IT'S LIKE RIDING A BIKE

ONCE YOU'VE LEARNED, you never forget. Funny thing: here at seventy-something, I found there are more and more things that my mind thinks it remembers like it was yesterday, but my body doesn't seem to recall having ever done that. E.g.: Someone told me the other day that old people forget how to skip. My mind knows what skipping is. I know it when I see it. If a kid comes skipping along I might say, "You're a good skipper."

BUT, do I have the muscle memory to do it? After hearing this rumor, I decided to try it. I waited until I was home alone and certain no one was watching. I had my phone nearby in case I needed to crawl to it to call nine-eleven.

LARRY’S BIKE SHOP. SHAWNEE, OKLAHOMA

What do you know? I can still skip.

I can still feed myself. I can still play my drum set, including the marching cadences from my high school days in the Jenks Trojan Marching Band. I can still type and play a decent game of ping pong.

BUT, what happens if we forget rudimentary stuff?

In a book for tweens called, NEVERFORGOTTEN, the idea of forgetting-how is explored. Here's a portion of a review I read of the book:

In this dual-language novella, the Colombian author Alejandra Algorta tells the story of Fabio, whose mother, a baker, trades eight bags of homemade bread for a girl’s salmon-colored bike. She removes the handlebar ribbons and gives the bike to Fabio. His bus driver father teaches him to ride, assuring Fabio as he runs behind the bike, “Even if I let you go, I won’t let you go.”

Fabio overcomes the stigma of the girl-bike provenance, and discovers his worth and identity. On the bike, he delivers his mother’s bread, empowered. He has been released from Bogotá’s outskirts and from his pedestrian neighborhood to the dust and danger of the monster city, his world new and exciting. “Strangely for Fabio,” Algorta writes, “the neighborhood through which he journeyed on his bicycle was much more illuminated than the one he walked, was warmer, more fleeting, softer, more bird than cage.”

Now, on wheels, he is flying and free, and often trailed by a pack of children on their own bikes. Within a few years, as he grows stronger and his intuitions on the bicycle flourish, he becomes a mythical leader. It is whispered that he is “half boy and half bicycle.”

Unexpectedly and without explanation, he wakes one morning and has forgotten how to pedal. In front of an audience of bicycle-children, he falls repeatedly. Puzzled and humiliated, he hides beneath his bed, trying to determine the cause. Has he forgotten the mechanics of pedaling because his father taught him to ride on an inauspicious day — Wednesday? Or because the bicycle is a pinkish orange, a color meant for girls only? Could this new inability be the result of never having learned to ride with training wheels first, like other children, a step that might have been integral to memory? No matter the reason, he is now inept and defeated, his power replaced with fear. His father and mother reassure him that “what the body knows, it knows forever.” But Fabio declares that this is a lie. He is proof. When he forgets the thing that everyone says is unforgettable, he begins to question everything known in his world, including how to carry on.

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I'm reluctant to share the source of this review for fear it will waken some fundamentalist who will question why a boy is riding a "girl" bike and then gather up all the copies of the book and burn them. Oh well. You can read the review in the NYT by clicking here.

Apparently, sarcasm and saltiness are unforgettable skills as well.

Here's the next question. Just because I still remember how to ride a bike; should I? I'm not as agile, responsive and quick as I once was. My core strength should no longer be called a strength. I'm pondering these deep issues because I'm thinking of getting one of these new-fangled electric bikes; e-bikes.

Is this just a pedal-assisted road on a fool's errand?. I promise to wear a helmet and something in a nice florescent green. If things don't go well; according to my driver's license, I am an organ donor. Not that I have anything anyone would want.

We just made a road trip through Iowa. The rolling hills of corn on farm after farm are beautiful. Why are the farms and homes of Iowa so neat and maintained? Just curious.

Occasionally we would drive through an Amish settlement. Clotheslines displayed an artist's pallet full of pastel garments drying in the sun against a backgound of deep green meeting deep blue at the horizon line. On the shoulder of the highway black buggies were pulled by single horses. And look. There's an e-bike store. WAIT! What in the barn-raising world is an e-bike store doing out here in the middle of modernity-rejection?!?!

Turns out e-bikes have been approved for use in many Amish communities. The young people have fully embraced them. If you're wondering: they wear their straw hats instead of helmets. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Where is the line for this old curmudgeon when it comes to buying and riding an e-bike? It could be healthy. Some pedalling is required. It could be severly unhealthy. I hopefully have set my affairs so that my family will be taken care of. As I'm typing this the outside temp is 99F with 110% humidity, which according to my calculations means a "feels-like" temperature of hell. This whole e-bike thing sounded a lot more fun that day in Iowa when it was in the seventies.

I'm compelled to do something that feels like moving forward, even if it's downhill or pedal-assisted. Inertia is heavy and I can't let the new and different paralyze me. Remember the last line I shared from the review of the book about Fabio and his bicycle: "When he forgets the thing that everyone says is unforgettable, he begins to question everything known in his world, including how to carry on."

I can't remember ever not-knowing how to ride a bike, or swim, or drive a stick shift, or tell if a watermelon is ripe before cutting it open. It seems a shame to not put all that knowledge to good use.

Back in my early bike-riding days I was given certain limits. I was not to leave Quincy Ave, the street where we lived and go out on 71st street. I was not to ride my bike to the river.

Did I ever cross 71st or go to the river? Of course.

Today, my bike riding limits are set by my endurance and energy level, and abhorrence to heat. I have a very cool cruiser style bike but it's a single speed. Our house sits on a rise. No matter which direction I ride I have to climb a hill to get back home. An e-bike would allow me to ride to the metaphorical river once again. It sounds so fun and transgressional. Why not? After all: once you learn...

BUTTERFLIES, BEAVERS, BOOMERS

AMIDST THE DRAMA HERE AT THE WINTER RV PARK FOR SENIORS, people seem to have a favorite activity or two or three, and maybe there's something they kind of specialize in. There's pool (billiards) and a pool (swimming). Lots of card games, sewing, quilting, crafts, puzzle putting-together, dances, group meals, remote control car racing, and much more. My favorite so far: shuffleboard.

But, let's start at the beginning. While the activities are fun and the calendar is packed with them, there has to be more that motivates people to drive thousands of miles to a land that doesn't promise anything. It's not exactly like the Okies leaving Oklahoma headed for California in the dust bowl days, but if that picture helps...

It's the weather that prompts the migration. I was sitting in the Hospitality room where the promise of good, fast, free Wi-Fi is broken--both the promise and something in the Wi-Fi chain: cable, router, modem, connections or the expertise of the IT department (if there is one). I'm overhearing a discussion between a couple of Canadians (according to their name tags), checking their mailboxes:

Canadian guy #1: "Can't complain about the weather today, eh."
Canadian guy #2: "That's why we're down here, eh."

A popular activity is to check a phone for the current temps back home: "Well it's in the teens today back in Duluth", as if to justify the trip.

A walk around the compound where we are staying near McAllen, Texas, would be a fruitful way to play car tag bingo. Iowa, Illinois, Minnesota, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Wisconsin and a few Canadian provinces. I've been tempted to lie about where we are from: Oklahoma. Not because I'm ashamed of my Oklahoma roots but because we are viewed as wimps. "Hell, it ain't that much colder in Oklahoma than it is here, dOn-cha knOw?" Then when they discover that we're here for only a few weeks: "Why'ja bother, dOn-cha knOw?"

I guess the weather in Oklahoma must have been pretty nice that day they drove through on their path south down I-35, not unlike the path called "The Monarch Highway":

"The landscape that parallels roadways like the I-35 corridor, can provide natural habitat to support the annual migration of the monarch butterfly." www.pollinator.org.

As an Okie, interested in the economic stability of our great state, I would like to suggest we seek to strengthen our "natural habitat to support the annual migration" of seniors in pursuit of average 75 degree temps. And, I have the answer to that: we need to get us a Buc-ee's or two. Our current governor loves to talk about making Oklahoma a "top ten" state in whatever. How about making us top ten in the number of Buc-ee's per 100 RVs heading south at years end and back north in the spring. Sure, we have Loves Travel Stops, but Buc-ee's is the milkweed Mecca for these migrators.

With crisp early morning temps and nippy evening air, I've noticed Buc-ee's hoodies are en vogue. (I'm trying to add a few French words to my vocabulary to toss into conversation with our French Canadian neighbors.) By the way, despite what the old migrators say, I find the French Canadians to be very friendly, at least Bob, my French Canadian shuffleboard partner is. The weather is wonderful, but I'm really enjoying meeting people from the lands of cold, bitter winters. Oh sure, there's some drama, but where two or three are gathered together... don't cha know.

One thing I'm learning is that when your feet hurt, or your back hurts, or you heart hurts, it's easier to get your feelings hurt. Bones and feelings have that in common--they can both get a little brittle.

Occasionally, it all brews to a boil, but maybe it's understandable. Let's assume we're farmers from Iowa. We built and ran a multi-million dollar operation. We've made critical decisions, averted disaster, bundled it all up in a legacy and now we're enjoying the fruits of our labors before our fruits turn bad. We settle into our winter home at the park. Using our business acumen, we make a few suggestions about how a game, an activity, a program might improve only to find out our input wasn't solicited or wanted.

By golly, this isn't the only park in the valley, we'll pull up the short stakes of the migrator life and move to another park, all in the pursuit of the elusive greener grass of agreeableness.

There are lots and lots of rules, and of course hearty interchange about whether there needs to be a new one to address a current concern. But, I grew up in a Baptist church so having lots of rules and business meetings to discuss violations and the need for more feels normal to me.

In reading about migration, specifically that of the Monarch, I learned that Monarchs cluster together to stay warm. There are dozens of these little trailer/RV parks all over the Rio Grande Valley, not only offering warm climate but the warmth of clustering together. It's like Barbara Streisand sang, "People Who Need People Are The Luckiest People In The World." And, I might add: even if they might be a little prickly.

There's fellowship, story-telling, problem solving: I've heard several solutions to the current egg price crisis. And of course, every story told has a storehouse of historical content about it. We've lived a long time--60, 70, 80 and more years. We've got experiences and opinions, and talk about hindsight; we're drowning in it.

Unfortunately, because of the average age among the campers, many of the stories are sad ones. The other day I was standing in a back corner of a large room listening to the residents of the park have a "jam session". That's where each resident that plays an instrument and/or can sing (or could sing), (or someone told them they could sing) gather together to make music. I have to admit it was pretty good and the audience was loving it. There were even a few couples (I'm assuming Methodists or Catholics) dancing. Sitting at a table all alone, back near my corner, was an older gentleman. The band was playing a country-western song about heartbreak and loss. I looked over at the old guy. His head was bowed and he was wiping tears from his cheeks. I thought to myself, I bet this year is the first migration for him since his spouse passed.

I thought about asking him the typical array of questions down here: where are you from? motorhome? fifth-wheel? bumper-pull? park model? How long have you been coming here? Just to give him an opportunity to tell me his story if he wanted to. Then I thought, would I want to talk if the roles were reversed? No. I would want the moment to myself. It sounds cold, but I did not want to empathize with him, sympathize yes, but not empathize. Empathy would require me trying to put myself in his shoes. I won't allow my mind to go to a place where I would under any circumstances have to do this without My Amazing-Missus. But wait. Maybe, I misread his situation. Maybe he has a new wife and she brought her cat--which he is allergic to--into the new marriage, in which case I have neither sympathy nor empathy.

This picture above is an illustration of a book cover my oldest son put together, in fun, from a couple of photos I sent him. It has served as a prompt for this post: what if I did write a book about the migratory patterns of We Boomers? Maybe this would be the first chapter. Subsequent chapters might feature some of the characters I've met along the migration. For example, the guy in the picture on the front of this faux book cover is someone I met out for a walk one morning. I had seen him scooting around the grounds before, but at a distance. Is that a real pigeon riding on his cart?! On the day we met to say Hello, I said, "I saw you the other day and couldn't tell if your pigeon was real or not." He didn't say it wasn't real, he just said, "That's my homing pigeon. I know if I just follow him, I'll end up at home."

Is that where the migration ultimately ends up: home? For the Monarchs, which end of their migration is home? I suppose that since their migration is a multi-generational and a marvelous miracle, it's hard to know where home is.

There's a business leader and visionary that I highly respect. His name is Seth Godin. I've read most all of his books, some, multiple times. Seth publishes a daily post which I subscribe to. His post for Saturday, January 14, 2023 read:

AN EVENT OR A JOURNEY?

They're easy to confuse.

An event happens at a date certain, then it's over, nothing more to be done.

A journey might include an event, but it's bigger than that, and ongoing.

A wedding is an event, a marriage is a journey.

The focus and energy we lavish on events can easily distract us from the journeys we care about.

For us, our visit to South Texas is more of an event. We're posers, you might say. We'll be heading back in a few days and that's when the retirement journey really begins. Or, as I prefer to call it: The Quest (for what, I don't know).

I'm counting on the wisdom of C.S. Lewis to be true:

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.

ELVIS AND POPS

ELVIS IS DEAD AND I DON'T FEEL TOO GOOD MYSELF. Actually I feel pretty good for an older dude. I wasn't commenting on my state of being. That line is the title of a book by one of my favorite writers, Lewis Grizzard (RIP). His other writings include "Chili Dogs Always Bark At Night," and "Shoot Low Boys They're Ridin' Shetland Ponies."

Today is Elvis' birthday. I know that, not because I'm a big Elvis fan, but because it's my birthday too. It's the only thing he and I have in common, as far as I know. For example he's "All Shook Up". I'm relatively calm, introverted and contemplative.

Elvis asks, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" I do miss our grandkids and we've only been gone for a week. But, no. I'm not lonesome. When you love solitude, just having someone in the same trailer is enough. She is sewing. I'm reading or writing--kind of like Father McKenzie, "writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear." (I've always favored The Beatles over the "King".) But, this is about his songs and our shared birthday.

I was born at St. John's hospital in Tulsa (not "In The Ghetto"). It is on 21st and Utica, right across the street from Utica Square which I still consider to be a magical place at Christmastime. Just this past Thanksgiving weekend we went to Utica Square to see the lights and the animated toys that create scenes from The Nutcracker. (Listen. In the background, can you hear Elvis crooning "Blue Christmas".)

I wondered if my Mom and Dad were able to see Utica Square from the hospital nursery and if the lights were still up. Probably they weren't. It's a full two-weeks after Christmas after all. For a fact they couldn't. Utica Square didn't open until the next year after my birth.

Thankfully my parents decided to keep me and take me home in the winter of 1951, rather than put a tag on me that said, "Return To Sender". Maybe I looked at them with my baby blue eyes and they could sense me imploring them to "Let Me Be Their Teddy Bear."

As I've said, I was not a big fan of Elvis, although the years have given me a higher appreciation for his music. But hey, Elvis if you're listening, here are a few lyrics I'll borrow from my favorite songwriters: Lennon and McCartney, who, by the way, say you were a real inspiration to them:

You say it's your birthday
Well it's my birthday too, yeah
You say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy Birthday to you

Well, I hope I haven't offended any Elvis fans out there. I meant it all as fun and not sacrilege. Maybe I need to heed the words of wise men who say "only fools rush in."

GOOD ENOUGH

If you hear of someone described as a "good boy", what characteristics come to mind? If you hear of someone described as a "good girl", are the characteristics the same?

Is good enough?

Today is my first official work day to not be at work anymore; in the strict vocational concept of work. Over my years of working a lot of my reading was in books of leadership, branding, marketing, motivation and such. There is a list of books of this genre that have endured. One is Jim Collins' book, "Good To Great". The most often quoted line from the book, the one people recite to prove they read it is: "Good is the enemy of great." Is it really? Now, I'm looking at things from a different perspective.

I remember back when shopping was done at stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward, OTASCO, etc. They used a marketing technique to sell the most expensive stuff like lawn mowers and washing machines. In pictures and in point-of-sale displays they would have three--lets say TVs: GOOD, BETTER and BEST. Who wouldn't want the BEST. I always felt kind of sorry for the BETTER. I mean, who's going to choose that? If you don't care whether the rabbit ears were built in, or you didn't need dual 6 inch speakers, GOOD was enough. But if you going to buy the better, why not go big and get the BEST? That's was their bet.

There was a time when living the GOOD life was good enough. Even Martha Stewart believed in the goodness of good. Remember when she would show us important things like how to take the core out of a head of lettuce? She would establish its value by proclaiming: "It's a good thing!" By golly Martha said so, good is enough.

I heard a comedian do a bit about every house needing to have at least one good chair in the living room. (I'm pretty sure he stole the idea from a skit that Tom Hanks did on SNL.) You needed at least one quality chair for when Pops came to visit. As soon as he would walk in the door, someone would say, "Let Pops have the GOOD chair."

We're visiting one of the places in South Texas where retirees go for the winter. We're renting a lovely "park model" trailer and enjoying the 80 degree weather. It has a microwave, a coffee maker, a full-size fridge, AND a good chair.

There's a comic named Dusty Slay I really like. He talks about different kinds of money: well-earned money, found money, fast money, easy money. You get the idea. Dusty says that in his home growing up they had one kind of money: Good Money. He says one day he laid his bike in the yard rather than using the kickstand. His dad told him, "You better take care of the bike. I made Good Money for that."

While we're here in the compound with folks from Canada, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa and other frigid parts, I'm looking for good weather, good fellowship, good friends, good food, good times and a good memory or so.

The hard part so far (Day two), is adjusting to the schedule. Dinner is at 4:30p, curfew is at 8:00p, lights-out is at 9:00p. WHY!?

My Amazing-Missus woke me up around 6:00a getting ready to go to the crafts building for Busy B's sewing. It's now 10:30a and I feel like I've been up all day. I'm hoping for lunch around 11:00a, and then a good nap in the good chair. Texas Hold'em is at 1:00p and there's four dollars with of good money at stake. I need to have my wits about me.

It's all good.