On the Texas trail

The stars at night are big and bright
Deep in the heart of Texas
The prairie sky is wide and high
Deep in the heart of Texas
The sage in bloom is like perfume
Deep in the heart of Texas
Reminds me of the one that I love
Deep in the heart of Texas
        -- 1941, Hershey and Swander


Texas is a big state, nearly nine hundred miles wide. I’ve made four stops along the way, that’s hardly rushing along; but I feel as if I should have spent more time on dusty roads, maybe trailing a herd of longhorns. The transition from America’s east and southeast into the west is remarkable.

Now, I like trees – including the forest primeval where even sunshine struggles to penetrate the dense flora. My ideal is a mountain setting with abundant trees and some kind of body of water – lake, river, ocean or at least a substantial stream. I’m a big fan of things arboreal.

But, when I’m wandering, I definitely prefer plenty of open spaces. I like to know what’s around me; I’m uncomfortable without a sense of the lay of the land.

For weeks, I drove through endless forests. Even in towns and cities, it was difficult – often impossible – to see a block down the road. Even 15 or 20 feet of “forest” behind a building often obscured what was beyond and, for all I knew, I was always on the edge of wilderness. That’s a rather romantic notion; but it’s also sort of crazy making.

That changed when I entered Texas. As the foliage subsided and more and more of the landscape became visible, I began to feel better. Clearly, I prefer the agoraphobic influences of prairie and desert to the claustrophobic effect of dense growth areas.

Yep. Me and old Dan’l Boone just need plenty of elbowroom.

To be clear: I’m not saying I want to live in the desert or on the plains. I’m say that as a traveler, I feel more comfortable when I can see to the horizon and when landmarks (mountain ranges, even cloud formations) are visible from miles away.

I wonder why this is true?

Texans, on average, do actually seem to have a bit more ego than the average folks I’ve met. But they’re not so much more so to be unpleasant to be around – their self-confidence and broad, in-your-face, approach to social contact suits me just fine.

I’ve been made welcome in each of the Texas facilities I’ve visited and am happy to have spent a few weeks in the Lone Star State.

Not that I’d want to live down here. I’m still a Colorado kid at heart.

Tomorrow, I’ll drive by the Sun Bowl (on my way to Las Cruces) a few hours before the big game. I visited UTEP today – taking in a women’s basketball game (versus the U of New Mexico Lobos) – and did a drive-by of the stadium. There are tents set up for the muckety-mucks and the place looks about ready for an influx of fans.

I was tempted, a year ago, to add a loop through Colorado to this trip. I’m rather glad, now, to have resisted the temptation. All the way through Texas – and I suspect for the remainder of my trek west – I’ve been humming, “California, here I come!”

I can see forever

Oh, give me land,
lots of land under starry skies above,
Don't fence me in.
Let me ride
through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself
in the evenin' breeze,
listen to the murmur
of the cottonwood trees,
Send me off forever
but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in.

        -- Cole Porter, 1934

The first (and only other) time I crossed Texas by auto was in 1957, when my family moved from Ohio to California. We caravanned in two vehicles, a dodge passenger car my folks inherited from my grandfather and a 1951 Chevrolet carryall.

I loved that old Chevy – and, by all rights – it should have been my first car (it went to a Tijuana orphanage instead, but that’s another story).

We had a number of adventures in that vehicle, including a month-long trip into Mexico in 1963. The Chevy broke down more than once in somewhat desperate circumstances; but we were rescued by Mexican mechanics, who were coincidentally expert in repairing 15-year-old American cars, many of which had made their way across the border.

I remember a few incidents in particular. My sisters were riding in our towed trailer during that month-long excursion when they noticed that the rear bumper (onto which the trailer was attached) had begun breaking loose.

That kind of discovery generates a lot more concern by occupants of the trailer than those in the truck; but, we finally noticed their hysterical signals and pulled over before the two vehicles disconnected.

We crawled to the next city where a welder made things right – but none of us ever asked permission to ride in the trailer again.

On the deserts of Chihuahua, we had what must have been our second flat. In any event, we ended up rolling the tire a quarter of a mile or so to a “taller mecánico.”

This roadside operation was absent nearly everything that would indicate an ability to repair automobiles. But looks can be deceiving and we’d already learned that Mexican mechanics had automotive repair skills that emphasized innovation.

Our tire trouble turned out to be tube-related, specifically, with the valve. While stems for today’s tubeless tires are attached to the wheel, they were an integral part of the tube in days gone by. And, there are actually moving parts in a valve that can fail – which, in fact, they did on the Mexican desert.

The mechanism can be removed, with the proper tool, and a replacement installed. I have no doubt that our mechanic could have removed the valve with or without the proper tool; but he had a more serious problem: no replacement part.

Nonplussed, our man filled the tire with air as if the valve was functional. Watching him operate the hand-pump was amazing as he had to pump faster and faster to overcome the effect of escaping air. When the tire was full, he removed the pump and pressed a finger against the opening at the end of the valve stem.

With the other hand, he wrapped a wire twice around the stem – below the valve – and, pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket, twisted the ends until the wire had a tourniquet effect and blocked the passage for escaping air.

And we were on our way. The repair held until we could replace the valve. I don’t remember whether my father saved the wire, but I sure remember it.

The most dramatic motoring mishap occurred on a spring vacation trek to Mazatlán. We had taken a day-trip to San Blas – a tropical fishing village made famous by a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem.

On our return trip, we experienced engine failure. The sounds coming from the Chevy’s engine signaled a serious problem. A party was dispatched to the nearest town and returned with bad news: we would have to wait until morning for a tow and rescue.

Most of the crew then abandoned ship, hitching a ride back to Mazatlán. Three of us (my parents and I) remained to guard the vehicle until morning. Despite the sounds of a few “hombres borachos” (drunken men) coming from around a nearby bonfire, we survived the night and were, in fact, taken into town by a local mechanic. The “tow truck” was a pickup with a rope attached, but that got the job done.

The man’s “shop” was the side yard of his house. We stayed with his family for much of the day while repairs were being complete. Plans to send me on to Mazatlán to provide an interim report proved unnecessary as our mechanic performed his miracles – including finding replacements for damaged rods and pistons – and got us back on the road before dark.

My Saturn has been running like a top. It’s only 12 or 13 years old and seems to be in very good shape; but I’m comforted knowing Mexico is just a few miles away. If I get in trouble, I might just head south in search of a taller mecánico

Rocket Chess

The chess-board is the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.
        -- Thomas Huxley, 1868

(Some of my writing pals may remember this Christmas story, written last year for our class in Merced)

After the year Mom nearly got busted for Christmas tree theft, we forever abandoned what had been a long-standing family tradition of buying our tree on Christmas Eve.

It may have been then that a new tradition emerged: the last-minute shopping spree.

This yuletide event was prompted by a local drug store that launched a huge ad campaign touting super bargains and specials on Christmas Eve. They promised to remain open until at least midnight.

We three kids were on very tight budgets, so the discounts presented quite an attraction – along with the excitement of joining a mob of procrastinators at the eleventh hour on Dec. 24.

At the time, this outing seemed to be very complicated – requiring careful application of intricate logistics under unbelievable time constraints.

In retrospect, it was really all about just six transactions. We were three siblings, each needing to find one present apiece for the other two.

We pushed our way through the throng, keeping our eyes out not only for likely purchases, but also for each other. One important objective was to maintain secrecy.

I confess to having been guilty more than once of trying to discover the identity of Christmas gifts in advance of the great opening. I squeezed, shook and otherwise examined any packages I could find – and I did not obey orders to stay out of restricted areas.

One December, I ventured into our off-limits basement a few days before Christmas. I wasn’t bold enough to turn on the lights, so I could only look at faint shadows in the semi-darkness, seeing nothing, but imagining all sorts of wonderful things.

Back at the drugstore, I focused on finding suitable items for my two sisters. This was particularly difficult because I had done no research and didn’t have a clue as to what they might like. At the same time, I pursued my secondary objective: catching a glimpse of their selections.

I spotted my older sister near the checkout stand and made a surreptitious approach from her blind side.

Success! She held a small cardboard box in her hand with the label in clear view. It was “Rocket Chess!”

Rocket Chess! Rocket Chess! That had to be for me. The previous summer I had become obsessed with chess.

My passion had driven me to whittling and I carved a set of chessmen out of branches. After hours of work, I discovered that nobody else in the family shared my interest and I couldn’t get anyone to play with me.

It’s probably just as well, though. In truth, it was pretty hard even for me to distinguish between the various chess pieces I had carved.

Well, my interest in the Royal Game hadn’t diminished – it was just in hibernation. And now, I was certain that everyone in the family would want to learn how to play Rocket Chess.

A year or two earlier, the United States entered the space race and our family gathered on the deck outside my parents’ bedroom to watch the Explorer or some other early satellite meander through the heavens – appearing to be a faint star itself, but one on the move.

I imagined that Rocket Chess pieces must be in the shape of spacecraft – and I couldn’t wait to discover the details and to explore the ancient game of chess in the context of modern technology and the space age.

Thank goodness it was already Christmas Eve. Only hours remained before I could get my hands on my new Rocket Chess set.

After returning home, we each sought a private location and began wrapping gifts. Needing scissors, tape and other supplies provided an excuse for trying to sneak more peeks at what my sisters sought to conceal.

Finally, we gathered in the living room and placed our gifts under the tree. We knew that by morning, these offerings would be enhanced by the “big” presents and we gulped hot chocolate in eager – no, it was more than eager… we gulped hot chocolate in greedy anticipation of what was to come.

Even after I had grown and was on the parent end of the Christmas experience, I always had trouble falling asleep on Dec. 24.

It wasn’t visions of sugarplums dancing in my head that kept me awake. It was the possibilities. Despite my efforts to discover what was in store, I never really knew what was to be revealed on Christmas morning.

Knowing that something was coming, and that it could be just about anything imaginable, was magic.

That year, I knew that Rocket Chess was in my future, but I tossed and turned for hours wondering what else lay under our tree.

I can’t recall what the “big” presents were, but I’ll never forget opening the gift from my older sister.

“Rocket Chess!” I exclaimed. “Just what I wanted.”

My sister looked over at me rather quizzically and said, “It’s not ‘rocket chess,’ it’s pocket chess.”

Dumbfounded, I examined the box more closely.

The package had been torn in shipping or by a customer in the store and a narrow, jagged line of exposed cardboard extended diagonally from the “P” in “pocket” – creating the illusion of an “R”.

The gift I held in my hands, on that memorable Christmas morning, was a miniature chess set – designed for travelers.

Designed for regular, earthbound travelers, that is.

It wasn’t Rocket Chess after all. But it was a neat little chess set.

I still couldn’t get anyone to play against me; but I enjoyed a number of games played against myself.

Not long after that Christmas, President Kennedy decided to make the space race a top priority for our country.

To this day, I wonder why a nation that was able to put a man on the moon couldn’t also invent Rocket Chess.

Keep the old

Make new friends
But keep the old
One is silver
And the other, gold

        -- anon

I won’t be sharing gifts this year – I haven’t even received mail since leaving Merced last February – but I just got one of the best presents I could hope for.

My friend Bill Morgan from back home called with my 100-year-old buddy Frank Pelatowski standing by for a chat. Bill was instrumental in one of the first great adventures I had along the road. His introduction got me to meet Del Smith in McMinville, Oregon and to see his wonderful air museum (soon to be an air and space museum).

Bill has called a few times, but not lately, so it was particularly nice to hear from him during my lonely Christmas week.

Frank’s participation was very special. Bill was so thoughtful when he realized how much our friendship means to both Frank and me. We became friends almost immediately – despite the fact that we disagree on just about every political issue in the world – and our bond grew stronger every week as we got together to write and go to class where we share what we’ve created (Frank always got better reviews…go figure).

It was just great to hear Frank’s voice. We’ve had many heart-to-heart talks and, in the context of writing about our lives – know each other quite well, almost as if we’d been friends for years and years.

I’ve met hundreds of people during the past 10 months and have talked about my friendship with Frank with most of them. I have dozens of Frank stories to share; he’s a great icebreaker -- though not nearly as much as in person.

Though my motive for moving in with Frank and Bill and others who now occupy a place in my thoughts was rather impure – I joined the family in order to qualify for the corporation’s travel program and to take this trip – I’m really looking forward to returning to the “family.”

I won’t be staying long-term, but am looking forward to the reunion in February.

I don’t believe anyone from the facility has been tracking my progress by reading this blog, but I’ll still say, Merry Christmas to all of my friends on North R Street in Merced.

All I want…

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear one
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
And so this is Christmas
For weak and for strong
For rich and the poor ones
The world is so wrong
And so happy Christmas
For black and for white
For yellow and red ones
Let's stop all the fight
        -- John Lennon, 1971

Christmas is coming and I have a cold. It’s my second attack in five months; maybe life among the seniors isn’t as safe as I thought.

I’m a terrible, big baby when I’m sick. It’s just as well, I suppose, that I’m not around anyone who cares and, thus, not able to inflict my pain and suffering on others when the focus should be comfort and joy.

A blow by blow (forgive me) account of the onset of disease could go here, but I’ll not burden my readers with the details. Suffice it to say that it’s a rather mild case and I’m hopeful (perhaps not realistically so) for a recovery in time for Christmas Day.

I had hoped to attend some basketball games while here in Odessa. Maybe I’ll find a post-Christmas tournament in El Paso – I know basketball is very popular there.

Meanwhile, I’ve slept at least 30 of the 40 hours I’ve been in Odessa. I’m on the 7th floor, so I do get a sense of the city – at least the northern view from here – which is pretty much downtown. I enjoyed a tremendous sunrise yesterday. Today’s was a bit disappointing in comparison, but still featured bright orange skies.

The county library is across the street. When I saw it, I hoped I’d get over for a visit. Maybe they’ll be open on Christmas Eve and I’ll feel up to it.

Well, few topics are of less interest than the minor complaints of others. I’ve noticed that when the stubbed toe is on someone else’s foot, it never seems like much of a problem – in fact, it sometimes is an object of mirth.

Pulling heartstrings

My alone-on-the-road status has resulted in quite a bit of alone-in-the-room time; and though I’ve tried to do a lot of reading, I must confess to allowing too much of that time to television viewing.

An amazing number of Christmas movies – many of the made-for-television variety – began flooding the cable-ways after Thanksgiving. And I am a bit of a sucker for this fare.

I’ve been saving the blockbusters, Wonderful Life; Miracle; Christmas Carol; and Christmas Story (with little Ralphie), for this week before Christmas. But I’ve seen at least a dozen other seasonal offerings, including one tonight, The Christmas Shoes.

Most of the films get to me – at least a little. I think it’s partly because I’m pretty open to being affected by the Christmas spirit, in a sappy sort of way.

I can’t seem to resist any new twist on Dickens’ classic – there must be twenty variations on that theme with all kinds of occupation and gender switches for the major characters. Knowing exactly what’s coming next doesn’t seem to eliminate the appeal for me.

Many other yuletide flicks deal with characters who rediscover tidings of comfort and joy just in time to celebrate Christmas Day. It’s obvious that they’ll undergo the appropriate transition – if I just stay tuned to the last reel. And I generally do.

I found myself reacting to tonight’s offering with quite a bit more emotion than usual. My eyes were watering, my chest was tightening and a familiar sense of sorrow settled upon me.

I had a similar set of sensations a few years ago watching an unheralded romance titled Return to Me.

As usual, it took a while for me to sort things out and realize why these two movies hit me so hard. Both stories deal with the death of a young wife because of heart disease.

My own 37-year-old bride succumbed suddenly to undiagnosed heart disease in 1999.

Recognizing that my subconscious can be a lot quicker on the uptake and can initiate my emotional response to various stimuli is rather unsettling.

This is where I should tie up all of the loose ends in this entry; but I’m afraid I don’t have it figured out. Moviemakers always manage to find an ending; I’m still working on mine.

The Best Legacy Money Can Buy

I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend if it makes you feel alright
I'll get you anything my friend if it makes you feel alright
'Cause I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

I'll give you all I got to give if you say you love me too
I may not have a lot to give but what I got I'll give to you
I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

Say you don't need no diamond ring and I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of thing that money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

        -- The Beatles, 1964


How can one find fault with Andrew Carnegie’s decision to build libraries in just about any town or city that asked for one? During a half-century, he built more than 2,500 of them; by 1920, nearly half of all American libraries had been funded by the steel magnate (founder of U.S. Steel).

Of course Carnegie’s $2-per-capita expenditure in towns where he built libraries makes him a piker compared to Bill and Melinda Gates. The Washington state couple has teamed up with America’s other most wealthy individual, Warren Buffet, and created the largest charitable foundation in the world.

The worldwide scope of BMG doesn’t keep it from having scale. The current endowment is over $35 billion – or about $6 per capita, including everyone … everywhere.

When I was growing up, choosing a life of service to others was held up as a noble decision – serving as a low-paid, hard working, doer of good deeds was considered to be a high calling.

Today’s young people are being provided a very different model: first, get yours; then, once you have it all, share some of the excess with others.

While Buffet still lives in an Omaha house he bought for $31,500 and tends toward frugality, Bill and Melinda live in one of the most expensive homes in the world (about $125 million), surrounded by luxury and art items worth millions more.

Well, can an argument be made in opposition to having priorities set by Carnegie, Buffet and the Gateses? And how can devoting a lifetime (say, 100,000 hours) to one or more good causes be held in as high regard as endowing enough money to employ thousands of talented folks to do good works far into the future?

At the risk of being viewed as a socialist or just a plain wack-o, I will offer a fairly straightforward argument against philanthropy on the scale of Gates/Buffet, Carnegie or even those who give away mere millions of dollars:

That brand of charity is just plain undemocratic.

It’s a bit like the Sherwood Forest without Robin Hood. The rich “voluntarily” give to the poor – but with strings attached.

Bill Gates has been named (by Time magazine) one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th Century. Since establishing the BMG foundation, he’s been re-certified as one of the top 100 for each of the past four years, this despite business practices that have, on occasion been declared illegal by the courts.

The Beatles notwithstanding, money – it seems – actually can buy love.

Donors clearly influence the direction of major charities like the Red Cross, United Way and World Vision. And executives are often compensated so well that any argument that they are “giving their lives” to serve others seems rather ludicrous.

How many of us would send part of our hard-earned cash to a charity like Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation International, which turns more than three-quarters of a million dollars ($766,855) over to the current and past presidents each year when the Whittier Institute for Diabetes pays its director $170,090.

I believe arguments that charities “have” to compensate executives at “competitive” levels is an insult to hundreds of thousands of volunteers and others who work for low pay because they believe in a cause.

And elevating “charity workers” into the upper class seems … well … undemocratic, to me.

Is there a solution to a system that sometimes makes millionaires out of those who are ostensibly doing charity work?

Hmmmmm.

I think I know how to make decisions about who gets helped and how more democratic. But we’re so far from “there” that I won’t share my views for fear of being relegated to the lunatic fringe.

Suffice it to say that a lot of money that started as wages became profits that were put to use by owners/investors/entrepreneurs to fund projects they believe in – often utilizing expensive services provided by others made rich by the same arrangement.

Other money is welcomed – from generous wage earners, small businesspeople, retirees and others who find a way to share some of their modest means – but those donations don’t usually buy influence, let alone control.

Follow the money.

By the way, Carnegie refused to put his name on the libraries he gave away – a rather refreshing side note in a world now filled with programs and facilities bearing the names of those who provided money to causes of their own choosing. So much for giving being its own reward.

Bookworm

The Andy Hardy movies didn’t tell it “like it is.” They told it the way we’d like it to be, describing an ideal that needs constant reinvention.
        -- Mickey Rooney

I am who I am, in large part, because real people like Howard Pease, Ted Geisel, Robert Lawson, E.B. White, D.J. Watkins-Pitchford, Ann Weil, Madeleine L'Engle, Robert McCloskey, Ellen MacGregor and Beverly Cleary introduced me to fictional First Mate Tod Moran; Horton the Elephant; Amos the Mouse; Charlotte the Spider; British gnomes Dodder, Baldmoney, Cloudberry and Sneezewort; Michele Pagano from the Isle of Capri; Meg Murray; Homer Price; Miss Pickerell; sisters Beezus and Ramona; and a many more imaginary beings that influenced me between age 6 and 12.

I’ve wondered why my mind seems to be constantly filled with thoughts – why I’m never able to turn it off and think of … nothing. Perhaps it’s partly due to the way I started – with books, books and more books.

I was constantly in trouble, both at home and school, for reading at the wrong times. My main transgression at home was reading after bedtime. I had permission to read for a half hour, but chapters never seemed to end on that half hour – and the end of one chapter inexorably drew me on to the next.

At school, I either hid my current title inside a textbook, or tucked it in the cubby under my desktop. I kept up pretty well with schoolwork, but I discovered multi-tasking long before Bill Gates introduced Windows.

Though I have tended to shortchange classic literature, I did graduate into adult fiction and became an avid movie-watcher. Films produced during the golden age of movies included hundreds of “B” pictures and many of these found their way onto television just when I had free hours to take them in.

As I created the list of examples offered above, I was struck by how few details I can recall from all of that reading. I have only a basic sense of the general story line and of characters, but not many specific recollections.

It’s sort of a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” approach to literature, I guess. I wish I could quote chapter and verse from my favorites – or even give credit where it’s due more often when I’m stealing ideas from others.

I’m so happy to be living in the Internet age. I’m able to pull a few words out of my jumbled brain and punch them into Google™ Or YouTube™ and, presto!, I can find the source, sometimes full text or video clips.

The “real” world hasn’t escaped my attention. In fact, I may spend more time on current events than I should. Hopefully, those countless hours of reading and exploring have provided a counterbalance against reality.

Black and White

Superstition, bigotry and prejudice, ghosts though they are, cling tenaciously to life; they are shades armed with tooth and claw. They must be grappled with unceasingly, for it is a fateful part of human destiny that it is condemned to wage perpetual war against ghosts. A shade is not easily taken by the throat and destroyed..

        -- Victor Hugo

One of the people in the drawing was black. Students were asked, one after the other, to describe the scene; but not one mentioned the race of that person. Finally, Mr. Harris suggested that we were uncomfortable addressing race.

He was right. And it’s still true today.

I suspect that the same exercise, if conducted in 21st-century classrooms throughout the country, would elicit the same results today. I think student would describe, in detail, the scene, clothing, poses of the characters and their behavior. But I don’t think they’d identify any of those depicted by race.

After a few months in the south, I’m pretty convinced that race remains one of the more troubling of the unsettled issues in our democracy. Of course I knew this before I left Merced – I’ve known it since Mr. Harris pointed out how we ignore things that make us uncomfortable.

For some reason, the most troubling specific thing that I’m observing is the use of “sir” by black people. I’ve heard the word more times in the past several weeks than in years of living in California. But, speaking anecdotally, it always comes from black people.

I’m not only referring to those who are paid to serve – as in the buildings I’m occupying or gas stations and restaurants. Black people I’ve greeted in parking lots and other public areas seem typically to reply with greetings appended by the word, “sir.”

I suppose part of this may be a social difference here in the South. But on the other side of this coin are racist comments – albeit mild – made in passing by people I’ve met.

Again, I’m spending nearly all of my time interacting with people over 70 and there may be less of this in the younger generations. But it is clear that old attitudes die slowly.

A fellow I dined with recently was the most overtly bigoted person I’ve encountered. Three times he put forth a racist theory and each time I made a clear statement that rejected his notion. A retired professor from Louisiana State University was at the table. He chose to remain silent on all three occasions.

That’s about as close as I’ve come to sharing Steinbeck’s frustration, sorrow, disappointment and sense of futility that peaked when he visited Louisiana more than 45 years ago.

Though I didn’t confront this man overtly, I was diplomatic, deferential and direct. I didn’t ignore his remarks. I hope Mr. Harris would approve.

I'm just saying

You talk too much
You worry me to death
You talk too much
You even worry my pet

You talk about people
That you don't know
You talk about people
Wherever you go

You talk about people
That you've never seen
You talk about people
You can make me scream

You just talk
you talk too much

        -- Joe Jones and Reginald Hall


“Why don’t you just be quiet?”

The question was posed by Ellie, one of my regular tablemates back home in Merced. Four of us shared a table at noon and night just about every day of the week. I joined the other three because my best friend, Frank, occupied a third seat at the small, round table.

The fourth spot was occupied by Mary, whom I called “Queen Mary” or the “Ice Queen” because of her habit of asking for an extra glass full of ice during each meal. I got a kick out of watching her transfer the ice from glass to glass with a teaspoon. The idea was to keep both of her other glasses, each containing iced tea, fully iced.

We have a lot of fun at our table – at least in my opinion. I enjoy inviting Mary out on the town – and being rejected by that rather puritanical lady who I think still enjoys being invited – and kidding around with my 99-year-old pal. Frank and I became real friends during the months we shared at The Hampshire, spending many hours together.

Ellie, I believe, rather enjoyed her role as “disapprover.” She tolerated my shenanigans most of the time, but on at least one occasion they exceeded her limits and she uttered the exclamation offered above.

My reaction was a combination of joy and embarrassment. Ellie didn’t really seem to be particularly angry; and she was definitely not being damaged by my motor mouth. But her complaint was justified. I often talk too much.

I was reminded of my loquaciousness at breakfast this morning. At the end of what seemed to be a pretty good exchange of ideas, my tablemate – a retired professor – issued a convincing lecture on the topic of talking too much.

A bit fixated on what he considers the too-frequent use of the pronoun “I,” the prof made a compelling argument. He rather heavy-handedly concluded that my manner probably results in fewer friendships, that I discourage intimacy by dominating conversations.

He’s right.

Though I’ve heard many amazing stories – some of which I’ve documented here – and have learned a lot about people places and things along my route, I often wonder how much more I would gain if I did less of the talking.

I recognize that I have an aversion to “dead air.” That’s the term broadcasters use for extended periods of silence – a real problem for radio, because absent some kind of sound, radio is – well, radio doesn’t really even exist without sound.

As a journalism instructor, I’ve cautioned students about talking too much during interview sessions. And I’ve promoted the use of silence to allow the interviewee a chance to collect thoughts or expand on their comments.

Becoming a better listener and encouraging others to share more is a goal I’ve pursued for nearly 20 years. But it seems to involve a pretty significant personality change – something I’ve found to be nearly impossible both in my life and in my observation of other people.

I wish more people would remind me, as the good professor did this morning, that plenty of room exists for improvement in my behavior. It’s a goal that I may never achieve – there are competing values at play – but it’s definitely worthwhile to continue the effort.

Interviewing skills have rescued me from a number of socially uncomfortable situations. I’ve discovered that when conversation dies down, it’s usually possible to simply shift into interview mode and begin asking standard “who, what, where, when, why and how” questions. Most people respond readily to questions about themselves. The result: no dead air.

At the beginning of this trip I often attempted to break the ice with strangers by telling jokes. I still tell jokes – it’s fun – but I use them far less now. And I think the conversations have become richer as a result.

I still do a lot of the talking, though. And I definitely use the word “I” a lot.

I really do.


People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who know much say little.


        -- Jean Jacques Rousseau

Spirits of Christmas

For years, I’ve resented commercialization of the Holidays and the use of emotion to coerce people into buying more every year. During the Holy Season, I’ve been a holier-than-thou when it comes to giving in to the many ad pitches that are such a big part of this time of year.

I’ve felt above it all, unaffected by the hype. I must admit that I’ve felt superior to those who fall prey to commercial interests that distort the idea of Christmas in order to separate people from their money.

Recently, it occurred to me that I haven’t minded being manipulated by the dozens of Christmas-themed songs, movies and other programs that flood entertainment markets. These presentations are often used as the subtext for commercial messages; they’re intended to capture and hold our attention during the interludes of advertising.

Unfortunately for the marketers, the commercial messages fall on my deaf ears. Even when the ads are clever and memorable, I tend to forget the connection with a product. I don’t really have sales resistance as much as just a very low level of interest in most of the products that appeal to others.

There’s little variation in either the programming or advertising from year to year. A few new tunes and shows appear, but they usually remain true to form and take their place among the expanding panoply of seasonal offerings – or don’t, in the case of the relative few that totally bomb.

But by the time Thanksgiving rolls around, I’m ready for repeat performances of most offerings.

Even variations on themes fail to bore me. There must be 20 or 30 different iterations of Dickens’ “Christmas Carol,” and few new versions can match the classic impact of the 1951 black-and-white version with Alistair Sim in the title role, but I’m willing – even rather eager – to give an new adaptation a try.

I’ve particularly enjoyed “Scrooged,” with Bill Murray and the made-for-TV and modernized version “An American Christmas Carol” staring the somewhat unlikely Henry “The Fonz” Winkler.





Other versions, older and more recent are hard to resist each December, when the Christmas spirit comes upon me.

It occurs to me that I have been rather smug over the years when judging others who get caught up in gift giving and other costly traditions. The Christmas spirit drives many to the stores where materialism rules.

All these years, while belittling the lack of sale resistance exhibited by my materialistic friends and relatives, I’ve been consuming mass quantities of seasonal information. I’ve been as susceptical to seasonal offerings as have others; mine simply lack a physical residue.

Since my interests tend toward the non-material, which happen often to be free, I have felt comfortable on a sort of economic/moral high ground, belittling those who give up their hard-earned cash in the pursuit of an intangible thing called “spirit.”

I think most people would agree, particularly as they grow older, that time is a more precious resource than money. And I have certainly allocated vast amounts of time in my own pursuit of seasonal comfort and joy.

And I believe it has been time worth spending.

Those who believe their own paths to comfort and joy include things as well as thoughts are certainly within their rights when they spend money as well as time.

I’m still a bit skeptical about the quantities involved; but this year I’m feeling much less judgmental of those who “go all out” for Christmas.

Maybe, after more analysis, I have discovered that it really is the spirit that counts.

And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
        -- O.Henry, The Gift of the Magi

Respect your elders

Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to younger adults – well, relatively speaking, actually more like middle-aged adults. When I spot one in the dining room, I’m pleased when there’s an empty chair. I suppose I just want to connect with “one of my own…”

During my tour of retirement facilities, I’ve run into very few residents from my own generation. I’m a Boomer from the first wave – born less than 10 years after the end of World War II. The average age of folks I’m meeting is almost 85. These people are of my parents’ generation.

I’ve become quite fond of the members of “The Greatest Generation” whom I’ve met along the road. They may be becoming a bit forgetful, idealizing their twin periods of greatness: the Depression and the War. But they’re far less ambivalent about their values and deserve credit for an amazing record of social progress that took place during “their time” as the dominant generation.

A lot of Boomers, including myself, became convinced that we were instrumental in a lot of positive change that occurred during our first half-century on the planet. But, as I’ve reflected on the matter, I’m convinced that the key actors in that transformation were mostly born earlier – people our parents’ age.

The first half of my trip opened my eyes to Canada. I have a newfound affection for our neighbors to the north and now understand why my younger sister has been content to remain there for the past 40 years even though she has the right to live in the good old U.S.A.

This second half – still in progress – has provided a huge dose of “face time” with older Americans. I no longer depend on jokes to break the ice and no longer worry, when I invade a table full of strangers, whether we’ll have much to talk about.

Now, I believe I’m becoming interested in putting things together – in reconnecting with my own generation with a somewhat new outlook, perhaps it’s a sense of history.

I believe the most powerful discovery that I may have made is that a new stage of life has emerged over the past century – and age between “middle” and “old”.

I kind of like the word “elder” for this age – which seems to lie somewhere between ages 55 and 80. The “elders” (dare I say, “We elders”?) are post-retirement, pre-impairment people who are financially independent and not otherwise driven to continue full-time employment in the same field they occupied during their 40s and 50s.

I think the Greatest Generation was the first to offer this bonus era to millions of people. Caught unaware, people in my parents generation resorted to motor homes, better homes and gardens and a whole lot of television to fill the added years.

Some, of course became active in church or other volunteer endeavors – and not a few just kept on working longer. But most, I believe, were caught unawares and – as they’d always done before – simply made the most of things as the years went by.

And now that the years have gone by, many “seniors” admit to being rather surprised to still be around. Most of that generation had a sense that only ten or fifteen years of life would remain after retirement.

It has occurred to me that Baby Boomers have a new responsibility. Recognizing that a new period of potential productivity (the “Elder” era) exists and accepting that we may not yet have made the kind of contributions that would earn us a rating near “great,” perhaps we should devote some of this huge new supply of human resources to making a difference.

One-third of us averaging just two weeks each year to worthwhile projects would produce a million person/weeks of volunteer work in every state of the union. That’s a workforce.

Oh, I don’t suppose there’s much chance that we create enough value to becoming viewed as equals to our parent’s gang. We’ll never be perceived as having paid our dues as children and young adults. But I’m more inclined, based on my new perspective about aging, to do my share.

My goal is first to stay alive for at least another decade or two and to become and remain as healthy as possible; then I’d like to perform a quantity of good works that would make me feel justified – at the end of that period – to conclude that I had made good use of the bonus time.

Have we met?

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.

Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow.
        -- Tom Jones, 1960

Sometimes the phone line goes dead, but we don’t realize the connection has been lost. After a few seconds or minutes, the silence on the other end of the wire becomes more apparent and we finally become aware that our message hasn’t been received.

Though we’ve done nothing wrong, we feel silly – as it should have been obvious that the connection wasn’t open and that we weren’t getting through to the receiver.

On a few occasions, during this tour of retirement facilities, I’ve been engaged in a conversation with someone who seemed to be listening and responding. Then, at some point I realize that this person doesn’t really understand what I am saying, their comments repetitious and not directly related to the topic at hand.

Whether these individuals suffer from Alzheimer’s Disease or some other dementia, it seems pretty clear that memory loss is having a dramatic impact on their quality of life.

As with the errant phone conversation, my initial reaction is embarrassment. I wonder what others at the table were thinking, and wondering whether I’ve been somehow out of line.

It takes a hundred billion nerve cells to make a brain. They all need food; they all have jobs to do producing the electrical energy that makes us think; and they all have to kick off waste and prepare for the next day’s work.

Unfortunately, there are a number of things that can go wrong with this process. It takes a while for enough of those billions of cells to go bad to make a noticeable difference – especially because the symptoms are pretty subjective from the layman’s perspective.

Alzheimer’s affects Five million of us and nearly that many more suffer from other progressive ailments. This population is concentrated mostly among the elderly.

The worst part is that there’s no cure and it’s fatal. It’s the seventh-leading cause of death in the U.S.

I learned a lot more about Alzheimers from the association web site, here.

It does feel right to go ahead and continue a conversation even after it becomes evident that my messages aren’t being decoded effectively – if at all. When the other person is smiling and responding, I have to believe it’s a good thing to share time with other humans.

To be honest, I enjoy conversations more when I’m challenged by the other participants – when the discourse is at a “high” level. And I’m not likely to seek the company of less stimulating tablemates.

I’m sure that says something about me.

Maybe I can be partially redeemed by the fact that I’ve risked (and often suffered) rejection hundreds of times during this trip in an effort to meet and break bread with as many different folks as possible.

I haven’t kept count, but I’m pretty sure my count is at last 1,000 and possibly as high as 1,500. And that’s meeting a lot of folks.

While I’m not much more of an expert than before, I will offer one observation as a bit of advice: I usually forget people’s names within a minute of being given them. I can’t remember the names of more than a dozen of the 1000+ I’ve met along the way. But I’m not letting that make me worry about my health.