SCHOONER

We’ve been on the road now for 3 weeks, always with someplace to be every night. Some people like structure, schedules and itineraries and sometimes I wish I fit that profile. But in truth, it wears me out. All it takes is one hick up and it’s back to the drawing board. I’ve been told that you can skip a day and move on with the plan. But skipping the 500 miles you were going to put down that day leaves you a long way from the bed you had reserved. I normally carry my bed with me in the back of my truck. When the sun goes down, there you are. It works and I like it. But we, (she is a true road warrior like me) we have a schedule, bumpy at best, only a few calendar/course corrections and here we are. 

The Affordable Travel Club is a network of seniors who are willing to provide a fellow traveler with a bed for the night, breakfast and share hospitality that is the driving force of the organization. I’ve belonged to AFT for about a decade and never had a bad experience, either as a host or as a guest. There is no formal pricing, only a tradition for gratitude to match the hospitality. At some time before or after the guest moves along, the host finds a $20 bill on a night stand or coffee table as a heartfelt thank you. We’ve stayed with ATC members as we have been able and they are certainly good company, friends for the most part that who you would have missed otherwise. 

It’s early (still dark outside) and we are staying with a Pakistani family in their cheap motel, not far from Gatlinburg, TN. This is all about renting a bed and bath. I’m sure they are nice people but playing cards or sharing common interests just don’t fit the profile. If there is no ATC member nearby, at the end of the day one does what they must. Later, when we get daylight, Great Smoky Mt. National Park is our plan for the day. Then there are distant relatives (hers, not mine) waiting for us in NW Georgia. It has the same feeling as ATC even though they do have a common history. 

Our primary reason for the road trip was to adventure on a tall, sailing ship, a schooner. We did that right off, out of Rockland, Maine. The American Eagle is a 90’ schooner or 119’ with the bow sprit. Built in 1930, it is the last schooner/fishing trawler built in Gloucester, MA. They fished the Atlantic, caught lots of fish and in 1983 was a salvage project; either spend a ton of money or a rebuild or cast it off to the scrapyard. The refit was complete, new, redesigned everything; moving and redesigning the galley, new masts, new bones, new deck, converting the hold to living and sleeping quarters with toilet (head) accommodations and other amenities I won’t elaborate on here. 

Since 1985 ‘Eagle’ has been giving tourists a taste of the salt water experience, up and down the Maine coast. With 26 passengers and a crew of 6, we spent 6 nights and 5 days dodging in and out of islands in the Gulf of Maine, going ashore in villages and lobster bakes on isolated beaches, and it was all good. One night there were 13 schooners anchored in the harbor of a small town that featured a sailing school for wooden boats, all with a full complement of passengers. They were celebrating the tradition of wooden sailing ships and we were part of the show (the boats that is) and we (the passengers) were allowed to spend money at the festival that was in progress. 

This road trip with its best feature early leaves us nibbling at bait as we make our way back to New Orleans. Acadia Nat’l Park with its rugged Maine coast was great and today will feature Great Smoky Nat’l Park. This life is pretty good. Being old has its draw backs but travel is the upside. 

BUCKET LIST

St. George, Maine is a little hamlet that sports a few farms along the road, just a few miles down coast from Rockland, a destination sea port for yachts and sailing ships. We’ve come here to spend the week onboard the schooner, American Eagle, a Bucket List item that has come of age. The schooner is berthed at its mooring in Rockland while we are safely berthed at Robert Skoglund’s “The Humble Farmer” Bed & Breakfast, on the road to St. George. Built in 1847, the old two story has a fresh coat of yellow paint and solar panels. The place shows its age with wear and tear but likewise, it has been taken care of with a frugal sense of yankee purpose. 

Robert met us in the drive, scrutinized our parking in the grass at the corner of the house. I sort of expected a crusty old salt water character and he exceeded our expectations. Well into his 80’s I would guess, he spoke with a stereotypic, rattly Maine drawl that ascended slightly as he spoke and finished with an implied question mark. The sense of humor was quaint with an edge but he knew he was a funny man and milked it with subtle charm. We spent an hour or so engaged in clever conversation. It felt like a call & response song, never knowing where the call part would take us. Robert had his own local television show once upon a time. He reminded me of a wizened, old but not so fractious Soupy Sales. He made me think of the Canadian, CBC program from the 80’s, ‘Red Green’. We were entertained relentlessly. 

We are set to board our tall ship this evening and cast off for a 5 day cruise among the islands in the gulf of Maine. Hurricane Dorian passed through yesterday, off shore far enough all we got was a windy day with low cloud cover. By now it’s blowing itself  out, up the Nova Scotia coast. With the day to kill, I’m sure the sea port town will have plenty of trendy little shops and memorable characters to keep us occupied. My companion is still asleep in our upstairs room. It’s the only issue that we haven’t fully resolved yet. I am an early waker-upper and she prefers to sleep the morning away. So I’m journaling this a.m. as the dark outside gives way to gray and the traffic on the road is all headed into Rockland. We’ve been promised a ‘Large’, Maine breakfast, not that I’m all that hungry but I’m sure I’ll enjoy the food.

In this house, all of the furnishings are fashionably dated which means old, utilitarian and well preserved. I especially like the painted, 10” wide floor boards and area style rugs. Robert’s wife Marcia is pleasant, obviously not born & bred a yankee. The ladies went off into the kitchen for a chat while he went from verse to chorus like a stone skipping on flat water. I remember as a 6 year-old, visits to Sheldon, MO; to the old clapboard house at the end of a two-track. This place doesn’t have the classic scent of a wood fired, kitchen range or the smell of down filled comforters but I expect to be satisfied with a half-full, half-empty experience here. 

There will be no WiFi on the boat so I’ll not bother with my computer. Sleeping berths are adequate but storage space is non existent. We stopped to get wool socks in Connecticut yesterday but otherwise it’s a the clothes we have on, one change, several layers of warm, dry tops and rain gear. I’ll have more to say about the ride when we get our land legs back next week. 

NAVEL GAZING

Popular song lyrics can slice thin Human Nature’s tendency for fabricating wannabe wisdom. Kris Kristofferson has never been one to jump on bandwagons or to wait in line. His fate has been to dig relentlessly at the bottom of his hole. Still, no matter how long or how deep you dig, the hole just gets deeper. The bottom of the hole is an illusion. In his song ‘The Pilgrim’ he reveals a man who spends a lifetime searching for his elusive ‘Something-or-other.’ The pearl discovered there goes; “. . . and he keeps right on a changing for the better or the worse, Searching for a shrine he’s never found. Never knowing if believing is a blessing or a curse, Or if the going up is worth the coming down.” 

Navel Gazing is generally mocked when it is someone else but in the 1st person it feels so right, so necessary we wear out the welcome. Curiously, with a similar song title, Simon & Garfunkel address the same conundrum in ‘The Boxer’: “. . . I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises. Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.” In both songs, if all you get are these hook lines you can fill in the blanks. An important failsafe in Human Nature is ‘Denial.’ Feeling ‘Right’ is a moral imperative even at the expense of being correct. Navel Gazing lets you roll uncomfortable ideas around like in ‘The Cain Mutiny’ Captain Queeg’s ball bearings. It gets easier to believe the unbelievable or to dismiss an inescapable certainty. When we do that we become detestable hypocrites, with the ease of scratching an itch. Historian/Author Yuval Harari observed, “Your story doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work for you.” 

Our Comfort Zone is the emotional boundary where, when I approach, I must either turn back or buy into denial. Most of us are familiar with CZ rhetoric. We like to believe that with an open mind and some courage we can venture out into unexplored, threatening scenarios be they real or imagined. If you overcome the fear of spiders or change a personal trait so that telling truth even when it hurts, it doesn’t mean you’ve overcome the CZ. It means you’ve expanded it and you have more options than before. Sadly, what feels like an expanded CZ may be a fraudulent smokescreen with the predictable result, believing the unbelievable or dismissing the inescapable certainty. 

My intention was to Gaze on the Law Of Unintended Consequences. It states that any intervention in a complex system tends to yield unintended and often, undesirable outcomes. When that happens, the leap to denial and CZ tricks is the most comfortable path to take. We (especially leaders) hear what we want to hear and disregard the rest. Individuals and small groups are better with accountability than groups that require leadership. Within a leadership hierarchy, deflecting culpability is the highest priority in human endeavor. 

George Carlin was a standup comic who pushed back against all of society’s self righteous transgressions. I loved his humor because it exposed our flaws. The center of his CZ was synchronized with mine but too much of George Carlin was not good for me and I have to keep him at a distance. I think of it as, not trusting the CZ, like knowing when to stop eating the food you like best. People still kill each other over what they believe and that part of our legacy is way-far outside my CZ. I love having feelings that translate into action and experience. But keep in mind that those same feelings are suspect at best and dangerous if left to their own device. So far, as I perceive it, my CZ is open to being wrong and willing to change my ways, to be in progress rather than carved in stone. Then again, maybe it's a smoke screen and I’m no better than a nasty Hillary Clinton or the reprobate shit-sack in the White House. If this is navel gazing then that’s what we do when they change the locks at work and give your parking place to someone who wasn’t born yet when you were hired.

OVER MY LIMIT

Since I’ve been back from Michigan I have been waking up on Michigan time, an hour earlier than my alarm. If I wake up in the middle of the night I can usually tell it’s the middle of the night but this recent little episode is hard to figure. If I can’t get back to sleep in half an hour or so, I get up. That’s when I discover the hour. So 5:45 a.m. means I’ve been awake since 5:15, an hour ahead of the alarm. I’m still on Michigan time. 

Last week I drove down to Nashville for a compound birthday party. I was in the army with Harry sixty years ago. At 20 I was a week older than he was and that disparity is a constant. His wife thought we should celebrate #80 together so I drove on Friday, helped prepare on Saturday, partied with all their friends on Sunday and retraced my drive on Monday. All three nights there, I woke up shortly after 5:00 a.m. I tried staying up late but that just lulled me into a sooner than later nap. 

This growing old thing has its peculiarities. I wouldn’t call them drawbacks, the alternatives are either malcontent or dying young. Harry told me, “I think I’ll go for another twenty years.” I replied, “I’ll go for tomorrow.” He rolled that around for a short minute and conceded the wisdom of living in the present but he was just being polite. We are friends after all due to a shared history with all of the misadventures that youth spawns. Two days every ten years is all we need. Another day and my welcome would have worn thin. My nuance is a good enough is good enough, left leaning adaptability. Harry’s base line is never good enough, carved in stone with a built in, clock wise rotation. But when you’ve been friends that long you don’t want to let it go sour. So we focus on what we still have in common and go our own ways before the wind changes. 

I love being on the road and every landscape has its own beauty but that stretch of interstate between Paducah and St. Louis, it puts me to sleep. I had to stop twice, park in the shade and close my eyes. Waking up, if the shade has passed us by, I know I napped over my limit. 

THOUGHTS & PRAYERS

After mass shootings in El Paso and Dayton I was encumbered with feelings of both ambivalence and a sense of disconnected grief. I tried to write about it but ended up with a lot of talk-talk, processing that doesn’t serve any purpose. All you get is exhausted. Media commentators have run out of ways to report the bad news. So far in this calendar year the rate of mass shootings exceeds one per day. We’ve become desensitized to  gun violence in spite of the horror it spawns. I feel a need to scream but for what? I don’t know where to begin. 

The difference between how we behave with other individuals and how we plug into the aggregate culture is worth considering. People I talk with don’t seem to give it much credence. My story takes away some of our presumed  superiority which is unacceptable. When you engage with one or a few other people, your input can be the driver of cause and effect, you are part of the cause. Within the dominant culture, one’s individual input is basically irrelevant. I can cooperate with my neighbor on a charity event or I can take him to court over a code violation. I am an agent of change in both cases. But on the grand scale, a national issue, I tend to stratify among the many. I no longer drive the cause but rather, become part of the effect. The difference between being an agent of change and a stratified particle is not obvious when cultural self-worship is the rule. People love to believe their vote or protesting may be the difference in who rules but it’s mixing individual and group dynamics and they don’t mix. Me, the whole, I am made up of systems, made up of organs, made up of tissue, made up of cells. There are over a trillion cells in the human body. If any particular cell was self aware and believed its individual input drove any collective effect it would be deemed ridiculous. 

Keeping track of when one’s role changes from agent of change to the change itself seems logical to me but then I don’t get much respect when I start challenging the sanctified human bias. Where is this going! We live in a gun culture. I don’t have to highlight our national history, our legacy is a violent outpouring against anyone who thwarts our collective ambition. We don’t choose it, it selects us even if we don’t like it. All things being equal, our culture tracks one way for a while and then self corrects. But all things aren’t equal. Since 9/11, America’s greater culture has been turning to the dark side. Not only have we exported violence at an inordinate rate in retaliation but we have been turning on each other as well. A perceived need to cleanse our racial and ideological identity has never been more prevalent. Do the math! We need more guns. If you go to a movie or a grocery store, to the university or to a church, it is safe to assume there are as many concealed fire arms there as there are empty pockets. If you hate guns, lobby against them, you are still part of the gun culture, you are the effect. I don’t think it will reverse its course in my lifetime. Change comes slowly, one funeral at a time. 

Mass shootings: why not? The tools of death are easily acquired. Some people, for whatever reason, glamorize violence with a convoluted sense of patriotism. It spawns mass shooters who aspire to be martyrs. It’s easy. That kind of self righteous disregard for life runs not only deep but near the surface. So when the news breaks for deadly events I am neither surprised nor outraged. We are part of the effect and as deeply as we want to believe that someone can turn it around, I don’t. Looking back at history, everything bad could have been avoided but looking forward, there is no way to anticipate what hasn’t happened yet. Unanticipated consequence is always in play.

Many Conservative leaders are afraid of their own constituents. Instead of the greater good, instead of policy and practice we get “Thoughts & Prayers.” It’s a way to change the subject. If they take a real stand against gun violence the gun-clones will kick them to the curb and elect someone else. They (martyrs) relish the energy, the current that has given them a voice. They love to believe they are agents of change but like the rest of us, they are being dragged through history, not creating it. Our President believes he is a history maker but history has made him. There is no plan. We get what we get and make up stories to reinforce our sense of purpose. I wish I had better news. For really good news you have to fall back on small group interactions where you can after all, be an agent of change. 

7 > 3

Reaching in to pluck a ripe blackberry you encounter a thorn. In recoil you engage several thorn pricks and thoughts of sweet berries are dismissed by feelings of pain. Pain receptors serve us well but the service is under valued. Why would you feel good about a thorn prick? Anyone who masters the 3rd grade understands the body’s early warning system. Then again, like my car’s cruise control, if I can make it work I know enough.

Mastering the 7th grade, you learn about nerve networks where impulses send information to the brain and the brain sends commands back to body parts. “Ouch, it hurts,” and “Get your finger out of harm’s way.” If you really feel a need to know, mastering can go on for decades. With a cruise control approach, you’ll never know what it is that you’ve missed. Unfortunately, if or when you change your mind it may be too late for a course correction. If at age 30 or 40 you feel the need to master understanding of the body’s immune system, all things being equal, your life is probably a plate-full. Making space and taking time to remaster the 12th or 15th grade is unlikely. So you ask someone who knows and the best they can do is dumb down the math from balancing equations to a fundamental appreciation that 7 is greater than 3. 

I don’t think you need a college education to understand a thorn prick but the learning curve is keen and if you leave it fallow it will take the low road. After 50 years of computer evolution the most important principle to emerge is, “Garbage in, garbage out.” However one equips the mind with tools for communication and the acquisition of information, that’s all you have to work with. I know folks who are, for all practical purposes, illiterate but they function in their culture, work hard, love and are loved, making a good life. Life is good. There is no career path to happiness like medical school for a doctor. Happiness is a universal expectation and everyone negotiates that boulder field with the tools they have mastered; throw in some random chance. Life delivers blistering fast balls, sinking curves, tantalizing change ups and random beanballs. We, the batters, stand in with a piece fo wood and the skill set we have accumulated.

I am an old man, career behind me but I have to work at something. The need for a sense of purpose is very real, at any age. If all I get is happy then I’m a dull boy. I think ‘Content’ is the ideal state of being. It feels good but like the half full, half empty glass; it keeps you real. Arrogance with its swagger and ego, they don’t care much for ‘Content’. The danger with ‘Happy’ is, it’s easy to believe you deserve all the glee that good fortune has rained down on your parade. True, in this life we have to live as if we are the masters of our own destiny but in fact we know that we are not. 

I’m a good listener but with age comes entropy and diminishing returns. That makes me more selective in what I consume than when every rock needed to be overturned. I love good conversation but they come few and far between. Even with like minded friends, dialogue can lose its way and all you take away is the rehashing of what was already agreed upon; reinforcing an established bias. The fact that someone will listen to your prattle is reconciled by listening to theirs, a ritual that has more to do with in group bonding than growing an idea or the spark of discovery. It’s hard enough, framing language to convey something long deemed unthinkable. You sense you are moving through the second or third step of a complex equation and your audience is stuck on the logic of, 7 is greater than 3. My offering, with no qualified destination, will sublimate like piss in the wind. Still, there are times, when lightning strikes and you feel like the young explorer who doesn’t care if the boat never docks, as long as there is wind in its sail.

CIRCLE OF LIFE

After twenty five years Disney Studios went back in time with a remake of “Lion King”. I saw the original back in ’94 but honestly, all I recall are the bones of the plot and some of the music so I went again last night. Animation has become so realistic, the animals, the scenery and the action make it hard to believe they weren’t born of flesh and blood rather than on strings of computer code. I was hoping for a repeat of good vibes and wholesome entertainment but the experience didn’t take me there. Twenty five years, OMG; technology changes, the business changes, movie makers change, I changed. They were true to the story which leaves me wondering, is it them or is it me? 

My first reaction was to rethink Disney Studios and their movie making trajectory from the early days with Walt and Mickey to Lion King 2. Conservative ideals drove both the business and the image they have crafted for public consumption. God, country and family, in that order. In 2010 Disney made the race horse movie ‘Secretariat’. Even in the new century, studio execs felt they could not tell the story with the leading character struggling her way out of a failed marriage. So they wrote it with her pushing back against a glass ceiling in the horse racing crowd but submitting to a traditional, subordinate role in her family. God, country, family; don’t make waves. Why would I expect less with Lion King 2?  

In Lion King, the story is one stereotypical life lesson after another. What is good, bad, what is true, false, what is right, wrong, again and again. Don’t get me wrong, lessons are necessary and without them the story would lose it legs. But after twenty five years, the second version found me considerably more experienced and certainly skeptical with regard to propaganda. Sitting in the dark with the music, the humor, the action, both tender and violent; I wasn’t buying any Disney hyperbole. What I couldn’t dismiss for the sake of story was the idea that our destiny is fixed. Doc Brown in ‘Back To The Future’ wouldn’t have any of that and I tend to lean his way on issues of destiny. Likewise, in any morally charged dilemma there has to be an evil-doer. So we got the Cain & Able model, brother vs. brother and the evil-doer prevails. That biblical ripoff needed a woman to rebuke so they vilified hyenas and their demonic queen. Evil brother and wicked queen, pure Old Testament. Then the story segues to the New Testament parable, the return of the prodigal son. In the end, everything good and right over comes wrong and the just prevail; God, country and family. 

I’m sitting there in my theatre seat making all these observations in real time, questioning myself every time. It’s just a story, right? I’m no conspiracy theorist but poop still stinks and pee runs downhill. Back to the story, the circle of life is a main theme. The old lion king explains to his son, antelope eat the grass and we eat the antelope, then we die and decompose, come up again as grass, the circle of life. That was one of the best parts. Then he shares a heavenly revelation where all of the old lion kings are up among the stars and if you really need help, they will help you; afterlife.

I suppose, if you hadn’t seen the ’94 original, it would be a wonderful movie. If the conservative, status quo agenda went unnoticed you could chalk it up to good storytelling. But Disney is what it is and that’s what you get. I’m a skeptical, old, unapologetic heretic. That’s probably why ‘Back To The Future’ gave me more to feel good about.