A BIG H

Nothing like a train wreck to get your attention. Whatever was on your plate before might as well never have been there. Forty six hours ago I was on my way to begin an hour and a half bike ride. Two hours later I was in the Emergency Room with a broken Scapulae and ribs. I was on my bicycle when we crashed in a heap. In the shadows and waning light I didn’t see the pothole. Flesh and bone are not as durable as steel so between me and my bike, I came out the worst for it. I don’t remember my head hitting but my $119 helmet has a deep, terrible scar. The CT scan showed no damage to the head other than minor abrasions so it did its job. Now, in the clarity of hind sight, all those things I intended to do yesterday and today, they don’t mean a thing. 

They kept me overnight and ran me through more tests than I thought I needed but that demonstrates the parallel principle of hospital-medical care. The people you come in contact with are doctors, nurses & technicians who only want to make you well again. Four stories up in a corner office, the people you don’t meet are preoccupied with a different priority. They are administrators who operate by a more complicated principle; the more services you provide, the higher the bill and the greater the profit. Who pays doesn’t matter, only that they make people well, and they are committed to that, for as much money as they can justify - and, my injuries were serious, with potential to be even more so. They really wanted to keep me another day but I refused and they let me go. 

I don’t know when I’ll brush my teeth again with my right hand or ride my bike for that matter. The young Orthopedic PA went over my x-rays and said, “On a fractured scapulae like this, recovery takes 4 to 6 weeks.” Short pause and I asked, “What about the hanging clause?” She didn’t get it. I continued, “The one that belongs on the end of that sentence: If you are 18 years-old.” “Oh, yeah;” she said, “it’s going to take you a little longer.” I don’t know what percentage my insurance will cover but her consultation will be in there for sure. 

There were no accompanying revelations or or paradigm shifts; I’m not going to get religion or change politics but I’m paying  more attention to things I’ve taken for granted for a while. I’m reminded that this life is not only precious but it is also fragile. I’m reminded how much you love the people in your Tribe. You may not like some of them all that much but you love them. I am compelled to take inventory on not only life but the times as well. I love my country but times are troubled. I’m too old to influence anything beyond my tribe but then I’ve never been a threat to anybody, no reason to start making noise now. I am, I think all of us are like the man riding his bicycle in the evening shadows, knowing neither when not where the next pothole waits or what will break from the fall. 

Too many of my cohorts are angry because they’ve been told they should be angry: that it’s someone else’s fault. They listen like disciples to narcissist hubris from self obsessed, ego maniacs and it’s bubbling like a toxic cauldron. The kettle hates the pot: those self styled messiahs can go to Hell as far as I care. I wouldn’t give them a dollar or a minute and I certainly wouldn’t vote for their selfish agenda. I’ll get back on my bicycle as soon as I’m fit and it’s safe and I’ll do better at reminding my tribe-mates that I love them, I really do, that I’ll buy coffee, and I’ll give them a ride or hold the light, whatever they need. 

I slept in my recliner last night, under a sheet, under the ceiling fan and I slept well. I feel better tonight than when I woke up, can do more with less discomfort (clinical term for bearable pain,) Thank Prometheus for the light and while we're being thankful, for ibuprofen as well.  I’ll go there again tonight. I don’t have faith in anything but I do have Hope with a big H. I can take it by its handle and move in sync with what is important to me. If humans are superior to animals then we should be more humane: we need each other, not as competitors but because this life is tuff enough when we cooperate. 

EMERGENCE

I had a birthday just the other day. One of my boys calls it the Anniversary Of One’s Emergence From The Maternal Incubation Unit. That it was. I had been advised by my coffee group that I shouldn’t miss our 9:00 a.m. convergence. Someone had invested in a BD card and didn’t want either to throw it away or take it home. So I did my own due diligence, made a blueberry cobbler for the occasion, took some frozen yogurt and we had a celebration. There were probably 10 or 11 in attendance. 

Someone asked about the number and I confessed, there was a time when I preferred one number to another but that’s history. The rhetoric about, “It’s just a number.” starts out as a thin denial about age but then one year, probably different for different people, a birthday comes along and you realize, you really don’t care anymore. It really is just a number. If I could just run like I used to; not fast or far but actually hit stride and stretch out crossing 4 lanes at a stop light, any number would be great. 

I’ve had plenty but remember only a few. It must have been 1942 or ’43, I would have been turning 3 or 4. Any younger and I wouldn’t remember, any older and I’d have been too big. I had two aunts, Raydean and Betty Jean, in their early 20’s, both married to soldiers gone off to war. They took me for a walk; we lived in the city with sidewalks and drug stores. I was between them, each one holding one of my hands, swinging them in time as we sang a song. I don’t remember the song but I was able to chime in on the chorus. When we stepped down off a curb I picked up my feet and they swung me up and forward. Throwing my head back I could see them upside down, they were beautiful. Across the street at the other curb we did it again, stepping back up on the sidewalk, every block, all the way to the drug store. It had an old fashioned soda fountain with chrome levers and ivory handles. At the counter we sat on tall stools that spun around. We did that for a while, waiting for the soda jerk to bring us our scoop of vanilla ice cream with red, must have been strawberry topping. Between the spoon and a straw, I made a mess. They took turns dipping a napkin into ice water, washing all the dribbles off my face. We retraced, repeated our curb swinging trek over 6 or 7 blocks, back to our house on Tracy Street. I don’t know what I got in the way of presents or what kind of cake we ate but there must have been a celebration. At the time, I was the baby and the center of attention. 

In my coffee group I must be near the high-middle or lower-older of the age span; nobody under 60 if I judge age right. One friend wouldn’t leave it alone so I told him the number. I’ve a thing with numbers. I remember jersey numbers from my own playing days and of my favorite players, any sport. My number this birthday is the same as my first football jersey number my freshman year in high school. It was our first game and we wore white jerseys with blue numbers. Coach didn’t even look, just grabbed one off thee pile and threw it at me. When I pulled it over my head and shoulder pads the sleeves hung down well past my hands. I rolled them up but they wouldn’t stay up. At 115 lbs. a freshman lineman doesn’t get to play in the game but you do get to line up in the pre game exercises and do tackling drills. 

#78 - my first football number and my current age number. The blueberry cobbler was a hit and I had some left over to bring home. It was so rich I was on a sugar buzz all day. Blueberries are really good for you, full of antioxidants and vitamins but they don’t change color on the way through the maze. If you don’t pay attention it might go unnoticed but I notice. I think it’s going to be a good year but years unfold a day at a time. It’s a good day today and I'll take it. 

THE BEST WE CAN

In early spring, before yards need mowing, grass grows clumpy with bare spots here and there. Time flies and before you know it, little yellow flowers start popping up. So you tune up the mower and sharpen blades, welcome the change of seasons. The flowers are pesky weeds but still, you welcome them. Too soon, those little flowers have stretched their necks up and the yellow petals have given way a frizzy, fuzzy wig of gray dandelion seeds that gradually sail away, carried off one by one on even the gentlest breeze. 

Sixty years ago, (OMG that sounds like such a long time,) my high school classmates and I were wispy little dandelion seeds, fresh launched from the blossom, drifting like little parachutes through chain link fences, across streets, looking for a place to take root. You land somewhere and people don’t care where you came from, just, what are you doing here? We were only a few weeks into our great adventure; sixty years ago. Yesterday a small group of us got together to mark that milestone. There were 9 of us from the tornado class of ’57; a tornado destroyed our school the night before graduation. Include a friend from the class of ‘58, loved ones and one faculty member, now 96, she was our librarian and psychology teacher. Nobody at the reunion/picnic had to drive more than an hour or two to get there. They are all regulars or frequent drop-ins at our monthly lunch-bunch. There must have been 15 or 16 in the shade of the shelter house.

Without metaphors I don’t think I could describe or explain anything. I need them to model patterns and systems: it’s about me and the way my mind works. So the dandelion metaphor is spot on. From the way our hair turns gray and falls out, to the folly of thinking you can please everybody; life carries us along like wind blown seeds and we do the best we can.

I recently saw a program on PBS about a man in Kenya who nurtured an orphan lion cub. He kept the cub for over a year but his job and the needs of the animal required both return to the world they were born to. Then, 5 or 6 years later, the man came back to the wild life refuge and wondered how his lion-child had fared. With more hope than confidence, he drove out into the bush to see if he could find her. There were several different lion prides in the park that the young lion could have joined. He camped in his land rover and searched each pride's territory. He found a lion he thought might be his. She had two cubs. Approaching her would be risky so he called out to her from the vehicle and she turned at the sound of her name. Long story short, she recognized him; they wrestled and played like they had when she was his baby. She brought her cubs and clearly presented them to him. They played together all day, then went back to the way of life that had chosen them. 

Another metaphor I suppose: in our little group, nobody cares about your religion or politics. Like the man and his lion, we can set aside our instincts and priorities for a few hours, mindfully attached to another time, when the journey was new and unpredictable, before hard knocks had taken their toll. I replied to an email from a friend in the class of ’58. He participates in our class news letter and we keep him on our radar. I told him it may sound corny but the reason we keep-on keeping-on is that we actually care about each other. After all the years and the baggage we bear, we remind each other; we care. Even if we weren't the best of friends then, that was then and this is now. The psychology is pretty simple. You can’t go back, probably wouldn’t if you could. But lunch with well wishing litter mates who remember when, who only want from you what you are happy to share; it closes a circle and we all take some comfort there. 

It comes up occasionally, why more of our classmates don’t chose to come around. Once I was apologizing for not living up to someone else's expectation and they let me off the hook with, "No problem, something else must have been more important." I think that's the simple truth and it's not a problem. There must have been something more important. All I want from it is simply to know that you’ve made it. Knowing that you’ve made it is important. We break bread together and so far, the worst thing to come from that is I over eat and may have to skip dinner. 

THINGS TO DO

I drove all day yesterday, 680 miles from Grand Haven, Michigan to Kansas City, MO. If you do that very often it helps to have a good vehicle. I have a Mazda 3: it gets great mileage, it’s comfortable and dependable. I had the AC dialed up so I could wear long sleeves, keep the sun off my arms. There were 3 cases of fresh blue berries in the back seat and the cool air was good for them  too. I remember other days driving a 3 cylinder Geo Metro across the same 680 miles and it was like being in the paint shaker at Lowe’s with a million angry bees under the hood. They were good old days but not because of clunker cars. Not long ago I was pressed to count up all the cars I’ve owned; they wanted a number. When I finished, and it took a while, the number as of today is #43; #44 if you count the motorcycle. 

I’m good for about two hours behind the wheel, then I need a Necessary Break or at least get out of the car for a few minutes. I remember a radio program, an anthology of short stories called “Grand Central Station.” I was a kid, it was before our first TV. At the beginning of every show the announcer informed us, like an invocation, “the crossroads of a million private lives, a gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily.” Not unusual for me at rest stops or travel plazas, I think of that program. Strangers every one, at the same place, the same time for any number of reasons. We’ve all come from somewhere, on our way somewhere and for that moment we are extras in each other’s story. I overhear sound bites of conversations and notice logos on t-shirts, if they are happy or seem tired, if they’re in a hurry or ready for a break. “A thousand dramas daily.” I don’t have time to unravel their stories, mine is in progress and at hand but stories none the less. 

I avoid I-70 and St. Louis now, have for several years. The drive across Missouri on U.S. 36 to Hannibal is so much easier. It sits on the west bank of the Mississippi, between bluffs, the classic Mississippi River town. Then it’s a straight shot on interstate to Springfield, IL and into Chicago. Hannibal is a fuel stop both coming and going. It was lunch time yesterday and I weighed the options of a sandwich from the cooler at the service center or find a restaurant. The food factor wasn’t that important but was I ready to hammer the next 235 miles? Last year I stopped on S. Main street at a place named ‘Ole Planters Restaurant. It’s a mom & pop place with specials and lots of BBQ on the menu. To get there you have to go down stream a few blocks and cut over to the one-way coming back. Along the way you see Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer advertising, drive by Aunt Polly’s fence, the one Tom was supposed to paint but conned another kid into doing. In the 90’s we brought a bus load of middle schoolers to Hannibal for an over night immersion into the local history, Samuel Clemens, Becky Thatcher Cave and environmental issues with the Mississippi River. I have always been a Mark Twain fan. Being there was special. It sort of measures up like Christians wanting to visit the holy lands. Walking into ‘Ole Planters I couldn’t help but think that Sam Clemens had walked that street and that his river boat would have tied up at the landing just a stone’s throw away. 

I had a pork sandwich with more meat and sauce than I could juggle, had to cut it up and eat it with a fork. I recommend Hannibal for all of the obvious reasons. I’m thinking ‘Ole Planters will become as regular as the fuel stop. This morning I realized again, every time, how true the wisdom; there’s nothing like waking up in your own bed. I’m off the road for a while but that gets old as well. The older you get, the more important each day becomes and watching grass grow doesn’t ring any bells. I’m cleaning berries and getting them into the freezer today. I’ve never done a vinegar rinse on fruit but it makes perfect sense. The car is unloaded but needs cleaning. So I have things to do. 

LIVE MUSIC

I’ve always liked live concerts even though the last few have been painfully intense. It’s not that I don’t like loud music but I’ve discovered a crowd whose preference is more about sensory experience and less about music; masochists with rhythm. But I took a chance last night and sometimes you get exactly what you hoped for.  Meijer Garden is a great, small, outdoor venue in Grand Rapids, Michigan. You bring your own lawn chair, cooler, even dinner. Then you sit in the grass with maybe a couple of thousand sweet, music savvy, politically correct, most civilized people anywhere. Amos Lee; great concert. 

Lee is a youngish-looking, uninhibited, 40-someting who handles country ballads, New Orleans funk, soul, rock & folk scores with a great feel. He had a big band, horns and two keyboards but then the range of his play list required it. In the middle of the show, the band took a break and he did a one man show for 5 or 6 numbers. That was so cool. Think of the sound spectrum as a grocery sack packed full with samples of every food in the store, no space for even a grape, that is what their sound was like. Then it was just Lee and his guitar, clean, clear, simply elegant. 

When the band came back they went with fewer lyrics and more driving stuff that had everyone on their feet. I can’t remember when I’ve seen so many Dutchmen shaking booty like that. I was next to the isle which was full of people. Grand Rapids folks are usually too proper to stand in the isle but there you are. Two women were beside me, one tall and blond, the other short, brunette, both happy as great music and two beers can make you. In the break between songs I felt an arm go around me; I was getting a hug. I looked down at the little brunette who was all smiles. I asked, “How you doing?” She said she was fine and before we stopped, we were old friends. Judy is choir director at Forrest Hills High School. Music is her life and she can’t help herself. Turns out we know some of the same people and like the same things. She has reservations about retiring and asked if I had any regrets; if I had any advice. Wow: someone actually asking me for advice, about something more weighty than where to get a good taco. All I could share was a disclaimer about my gypsy life style and that she should honor her fears but muster some courage for the sake of balance. I told her, “No, I have no regrets.” I reminded her that if you don’t like speed bumps, go sit in an easy chair. My plan is to try, have a go at whatever it is you think you want to do; if you fall down, get back up. She thanked me, said she really needed to hear that. When the encore unfolded with a long fade and people started collecting their chairs, she gave me another hug, told me to say hello for her to Cerise and Connie when I see them but I said she would see them before I do. After the fact, on the drive back home, I thought of better words than the ones I had shared. I’d have told her that I don’t pray for a life full of Happy or a life full of Peaceful, I just want a life that’s full.  

This morning I’m drinking coffee at Coffee Grounds in Grand Haven. It rained early, still cloudy but Washington Street is full of families and college kids. Boats are making their way up and down the channel, to and from the big lake. I haven’t been out there yet but they are building sand castles where wet sand meets the dry and it’s just about time for chicken salad sandwiches and fruit to start coming out of coolers. I’ll get fresh blueberries this afternoon, probably 3 cases (36 lbs.), catch a movie tonight and be on the road early in the morning. 

M22

M22 is a stretch of black-top that runs up the Lake Michigan shore from Manistee, all the way to Northport. MDOT has trouble keeping road signs posted come summer as nearly every tourist wants an M22 sign for their college room or the wall at home. The towns on that route are low profile, tucked away from the main line. Nobody goes there by mistake. Glen Arbor is a main street village with one stop light but the summer crowd overflows. No way to tell who’s at the table next to you, maybe blue collars on a long weekend or Big-Wig high-enders from Chicago or Milwaukee. They know exactly where to go to get away. I do too. I’ve been coming here for over 20 years. 

Besides the big lake, there is Glen Lake and the Crystal River is easy floating. Bicycling is popular on the local roads, great shopping, great food and summer temperatures usually stay in the 80’s. Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore is named for a colossal sand dune between Glen Lake and the big lake. Old family farms from the early 20th century have been acquired and restored to period condition, open to the public, no charge. In 1996 I discovered one particular farm and have been hiking and photographing there ever since. The DeChow farm dates back to 1853. Most of its history is framed around dairy and apple orchards. I spent most of the day there; it has a soul centering effect on me, as close to spiritual as I can be. If I were religious I’d say I talk to God but in fact I’m just able to let things go, think out loud and be, just be. 

Native Americans have a universal expression that is appropriate for any respectful exchange; “Mitakuye Oyasin”. If you struggle with pronunciation it doesn’t matter. Translated it means, All My Relations or We Are All Related. In lieu of a prayer I engage the hard maples up by the sugar shack. I acknowledge the pine trees that mark the ridge between the lower and higher meadow. Wild sweet peas and weathered wood on the big barn require my attention. Down by the road there’s an old, half dead apple tree but it still makes apples. I knew and wasn’t disappointed, there would be fresh deer beds there. “Mitakuye Oyasin”. 

The Lake Michigan shore is about a mile away. In the trees at the end of a two-track they built stairs down to the beach. In the old days we had to scramble down the bank, hanging onto tree roots. Not much beach this morning, surf had pushed a lot of sand up on the berm with just a narrow strip of swash. Amazing how water works, in and out, rolling stones against each other until they are smooth and rounded. I bend down to turn one over and the one next to it is a Petosky stone; my lucky day. “Mitakuye Oyasin”. I study it for a few seconds and slip it in my pocket. Before I can move up the beach I find another one. I’ll give it to someone special. I’ve been here so many times you would think it would get commonplace but I never know for sure what it means or when I’ll be back. So I just let it happen, try to be in sync, up here on M22.

HUMAN NATURE

If I’m lucky, I get back to West Michigan 3 or 4 times a year. When I do, I always have more to do than I have time. I renewed my car license tags this morning and took breakfast at the best place I know, anywhere. Morning Star is on Washington St. in Grand Haven, just a block off of U.S. 31. I sat at the counter, had blue corn cakes with green chili and an egg on top. I watched the cook and her helpers. They really work; the plates of food just keep coming through the window and the servers have to run to keep up. 

When the day comes and I have to stay in one place, Grand Haven would be as good a place as any. When I think of home it always turns to Carl Sagan’s quote about home; “Look there, that’s home, that mote of dust suspended in a sun beam.” I live on Earth. Most people here want to hear something more concrete, like coordinates or a zip code. Beneath a civilized veneer we are tribal and that means; Who’s your mama? I dodge the issue enough it makes my family and friends uncomfortable. “Why can’t you just say something they can digest and move on?” I would like that but it would gnaw at me for hours. But I do love Michigan. The big lake is flat and blue this morning. Sail boats far enough out, all you can see are their sails. Mid July and people lounging at sidewalk bistros would rather sit in the sun than the shade. 

I fit in here, speak the language, understand the righteous bias. White privilege is so internalized, so systemic, no one has heard of it or else they think it is a sinful conspiracy. But in the next town where Fulton St. crosses Division, if you look south you’ll see poverty with its addicts and derelicts. But in Grand Haven, poverty is a myth and they might as well be comic characters in fairytale. 

I know a liberal minister here turned university professor who told me, “You didn’t screw it up and you can’t fix it. If you want to play Don Quixote and joust with wind mills, you can. But that’s all you’ll be doing. If you live within your means and do no harm, that’s all God can expect. Live as best you can, do what you can, it will be gone soon enough.” Sounds a lot like King Solomon don’t you think? I didn’t like his advice at first but over time I think he is more right than wrong. We are evolved to serve our own best interest on the one hand and likewise, evolved to take care of each other. Which way to lean, how hard to push, and how long it takes to realize you’ve gone too far: it’s a relentless tug of war called Human Nature. So I’ll keep coming back to Grand Haven and the good life here. But I know how the world turns down on Division St. and the difference between their fate an mine is timing and good fortune. My biggest decision for the rest of the day is whether to help split fire wood or help spread wood chips in the blue berries. I get to work as hard as I want, quit when I feel like it. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll drive up to Glen Lake, Sleeping Bear Lake Shore. Photographs and a hike will take all day. Then meet with my investments manager; who would have ever thought coins in a coffee can would grow up? Hang out with friends at a concert in Grand Rapids on Friday night and my week here will be nearly spent. I have a high school class reunion the next week - miles and miles . . . but I know how that works.