EVEN LITTLE BIRDS KNOW

  I don’t remember exactly when but I must have been in Junior High, my grandpa lived with us. He was a cranky old man who kept to himself but we had an unspoken trust, what went on between us stayed between us. One day in the fall I came outside as he was coming around the corner of the house with a shovel and a bucket. I followed him to the middle of the front yard, asked what he was doing. There was some dirt in the bucket and a Maple whip (a small tree in its 1st or 2nd year with a single, unbranched trunk and a few leaves at the tip of its leader.) He was going to plant it.
He had me uncoil the garden hose at the corner of the house and drag it to he spot he had started digging. I asked questions and ran water into the hole then watched him nest the taproot into the mud at the bottom. He held the whip steady while I started back-filling dirt into the hole. We let the water trickle into the loose soil long enough for me to learn; “Planting a tree is always a good thing and the fall is the best time for it.” The house is still there, I don’t know who lives there but after 70 years, when I drive by the old place I see the tree is still making afternoon shade on the front porch. 
In the early 90’s I was a resource teacher at an Environmental Magnet Middle School and read an article that said; “People who have a keen sense of appreciation for nature and the environment can usually trace it back to a childhood experience that was shared with an elder role model.” That Maple whip was the first tree I ever helped plant and my grandpa and I did it together. 

        My job was infusing the environmental theme with plant science. I had a greenhouse and a lab where teachers brought their students for hands-on activities. We did lots of tip cuttings and seed plantings in paper cups with follow up to measure the seedling’s progress and took field trips to identify trees by their leaves. Before I got that assignment my biology had always favored animals. But the more one learns about any aspect of nature the more it draws you in. The chemistry of photosynthesis is complicated but it can be modeled with toothpicks and miniature marshmallows and we did that in small groups of 2 or 3. My plants vs. animals preference adapted considering that waste product of plants is the free oxygen we breathe and animal’s waste is - you know what cats try to bury and birds leave on your windshield. 
In the 1990’s Americans were polluting the environment at a record rate. Right wing politicians and big business knew what was happening but didn’t want to believe it. They stood to profit from irresponsible policy & practice and nothing would jeopardize those profits without a fight. In denial hey mocked and discredited researchers, called it a liberal hoax saying, “The sky is too big and there is too much water for us to do that.” and the threat of pollution had become a running joke. I was dismissed in my own family as a Tree-hugging, hippy, save-the-whales freak. After all, those plastic bottles and coal burning industry create jobs that drive the economy and corporate profit. We are still polluting at a record rate but everybody knows. Human nature is strange, they used to call cigarettes ‘coffin nails’ due to the cancer connection but millions keep on smoking. It’s no surprise that businesses that save money by polluting the air and water and land, they keep on doing it. 
John Muir was a pioneer naturalist in the late 1800’s/early 1900’s and instrumental in the formation of our National Parks system. He was quoted, “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” Out of sight-out of mind translates to, “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” Yet, that translates to, “Pay me now or pay me later.” Everything is connected, interconnected and the ‘Pay me later’ certainly will come around. When it does it may be too painful to bear. Even little birds know not to sh*t in their nest. 
I don’t know what my grandpa would think. His time was the 20th Century and suffered from the ‘Out of sight’ mentality. But he got the tree planting just right. In the 70+ years since we planted the Maple whip I have planted more trees than I can count. I like to think I would have grown to love and understand the nature of nature without my grandpa’s influence. 
I think about this stuff, I really do. If that makes me an old ‘save-the-whales’ freak then that’s alright. I do care about our Mother planet, especially the thin layer of air, land and sea that supports life. It is fragile, only about four miles thick and it’s the only place on earth where life can flourish. That’s not just human life but all life. Trees were here long before humans climbed down from the trees and started walking upright and trees will still be here when there are no more people. Thanks again Grandpa.

I GUESS IT DOESN'T MATTER

  I have deleted so much from so many unfinished written pieces I can’t remember what has survived and what was dumped without a second thought. Sometimes just framing the language meets the need to write. If nothing else it’s therapeutic.

                                   *    *    *    *    *

I don’t do this very often but this will be one of those times. I am rewriting my last blog post. So it’s a different piece of work even though it deals with the same ideas. The idea I came up with originally isn’t bad but it feels a little fractured and I can do better. I have a fifty-ish friend about the age of my kids, we don’t always see things the same but it doesn’t get in the way. His backstory is wide and deep and he likes to think he knows all of the why’s and how’s of how his journey has shaped his personality, values, beliefs, etc. I like to think that the self-analysis task is a lot easier said than done. The human animal is hard wired to overestimate our own ability to read the tea leaves and connect the dots. That is the premiss that I began with. 
I introduced ‘Confabulation’, the unintentional creation of false or distorted memories to fill in the gaps in an incomplete memory. Those distorted memories are usually attributed to a medical condition (amnesia, dementia, etc.) but a healthy mind can also loose or misplace parts of a memory. The remembering part of the brain is subject to a constant stream of information and there has to be a way to sort out the irrelevant stuff and keep the rest. Even then the mind keeps sorting and deleting; short term memory. The point is; even though we pay attention a great amount of detail in a particular sequence of events is lost from memory. So said, even a healthy memory bank can lose things and the mind creates a fix like a patch on a flat tire; an alternate reflection. 
That remembering part of the brain is a lot like artificial intelligence (AI) software. Give it a story that is full of holes and it will fill in the holes with a plausible but fabricated substitute to complete the story. The person remembering has no reason to doubt the authenticity of the altered memory. A healthy case of Confabulation: If it doesn’t cause a problem then I guess it doesn’t matter. But I can connect the dots and understand that it is what it is. I am old enough there has been plenty of opportunity for my old mind to ‘Confab’ my backstory. I like to think I have a handle on how I got to be the present version of ‘Me’. But I don’t have a crystal ball and I can’t trust memory to be perfect. Personality is a complicated soup and develops over time so whatever I am is what I’ve become, one day at a time rather than following a recipe (stir this stuff and then add that stuff and keep stirring).
I’ve been told that the lawyer who defends himself in court has a fool for a client. I would think the same thing for those believing they can solve the riddle of how they got to be the person they are. My friend has a cut & dry rationale for the way he picked and chose his way up to the present. I cannot even address that idea without leaving space for the thousands of individuals whose finger prints are all over my backstory. It’s not only what one chooses but also experiences they never experienced and nobody lives in a vacuum. Add to that, how does one factor random chance into their own destiny?
How did I get to be the person I am? As I remember, I trusted and loved my parents. I always wanted to please my mother and going to church made her happy. I didn’t have to believe anything, just sit still and drop my coin in the offering when it came by. As a young adult my sanctified enthusiasm fell way short of the mark but Mom was looking the other way. It wasn’t until college I learned to question tradition and value the discipline of science and critical analysis. I never thought of it as a major change in course but what did I know? Since then “God is the metaphor that transcends all levels of human comprehension.” (Joseph Campbell). Everything mysterious that we cannot understand is attributed to the metaphor. It came easy, swapping Faith for Good Karma. How it came about is not as important as the fact that it did.
I’ve never been attracted to tobacco or booze. My dad smoked cigarettes but Mom got him to quit and she would not allow booze of any kind in the house. How that low profile unfolded I don’t know.
As memory would have it a good friend and I sneaked cigarettes out of our dad’s smokes and puffed away under a bridge near his house. After a week or so I couldn’t ignore that I didn’t like the taste or the smell and the buzz from getting away with mischief wasn’t fun anymore. It never made me feel grown up or cool. I quit before I could learn to inhale, he didn’t. My friend died of lung cancer twenty years ago. Dun! Good story I suppose, just can’t be sure it’s all true. 
I can only remember being drunk three times, twice in the army and once shortly after I was discharged. What I do remember is being sick and the vomit part. Whatever sense of uninhibited bliss it provided it did not survive the edit. I sip a little wine with food now and an occasional shot of peach brandy but the memory of my head in the toilet, vomit coming out my nose is both powerful and real, too much so for it to be a confabulation.
Yuval Harari is a scholar/writer/historian, the source for one of my favorite quotes: “Whatever it is that you believe, it doesn’t have to be true; it just has to work.” How we get to be the person we see in the mirror, the person others see from afar; that story doesn’t have to be true but it does have to work, to serve a purpose that can be either a virtue or a vice.
I’m going to change the title of this blog post. If nobody notices then it doesn’t matter either. I haven’t received any death threats and my retirement check has never been late so I’ll just stay with what’s been working for all these years. 

TOES & SQUIRT

  It’s early on a rainy morning here so naturally it’s more dark than light but my alarm still goes off just like it should. At 6:30 it takes me a little while to get vertical, serviced, dressed and become functional. I was at the kitchen counter trying to get my morning pills out of the pill caddy without scattering them. That can be a challenge with warm weather and high humidity; they stick to the plastic and to each other. If I’m not careful the whole cache can end up rattling around on the counter top or even on the floor. Two pill caddies, morning and bedtime, they date back a dozen years and the snap-caps have lost their snap. Their lids pop open while I’m liberating the stuck-together pills and pills escape like puppies through a hole in the fence. All together, morning and night I take nine nutritional supplements and two prescriptions that I could do without but my doctor says, “Just take them.” This morning, that’s what I was doing. 
Wearing sandals, a T-shirt and shorts I felt something squirt on my ankle. I wasn’t ready for that, it was too early for a mystery and I was preoccupied with pills. There was nothing down there except for my feet. The squirt felt like water, I wiped it away with a paper towel and racked my brain for a reasonable explanation. There was none but the obvious next step was to shine a light on the dark floor and look. Nothing there except the floor and the cabinet but I looked again. 
There, in the kick-space below the cabinet and in front of the kick-board was a tan blob the color of the floor. I bent over to shine the light closer and it leapt out and under the table. It was a treefrog, in that had squirted on my ankle. I grabbed a plastic cup and tried to capture the little amphibian but it was too fast for me and after the third try I didn’t see where it landed and with due diligence I kept searching. It had to be down there somewhere but I had looked everywhere and I gave up. It was not an unwelcome intruder like a mouse or a snake so no ref flags. I wanted then, still do, want to get it back outside where it can flourish and survive. 
Thirty years ago in Michigan we had sliding glass doors that opened from the dining nook onto the patio. The dining table was the best place to grade papers and make lesson plans so I saw a lot of those doors. In late summer especially we had a pair of tree frogs that stationed themselves up on the outside of the glass door at night, feeding on insects attracted by the light from inside. One was larger than the other and they had names. The big one’s name was Toes and I can’t remember the little one. Life was good there in ’97 and the performing treefrogs made it even better.
I did some research on my little tan visitor and yes, they squirt a toxic spray in self defense. It’s enough to ward off predators but apparently not enough to damage me. (Dryophytes versicolor) or Gray Treefrog; they can also change color to blend in with the environment. Squirt, I’ll just call it Squirt; it was tan on the tan floor and probably threw me a curve by changing color. I have no idea how it got inside but I leave a night-light on over the kitchen window. I guess a fly might buzz the night-light but I doubt that Toes will be able to make a living in my kitchen. I’ll keep looking, see if I can come up with a better catch and release strategy. 
The treefrog thing segues into another conversation. I have neighbors across the street who keep cats. By definition they are feral (domesticated animals that revert to a wild state either directly or through their descendants). The people feed the cats but they live outside which in effect makes people the pets. My yard slopes up to the house with a southern exposure and the cats love to sun in my yard and on my driveway. They climb on and under my vehicles with casual familiarity, even explore inside my garage if the door is up. These cats are absolutely fearless. They know when to fight and when to run and just how close you can get before they move away. Even then they retreat at the same speed you are approaching, stop when you stop and you can’t stare them down or shout them away.
Every year in spring and fall we get one or more new litters of feral cats. In my neighborhood the mortality rate for feral kittens is high. But at any time I can see and recognize 6 or 8 of my neighbors cats, some young and some mature but there is a constant turnover with no change in the way they behave. I’m sure they capitalize on pet food left outside by other neighbors. They prey on mice and voles, snakes and stalk birds at feeders. Young squirrels in the spring are also prey, before they learn that cats can climb trees too. 
I tolerate feral cats but I welcome treefrogs wherever I find them. I would be disappointed to find the brittle little, bone dry remains of a treefrog somewhere in the house. Good luck Squirt and let me know if I can help you find the door. And: who said retirement would be boring?

SORRY 'BOUT THAT

  I cannot recall another mid-August when things here were so green. I just got back from a 12 day road trip and the grass in my yard was lush, no brown spots. By now the big cottonwood should have leaves turning yellow and falling for lack of rain but not this year. Yesterday I had to mow a second go-round to shred the dense layer of clippings that blanket the yard, a third time in some places. 
I’ve shared this before but still it’s what comes to mind; most of the folks I talk to suggest that travel is great but the day you get home is the best day of the trip. I don’t argue the point but neither do I agree. Pulling into the drive and reacquainting myself with the familiar is my least favorite day of a road trip. I have to agree that sleeping in my own bed is better than any other bed but that’s about beds. I’ll wake up in a strange new place with open ended anticipation that never strikes at home. 
One advantage of being on the road is that I don’t hear the news. My little-old truck has a good radio but I rarely listen to it and never the news. The truck is old enough it has a built in CD player and I have a dozen of my favorite albums in the sleeve on the sun visor. When I want company I can pick a CD. I believe the axiom, "Never say never." so I won’t say the news is never good but the odds in favor of good news on the news is 1:99; the 1% scored when someone beats cancer and rings the bell at the clinic. Then again, the odds in favor of a terrific song are 99:1 with the 1% scored to a damaged CD.

People talk to each other about the news and that is where my defense is thin. “What do you think about (such & such or this or that?) and I’m left hanging on a hook. I can say, “I don’t think about it.” and I share that feeling often but it just compounds the issue. Between politics and religion I don’t have much in common with anybody. I dreamt a dream last night where I had been embraced by Canada and it felt so good. I’m too old and lack resources to become a citizen there but the dream was sweet. 
In my homeland Democrats want to serve the underclass without disenfranchising the 1% by raising taxes and helping those who need a 2nd or even a 3rd chance which is no better than wishful thinking. Republicans want to protect both big business and the 1% by slashing their taxes at the expense of the working poor which is what they’ve been doing for the past 50 years. I don’t like either party or the way they go about their business but I vote for the Dems in self defense.  
Religion is just as ugly. Evangelicals have joined with political conservatives so completely they are like fingers on the same hand and they cannot undo the damage. It is an unholy alliance but I’ll not dig in that hole today. The idea of religious freedom has been transformed into self righteous authority. In the name of religious freedom we should all be free to worship or not worship as we please as long as it doesn’t violate other people’s freedom, my freedom, my body, another person’s body, my daughter’s body, etc. Historically more people have been murdered in God’s name than have been saved. The Sons of Abraham (Jews, Christians and Muslims) have been killing each other for thousands of years and all in the belief that they are the same God's chosen ones. In God’s name they kill their fellow believers to gain wealth and power. Something wrong here, with the believers or with their god. 
There I did it (Damn!) and I hate it when I do that. That’s what happens when I listen to the news or to someone who won’t shut up about the news. I got this piece off to a good start with road trips and lawn mowing. Then I fell off the cart, must have landed on my head and started venting: sorry ‘bout that. 

I TAKE MY CHANCES

  August 8; I am sitting in the air conditioned comfort of a study room in Ludington, Michigan’s public library. It’s hot outside. The weather app on my smartphone says it’s only 83 but it’s hot. Still, if you’ve got nothing to do but wait, no place in the shade to take cover then ‘Hot’ is about how you feel and not a number. I parked under a shade tree on a side street but that only lasts a while. Then I thought of the library and it’s really nice here. I’ve got a few hours to kill before they start loading the ferry for the evening run to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The Badger is a big ship by anybody’s measure and the hold will accommodate (I don’t know how many) but it takes an hour to load all the cars and trucks. All the people ride topside with lots of deck space to walk and retreat to a huge lounge. There will be a running bingo game, game after game until we dock in Wisconsin. You get one card and the prizes are token trinkets but it’s more like meet & greet than serious bingo. We get a free hour as we cross the line between Eastern Daylight and Central Daylight time. So we dock around midnight central time and I’m not driving in the dark so I’ll find a corner of the parking lot and wait for sunup, get some zzzzzz’s. 
The concert last night was good. The concert crowd from Grand Rapids is a heady, middle age collection (my idea of middle age is 60+) and they favor artists and their music from the 80’s, 90’s and early 00’s. Mary Chapin Carpenter (I Feel Lucky) fit that niche perfectly with old favorites and stuff from a new (to be released) album. I have new hearing aids and they hear everything, maybe too well. I have trouble filtering out background noise and lots of the band showing-off makes lyrics difficult if not impossible to comprehend. I know, I know; if it’s too loud then I am too old. But the beauty of that generation was in the lyrics, they told a story and if I can’t follow the story then it may be wonderful but still, if the vocals are just other instruments making awesome noise then I should have spent my money on something else. She did one song solo with the band off stage and her magic is still there. 
Meijer Gardens Amphitheater is surrounded by residential neighborhoods and the city requires all concerts to end by 9:00 and I’m told they enforce that rule vigorously. In that case they will be paying a fine as the encore went well beyond the 9:00 hour. They finished with a flurry and left the stage but everybody knew we would get the encore. The song was “He Thinks He’ll Keep Her” which is a pushback against male dominance and without missing a beat, within the chord structure of the first song they slid right into “I Take My Chances”. It was an 9 or 10 minute treat and I loved it. 
“Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate - And for them I can not disagree - But I never learned nothing from playing it safe - 
I say fate should not tempt me - I take my chances.”

Addendum: 8/10/25
Lake Michigan was windy with big waves and we were late into Manitowoc. The ferry offloads late every nigh and the local authorities don’t want unauthorized travelers hanging around, waiting for sunrise so there is a curfew. Nothing is open and the my only choice was to drive after dark. Fifty some miles up the road I found a truckstop that was open and I stopped for a long nap. Back on the road at 5:30 there was  just enough Gray-light to see up the road but still need headlights to be seen by others. 
Arriving at my son’s place near Saint Paul, Minnesota just in time to unload and go into Minneapolis. Yesterday was the first exhibition game for the NFL and the Vikings were playing the Texans; we had tickets and off we went. In a few words, none of us really wanted to sit through an NFL game for the sake of the game. Our seats were six rows from the top of the top level, looking almost straight down at players so far below you had trouble telling the color of their jerseys; so far we couldn’t see the football. We (my kids) wanted to be in the new stadium with the crowd and hype. Football is what it is and we like it when our team wins but going to a game is more like running with the bulls in Pamplona. Too loud, too far away to watch; without the jumbo screens at both ends of the field one wonders how far fools will go to brandish team colors and spend a ton of money. We enjoyed the game and left a few minutes before the half ended. Getting out of the parking lot and downtown was very easy; good lesson, if you want to escape the bumper to bumper crush, leave at half time. 
It is Sunday morning. We are going out for breakfast. I am still really clean and fresh from my shower last night and the sky is overcast (weather is cool). The world is a pretty good place as long as you don’t watch the news. 

GOOD KARMA

  I am in Kalamazoo, MI at a McDonald’s across from the bus station. At 7:10 a.m. people traveling by bus are coming in and out for coffee or an egg McMuffin. I’ve been approached several times by panhandlers hitting on everyone with a suitcase or a samdwocj. If my mother were here she would surely say: “There but for the grace of God go I.” I never embraced her religion but she was a righteous soul; never let me forget that this life is fragile and that being smart and working hard is not enough when you’ve  been dealt a bad hand. Yes, there but for the grace of good Karma, that could be me. 
I belong to a travel club where members offer up their spare room to strangers (fellow club members) who need an affordable place to sleep while on the road. Last night I stayed with a retired biology teacher and his wife. Their home is 98 years old, brick two story with arched doorways and mahogany woodwork. The stairway railing to upstairs was so massive and detailed I couldn’t help stroking it like a favorite pet. She had already left for the morning when I got up at 6:15 and he was sleeping in. There is no formal charge but it is understood to leave a $15 gratuity. That way you cover the cost of changing sheets with no records or bookwork. 
I can’t get over the people here. They all had a mother who probably loved them, had high hopes for their future and would have been crushed to see them now. Nobody sets out to be a failure and they make choices that at the time, feel like their best chance to succeed at whatever the day brings. Even though I’ve turned away from Christian faith there is wisdom scattered through the bible’s stories. “Judge not lest ye be judged.” If not for the thousands of other people’s finger prints on my story I might be panhandling here as well. 
The sun just popped out from clouds to the east and I’ll think of it as a good omen. I have stuff to do and I’ll get out on the road. The truck is running well and I’m not hungry yet. Good karma.

HATS OFF TO MEIIJER

  Wednesday, August 6; Hats off to Meijer Stores, particularly the one on Westnedge in Kalamazoo, MI. For anyone not fluent in Great Lakes culture, Fredrick Meijer was a contemporary of Sam Walton just upstream several states. Meijer Stores are basically the same dream-come-true as the Walmart Super Stores, just not spread outside the Great Lakes States. I am sitting in a section between the main entrance and the produce where 8 tables for two line the walls and a countertop with half-a-dozen stools. Add to that, electric outlets are plentiful. You won’t find that in any Walmart store I’ve ever been in. The Walton plan is all about shopping carts that are too big and moving customers through the checkout lanes as fast as possible. They certainly don’t want computer hacks like me hanging around with a drink and sandwich while writing or doing research or play games or work at keeping their journal up to date. I even had my choice of large or small push-carts, something else most Walmarts don’t like to see. 
I stayed in a $73 motel in Grand Rapids last night. I try not to pay money for time spent unconscious making motels a last resort. Two nights ago my power station (high tech battery pack) either lost its charge or I misread the meter and I woke up in the wee hours without the support of my c-pap machine. So I didn’t get much sleep and had to resort to that last resort last night. The power station took a full charge and looks good so I’ll try camping at the truckstop again in a few days. That will be in Ludington, MI.; have to be there early to board the ferry for a ride across Lake Michigan to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. I don’t like driving unfamiliar roads in the dark and motels in Ludington are all well over the $100 toll. If I don’t get good rest at the truckstop I can nap on the ride across the lake. That’s my plan. Like any other plan I anticipate the possibility of life throwing me a curve, followed by reboot, adapt and update the new plan. 
Tomorrow night the MaRY Chapin Carpenter concert is still on in Grand Rapids. I’ll go back up the road I came down today. The gates open at 4:00 and my good company for this show won’t get there until just before the music starts so I’ll fix food for the cooler and stake out a good spot (lawn chairs) as soon as they let people in. The worst part of this trip is pulling in the driveway. But I’ve got a plan for September. 

IN DOG YEARS

  It’s almost 8:00 p.m., I’m in a McDonald’s in Traverse City, Michigan . I left Grand Rapids just about 12 hours ago, drove by the seat of my pants to Cadillac, MI and turned it over to the GPS. The next hour and a half was a maze of twisty-turn course through the woods; tried to stay oriented but even on a sunny day the tall, dense woods and narrow roadway left me clueless. But my navigation machine got me to a familiar junction near Glen Arbor, my destination. 
Finding a parking spot in town has always been a challenge and it was even worse today. My first stop was Cherry Republic, a restaurant-winery-bakery and everything-cherry store. Had a cherry-pulled pork sandwich with cherry bbq sauce, cheese and cherry coleslaw between the buns; so big I had to cut it up and eat it with a fork. Then I picked up six jars of cherry horseradish; one for each of my kids and two for me. 
They set samples out for everything they sell and nobody checks to see how many times you go back for 2nds, 3rds, 4ths; you get the picture. Everybody is careful to scoop chocolate covered cherries up with the teaspoon that is provided but it takes several scoops to fill up the palm of your hand. One lady does nothing else but refill the chocolate covered cherries bowls (3 types) milk, dark and mint chocolate. By the time she refills the bucket the samples are empty again. I managed to constrain my predatory nature but I made several passes by the chocolate covered cherries and it’s my birthday today (12 years, 3 months in dog years.)
I’m going back tomorrow morning to a place I call ‘The Church of The High Meadow.’ I’ve been going there for over 30 years to worship nature, take comfort in my pagan instincts. Then I head back to Grand Rapids for a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert on Thursday. Finding an opportunity to journal requires some planning. This little blurb will not get a re-read or edit. I’ll just toss it up and trust the universe to give it legs.   (Couldn't help myself) I did make an edit or two after all. 

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.