GREAT MEDICINE

  In just a few days I will be up early and on the road. I need this roadtrip I really do. Last Thanksgiving’s long weekend wasn’t really a roadtrip, more of an escape; out Friday morning and home late Sunday afternoon. Arkansas, for the most part a cultural desert but its Northwest corner would be a lush oasis. From Bentonville south to Fayettville, whatever prejudice one might have against the Walmart monopoly they drive an economy and demonstrate high standards that make the region feel more like New England. The streets in Eureka Springs are so steep your socks wad up either heel or toe depending on the up or down but that’s part of it’s appeal. That Sunday I went to church with Unitarians in Fayetteville and I felt right at home. But two days and three nights leaves you shortchanged if you need a roadtrip. Since then if it wasn’t one thing bogging me down at home its been another. In a few days I’ll shove off on the front half of an 800 mile trek; haven’t decided whether to sleep in a motel or in my truck. I’ve been sleeping in truck stop parking lots for so many years it’s the normal. I wake up early with a $15 shower, stand in the hot water for as long as I want. If sleeping gets a little cramped it goes away when I remember the $100 I didn’t spend on a motel. But age has a way of making one soft and then my kids feel better when I sleep in a bed under a roof after all, $100 doesn’t weigh as much as it did when I had a real job. 
I’ll stop tomorrow night in Springfield, Illinois and make Grand Rapids the next day. I am a Missouri transplant who took root in Michigan when my kids were in preschool and if you like the axiom; Home is where the heart is; my heart is still in that stretch of Lake Michigan’s coastline that gets lake effect snow. 
There are three big stops on this trip. The Coast Guard Festival in Grand Haven is first. Every person with a Coast Guard connection of any kind will be there for the weeklong conference and celebration along with thousands of local families. The fireworks show on Saturday night is worth the trip by itself. Then I want to spend my birthday at Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore. The town Glen Arbor is close-by with The Cherry Republic’s Mother Store; everything Cherry from chocolate covered cherries to cherry-chocolate chip cookies to cherry salsa to cherry mustard, cherry t-shirts and cherry aprons and their catalog leaves nothing to the imagination. You have to be 21+ to sample the half a dozen variations of cherry wine but two or three sips is my limit anyway. I might even rent a canoe and float Crystal River. 
Glen Lake is a small town, a favorite summer destination for people from Chicago who have enough money they don’t have to ask how much anything costs. So lodging is both limited and expensive and I’ll be camping at the Shell Truck Plaza in Traverse City. The third feature on my itinerary is the Mary Chapin Carpenter concert at Meijer Gardens Amphitheater in Grand Rapids: she sang I Feel Lucky, (No Professor Doom gonna stand in my way, mmm-I feel lucky today.) I will be in the good company of Miss Nancy; when we met in 1973 I was 35 and she was 1. Our families were best friends and all the kids thought they had two houses and four parents but her parents have passed and we are the only ones available now. Most years we’ve tried to make a summer concert together at Meijer Gardens and this is one of those years.
I will be hanging out with other old, long-time friends as fate allows but after the concert I’ll be free to find my way home, with other stops along the way. I could stay away indefinitely. There are other places I need to go, friends I haven’t met yet. But there will be bills waiting, the house and yard will need my attention by then. That’s my plan for now. Still, I know from experience that another roadtrip in the fall would be great medicine.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

  When I was 13 or 14 I took a spiral notebook and spent a Saturday printing my own newspaper. Two columns per page, I reported on a crash I saw on the highway and about riding my bicycle. Then I wrote a couple of made up stories as if they were real. I had to keep sharpening my pencil, printed as neatly as I could, even sketched a couple of wannabe photos. It took all afternoon. On the header I printed; The Neighborhood Watch. My mother read it when I finished and told me I should become a writer. She was always telling me I should become something or other but duh! Who would have thought! I kept that five page spiral news paper for a long time, never shared it with anybody else. Not a stellar student, quite the opposite; I thought a C- was great and a D was good enough. I didn’t want to be made fun of so I kept it to myself.
Nobody knew about ADD then. I was not a trouble maker, just another underachieving blue-eyed little boy with high energy and a short attention span. They told my parents I was capable but lazy.
So here I am writing. I use commas and semicolons more than I should but chalk that up to creative license. When I feel a pause in my train of thought I leave a comma. I can always move or remove it later. Nothing I write goes to bed without several reviews, edits and rewrites to satisfy my second thoughts. This is just my opinion but I think people who say they can’t write just don’t want to write. Framing language takes too much time and they are too busy to throw words at the page. I’m a little biased I know. But if you would rather trust everything to memory or memorize every long or complex argument, good luck. 
We all start out with 23 pairs of chromosomes but variations  within that format make us all unique and I marvel at the way personalities develop. No guarantee that kids who share the same experience will perceive them the same way (fear vs excitement, good vs bad). Adults tend to lean on values and expectations they acquired in their youth but changing one’s mind on religion or politics or how to raise children is common as dirt. We all begin as selfish creatures, ignorant, intolerant and (in the philosophical sense) conservative. Babies are consumed with ‘Self’, all they care about is; keep warm, eat, sleep and their mother’s scent. But they learn, beginning with the first eye contact, the first smile; they see others showing affection and sharing food. Heredity sets the stage but the way we attribute meaning to those experiences gets the last word. By the time we reach the age of accountability that blueprint for belief and behavior is pretty well mapped out. It can be altered inwardly to benefit the self or outward to embrace the greater culture, depending on millions of minute but repetitive details or a single significant, life changing event. 
A mother’s nurture and affection are the first acquired influences to shape a person’s personality. In most mother-child relationships we see tolerance, generosity, affection and even cooperation. Growing up, siblings, peers and adults within our sphere also model behavior and it can be forgiving, affectionate, cooperative and value diversity as well. But not everybody gets the compassionate stuff. Some never get past the Me-me-me stage that values either competition or stealth (whatever you can get away with) to get whatever you want.  Nobody is off limits to the selfish narcissist. There  you have the two extreme stereotypes, Mother Theresa and Donald Trump. Most of us fall in between the extremes. 
Along with old age I’ve acquired a trove of experience and the writing habit. It doesn’t have to be about anything in particular but the human mystique is hard to resist. The writing process requires at least a shred of authenticity and expertise and in return it is therapeutic, I feel better when I finish. Obviously I prefer the carrot to the stick. Wealth and power come with two handles. The balanced person understands that we are all in this together and a collective responsibility is necessary. For the self obsessed the other handle has only one beneficiary, Self. Across time and with me unaware, a primary value that is deeply rooted in my psyche is that of fairness (fair play). In the pledge of allegiance the last line is clear; “. . . with Liberty and Justice for All.” A political activist on a local radio program put it in context; “We’ve got the liberty and justice part down pat but have trouble with the ‘All’ part.” I thought then and still do, great quote; so much content in just 16 words. That puts me at odds with my counterparts who behave and believe as if there are only two kinds of people; Winners and Losers and in order to win you do whatever it takes; anything.! 
This dichotomy of values and resulting behavior has been shaping the human experience since the birth of civilization some 10,000 years ago. The Selfish and the Generous will never be comfortable or trusting in the company of the other. I cannot fix the problem and neither will I point the finger of blame. I am lucky to live in an affluent country, unworthy but lucky to have white male privilege. I read and write; never gone to bed hungry in all of my life. I don’t deserve anything other than the good karma I keep trying to put back in the system. The big difference between then and now is I swapped my pencil and spiral notebook for a good laptop computer. 

ODYSSEY

  We have a program at my church where at 9:30, before the main service, a church member speaks to their spiritual journey (Odyssey) from whenever it began until they came to All Souls. In 2004 when I, quite by accident discovered the Unitarian-Universalist denomination the atmosphere was extremely Humanistic. By definition: Humanism is a philosophical stance that emphasizes the value and agency of human beings. We have no need for a condescending, supernatural god or a faith anchored in medieval ignorance. There is no issue if you do believe in God. If you identify with our principles and want to church with us, you can believe whatever you like. Our faith is manifest in what we do rather than what we say we believe.
The lady sharing her Odyssey last week is a relatively new member (2 years) fifty-ish, highly educated, well traveled and an open minded, forward leaning, progressive, lifelong Catholic. Her story was enlightening and when you’re allowed to travel that journey with them it’s easy to identify; we all fall down and get back up. But it confirmed and reinforced what I already know about faith based religion.
Even before organized religion people have known and struggled with the certainty of their own mortality, falling back on hope first and then belief in an afterlife. In that first millennium after Jesus, the Emperor (Constantine) adopted Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire. What he and his advisors believed is secondary to the way they used religion to influence and manipulate the masses. The fear vs. salvation caveat was then, still is the best vehicle to unify large numbers of otherwise strangers in both their loyalty to each other, their leaders, to authority and to a cause, their nation. Over the next thousand years that scheme has recycled over and over and is still the most potent unifier that civilization has ever employed. 
The lady’s story confirmed the popular idea (among Catholics) that Nuns have been telling every generation: “Give me a child for six years and they will be Catholics forever.” As recently as 4 years ago she had been a doubter, questioning the disparity between the churches rhetoric and its practice. But the addictive nature of ritual and peer pressure may be incurable; the collective kneeling, crossing one’s self, Hail Marys, confession; together they cement the parts and pieces so the whole construct survives. Her story reached a crisis when her daughter came out LGBT. The church, priests, bishop showed little or no sympathy and zero tolerance. She was faced with a choice between the faith of her upbringing and her conscience. She’s been a UU now for a couple of years; like most of us who were pointed this way by a friend or in my case it was a random discovery. In either case she still takes comfort attending mass occasionally, simply because the ritual feels familiar and safe in the moment and she still believes in God. 
There was no crisis in my spiritual trajectory, no scars. In my growing up I wanted very much to please my mother who was as devout a believer as ever drew a breath and going along was easy. About the time I moved my family far away and my kids were going to Sunday school I had if not a revelation then a stroke of insight. Either I had grown all the way up or my mom was far enough away; the stories and propaganda my kids were getting at church went too far and that peer bond between believers was a small sacrifice for my secular leap of logic. We just quit going and Sunday mornings got better and better.
What really touched me listening to the lady last Sunday was how much our spiritual community had changed since I came aboard in ’04. We still have an abundance of Atheists and Agnostics but the hardboiled, aggressive attitudes had mellowed, giving way to a wider, deeper sense of conscience. I am one of those Agnostics who does’t know and doesn’t care. That hardwired need to believe in something mysterious is still at work. I still react with awe and wonder when lightning and thunder strike over my head in the same split second.  I understand the physics. Loose electrons closing a circuit does not require a supernatural being but I’m programmed to go slack-jawed and feel so small in that split second. I don’t understand everything and maybe feeling helpless is part of the journey.

SAME OLD BONE

 
“I write as much to understand as to be understood.” Ellie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate is a hero by any measure. We have something in common, writing for the sake of our own understanding. I write to help me understand and every time I sit down to write it always crosses my mind. 
I am growing weary writing about the human condition and our long, evolutionary backstory. There are two views and mine is not the popular, self-aggrandizing version. If I believed that civilization was following a fixed path, that someone was in control and we (human beings) are predestined to prevail; then we could all sit together and sing Kumbaya but I don’t and I won’t. In the last thirty years I’ve worn myself out wrestling with the myth of human superiority. It is my considered opinion we are highly evolved animals. Our history of attributes and accomplishments is long and impressive. Still, like proud artists who write their own reviews we wax praise rather than an objective critique. What self respecting singer or artist calls attention to their own shortfalls and failures? 

        Elephants and whales are highly evolved mammals too and their attributes work for them as well as ours work for us. People write poetry and whales cannot but how long can you hold your breath. The difference between elephants and people is obvious to the educated person but only a scant few skilled experts are connecting and analyzing data as to how much we are alike. If you’re a whale, holding your breath is a very important attribute. We all do the best we can with what we’ve got. The whale cannot duplicate our natural talents and that makes us superior but neither can we do what the whale does and nobody thinks we are the less for it. Human nature would have us believe what we want to believe: Mirror mirror on the wall which species is superior over all? I believe that civilization is peopled by creatures that practice to some degree, self-worship. The fact that we follow our creative, problem solving nature may be no more profound than elephants that stand in the shallows and take a shower on hot afternoons. 
Misanthropes are people who dislike (or hate) and avoid humankind. I am not one of those; I love people for the most part, some more than others but we belong together either way. We are social animals. As a species we need each other. Solitary animals do very well living alone but humans do not. The axiom, “It takes a village to raise a child.” could not be more true. So I am not here to beat up on humankind. Still I am disappointed that with all of our logic, creative thinking and ability to cooperate in large numbers we still wage wars for the sake of greed and power. We still practice racism and misogyny. 
For many thousands of years our predecessors lived together in small clans that were more or less isolated from other clans. Scratching out an existence was difficult but the group would be egalitarian rather than authoritarian as every person was too important to the group to diminish their role with a vertical hierarchy. It wasn’t until civilization began to develop around 10,000 years ago (at different times in different places) that we got agriculture, towns & cities, division of labor, specialized skills, authoritarian rule, social classes, etc. Civilization improved the quality of life for many but also suffered poverty and discrimination on many others as well. Having specialized jobs resulted in many of them being strenuous, repetitive that literally wore people out before their time. Women were for the most part relegated to child care and needing a man to depend on. I’m not saying civilization is bad but it has resulted in bad side effects that were never encountered in the hunter-gatherer culture that flourished for 35,000 years. An interesting idea (food for thought) is that people flourished without civilization for over 35,000 years but civilization cannot survive without people who translate out as fuel to drive the process and function as a piece of the machine. The civilization construct needs highly organized people who conform to time, space and purpose or it dies on the vine. People who live off the land in small groups have never needed civilization to survive and sustain a stable breeding population which in evolutionary terms is the definition for species success.
I am not ready to give up my pickup truck or the interstate system or my smart phone or toothpaste but I am beginning to feel like the corner piece of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle that only fits in that particular space, farthest from the center and irrelevant to the picture on the completed puzzle. Self-aggrandizing is a uniquely human business and I have to stay self aware not to go there. Before the industrial revolution (1830) and the mass burning of fossil fuels, the species (Homo sapiens) was no more significant on the planet Earth than dandelions or mosquitoes.  But I am tired of chewing on this same old bone and I need a better distraction. After all, This world is broken, I didn’t break it, I can’t fix it. So I’ll take comfort wherever I can and be glad.

FEELING GOOD

 
Yesterday I took a long nap in the late afternoon and when the movie I watched finished at 10:00 p.m. I knew not to go straight to bed. So I watched some of my favorite music on YouTube and checked concert schedules and ticket prices. The Tedeschi Trucks band will be in Morrison, Colorado at Red Rocks in a couple of weeks and still have a few general admission passes  at ($230 each) but I don’t really want to go alone and the price is steep. It was midnight so I turned the AC off, opened windows and turned on the attic fan. 
My alarm went off at 6:20. The streets were wet from last night’s rain but it was clear and cool. I had dreamed or dreamt, I think both are correct, it was  a long dream that went on and on. I was riding-bike; not to be confused with riding (on) a bike. Riding-bike you and the machine become one, integrated system. Make the distinction between a two wheel kid’s toy and the legitimate mode of travel. In the dream I was with several others, dressed properly with lycra shorts that come almost the knees, shoes with toe clips, gloves and helmet. We transitioned from hills to winding grades, to the flat, went through a little rain shower and took turns riding up front. It was awesome.
I rode my bicycle seriously from 1978 until 2018. There is nothing like a 20-25 mile ride to satisfy an inherent need to be in motion. You have time to focus on technique: the spin, frequent gear changes to hold a steady RPM, small shifts forward and back on the seat, standing up and leaning forward on inclines, changing grips. It spreads the work across all of the muscle groups and for an hour and a half you stay fresh. All the while you check your mirror for traffic, take in the sights and sounds, spook wildlife you surprise as you roll up silently and people going about their business who miss you altogether. It’s almost like being invisible.
I was still biking in my mind in the shower; can’t remember when I woke up feeling so good. In 1983 I took my 11 year-old twins and 9 year-old daughter on a week long trek up the Lake Michigan shore from Kalamazoo to Traverse City. By then they had good bikes and were accomplished riders. With a small tent and two sleeping bags we camped, ate at delis along the way and made new friends at every stop. Nine summers later we were living in Missouri. My then 15 year-old daughter and I were the only ones not working but we both had great bicycles. We put those bikes and the same old tent in the back of the pickup and went to the West Coast for July and part of August. Between camping and visits with friends and family we took in Yosemite National Park and biked most of the Southern California’s beaches from Huntington Beach down to San Clemente. 
Time either flies when you’re having fun or it can drag through the doldrums but either way it will pass. So there I was in the shower, remembering details about bicycle technique and about happy, joyful times on the road with my kids. I turned 50 that summer in California. I have a photo of us on our bikes, on the beach in Newport Beach and I take a lot of comfort in old photos. They speak to another time with crystal clarity: yes, that’s us and this is how it really was. That was a great day and I knew it even then. Today is a great day as well. I woke up feeling not new but certainly better than my years might suggest. 
Early July and the Tour de France is underway. Super Bowl is an American thing that gets a lot more attention than it merits. The money it generates is remarkable but it’s business, more about the the money than it is a sport. The Tour de France is a 21 stage bicycle race (21 days, 21 separate races) with a global following, competitors and teams from all around the world. After 4 days the individual leader is Mathieu van der Poel, a Dutch rider. A typical stage race can last from two to five hours and cover long, grueling, steep mountain grades or straight, flat stretches between villages with their hairpin corners and crowds spilling onto the course or challenging combinations of both. What I like about the Tour is that all the riders belong to a team of 6 or 7  and they work as a team to protect their #1 rider and move him to the front as the race nears the finish. Not negative but I prefer the leg-pumping, elbow bumping on the steep climb to the finish line. I tend to fall asleep with NFL and NASCAR business. 
Getting back to waking up feeling good and keeping that happy thing going, I was informed by a friend who should know, “Do what you can with what you have, fix what you break and find the joy.”  Joy; a feeling of pleasure or happiness. It is after-all, a possibility made real. Finding the joy is not about getting what you want, it’s more like getting lemons and making lemonade. “You want joy, if it doesn’t come knocking on your door then make some from what you’ve got.” I have to look for it under every stone, in the darkness as well as the light. I have to treasure every tiny little shred of happiness with the full blown weight of the greater joy I seek. Sometimes I lose my way and sh*t happens but you start over, look under a new stone or grope in the dark for a new beginning. I still get up on days I don’t feel this good because time doesn’t stand still and I have high hopes for 
tomorrow’s wake-up. 

A SHORT REACH

  An interesting aspect that comes with aging is that you have so many years of acquired experience to reflect on. My neural hard drive has never been updated but the memories keep dropping in, looking for a cozy corner. In the late 1940’s World War 2 had spent itself but the aftermath was slow to heal. Its death toll estimated at 85 million souls both military and civilian still touched most everyone in Europe, Asia and North America. The U.S.A. was spared the destruction of bombing and occupation by foreign armies so our social fabric was strong. Infrastructure (buildings & roads) were in tact; banks, industry, work force, transportation, agriculture, none of it had to be reinvented. Europe had to print and spend tons of money on social programs, trade unions and such, rebuilding for several decades before their economies were able to compete. The popular liberal stereotype for European culture traces back of necessity to the post WW2 recovery. Shifting gears from a wartime economy to a free market culture was easy in America. After only 4 years of fighting (our allies had been fighting for 6 or more years) we ran amok with an economy that never had to be reinvented, only retooled and turned loose. We were very good at what we did but the global prosperity we enjoy these 80 years later is to some degree a lingering testament to the (right place & right time). With enough head start even I could win a gold medal at the Olympics. 
In 1948 my dad was up before dawn and off to work before my brothers and I woke up. Breakfast was usually on the table by the time we hit the kitchen, two poached eggs on toast and milk, sometimes hot oatmeal and bacon. It was the first year our school district had a school bus. It stopped, honked if you weren’t outside waiting, honked again and started easing away. The consequences for missing the bus were real and we made it out the door before the second honk, even if I had my shoes under my arm and left my lunch on the table. 
We had a radio but I didn’t get to pick the station or even when we listened but it was how we got the news. Sometimes we got a copy of the Sunday news paper but news was basically what we overheard at the dinner table. Dad was a Tool & Die Maker for a company that made Coca-Cola vending machines. We were Yellow Dog Democrats which means we would vote for a yellow dog before any Republican. Even though I thought I wanted to be something else (a father/son thing) when it was all said and done, at the bottom of every hole I’ve ever dug in I find my blue collar values. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I have a built in pull to the left on any issue that has a moral caveat. 
It’s ironic I still remember what I had for breakfast when I was 9 and the name of the first girl who kissed me on the lips; I was 12. Billie Jo Davis wasn’t my girlfriend and she never did it again (must have been on a dare) but still. Along with other mundane memories I specialize in random trivia. By the time I got to high school the news was the Cold War. People were burying bomb shelters in their yards and every time you get the news it was about a nuclear bomb test on a Pacific island or in Siberia. I didn’t pay much attention to the news. I couldn’t change any of it and I had a girlfriend by then. 
More recently, this century; I find myself tuning out when news breaks. Back in the 70’s & 80’s we got sports scores  and local news and that was alright. Racism, misogyny and the class divide (invisible poor) were still a shameful legacy for the Land Of The Free & The Home of The Brave but they were so deeply entrenched in our national culture we didn’t take offense, it was our normal. Popular sentiment in the mid 2020’s seems to favor a self obsessed focus on those same character flaws. Our leaders keep their aggressive, malcontent followers ginned up with hateful rhetoric and punishing the wicked as a cure-all. I have a friend with a PhD in philosophy and a few classes at the seminary who ministers to a liberal congregation in Grand Rapids who told me privately: “The world is broken, you didn’t break it and you can’t fix it. So be the change you want to see, fix what you screw up, pay attention and find the Joy.”  That kind of accountability appealed to me then and passing years haven’t dimmed its glow. 
I really do avoid media news. News is a business and that means sell advertising that means identify a target audience. In this case you get extremes on both sides and a slim few who try to balance their reporting. Recently, on one of the few networks who try to keep that balance, they reported on a new (organized) movement that touts former Fox News anchor Tucker Carlson as a spokesperson. The feature was not a report as much as simply soundbites from the (Carlson) podcast. Their issue is that manhood is at risk due to liberal influence. Men are being emasculated in the work place and in the home by advances in women’s independence and opportunity. Sperm count is down, birth rates are down and men no longer need protect their families. There was interest in framing a plan for cash rewards to families with 6 or more children. Keep moms making babies  so men can be real men again. AYKM (are you kidding me); that’s what Hitler did in 1943 to guarantee his super race. I would think the low sperm count issue better identified as the Save the Self righteous Penis. It would be laughable if it were funny. 
I am familiar with using the radio or television for background noise to offset silence. I have over a thousand songs uploaded into my smartphone and the phone itself is linked to my hearing aids. I don’t have to hold the phone up to my ear or select the speaker mode. I get a clear, edgy tone both incoming and outgoing. I can also select my I-Tunes AP, set it on random select and listen to music all day. KCUR is the NPR station in Kansas City and I can anticipate their news breaks if I want to skip the rhetoric; it’s a short reach to the mute button. 

ON MY MOTHER'S SIDE

  The difference between Read and Study is profound. Fiction will entertain but study requires reading or listening with the ability to stop, take notes, review, reread and even start over. Since they took my keys and reassigned my classroom to a younger, more affordable teacher I have plenty of time to read or study as I choose. Long story short; when I was going into the business it was an insatiable curiosity and need to know that drove me and not so much an appetite for entertainment. Now, when I sit down to write I seldom get very far before I need to research something I had not expected and am drawn away from my original idea. That puts me digging in a new hole and it takes some discipline to stay on task. 
I was trained in the school of science and critical thinking. The whole idea is relatively new, only a few hundred years since Galileo turned that corner and tradition is slow to change. Myself, I’m not all that smart but I pay attention to scholars who count molecules and know where to look for the human genome. Fear and imagination combined are still entrenched in the human condition. Both belonging and fitting in are usually more important than challenging the myth or pushing the boundaries. 
I find it irresistible, what it means to be human and our collective backstory. Whenever I find a reliable source that clarifies that meaning or expands that story I start taking notes. A good definition seems a good way to start. Anthropology; The study of human beings and their ancestors through time and space and in relation to physical character, environmental/social relations, and culture. In my notes I would emphasize; (through time and space). As a disclaimer I want to note that time is not an objective reality, but rather a human-made system for organizing and understanding the sequence of events. Without a way to measure and apply that sequence we could not function as we do. I had to find ways to appreciate if not visualize so many zeroes. But you have to find a way if you want the view to fit the frame. 
I want to imagine what I might say to one of my ancestors if I could bring us together in that slice of space and time. If I figure four generations per century (a plausible estimate) the math is easy. If I could restore even for an afternoon all of my maternal grandmothers going back in time to when Christopher Columbus set sail; how many places should I set at the table? Take a head count from then until now; 4.5 centuries times 4 = 18 grandmas. Compound those numbers another 4.5 centuries and there are 36 grandmas (all in the same line) stretching back to about 1066, William The Conquerer and the Norman victory over Anglo-Saxon rule in England. That 36th grandma on my mother’s side, she would have been alive somewhere. My takeaway is the small number of grandmas and the long stretch of time; not all that many conceptions to get maybe a few of her genes down to me. 
Still, that long, unbroken line of procreation is linear with a beginning that reaches back a lot farther in time and grandmas than 900 years or #36. The human backstory goes back at least forty thousand (40,000) years to small clans of hunter-gatherers who sustained a stable culture for 400 centuries; times 4 and somewhere lost in ancient prehistory there I have about 1,600 grandmas on my mother’s side. 1,600 generations in 400 centuries, not that many when I think about it. They were all born, grew up, lived, gave birth and died as the way of this life has always required. 
I find it ironic that the universe is birthing new stars and planets as others are turning super nova and being consumed by black holes. Here on Earth eight billion humans have been persuaded that something mysterious is in control and we are more special than the planet itself. I am reminded that life, all life from fruit flys to blue whales, from bacteria to giant redwoods; it sustains only as long as conditions strike that happy balance. Life requires light and water and climate that meets our needs. The chemistry of that narrow, thin little layer of air and water that supports all life is not guaranteed. Change is the nature of nature. How long can you hold your breath? 
I am shutting this down now with a shoutout for Carl Sagan’s quote about The Little Blue Dot. I recommend it. You caN GOOGLE it. 

REALITY CHECK

  When my dad was just about my age now he told me that he hated being old. He had been living alone for five or six years since my mom passed and he wasn’t handling that well. I was living far away which compounded things. His friends were aging out and dying off and he wasn’t making any new ones. Grandchildren had grown up and moved on; not that they didn’t or don’t care but life has a way of overflowing all of the space available. It leaves little room for grandparents and he was lonely regardless. I couldn’t help with that but I took it as an omen, a cautionary reality-check; not unlike the reckless driver who passed me a few miles back and I catch up with them later, pulled over by the police and instinctively I think; Not good, don’t do that. So here I am, same age (85) but I don’t hate it. There are drawbacks but without the Yin-Yang and Karma factors I couldn’t appreciate good fortune when it treats me better than I deserve. 
This is a story that was born in my preteen years. Sleeping outside on a hot summer night I woke up to a bright light and a voice coming down from the treetops. It said when I was being born I was delivered to the wrong planet and they were here to rescue me, to take me home where I belong. Then my mother’s voice called from her bedroom window. She told me to stop with the noise and go to sleep. In the still that followed, both the bright light and the voice had disappeared. It felt so real I couldn’t let it go, begging the question that has never been satisfied. I dream dreams, maybe not every night but often, still I don’t remember any of them. The one in our front yard when I was 10, I still remember it clear as a bell. 
Not wanting to sound like a fool, still it’s is generally accepted that the subconscious mind (which is unavailable to the conscious one) can and does bridge that gap with thoughts and ideas (language) that we have no control over. A thought, out of the blue that just hits you between the ears; artists and writers in particular refer to this inspiring phenomenon as the ‘Muse’. If you treat it with denial (WTF) then what you see is what you get. I pay close attention when I get those little flashes of inspiration, afraid if I don’t it will give up on me and go away for good. I am patient but never closed to an insight that has otherwise eluded me. 
Getting back to the hot night in the front yard, I still chew on that unresolved question. Certainly, across my lifetime I harbor reservations about being a human being. Sometimes, everything in my experience tells me that I don’t belong. I know,I know, I’m stuck here and nothing foreseeable to remedy that. Still this life has always given me a path where I could both learn from failure and try again, and again. I should be grateful and I am but it is in our nature to want more and better than what we have even when it comes at the expense of unfortunate others who are trapped in a working underclass. Here in the U.S.SA. we have the best government money can buy, where Liberty is confused with License and you get just as much Justice as you can afford. I certainly am grateful. If not for White-Male privilege it is extremely unlikely I would have ever seen the inside of a university library.  
I made it my life’s work to know biology and evolution, to realize the power of applied math and data but in my culture it’s not something you want to take seriously. Our leadership is content to popularize conspiracy theories, cook the books and blame each other for the shortfall. This could unfold as a rant against political parties and religious deities but they have joined at the hip and you can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. 
If I have a bona fide hero it would be Astronomer Carl Sagan, 1934 - 1996. He understood the frailty of life on this planet and the vast expanse of a universe that doesn’t care at all if we flourish for thousands of years in hunter-gatherer clans or perish in a civilized attempt to be the temporary Lords of an ordinary planet. For as long as I am remembered by anyone, for any reason, I don’t want to be lumped together with egomaniac narcissists  who can’t see beyond the next election cycle, who profit from building walls to keep their base happy as they worship their own image in the mirror. 

WHOOP-DE-DOO

  I’ve been reminded that it’s been a long time since my last journal entry and ‘Stones’ post. The last few months have been a busy time but ‘Busy’ comes in different packages. Some leave you smiling but others are no fun at all. Movie Star Betty Davis (1908-1989) gets credit for this ubiquitous observation; “Old age ain’t for sissies.” Leon Trotsky (Russian Revolutionary) shared a similar revelation; “Old age is the most unexpected of all things that can happen to a man.” He had big plans and plenty of time but surprise-surprise; he woke up one day too old to keep up. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. 
I’m old but I saw it coming. I can’t speak for others but the future is now and I don’t want to squander it on making plans. One’s days are numbered and thankfully that number is unknown. It makes the present all the more important. So I’m writing again but too much time on the computer is a stressor and I need to be moving my feet. 
Max Ehrmann was an American writer, poet and philosopher from the first half of the last century. He is best known for a poem he wrote in the late 20’s titled ‘Desiderata’. It’s an easy read, I recommend it. Toward the end he advises, “Be gentle with yourself.” I’ve learned to do that without a prompt but it’s also a good example to set for others. In so-many words he assures us that the universe is unfolding exactly as it should and to be at peace with God, however you perceive it. As I age I find some of my peers relating to Ehrmann’s insight. I don’t formalize prayer as I don’t recognize a traditional God but I think Ehrmann’s poem makes righteous meaning any time, under any set of circumstance. 
My granddaughter got married day before yesterday; it was planned to perfection. The venue was small but there were enough chairs to seat everyone. Long white dress with a train, flowers in her hair. I know enough of the backstory to appreciate how weddings can soften old grudges, bitter enemies agree to share the moment. What started out as a choreographed ritual transitioned through a cascade of photographs, an awesome dinner then toasts and speeches and concluded much later, the bride dancing with all of the significant men in her life. When I left the dance floor was crowded, the music loud and my side of the family carrying on with strangers as if they were new-best friends. I even danced with my own daughter (the bride’s aunt) did some turns dips and a whoop-de-doo with no consequence. 
So here it is the end of May, Labor Day weekend. Out-of-towners heading home, locals gearing up for a short work week. On their way to New Orleans the honeymooners are making memories. Weddings are a highpoint for good will, high hopes and new beginnings. The collective euphoria won’t last long and gravity will reassert its rule. From my perspective I would default back to ‘Desiderata’ and a truism that I have come to trust; “Life is short: eat dessert first.”

THEREFORE I AM

George Burns is credited with the line, “Age, it’s just a number.” but someone else said it first. The “. . . just a number.” thing is Word-play; it makes us feel clever but the calendar doesn’t lie and it is more than just a number no matter what they say. What Burns did say was, “You can’t help getting older but you don’t have to get old.” Burns word-play was about the way one sees themself and how being relevant supersedes age. I am 85.586301 years old today. Tomorrow I’ll be 85.590141 years and those are just numbers. I used to have a schedule and you don’t want to be late for an appointment or a duty but as I’ve grown older I have more time to think about things than I have things to do. If it had been just me a career as a full time student would have been awesome but it wouldn’t pay the bills. But now I can study history, language, human behavior and how the brain works. It’s easy with the internet. I can take notes and then study my notes, review and connect the dots. I can study the scholars who write the books and judge for myself if they are pretenders who distort a kernel of truth to promote what they want me to believe or the real deal scholars who follow the crumbs wherever they go and my heroes are real deals. When I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep I can review my notes, study again. Kids are supposed to experience the joy of discovery between the 4th and 7th grade but I was preoccupied. The joy of discovery, what a profound idea. I didn’t have to be told but then I was a 25 year-old kid in Biology 101, couldn’t help myself and I’m still hooked on learning and a high probability of knowing and I want to know. 
I take after René Descartes or at least I like to think I do. I think therefore I am and that is a good start. So I study, read and reread before I take notes then reread my notes. It’s like juggling and I need to keep at least 3 ideas in the air or I forget. In graduate school I wrestled with Statistics 401 but it left me with a healthy respect for standard deviations and numbers with lots of zeroes on either side of the decimal point. If I don’t keep working with them it’s easy to lose the handle. How do I get my head around a trillion raindrops from a single cloud or a membrane 0.001 mm thick?  
        In the USA there are about 6.5 million people age 85 or older which works out to about 1.75% of the total population. Staying relevant is a lot like pushing a rock up the hill since most of my century-mates don’t expect much from me. Many if not most of these 85+ seniors are tucked away, warehoused in facilities for those who are aging out. I have not been warehoused yet and I don’t really like the idea but maybe it’s the price we pay for living a long life. 
How can I know anything for sure; maybe it’s too much to ask but given the variables we can calculate probability down to a simple ratio, either yes or no and I can burn as many zeroes as it takes. I have a wonderful education over roughly 31,237 days of both formal schooling and life-experience so in the spirit of René Descartes, when the probability of something happening turns out to be either 0.99:1 or 0.009:1 then I can know with some confidence whether or not to hold my breath.
But if I’ve learned anything it is that people respond to (passion) strong feelings long before they resort to reason and logic. I fall into that same trap and I suffer the consequence. But I know better. It may not keep me from taking the bait but if I keep repeating thee same life-lesson, eventually I default to reason. It means I have to change the way I feel about the way I feel. 
If I want to boil this life down to a few absolutes I would begin with the Golden Rule. Every known religion on the planet has a premiss that equates to the Golden Rule which tells me that religion is not going to save us. Religion simply lumps us into groups who discriminate between who we reward and who we punish and it uses that leverage to manipulate its own followers. Government is a mirror reflection of religion that preaches, ‘To the victors go the spoils’ in lieu of the Golden Rule.  

IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE TRUE

      Looking back through old posts for something else I stumbled across this one from January, '23. It is so much better than anything I could put together today I am recycling it. I still wonder what Andy would say. 

IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE TRUE

This blog was born in August of 2012 in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Since then its following has remained a sparse few folks who either Googled their way here by mistake or already knew me and for one reason or another kept coming back. Thanks! I appreciate their dropping in. It keeps me working on vocabulary, being concise which is not easy by the way, and knowing when it’s alright to just throw words at the page from a meandering stream of consciousness. 

I like to identify with Andy Rooney, a writer featured on the CBS program, 60 Minutes. He passed away over a decade ago at 92 but when I feel writer’s block and ideas stay stuck down in a neural wrinkle I still default to, ‘What would Andy Rooney say.’ He took ideas from the Common Sense pool and turned them upside down which, sooner or later offended nearly everyone. In his own, self-assuming style he insulted or provoked people of every color and ethnicity, every LGBT, every belief. The network pulled him off the air but their audience switched to another channel until they reinstated Andy, which they always did. In hindsight, what separated Andy from Bill O’Reilly and Bill Maher was that the pundits spoke from their own self appointed authority, “Believe me, I know!” but Andy kept asking, “How does this work?” Andy wasn’t selling a canned belief system or an unholy scheme, he was sharing his search for possibility and meaning. When his readers swamped him with complaints he responded with; “When so many of your friends disagree with you so strongly it must be time to rethink your own position.” His disclaimers and apologies were pointed and contrite. When he redefined his thinking and apologized it was convincing, not (Bill Maher or Bill O’Reilly) propaganda and double talk that changed the subject without addressing the issue. 

Andy Rooney surfaced at the peak of white male privilege and that explains a lot. It was a cultural constant, like the air we breathe and our mother’s embrace. I came along twenty years later and to some extent we stumbled over that same self serving prejudice and we both asked similar questions like, “What is wrong here?” Finding fault within one’s own culture and peer group is difficult. Challenging it in public is asking for a rebuke. That’s enough reason for me to liked Andy. On his best day he reasoned that he could be wrong, that he was often wrong and that occupying a credible balance was preferable to the comfort of partisan privilege. 

My reading list now includes scholars like Yuval Harari (Sapiens) and Jonathan Haidt (The Righteous Mind). I never needed convincing but human’s evolutionary history and behavior patterns are consistent with the animal kingdom. We are animals. We are more like pelicans, whales and monkeys than we are different. Our claim to fame (that we cannot take credit for) is a weird shaped mouth and larynx that can shape sounds to make consonant and vowels, to make syllables and words. Add to that the tools in our tool box. We have imagination and we can tell stories. With Story humans can self identify in time and space, reflect on the past and ponder what comes next. Humans have been begging the same insightful questions all along; where did we come from, how did we get here and why? 

Paleolithic people were smart as can be but they didn’t know their own backstory (evolution) and their most scientific tool was the naked eye. So they made up Stories that they could understand. It had to make sense of a complicated, dangerous world. We call those primitive stories, ‘Myth’. In that complicated, dangerous world we required knowledge and a skill set for survival, replication and reproduction; to not go extinct. From mountains to seashore, culture to culture, different groups of people did survive and reproduce sufficiently. We are the flesh & blood evidence. What Harari points out is: People don’t all share the same myth, never have. But if they work it doesn’t matter. 

Harari has opened Pandora’s box. Take every mythical belief and the behaviors they provoke, put it together with how those groups conform and then consider what they think it means. That would be their collective Story. All of it: what you experience, how it affects individuals, the clan or tribe over the short term and/or the long haul, how people connect Cause and Effect relationships, what they reject and what they believe, it is their Story. Remember that one tribe’s Story could be very different than another tribe’s Story. The environment affects everything in the human saga; climate, availability of food and water, dangerous predators, competing with other tribes. Altogether we inherit a well framed Story that has taken, (who knows how many) generations to formalize into myth, your Story (history, beliefs & behavior) doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work (replicate, reproduce, carve its own niche in the environment and sustain the species.) 

Speaking for myself, Harari’s ‘It Only Has To Work’ observation is a profound revelation. I am not selling his book or professing my discipleship but the door has opened and the tide has turned in my thinking. E.O.Wilson (R.I.P.) condensed the idea down into a simple sentence: “The trouble with Homo sapiens is that we have paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions and godlike technology.” So said, I want to follow up on that idea as I move on into 2023. I can refer to this January 7, 2023 post and move on with the premiss, It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to work. 

FOR A FEW MINUTES

  I just came in from shoveling snow but I’ll go back out to finish the work in a while. Trucks from the city have been around, I can hear one now with its blade scraping against the blacktop. My educated guess is that we received about 3” of light, fluffy stuff that is easy to shovel. I know better than to over-do so use my shovel like a snow plow blade, push stuff downslope and to he side so I am mostly pushing down hill with little little bending over and no heavy lifting. 
Accuweather is a weather forecasting service that has been around for at least thirty years. I check their 10 day forecast, understanding how difficult it is to predict high and low temps that far ahead. Two weeks ago all of the forecasters were telling us the winter blast wasn’t over, that February was going to bring more snow and the most bitter bitter lows we’ve seen in years. I checked on the 10th for this week and the forecast for today’s low was -2. When I got up at 7:00 the temp was -2. It has gone up to 4 degrees and the high is supposed to get up to 9. I’ll try to keep up with it but I’m not betting against Accuweather. 
I am finishing my second mug of coffee and put away several cookies (several for me is 6 or 8). I’ll go sit down and close my eyes for a few minutes, set alarm on my cell phone. (few for me is 15, give or take.) Then I’ll layer up and go outside. Even in the cold that light, fluffy snow will start to settle and the easy part will become not so easy. But all that is left is the stuff on the low end, the steepest part of the drive. My glasses will fog up when I come back in so I can’t see a thing. But I’ll close my eyes again for a few minutes and they will be good to go. I expect to go the rest of the day inside. Accuweather is predicting a small dusting of snow and a low temp here tonight of -9 degrees. I can hear the snowplow again, scraping along the curbs to get as much snow back into my drive as possible but that’s alright. They do a good job and have a lot of it done before I get out of bed. 

IF I WERE YOUNGER

  A guest minister conducted our service this morning. As denominations go his is about as liberal as Christians get. There are two Churches of Christ, one that is extremely conservative and evangelical. Their faith is rooted in the conviction that the bible is not only divinely inspired but absolutely true, word for word, every word. The other Church of Christ has a prefix to make sure they don’t get confused; The United Church of Christ (UCC). In Grand Rapids, Michigan before I retired in 2001 I was a member at Saint John’s UUC. There were no hard-fast rules on what was required of members but our pastor’s degree was in philosophy and his message was always about redemption, not salvation. He was very familiar with Joseph Campbell’s views on God. He said that God is a metaphor for a mystery that is beyond human comprehension (or) in my translation, we attribute to God (the metaphor) what we cannot understand. That’s what made the church attractive in the first place. 
Anyway, out guest minister preached on how to be joyful in the act of defiance. In the audience you would have to have been in a coma for the past four months to not know what he was talking about. In our spiritual community the principles of justice, fair play, equity, democratic process and environmental responsibility are at the core of our religion which basically puts the White House and Congress at odds with everything we hold dear. 
We were put on notice that others like us would be challenged soon to put up or shut up. Some of us will likely be arrested at protests, peaceful or otherwise but that should be expected when demagogues, authoritarian bigots and despots don’t have to answer to anyone. That’s not me having a tantrum, that’s the Christian minister who is challenging a bunch of progressive activists who have just been kicked to the curb. When I vent my disappointment I remember how old I am. Not one to throw stones or provoke authority figures I will be left to call and write my elected officials. My guess is that every elected partisan, either side has an AI program that reads and tallies how many (for & against) contacts come through their office but the only ones who get a legitimate response will be those who donate to their re-election campaigns. I could go sit outside their office with a placard but I’d probably need an expensive permit but there you go, off to jail. I’m too old to immigrate. Nobody wants me living off American retirement and draining their national health resources 
When this kind of sh*t happens (Project 2025) I default to my favorite make-believe. When my great-great-great grandparents immigrated to Nova Scotia in the 1880’s they stayed a while and ended up in Indiana. I fault them for robbing me of my Canadian roots. But then my parents would have never met and I would be like every other non-person whose parents never met and they were never conceived. So if I blame anyone it will have to be my mom and dad. They stayed in the USA during the Great Depression, got support from their families and I turned 2 just a few months before Pearl Harbor. 
My experience (journey) in Canada may be thin but it is real. Two months in Nova Scotia in 2001, a month in British Columbia in 2010, Nova Scotia again another four months in 2012, and a long drive up and down the AlCan highway in 2015: I know enough to know I love the culture and I made friends there who still ask when I’m coming back. I asked one friend (a technical writer & musician) what it’s like living next to America. She replied without a second thought; “A lot like living next door to the Simpsons” (Homer, Marge, Bart & Lisa). 
When I give it serious thought the thought always takes thee same path. All things being equal I would have been a much better Canadian than I am an American. I have a friend (Unitarian-Universalist minister) In Halifax who spent most of his professional career (an engineer) in Atlanta, Georgia, retired and came home to Nova Scotia and became a minister. He thinks the big difference between us is that the USA gained independence through a bloody revolution (A zero sum game). While it took longer in Canada the process came out of negotiation and a (Win-Win) solution. One culture is still looking for a fight while the other is willing to compromise for the greater good. I don’t think Norm’s assessment is all there is but I think his view makes a strong case and is easily defended.
If I were younger immigration to Canada would be a worthy option. Back in the 70’s when Americans were escaping to Canada to avoid Nixon’s unwinnable war in Vietnam I was starting a career with a Master’s degree and a young family. We could have made that leap with relative ease. As I think of it now there is an urge to apologize to my middle age kids for robbing them of their Canadian roots. I doubt they would feel the same, who knows? The road not traveled is not for us to know and I’m not going to blame my parents after all. But when authoritarian bigots go boldly about robbing me of my American roots I feel a strong pull to Halifax and a culture that works faithfully to create Win-Win solutions. For the record, I would think long and hard if the opportunity to migrate north was made real. I could live in Saint Stephen, New Brunswick, just across the bridge from Calais, Maine, a stone’s throw in distance but far enough to be under the red maple leaf. Wishful thinking. Talk’s cheap when the possibility is so remote.

WE FUMBLED THE BALL

  There was a point in my life, sort of a transition from a gleaner of wisdom to its source. You’re old enough and experienced enough to know better but still find yourself on the receiving end of condescending, middle age authority. It’s like morning dew, not enough to take notice until it collects in tiny droplets on the windshield. Then I decide how to deal with it, rejection with one swipe of the wiper blade or share space with what has come to me uninvited. I was full time student throughout my late 20’s, about a decade behind my high school classmates. My mentors treated me a little different than my teenage peers, didn’t preach at me in particular but in a group the lessons were condescending. The ability and will to prepare was something I had never thought much about but a lesson well learned. Still, you can’t treat every responsibility with the same sense of urgency so the ability and will to prioritize became the real life lesson. Research credibly informs us that people will do what makes them feel good or comfortable in the moment long before they take on the important but unpleasant task. That wisdom hasn’t changed; “Do things in the order of their importance.” Wow! How many times have I heard that line? Sounds easy but somewhere in the bible it says, “. . . the mind is willing but the flesh is weak.” But I know better and that gives me an edge when I need it. 
I am well into my 8th decade and I should know better. When used in the same context, growth and learning are synonymous. I prefer 'growth'. Intellectual-emotional growth is forward leaning while no-growth signals decline and end times. Nothing wrong with growing as you age just keep moving your feet. Wisdom is what we say it is, a rule of thumb that to guide you; but 2nd hand wisdom is simply what worked for somebody else and feels good. But trusting religion to reveal all truths is diametrically opposed to trusting reason and science and I trust the numbers. As a profound Skeptic I doubt I will give in to myth, wannabe wisdom or demagoguery. I have wrestled for decades with ideologies and beliefs in search of a best way. My heroes are open ended thinkers who would rather be disappointed with the truth than (fat, dumb & happy) believing that greed is good and that social diversity is bad. 
I am wandering a little bit, off track from what I started. At my age most of my heroes are passed on but their writing and actions leave no doubt as to their virtue. Ruminating on how I will be remembered, for how long or if at all, it’s too late to become something new. Still, it is a trigger to be consistent with whatever shadow I leave behind. I am still interested in good information and new ideas but the times have not leaned toward due process and credible, reliable sources. Expertise has been associated with cultural stereotypes. People from New England with a PhD. are automatically labeled liberal elites, out of touch with the people they claim to represent while QAnon, a loose-knit network of conspiracy theorists with neither expertise nor credibility claim a huge following. (Believe what feels good without tangible proof). 
My point to begin with was; after World War 2 the next generation had all of the resources and talent to change the world for the better but as a people we fumbled the ball. We practiced greed, racial hatred and environmental abuse as well as other vises. Seventy years later ‘Karma’ has proven itself; what goes around comes back around. The same self-serving abuse of power, greed and white privilege that gave us Hitler & Tojo have come back around. I’m just an old Biology teacher who sees the similarity between a petri dish full of bacteria and a global community that feeds until there is nothing left to eat and then consumes it’s self. I would much rather end with a hopeful, positive observation. When the National Football League is more important than the United Nations one has to dig deep into the culture, down to family and friends to put your hands on something you want to wake up to. Tomorrow I expect to wake up to warm feet, clean socks and a short drive to drink coffee with a small group of friends. We disagree sometimes but never on anything more serious than where to get the best BBQ.

IS JUST A GOODBY

  When my room was just down the hall from my parent’s and they had no qualms about telling me what should and shouldn’t be it was my mother who kept me informed. Dad told good stories but otherwise he wasn’t much for conversation. If I wasn’t a happy kid at least I was content. I made do with what I had except for wanting to be older, like my big brother. When we moved from the city to the country, school was nearly three miles away and there was no bus. So David got a full size, 2nd hand bicycle and we rode the bike to and from school. He drove while I sat sidesaddle on the bar. I was a 1st grader and Dave in the 4th, I got teased at school for the sidesaddle thing. If there was snow or bitter cold my mom drove us in the car but otherwise we bundled up and rode the bike. Needless to say, I wanted my own bike and I let it be known; “I can’t wait until I get my own bicycle.” Mom always had the same advice; “Don’t wish your life away.” When Dave got his driver’s license he got a job, bought an old car and I envied his newfound freedom. “I can’t wait until I turn 16.” Again, my mom shared her wisdom, not to wish my life away. 
Tapping into that sense of being in the moment took a long time for me to appreciate but then Life Lessons move in their own time. Someone once told me that Life Lessons are framed by circumstances and if you don’t learn it then-&-there the lesson recycles and reboots. The same lesson will come back around in a different situation with a new set of circumstances and we get to experience it again, and again, and again until we finally get it. My mother knew that but she didn’t squander it to a 6 or 13 year-old. She knew that her one-liner about wishing one’s life away would resonate in its own good time. 
Something to think about; as years keep accumulating the way that pattern reverses itself doesn’t need an explanation. I wish, if I could have my wish, that some experiences just hang on and on, dwell in a time warp that slows down to suit your appetite. But my mom would tell me; “Wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which one fills up first.” Of course someone else would give me the same advice except for substituting ‘pee’ for ‘spit’. My mom would never, not ever suggest the pee option even in jest or for effect. The kernel of truth there is another lesson; time flies when you’re having fun. I found that having fun is not a hard-fast requirement for time to fly. All it takes is to be busy with something that requires one’s undivided attention. 
The longer I live the more I appreciate my mom’s patience and persistence. Not that my dad wasn’t wise or interested. Whatever he had to share would come out in a narrative, a story with a beginning, a middle and an end. She wasn’t condescending but maybe didactic and certainly informative. The two of them, they learned how to live in the Great Depression, she had a profound religious faith and he with a profound sense of fairplay. Between them they combined their talents and gave us (3) boys a proper home. In many ways we’ve mirrored their values but each in our own way. All of us rejected the Christian tradition, I was the last to make that leap. I was the only son to embrace plurality, diversity and equity as how one should live. My World View is left leaning progressive but my practice is to doubt all (every) ideology that competes for power. My brothers both doubted everything that conflicted with their me-first appetite. Neither had much interest in riches and power, just enough to satisfy their creature comfort and unmerited privileges. Likable, even lovable, the Greater Good was no more to them than high-minded propaganda. 
With my StoryTelling history (maybe inherited or modeled from Dad) my favorite stories are songs; 3 verses, a bridge & a chorus. Short stories with meter and rhyme; if it’s good enough I never forget. There are so many great songs, for ever so many situations and experience it’s hard to pick one that speaks best to family, siblings and this journey. Wandering off the subject here but I’ve been watching You Tube (Playing For Change) from Australia. The song was first recorded 55 years ago and it’s still current, still potent, still awesome; Crosby Stills & Nash “Teach Your Children Well. When my days have all been spent and people gather ‘round to wish me godspeed, taking comfort in each other’s company and confronting their own mortality I would ask whoever’s in charge to let me go with this song. The You Tube (Playing For Change) group from Australia goes over the top. I have been watching, listening to it for months, not every day but several times a day on many days. It is a good song to end the day with. If you haven’t listened to the (Playing For Change) version then you should.
    You, who are on the road; Must have a code that you can live by
    And so become yourself; Because the past is just a goodbye
Chorus
    Teach your children well; Their father's hell did slowly go by
    Feed them on your dreams; The one they pick's the one you'll know by
    Don't you ever ask them why; If they told you, you would cry
    So just look at them and sigh; And know they love you

    You, of tender years; can’t know the fears that your elders grew    by
    Help them with your youth; They seek the truth before they can die.
    Repeat Chorus

I OPEN EVERY DOOR

  I am acquainted with a very nice person, nearly my age who likes this blog except for when I write about the current ideological divide (politics). Their comment was, “I could do without the political drama.” I have always invited comments and I do make a conscious effort at civility. By definition, the words judgment and opinion are almost synonymous except, one requires objective evidence while the other is driven by subjective feelings. Still I would think you can have strong feelings about objective conclusions. I feel the same way about traditional religion; I can do without self-righteous hyperbole. At the same time I keep trying to find balance. Belief & Faith are kissing cousins but (again) by definition, belief is a measure of acceptance. I can accept the weather forecast without having much faith in it. Faith goes beyond acceptance. Requiring no compelling proof it is accepted as an absolute truth. I believe in many conservative principles still I have no faith in the way they want to accomplish those ideas. 
Since I discovered Elie Wiesel (Holocaust survivor & Nobel Laureate) I have embraced his thoughts on writing. He said, “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” I write in self defense, to satisfy the 12 year-old who is trapped inside my head. He would rather have me struggle with an ugly truth than take comfort in either ignorance or denial. I cannot dig in the dirt and not get it on me; it is what it is.  There is no satisfaction in a bad diagnosis. But I feel compelled to write the story however bad it may smell. I get the benefit (Wiesel). When I’ve finished, a large, complicated story has been organized and digested. I don’t memorize anything but I can connect the dots. Emily Dickinson said, “Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.” Between the two of them I find a thread of vindication. Any political ‘Drama’ I generate is more than offset by positive, grateful stories. My unmerited good fortune and good life are almost always mentioned somewhere in my story and I’ll probably keep doing what I’ve been doing. 

THE PERCEPTION OF CONTROL

Good StoryTellers need be able to reflect on their own story, how it fleshes out as experience and more important, what it means. Some would dismiss my reflecting as Navel Gazing but what do they know! I’ve been reflecting on and off for a week on the same idea. I wouldn’t say it’s funny but it is interesting how important experiences can lay dormant for years and then bloom again when you least expect it. 
Thirty years ago my awesome job in Kansas City imploded along with the school district. All of the resource teachers (over 100 of us) our jobs were eliminated and we could either move on or be reassigned to a traditional classroom position. As a (door closes & a window opens) kind of person I moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana and a science teaching position at an alternative high school. Our students, all (120) of them had been expelled from public schools. They were in trouble with the courts regardless of their age and answered directly to court appointed case workers. The only thing they had going for them was a serious desire for an education and tough love at Northdale Academy. As long as they stayed out of trouble and were making progress toward a diploma they stayed in a state of limbo between self-defeating influences and the promise of an open-ended possibility. The Northdale Story would read like a Tom Clancy novel and we have neither time nor space here for that.
Driving to school on the interstate in late October, traffic was stopped in gridlock and I was hit from behind. The impact sent my little Mazda truck up and on top of the car in front of me; a total loss. If you have never been in such a violent collision I don’t think I can translate the feeling into words. I’ll never forget the force of that jolt or the sense of helplessness. After that I got a ride to and from school with another teacher, rode my bicycle otherwise but not anxious to replace the truck just yet. The challenge at school was surreal. As a white man from the North we had a culture clash where neither understood the other’s purpose and accepting the other’s ground rules was out of the question.
By Thanksgiving I realized it would take more time and energy than I could justify to break the ice with my students and I gave notice to my Principal. He thanked me for my efforts and assured me the kids were trying. They had softened some with me but I wanted more than just a job. What I had been doing was negotiating a cease-fire and I needed to see academic progress or I wasn’t doing my job. Long story short; my son in Kansas City started looking for a used truck for me. He is the real-deal truck guy and I trust him to do a good search and make a good deal. When I returned to Kansas City on Christmas break of ‘95 there was a blue, 1980 GMC Sonoma parked in his drive. Before that I had applied for a midyear opening at Allendale High School near Grand Rapids. The week after Xmas I drove my GMC Sonoma to Michigan, interviewed and signed a contract with Allendale to begin teaching the second week of January. The gig at Allendale turned out to be a fairytale ending for a 35 year career, consolidating all previous retirement benefits from 4 states into Michigan’s system. It was absolutely the right place and exactly the right time. The Louisiana thing was a grand adventure, by definition a situation where the outcome is unknown and it holds the possibility of both victory and defeat. It turned out to be both. The (Life Lesson) was one you could only appreciate through perseverance, a relentless struggle and to some degree a sense of loss. Still it set me up perfectly for the Allendale opportunity. The door closed and a window opened. 
Leap forward 30 years; Kansas City, MO. January is supposed to be windy and cold with snow and ice and it has been but the roadways are clear and dry again. I was driving a familiar stretch of road through some woods. Cresting a hilltop I saw remnants of ice and snow on the blacktop ahead. There was no shoulder, none at all, only a narrow, snow filled ditch and a wire fence stretched between roadside trees. It is mind boggling how fast the perception of control can be stripped away. I tried to make course corrections but felt the right front tire drop down into that thin ditch and in a split second I knew I couldn’t keep us out of the trees. I don’t know if it was before or after the air bags went off but I felt the jolt and saw cracks run across the windshield like a spiderweb. We were stopped cold in a heartbeat as the Dodge Caravan and the tree became one together in a grim, abstract sculpture. 
I was upset, still am; a total loss and I had only liability insurance. They had already raised my rates because of my age and any significant claim would either put coverage out of reach or result in cancelation. I knew that going in. My decision had been and still is; drive an inexpensive old unit and take my chances. Since there were no injuries and no property damage other than the van, no violations, hauling the wreck back to my driveway was the only consequence. The police didn’t care who I was as long as the firemen said I was OK, just wanted to get the road cleared. But even as I rode with the tow truck driver, before we got to my house I couldn’t help but think about an open window somewhere. The Dodge had some nice features but I didn’t like its looks, named it Feo (Spanish for Ugly) and hated the way it drove. I had been driving a pickup for decades and the van simply couldn’t measure up to my expectations. 
        It’s been a week now. I am without transportation other than family offers to help get me where I need to be. I still have flashes, reflections on riding the end of a bull whip when it cracks. I reflect on the crash on I-10 back in ’95. This one didn’t make me ache and pain but I was going much slower than the car that plowed into me in Baton Rouge. Kinetic energy is going to have its way. On the brighter side I just got a text message from my son, the same son. He found an older but well cared for, low mileage Ford Ranger online. He talked with the old man who owns it and we are driving maybe 5 hours to (Oklahoma) next weekend to look at it. His asking price is within my reach but barely. Still, if it proves out I’ll feel a lot better turning the key, big side mirrors and pulling hills at 1,800 rpm. I think this is a window opening. How long windows stay open is another thing so if this one closes I trust there will be others and I’m not giving up. The crash itself will never be a good thing but sometimes bad things require a course correction that leads to something better. If not for the crash in Baton Rouge and the struggle at Northdale Academy the road back to Michigan would never have unfolded. One cannot know how things might have turned out on the road not taken but the Michigan Story is still turning pages and I wouldn’t want it any other way. So here I am again at a new beginning.  

THAT DEPENDS

  I don’t remember when I learned but as I recall, the name  Madeline Murray O’Hair was as much a curse as a name. She was the flesh & blood embodiment of what it means to be an Atheist. Before I knew better the word ‘Atheist’ called up images of witches, grave robbers, child molesters and worse. Madeline took on the government over the constitution’s article for separation of church and state. Through her efforts in 1963 the Supreme Court ruled that reading from the Bible in public schools is unconstitutional and that benchmark decision is still fueling controversy. 
For as long as they lived my parents believed I was faithful to the religion we were born into. They didn’t know that for decades I had been a closet Agnostic. Disclaimer: Atheism is as much a belief as any other doctrine. It is just negative in gender. Atheists believe from a strong position that an omnipotent, omniscient, supernatural god is nonexistent and any religion that submits to that authority is not only flawed but also distorted to manipulate large numbers of brainwashed people. So I distinguish between disbelief (Atheism) and unbelief (Agnosticism). One is a well framed construct while the other is simply a vacant space.
Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) was a prominent British philosopher and mathematician who believed that religions were harmful and untrue. He became an Atheist at age 18 after questioning the existence of God and finding no evidence. He could speak to religion from both an Atheistic or Agnostic frame of reference and it made his critics furious. They tried to pin him down: “Which are you, Atheist or Agnostic?” He said more or less: “That depends. In theory I side with Agnostics, since the lack of evidence for or against something doesn’t prove anything. The fact that we cannot find evidence doesn’t prove there isn’t any. We can say without reservation that we just don’t know for sure. But in practice I side with the Atheist.” 
Since the early 80’s Bertrand Russell has been one of my champions. For myself I am comfortable with the idea; “I don’t know.” There would have to be compelling evidence (proof) for me to Believe in the supernatural. Giving my (I don’t know) a more qualified context would be; “Furthermore, I don’t care.” It would follow, hanging with Atheists puts me in good company. In good humor they accuse me of lacking courage to admit my Atheism and I counter with, “Show me the proof.” It’s a Catch 22. For my sake it doesn’t matter either way. 
I attend (belong to) a Unitarian Church and identify as Secular Humanists. Not many of us in the USA, only about 150,000 altogether and most Christians think we are a Christian denomination. When they learn otherwise the conversation can cool and you sense how thoroughly brainwashed those Believers can be. Our belief is that it doesn’t matter what you believe, what one truly believes will be manifest in what they do. So be the change that you want to see. We tend to be progressive with high priority on social justice, environmental responsibility and cultural diversity. My own personal observation is that we all agree that democracy swings on liberty & justice for all. The major political parties have fine tuned liberty and justice to their own purpose but have problems with addressing the ‘ALL’ part. That would be everybody. 
I have no qualms with Christians or their beliefs. I think religion is a self induced drug. If you need it or want it you should have it but I know people who identify as Recovering Christians. They carry emotional scars and bruises from abusive bias and self righteous mistreatment, so much so it takes a long time for the hurt and the anger to go away. I am neither scarred nor bruised. I sensed early in that there had to be a better story and my recovery is no more than moving on from an unbelievable expectation to a real possibility. My dad would have labeled Madeline Murray O’Hair a Heathen, an insult by any measure. In his last years I didn’t have it in me to tell him I am one of those heathens. It would have spoiled his day and that’s not how you be the change you want to see.