play out. Who knew, 21 years after that first Ed Sullivan Show that the King of Rock’n Roll would die of a drug overdose, alone, sitting on the toilet, in the basement at Graceland? Great or small, famous or not, your destiny is about the present and the path you followed to become the person you turned out to be. As you age day to day, year to year, your destiny keeps measuring your life from just a step behind you. 
My destiny has been that of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, curious little boy transformed over time and experience into a retired old educator, still curious but the hair is thin and the blue eyes are camouflaged under bushy eyebrows. If you plot my destiny with predetermined, future outcomes, it simply does not compute. 
People continue to misuse the word and that’s alright. People have always been vulnerable to making up fiction to explain what it is they don’t understand. Curiosity is contagious, it always has been but our paleolithic ancestors lacked the experience and knowledge to solve for the unknown. After 20,000 years we are still hooked on myth and conspiracy theory. Our brain-mind hasn’t changed in structure and function in all that time but we connect the dots so much better now. But there are still throw-backs who swear by the unbelievable rather than do the math. The fact that we don’t understand everything may be inconvenient but it doesn’t require us to fabricate fiction just to satisfy the appetite. 
In 1985 Back To The Future, a cinematic trilogy foreshadowed what might happen with time travel if the Space Time Continuum were to be disrupted. Going back in time gives one the advantage of knowing what the future holds. Christopher Lloyd (Doc Brown) and Michael J. Fox (Marty McFly) fell into that trap and it took three episodes to restore space & time to their original backstory. In the end, Jennifer, Marty McFly’s girls friend was disturbed over an alternative reality from a different but parallel future. Since they were able to go back in time as well, they were able to restore the Space Time Continuum back to its original condition. If you didn’t see the movie then this may be too complicated to explain in this space. Doc Brown reassured Jennifer that her dreadful memories from the distorted future had been erased. “Whatever you do with your life from here on is yours to choose.”  that her future had not been written yet. I have watched the BTTF trilogy too many times to count. I especially like the way Destiny is weighed and measured. If you want to think destiny is out there in the future Doc Brown nailed it down; maybe it is but it has not been predetermined. Where it takes you is up to you and I would add, random chance is a wild card in the mix. I was destined to be here, now, just as I am, by the chain of events that got me here; destiny. There is a little expression I use; don’t know where it hatched but I’ve made it my own. It qualifies both the wiggle-room we get to choose for ourselves and the way we are driven like leaves in the wind. I say, “Sometimes you live life and sometimes life lives you.”

DON'T WORRY

  I get two or three hundred words into an idea before I remember something that needs my attention. When I come back to read what I wrote earlier it reads like something only an old man with nothing to do but throw words at the page would do. This is my 3rd or 4th attempt here, hoping for some inspiration before I remember something else that needs attention. In my last blog post I took the former President to task for simply being a terminal narcissist masquerading as a conservative politician. I don’t need to do that over and over. Get it right the first time and move on but sometimes it won’t leave me be.
There is usually something on YouTube that either informs or entertains but with presidential politics in high gear most of the menu offerings are ridiculous. I do actually try to avoid partisan hype. Still, YouTube has algorithms that tabulate and analyze which film clips you speed by and which ones you slow down for as you scroll along. I speed past Trump photos but I do slowdown just a little for Jon Stewart and Pete Buttigieg so that they know my preferences without me watching anything. I don’t need an insulting photo of DT or some MAGA dunce to get me upset. Getting upset wasn’t on my to-do list but I think it appropriate that his initials DT are synonymous with (Delirious Tremors) “symptoms of anxiety, panic attacks and paranoia.”  While I’m at it, I do like the alternative, a no brainer: a woman of color with real credentials, legitimate backstory and quality of character. 
I killed my facebook account years ago but revived it under another name; have 9 friends. I never post anything just follow those friends. Today one of them posted a quote by somebody I never heard of but it said; worry is the interest you pay on something that hasn’t and may never happen. Bobby McFerrin wrote & sang his song in 1988 - Don’t Worry, Be Happy. I am inclined to believe that people do not (Do Not) make history after all. I think it works the other way; History makes the person. Bonnie Raitt and Linda Ronstadt sang a duet back when they were young - Love Is Blind & It Cannot Find Me. Sort of the same idea; you can chase fame and fortune but if it doesn’t find you it’s just a long walk. So every time I start fretting on what else can go wrong I remind myself; don’t worry, be happy. I have good reason to be happy. Even if we get a leader that is both pathetic and unfit I couldn’t have changed history. I’m just on a long walk and it’s not all bad. I am reminded that change is the nature of nature and if you cannot adapt then you are like the egg that was dreaming about hatching into a chick but woke up in an omelette.

EDIT & REWRITE

        When I finish a written piece I give it a rest, often the next day I can come back to it with new eyes. My experience is that everything I write can be improved with an edit and revision. Sometimes you realize the story you wrote to begin with was not the story you were after and a 2nd, 3rd, or 4th rewrite is necessary. After so many rewrites the story may take on a new life. I started writing this piece over a week ago and have edited & rewritten so many times it doesn’t resemble the first draft. 

I tend to stay away from political issues and politicians but I will speak to that here. It should be no secret that I lean to the left so no surprises there. I don’t think political parties are so much the issue but rather the Conservative vs. Liberal chasm that separates them. Both major political parties have been around since before the Civil War but their finger prints have changed with the times. Two hundred years ago (1820’s) the Republican North enjoyed a booming economy with big banks and heavy industry. They were Conservative in their business but relatively liberal in social policy and practice. Southerners were Democrats, extremely conservative in both business and social custom, especially with slavery. At the time Democrats were at odds with big business and banks that patronized the South.

Back in the mid 1700’s the British colonies couldn’t get along with each other for the same reasons and getting them to cooperate against the British (1776) was unprecedented. Getting a constitution written that would satisfy both sides was accomplished only by vague language on thorny issues that could be argued convincingly from either side; to be ironed out after the war but was never resolved. So the constitution we love so much is still too vague to negotiate. 

After the Civil War ended (1865) Lincoln was murdered and his Vice President took his place, a Southern Democrat who pardoned the South for Civil War crimes (1865). The nation wanted to put the war behind them and launched “Manifest Destiny” a major push to expand our borders and influence from the Canadian border south into Mexico and westward to the Pacific. That new adventure superseded any measure of reconstruction in the South. The Confederacy lost the war but dodged the bullet. They came back as strong as before with Jim Crow segregation and vigilante (KKK) violence. 

One hundred years later (1965) a Democrat administration (LBJ) passed Civil Rights legislation that enraged Southern Democrats. Their response was to abandon the Democratic party in favor of a more conservative Republican party. White supremacy had overtaken economic issues and southerners felt much better in the Republican camp. Now, sixty years after Civil Rights, people of color are still struggling against prejudicial policy and practice. White privilege is still very real. Political parties can change colors but philosophy and ideology tend to stand fast. Rather than debate parties by their names I will speak to values, ideals and practice that are embraced in either Conservative or Liberal camps.

Donald Trump served as President (2016-2020). He pleased evangelical Christians with his Supreme Court appointments and rewarded powerful (rich) cohorts with tax breaks worth $$-millions. His flamboyant distractions kept his base onboard but a self-serving legacy of unfulfilled promises, confirmed untruths, pandemic denial and an appetite for self edification will never be reconciled. 

Obviously, I am not one of his supporters. I thought Joe Biden was unfit for another term and I was along with many other Americans, facing a lose-lose situation where the options were either Bad or Worse. When sleepy Joe conceded his spot on the ballot to a powerful, young, highly qualified woman of color I was restored with new Hope. She earned her stripes through decades of serving the public. That sets her apart from her opponent who has never sacrificed anything for anybody. The Trump Brand is the only thing he worships. In all my life I have never thrown money at a political candidate but the other day I did just that. When I dropped that envelope into the outgoing mail I caught myself smiling. 

        I cannot get my head around the belief that poverty is the punishment for being lazy or stupid. I think that individuals can have too much money and that you don’t make helpless people more helpless by helping them. Competition should be for bettering the product and a just reward, not cornering the market and hostile takeovers. I think Liberty is being confused with License, to do anything you can get away with, whatever it takes. At the end of the day the idea of equity and parity are noble virtues but they don't come from raising the ceiling, it comes from raising the floor. 

I am an old man, 85 last week; one of those high-risk covid people Trump said were going to die anyway. I’m through insulting him with truth and I’d rather have nothing to do with him or his malcontent followers. Make America Great Again: get serious. That greatness started falling apart shortly after Columbus landed in 1492. Actually, all I really wanted to do here today was to let people know what it is that makes me smile. 

 

SMILE & SAY THANK YOU

Today is the day after my tribe gathered to help me celebrate my eighty five (that would be 85 years) of breathing in, breathing out, waking up every day, falling asleep, of just being. People say, “It’s only a number” but it’s more than that. Eighty five years back to back hold more stories than one might care to remember. Over the past five years I’ve weighed and measured the front end of my 80’s decade, knowing all along that what matters most is good health and loved ones. It is my good fortune, thankfully, to have both. 

I am an old hand at adding my kudos to other expressions of appreciation and respect.  Someone, usually an old-one but certainly an esteemed-one will be singled out for recognition. This time it was me. Never been good at handling complements, they always left me reaching for the right response. Then with my storytelling, woodwork and photographs I learned a good lesson: “Just smile and say Thank You.” That is the perfect response to any complement. Odds are they weren’t after a speech. If it feels less than adequate, after a short pause you can repeat yourself, “Thank You.” again. 

So our party started slow but the food was really good and people kept coming through the door. I kept busy talking to friends and family, thanking them for coming out on a hot August afternoon. A friend acted as master of ceremonies, called the meeting to order and started talking about my backstory. He started calling on people in the audience to fill in the blanks and I felt like the bull calf at the county fair, being paraded in front of the judges. But I don’t get to choose how I feel, just how I behave. Everybody wants the same thing; to enjoy good company, a good story, break bread together and to be nice. I was the catalyst. After all, they can’t all be wrong so I must’ve done something good. I had time to reflect on my tribe. We are super-social animals and we need each other. Everyone should, sooner or later, trust the tribe to love and forgive them, to do the dance, be the reason to celebrate. 

It occurred to me how much this life is like a lemon. Whatever it is that you want from the lemon you have to do something with it (the lemon). One of my boys loved lemons, he still does. At 7 or 8 with great stealth he slipped fresh lemons into the grocery basket. He would poke a hole and suck it dry, face wrinkled up in a lip smacking pucker, funny to watch. He knew if he wanted to absolutely drain the lemon he had to squeeze it and keep squeezing for the last few drops would not come easily. The idea’s application doesn’t need an explanation; keep squeezing the lemon. Numbers are necessary but nothing about me would change if we counted by 2’s. One hundred seventy years would be just another age or number and my party would have been a great adventure by any number. But the transition from beginning to the present moment is from one lemon to the next, and the next. It was near the end of my teaching career I realized I had to reinvent myself; I wanted more from the next lemon than I had squeezed out of the one before. I’m still squeezing this life for all I can get. Every day is a new day and I want my face to be wrinkled up and puckered at day’s end. 

There are still strange places I want to see and places I want to go back again but what keeps me squeezing the life out of every day is neither a new experience nor a distant landscape. I catch myself sharing my secret for a good life; to always wear the hat you want to be remembered by. You never know who is watching you, who is paying attention; and nobody, none of us knows the number of our days. Wear the hat you want to be associated with and treat each day as if it were the only day. My party was a grand coming together of like minded people and I take great comfort in such good company. 

I REMEMBER

  I remember: I can remember when old people would begin every other sentence with, “I remember!” Without a job to eat up the day and little kids who need new shoes, time can hang heavy. The brain was never an empty slate waiting for a story but there was a time when our tires had lots of tread and the odometer number was small. The brain does a good job sorting out experiences and picking out what to remember and what to let go. Some have no value at all and go straight in the trash, others get tucked away like grocery receipts and get lost before you know they are gone. Some memories hang around but lose their way when they go unremembered for too long. Then there are long term memories like books on the shelf, story after story at your fingertips. Sometimes you have to go find it and other times the backstory finds you. I have lots  of experience (years & years), breathing in and breathing out, stuff happens and over decades you remember first and notice how the world has changed, everything changes and I remember how it was.
I remember when US-71 Hwy. passed through Hickman Mills, Missouri, past the church we belonged to, past Albin’s Drive In where we hung out, cars backed into spaces around the drive with car-hops delivering cokes & fries. When all the slots were full the late-comers just cruised around and ‘round. The more I went to Albin’s the less I went to church. Decades later when US-71 was moved and widened the old highway was renamed Hickman Mills Dr. Then came I-435 and the Grandview Triangle, a convoluted 3-way interchange and US-71 was upgraded to I-49. Now, if you don’t know the exits by heart you can be well on your way to Wichita before you can get turned around. 
I still drive old 71 (Hickman Mills Dr.) just to avoid the crush on I-49. It snakes around below and between pillars of the GV Triangle, ending at a roundabout just up the hill from Albin’s. Maurice Albin died a long time ago, so have his two girls who I went to school with. The place doesn’t have a name now, just a tall, overgrown chainlink fence around it, parked full of old wrecked cars, trucks & boats, no signs of any activity when I go by. But I can remember when there was lots of activity. Late night if business was slow we could tell the car-hop we were broke and if he knew you (he knew me) old Albin would send out some food. He never kept track of how much or who owed him. That was the late 50’s. Everything was new, I was young and that’s what I remember. 
I remember the week before Xmas when I was 7 or 8. In the attic I discovered gifts we would open on Xmas morning, hidden in boxes and bags by my parents. I thought I had done something special. But to my surprise, opening presents on Xmas morning there were no surprises and I was disappointed. It was a good Life-Lesson and I still remember. 
I remember in 1959 at Fort Bragg, N.C., 82nd Airborne Jump School. We spent three weeks in preparation, lots of running and physical training, marching and running some more. Then there were hundreds of repetitions, putting the parachute on, hooking the static line onto the cable, shuffling to the door, jumping out, landing and rolling in the sand pit below the tower. One of many instructors were there to critique your technique (lots of cursing) and do it again. In all the training, after the guy ahead of you jumped you move up to the door, wait for the jumpmaster’s command to “Stand In The Door” and jump when he slaps you on the shoulder and shouts (GO!).  The worst thing ever would be to freeze in the door, not jump. I had so many leaps from the mock-up I knew I would not freeze in the door. 
The day we made our first real jump it went just like all of the practice except the parachute and the airplane were real. We flew around for half an hour then, just like training; Stand up! We stood up and faced the back of the plane. Check your equipment! We checked our buckles and straps and then the back of the parachute for the guy in front of us. Hook up! Hooked our static lines to the cable. After a few minutes of bumpy air the green light came on and the line started moving. I got my first good look at the door with two guys in front of me. The guy in the door stood there waiting for the shoulder slap and GO! but the jumpmaster was busy with both hands, pulling static lines back out of the way. There was no command; he swung his foot up onto the jumpers ass, kicked him out the door and motioned the guy in front of me up to the door. I was dumbfounded. When he did the same, foot in the ass trick I knew I wasn’t going to stand there and get kicked out the door. Too many practice jumps, too many pushups, too much running for some guy I didn’t even know his name, to kick me out the door. It was my turn and he motioned me forward but I didn’t stop, I just ran out the door before he could move his foot off the floor. My parachute opened just like it was supposed to and I felt smug about it. Over the next two years I made 24 static line jumps and never stopped at the door. I remember that.