Wandering Dave's Blog

I'll be BACK... (I AM BACK!)

2008-02-07T21:00:00.000-08:00

Three hundred fifty-eight days
eighteen thousand two hundred thirty-one miles later…

I have returned…

Tonight, I sleep in my own room. My very own room.

(Check back in a week or two for a final blog entry -- OK, maybe not till the end of the month...)

And the hunter, home from the hill

2008-02-06T22:58:00.000-08:00

The wild and windy night
that the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
crying for the day
Why leave me standing here?
Let me know the way

Many times I've been alone
and many times I've cried
Anyway you'll never know
the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back
to the long and winding road
You left me standing here
a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here,
lead me to you door
-- Paul McCartney, 1969

A journey of 18,000 miles ends with a short drive north on Highway 99.

Tomorrow, I will take my time packing for the last time. I’ll take my two suitcases and backpack to the Saturn in a single trip – as I have dozens of times over the past 51 weeks; and I’ll pile them in the back seat. I’ve opened the trunk only occasionally as nearly all that I need resides in the three portable containers.

I suspect that the miles will flash by as I continue experiencing the mixed feelings that began when I arrived in California a few weeks ago: in some ways, I really don’t want this trip to end.

It has been a wonderful experience, it has been transformational. I will never regret this time spent on the road – alone, but communing with more individuals than during any other period of my life.

As I return to Merced, I know that I am now a person with whom others enjoy spending time. I am an entertaining and engaging companion at the dinner table. I am able to speak to groups of people and capture their attention and interest.

Though most of my character flaws remain intact, I believe I’ve become more adept in avoiding pitfalls and – while not sacrificing my principles – I am able to engage in friendly interaction that is not competitive or confrontational.

When I land in Merced, I will immediately begin my next adventure – a physical transformation into a more healthy and fit state. Having just completed an extended journey will, I believe, improve my chances of success. I intend to make steady progress over an extended period – probably about two years.

And, at the end of this new trip, I hope to “arrive” at a different kind of destination: I hope to become comfortable inside my own skin and to rediscover a high level of endurance, mobility and strength. It’s an exciting prospect and I am motivated.

Tomorrow, then will mark the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

I may not be making many more entries in this Wandering Dave blog. I hope to write one or more articles for publication elsewhere and will likely focus my creative energies in that direction.

Ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
-- Paul Simon, 1965

And I was there

2008-02-02T16:09:00.000-08:00

“It was amazing,” the college student cum journalist was emoting about a road trip he and a few buddies had taken out into the desert. “I never knew there were that many stars.”

Young journalists who write columns or “thought pieces” often fall into a syndrome I call “…and I was there.” They report incidents that occur for the first time in their lives but which tend not to be particularly amazing to older folks.

The novelty of such events is quickly lost as years go by and I suspect most readers experience ho-hum reactions to wide-eyed descriptions of firsts that aren’t news to them.

“There was no traffic. Like, I mean absolutely NO TRAFFIC. We parked the car and I lay on my back, right … in the MIDDLE … of the road! It was awesome to discover that there are roads where practically no cars go by late at night.”

Listening to a travel report on public radio this morning, it occurred to me that such accounts lend themselves to the same kind of naïveté – an innocent, inexperienced sort of response that’s at least 80 percent amazement.

By gilding the lilies, travel writers sometimes tend to eliminate mosquitoes or other negatives. The beauty of desert landscapes described without mention of heat, blowing sand and a level of discomfort that is literally life threatening without artificial shelter (have you considered that it’s called Death Valley for a reason?)

The idea of writing some sort of traditional travelogue about my trip never felt like a good one. I tend to be more interested in ideas and events than in places or vistas. Maybe the requirement that one overlook some negatives in order to present positives more –well, more positively – keeps me from embracing this genre.

In any event, I probably haven’t shared enough of the sense of awe that I’ve actually experienced along the way when encountering natural beauty. I can’t imagine anyone driving 18,000 miles of American highways without gaining an appreciation for the vastness and majesty of the land.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about the 3.5 million square miles is that, even in the 21st century, one can still lie on their back in the middle of most of the 4 million miles of streets, roads and highways late at night without being disturbed by traffic.

Rolling on the river

2008-01-31T15:56:00.000-08:00

I've been to town,
I've walked the highways
and in the suburbs too. 
I've done some things
I never thought I'd ever do. 

Now as I stand here
looking down at you,
you ask me why it is I frown. 
I guess it's 'cause I've been to town. 

I've been to town
beyond the boulevard
and down the beach, 
I've learned some things
that only time can teach, 
For instance,
love is more than just a speech, 
It's got to find a common ground, 
I know 'cause I've been to town. 

Don't tell me any more,
I can't waste any more years, 
I've seen my image in your eyes, 
Dissolve in disappointed tears. 

I've been to town,
you ask me do I know the Milky Way, 
I do, and furthermore I'd like to say 
It isn't milky white, it's dingy gray, 
Especially when your world breaks down, 

I know because I've been to town.

-- Rod McKuen, 1969
At the end of just about any endeavor, there’s a tendency toward waxing philosophical. One doesn’t want an enterprise that has consumed time and other resources to have been insignificant.

And yet, after all of the sound, fury and scurrying from place to place, so many episodes in my life – including the current road trip which is ending in about a week – seem to signify little, perhaps nothing.

Sitting within reach of the finish line (I could abort the final week’s itinerary and be home in five or six hours), I’m wondering when the trip will really end. Will it be over when I shut off the engine in Merced? Will it take longer – days, weeks, perhaps months – to reach “closure? ”

Perhaps, since my thoughts have turned more and more toward what comes next, the trip has already ended.

One of my favorite stories is from the time I worked at a small-town radio station. The station manager and sports guy decided to broadcast a downtown parade from inside the radio car. My duty was to manage the broadcast from the studio.

It was only after the entries began moving that our broadcast team realized that – from their vantage point in the middle of the line of march – they couldn’t actually see the parade. They ended up reporting on the parade route, describing the crowd and the buildings along the way.

Needless to say, it was an entertaining narrative – I was rolling on the studio floor.

Speaking of parades, some 2600 years earlier (before Socrates), a Greek philosopher named Heraclitus is reported to have noted that it is impossible to step into the same river twice. Asserting the opposite – that no river can pass through the same place twice – seems axiomatic.

Does being the river (or the parade) – and moving through time and space in a somewhat deliberate fashion – offer an improvement over staying in place alongside the river and dealing with the flotsam and jetsam that drift past?

Being on the road certainly provides the illusion of having control over things. Wanderers are in charge of their speed and direction; but much remains out of their control. Those who remain in place can insulate themselves from much of what courses past – but there is no protection from some impacts.

Good grief!

How did I ever get to the point where my quotes and catchy phrases are coming from Heraclitus? 500 B.C., For crying out loud.

It’s a good thing that I’m almost home.

Lights out!

2008-01-21T11:14:00.000-08:00

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: 
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. 
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, 
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; 
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that - 
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, 
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake; 
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, 
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, 
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball; 
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred, 
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell; 
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; 
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, 
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; 
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face. 
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, 
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. 
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, 
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, 
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. 
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped- 
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, 
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore. 
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; 
And it’s likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; 
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; 
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; 
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud; 
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. 
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, 
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; 
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. 
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, 
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; 
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, 
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; 
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
-- Ernest Lawrence Thayer, 1888

Destiny seemed to have kicked in. By pure happenstance, I drew closer and closer to my home town of San Diego as the home-town Chargers fought their way through tough competitors in a series of “must win” games toward the Division Championship.

Lo, and behold, at the end of my westward trek I found the Golden State basking in the sunshine and preparing for a post-season that held out the possibility of returning to the Super Bowl for the second time in history – and winning.

In their path were the undefeated and untied New England Patriots. But the Chargers had faced this team earlier and done well. In a fan frenzy, it seemed that local residents were united in not merely a hope, but the expectation that their gridders .

The San Diego skies were blue, blue, blue – emulating shades used on Charger uniforms over the years and it definitely appeared as if everything might be coming up roses (or what ever flower goes with the Super Bowl…) The Patriots had forgotten it was possible to lose a game and were definitely looking past the Chargers – and the Chargers seemed primed line few teams have ever been primed.

Victory was within reach.

And the game was close – one single good break could well have made the difference. But the stars failed to shine and the Patriots were just a little too much for the stalwarts (who deserve more credit, as is true for almost all of those who toil in the line and on special teams) to manage without a few breakaway touchdowns (they scored NO touchdowns) and interceptions run back for 6 points (they scored NO touchdowns) and punts or kickoffs returned to the opposite end zone (did I mention that the Chargers scored NO touchdowns yesterday?).

This morning, the skies are overcast and a gloom has settled on the city. Tens of thousands of Charger jerseys have been tossed into the laundry bin, later to be folded and put away until…in case…the team gets back in contention next year.

The fate of the franchise – which has been in town since I was a boy – is uncertain as a power struggle is underway regarding construction of a new, new stadium. There’s a chance the Chargers could relocate before long – it’s even possible that they might even end up in the hated and dread Los Angeles area.

I’ll probably be living up there, but I’d take no joy (and be a far less enthusiastic fan) in having to root for the Los Angeles Chargers. It’s a moniker that sounded wrong even when I learned that the team actually began in L.A. and was originally called the LAC. There’s definitely something LACing in that handle…

The gloom as only increased as the morning has proceeded. Now, it looks as if it’s going to rain, today. Lonely, lonely.

Lonely  without you, Baby 
Oh, I need you; I can't go on  

The sun ain't gonna shine anymore 
The moon ain't gonna rise in the sky 
Tears are always clouding your eyes 
The sun ain't gonna shine anymore

Lonely without you
-- Walker Brothers, 1965

No place like home

2008-01-16T22:07:00.000-08:00

Lord, I'm one, Lord, I'm two,
Lord, I'm three, Lord, I'm four,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles a way from home.

Away from home, away from home,
away from home, away from home,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles away from home.

Not a shirt on my back,
not a penny to my name.
Lord, I can't go back home this-a way

-- Hedy West, 1963

In his book of the same title, Thomas Wolfe famously wrote, “You can’t go home again.”

It’s a sad conclusion; particularly considering the fact that most of his writing was autobiographical and celebrated his boyhood home in North Carolina.

Of course, Wolfe died before reaching age 38, even before his book was printed; so he had limited opportunities for attempting to go home and no opportunity to engage in discussions and reflections on a theory he might have changed had he lived longer.

For me, “home” can mean only one place: the house on Middlesex Drive in San Diego where I lived between 1957 and 1967 – plus, on a temporary basis, for a few intervals thereafter. Forty years later I believe I can clearly remember all kinds of details and, in my mind’s eye, can bring the building and grounds into crystal clarity. This is not true for any other home I’ve occupied – though it is true, interestingly, for a few workplaces.

I’d have to say that everywhere I’ve lived since leaving Middlesex has felt like – and has proved to be – a temporary arrangement. In a sense, it’s fair to say that I’ve really had only one “home” in all my life.

Well, up until last week, I would have agreed with Wolfe. Simple economics make it unlikely that I could afford to move back to San Diego. Since my mother sold the Middlesex property ten or so years ago, I’ve pretty much given up any thoughts of becoming a homeowner back in San Diego.

Until a few days ago, my plan was to return to central California and then make a leisurely move back to the Los Angeles area where I would either rent or purchase a condo. I have a couple of fallback plans, including extending my stay in the Valley; but the housing market down south seems amenable to buyers and I planned to strike while the iron was hot (and then hope for an upturn to justify my speculative purchase).

Suddenly, the situation changed. After leaving our family home behind, my mother joined another family and moved into THEIR home. This house has a strong “home” aura – having been the happy abode of nice folks. Better yet, it’s in a neighborhood I’ve lusted after since I was a teen – the beach!

The house is actually a bit more than a mile from the shore, but what a shore! Pacific Beach is probably second only to my old haunt, Mission Beach as an inviting venue. Living minutes away from that broad swath of sand – and back in the general environs where I came of age – is an inviting prospect.

And the house will be sold … to someone … soon.

The current buyer’s market means the price will be depressed a bit – hopefully temporarily. And my folks desire to get moved with the least possible amount of hassle relating to getting the place ready to show and moving everything out before closing makes me an inviting potential buyer from whom they might take a somewhat lower offer in return for making their transition fairly painless and for allowing them to store possessions at the house indefinitely.

And so, when I drive into San Diego County tomorrow, it may be the first stage of going home again. There are plenty of potential slips between the Pacific and my bare feet in the sand; but the prospect is rather exciting – and that’s adding a new dimension to my trip and my outlook.

To be honest, the odds are against this working out. San Diego real estate prices tend to be unreal. But, it’s been fun to consider – if just for a few days – that Thomas Wolfe might just be wrong and I can go home again…

A chair is still a chair
Even when there’s no one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When there's no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss good night.

A room is still a room
Even when there's nothing there but gloom;
But a room is not a house,
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart.

-- Burt Bacharach, 1964

I'm no Shakespeare

2008-01-15T16:01:00.000-08:00

Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong
Whether I find a place in this world or never belong
I gotta be me, I've gotta be me
What else can I be but what I am

I want to live, not merely survive
And I won't give up this dream
Of life that keeps me alive
I gotta be me, I gotta be me
The dream that I see makes me what I am

That far-away prize, a world of success
Is waiting for me if I heed the call
I won't settle down, won't settle for less
As long as there's a chance that I can have it all

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be
I can't be right for somebody else
If I'm not right for me
I gotta be free, I've gotta be free
Daring to try, to do it or die
I've gotta be me

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be
I can't be right for somebody else
If I'm not right for me
I gotta be free, I just gotta be free
Daring to try, to do it or die
I gotta be me
-- Sammy Davis, Jr., 1968

January 15, clear, sunny skies and 69 degrees at 4:30. I’m back in shorts and T-shirt, enjoying the comfort and freedom that provides, and thankful that weather has been no problem during the past eleven months on the road.

And the elements aren’t all that has cooperated. My little Saturn has performed magnificently. I’m a terrible owner – failing miserably to perform routine maintenance and allowing all forms of detritus to accumulate on the interior and exterior of the vehicle – but the car has not let me down; not once.

My body – also having been subjected to both neglect and abuse – has been equally dependable. It’s survived two bouts of the flu and a few upset stomachs; but no injuries or other failures that could easily have sidelined me or shortened the trip. I’ve been lucky and am grateful to whatever powers that may have contributed to that good fortune.

Modern technology has not let me down on this trip. I’ve characteristically ventured forth without consulting a map – confident that my GPS navigator would direct me to the chosen destination. And it did. My first unit served me well, but failed at about the halfway point. I sought repairs to no avail and decided to just invest in a new unit. That proved to be a wise decision as I’ve not been confused about my whereabouts at all during this adventure – and that’s a wonderful change from previous experience.

The facilities I’ve occupied – operated by the Holiday Retirement Corporation – have been simply wonderful. I’ve been a bit cramped in a few of the guest rooms, but (as I am doing right now) have always been able to utilize spacious common areas. I’m currently seated in the third-floor game room beside an open window where I enjoy a nice afternoon breeze.

The people who run these facilities have been willing to bend over backwards to make my stay pleasant. And the residents… Well, if I do write a book I’ll still be unable to communicate what it has been like to spend time in conversation with hundreds and hundreds of members of my parents’ generation.

When I cut south, a few hours ago, leaving Interstate 10 enroute to I-8 and Yuma, I passed a sign that told me I was close enough to home that I could almost certainly have made it there before midnight. A week ago, I was eager for the trip to end; but I’m beginning to wish I were still heading into unfamiliar territory.

The road has been just about everything to me for nearly a year. Soon, I’ll have to turn my attention to other matters. Income taxes, dental appointments, updating of all kinds of things I’ve neglected for so long, re-establishing customs, traditions, standard procedures and all of the humdrum, everyday, routine, predictable, largely meaningless, time-consuming, life-draining, uninspiring behaviors that always seem to end with a question:

“Where did the time go?”

Thirty-five states and six Canadian provinces. About 18,000 miles and nearly a year. More than 1,500 breakfast, lunch and dinner partners. Seventy-five temporary homes. Hundreds of new friends whose names I never really learned and whom I’ll never see again.

I’m glad to be ending this trip as Spring approaches. Though I used to favor Summer, I’m now a fan of lengthening days, new birth and growth, warming temperatures and a sense that it’s always possible to start again – even, perhaps, to be born again and start over.

Oh, man!

It takes a lot of nerve to NOT delete a lot of this and never let it see the light of day. Maybe there is something of significance in there, though, so I’ll cover my eyes and post this sappy blog (and pity those who may take time to read it).

As the sun slowly sets west of Yuma…

Choose your words

2008-01-14T06:45:00.000-08:00

INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY

A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.

CRAWFORD
Sheriff Perkins? Jack Crawford, FBI...
This is Officer Starling. We appre-
ciate your phoning us.

SHERIFF
(grim, unsociable)
I didn't call you. That was somebody
from the state attorney's office...
'For you do anything else, I'm gon' find
out if this girl's local. It could
just be somethin' that outside elements
has dumped on us.

He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

CRAWFORD
Well, sir, that's where we can help. If -

SHERIFF
I don't even know you, Mister... Now
we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
soon as we can, but for right now -

CRAWFORD
Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex crime
has some aspects I'd rather discuss just
between the two of us. Know what I mean?

He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates, nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office, closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

CLARICE - burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.

…[LATER]…

EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY

CRAWFORD
When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
talk in front of a woman, that really
burned you, didn't it?
(She is silent)
That was just smoke, Starling, I had to
get rid of him. You did well in there.

CLARICE
It matters, Mr. Crawford... Other cops
know who you are. They look at you to
see how to act... It matters.

CRAWFORD
(beat)
Point taken.

-- Silence of the Lambs, 1991

Writers have a way with words. Sometimes they flow like cool, clear water, creating a crystal path from the brain of the scribe to that of the reader – near perfect communication.

Well… Not really. The fact is that words – even the most powerful or impressive sounding ones – are merely symbols and can’t possibly reveal the actual objects, acts or ideas they purport to describe. It’s all approximate.

And written communication makes the coding even chancier. Without feedback from the message receiver, writers have to take extra care to avoid ambiguity, misdirection, fuzzy thinking and all kinds of semantic noise and pitfalls that impede communication.

That said, I think all wordsmiths (and most readers) love the well-turned phrase. Journeyman writers (and I hope I qualify for that intermediate rank) envy the master craftsmen who put their prose (and poetry) together with profound precision and generate art in the guise of text.

Once in a while a writer of my caliber wields words with just enough aplomb to make him painfully aware of the fact that he more often fails to rise above mediocrity. I’m sure others allow themselves to use my excuse: I tell myself that I’m willingly sacrificing a degree of quality in order to create a larger body of work.

I allow myself to believe that I don’t take time to polish my prose because I favor quantity over quality and can always go back and revise later. Somehow, “later” seldom arrives; in truth, I guess I realize that the distance between my rather ordinary level of discourse and that to which I’d like to ascend is probably greater than my reach.

Oh, I’m not feeling sorry for myself – not too much, anyway. My writing, such as it is, does come easily; and, through writing, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. Others can paint or sing or dance expressively; my artistic outlet is through words, such as they are.

Almost every day for the past year, as I’ve met new people along the way, I’ve been asked if I plan to write a book. I usually respond that books are hard to write and harder to market and that I think I could reach a larger audience with newspaper or magazine articles.

But my fear that any book of mine – once written – would be average, at best, is probably a more powerful deterrent than I’ve been willing to admit.

I believe I may have a book in me – and I think a road-trip book along the lines of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road or John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie: In search of America might be rather timely about now – particularly one written by a Baby Boomer who is reacting to a year spent among members of the Greatest Generation.

I even have a subtitle: In Search of the American Dream.

I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read On the Road. It’s one of many holes in my literary background. I think I’ll get a copy and see if it inspires me…

… one way or the other.

Gimme an “A”

2008-01-11T22:32:00.000-08:00

LBJ took the IRT 
Down to 4th Street USA 
When he got there 
What did he see? 
The youth of America on LSD 
-- Hair, 1967

The lecture was “Alphabet Soup.” We met on the mezzanine of the Oxford Hotel, a block from Union Station in downtown Denver. As Vista Volunteers, we were to serve as liaisons between people needing help and government agencies. The agencies and programs were usually identified by acronyms. By lecture’s end, I was up to my ears in letters.

VISTA itself is an acronym for Volunteers in Service to America. We were under the OEO (Office of Economic Opportunity) and I was eventually assigned to a CAA (Community Action Agency) in southern Colorado. My most valuable resource was the “Catalog of Domestic Assistance Programs” – a thick book listing all kinds of funding sources controlled by many different agencies.

Ten years later, I was still immersed in acronyms. I encountered more of them each year as I completed my training and began work in community recreation. I became familiar with the NRPA (National Recreation and Park Association), CPRS (California Parks and Recreation Association AND Colorado Parks and Recreation Association). And I learned about the BOR (Bureau of Outdoor Recreation) and the LWCF (Land and Water Conservation Fund).

The latter was a federal program that provided money for a host of recreation projects, including parks, playgrounds and amenities such as lighting, restrooms and parking. I inherited a LCWF project when I began my first job as a recreation director in Colorado.

It’s about 270 miles from Page, Arizona to Phoenix. I drove the first 135 and hitched a ride with a couple of other fellows from Flagstaff. When we arrived in Phoenix at mid-day, it was well over 100 degrees and the car we took from the airport to our meeting was like an oven. Seated in the back, I wondered whether the A/C (acronym for Air Conditioning) would kick in before I expired from the heat.

Two new acronyms came to my attention in Arizona. Like VISTA and some others, these were pronounced – even though they weren’t real words. One was NACOG, pronounced NAY-cog, which was the Northern Arizona Council of Governments; the other was AORCC, or AY-ork, the Arizona Outdoor Recreation Coordinating Commission.

AORCC controlled the allocation of LWCF money in Arizona. My experience in Colorado, coupled with some research and advice from contacts at NACOG, convinced me that my community was likely to be approved for just about any reasonable project.

Since Page was a new city, it had never received LWCF funds before. My read of AORCC history and tradition convinced me to go for broke with an aggressive and ambitious proposal for funding.

I had everything with me on that trip to Phoenix and, despite the heat, felt unusually calm and confident. I was about to request $250,000 for construction of a tennis and basketball complex, including a large, fully equipped playground, with lighting, fencing restrooms and parking. And I was about 95 percent sure I would gain approval.

That kind of money was pretty darned impressive in those days. It was more than I would earn in a decade at my then-current rate of pay. And it represented more than $25 in “free money” for every resident of Page.

Obviously, it’s a good thing I learned my alphabet.

We are who we were when…

2008-01-11T00:41:00.000-08:00

Through the door, there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts, the dreams are still the same

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we'd choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days
-- Gene Raskin

Friendship, in fact culture itself, is mostly an outcome of shared experience. Some experiences – war, major disasters and high school, for example – are so powerful or occur during particularly critical stages in our lives that they tend to create correspondingly strong (or at least memorable) friendships.

To some extent, the bonds created while sharing space during such times can supercede a lot of other factors that otherwise might make friendship very unlikely.

Two former high school classmates drifted back into my life this week. Both were in band and orchestra with me – in fact, we all played percussion together in the marching band.

There is – at least was at the time I was involved – a special bond between drummers. We had a sense of being the critical element; we set the beat, we triggered the start of every song, we provided the steady, rhythmic heartbeat to which all of the others marched and played.

Bill walked through the door and into the lobby here in Tucson. He was heavier than the kid I had been struggling to remember, and the ramrod-straight posture was modified a bit by an uneven gait that results from hip surgery.

Then he flashed a smile and I recognized my former fellow bandsman. That seemed a bit strange because I remember him mostly as a more-serious-than-most kid. But that smile was familiar. Hmmmm.

There’s a tendency to focus on recollections. Having one’s memory jogged by input by another who was there and did that, from a different perspective, is stimulating and often revealing. Bill’s memory and sense of time and space is far superior to mine and he was able to not only recall events, but to locate them geographically and chronologically – a very helpful process.

Though I didn’t try to establish our differences in terms of values and beliefs, I’m certain we wouldn’t have agreed on many of the issues of the day not would our standards have dovetailed. The overlap in life experience – which includes all of what I consider my most critical childhood years – provided plenty of fodder for our conversation.

I did learn that Bill and Cindy – who is another Hoover grad and fellow percussionist from my class of ’66 – have five children and obviously spent many more years as parents of teens than they did as fellow teens in my world. Their life seems to have been much more “typical” compared with mine.

I enjoyed the time I had with Bill and then with both him and Cindy at dinner. I’m certain that I’d arrange to see them again if they were in range – mostly to continue tapping their reserves of memory regarding the old days. They seem like good and happy people who no doubt have a wonderful family and qualify as a Hoover High School success story.

A few days earlier I had a much different encounter with yet another drummer from Hoover. I have no memory of Pat’s participation in the marching band – I had her confused with a string bass player. But we had a great time talking about experiences we shared even if we were largely oblivious of each other.

Pat’s smile, though not familiar to me, was her most engaging feature. It was quick and open and friendly. She is one of those who frequently reach out and touch those with whom she’s conversing. It’s a violation of my “body bubble;” but I found it to be a very friendly behavior – it alerted me to statements she wishes to emphasize and ensured that I was paying attention.

The time we had available passed quickly; she reminded me, at last, that I had a schedule to keep – I could have continued the conversation much longer.

As with Bill and Cindy, our conversation focused mostly on the past. Pat has participated in some reunion activities and has maintained a few personal attitudes toward folks I only remember in vague generalities. It was fun to listen as she compared a few classmates from then and now – and noted that some things just don’t change.

Pat pursued a career in music, spending several years on the road. Though unable to make a living that way, she continues to perform and write music. Like Bill, she suffers from a leg injury – hers the result of a serious accident. The resulting disability cut off a career she had entered as a construction worker. She’s written a book about women in that line of work and maintains a very positive outlook despite some bad luck.

We met in the middle of the Arizona desert – within sight of the mountains used as a final point of defense by Cochise. The wind was fierce with waves of tumbleweed breaking loose and darting across the highway, many times snapping into fragments against the front of my Saturn.

The blowing dust and cold wind made the stark landscape seem even more desolate and I wondered how a San Diego girl could end up in this God forsaken land 40 years after high school.

Pat’s explanation was logical and reasonable and it was impossible to argue that she must be insane. But she did admit that some of the time she isn’t happy there.

Though I’ve steered clear of all class reunions in the past, the time I spent this week with Pat and Bill and Cindy made me realize that there is much to be gained from reconnecting.

With the exception of a few couples, like Bill and Cindy, the class of ’66 and others in that cadre have been tossed by many winds into many directions and through all kinds of storms and troubled waters. But there was that time when most of us were constrained by the walls and governed by the bells and rules and academic regimen of Herbert Hoover Senior High School.

We passed our classes and, at the same time, went through a number of rites of passage, culminating in graduation – also known as commencement.

Hail! Herbert Hoover High
This is our song to thee
Long may our banners be
Crowned with victory.

We pledge our loyalty
And our sincerity
We will be true to thee
Hail! Hoover High!

Been there; done that

2008-01-09T11:22:00.000-08:00

Goin' down that long lonesome highway
bound for the mountains and the plains
Sure ain't nothin' here gonna tie me
and I got some friends I like to see again
One of these day I'm gonna settle down
but till I do I won't be hangin' round
Goin' down that long lonesome highway
gonna live life my way
-- David Houston

Many travelers focus much of their attention on landmarks and artifacts. Many times, while stopped at scenic overlooks, I’ve watched with amusement as others arrive, screech to a stop, pile out of their vehicle and turn their backs to the view so one of their party or a volunteer can snap a photo proving that they were wherever they were.

I’ve wondered, facetiously, whether they get a chance to appreciate the natural wonders once their pictures were processed after the end of the trip. Now, of course, such travelers can see what they missed right away – reviewing digital images saved on their cameras while they drive to the next outlook.

Whether they are postcards, key chains, t-shirts or actual historical objects of art or daily enterprise, souvenirs are also in demand by many tourists. It often strikes me as odd when people willingly pay a premium for items in gift shops or along the roadside, buying items they wouldn’t look at twice in an urban retail outlet.

I wonder if these knick-knacks are important because, like the line-‘em-up-and-shoot-‘em photos, the provide tangible evidence that “I was there.” Or maybe the experience doesn’t quite seem real unless such travelers have something they can hold or wear. In any event, the souvenir industry is clearly a multi-billion dollar deal and the purchase of things can become a significant part of a traveler’s budget.

It’s certainly not for me to conclude that these practices are somehow wrong, foolish, inconsequential or wasteful. Each of us values things – both tangible and otherwise – in our own way; if a photo or physical object helps recapture magical moments from trips or other experiences, I say, “more power to you.”

Between 1967 and 1976, I alternated between San Diego and southwestern Colorado. If I had lived in Denver or along the Interstate 25 corridor, I probably would have done most of my traveling between states on freeways. But, living on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, I took the “blue” highways – two-lane ribbons of asphalt that passed right through the middle of towns and that featured wildlife and cross-traffic.

My favorite may have been highway 160, a not-quite-transcontinental route that begins in Missouri and ends in Arizona. This highway is Main Street for the San Luis Valley, which was important to me during much of that period; and it’s a primary trail through the Navajo Nation, where I relocated, briefly, in 1976.

have entered Arizona many times by way of 160. The road dips very briefly (less than 10 miles) into New Mexico before passing into Arizona, a mile or so south of Four Corners, the intersection of those two states plus Colorado and Utah.

The first six or eight times I passed near that landmark, I turned off and drove less than a mile to the actual spot where four states collide. Somehow, those artificial lines – agreed to by politicians and fixed in space shortly after the Civil War, it’s a rather stark and lonely site.

I understand that there is a visitor’s center on site now. When I make my pilgrimages, it was little more than a large concrete slab with some plaques attached, surrounded by unmarked parking spaces and informal shelters apparently constructed by Native American artisans who were selling artifacts – largely turquoise and other jewelry.

I don’t recall restrooms, drinking fountains, snack bars or any other attractions or amenities; but, for some reason, I felt compelled to take the detour and stand in that spot.

If my route took me there on this trip, I certainly would stop again. I’d stop because my previous visits have created a nostalgic value. I’d stop to see what memories and insights retracing somewhat compulsive footsteps from my past would prompt.

But, for the most part, I’ve eschewed such opportunities during my 17,000-mile-long current trek. I have a much more muted need to create a tally of touchstones and don’t mind missing some of the “not-to-be-missed” attractions along the way.

I’ll gladly make a detour and give up as many hours as I can to touch base with a person. Conversation has been the most rewarding part of this particular adventure. I don’t regret any of the times I decided to forego an excursion because someone in the building was willing to sit and talk about his or her life and times.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m traveling with my eyes open. I’m thoroughly enjoying the changes in landscape and often stop for a closer look at something along the way. This experience has been greatly enriched by the ever-changing context. New places, things and faces have provided continuous stimuli.

Rock rap

2008-01-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

The park ranger strode silently onto the small stage in the front of a room about half full of tourists. He carried a jagged piece of reddish rock – about the size of a football – in his hands.

A stool stood in center stage, behind a microphone. The ranger gently placed the hunk of rock on the seat and lowered the microphone to within a few inches. Then he walked off stage.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” A voice boomed over the public address system. “I come to you today from the wall of the Grand Canyon – about two thousand feet below the south rim.

“ But I wasn’t always on the side of the cliff. For millions of years, I was buried – at first a quarter of a mile from the Colorado River and thousands of feet below the surface of the earth.

“But, over the millennia, my brother and sister rocks slowly washed away and the canyon became deeper and wider until, a few hundred years ago, the surface finally came to me.

“My destiny is to erode – just as my ancestors have – and to flow down the river to the sea. The ranger brought me here today to tell my story to you…”

It was a clever and captivating lecture – ostensibly offered by an inanimate object, but filled with interesting information offered from a unique perspective.

Delighted, I sat beside my young fiancé, thoroughly enjoying the moment. The fantasy, laced with science and history, our proximity to the edge of the two-mile wide canyon, the excitement of our retreat to one of the world’s most romantic attractions, and the novelty of being at the Grand Canyon in winter all combined to make the moment unforgettable.

I’ve been to the Park many times. It never fails to captivate; but knowing how much it has changed over millions of years and how insignificant the span of my lifetime is in that context, leaves me wondering: How does my little life fit into the scheme of things.

Then, I remember that rock and all of its colleagues. After waiting, patiently, for millions of years, they finally enjoyed a brief time in the sunlight before the water and wind and weather tore them loose from the canyon wall and pounded them into tiny particles that were washed down the Colorado to the sea.

When I think about it, it sometimes seems more remarkable that I got to meet that rock during my brief span than that the rock had a chance to speak to me. I wonder whether that rock saw and learned more while clinging to the side of the cliff than I’ve ever known.

Look out for talking rocks.

A tour of duty on the planet of the apes

2008-01-07T19:14:00.001-08:00

Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village though; 
He will not see me stopping here 
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 
To stop without a farmhouse near 
Between the woods and frozen lake 
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake 
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep 
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
And miles to go before I sleep.
-- Robert FrostThey made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

It had been less than a year and a half since I was hired as executive director for the Montrose Recreation District. And that was quite a coup for a 25-year-old who had never held a fulltime, permanent job.

But I had worked hard, met all objectives and, to be frank, felt that I had earned more respect than I was being given. My board of directors had just turned down my request for a pay raise that would have brought me more in line with colleagues holding similar positions in neighboring communities, though they had given me a smaller raise.

I was earning $11,000 a year – more than I had ever expected back in the mid 1970s, but less than I came to believe was fair and appropriate. The job in Arizona was advertised at $18,000 and included some very intriguing attributes.

Page, Arizona, was one of the newest cities in the state. It had been built by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation to house workers and others involved in construction of the Glen Canyon dam.

By 1975, the bureau was eager to pull up stakes and stop administering the town as well as the dam. The citizens of Page were offered ownership of all of the public works (water and sewer lines, streets, parks, administrative buildings and more) as well as start up money.

It was a sweet deal and put the new city in a position to offer services other communities couldn’t afford – including a year-around community recreation program.

And that’s where I came in; if hired, I would be the town’s first recreation director and would be in position to create a new program out of whole cloth.

One of my Montrose board members was an employee of the BOR; he told me about the opening in Page, and put in a good word for me. When I called to express interest, I was told to charter a small plane and fly over for a visit and initial interview.

If I had been only slightly interested before, this first-class treatment quickly moved me into a very enthusiastic mode. I met several local officials and got both a bird’s eye view and a ground-level tour of the city. I suppose I felt I was being given the kind of respect I deserved, and that was somewhat lacking back in Colorado.

In any event, the offer came and I asked for an emergency meeting of the Montrose board. I told the members that I wanted to stay, but that my career and family might benefit more by leaving. If, I suggested, the board would agree to give me the raise I had asked for a few months earlier and further agree to consider, in good faith, a second increase a year later, I’d stay and attempt to prove I was worth the kind of money being offered by the other agency.

By a narrow margin, the board denied my request – though they did make a fairly generous counter offer. In the end, I decided – for better or worse – to move to Arizona.

About 20 years later, I passed through Montrose and dropped by a softball field we had built while I was the director there. I spotted a familiar figure working on the site and approached him.

It was Cosme Cisneros. I had hired him out of the University of Colorado; he had stayed with the district for all of those years.

Leaving that first fulltime job established a pattern that continued through all of my work life. I never worked in the same position for more than six years and held many temporary and part-time jobs.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention…

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

Good old New Mexico

2008-01-06T18:37:00.000-08:00

After nearly a year on the eligible list – during which I moved very slowly from three-digit territory toward the top – I finally got a call and was invited, along with two others, to interview for a job as Student Worker I in the City of San Diego.

Soon thereafter, I was offered a job in Reservoir Recreation at Lake Murray, not far from San Diego State University where I was then a freshman majoring in social sciences.

Thousands of high school and college students applied for student worker status and just a few hundred landed jobs. Some, like me, waited months for positions to fill and for the list to grow shorter – hoping we’d reach the top of the list before it expired at the end of 12 months.

That job changed things for me. First, it gave me a cash flow that made it possible to buy my jeep – fulfilling a longtime dream. Second, it introduced me to the work world, including responsibility for some very “down and dirty” tasks such as cleaning outhouses, restrooms, fishing boats and the shoreline as well as performing some public relations duties with those who fished at the lake.

A third benefit was an increase in my self-confidence: driving city vehicles, using power tools (including a jackhammer), maintaining records, following orders and enduring periodic evaluations all made me feel part of the work world – part of the adult world. Finally, this “city job” beefed up my otherwise blank resume and made it possible to get other jobs – notably my position less than a year later as a VISTA volunteer.

The selection process for VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) was even more rigorous and I was very impressed by the other young people in my training group – and pretty impressed by myself for being chosen at the end of such scrutiny.

When I returned to San Diego, I again applied for work with the city and was rewarded much more quickly with a position in the recreation department. My previous city experience and work I’d done in community recreation as a VISTA served me well and I was placed near the top of the list.

I’ve applied for hundreds of positions in my life and came to believe that when the process was fair, I usually made the first cut and often found myself in the final three or five candidates. I learned to appreciate what’s known as the “merit system” which dates back to the end of the 19th century when employers (governments in particular) began hiring based on applicants’ ability to perform duties rather than on their political connections.

By the time I arrived in New Mexico, I was overqualified for part-time employment in a recreation department. But I needed a job while attending graduate school at the University of New Mexico and, at 29, still had plenty of energy and a desire to work directly with participants on playgrounds or at other city facilities.

So, I went downtown and completed an application for a recreation leadership position. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

Weeks passed and I never heard a word. I finally gave up on the idea of working for the city. I took a six-week job leading pre-schoolers in gymnastics at a Head Start Center and did a lot of basketball officiating, but I didn’t find any regular employment.

Then, one day I was meeting with my advisor at the University. He glanced at a note on his desk and asked, offhandedly, “You’re not interested in working for the city, are you?”

When I explained that I had applied for a job some months earlier, he smiled. Then he scribbled a name and phone number on a sheet of notepaper and said, “Call this fellow.”

I immediately went home and placed the call. I was invited to an office in the city recreation department for what I expected to be a job interview. I put on a suit and arrived early for my appointment.

The supervisor greeted me warmly and described the opening – a playground leader job that would provide the income my family needed to get through the summer. He asked me if I had any questions and – as an experienced interviewer – I offered a couple of queries that demonstrated my understanding of the challenge being presented.

At that point, the man thanked me and we shook hands.

“When will I find out about the job?” I asked.

“Find out what?” His reply caught me off balance.

“You know,” I stammered. “Whether I’m being offered the job or not.”

“You had the job before you came down here,” he said. “You had the job as soon as you told me Professor -------- had recommended you.”

He revealed to me that, at that time, politicians often sent him lists of names with the understanding that he would find positions for sons and daughters of those who supported the politician. It was patronage, plain and simple – and a violation of the Pendleton Act, also plain and simple.

During the 30 years that have elapsed since this eye-opening experience in the Land of Enchantment, I’ve seen plenty of wrongdoing in the workplace. I’ve experienced some cuts and bruises along the way because I found it hard to set aside what may be naive and unrealistic principles and I confronted issues I should probably have left alone.

Now that I think about it, my experiences in the work world became less joyful after that time in New Mexico. Perhaps that was just bad luck; but maybe it was also affected by a loss of innocence and a sense of sadness.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Arizona – another state that was briefly “home” for me. I’m curious to see what, if any, chords begin to resonate during my dozen days in the Grand Canyon State.

Retracing footsteps

2008-01-02T15:36:00.001-08:00

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

-- Rod McKuen

Sometimes, things work out so well in the aftermath of a mistake that I wonder whether planning is such a good idea. Maybe leaving things up to good old serendipity would lead to better outcomes.

Leaving El Paso two days early – I failed to check my actual itinerary and simply left town after the usual 5-day stay (failing to recognize that, for some reason or other, I was slated to stay two more days).

I pulled into to Las Cruces at about noon. This was to have been one of my shortest drives since day one when I traveled a mere 70 miles north to Lodi. I reported to the office and was greeted by confused looks – “I think you’re early.”

Well, a quick check in my notebook revealed my gaffe and I apologized for creating the confusion. I really didn’t want to backtrack to Las Cruces and mentioned the possibility of heading north to spend a couple of nights in Albuquerque.

In typical fashion, my not-yet-but-soon-to-be hosts looked out for my welfare and offered to call the corporate facility in the Duke City to see if I could hang out there for a couple of nights.

Sure enough, they said “come on up!” and I was on my way back in time.

I lived in Albuquerque three times. The first, I ended up with a son; the second, I got my first computer; and the third provided me with a new lease on life that most certainly shaped my future for the succeeding 20 years or so.

My little family of three first moved to Albuquerque in 1978. We had been living in Page, Arizona, where the overt prejudice against Native Americans was so unpleasant that it made staying there pretty impossible.

There were a number of other dynamics at play, of course. My marriage was failing – in part, because we had moved so often, in pursuit of my career. And, despite having made significant gains in earnings and having had some good success in building the programs I led, I was not very happy in my work.

After being rejected by a west coast university (I had too few years of work experience for their liking), I was accepted into the Ph.D. program at the University of New Mexico and we made our fourth major move in four years.

Albuquerque was closer to my wife’s roots. She actually lived there for a while as a child and most of her family was just 250 miles north, on the other side of the Raton Pass. Daughter Lisa was becoming involved in gymnastics and son Jesse was enroute.

When Jesse was born, early in 1978, I found myself in a rare state of contentment. It was fairly short-lived; we soon hit the road again – this time for Northern Michigan. But, a year later, we returned to Albuquerque so I could complete two last courses before beginning my dissertation.

Well, that schedule fell apart due to illness. I had to drop out of school and that led to a move back to California and a return to work. I lost my chance for a life in academia and soon lost my family – though we’ve managed to work together and hopefully have provided Lisa and Jesse with most of the benefits of having parents.

When my second-chance at marital happiness went into jeopardy about ten years later, I retreated alone to Albuquerque to clear my head and make decisions about the future.

My second wife, Carol, fought to save our marriage and literally came to Albuquerque to get me back on track. She brought Jesse along and the two of them convinced me that I was in danger of losing a very good thing; and that led to a decade of happiness that I almost missed.

Driving along Central Avenue yesterday reminded me of my three stints as a citizen. The city is filled with familiar sites and brought hundreds of memories to mind. Much has changed, of course, since I first arrived there in 1977; but most landmarks remain in place.

New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment. It’s known by many people for the annual balloon festival. Like a hot air balloon, I have followed a path determined by the prevailing winds. I’ve been blown off course a number of times, usually leading to positive adventures that left me without regrets.

Albuquerque, like other landing spots, provided me with new experiences – some of which generated a bit of wisdom. My return visit this week – perhaps the most unlikely and spontaneous of all – allowed me to touch the past, inspect some roots, reconsider choices and, of course, get in touch with what I’ve had, lost, gained and may yet have.

This unplanned detour seems to have been a good thing.

The big game

2008-01-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

They always call him Mr. Touchdown. 
They always call him Mr. Team. 
He can run, and kick and throw. 
Give him the ball and just look at him go!
 Hip, hip, hooray for Mr. Touchdown! 
He's gonna beat ‘em today! 
So give a great big cheer
for the hero of the year!
 It's Mr. Touchdown, U.S.A.!

-- traditional

The Rose Bowl was built in 1922. It cost $272,198. Two years earlier, officials decided the original stadium in Tournament Park wasn’t safe for the growing crowds. Some 210 fans put up $100 each to help cover the cost of construction.

Those contributions got the building project off the ground; it also guaranteed the donors prime box seats in the new stadium for ten years.

Of course, much more has been spent on upgrading from wooden bleachers and expanding to house over 100,000 fans; but it’s worth noting that even rich fans paid less than $10 for 50-yard-line seats in the good old days.

Tickets offered last week on E-Bay ranged in cost from $135 for a single seat high in the end-zone student section to $25,000 for a luxury skybox seating up to 16 people high above the 15-yardline.

Most Rose Bowl and many other college and pro athletic contest tickets are sold by brokers – at prices above those printed on the tickets.

Students are often an afterthought, placed in less desirable sections and offered a limited number of tickets. The emphasis is on high rollers who don’t see high ticket prices as a barrier and generally spend hundreds, if not thousands more on travel and other items that round out their bowl experience.

I drove by the Sun Bowl in El Paso on Sunday and saw some of the preparations underway for these wealthy fans.

Two huge tents had been erected and seating for several hundred people was set up for a pre- and/or post-game party or dinner. No doubt these folks were shuttled between hotels and the stadium and, no doubt, other venues by limo or bus so they weren’t delayed or otherwise affected by commoners from the cheap seats.

When I began attending San Diego State, the football program was in ascension. Still a level-two team, the Aztecs began winning just about every game.

Home contests were housed on campus in the Aztec Bowl – a facility that had been adequate to the demand for many years (I believe it was a WPA construction project back in the ‘30s).

But during my freshman year (1966), the Aztecs had a dream schedule that had them playing two or three other top-ranked Division II teams (Utah’s Weber State and North Dakota State).

After the red and black came from behind to win in Utah, officials moved the North Dakota contest from campus to the 35,000-seat stadium in Balboa Park – where the Chargers were then playing.

The joint filled to capacity and the Aztecs, by then ranked #3, defeated the top-ranked Bison, 35-0.

That win put wind in the Aztecs’ sails and when the new stadium opened in Mission Valley, all home games were held there. Aztec Bowl was relegated to high school football, soccer, rugby, band and cheerleading contests and other events until it was torn down to make room for a new basketball arena.

I was a member of the marching band. We had a reserved section in the Aztec Bowl – right on the 50 yard-line and in the middle of a huge student section that occupied the center of the home side of the stands.

When we moved to the Valley, our spot was in the end zone, under the scoreboard. A good place from the fans’ perspective, but we no longer a factor in cheering our team to victory and were isolated from our fellow students.

Those other students, by the way had a small section near field level and straddling the 50-yard-line, but were mostly relegated to upper levels and the end zone opposite their band.

Broken into separate seating areas, the students sort of melted into the crowd and became little more than part of the general crowd.

Were things better in the “good old days?”

I’m not sure. I do wish I could more easily afford to attend college sports (a women’s basketball game at UTEP cost $7 for a single ticket).

And I did feel that the band was a central part of the program when we were closer to the action and surrounded by other students.

On the other hand, I now sometimes get to see my alma mater on national television and most people are aware that my school exists.

Oops! I’ve got to go. Another bowl game is about to get underway on television…

On the Texas trail

2007-12-30T19:08:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-28T13:40:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-24T18:33:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-22T14:59:00.000-08:00

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…

2007-12-22T09:05:00.003-08:00

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

2007-12-20T20:47:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-14T21:25:00.003-08:00

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

2007-12-13T21:51:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-10T19:50:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-08T23:18:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-06T22:23:00.000-08:00

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?

2007-12-03T19:49:00.000-08:00

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.

NaBloPoMo ... No Mo!

2007-11-30T17:17:00.000-08:00

Seedless grapes were my favorite. I not only enjoyed the refreshing burst of flavor released when I chomped down, but being able to crush the little orbs with abandon – never risking an encounter with a bitter-tasting seed added greatly to the experience.

In those days, I knew only about purple and green grapes – the purple all had seeds and the green were seedless. The purple also had a tougher skin.

I remember watching my mother laboriously peel the skin off of grapes before cutting them in half and removing the seeds. Green grapes had a more tender skin and there was no need to search for those pesky seeds.

Once, in celebration of the fact that I could, I jammed as many green grapes into my mouth as I could fit and then crunched down. I nearly gagged on the effluent of cool, sweet grape juice. It was wonderful excess.

I suppose our tendency toward excess can be traced to the caveman days…

Grabbing as much as we can hold may be instinctive – a survival skill that came in handy back in the day when only the strong survived. Eating all we can hold would pay off when the next meal wasn’t for a few days, and stockpiling anything with a shelf life is no more than prudent.

As I contemplated this, my 30th consecutive November blog entry it occurred to me that our fascination with setting records may actually be counter productive. I’ve needed to settle for topics that haven’t seemed particularly topical and, on deadline, have created a quality of product that hasn’t been up to even my standards.

No, more definitely isn’t better when it comes to blogs – and I’m not sure even the “enforces discipline” benefit outweighs the negatives.

After a dozen or so in a row, I felt rather trapped by circumstances. Achieving the one goal didn’t seem to be helpful in achieving others.

Well, it’s water under the bridge. This final, unillustrated, blog is the last in the series of 30 – and I think I’ll take the weekend off (unless I feel truly compelled to share something unexpected…

I recall another example of excess, also from my youth. I wanted to be a mountain-climber or backpacker and had only access to a rather unwieldy rucksack. I nonetheless filled that container with rocks – perhaps 30 pounds or more – and took off up a mountain with my family.

I made a few discoveries that day, but the most mysterious and still unexplainable one is that rocks from a lower altitude gain weight as they are transported up a mountain. Strange, but absolutely true – based on my experience. Anyway, somewhere in the mountains of the West there are a dozen stones that reside a couple of thousand feet higher up the slope than they should – my contribution to the fight against erosion.

I can think of several more examples of excess – or compulsion or some force that made me repeat an action beyond reason. I get involved in making Christmas tree decorations – origami stars – and several years during my youth I must have made hundreds of the things – I did earn some cash for Christmas presents, so it wasn’t as unexplainable as other examples.

I braided thin strips of plastic (commercially known as Pyrolace™) into key chains, whistle lanyards and dozens of doo-dads. Though there was no market for these, I stretched and looped those strips until my hands were raw.

Another time it was macramé. Who knew that knotting a few miles of jute could be so hard on the fingers?

Technology has driven several new obsessions in my later life. Video games got the best of me for a while and I’ve been entranced – for hour after hour – by new Internet channels and tools such as Google™, and YouTube™.

I’m actually trying to reactivate one early obsession: reading. I still love to read, but information in print hasn’t been able to capture my undivided attention like it used to – not with instant access to in-depth material online. I find myself putting down a book to check something related out online and getting lost in cyberspace.

But I intend to continue having at least on book in the category of “I am currently reading…” and to try to default to books more often and to television less.

I do not intend to get back into the blog-on-demand mode. I’m also fairly convinced that I wouldn’t like writing a daily column for newspapers (though being paid could well change my level of commitment – shame on me!).

And as for the NaBloPoMo movement – move on without me. I’d rather drag another bag of rocks up a mountain than write when I’m not ready just because it’s been 24 hours since the last time.

TGI December.

Speech for yourself

2007-11-29T14:17:00.000-08:00

It seemed as if this Blog-a-day month might last forever – or even longer. My head literally exploded trying to come up with topics each day. Needless to say, it was a very unique month.

After ranting about the poor writing in Newsweek magazine yesterday, I find myself feeling rather red-faced. My own writing – and even some of the lessons I’ve used to teach others to write news – doesn’t often reach the standards to which I wish all journalists would adhere.

My first paragraph offers a few examples of the kind of sloppy writing I would like to see disappear from the face of the earth forever.

Nothing can last longer than forever. When something happens “literally” it means exactly as written. And there are no degrees of uniqueness – it is an absolute.

I’ve come a long way since I took George Washington at his word and believed that presidents cannot tell lies. Now, I take just about everything they – and senators, mayors, even evangelical ministers – say with a healthy dose of cynicism.

To paraphrase a recent commander in chief, it all depends on what your definition of “truth” is.

I had lunch with a retired social studies teacher today. I suggested that the lessons taught in history and civics classes have been lost, for the most part, on most Americans.

Seeing that I had her attention, I decided to introduce a topic of discussion that I think few people have really analyzed.

“It’s interesting to me that so many people advocate an ‘English-only’ policy,” I began. “Doesn’t the First Amendment guarantee our right to use any words or phrases we like? Why wouldn’t that include choices of languages?”

It’s not likely that I am the first person to come up with this notion. But I haven’t heard it put forth. If I choose to use gibberish rather than words – or if I choose to sing every word I utter, or if I choose not to speak at all – am I not simply exercising my Constitutional rights?

I wish more Americans would spend time learning how to read and listen critically and would demand that our leaders be more clear, precise and (I know I’m dreaming) truthful.

Those who have not learned English are at a disadvantage; but they are not violating anyone’s rights – they’re just exercising their own. There are many behaviors that could be made illegal, but that should not because they limit people’s freedom.

Tomorrow is the last day of November, and the last day of NaBloPoMo.

Then we’ll have the weekend off.

News weak

2007-11-28T18:41:00.000-08:00

Said the night wind to the little lamb,
"Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky, little lamb,
Do you see what I see?

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
"Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,
Do you hear what I hear?"

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
"Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king,
Do you know what I know?"

Said the king to the people everywhere,
"Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people, everywhere,
Listen to what I say!"

The assignment was to look over an issue of “Newsweek” and be prepared to discuss its contents.

Perhaps predictably, only three residents made an appearance and, from my point of view, they were eager to discuss the fluff and not particularly interested in analyzing either the content or quality of the “news” part of Newsweek, such as it is.

The lead news story about the war in Iraq seemed to me to be the “impact” article in this issue. It’s available here.

Not really familiar with Newsweek, I decided to take my time and give the magazine a pretty hard look. As one trained in journalism, I should be qualified to offer a somewhat professional analysis; but I ended up feeling a bit reluctant to try.

One of the first things I noticed was Katherine Graham’s name in the masthead. I respect what she did and stood for and feel loathe to voice my true reaction to a publication with which her name is associated.

But the more I read the piece, the more disgusted I became. This is not journalism, it’s just more of the same “I went there and here’s what I think” garbage that seems to be dominant in 21st century “reporting.”

Putting cute Katie Couric in a trench coat in front of a bombed-out building can’t turn her into anything remotely akin to Edward R. Morrow. Today, so-called news reports are filled with unsupported statements masquerading as facts but which are truly opinion and conjecture.

And so, I will set my better judgment aside and engage in a tirade directed at Newsweek magazine and its ilk.

I won’t go through the entire piece line by line, but I will offer a few examples of stomach-churning prose that masquerade as news or analysis.

For example, the first sentence offers a categorical conclusion: there has been one constant [in Baghdad]: it only gets worse.”

The assertion is repeated twice and summed up: “[Al Quaeda] steadily replenishes its ranks of suicide bombers, and morphs from a largely foreign force into a far more dangerous indigenous one. And so on.”

A strange first paragraph for a story (news or otherwise) titled “Baghdad comes alive” and which seems intent on convincing readers of the exact opposite.

The “reporter” introduces his first source in the second paragraph – an excellent place for solid facts or examples. But this source is “a friend named Fareed who has gone and come back over the years…”

A guy named Fareed would certainly know, would he not? No need to identify him further (his age, occupation, education, connection with anybody who might have given him meaningful information – or even a sense of how long you’ve known him or much of the time he was “gone” as opposed to “come back” over the years). Yes, start making your case by quoting a guy named Fareed.

Then there is this mysterious statement (unsupported by facts or attribution): “There hasn't been a successful suicide car bombing in Baghdad in five weeks, and the few ones in recent months have been small and ineffective.”

If anyone knows what constitutes a “successful suicide car bombing is, I hope they’ll contact me. Is success measured by the loudness of the bomb? If terror is the goal, I would think that just about any time a car blows up in one’s vicinity, they’d be successfully terrorized – I’m pretty sure I would.

And then (finally) the writer offers a clearly attributed quote from a credible source (at least credible to those of us who believe the words of an Admiral should be given weight).

But even this quote ends up as more sound and fury, signifying … well, you know:

"Very sustained trends," the official military spokesman, Rear Adm. Gregory Smith, says cautiously. "But it's far too early to call this a statistically significant trend."

Just a few questions come to mind. First: if they were “very” sustained, wouldn’t the trends be significant by definition? Second: How can a reporter tell when an Admiral is speaking “cautiously?” Third, if the trends are “sustained,” doesn’t this sort of rule out it being far too early to make something of them. And fourth: why make a statement at all if there’s nothing significant to report?

Enough! I can’t stand any more. Go to the original and get your fill of drivel, if you like. If you read this account with the same kind of skepticism that a good reporter applies when writing one, you’ll discover that there’s really no story there at all – just wishful thinking and guesswork.

And wishing and guessing are no way to run a war – or whatever it is we have going on in Iraq these days.

Somebody ought to go over there, find out what’s going on and send us a report.

We can put it in a magazine called News, NOT weak.

What did you learn in school today,
dear little boy of mine? 
I learned that Washington never told a lie 
I learned that soldiers seldom die 
I learned that everybody's free 
That's what the teacher said to me 
And that's what I learned in school today 
That's what I learned in school

What did you learn in school today,
dear little boy of mine? 
I learned that war is not so bad 
I learned about the great ones we have had 
We fought in Germany and in France 
And someday I might get my chance 
And that's what I learned in school today 
That's what I learned in school

What did you learn in school today,
dear little boy of mine? 
I learned that our government must be strong 
It's always right and never wrong 
Our leaders are the finest men 
So we elect them again and again 
And that's what I learned in school today 
That's what I learned in school
-- Tom Paxton, 1964

Who came to dinner

2007-11-27T19:14:00.000-08:00

While I was still in Texas, late in 1960, the incident most reported and pictured in the newspapers was the matriculation of a couple of tiny Negro children in a New Orleans school.

Behind these small dark mites were the law’s majesty and the law’s power to enforce – both the scales and the sword were allied with the infants – while against them were three hundred years of fear and anger and terror of change in a changing world.
-- John Steinbeck, “Travels with Charley”

When Steinbeck arrived in New Orleans nearly 50 years ago, it was with a deep sense of foreboding. He nearly wanted NOT to see what he was certain to see as much as he felt he NEEDED to see it.

“It,” of course, was the ugly face of hatred. The great novelist was on his final cross-country trek: in search of America. He was three-quarters done with his travels and was about to conclude that the America he had found fell short of the one he had dreamed of and had promoted in some of his best writing.

In 1954, the Supreme Court declared that sometimes the word “equal” really means “same.” Segregation, according to the justices, is inherently unequal and creates a condition that discriminates against some people – denying them their rights.

For many years after that historic decision, the face of hatred was easy to see – it was reflected on the faces of overt bigots from coast to coast – both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line. Hordes of haters showed up everywhere people tried to apply the Court decision: theaters, workplaces, restaurants and even schools.

For a while, New Orleans was the center ring in this three-ring circus. And the most outrageous clowns were a chorus of women who put their hate on display each morning at a local school.

The target of their venom was one innocent little black girl who wanted what the United States Constitution said she had a right to have: the same quality of education other kids her age were getting in all-white New Orleans schools.

After New Orleans, Steinbeck seemed interested only in getting home. He began his book (Travels with Charley) by noting that he’d lost touch with the American people; and he seemed to be ending by admitting that such ignorance had been bliss and that he wanted most to return to the comfortable isolation that had caused him to get out of touch in the first place.

Today, 20 or 30 elementary school students showed up at the facility I’m in. They were invited to dinner by their pen pals – seniors who live here – to culminate the school project.

Nearly all of the kids were black; all of the seniors in this building are white. The kids were obviously in their best clothes and on their best behavior. The somewhat formal atmosphere (big dining room, place settings, food served in courses by uniformed wait people) and the large number of strangers no doubt made this a very special day.

I watched as the residents and students interacted – the seniors were clearly into the moment and were providing what I’d have to call a rather quaint, perhaps old-fashioned but definitely well-intentioned experience.

Well-intentioned.

I’ve confessed before in this venue to often being a bit slow in the uptake. As I watched the seniors, sitting more straight, perhaps, than usual and taking care to keep pleasant conversation flowing, I felt happy. This, I knew, would be a day the kids would remember – a visit, almost, to another time, a glimpse into a world that may disappear completely with this generation.

Then dinner was served. The kitchen staff is nearly all black and only then did I recognize that this adventure – this cross-cultural experience – was a metaphor for a world that has changed much less than I realized since Steinbeck visited in New Orleans.

The faces of hatred are missing, but the barriers and the segregation and the prejudice remain.

I’m certain that the children I saw today are receiving a better education than those in the defacto segregation era. And I’m certain that the picture they saw today overshadowed the kind, and well-intentioned, words they heard.

They realize that unless things change – more than they have changed in the past half-century – the next and only other time these young black Americans will be welcome at this well-intentioned retirement facility is if they come here to work in the kitchen or cleaning rooms.

I used to get mad at my school
(No I can't complain)
The teachers who taught me weren't cool
(No I can't complain)
You're holding me down (Oh),
turning me round (Oh)
Filling me up with your rules
(Foolish rules)

I've got to admit it's getting better
A little better all the time
(It can't get more worse)
I have to admit it's getting better)
It's getting better
since you've been mine

Me used to be angry young man
Me hiding me head in the sand
You gave me the word,
I finally heard
I'm doing the best that I can

I've got to admit it's getting better
A little better all the time
(It can't get more worse)

I have to admit it's getting better
It's getting better
since you've been mine
Getting so much better all the time
It's getting better all the time
-- Lennon/McCartney, 1967

Homeward Bound

2007-11-26T20:24:00.000-08:00

The interchange is a few miles north of Lake city on Interstate 75. I reached there at about 11 this morning.

Passing the first exit – a simple curve to the right, I made a 270-degree right turn and found myself on . . . Interstate 10 West!

This will be my trail for the next couple of thousand miles. My Oregon, Lewis and Clark, Chisolm, Appalachian, John Muir – you get the idea.

Being on a named route adds something to a trip – particularly when hundreds and hundreds of mile are involved. I’ve followed my dreams along quite a few of these arteries since I first left home on my own back in 1967,

Route 66 resonates most with many westerners. Now renamed Interstate 40, this historic path has brought millions west from one life to another that the travelers hoped would be better.

I’m very fond of Routes 160 and 50 in Colorado. Both cross the continental divide, one crossing the bottom of the state, including the infamous Wolf Creek Pass, the other cuts through the state near the center and reaches a summit at Monarch Pass. I’ve lived on both of these highways and hold them in esteem – I could care less about Interstate 70 which carries most of the interstate traffic through trendy Vail into Denver.

In my younger days, I seemed to move back and forth between Colorado and California and dozens of commutes began or ended on stretches of those byways. Landmarks remain familiar to me and the songs of those times still echo in my head.

Though I loved living in Colorado – and wouldn’t be averse to returning there one day, there’s something about heading west that appeals to me. Maybe it goes back to old Horace Greeley, or the fact that my family moved from the east to west at a critical point in my childhood.

Passing through more meadows and other open spaces than usual today reminded me of the big sky country I’ve not seen for many months. Monument Valley, where John Ford and John Wayne made so many westerns, is on Highway 160 in Arizona. I’m looking forward to desert landscapes in sourthern Arizona along I-10.

I’m heading west at last. I’m glad there is so much left to see; but I’m also glad that every new drive will take me closer to home.

Happy Holidays! Cash or charge?

2007-11-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

Business? Business? Ahhh! My business. Mercy was my business! Charity, benevolence, kindness…love. Have mercy, the beauty of all life were all my business! The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!
-- Marley’s Ghost
“A Christmas Carol”

I awakened at about 1 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day. I’m not a go-for-broke celebrator of holidays, but I took note of the fact that, being in the eastern time zone, I was probably one of the first of my circle of family and friends to take note that the holiday had begun.

When I reached over to the clock-radio and punched “snooze,” the first sound I heard on Thanksgiving Day was a Christmas song.

After two or three more samples from among what must be thousands of similar seasonal offerings, the announcer explained that the station had just begun a non-stop presentation of Christmas music – to continue 24 hours each day for the succeeding 33 days.

Excess. It’s part of the American experience. But during this interval between two days that celebrate consumption there seems to be no limits.

Americans are expected to spend nearly half a trillion dollars this holiday season, doing their part to boost the economy by splurging on presents for loved ones and themselves, according to ABC News.

Popular sayings from the past that call for joy, peace and good will have been drowned out by the ringing (or beeping, in the modern era) of cash registers – beginning on a day now referred to popularly as “Black Friday.” How festive!

There’s little to be said for poverty. But it does give one a pretty clear sense of the difference between what we need and what we want. The term “marginal propensity to consume” has little meaning for poor folks who live – if only barely staying alive – below the margins.

The barrage of persuasive messages is for the rest of us, the American majority with discretionary income in excess of necessity. Thousands of vendors are seeking a slice of that half trillion. WalMart wants a big slice and the furniture store downtown will be happy with a tiny one; but the all fill the season with a single message: Spend!

I enjoy the music and other entertainments. And I appreciate the messages of love and hope that are much in evidence, but too often as part of a sales pitch for my taste.

Traditions and pageantry create joyful resonations within my being. I am moved by the powerful ideas.

But I’m also just cynical enough to attach crass motives to much of what’s said and done. I am troubled – O.K., angered – by sales pitches that make it clear to consumers that if they really want to demonstrate their love, they’ll buy more.

There’s an off-the-wall fellow out there making his point in a fashion that many might find irreverent or worse. Asking “What would Jesus buy?” this guy is challenging consumers to put less emphasis on material aspects of the holidays and to get more in touch with the underlying ideas.

Others echo this sentiment – perhaps less flamboyantly. But how much impact can low-budget messengers hope to generate using the internet and other inexpensive means. Can they compete with commercial interests, including the “mainstream media”?

This just in…

Early results indicate that Black Friday sales are up this year. Retailers are far from complacent, though as other economic signals seem less favorable. Shall we all do our part and make this year’s Christmas the best ever?

Ka-CHING.

Lifespan

2007-11-24T19:43:00.000-08:00

We've got some difficult days ahead, but it really doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountain top and I don't mind. Like anybody I'd like to live a long life, longevity has its place, but I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will and he's allowed me to go up to the mountain, and I've looked over and I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the promised land. So I'm happy tonight, I'm not worried about anything; I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
-- Martin Luther King, Jr, 1968

There are trees in California that are nearly 5,000 years old. Tortoises and whales live past 200. And they dug up a clam in Iceland this year that is believed to have been more than 400 years old.

A few humans lived past 115 in the 20th century. Absent the end of the world or some other catastrophic changes, many more will reach those levels this century. The average American can now expect to reach 77 or so – meaning half of us will pass that mark.

I had supper with a 101½ -year-old today. I’ve met a half-dozen or more centenarians this year and, of course, wouldn’t have guessed they were that old.

While spending time with one who has had such a long run, it’s probably hard not to consider the contrast between them and those who die so young.

When I’ve discussed longevity with seniors, many seem quite philosophical – claiming that they are pretty much ready for the end. Naturally, one can find few, if any, healthy 20- or 30-year-olds with a similar attitude.

Death, notes the Bard, is a necessary end that will come when it will come. But those of us who have observed both timely and untimely death can hardly help wonder why something as important as life itself should come and go in such a disorganized and apparently arbitrary fashion.

I haven’t observed any indication that those who have had more than a “fair share” in terms of lifespan have benefited in any clear way; nor have they seemed, based on the little I’ve learned about their lives, created any significant additional benefits during the bonus years.

Forgive me for closing with a poem that has been a bit overexposed over the past few years. I have made less out of this topic than I hoped and these lines don’t really wrap things up – but midnight approaches (a deadline that must be met if I’m to keep my November blog-a-day record intact) and I’m at a loss for a better close written in my own words:

I read of one who stood to speak 
At the funeral of a friend.  
He referred to the dates on the tombstone 
From beginning….to the end.

He noted that first came the date of birth 
And spoke the following date with tears, 
But he said what mattered most of all 
Was the little dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time 
That she spent alive on this earth 
And now all those who loved her 
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own; 
The cars, the house….the cash,  
What matters is how we live and love 
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard… 
Are there things that you’d like changed?
For you never know how much time is left,  
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough 
To consider what’s true and real,  
And always try to understand 
How other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,  
And show appreciation more 
And love the people in our lives 
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,  
And more often wear a smile.  
Remember that this special dash 
Only lasts a little while.

~ Author Unknown ~

A good blogging

2007-11-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) is a lot like a prisoner’s tour of a medieval torture chamber. After surviving “the rack,” our hapless hero is immediately transferred to a bed of nails and before recovering from that ordeal, he’s subjected to the thumb-screws, then it’s on to the bed of coals, hot tar bath … and beyond.

I decided to enroll in this diabolical program this year. The idea is to promote interest in blogging (posting information regularly online for the general benefit of just about anyone) and to help current bloggers develop the discipline necessary to post more often.

Though I’ve been averaging about a blog every OTHER day during my trip, I thought I’d be able to step up the pace while in Florida and elevate my output. I accepted the challenge.

Yesterday’s posting broke the record for monthly output and today I’ll come within a week of achieving victory. A week of prose. Perhaps prose performed weakly, but an examination of these offerings reveals that I don’t allow quality to impede productivity.

I guess it’s a newspaper thing. Daily deadlines make it difficult to rise to a level that could be called “great.” A great newswriter is likely to produce copy that falls far short of most other scribes. Even with a team of support personnel (editors and proofreaders), news writers just can’t create perfection and light in the quick and dirty world of journalism.

I admit that a percentage of pieces appearing in this blog have received short shrift in the editing and proofreading phases. I hope most readers understand that this style of writing is often little more than free writing – an enterprise often considered to be a lead-up activity for real writing.

Now, I’m not ashamed of adhering to lower standards, I’m rather proud of having written nearly 150 episodes – on a rather random set of topics, but hopefully providing a sense of what’s been on my mind as I roam the land. If I had decided to maintain higher standards, I suspect that my output volume would have been a lot less.

Some reader who feels compelled to keep up to date on my adventures might celebrate a smaller stream of data; but others may sympathize with my desire to explore my thinking while exploring North America.

Whether it’s a shortcoming or a saving grace, I have tried to avoid simply chronicling what I’ve seen and offering personal descriptions of scenery and other things encountered along the road. I’ve hoped to make the blog as much an exploration of myself as of the countryside.

Whatever readers may think, the NaBloPoMo challenge is nearing its end – as is my long journey. Seeing the light at the end of those tunnels makes it seem easier – and nearly imperative – to see things through.

I won’t promise to continue writing every day, but I suspect that I’ll do at least as well as before November 1. And I don’t expect that I’ll be winning any awards for the quality of writing I’ve created – or that much, if any, of these paragraphs ever appear in print.

But I recommend taking on challenges. They require commitment and daily action – two qualities I tend to admire in others. That makes me feel proud of my accomplishments. And I can’t come up with a reason not to conclude that being proud of myself is enough.

Onward.

By the Way: I found a year-old posting on You Tube. This apparently Canadian fellow describes his trials and tribulations with NaBloPoMo. He seems like a likeable fellow and “meeting” through blogs and You Tube postings is all about finding people (and more) you never could in the pre-web world.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T06:59:00.000-08:00

These “eyes” from 114 million light years away are the swirling cores of two merging galaxies called NGC 2207 and IC 2163 in the distant Canis Major constellation
-- image collected by the Hubble Telescope)

I never asked to be born. And the odds against it ever happening were astounding. Not only did my parents (and set of parents in all the generations before mine) have to find each other, they had to become mates and get together during one of the few days the egg and sperm that were to become me were operative.

Then that one particular sperm – literally one in hundreds of millions – had to win marathon race (up to 7 hours) to that egg. If any one of the other little fellows had arrived ahead of “me,” a completely different version would have emerged 9 months later…

Pretty lucky, huh? But I’m grateful for a lot more than just existing. I’m thrilled to be a sentient being – a creature with the capacity to think. My chief joy and frustration in life is the process of exploring the mysteries of the universe and reaping as much as possible.

Considering all of the math going back to the beginning (and regardless of whether that’s taken to be the time of Creation or the Big Bang), chances were one in billions and billions that I’d ever be here – so I guess that makes me qualified to ponder a universe with billions of stars and uncountable ultra-maxi-multi-infinite-gazillions of combinations and permutations of creatures, places and events.

I feel lucky to have been able to spend my short span at this time in history. I love nearly all of the differences between the 19th century and the 21st. I’m glad I experienced much of a technology revolution that began 100 or so years before I arrived and accelerated so quickly during my lifetime.

I have no idea why the world and the universe are so majestic and beautiful, but I’m grateful. And I know I’m lucky to be able to see much more of that glory than my ancestors – it’s a shame that it remained invisible and unknown to so many of them and I don’t know why I get to see it and bask in that glory.

And, most of all, I am grateful for the love and friendship of fellow travelers. Each person I meet was just as lucky as I am to have been born; each is unique and I believe that each is wonderful – at least potentially.

I don’t understand why everyone isn’t given the same abilities and I’m saddened by the fact that we’re not all given the opportunity to live long lives.

I struggle to be grateful for the time I’ve had with those whose lives have been cut short.

When someone I care about is robbed of the chance to enjoy a full measure of life, I’m angry, frustrated, confused, saddened – but in the end, I have to be grateful for having known them even briefly.

Sixty years ago I went for a swim with about 399 million other little guys. Any of them might have been my best friend – my brother. But, at the end of the swim there was room for only one of us to travel on.

It certainly doesn’t seem fair; but I am thankful that I was the one.

On October 3, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation calling for the observance of the fourth Tuesday of November as a national holiday.
In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt moved the holiday to the third Thursday of November (to extend the Christmas shopping season and boost the economy). After a storm of protest, Roosevelt changed the holiday again in 1941 to the fourth Thursday in November, where it stands today.

Please pass the gravy

2007-11-21T08:58:00.001-08:00

From a child’s perspective (see yesterday’s post), Thanksgiving – and family, for that matter – can be seen as a very straightforward event. There’s family, food, football, more food and then Hallmark-like memories that can “last a lifetime.”

For many, of course, there is also a “faith” component – often a big one. Thanksgiving was the only meal of the year when my own family was likely to begin with a prayer – and I never got beyond “God is great and God is good; and we thank him for this food…” I sort of mumbled through the rest of the short prayer, not paying enough attention to learn it for future reference.

It seemed completely possible, just yesterday, to write a few hundred – certainly fewer than a thousand – words about Thanksgiving as celebrated during my formative years.

Oh! Was I ever mistaken. I quickly discovered that Turkey Day is a veritable smorgasbord – including some very complex dishes that might require volumes to explore.

Before attempting to scratch that surface with one example, let me repeat my previous assertion that this is about the best of days – an event that most families seem capable of carrying off with great success, an important day for that elusive institution (families).

No analysis, no matter how cynical, will change my mind on the matter: Thanksgiving was, in my childhood, a very good thing. It provided me with a model for having some great days later, when I was in the role of spouse and father – and, now that I think of it, it may also help me find new ways to enjoy family (even when not involving my own biological relatives) in the new stages of life I’m now beginning to explore.

Because Thanksgiving is sometimes the only time relatives get together – and sometimes more than a year may have passed, it’s a time of catching up on everyone’s news. That means it’s a time when those who may not have done so well may feel they need to defend their lives – and those who have success may feel compelled to boast.

I’ve never been more alone or isolated at Thanksgiving than this year. I expect to have a great day in this building filled with strangers, but a look at the weather forecast (see graphic) suggests that lightening may strike before the day is over.

The following account is of a Thanksgiving about 40 years ago when lightening struck in the middle of the meal and changed my view of Thanksgiving and family forever…

As during any social gathering, there are plenty of opportunities for what Eric Berne called, “the games people play.”

Berne is remembered as the father of transactional analysis. One of the most startling revelations of the complexity of family relations in the context of Thanksgiving came during a transaction rather along the lines of, “will you please pass the salt…”

One year (and this year may well have been later than the “prime time Thanksgiving era between 1958 and 1967 – I probably wasn’t astute enough to pick up the nuances that early in my life), my mother decided to use crystal salt containers with tiny silver spoons in lieu of the standard saltshakers.

Whether it was 1967 or a few years later, the “incident” was an exchange (or transaction) between my mother and my aunt regarding those little salt containers and spoons.

To me, the pairing of “Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary” was perfect. I also had Uncle Roy and Aunt Alma; and both of those sets of names still sound just right to me – everyone should be lucky enough to have relatives so aptly named…

But, to my mother, I’m sure Mary was not perfect. She’s the woman who charmed Mom’s little brother and lured him into a marriage that – for a number of reasons I won’t discuss here – seemed far from ideal from the big sister’s perspective.

I have no doubt that these two women had sparred with each other at every Thanksgiving since our families were formed. But I had never noticed – or at least never gave any significance to it. It was all couched in the language of backhanded compliments and other tactics Berne became famous for documenting in his books.

On this particular occasion, Mom was no doubt quite proud of being able to add an unconventional element of dinnerware to the Thanksgiving mix. I know I was impressed – the idea of sprinkling salt as if it were sugar appealed to me for some reason.

Others took note of the place settings and Mom was basking in the glow of positive attention as we all settled into our spaces around the Thanksgiving Dinner table.

“We’re not using salt much anymore.”

Aunt Mary’s announcement, though clearly on-topic, caught my attention.

Really, Mary?” There was something in my mother’s tone that started the wheels turning. I realized that this was more than just polite dinner conversation. “Not even on potatoes?”

This, of course, was a good comeback. Who could imagine eating potatoes without all kinds of added flavors? – And salt did seem like an essential additive no matter what the recipe.

I glanced at my aunt, interested to see how she might try to counter Mom’s point.

She capitulated! I believe I saw a flash of defeat in her face as she admitted that salt was an imperative when it came to spuds.

I still remember where they were sitting (my aunt opposite me; Mom to the right at the end of the table where she’d be able to move easily back and forth from the kitchen to refill bowls and platters.

I wondered, what just happened here? And I suddenly realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t the first time. This was just a battle in a war that had probably been ongoing since Uncle Bob announced, “I met a girl” some 15 or 20 years earlier.

The truth of the matter hit me like a bolt of lightening. These two women don’t like each other!

This was a real bombshell for me. It changed my thinking about family in fundamental ways.

Whoa--the games people play now.
Every night and every day now.
Never meanin' what they say now.
Never sayin' what they mean.

Oh we make one another cry
Break a heart then we say goodbye
Cross our hearts and we hope to die
That the other was to blame

Neither one will give in
So we gaze at our eight by ten
Thinking 'bout the things that might have been
It's a dirty rotten shame
-- Joe South, 1968

All the trimmings

2007-11-20T19:05:00.003-08:00

Most baby boomers, I suppose, must have thought – at least from time to time – that their family fell short of the mark back in the ‘50s and ‘60s.

With perfect icons like Robert Young (“Father Knows Best”), Donna Reed (“The Donna Reed Show), Opie Taylor (“The Andy Griffith Show”) and Gloria Winters (Penny of “Sky King) it was easy to wish one’s family had a father, mother, son and daughter that lived up to the television legends.

Even our pets couldn’t compete with Lassie, Cheetah and my friend Flicka – not to mention Ed, the talking horse or Cleo, the talking dog of “The People’s Choice.”

We certainly couldn’t solve major problems in a half hour (with three commercial breaks) and we most definitely weren’t always so … well … so darned NICE as the television families.

But, when it came to Thanksgiving, I think my own family did a bang-up job. I have very fond memories of that holiday. The sense of tradition was very strong – I suspect that ancestors going back generations also had very positive Turkey Day memories.

Looking back, the string of near-perfect Thanksgiving celebrations lasted only a decade. Of course, a decade in the life of a 10-year-old is a long, long time.

Attempting to analyze the experience, I can come up with several elements that contributed to the perfect-ness. Of course there are more, but each of these made the celebration more memorable for me. I’ll discuss just two here.

First, of course, was the food. We were not an all-you-can-eat kind of family. Portions of just about everything we ate were issued to us – there wasn’t usually any passing bowls around and serving oneself. We never went hungry, but we also seldom got all we wanted.

At Thanksgiving, food was plentiful – and nobody seemed to care or even notice how much we heaped on our plates. Best of all, the food was wonderful. Turkey, stuffing mashed potatoes, succotash, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes and salad were all available in mass quantities.

We also had crudités in the form of celery and carrot sticks and even little sweet pickles and olives – treats not seen at other times of the year.

Ah, yes! The food was a big part of the mix – especially as I entered adolescence and my appetite grew.

The second most memorable and essential element for a great family Thanksgiving was the people. I suppose most families sort of go one way or the other when it comes to grandparents. In our case, the grandparents on hand were maternal. My other grandfather died when we kids were quite young and Grandma Burke lived in Kansas.

So, it was the Whitacre branch of the family tree that gathered at Thanksgiving (and again at Christmas) each year. Mom had just one brother and, like her parents, he and his family followed us to San Diego in the late ‘50s. Rounding out the guest list were two women who would have been great supporting characters in any play.

They were also on the Whitacre side of the family – perhaps cousins removed a time or two. They were retired sisters who lived together in a retirement community near Los Angeles. They were Marguerite and Glenva.

Marguerite and Glenva! The fit together so perfectly in my mind. Two women who, from a boy’s perspective, couldn’t have been more different.

Marguerite was a talker. And she was an expert on the third degree. Sitting beside her at Thanksgiving meant having to respond to barrage after barrage of questions and comments about one’s answers.

Glenva, on the other hand, never seemed to speak unless spoken to. To me, she seemed to be entirely in Marguerite’s shadow – one of the few humans on earth capable of listening to as much as her sister had to say…

I wish I could spend some time with these two ladies today – with my new understanding of people of a certain age. I’m certain they had a lot to say – both of them; and I’m now interested. But then, I was not.

Then there were the more immediate relatives. We saw little of our cousins other than during the holidays. They were our opposite – two boys and a girl to our boy and two girls. The youngest was a brat, of course. These were always last to arrive and were considered chronically tardy.

Politics was briefly discussed each year – just enough to verify that the family was split. The grandparents were more Republican and conservative, the Burkes were more Democrat and liberal and the younger Whitacres weren’t very interested but seemed to side with the oldsters.

The decade in question happened to be filled with Richard Nixon news. He was vice-president at the start, lost a bid to become president and governor of California and then was resurrected and became president at the end. Through it all – and even beyond, after RMN resigned the presidency in disgrace – my grandfather remained a fervid Nixonian.

OOOOPS!!!

(NOTE: When I began this piece, I thought I had a fairly clear idea of what I’d be saying – a not-particularly complex and not-particularly profound essay about an annual event that was essentially pretty straightforward.

Upon reflection …. I’m becoming convinced [even as I’ve been writing this] that Thanksgiving, like families themselves, are actually quite complex. In fact, I wonder whether a study of a family’s behavior during this holiday might be the best way to gain understanding of that family as an organism.)

Not promising to wrap things up, I’m nonetheless going to end this piece with the intention of providing more thoughts on Thanksgiving in tomorrow’s blog entry.

We don't have to like each other. We're family. (Claudia)
Well, that was absurd, let's eat dead bird! (Tommy)
Nobody means what they say on Thanksgiving, Mom. You know that. That's what the day's supposed to be all about, right? Torture. (Claudia)
Where ya been? We ate already. (Tommy)
-- “Home for the Holidays,” 1995

Back to school

2007-11-19T17:20:00.000-08:00

When some loud braggart tries to put me down

And says his school is great
I tell him right away
"Now what's the matter buddy
Ain't you heard of my school
It's number one in the state"

So be true to your school now
Just like you would to your girl or guy
Be true to your school now
And let your colors fly
Be true to your school
-- Beach Boys, 1963

Top-ten-list: major differences between life in a retirement facility and life in high school.

1. In the retirement facility, everyone is a senior

As I’ve traveled these 13,000 miles and had a chance to observe thousands of senior citizens in dozens of retirement facilities, I’ve been surprised by several similarities between the culture in such buildings and what I recall from high school.

Now, I’m not saying that moving into senior housing is just like enrolling at Rydell High – far from it. But there are some very interesting comparisons…

For example, there are lots of cliques in both settings.

I remember high school cliques included the “soshes” (socially advanced – at least from their own viewpoint), the “surfers” (it was Southern California, need I say more?) and the “brains” (not exactly the most highly regarded; but perhaps with the greatest potential).

Plenty of sub-cliques existed: politicians, musicians, Rot-See (Reserve Officers Training Corps), athletes, and a host of official and unofficial clubs and organizations.

Cliques in retirement facilities may include pet owners, card players, newspaper readers, puzzle-solvers, walkers (one distinct group that literally “walks” – usually counterclockwise around the building; and another that actually uses devices called “walkers” to aid mobility), shoppers, medical experts (these folks discuss various maladies endlessly) and more.

It’s really just human nature, I guess. People are motivated by a lot of different things and tend to gather in groups with similar motivations (or interests).

Student life in high school is structured around curricular and extra-curricular activities. Many clubs and organizations – some which offer credit toward graduation – are available. Nonetheless, many students just stick with going to class and spend little extra time on campus. This may actually be the majority of students – a silent, nearly invisible group of young people who aren’t caught up in school activities.

Life in a retirement facility tends to rotate around the meals. Though some residents eat in their rooms, most congregate in the dining room two or three times daily. The rhythm of each day is set by mealtimes.

Though no bells are rung, residents filing down hallways for meals are a bit like students moving from class to class. Meals are the only time to observe a majority of the residents in the same place.

When I enter a dining room for the first time, many pairs of eyes are cast upon me. At first, I found this to be rather disconcerting; now, I realize that it’s just part of human nature. I’m intruding on their territory and any newcomer must be examined and categorized.

By the end of that first meal, about half of the residents have learned something about me – often something that’s untrue. I’m often mistaken for a representative of the corporation – visiting from headquarters for some reason or another. And many folks conclude that I must be the son of someone sitting with me at that first meal.

Because many seniors have trouble hearing, others have learned to speak rather loudly during meals. So, it’s not unusual for me to overhear conversations two or three tables away from where I’m sitting. Occasionally, I’ll walk over, introduce myself and disabuse folks of false information I’ve overheard.

I believe I can make fairly accurate judgments about some folks simply based on where they are sitting and how they react to the rest of the room.

There are always a few residents whose eyes are constantly in motion. When they spot a particular neighbor, they’ll note to their tablemates that, “so-and-so is back from the hospital” or “I thought such-and-such was taking the bus ride today.”

I well remember these characters from high school. They always knew who was dating whom and definitely wanted to be the one to tell others when the couple broke up – or didn’t break up.

There are often volunteers among the residents. Sometimes these “helpers” are actually minor tyrants, wielding their unpaid duties like weapons. A woman put in charge of the remote control at a movie screening ran the room like a dictator, imposing rules and making decisions about lighting and seating as if she owned the place.

Volunteers who agree to change the menus that are posted each day on table-tops often come around and make those changes while folks are still eating – as if the job was so vital that it justified interrupting the very meals it was intended to facilitate.

There are actually any number of residents who take it upon themselves to enforce – even to enact – rules of conduct. I’ve been challenged several times when I plug my laptop into the facility’s Internet connection:

“Do you have permission to do that?”

“No, sir. But I don’t need permission.”

“Who told you that you don’t need permission?”

“Nobody needed to tell me. I know that all of the amenities in this building are here for the benefit of residents; and as a guest, I enjoy the same rights as any other resident.”

“Well, you should have asked permission.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Should I disconnect my computer?"

“No, I guess you might as well finish what you’re doing."

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

(Sorry. I got started with that dialogue and just had to see it through. It’s just so … so … well, so HIGH SCHOOL!)

Well, honky-tonk baby get on the floor
All the cats are yellin they're shoutin’ for more
My baby likes to rock, my baby likes to roll
My baby does the chicken and she does the stroll

Well sock-hop baby
Roll up her crazy jeans
Gonna rock to the music
gonna dig the scene
Shimmy to the left
Cha-cha to the right
We're gonna do the stomp till broad daylight

Well shake it
Yeah shake it
Yeah shake it
Everybody shake it
Shake it at the high school hop
-- “Grease,” 1972

That’s a dumb thing to sing

2007-11-18T09:00:00.000-08:00

They say our love won't pay the rent
Before it's earned, our money's all been spent

I guess that's so, we don't have a pot
But at least I'm sure of all the things we got
-- Sonny and Cher, 1965

Mrs. Davis saved our poetry assignments all year long when I was in 6th grade; in the spring, she published the Room 6 book of poetry.

Though my stuff definitely didn’t stand the test of time, I considered myself to be a pretty good poet back in the day. I had more poems in the collection than most of my classmates and a couple were actually rather clever – if I do say so myself.

It was obvious that our teacher wanted to be sure that every student had at least one poem in the book – and just as obvious that she had a hard time finding a useable sample from one of my classmates, a kid named Frank.

She finally went with the Thanksgiving Prayer assignment. Though poor Frank usually couldn’t find a rhyme for anything, he became a rhymanian devil in this case.

The sample poem/prayer we were provided had a typical pattern to it – sort of one of those aabbccdd kind of deals that produced pretty standard fare along the lines of

Lord, we thank thee for thy bounty
Most of which was grown in our county
Thanks for veggies, fruit and meat
And for all the rest we eat
Thanks for family, friends and pets
We’re grateful all day, until the sun sets

Well, Frank went into some sort of frenzy and became trapped in an intra-line rhyming pattern that may have been an indicator of hidden genius.

I can’t recite the whole thing from memory, but the part that sticks with me goes a bit like this:

Lord we thank thee up above.
For thy good and all thy love.
For the plates and all the states
For those who could and those who would
For those who tried and those who died
For those who lied and those who cried
For the best and all the rest
And for the goats and all their oats.

Like Franks work, many commercial hit songs really don’t bear scrutiny. The lyrics often seem to be a sort of afterthought for songwriters. And I imagine the fact that there is probably little or no editing makes it less likely that the words to songs will really be profound.

If a song sounds good, the words are really a distant second in importance when it comes to popularity. And if the topic is timely and the “message” seems to be right on point – particularly for the target audience – the actual words become quite unimportant.

The Sonny and Cher example (above) seems to support this theory. The lyrics are without merit – but the simple message (if we stick together, we can conquer the world) had enormous appeal to teens back in the mid-sixties.

Another Bono-written hit, “The Beat Goes On” seems to me to be even less profound when read as a poem – sans the music and energy provided by the performers:

Charleston was once the rage, uh huh
History has turned the page, uh huh
The mini skirts the current thing, uh huh
Teenybopper is our newborn king, uh huh

The grocery store's the super mart, uh huh
Little girls still break their hearts, uh huh
And men still keep on marching off to war
Electrically they keep a baseball score

Grandmas sit in chairs and reminisce
Boys keep chasing girls to get a kiss
The cars keep going faster all the time
Bums still cry "hey buddy, have you got a dime"
-- Sonny and Cher, 1967

There can be absolutely no doubt that the use of logic or even understandable language is not always essential for songs. Mel Torme, Ella Fitzgerald and others applied nonsense syllables to music – particularly Jazz – and obviously entertained millions of us.

This kind of singing – sometimes referred to as “scat singing” features nonsense words that follow lines of notes that are often improvised – in the fashion of jazz musicians.

Louis Armstrong was an early adopter of nonsense lyrics. He recorded “Heebie Jeebies” in 1926. In this cover by the Boswell Sisters in 1932 the singers are obviously not improvising even when the words lose all meaning in the second half of the song…

Make no mistake about it, I love music. And I've been "taken in" by songs that seem to be filled with meaning but, upon inspection, either deal with platitudes or have practically no meaning at all. Regardless of tendencies toward flight and fancy, I'll continue to appreciate many really dumb songs.

Thank goodness patriotic songs always make sense.

Our nation was founded by folks who put truth to power by declaring, in song: “… he put a feather in his cap and called it macaroni.”

Sampling

2007-11-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

Just give me the filet mignon. I’ll take the center of the watermelon only. How about those lettuce leaves from the middle third of the head – not the floppy stuff near the outside nor the to-pulpy stuff in the middle.

I’ll take that one. No, not that one, the next one over – the biggest, juiciest, more perfect one.

Some readers have already moved on to something else. If this blog entry isn’t their cup of tea, I say, “more power to them.” It’s exactly what I would do – and what I actually do just about every time I go online. I pick and choose – and I can be pretty darned picky and choosey.

My favorite new find on the world wide web is You Tube. I’d heard about it before leaving California, but I didn’t get hooked until I’d been on the road for a while.

Founded in February of 2007, the online service allows users to find video clips on any topic imaginable. And it’s interactive; anyone can post material online that becomes almost instantly available world wide.

A year ago You Tube was taken over by Google. Like other web searches, You Tube queries almost always hit pay dirt now – a huge amount of data is indexed and can be found in a fraction of a second.

Political candidates haven’t missed the boat and videos are available regarding many politicians.

As was the case with the Internet in general and with every major advance in Mass Media channels, from books through movies, radio and television, there is substantial fear that online videos will go out of control and will destroy civilization as we know it.

Whether this proves to be the case or not (and a fairly strong argument can be made on both sides), there’s little chance that online videos are here to stay and ordinary computer owners with inexpensive equipment will be able to post just about any message they like.

I’m finding a wider and wider range of uses for this technology, but my favorite You Tube pastime is searching for favorite things.

Songs, performed by the greats from the past and present, scenes from movies, plays and television programs, speeches, news events and an amazing quantity of unexpected business caught – often by amateurs – in nature and in communities.

Before You Tube, one usually had to watch a whole movie to see a favorite scene or two – and it was potluck as to when a movie might appear on television. Alternatively, one could listen to the radio for days on end without hearing a particular song.

But in the space of an hour or so, it’s now possible to watch a score or more of favorites. The main problem for me has been stopping after just an hour or so.

It’s YouTube.com

Here are a few scenes I’ve enjoyed:

Working things out

2007-11-16T18:02:00.000-08:00

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
(Woo, woo, woo)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
-- Simon & Garfunkle, 1969

It’s probably all Frank Halleck’s fault.

Mr. Halleck was my fifth grade teacher. Every week, he scrawled a “Brain Teaser” on the chalkboard. Students who completed their other work could tackle the teaser for extra credit.

Some of these were pretty straightforward: I got a kick out of figuring out how to split exactly 10 gallons of water into 7- and a 3-gallon portions even though I had only a 5, 8 and 10 gallon containers for measuring.

But other teasers were hard. I typically finished my work early (not always correctly, but usually early), so wrestling with the teasers was a part of my life for the 180 or so days I spent with Mr. Halleck.

Knowing there was a solution but not being able to wrap my mind around it, so to speak, was frustrating. I got headaches. It made me mad.

For much of my adult life, I rather proudly defined myself as a “problem-solver.” I guess I viewed this as one of the higher callings.

I learned that it is often not necessary to solve a problem – there are work-arounds.

I learned that the solution to many problems can be found outside the apparent boundaries used to define them – it helps to think outside the box.

I learned that more than one solution often exists – there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I learned that some problems really aren’t worth the cost of solving – don’t sweat the small stuff.

I learned that many apparent problems really aren’t problems at all – if it ain’t broke, you don’t need to fix it.

And I learned that other people can often do a better job solving a given problem than I can – two heads are better than one.

Whatever his motives, Mr. Halleck managed to get my nose out of the books and into applying my talents, such as they were, to figuring stuff out.

I wanted to solve the problems; I wanted to be first to do so.

Mr. Halleck made a difference in my life, I suppose. I remember him as a fairly detached person – not seeming to take a personal interest in his students. But he was very good-natured and obviously enjoyed having a good time.

Many nights, I move from sleep to awareness and find myself trying to solve some kind of problem. It’s usually an ill-defined problem and potential solutions make no more sense to my waking mind than the problem itself.

My earliest recollection of sleepless nights featuring endless attempts to solve insoluble problems is of nights when I was sick. No doubt the underlying problem was my illness, but it manifested itself as something less tangible.

I suppose those first sleepless nights could have begun when I was in Fifth Grade – and that this really is Mr. Halleck’s fault.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know; but that doesn’t mean I won’t spend endless hours in the darkness trying to figure it out

Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan

Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz

Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
Well, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it
-- Billy Joel, 1989

Step right up

2007-11-15T18:25:00.000-08:00

If you want it, here it is, come and get it
Mmmm, make your mind up fast
If you want it, anytime, I can give it
But you better hurry ’cause it may not last

Did I hear you say that there must be a catch?
Will you walk away from a fool and his money?
If you want it, here it is; come and get it
But you better hurry cause it's going fast
-- Badfinger, 1970

Has anyone been riding along with me since Washington State? Do you remember that gas station shaped like a teapot on the road?

I’ve seen a lot more of this kind of outlandish effort to convince tourists to hit the brakes and find out what’s up with that … whatever. Gigantic sharks, lobsters, oranges, pirates – you name it – are erected along highways as lures.

Tonight I sleep in Sarasota – the former winter headquarters of the Ringling Bros, Barnum and Bailey circus. The circus no longer winters here, but circus history and artifacts abound. The Ringling Circus Museum is a major attraction, but Sarasota offers a 3-ring-circus as the town also features the Ringling Art Museum and the Ringling Castle – which was the winter residence of the Ringling family.

I have a feeling that once tourists start arriving in a Florida city – for any reason – a host of cottage industries follow, notably the aforementioned gift shops housed in grandiose structures designed to attract attention.

I’ve lived in tourist towns – and have noted efforts to separate visitors from their cash by nearly all means necessary. But I get the feeling that Florida (and points north along the east coast) have the art of trolling for tourists down to a science. And I must admit that I’m beginning to find it off-putting.

Figures from 5 years ago indicate that Florida is second only to California in attracting tourist dollars – well over $50 billion annually. These two states are way ahead of New York and Texas; others that fall far behind.

I suspect that Florida has to try harder – and must resort to more artificial (and less artful) means – in order to stay close to California. The Golden State (CA) has many more natural attractions and a wider range of offerings.

In future years, as growing numbers of Baby Boomers take to the roads, tens of millions of middle-class vagabonds will soon descend upon interesting regions, cycling in and out with the seasons.

It will be interesting to see how different “tourist destinations” evolve in the coming years. Those that stick with overpriced food, souvenirs, thrill rides and flashy, but vacuous shows, they may lose out in the long run.

Even if one is born every minute, there are only so many suckers to go around…

What do you mean by that?

2007-11-14T19:04:00.001-08:00

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
-- Lewis Carroll, 1872

This was done by creating quasi-natural sentence material with decreasing semantic, syntactic, and phonemic information (i.e., jabberwocky sentences, in which all content words were replaced by meaningless words; pseudoword sentences, in which all function and all content words are replaced by meaningless words; and delexicalized sentences, hummed intonation contour of a sentence removing all segmental content).
-- Ann Pannekamp, others
Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience , 2005

“This is America,” he said. “They must learn to speak English!”

How many hundreds of times have I heard that battle cry? It has logic to it – an undeniable appeal to those who are uncomfortable when they can’t understand what others are saying.

Finally (I never cease to amaze myself at how long it takes me to put two and two together), the most appropriate retort to this logic occurred to me.

“Because this is America,” I suggest, “we are free to speak any language we choose – including pure gibberish, if it suits us.”

It’s true. The First Amendment declares that we all have the right to free speech. We can utter what ever words we like, in almost any context and using whatever vocabulary we wish – including words that originated outside our borders … er … the borders of England, where some of our ancestors used to live?

In fact, the logic – if there is any – behind “this is America, speak English” is far weaker than, “this is northern Colorado, speak Arapahoe,” or “this is southwestern Colorado, speak Ute,” or “this is South Dakota, speak Sioux.”

Today’s lecture (forgive me, I’m on my soapbox again), however, isn’t about languages – though it is about communication.

I have enjoyed meeting and speaking with hundreds of senior citizens I’ve encountered on this trip, but I have to admit that I can count the number of conversations that were “deep” on my fingers and toes.

There just doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of interest in trying to get to the root of a matter or to reach an understanding – even to define terms so we know for sure what we’re talking about.

I hate when someone uses a big word or complex sentence to impress others; but I love it when words are used properly to make a clear and precise point.

Consider the quotes provided above.

The first, penned by Lewis Carrol, is a perfect example of how one can appear to be making sense while uttering absolute nonsense.

And the second, written by scholars, is a great example of how a point can be made clearly.

I respect people able to communicate so clearly and accurately – in fact, I envy them. Those who dedicate themselves to the systematic study of something must surely have a far deeper appreciation of them than the rest of us who have only explored the surface. How strange that we don’t depend on such people more when we must make decisions regarding matters within their spheres of knowledge.

The ability to grasp both fundamentals and nuances, to analyze one situation and then apply what’s learned to another, is a good thing. Most Americans – including our leaders, I fear – tend to shoot from the hip, taking issues out of context and often making choices without applying much history, science, psychology or scholarship of any kind.

Author Norman Mailer died this week. As I watched some clips from interviews he gave over the years I recognized that we’ve lost someone who took few serious matters lightly. He was an egomaniac, a college dropout** and a man with strong opinions that sometimes got him into trouble.

But Norman Mailer brought something to the table. He added to the discussion, challenging others to think.

Though a bit uffish, he was brillig and lived life frabjously.

(** NOTE: Mailer never dropped out of college; see comments)

Blog rolling

2007-11-13T20:13:00.000-08:00

When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and turn
and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again
Yeah, yeah, yeah
-- The Beatles, 1968

Day 13 in the NABLOMO world event. The idea is to make a blog entry every day during the month of November. Depending on one’s standards, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

It’s a writers’ thing. Many of us who believe – or want to believe – that we have a novel inside us that would come out of us, if we just apply ourselves, are attracted by otherwise rather silly challenges like this.

The bloggers’ promotion is actually a spin-off of something called NaNoWriMo – “National Novel Writers’ Month.” That event makes a nearly impossible challenge: novelists are required to complete at least 50,000 words in 30 days, pounding out an entire, full-blown novel in a single month.

The blog project was invented last year by a gal who failed to complete her novel-in-November challenge and it being repeated this month. Thousands of bloggers are participating.

Since a blog can be quite short – and can even include mostly information borrowed from other sources – the blog-a-day challenge is far less demanding for most folks than novel-writing.

But the underlying theory is pretty much the same. Most writing teachers and coaches agree that the key to becoming a better writer is to write, write and write. To a certain extent, most argue, improving the quality of one’s writing is less important than developing the discipline necessary to make daily progress and meet deadlines.

Published writers know that writing begins as a solitary effort but usually ends up as a collaboration between the originator and several editors who help make the product better.

Well, no such luck in the blogosphere. Blog entries are typically little more than first drafts. Blogging is a great way to adhere to the “write, write, write” imperative, but the end product seldom rises to professional levels – even when the writer is a professional.

Though I am seeking an audience of critical readers and hope to be presenting fairly clear, concise and if not significant at least somewhat interesting prose, some of my entries are what I once labeled “F.R.O.T.H.” when criticizing students’ work.

The effluent that results from so-called stream-of-consciousness writing – or the product of just sitting down and “pounding out” a story – isn’t really professional writing, as I see it.

Writers should probably really be called RE-writers because the process of editing begins with the writer and, in most cases, takes more time than creating the first draft.

FROTH – writing that flows onto paper “From Right Off The Head” – can be full of energy and promise. Much of a first draft may find its way into the final version unchanged – but much more usually doesn’t bear scrutiny.

There is no shortage of FROTH in these entries of mine. When I revisit some work from past months, I often cringe – realizing that the whole world has had access to unpolished, unedited and often incompletely developed work.

I’ve been asked many times whether I intend to write a book about my adventures. My answer is becoming a more and more emphatic “probably not!” One thing is certain, though, none of these blog entries will make it into such a document without a lot of editing.

This one included.

Homeward bound

2007-11-12T20:53:00.001-08:00

How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. And what's it all for? All I tried to be, all I ever wanted and went away for, what's it all for?

Just one way, you do get back home. You have a boy or a girl of your own and now and then you remember, and you know how they feel, and it's almost the same as if you were your own self again, as young as you could remember.
-- James Agee
-- A Death in the Family, 1957

Take it from a rolling stone: there really is no place like home.

I’ve felt “at home” quite a few times along my route, usually when invited into the private apartment of one of the folks I’ve met, but also during meals and other activities.

It’s a great feeling – sort of a combination of feeling warm and cozy and well fed and comfortable and entertained and relaxed and satisfied and cared-for.

Sometimes I feel that way just because of a chair or couch. When I’m sore or tired, or sore and tired, just nestling into a soft, supportive and otherwise just-right seat makes everything else seem unimportant.

Another kind of “at-home” experience is the product of proximity to people. Put me in the company of some copasetic fellow humans and I go right into a comfort zone. Barriers that I usually have in place; I feel free to expose my feelings and risk being found lacking.

It’s the combination of people and place, I guess, that puts folks in a condition most conducive to happiness. And the ideal, it seems to me, is when one is part of a family that lives together in a comfortable home.

On an equal playing field, all things being equal, with average luck and by applying good common sense, it should be possible for most people to enjoy four score and seven years, more or less, of the good life.

Many of the hundreds I’ve met over the past nine months have done just that.

As a representative of those who’ve been less fortunate, I’d just like to say to all of those whose lives have gone pretty much according to plan: “lucky you.”

Most of us make mistakes and/or are affected by events outside our control that scotch the deal. Hooray for those whose errors didn’t prove fatal to family and for whom unavoidable intrusions weren’t destructive.

As I turn west Thursday, and begin my long journey from the Atlantic back to the Pacific, I’m determined to explore paths toward home – not in the sense of it being a physical place, but home as sort of a lifestyle that facilitates happiness.

Younger readers may simply refer to the manual (as presented on television and elsewhere). But for those of us who must begin a new search later in life, the options are fewer (biological clock-wise).

That said, I do believe I’ll find examples of folks in the over-fifty crowd who have encountered problems but managed to get those home fires burning again despite chronological limitations.

If I stay on pace, I’ll have a chance to survey several hundred more seniors before trail’s end. As I continue these interviews, I’m going to focus more attention on ideas like “family,” “joy,” “meaning in life” and “home.”

'Mid pleasures and palaces 
Though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, 
There's no place like home. 

A charm from the skies 
Seems to hallow us there, 
Which seek thro' the world, 
Is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home, home, sweet sweet home, 
There's no place like home.
-- John Howard Payne, 1823

The Magic Kingdom is for the birds

2007-11-11T07:59:00.001-08:00

"Feed the birds," that's what she cries,
While overhead, her birds fill the skies.
All around the cathedral the saints and apostles
Look down as she sells her wares.
Although you can't see it, you know they are smiling
Each time someone shows that he cares.
Though her words are simple and few,
Listen, listen, she's calling to you:
"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag,
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag."

-- Mary Poppins, 1964

Walt Disney sought to control every aspect of visitors’ experiences at his amusement parks. Few of the millions of people who visit Disneyland and Disney World notice that the buildings along Main Street are actually scaled-down versions of edifices one might have found in turn-of-the-century American towns.

That’s not actually an accurate statement. Replicas that are “built to scale” use a ratio that’s applied equally to each dimension. Buildings that are 2/3 as wide as the original are also 2/3 as tall.

But Disney used an artist’s technique to create an optical illusion that makes Main Street appear more realistic. “Forced perspective” fools the eye and makes fantasy seem like reality. The second stories of Main Street buildings are not as high as the first; and third stories are shorter still.

The same effect is applied to the Sleeping Beauty Castle where grown-ups stroll through spacious ground-floor gates but you’d have to be one of the seven dwarves to crawl through an upper-floor window. Even the Matterhorn was designed to appear far taller than it is by using forced perspective.

Disney managed to manipulate the environment so effectively that it’s easy to forget you’re still in the real world. A different set of rules – even rules of physics – applies in the Magic Kingdom.

Disney World was built in a Florida wilderness that almost provided a blank slate – a pristine lump of clay from which Disney could mold whatever creation he pleased.

He had complete control over the width, depth and height. No residential, commercial, industrial or other influences threatened his borders. He was god-like in his ability to create a kingdom in the Florida forest primeval…

But, as we learned in “Jurassic Park,” the 1993 film blockbuster, “Life will find a way.” Even the great and powerful Walt Disney couldn’t control flight patterns of migrating birds or the nesting habits of other fowl native to Florida.

Thousands of birds occupy Disney World. These are not official “cast members” and they do occasionally break the spell a bit. After a while, I stopped noticing their ubiquitous presence – except when they literally got in my way, which happened more often than one might think.

It’s possible that Disney has employed strategies for controlling the creatures. If so, the effort has not been completely successful. It seems just as likely that park officials have refused to engage in battle with the birds – but rather have learned to love them … and to live with them.

Disney Wildlife Conservation Fund has taken action to protect endangered species of birds, notably the Whooping Crane. Their efforts have spanned more than 10 years; the corporation has contributed more than $10 million to worldwide efforts to protect wildlife and the ecosystem.

It’s nice to know that Disney has not only built wonderful facilities for boys and girls of all ages, but that they’re also for the birds.

Now, if there was just a way to keep birds that perch on Main Street rooftops from appearing to be so much larger than they should…

Look at me way up high

2007-11-10T21:02:00.000-08:00

Never gonna be a man, I won't!
Like to see somebody try and make me.
Anyone who wants to try and make me turn into a man,
Catch me if you can.

I won't grow up.
Not a penny will I pinch.
I will never grow a mustache,
Or a fraction of an inch.

'Cause growing up is awfuller
Than all the awful things that ever were.
I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up,
No sir. Not I. Not me. So there!
-- Peter Pan, 1954

Peter Pan defied the adults in his life (mainly pirates and Indians) and he absolutely, unequivocally, undeniably and stubbornly refused to grow up.

I stood watching Peter Pan in the center of Disney World this week and listened to him as he contemplated the prospect of once again taking on the formidable Captain Hook in mortal combat.

1954’s Mary Martin, portraying Peter on live TV, knelt over the body of a dying Tinker Bell and implored viewers to demonstrate their belief in fairies.

I was 6 and, of course, I responded. And I’ve been responding, more or less, to one version or another of the Pan philosophy ever since – even after my rational self realized it wasn’t quite true.

Listening to Peter Pan in the shadow of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, I was inclined to believe. Good versus evil seems so well defined when all of the bad guys look like bad guys and the good guys are so very completely good.

Walt Disney said, “Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America... with hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world."

But “hard facts” haven’t treated all of us equally, nor have we become aware of their existence at the same age.

My parents’ generation discovered Walt Disney in the context of a world dominated by hard facts. But my generation discovered hard facts in the context of Disney.

In Disney’s world, it seems possible to actually be sure that we are right. And even when it’s certain that things will get worse before they get better, it’s also certain that good will prevail and that we’ll all live happily ever after.

But in the real world, outcomes aren’t always guaranteed. Those living through the Depression and World War knew this before they were ever exposed to Disney; we Baby Boomers had less cause for skepticism and were more susceptible to the Disney message.

But life’s lessons can be harsh and the time comes, for most of us, when we realize that good intentions, hard work and following the rules does not always lead to positive outcomes.

Standing in the crowd this week, I struggled to let the joyful message prevail. But I failed.

I guess I was crying because I knew Peter was telling a lie. I know now that dreams don’t always come true, that goodness is not always rewarded and that it isn’t always safe to trust others.

He was describing a world I once thought I lived in – a world I can’t stop wanting to occupy. And I wept out of a sense of loss – the loss of something I never really had.

"I don't want the public to see the world they live in while they're in the Park,” admitted Disney. “I want them to feel they're in another world."

It’s a wonderful world. It’s a great place to visit. But, at the end of the day, I just can’t live there. And that’s why I was crying, this week, right in the center of “the happiest place on earth.”

“After me.”

2007-11-09T06:44:00.000-08:00

Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Pushing in front of the ice cream line.
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Grabbing the ketchup at dinnertime.
Climbing on the morning bus
She'd shove right by all of us
And there'd be a tiff or a fight or a fuss
When Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."

Pamela Purse screamed, "Ladies first,"
When we went off on our jungle trip.
Pamela Purse said her thirst was worse
And guzzled our water, every sip.
And when we got grabbed by that wild savage band,
Who tied us together and made us all stand
In a long line in front of the King of the land-
A cannibal known as Fry-'Em-Up Dan,
Who sat on his throne in a bib so grand
With a lick of his lips and a fork in his hand,
As he tried to decide who'd be first in the pan-
From back of the line, in that shrill voice of hers,
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."
-- Shel Silverstein, 1974

Rush hour was technically almost over by the time I set out for the Magic Kingdom yesterday. But plenty of folks living in high-traffic regions like Orlando adjust their work schedules to cut commute time and that stretches the “hour” to at least 120 minutes – longer still on Fridays as “get home” traffic is increased by “get out of towners.”

Many, though perhaps not most, drivers are fairly courteous and will give a little slack to motorists attempting to change lanes or make other maneuvers. But the general attitude is “get moving or get out of my way” as nearly everyone is eager to get where they’re going and out of the rat race called “the daily commute.”

I was on the road for nearly an hour and probably had mini-episodes with hundreds of other drivers. Several times, I needed to make an exit or lane change and waited as several cars refused to open a gap for me. Occasionally, I hit the gas and forced my way over – coming way to close to other cars for real safety.

It’s a jungle out there and sometimes you just have to be the aggressor. Or so it seems to me.

As soon as I arrived at the park, I knew I had made a good decision. Ten or 12 lanes offered access to the parking lot. Most were open, with green lights inviting me to make a choice between inviting options. None of the lines was more than three cars long.

And yet…

I slowed a bit to survey the situation and a half-dozen cars flashed by me, two or three made multiple lane changes so they could race to an open booth – or toward a line with just one car. On a busy day, we might have been held up for five or ten minutes; with virtually no waiting, drivers still seemed intent on saving a few seconds – at the expense of someone who hesitated, as I had.

We were single file all the way to our $11 parking spaces, but a new race began immediately. Families poured out of their cars and quickly headed for the end of our row where a tram was waiting.

Catching that first tram seemed to be the most important thing in the world for many folks and there was plenty of shouting, quick-stepping and even running to make sure to find a seat – at the expense of others who didn’t rush.

As so often happens, I caught up with those who had passed me before they were able to gain any real advantage. I took some satisfaction in the fact that I hadn’t raced past others in pursuit of my own self interest.

The ritual repeated itself at the ticket booths. On this slow day, there were very few people in line to buy tickets. But people jumped from the trams and raced to the short lines – passing others to gain a dubious advantage.

I was second in line at my ticket station and was soon beyond the gate. Two new races were underway inside – one stream of people headed for the Monorail and the other toward a ferry. Unlike the configuration in Anaheim, parking is a long distance from the real entrance to the attractions.

I turned toward the Monorail station, but soon noticed that more people were exiting that area than entering. Apparently there was a delay.

Those who were opting not to wait for the problem to be resolved looked a bit frantic, at least in my eyes, as they retraced their steps and headed for the dock. I decided that it was prudent to follow their lead and also opted for the ferry over the problematic Monorail.

The sense of urgency was very high as it became evident that the ferry was nearly full. I refused to join the panic and neither elbowed my way past others nor attempted to block those who were willing to shove me aside to make sure they got aboard.

Once again, luck was with me and I reached the dock before the ship was filled to capacity. Without having been rude or greedy, I’m sure that I arrived at main entrance at the same time those who passed me at the parking gate, in the parking lot – enroute to the tram, at the ticket booth and on the path to the ferry.

This pattern continued all day long. Despite very short lines for most attractions, visitors raced through the turnstiles and along lanes where folks normally wait for their turn. Several times, moved aside to let a pack of eager beavers rush past me. I always caught up with these rudesters farther down the line and always ended up on the ride within a few seconds of them.

Though I’ve linked the behavior of commuters to the behavior of vacationers in an amusement park, I don’t mean to say they are of equal import.

In the context of leisure activities, I believe running is a good thing. It adds to the excitement and keeps the heart rate up. I don’t mean to judge or even to discourage those who felt compelled to race to the front whenever they could. I am a bit miffed, of course, by those who did so in a rude fashion that transcended thoughtlessness. But, upon reflection, I’d say these were few in number.

There does seem to be a shortage of good old fashioned courtesy; and more of that is always a good thing. I’m very forgiving of children who are caught up in the excitement; and am tolerant of parents wishing not to dampen that enthusiasm by tightening the reins.

But when the adults take the lead, and when their actions take some of the joy out of the experience of others – and even threaten safety – I disapprove.

About two hours before the park closed, temperatures dropped and I began wishing I had brought a jacket. I had visited every attraction on my list and had stayed long enough to see the lights come on. The only remaining event of great interest was the evening parade and fireworks – which might have been enough to keep me around if I had that jacket.

But I left about 2 hours before closing. When I returned to the parking lot I discovered that about a third of those who arrived when I did had already left. All of their rushing around ended up saving them time they apparently didn’t need after all.

Peak experience

2007-11-08T20:08:00.000-08:00

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you
-- Jiminy Crickett

“I’m going to Disneyland!”

That four-word phrase has become a standard at the end of Super Bowl games when there’s been no recent “costume malfunction” and when the MVP of that venerable game has not been an accused murderer.

As a fairly typical American who made his first visit to the park about a half-century ago at the perfect age and during the right time in history – the idea of Disneyland is powerful.

In fact, that idea is so powerful that even the most gross and greed-driven efforts by corporate functionaries to translate every single bit of the magic into an enhancement of the bottom line can’t destroy the Disney experience for me.

Before the Disneyland there were already Disney characters…

Walt Disney was one of the most powerful influences on me and millions like me. He was the kind of combination of entrepreneur and creative genius that has given us so many of our most useful, amazing and enriching “things” – be they products, services, programs or events.

Born at the turn of the century and raised in the Midwest, “Uncle Walt” absorbed the set of values that became known as “the American way.” Creating art—particularly cartoons – was an almost daily part of his life from school days onward.

Making steady progress toward fame and fortune, Disney hit the big time in the mid-’30s with “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” Typically, he invested much more money than experts of the day thought prudent in the enterprise and it turned out to be much more successful than even he hoped.

"I don't make pictures just to make money. I make money to make more pictures,” he said. That same logic seemed to be applied to Disney attractions until Walt’s death at the end of 1966.

The first generation affected by Disney was caught up in the Great Depression and then in World War II. Those unhappy contexts surely had a lot to do with how fantasy operated in their lives.

But my group (Baby Boomers) came to know Disney in a whole new age – the post-war, growing economy, focus on family, fantastic FIFTIES!!

Those who first saw movies like “Pinocchio,” “Dumbo” and “Bambi” during the depression or war years might well have wondered whether dreams really do come true or even if good conquers evil; but during the ‘50s it was easy to imagine that happy endings are not only possible, but predictable – almost certain.

There’s certainly a difference in expectations between one who had to endure years of strife that must have seemed to be without end (particularly for children) and those who came onto the scene after the struggle had ended and things got better.

In a world where real evil had recently been conquered, it was easy to accept fantastic worlds where imaginary bad guys always lost out and nobody got hurt in the process.

And so, I grew up not only with Mickey, Daffy, Goofy and dozens of other animated good guys, but with idealized (though also rather “sanitized?”) historic and imaginary heroes of the past like Davy Crockett, Zorro, Elfego Baca, the Swamp Fox and more. These, to a very significant extent, were my mentors, teachers and role models.

Of course, my life contained many other stimuli. I also learned from movies that clarified the horrors of war. I had perceptive parents who helped me see that the world is not perfect and that progress requires work and sacrifice.

But I believe I have Walt Disney to thank for not becoming a cynic, for not giving up hope and for not giving in to the dark side.

About six hours into my visit to Disney World yesterday, I experienced a surprising emotional response while watching a performance by familiar Disney on the steps of Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

It was standard Disney fare: quite joyful and emphasizing the power of dreams (as in the message from “Cinderella”: “A dream is a wish your heart makes”). Several villains, including Captain Hook and the evil queen of Snow White fame, were vanquished in a little drama; and good conquered evil – as usual.

I stood in the crowd and was surprised when familiar but unexpected emotions swept over me. For the first time in my life, the Disney magic backfired and I wept – right in the center of the happiest place on earth.

And THAT has given me something to think about. I can hardly wait to read what I write in my NEXT blog entry. Stay tuned.

Be sure you don’t miss …

2007-11-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond.
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae
On the bonnie, bonnie banks O' Loch Lomond.

O ye'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road,
An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks O' Loch Lomond.
-- Scotland, circa 1745

Even before I left Merced on this yearlong jaunt, people were trying to take control of my itinerary. Now, 265 days later, I still get travel advice just about every day.

Of course, I’m bringing it on myself because I invite me to have breakfast, lunch or supper with strangers just about every day, and the main topic of discussion is usually my trip.

One observation I’ve made is that people assume that I will be interested in places and activities that interest them. I’m often steered toward opportunities for shopping – an enterprise I detest; and I’m also encouraged to visit upscale neighborhoods to look at the houses – another activity that fails to capture my fancy.

The fact of the matter is that I tend to appreciate rather offbeat phenomena. I can spend an hour watching an individual or team working on some kind of project. I get a kick out of figuring out how things get done.

I do appreciate the advice I get and do act on quite a bit of it. But since running into a few lemons, I’ve become a bit more careful and tend to interview those who make suggestions to determine whether our interests are in synch.

I’ve also noticed that people tend to be true to local visitors and tourism offices. I’ve been urged to take in attractions that are part of local lore – even though the person making the suggestion may actually have never been there her or himself. The local reputation seems to be enough to justify making a recommendation – most towns have kind of a list of landmarks – these sites often decorate the covers of calendars and brochures.

Such local attractions can turn out to be rather disappointing; but they are what the town has to offer. Often, it seems to me that the hype isn’t matched by maintenance or even adequate signage. Such sites suffer from neglect – though their reputation remains unblemished in the eyes of those who haven’t dropped by for years.

So, the advice I’ve received from local residents has resulted in a sort of potluck set of outcomes. I’ve learned to ask follow-up questions and to seek second and third opinions before jumping into the Saturn on what just may turn into a wild goose chase.

People often want to give me detailed driving instructions. But, I’ve become completely dependent on my GPS device. The constant update of my position and reassuring course corrections have removed a considerable amount of stress that has always been part of travel for me. You see, I’m directionally impaired – usually uncertain as to north-south-east-west orientations; and I’m basically lost just about all of the time.

When people start giving me directions, I try to explain that I can’t usually remember anything past “turn left at the second light…” I also mention that I have a GPS device and only need to know the destination – that my onboard digital navigator will plot my course – but they often seem intent on providing turn-by-turn details despite the fact that I can’t remember them and don’t need them.

It’s actually rather entertaining when two well-meaning travel assistants begin to debate each other regarding the best route. I just kick back in these situations and recall how terrible life was in “the olden days” – meaning a year ago – when I didn’t have the GPS.

Actually, travel is a great starting point for interesting discussions. Learning where people have been leads to discussing what they’ve done which tends to uncover a bit of what made them the people that they are.

What did you bring me?

2007-11-06T13:45:00.001-08:00

Three or four kids are gathered under a tree alongside the road. The obvious leader is a girl, perhaps 9 years old. She’s clutching an armadillo in both arms – the animal is the size of a large cat and seems to be resting about as comfortably in her arms.

She’s smiling, signaling without words that she and her friends would make a very nice shapshot photo for tourists wishing to remember this tropical area of Mexico south of the capitol.

We’ve foiled her plan, though, by shooting while on the move – capturing this young entrepreneur on film as our truck rolls by. Using a movie camera does much more than capture a moment in time; it allows the photographer to capture transitions.

And the transition in this little scenario is rather remarkable. The incident was captured some 50 years ago and it has been a couple of decades or more since I last viewed it; but I remember both the day itself and the images captured on our family’s new 8 millimeter movie camera.

We were visiting a historic part of Mexico, an area that featured ancient ruins. It was a popular spot for tourists and the local residents had devised several strategies for separating visitors from some of their money.

A type of clay or other substance, comprised, in part, of volcanic ash, was used to create objects that had an air of antiquity to them – though they were pretty obviously being produced contemporaneously, the unique texture apparently made them popular among tourists.

When we arrived at one of the most visited sites, vendors gathered around in a sort of swarm, pressing their wares forward and making their pitches. Everyone was a target, even I – a 14-year-old with no money or interest in the products.

I noticed that many of the salespeople were actually younger than I. Perhaps their parents found the business to be a bit demeaning – it did seem to me to be almost a combination of sales and begging as the young people seemed to be appealing to customers’ charitable instincts as well as their interest in neo-ancient art.

The little girl with the armadillo flashed that smile and I was interested. She appeared to be truly friendly, interested in sharing her pet with passersby.

But when she realized we were stealing the product she was attempting to sell – namely, her image and that of the reptile – she became enraged. Her pretty face was transformed into a mask of hate and fury. She turned her body to block our view of the animal and shouted what must have been harsh words.

All she wanted, I realized, was our money. She was willing to pretend that she was interested in sharing something with us; but her only real interest was in making a buck – and that attractive smile was a sham.

She had fooled me. And I felt betrayed by my gullibility. I learned that some people pretend to be friendly while really only wanting something from me.

I didn’t go visit Niagara Falls on this trip, partly because for me it symbolizes the worst characteristics of tourism and the tourist “trade.” People have actually risked – and lost – their lives in an effort to gain fame by “going over” the falls; and hundreds of stores and stands struggle to extract dimes and dollars from the millions of tourists who pass through each year.

I get that old feeling at carnivals and county fairs, in Tijuana and, now, in Myrtle Beach South Carolina and today in Orlando, Florida.

I’m still planning to spend tomorrow in Disney World, but as I drove down to that part of town today – to check out the lay of the land – I got caught up in the world of “gimme.”

I’ll pay a fairly incredible entry charge to spend the day in an undeniably amazing place. And that’s fair enough.

But, in the context of that visit, I’ll be charged $11 for a parking space and will be offered all kinds of food and souvenirs at prices way beyond reason.

I wish the transaction between an excited guest to a region that contains something of great interest – be it a battlefield, national park or amusement park – and those who choose to make their living by selling products and services to those visitors.

It seems to me that there is a range of returns on investment that falls into the “fair to both parties” category and then there are transactions falling above and below that range.

That said, it would be nice to go back to Mexico and find that little girl. I think we owe her a dollar for those 75 millimeters of film we shot of her holding the armadillo.

Orlando

2007-11-05T19:25:00.001-08:00

As a Californian, I’m used to living on the edge. Because of its tall and narrow shape, our state has over 800 miles of coastline. The population is generally crowded toward the coast – as it is in most regions of the world that are largely desert.

Florida has less than half of California’s land mass, but boasts about 1,200 miles of coastline, including a lot of pretty impressive beaches…

The reason for this inequity, of course is the fact that most of Florida is a peninsula. Yep, look up “bi-coastal” in the dictionary and there should be a photo of Florida – though the term more often refers to folks with roots on both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.

Twenty-second in size, Florida is fifth in population. People are packed a lot closer together down here where there are about 50 percent more people per square mile than in the Golden State.

One interesting tidbit of historical fact: Florida entered the Union five years before California. I suppose that provides some minor bragging rights…

I’m 13,000 miles into this journey; and one thing has become very clear to me: I don’t like crowds. I’ve been uncomfortable in heavily populated areas. I tend to avoid big cities; and when I’m camped out in one, I tend to stay “home” more of the time, though I hope to break this trend while here in touristy Orlando.

As I traveled east, the landscape featured thick forests and people became less visible. At first, this provided the illusion that I was in rural areas – even when large housing tracts and commercial or industrial zones were nearby.

Now that I’ve adjusted to being unable to see beyond the trees, I’ve developed an almost paranoid sense that I’m almost always just a hundred yards or less from urban sprawl. Rather than enjoying the forests, I’ve become suspicious of what secrets they may be hiding.

I’m still near the beginning of a month-long stay in Florida, so it’s premature to begin reaching conclusions. But it is accurate to note that there are a LOT of people here.

Orlando, proper, has just over 220,000 residents and is the hub of a large metropolitan area, ranking third in the state after Miami-Ft Lauderdale and Tampa-St Petersburg.

The city grew dramatically in the last quarter of the 19th century and again in the early 20th century and still dominates inland northern Florida. It is a sprawling metropolis, however, and I’m not sure I’ll get a real feel for this historical city most famous, now, as the site of Disney World.

All of this said, it’s only fair to note that today was an absolutely beautiful day in northern Florida. Humidity, which was still oppressive in the Carolinas in October, was not a factor and, despite temperatures edging into the 80s, today couldn’t have been nicer.

With a new GPS device (that’s another story), I’m confident enough to venture forth tomorrow in the general direction of the many attractions that surround Disney World and to try to discover the lay of the land.

I’ll probably make Wednesday my day in the park. The forecast is positive and I’ve been eager to see this eastern version of Disneyland since Uncle Walt described it so enthusiastically on the “Wonderful World of Disney”.

I’m 2,000 miles and 48 years away from that memorable day, but I believe I can recapture some of the magic if I give it a try.

Changing times

2007-11-04T18:27:00.000-08:00

Still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets and
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me

Ch-ch-ch-Changes
Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can't trace time
-- David Bowie, 1971

It’s funny how the “bonus” hour we receive each Fall when we get to set our clocks back seems so much more important than any other hour of the year.

Perhaps it’s because that sixty minutes is one of those something-for-nothing deals that reeks of unexpected opportunity. Unfortunately, I tend to end up spending more than an hour trying to think up a good plan for making good use of this annual gift – which clearly defeats the potential.

I wonder what might happen if the powers that be changed the official clock-reset time to a daylight hour during the workweek and encouraged us all to spend that hour creating a benefit for our communities.

If the “set-back” time were 3 p.m. on Wednesday, for example, we could all spend the second hour between 2 and 3 picking up trash, painting over graffiti or doing any other kind of service we might devise that improves the general quality of life for our towns and cities.

It’s interesting to consider how much could be done in a few hundred million hours of public service – even if they occur only once a year.

Of course, the whole daylight/standard time game is artificial – as are hours and minutes, for that matter. Time is a rather mysterious phenomenon that can be measured in very specific and detailed fashion, but can’t be controlled at all.

Time is a one-way street; we can only move toward the future.

It’s said that one can’t step foot into the same river twice – because each successive entry encounters different water. But one can get on a raft and flow with the river, slowing it’s passing a bit; or they could take a powerboat and travel upstream – racing into the future for a ways.

But, at the end of the day, the river isn’t really affected by our puny efforts to artificially speed or slow its passage. Old Man River just keeps on flowing along…

The main thing about time, it seems to me, is that it’s the most logical way to put events into perspective. While one thing may not often actually lead to another, it always happens before, during or after the time that the other occurred. That positioning, along a timeline, does seem to add some meaning, or at least context.

Time allows us to reflect and to anticipate; it provides urgency and – ultimately – deadlines.

At the end of this day, it’s probably not very significant to determine whether I’ve gained an hour or not. The certain fact is that the day that will end in a few hours will never be available again. Like every other day in my life, it’s a one-time offer.

I'm not the kind to live in the past
the years run too short, and the days too fast
The things you lean on are the things that don't last
well it’s just now and then, my line gets cast into these
time passages
There's something back there that you left behind
oh time passages
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight
-- Al Stewart, 1978

Southern Fried Football

2007-11-03T07:02:00.000-07:00

"This has to go down as an all-time all-timer."
-- Keith Jackson, ABC Sports

One fall day in around 1955, I was taken to a football game at The Ohio State University. I remember the huge crowd and I remember watching the players -- far below on a distant grass field -- lining up and then jumping on top of each other.

I'd never seen a game on television. In those days very few games were televised -- college officials were fearful that having games on the tube would have a negative impact on attendance at the stadiums.

At about that time, some of the bigger conferences joined forced with television stations to increase the number of games being televised from just one "national" game to the game of the week plus several regional contests.

But it wasn't until around 1980 that the number of games began to proliferate. Now, with cable, nearly every major college team's entire schedule is televised and many are available in the far reaches of the country.

For nearly 40 years, the voice of college football on television (specifically, on ABC Sports) was Keith Jackson.

Though his accent was a bit subtle, there was no doubt that this broadcaster was a southern boy. And the reverence with which he obviously regarded the sport of football led me to believe there must be a special relationship between southerners and the pigskin.

I wonder whether there was some connection between reconstruction and football -- this somewhat violent sport is often compared to war and the intensity with which some teams approach the game could be seen as being a bit like that found on the battlefield.

Teams like "Old Miss" and "The Crimson Tide" seem to invite the addition of "and the South shall rise again..."

Well, I'm probably way out of line, here. I'm no doubt affected by the surprisingly high level of interest among retired people I've met here in the South. And let me tell you, Gainesville, Florida is "in to" today's homecoming game between Florida and Vanderbuilt as if it were the Super Bowl.

When I arrived at my retirement-community destination yesterday, a large-screen television was tuned to the homecoming parade -- a major event. And the conversations were all about football.

I'm interested to see what kind of turnout we'll have for dinner -- which begins at game time...

Laid-back California may be one of the least fanatical rgions when it comes to sports. We tend to get pretty excited near the end of the season -- when one of our favorites is still in the running for post-season play; but it's not uncommon to find stadiums only half-full when teams are having off years or when the weather screams, "go to the beach!" and sun-worshippers can't resist the call.

Whether it's the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat for the Gators today, in Keith Jackson's words, "I think we're in for a whale of a football game."

Blow the man down

2007-11-02T05:39:00.000-07:00

Like their California counterparts, Atlantic coast surfers celebrate storms that are too far offshore to have any impact on residents but still kick up enough of a ruckus to create a “surf’s up!” condition at the beach. The storm du jour is Noel,

In fact, the current official storm condition – provided by our National Weather Service Forecast office – is “high surf warning.” This designation rests between “small craft advisory” and “red flag warning.” Two more designations are higher, but remain below “hurricane warning” and “Hurricane;” they are “gale warning” and “coastal flood warning.”

Areas between here and Daytona Beach are currently at the “coastal flood warning” level, and the tropical storm is generating “hurricane warning” notices off shore all the way down the coast.

Jacksonville skies are clear right now, but the speed with which clouds sailed by yesterday indicates that conditions are volatile here in “high surf warning” territory. In fact, forecasters are expecting more clouds to pass through town enroute to other destinations. Then, they say, skies should be clear for the weekend and beyond.

Thanks to the return to Standard Time on Sunday, the sun’s going to be setting an hour earlier – making days seem much shorter. Morning people are eager for the shift as they’re already rising before daylight; but I will miss the opportunity to go outside after supper and enjoy the sunset and dusk.

OK. This entry is a bit thin – perhaps not up to my usual standards. I noted that November is “Blog Posting Month” and I’m thinking about trying to rise to the challenge and to post something every day this month. For info, try NaBloPoMo (November Blog Posting Month, http://nablopomo.ning.com/ )

Southern climes

2007-11-01T07:34:00.001-07:00

It’s 1° (Centigrade) right now in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan – but with 15km per hour winds coming in from the southwest, it feels more like -3°.

Meanwhile, we’re looking at a high of 80° (Fahrenheit) here in Jacksonville, Florida – with a tropical storm off the shore south of here and a Nor’Eastener retreating to the nor’east up the coast. Humidity is high, of course – in the 90s – and we’re getting some isolated showers, some of which were isolated over me in the pre-dawn hours.

I’m happy to be in Florida for November – but I’d love to spend a few crisp, clear, cold mornings back in Moose Jaw or other spots I enjoyed during Spring and Summer months.

I’m 260 days into this incredible journey. I’ve just 6 new states left out of the 35 (not counting six Canadian provinces) that I will have visited by the end of the trail.

Far from serving as the “dog days,” these final weeks will probably scoot by as I attempt to exploit remaining opportunities to explore and learn.

Jacksonville turns out to be a bit like my hometown of San Diego. It’s a huge, sprawling city – one of the nation’s 20 largest. Traffic is a bit of a challenge, and one can easily end up driving scores of miles running errands or seeking points of interest.

I’m hoping to get an oil change and otherwise help my Saturn gird its loins (do cars have loins?) for the rest of the trip. My 1995 soon-to-be novokilomiler (that’s 90,000 on the odometer for those of you having difficulty deciphering my term-coining) has been running like a top and deserves a bit of TLC after having brought me so far without incident.

*** *** ***

I interrupted this writing to have a conversation with an army (national guard) recruiter. He was very forthcoming regarding his attitudes toward service, leadership and a host of topics related to his job and to the world in general.

Two stories dominated the CNN broadcast that served as context and background for our discussion. One dealt with a minor celebrity (“Mad Dog” something – a bounty hunter with his own reality-TV show) who used the “N” word and other racist terminology in a private phone conversation that isn’t private anymore; and the other with several incidents where nooses have been placed near the doors of black people.

My new acquaintance is black and is the first young person I’ve discussed racism with since my retirement from teaching. Though we have quite different perspectives – not only racially, but also chronologically, career and life experience-wise and no doubt in other significant ways – I believe we had a meeting of minds and that our values have much in common.

The manner in which the media covers news never ceases to amaze (and disappoint me). CNN, and the rest of the commercial media, focus more and more on selling the sizzle and less and less on the steak.

One conclusion that the seargent and I agreed upon was that while much has improved since Martin Luther King began his struggle, much room remains for further improvement.

Though I’m not sure how it will translate into action, I am becoming more and more certain that some form of activism will become a significant part of my life once I’ve returned to California and settled into new digs.

This adventure has recharged my batteries. Meeting so many vibrant, engaged and motivated people who are much older than I has inspired me and has convinced me that my life probably isn’t close to “over” just yet. After eight years of mourning and wallowing, I believe that I’m ready to return to life.

Though not particularly in a religious sense, the concepts of resurrection and redemption have become much more interesting to me over the past number of years. I find each of these to be a cause for optimism and – along with other factors – they are helping me see a possible path toward a new chapter (or two) in the book of David…

Despite the absence of sunshine, things are definitely looking brighter, this morning, here in Florida.

Eine kleine Nachtmusik

2007-10-30T17:11:00.000-07:00

Henry moves downstage center. He’s a big man of about 85, wearing a coat and an outlandish tie. His voice is high-pitched, particularly when he launches into an enthusiastic rendition of “Ain’t she sweet.”

Henryk – that’s Henry’s real first name – speaks and sings with a strong German accent. He’s Polish, by birth, but grew up speaking both languages.

Despite his size and age and his ability to sing on pitch, he’s nervous. His big hands roll, then fold and unfold the script, fingers trembling.

The performance is the fifth in a series of annual productions at a North Carolina retirement complex, but it’s Henry’s first. Until he signed up for the show, the recent newcomer felt like an outsider; now, he’s part of a group and feels good about making a contribution.

The script was written by one of the actors’ daughters, who also directs the show, she also plays piano and is chief prompter for those who forget their lines.

The performers portray a room full of “eighty-somethings” celebrating their 65th year high school class reunion.

The songs and stories obviously bring back sweet memories for many cast and audience members. Common experiences abound among Americans regardless of which part of the country they hail from or whether they graduated in 1942 or a decade earlier or later.

But Henryk’s history is very different. He never attended high school and while fellow cast members were finding sweethearts and preparing for service in the United States military, he was an unwilling participant in Adolph Hitler’s war effort. Henryk was on the other side: he was part of the Nazi war machine that menaced the world.

Two years before the German Blitzkrieg struck, Henryk’s family was a thriving part of the Polish middle class. His father owned a tavern and was a well-respected member of the community before he died suddenly, leaving a wife and four children to fend for themselves.

The invading Germans commandeered the tavern and exiled the family to eastern Poland where, one after the other, each of three sons was inducted into the German army. Henryk was forced to spend three years in the infamous Hitler Youth before being drafted.

The oldest son died in Leningrad and the winds of war separated the rest; Henryk didn’t see his mother for decades – long after he had resettled first in England and then in the U.S.

Though he never really participated in combat, Henryk was a member of a Polish unit assigned to help resist the American advance through Italy. In photographs from that time, he looks like any other member of the German army, posing with fellow uniformed soldiers.

At the end of the musical production, cast members sing anthems from each of the branches of the U.S. military. Henryk is seated in the back row, lending his high, clear voice to the choir.

One has to wonder what’s going through his mind when, in turn, other cast members rise with pride as each U.S. service song is presented. Does he recall songs from his youth – battle songs of the “other side?”

Looking back over the years that comprise a lifetime, each of us finds plenty of cause for celebration and for regret. We have acted for a variety of motives and have been influenced by a range of factors.

Raised during the aftermath of World War II, I grew up hating young men dressed in the uniform Henryk wears in those fifty-plus-year-old photos. I learned to feel suspicious of those who speak with an accent like his. And I despised all of those young people who joined the Hitler Youth.

But spending a few hours with Henry made me realize that the tides and winds and currents of major human events can overwhelm people caught up in their power and fury. It’s becoming more difficult to sort out victims and victimizers – one can’t always tell just by looking at the uniforms.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
and never brought to mind ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup ! 
And surely I’ll be mine ! 
And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, 
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes, 
and pou’d the gowans fine; 
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, 
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn, 
frae morning sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar’d 
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere! 
And gies a hand o’ thine ! 
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught, 
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

-- Robert Burns (1759-96)

I love the smell of marshmallows in the morning

2007-10-26T21:00:00.001-07:00

The West Coast has the sunshine
and the girls all get so tanned.
-- The Beach Boys

The east coast has several disadvantages compared to the west, if you ask me. Though millions of tourists flock to beachside resort communities like South Carolina’s Myrtle Beach, they have to settle for an experience that just can’t compare with what I basically took for granted growing up in Southern California.

For one thing, there’s the water.

No, I’m not talking about seawater, I suppose that’s pretty standard from ocean to ocean. I’m referring, now, to the water in the air. On a clear day in So-Cal – and that’s just about every day, thank you very much – the air is light as a feather, the post-dawn dew point is at sub-zero temperatures.

Not only does this mean that the chance of rain is pretty much zero most days, but it also means there’s very little humidity. And, as everyone knows, when we suffer from summer heat it’s not the heat, but the humidity that makes outdoor activity unbearable.

On any given day here in the southeast, the air is laden with moisture. And that dampness seems eager to jump from the atmosphere to human beings – forming beads of sweat, turning dry clothes into soggy ones and making folks feel generally sticky, clammy, and otherwise miserable.

Southern ladies refer to the result of this phenomenon in endearing terms, like “glistening;” but it really feels like sweat and tends to accumulate most quickly in those embarrassing parts of the anatomy: armpits, the small of the back, and so on…

Rain provides a refreshing break from summer heat. In the west, it cleans the air, the streets and pretty much everything else. It drives the temperature down and is generally benevolent in all regards. In the east, however, rain sometimes comes on the back of hurricane winds. Even when the rain falls vertically, it tends to only make the humidity feel worse when the return of the sun means evaporating rain will add to the amount of water in the air.

I’m convinced that the tall hotels that line east coast beaches are placed so close to the shore because their tenants need to go inside every few minutes to escape the heat and humidity.

Building those hotels so near the water, however, creates another shortcoming for the right coast. Beaches are woefully narrow. Californians are used to broad expanses of sand between the nearest grass or parking area – and buildings are usually stationed even farther away.

Easterners have adapted to high-density sunbathing. With so little sand to go around, individuals are restricted to a few square feet of territory. In the west, sun worshippers lay down blankets and scatter their ice chests, boogie boards, lawn chairs and other equipment far and wide; there’s room for Frisbee tossing and for burying Dad in the sand. In the east, one must alert the neighbor before turning over to tan the other side.

The biggest problem facing eastern sun lovers is so big that it’s … well … astronomical.

It’s nobody’s fault, and nobody can do anything about it; but the fact of the matter is that the whole east coast simply faces the WRONG WAY!

This tragedy can best be illustrated by two scenarios, first one from the west and then another from the east.

West coast beachgoers typically travel to the shore in the afternoon, perhaps toting a lunch. They set up in a strategic location – not too far from the restrooms and showers, between the green “safe swimming zone” flags, above the high tide line and near a fire ring.

They enjoy a few hours of sunshine and frolicking in the frothy waves before settling near their base, wonderfully tired and appreciative of the cooling onshore breeze and diminishing sunshine as Old Sol heads for the horizon.

All eyes turn to the west as the sun sets into the sea. Every sunset is different and most are rather spectacular – particularly when viewed with friends and family near the end of a perfect day.

In the twilight, fires are lit; and, as darkness falls, hot dogs and marshmallows are brought forth and the mood shifts again. Someone may break out a guitar and singing can continue for hours.

Hours earlier, on the east coast, a very different scenario played out. Struggling to be objective, I did identify one advantage resulting from being on the opposite side of the sunset: Parents and lifeguards no doubt have a better view of swimmers without the setting sun glaring off of the water.

Otherwise, late afternoon on the east coast has little to offer as compared with its counterpart out west.

For starters, high-rise hotels positioned so close to narrow beaches mean an artificial sunset arrives long before dark. Lengthening shadows crawl across the beach and into the water. Most people can’t even see the real sunset as it’s hidden behind their hotel; so, there’s on sense of community at sunset – no clear signal that afternoon is done and evening has arrived.

The only way for easterners to gain an appreciation for the California beach experience would be to arise early and go to the beach. If the fire can be started before dawn streaks above the horizon, the transition from dark to light can be enjoyed in the comfortable glow of that fire.

Roast a few marshmallows before the sun rises and then turn to face the east as the first flare of bright red or orange color peeks above the horizon. Surely sunrise can be just as beautiful as sunset; and early risers will probably have the beach to themselves.

Once the sun has cleared the horizon, there’s still time to go out for breakfast before the humidity drives them indoors for the next 21 hours.

When the wintry winds starts blowing 
And the snow is starting in the fall 
Then my eyes went westward knowing 
That's the place that i love best of all 
California I've been blue 
Since I’ve been away from you 
I can't wait 'till i get blowing 
Even now I’m starting in a call 
 
California, Here I Come 
Right back where I started from 
Where bowers of flowers 
bloom in the spring 
each morning at dawning 
birdies sing at everything
-- Buddy DeSylva & Joseph Meyer, 1924

Fun and Games

2007-10-24T16:04:00.000-07:00

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. Its been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But, baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again.
-- Terrance Mann (James Earl Jones)
Field of Dreams

Matt Goyak wanted to be a professional baseball player but World War II intervened. He had been in position for a role with the Pittsburgh Pirates but ended up onboard a navy ship – where baseball was not among the list of recreational activities.

“Bobby Feller (future hall of fame pitcher) was on my ship and I did get to catch him a few times,” Goyak recalled. “Imagine trying to catch baseballs thrown on the deck of a shop rising and falling on the ocean.”

The only game Goyak got to play during his time in the service was on an island.

“We needed Marine guards in the out-of-bounds areas in case we were attacked,” he joked.

Though the Pirates offered him an opportunity to play in the minors after his return from service, Goyak realized his chances for making it in the majors was slim. He returned to Pittsburgh and gave alternate careers a try, including a week working in a steel mill.

“My brother got me the job and, after a few days, I asked him when payday was,” said Goyak. “He told me ‘Friday,” and I said, ‘O.K. Friday’s my last day.’”
He finally found a home in Georgetown, South Carolina where he spent 38 years as a recreation director.

Half a century ago, Goyak was caught up in events that reflect the times – and illustrate how much they’ve changed. In 1955 an all-black baseball team qualified for a playoff berth that could have led to participation in the Little League World Series.

As was happening throughout the South (and in the North) children became pawns in the struggle to integrate schools and other institutions – including youth baseball in South Carolina.

Goyak withdrew his all-white team from the tourney, leaving the black kids with no path to the championship.

He became a founder of the Dixie Youth Baseball program, which was formed to facilitate racial discrimination but now conducts leagues in 11 states.

Though that initial act reflected the racist values of the times, Goyak is proud of the growth of the league. For years, youth of all races have been welcome. The league points with pride to black players like football’s Bo Jackson and basketball superstar Michael Jordan who were part of the Dixie League.

On the other hand, the Confederate battle flag continued to fly over Dixie League fields until 1994.

I believe I had a meeting of the minds with Matt Goyak. I don’t know what kind of guy he was 52 years ago when he participated in an act that robbed both black and white kids of the chance to compete with each other – the winner going on toward the international Little League World Series; but the kind of guy he seems to me to be today is my kind of guy.

Goyak spent 38 years in the public recreation arena. Based on our discussion, he did plenty of good during those years – he seems to have affected a lot of people for the better, of all ages and all other categories we use to separate folks.

He was active in the leisure services profession, serving as president of the South Carolina Parks and Recreation Association and participating in many workshops and seminars that led to formation of new community recreation programs throughout the region.

It would be easy to judge Goyak for a single action; but who among us would stand up to such a standard? While it’s hard to miss the fact that many of the housekeeping and food services workers at the facilities I’ve visited in the South are black, it’s also worth noting that there are more minorities among the residents. This anecdotal information doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s clear that we’re not in 1955 anymore.

Neither Washington, Jefferson nor even the Great Emancipator, Lincoln, bears scrutiny when past statements are scrutinized under modern microscopes. What we now refer to as political correctness may be particularly unfair when applied retroactively.

So I’m willing to give Goyak the benefit of the doubt and credit him for his years of public service and for being the fellow he appears to be today.

A member of the team that was denied the opportunity to participate in Little League post-season play is philosophical about the event and says he bears no grudge against his would-be opponents.

Leroy Mitchel was a pitcher and center fielder for the all-black team. He spoke to the Associated Press on the 50th anniversary of the forfeited game:

"We don't have any animosity toward them," he said. "It was an adult thing, not a kid thing. We all just wanted to play ball."

Nightlife

2007-10-23T02:29:00.000-07:00

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

-- Billy Joel, 1989

Like most men of a certain age, I tend to rise to nature’s call once or twice each night. Usually, I perform this task in a semi-conscious state, taking little note of my surroundings – I’m probably not completely awake.

Some nights, like tonight, I’m preoccupied by something and my round-trips to the next room fit into a pattern of alternating sleep and mind-racing as my brain involuntarily attempts to “solve” one ill-defined problem or another.

The challenge facing my subconscious tonight has to do with raging fires back home in California. Hundreds of thousands of people are displaced tonight as Santa Ana winds are driving a half-dozen fires toward the sea, leaving scores of scorched houses in their wake.

The matter took on urgency when I received a post-midnight message from a friend announcing that he and his family are among those ordered to abandon their homes and flee to designated shelters, which, one might deduce, could later be threatened as well.

More than 10 thousand San Diegans reported to the football stadium in Mission Valley, raising memories of the fate that befell Katrina victims when they sought similar refuge not long ago in New Orleans.

And suspicions that some or most of the fires were deliberately set reminded me of the futility of efforts by our government to make our nation safe from the acts of those willing to do us harm.

As I crossed the room, I glanced out the window and was surprised to see stars. The forecast is for cloudy skies, thundershowers on Wednesday and Thursday.

The steady bright white body nearest the horizon was obviously the “morning star” – Venus. I suspected that the other three objects were also planets, but a little research revealed that they are Saturn and two bright stars from the constellation Leo.

In less than two hours, the sun will appear in the east and begin its inexorable journey from coast to coast. A few hours later, on the west coast, helicopters and airplanes assigned to California’s wildfires will take to the air and resume their bombardment of the flames.

The pilots of those aircraft, along with dozens of news choppers will assess the situation and those of us who have spent the night fighting the flames in our minds will discover how much good our overnight efforts accomplished.

Other People’s Memories -- A guide to non-linear living

2007-10-22T08:21:00.000-07:00

Memory is like a door that allows entry into many wonderful places.

You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over,,,

Memories provide much more than static windows into the past; by tapping other people’s memories (OPM), we can fill in gaps and find new meaning for past events and answers to questions that our own life experiences just can’t provide.

My favorite discoveries while exploring OPM are new sources of joy. Joy has become my most valued emotion and I’ve seen it in the eyes of dozens of people whom I’ve met along the road – and joyful experiences are among the most meaningful to me.

Other valuable insights are gained, of course, when people share unpleasant memories. I have heard many tales of woe – from those who have lost loved ones, suffered through war and other privations and who have had to deal with incredible pain and discomfort – their own and that of loved ones.

What’s the point?

Well, this morning I had a rather unpleasant exchange with a fellow with whom I had breakfast. As usual, I was responsible for at least half of the problem.

I had attempted to engage three men in conversation, as has been my custom on this trip. One of the three seemed to want to sort of dominate the situation. Even when I directed questions to the others, he interrupted and interjected his own answers – which were curt and rather condescending.

When he finally challenged my ability to comprehend – asking, “How old are you?” – I struck back. My counterattack was fairly mild – along the lines of, “You are being rude.”

Later, after this domineering fellow left, both of the others were quite friendly – perhaps not wishing to dispute their colleague in his presence, but wishing to make amends after he left.

And the point is…

It’s often difficult to break through barriers that most people construct to protect their privacy. Occasionally, the process is unpleasant enough to make one wonder whether it’s worth the effort. But my experience – which has involved invading the dinner tables of hundreds of folks who rather like things to be predictable – makes me a strong advocate of taking that kind of chance.

Most of the time, I’m made to feel quite welcome; and most of the rest of the time, I win the others over and we end up making some kind of meeting of the minds.

So, despite the fact that it occastionally gets bitten, sticking your nose into other people’s business usually opens doors…

Time out for family

2007-10-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

Entries here have been few and far between for the past several weeks. Apologies are due to those who visit often and have not been given regular updates – which were promised at the start of this adventure.

A long-awaited rendezvous with son Jesse ended yesterday in North Carolina. I’m not in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina – missing him a bit already. Having him around (though not to myself enough of the time) was great and I’d like a bit more…

I’ve also met two more representatives of the generation after Jesse’s. Though he’s not showing any signs of adding to the mix, some of his cousins have started the ball rolling. I had lots of fun with a pair of grandnephews in North Carolina.

It’s fun to observe and compare the siblings. The girls in Connecticut and these little Southerners are obviously from the same family, but have many different characteristics. The interaction between sisters and brothers is fun to watch.

I could go on and on about the kids and other relatives, but it’s clearly time to regain focus on the trip. So, I’ll put aside the urge to write about family and attempt to bring folks up to date on the trip.

Today, for example, I made my biggest navigation error. Because the facsimile copy of my itinerary was printed off center, the entry for Myrtle Beach was cut off. Then I failed to double check and ended up bypassing my actual stop and driving all the way to Charleston. The error wasn’t uncovered until I actually tried to check in at the wrong building.

The only good news was that there’s just 100 miles between the two stops. So, I had to backtrack a hundred miles – which means it was a 200-mile error, total. I managed to get back to Myrtle Beach just before it became too dark to read the map.

All’s well that ends well. And the drive during sunset and early dusk was very pleasant.

To those of you who have been patiently waiting for an update: I apologize. For those who weren’t quite so patient (and told me so): thanks for the kick in the seat of the pants. I needed that.

Though time is sure to pass more and more quickly, the pace will slow as I take a full month to travel down and then back up the state of Florida. Perhaps that month will present an opportunity to begin analyzing this experience.

Since Jesse’s been (and remains) on the road, too, updated photos may take a while. I will continue to shoot, though, and that body of information should begin to grow again, too.

Days are getting shorter and many places I’ve been earlier in the trip are now too cold for my customary short sleeves and pants. I’ll stay in the comfort zone, in the southern latitudes, though, and may re-encounter a few of my Canadian and New England friends as they fly south for the winter…

That’s my report for tonight. I will not make you wait so long for the next one.

Hoops

2007-10-10T21:00:00.001-07:00

Straddling mid-court, about five feet inside the line, I tried to widen my focus to include all ten players. My partner was concentrating on the jumpers only; and even more so on the toss. He needed to put the ball higher than either player could reach, but not so high as to ruin the timing of a fair jump.

“White to the right. White to the right, White to the right.”

I had a lot on my mind. Did each player wait for the ball to be touched before contacting an opponent? Who was the last to touch the ball? Did one jumper foul the other with his or her body?

I was even responsible for deciding whether my colleague’s toss was acceptable. If I felt one player gained an advantage because of a lopsided toss, it was my duty to blow my whistle and order a re-toss.

Though I gripped my own whistle between my teeth, my partner’s was hanging from its lanyard. One never knew when an errant elbow or other body part might come in contact with the official. Teeth were most definitely at risk. Some refs try to protect their mouth with the upraised tossing arm; but most of us opted to let the whistle dangle, or to hold it in the free hand.

My partner would be caught in traffic following the toss, so it was my job to get out in front of the team that gained possession. There was no time to figure things out after the ball was in play, so I always locked one alternative in my mind. If the white team didn’t control the ball, I simply ran left; otherwise, it was “White to the right.”

Administering time outs, fouls and free throws, out of bounds plays and other game circumstances each had their own choreography for us “zebras.” Players quickly recognize the skill level of their opponents; basketball officials immediately know whether their colleagues know their job.

Though I never played interscholastic basketball – I was a poor player even in gym class, I was a pretty good official. I worked hard at it and by the end of the game I was as tired as most of the players.

Over about a fifteen year period, I officiated hundreds of basketball games and many dozens of football contests. I also enforced baseball, softball, volleyball, and track and field rules along with many contests and competitions in a range of activities.

In memory, basketball remains my favorite. It was the first; I made more money doing basketball; it is quite personal – the players, coaches and crowd members are all very nearby; the action is continuous and often rather frantic.

The role of the officials is rather paradoxical: if they do their job well, they’ll have no impact on the outcome (other than by enforcing rules designed to keep either team from gaining an unfair advantage).

It takes a thick skin to be a sports official. I believe baseball umpires have it worst as there is a tradition of open antagonism – including screaming in one’s face, kicking dirt and otherwise demonstrating disapproval in dramatic fashion.

Basketball rules are more specific – players, coaches and others are prohibited from disrespectfully addressing officials, from attempting to influence their decisions and from displaying disapproval or disagreement to an official’s decision.

Much of my experience was with men’s leagues. In that setting, I loved calling the “T” (technical foul); but I usually limited its use to early in the game. A well-placed sportsmanship penalty in the first few minutes of play usually established the fact that my decisions were not subject to approval by the players.

“I promise not to take any shots, make any rebounds or give advice to the players; and I expect you to leave the officiating to me and my colleague,” I announced during the pre-game meeting with team captains.

When a disagreement arose, I listened attentively to any complaints that were presented politely and when the ball wasn’t in play. My most frequent response was, “if it happened the way you say it did, I made a mistake. But I didn’t see it that way. Let’s play basketball.”

I have dozens of basketball stories to tell. I love the game and and there’s no seat in the arena that comes close to offering the view enjoyed by the officials. Sportsmanship didn’t always prevail; but there are few human enterprises that I’ve enjoyed more than being part of a well-played and well-officiated basketball game.

“[TWEEET! TWEET! TWEEET! TWEET!]

Oh! No, three four! You got him, right on the arm.

[I turn to face the scorer’s table]

“I’ve got THREE, FOUR red … on the arm. We’re shooting TWO!”

The best laid plans…

2007-10-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

I imagine that every major undertaking turns out to be quite different from what those involved had originally planned or expected. That is certainly the case for this year-long adventure of mine.

I envisioned a growing audience – actually multiple audiences – who would monitor my travels by way of one or more media channels. I expected to become a mobile media mogul whose empire would.

In retrospect, it’s clear that I had become caught up in McLuhan’s theory that “the medium is the message.” Of course, he was exaggerating and having a compelling story is still a prerequisite for gathering and maintaining an audience.

I also failed to recognize that the folks I would be contacting most often (senior citizens) tend to not be regular users of the internet.

I had envisioned making visits to colleges and local media outlets, but discovered that my story was only compelling while I still believed in the “growing-audience” theory. When the audience showed no signs of growing over the long term, I became less comfortable promoting the web site.

During the first month or so online participation grew rapidly. But it declined rather precipitously after that initial surge. It rose to new heights in the third month only to fall again – even lower than before.

Ups and downs over the past few months seem to indicate that folks visit the site but quickly lose interest. There are very few “regulars.”

The best indicator that the technology is beyond my target audience is the nearly complete lack of participation in the forum – which I thought would be the most interesting, dynamic and useful media channel.

Even the travel partner messages – sent to 45 people – haven’t seemed to result in a bounce in the Wandering Dave ratings.

But good news has diminished any sense of failure on my part. The trip has morphed into a wonderful experience that still has to do with communication – INTERPERSONAL communication.

I have had a chance to spend time with about 1,200 members of my parent’s generation – the folks Tom Brokaw calls “the greatest generation.”

At least an hour-long conversation with groups of three of fewer – not in-depth, but often enough for me to gain insights and to make observations that have been revealing and instructive.

I’ve had hours-long one-on-one conversations with a number of people. On more than one occasion I’ve been told stories they say they haven’t ever shared before.

I’ve seen a lot of sights; but sight-seeing hasn’t been my major source of satisfaction. I’ve written over 100 blog entries, but I don’t think my writing to date has done justice to the experience. I’ve learned a lot about history and very much enjoy exploring the past…

But the most rich part of this adventure has been my encounters with people. I have often changed my plans for the morning or afternoon because a breakfast of lunch companion was willing to extend our conversation – sometimes by hours. I rarely get out of the dining room before the kitchen staff arrive to clear the table. And once in a while, I meet someone whom I know could become a very good friend – like my best buddy, Frank, back in Merced – if I were moving in rather than passing through.

So, I have a message for those who have noticed that I’ve abandoned some of the media channels on the Wandering Dave menu or who note that my blog and photo entries are often spaced rather far apart: my adventure has shifted focus a bit, but I’m doing fine. I am unconcerned about what’s been abandoned along the way and am very pleased with what’s been found that wasn’t expected.

And, despite my having admitted a change in focus, you are STILL invited to ride along with me as I continue this great adventure.

General Jekyll and Private Hyde

2007-10-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

It is good that war is so terrible for otherwise we should love it too much.
-- Robert E. Lee

We Baby Boomers were exposed to hundreds of movies and other accounts of heroic acts performed by our servicemen during World War II. And more portraying those who fought, died and killed in conflicts ranging all the way back to the French and Indian Wars before we even became a nation.

By the time I learned that some people are opposed to war, I had already been brainwashed; I was convinced that at times we have to fight for what we believe in.

Each school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance, often followed by a patriotic song. In Ohio, we said the Lord’s Prayer.

One nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Events intervened, as I grew older. Today, I no longer enjoy the comfort that accompanies believing absolutely that my country has (and is) always right. And I definitely no longer believe that fighting, in the physical sense of the word, is an effective method for problem solving.

During my visit to Gettysburg, part of me just wanted to bask in the glory of … well, glory. I wanted to connect with the vestiges of chivalry and honor that are so often attached to the Civil War in general, but Gettysburg (and Pickett’s futile, but brave, charge) in particular.

But conflicting emotions intervened, spoiling my visit, in a manner of speaking. I just couldn’t suspend belief and allow myself to become immersed in the scale of events and the pageantry with which it is commemorated.

Two sidebar stories gave me pause after I reflected on them a bit. Maybe it’s just my frame of mind, but it feels like I’m being sold something – as if someone is trying to make warfare more palatable by focusing on random acts of civility.

The first is an account of a general who came across an enemy general who was wounded and in a bad way. The good Samaritan general got down off his horse and tended to his adversary, ordering his own physician to take the wounded officer to the hospital and attend to him.

The story wraps up by noting that both men survived the war and became good friends in later years.

After reflection, I was assaulted by the distinction between generals and privates. What it it were considered “noble” or “chivalrous” to drop one’s weapon to offer succor to a fallen enemy of low rank?

I was left with a bad taste in my mouth: generals welfare is of more consequence and importance than that of enlisted soldiers and abandoning the fight to care for a general is considered to be good form, while diverting attention from the battle to care for a wounded private is not.

The second example is the story of a Confederate officer who ensures a woman that his soldiers would not plunder her home or harm her or her children.

It occurred to me that a more complete statement might approximate the following:

“Madam, my boys won’t harm you or your children and will stay off of your property. On the other hand, if your husband, son or neighbor takes arms against us to defend you, we’ll kill them if we get a chance.”

Knights believed in the code of chivalry. They promised to defend the weak, be courteous to all women, be loyal to their king, and serve God at all times. They also wielded horrible weapons designed to maim their adversaries.

Life and death; silver and gold

2007-10-05T20:16:00.000-07:00

Forward, the Light Brigade!  
Was there a man dismay'd?  
Not tho' the soldier knew  
Some one had blunder'd.  
Theirs not to make reply,  
Theirs not to reason why,  
Theirs but to do and die.  
Into the valley of Death  
Rode the six hundred.  

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!  
All the world wonder'd.  
Honour the charge they made!  
Honour the Light Brigade,  
Noble six hundred!

-- Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1854

Gold, according to my college art instructor, commands respect.

Our assignment was to create an object of art using jeweler’s tools and techniques. We were allowed leeway in terms of design and materials; but it was clear that those who opted to create their work using gold would have a bit of an edge.

I ended up making a silver pickle fork and my grade reflected a lack of respect on the part of my teacher for both my choice of materials and my level of ability.

I can’t claim to have learned much about art, but my instructor’s prejudice taught me that some objects or enterprises gain gravitas, or extra importance, by virtue of their makeup or nature.

For example, oversize objects are often valued more than those with average specifications; older – particularly ancient artifacts increase in worth with time; items once owned by famous people are prized and goods imported from farther away tend to be considered more precious than those found nearby.

When I studied news writing, I was told to consider qualities including timeliness, proximity, prominence and novelty, but to always keep in mind that the impact, or consequences resulting from events create the most powerful news values.

Among possible impacts, death is trump. Loss of life is the ultimate impact and must nearly always be ranked above all others.

It turns out that war – and terrorism – is prolific providers of wholesale death. Attention, therefore, must be paid. Like gold in the eyes of my professor, death commands respect.

Combine death with prominence (Princess Di, JFK, Lincoln) and you’ve got a story with incredible appeal; multiply the number of deaths (World Trade Center, Hurricane Katrina, Gettysburg) and you have a story that commands much more than attention in the news media, it becomes part of the culture.

And, it occurs to me, that transformation sometimes warps our values. What seems acceptable – even desirable – in the context of war would be considered immoral in nearly any other context.

Since my recent visit to Gettysburg, I’ve had trouble writing. It’s impossible to spend time on that battlefield without experiencing powerful emotions. And, I’ve taken a special interest in this battle – partially because of a video game that reenacts the basic elements, a book (“Killer Angels”) and a movie on the subject. The resulting sense of familiarity added to that mix of emotions.

The fields that contained thousands of bodies in July of 1863 now house hundreds of statues, monuments and other markers. Tons of stone memorialize thousands of dead soldiers.

we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

Oh, yes. When the stakes are life and death, logic and reason go out the window. If so many died, this event had to be important … significant … useful … necessary.

Understanding how it was possible for men to march a mile across open fields while being bombarded by exploding shells and then subjected to thousands of rounds of aimed rifle fire is difficult for 21st century people – at least it’s difficult for me.

It may not be much of a leap from Gettysburg to Baghdad. The random threat of Improvised Explosive Devices isn’t really much different. The horrible carnage experienced in 1863 is matched, at the end of the day, by that going on today in Iraq.

Theirs not to reason why.

Hearts and minds

2007-09-30T16:55:00.000-07:00

I just heard a remarkable statistic: though armies marched through the city and bullets chipped a lot of downtown bricks, there was only one civilian casualty reported.

A young woman was killed by a bullet that is believed to have passed through two doors to reach her.

Millions of rifle shots were fired and tons of cannon balls launched.

---

By contrast, there 1,809 Iraqi civilians reportedly died in fighting LAST MONTH! That was up from July when the toll was 1,760.

The carnage here was just awful; but it apparently was limited to combatants.

Times change.

No place like home?

2007-09-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

One day you'll look to see I've gone
For tomorrow may rain,
so I'll follow the sun

Some day you'll know I was the one
But tomorrow may rain,
so I'll follow the sun

-- The Beatles

I’ve been looking at road signs all my life. A few are classics (Route 66 and California’s Highway 99, for example), but nothing resonates in me as the indicator, “West,” that often resides above the numeral.

After graduating from high school, I moved back and forth from California to points east (Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Michigan). I guess the notion of “going home again” made the sight of those designations seem to hold so much appeal.

I’m heading for Florida, which has always seemed to be south of Massachusetts. But it turns out that Miami is at about 80 degrees longitude while Boston is closer to 67. In other words, Florida is way farther west than New England.

And so, it can be said that I’ve already started back to California. I’ll be closer just about every week (except when I dip down into Florida in November) until I get home.

Speaking of “dipping,” I also noted with interest that the “South” back here in the eastern U.S. is a lot farther south than southern California. My southernmost destination (Sarasota, Florida) is more than 800 miles south of Merced (San Diego is less than 400).

I imagine most of the highways I’ll travel between now and then will be designated as “East.” But the trip from Connecticutt to Pennsylvania was definitely a journey west.

And that felt pretty good.

I’m not homesick, but it will be good to get back home.

Who needs a hug?

2007-09-25T03:55:00.000-07:00

I love you, a bushel and a peck!
A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck!
A hug around the neck, and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap, and I'm talkin' in my sleep.
About you.

-- Guys and Dolls, 1950

Young children love physical contact. This seems to be the case no matter how much hugging and kissing they get from their parents, and regardless of how recently they received their last dose.

This became clear to me when I was a new playground leader. I was about 22 years old and already had a toddler of my own at home whom I had observed to be a big fan of being held, swung around, tossed into the air, hung by her feet and otherwise being in contact with me – or any other available adult, doll, animal, pillow or pretty much anything warm and cuddly.

At home, the entreaty: “Swing me around,” followed by unending repetitions of, “Do that again!” seemed to be part of the Daddy Deal. It was as much fun for me as for her – at least for the first 15 or 20 minutes.

The bulk of my time as an elementary school playground leader was devoted to sports and games – and to kids aged 8 to 12.

Oh, there were plenty of other activities (arts and crafts, drama, music, trips and special events) and there were quite a few children younger than 8 and older than 12; but my main customer base was kids in grades 3 to 6 who attended the school that housed my playground.

Younger participants – often referred to as “rug rats,” “pee wees,” “Lilliputians,” “Munchkins” or otherwise in terms making reference to their size – tended to be self-directed. They might be interested in checking out a ball or Frisbee, but weren’t necessarily interested in playing a formal game – they’d often play alone in the sandbox or on swings and other playground equipment.

Despite the fact that I nearly ignored the 5 and 6 year-olds, they never seemed to get enough of me. As I walked across the grounds, a tiny hand would often slide into mine.

The most memorable phenomenon, though, took place when I knelt to tie my shoes or sat down on a bench or chair. If one or more little people were in range at the time, their “lap radar” alerted them to the fact that a grown-up was available and configured nearer the ground than usual – within reach.

The most common experience was to have a child (or two, or more) step between my feet and slide into my lap. Others might approach from the rear and simply drape their bodies over my shoulders. Some, perhaps more reticent, kids would take a seat beside me and grab my arm while resting their heads against me.

Back then, 35 or 40 years ago – before we became sensitive to the horrible realities that confront some children, holding and hugging kids was viewed as innocent play, a positive and harmless show of affection. In the 80s, widely publicized court cases put uncomfortable images in our minds – and changed the relationship between young children and adults.

Today, parents warn their children to be suspicious of adults. And, to avoid being suspected of wrongdoing, caregivers – including playground leaders – now usually keep their distance for fear of being accused of improper contact.

Playground leaders and other care providers – including teachers – are warned not to touch children, not to be alone with them; they are required to remain distant.

I have mixed feelings about these changes.

On one hand, I hate the fact that a barrier has been built between adults and children. My personal experience with hundreds of kids tells me that disallowing shows of affection robs kids of something they crave, perhaps need.

But I’ve also seen the effects of child abuse from close range and nothing disturbs me more. Protecting kids from predators must be a top priority; and erring on the side of keeping them safe is the only sensible course of action.

Time I spent last weekend with family (including four young girls) reminded me of the good old days when there were no inhibitions and no fears. I was reminded of all the times one of those little hands forced its way into one of mine or when arms wrapped around my neck.

Childhood is a magical time – for children AND those lucky enough to have children in their lives.

I won’t advocate a return to an age of innocence that should probably be called an age of ignorance – children were hurt when trust was placed in untrustworthy grown-ups.

But I do advocate that parents and grandparents (and folks like me who are lucky to be aunts or uncles) fill the void and share lots of hugs and kisses with the rug rats in their families.

XXXOOOOXXX

Simply wonderful

2007-09-20T07:42:00.001-07:00

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
-- Henry David Thoreau

The only thing I’ve used from the trunk of my Saturn in the past 10 weeks is a light jacket. Everything I need for day-to-day life on the road is contained in the back seat, inside one of two suitcases or my backpack.

One case holds my clothes, the other my technology and the backpack is a bit of a catch-all with maps, brochures and miscellaneous.

Upon arrival at each destination, I strap on the backpack and grab each suitcase by its puller (both are on wheels) and take everything I’ll need for the succeeding five days inside – one trip.

In 1968, at the conclusion of my service as a Vista Volunteer, I sold or discarded furniture and other non-essential possessions and loaded the remainder in the back of my Jeep. It was a CJ5, the “standard” model that was 21 inches shorter than the CJ6 – not much cargo space and very cramped legroom for passengers.

I well remember my sense of freedom on the drive from Colorado back to San Diego. Knowing that I had all of my worldly possessions with me, I realized that I was “footloose,” that I had no roots, no burdens, and no responsibilities.

That’s a feeling I never had since – and, most likely, never will.

I know that possessions add to the quality of life – I’ve learned to really appreciate a comfortable chair; and I don’t know what I’d do without a computer – but, I’ve always felt burdened by the things in my life.

I suppose the only real exception was that Jeep – when it was capable of carrying me and all that I owned anywhere I wanted to go.

O.K. back to the topic – which, by the way, is Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond…

I had heard grim reports about the pond and expected to see a trash-lined puddle with shores and surrounding land trampled by the feet of thousands who don’t get what HDT was saying.

To my surprise, the “pond” is a wonderful lake. It is largely in what appears to be pristine condition, with only small concessions to the desires of pilgrims. Trails are invisible among the heavy growth of trees and other plant life; and the woods remain deep, providing opportunities for solitude and for communing with the spirit of the great Thoreau.

Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand.
-- Henry David Thoreau

I stood on the shore of Walden Pond for a good long time. I contemplated what had apparently not changed in 160 years and what had not. The dozen or so humans whose presence was obvious to me were different – Thoreau rarely had visitors. The stone wall that prevented erosion on the beach near a sandy boat ramp was new – and the three human-powered watercraft, each silently patrolling a patch of water, were clearly not of 19th-century design.

The water was not just clear, it was surprisingly clear. Smooth pebbles were very visible through several inches of water; unsullied, as it has been in recent years, by motorboats, the water of Walden Pond looks suitable for human consumption – though it likely is not.

With only a slight effort, I could incorporate my fellow visitors into the larger picture and might have been able to conjure up the past – except for incessant interruptions by passing cars, trains and aircraft.

Alas! It may be impossible to lose oneself in the past and to pretend that old Henry is just around the bend, tending to his beans or making repairs to his cottage. These are but shadows of the world as it was.

On the other hand, we have idealized the experiences of those like Thoreau and Native Americans and others who appear, in retrospect, to have lived closer than we to nature. Our sense of what live must have been “back then” is certainly far different from the reality.

The enduring aspect of human experience, it seems to me, is the manner in which it causes a resonation in a person’s mind, or consciousness. And it seems quite reasonable to me to imagine that the sense or feeling I get while observing the pond in my time and through my filters has much in common with that obtained by Thoreau.

We are, I believe, kindred spirits. His writing, along with other inputs I’ve received in my life, makes it possible, I hope, for me to “get it.”

I expected to be disappointed by man’s inhumanity to nature at Walden Pond. But I was uplifted, rather. And in the context of new realities, I maintain hope that enough of us will take enough action to make it possible not only for humans to survive another 160 years but for places like Walden Pond to also survive, and thrive.

When I leave the road in a few months, I am committed to continue efforts to simplify as well as to purify my personal environment and to be part of the solution, as is possible, through positive encouragement of others.

I will strive for economy and good sense in decisions I make as a consumer and will support leaders who attempt to lead our country and the world on a similar path.

Walden Pond survives! There must be hope for the rest of the world.

Privacy? What's that?

2007-09-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

“Hey! Rafe Rackstraw … Birdy!”

My cell phone sometimes reveals that I have missed a call – usually also providing a callback number. About half the time, I’m also alerted to new voicemail. Every caller is invited to leave voicemail; those who know me or who have something actually important to say tend to leave messages – I’m just as glad to have missed (or filtered out) the rest.

A “619” message (San Diego area code) had been received; I was intrigued. I’ve been getting some attention among former classmates from Hoover High – mostly thanks to a couple of fellows who are active online and are trying to keep us aging Cardinals connected.

The voice from my cell phone didn’t sound a bit familiar. This wasn’t one of the three people with whom I’ve spoken during the past twenty years or so…

“.... I’m throwing you a few niblets from the past,” the voice continued.

It was clearly a male voice and definitely went back farther than high school. “Birdy” was a nickname used for just three years to identify me. One Larry Mercer mispronounced my last name (“Burk-ey”) and immediately transformed it into the avian moniker.

Convinced that such a cognomen is literally for the birds – and not for a man of the world such as myself who was entering junior high school – I convinced all who attempted to reinstate the offending appellation to return my label to it’s original status.

The Rackstraw reference also pointed toward my pre-teen period, specifically to sixth grade where I assumed the personage of one Ralph (pronounced “RAFE” according to Mrs. Davis, our teacher and the director of H.M.S. Pinafore – my one and only experience as a thespian).

I got the lead in this production, I’m sure, because I was a bit of a teacher’s pet. Mrs. Davis liked me and must have been nervous about finding a student who could learn all of the lines. I was pretty much a nerd at the time – and, I suppose all through school (maybe all my life, who can say) – and I only tried out for the part to compete with Richard Burstein, my nemesis.

Richard was about a magnitude above me, in terms of I.Q. and, worse yet, worked a lot harder. He generally scored above me and got most of the nerd, or “smart kid” perquisites. I only remember winning the day three times: I was elected president of the Safety Patrol, I got the lead in Pinafore, and I got to give the “Farewell to Franklin” speech at graduation.

Anyway, I was pretty sure the phone call was from someone from Room 6 at Franklin Elementary in East San Diego. There were just 15 or 20 males in that group and I think I remember more than half – and would likely recognize the names of others.

Fortunately, as a male, it was unlikely that the caller’s name had changed, so I had a pretty high level of confidence that I’d be able to crack this nut. And I did, in fact, with just two quick detective moves.

First, I called the number that my phone had captured. There was nobody home, but it turns out that Kim – that’s right, the mystery caller was Kim Ward – has voicemail, too, and his greeting message listed first names for Kim, a wife and a couple of kids.

I then used a “reverse directory” search online and received confirmation. For some cash, I could have ordered all kinds of information – probably at least a couple of things that might make Kim feel suspect that I’m a psychic or big-time private eye.

But I settled for what I had found in just a few minutes and without any expense.

When the phone rang a couple of hours later, the display flashed his name and I coolly answered…

“Hello Kim Ward! It has been a long time.”

She’s not only merely dead; she’s really most sincerely dead

2007-09-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

Attention seniors. Before the merriment of commencement commences, I hope that your years with us here at Rydell have prepared you for the challenges you face. Who knows? Among you there may be a future Eleanor Roosevelt or a Rosemary Clooney, and among you young men, there may be a Joe DiMaggio, a President Eisenhower, or a Vice-President Nixon. But you will always the glorious memories of Rydell High. Rydell forever. Bon voyage.

-- Rydell Principal McGee

It was a blast from the past; I received a flurry of email messages from folks I hadn’t heard from … well, ever -- or at least since before the Internet and email were invented. It seems that several of my classmates from Herbert Hoover Senior High School in San Diego have taken the pledge, “Be true to your school,” to heart and are trying to keep in touch with as many alumni from the class of ’66 as possible.

The piece de resistance came yesterday (on my birthday) from a former fellow bandsman, John Buono. The message was titled, “Hope you remember me.”

John served all of us in the U.S. Army for 20 years, rising to the rank of Major before joining a (that’s right) defense contractor (can you all spell M-I-L-I-T-A-R-Y I-N-D-U-S-T-R-I-A-L C-O-M-P-L-E-X??) for another 10 years.

While former V.P. Al Gore was inventing the Internet, Hoover’s own John Buono was inventing email – he says it’s part of Communications Interoperability and who am I to doubt him?

Anyway, in retirement, John has volunteered to set up a web site for us Cardinals: here it is

The best thing about the site (to be totally immodest) is the fact that Wandering Dave is currently featured on the splash page. The alumni grapevine not only alerted John to my current status, but also sent along a set of URLS or links that led him to this site. Score one more for the internet (and, email, of course).

High school memories have faded quite a bit. I have a few Hoover stories in my repertoire, but like the vacuum cleaner of the same name, they kind of suck (kidding).

I definitely remember John as an earnest band member, serious about his trumpet playing and serious in his approach to life in general. I remember him being involved with ROTC and the military career makes sense. In band, he was brass and I woodwind, so we weren’t within horseplay range; but I do remember him well.

I don’t know if most classmates knew the words to our school’s alma mater. As a bandsman, I was on fairly intimate terms with them:

Hail, Herbert Hoover High,
This is our pledge to thee
Long may your banners be
Crowned with victory

We pledge our loyalty
And our sincerity
We will be true to thee
Hail Hoover High

I’m pretty sure the music and lyrics are unique to our school. Many high schools, even colleges “borrow” melodies from other schools. When I attended Adams State College in Colorado I was amused to discover that school had adapted the Canadian national anthem (“Oh, Canada!) to school spirit purposes, titling the purloined melody, “Oh, Adams State!”

My favorite school song combo, though is from another alma mater – San Diego State. The school anthem is “Hail Montezuma,” another original composition. And the fight song, titled “Fight on” actually contains a couple of bars from the alma mater in the bridge. For me, sounding that foreshadowing refrain after every home touchdown and at other critical moments in the game made the post-game performance of the full version more powerful.

After reflection, I realize that I DO have great memories of both high school and college. Though I tend to focus on how innocent (read: naive, stupid, clueless, unbelievably shy) I was, there are sources of some pride and considerable joy.

Unlike many others in my age group. I would gladly “go back and do it again.”

Sincerely.

Cogito ergo sum

2007-09-17T03:35:00.000-07:00

There's got to be a morning after 
We're moving closer to the shore 
I know we'll be there by tomorrow 
And we'll escape the darkness 
We won't be searching any more

-- Joel Hirschhorn and Al Kasha, 1972

About 26 hours ago, at 1:03 a.m. MDT, I began my 60th year on this planet – outside the womb, that is. I took my first breath of mile-high Rocky Mountain air 59 years and 26 hours ago in Denver, Colorado.

My 59th birthday was swell. I received just the right number of messages and phone calls and dwelled on my chronological position in life for just the right amount of time and with a positive attitude and outlook.

I began the day in Maine and enjoyed a leisurely drive along the south coast – stopping to take pictures and a nap. I spent a short time in New Hampshire (all of the presidential candidates were in Iowa) before entering Massachusetts, where I spent a quiet afternoon and evening.

There was no birthday party, but a local scientist-cum-artist, was having a show here in the building and I helped myself to snacks (having missed dinner while on the road). I opted for soda pop instead of wine, but don’t feel at all deprived.

Every birthday, but most particularly those on which we can hang labels like “my 60th year,” presents the opportunity to address THE question: “Am I doing what I should with my life?”

Having had conversations with more than 1,000 people, all of whom are way past their 60th years, I’ve taken note of many whom I’d like to emulate – and many others I would not.

Though I’ve come to accept the likelihood that Bingo, crosswords, jigsaw puzzles, knitting and other repetitive and predictable activities do have a value in terms of keeping one’s mind active, they are not for me.

All of us fall into routines. This may help maintain sanity; it may anchor our lives and give us a sense of who we are and how we fit into the circumstances in which we find ourselves. But a life that is nearly all routine reminds me of Socrates’ conclusion that “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

I have a fairly strong hope – perhaps more of an expectation – that there is an afterlife. My basis for this is partly Descartes, partly Maureen McGovern and partly other notions that I won’t go into here.

Descartes is famous for, “I think, therefore I am.” I have failed at all attempts at meditation because I have been unable to focus. My mind has a life of its own and is in control. I can’t turn it off; and I can’t force it to focus only on one thing, or on nothing.

“Gail Sheehy, the author, who, at 68, is still guiding readers through life's passages, said today's 64-year-olds have a "360-degree view of life." They may believe in yesterday, but they also can't stop thinking about tomorrow.”

-- Sam Roberts, NY Times, 2006
-- Read article

Like most art, 1972’s “Poseidon Adventure” can be viewed as a metaphor. The characters struggle up to the bottom of the overturned ship defied logic and turned out to be the only strategy with a chance of success. Combining faith in their leader with enormous effort (including dealing with great loss and many setbacks) they make it through the night and discover that there is a morning after.

It’s not impossible to view life as not entirely unlike being trapped in an overturned ocean liner. Many others in their 60th year and beyond make endless circuits from their staterooms to the dining room and back – stopping only for bingo, card games, a visit to the beauty salon and to pick up a copy of today’s obituaries.

As for me, I’m going to take a few turns around the deck, hopefully meeting some interesting fellow travelers. I’m going to learn about how the ship operates and try to understand how it is navigated.

And during those times the ship is turned upside down, I’m planning to join the party that recognizes that sometimes “down” is “up” and we must defy logic and tradition if we hope to make it through the night.