THOUGHTS AT 74

I'm sensing that I may not be sensing as much as I used to. Take seeing, smelling, touching, hearing and tasting; sometimes those things don't seem as sharp as they once were, say, fifty or one year ago.

I need My Amazing-Missus more. I need her to tell me if the milk smells okay, or if the turkey, which looks a little greenish to me, tastes safe. Remember the old joke about the cannibal that took a bite of a clown and then asked his wife, "Does this taste funny to you?"

At first I thought maybe I just wasn't paying attention. According to some teachers of my school-days I have that inclination--to not pay attention. Maybe now, as then, I tend to be picky about what I find to be attention-worthy. I think I've already established that if your give-a-crapper is broken, your sense of attention-paying is afflicted as well. It's hard to pay attention to what you don't care about.

A few days ago at a holiday gathering, my youngest Grand, soon to be five, was reminiscing about a Christmas past (one of his four). "Hey, Pops, hey! Do you remember that time..." Honestly; I said that I didn't recall that. "What's wrong old man can't you remember stuff?" he said with love.

I explained to him that I have a zillion-million more memories to keep track of than he does. Then I used a sure-fire strategy to change the subject, "Hey do you want to watch Sonic or Ninja Turtles or something else enriching?"

Jeremiah and I are the chronological bookends of our family. He's the one that helps me most to stay anchored in the reality that I'm old, but that maybe I have strengths now that I didn't have when I was younger. He doesn't have to verbally remind me that I'm old. It can happen like this: "Hey, Pops, Hey, why don't you sit on the floor and we'll play Spiderman with these Legos?!" I assess the situation and imagine trying to get up from the floor in an hour or so. "How about if we pretend that I'm a creature from the planet 'Recliner' and I'm trapped in it's extra-strong gravitational pull." He seems to accept this premise. "Are you good or bad?" he asks. "The jury is still out."

Is it true that if someone is lacking in one of the senses, the others are somehow enhanced to make up the difference? I've always heard that. Is it true that if you are diminshed olfactory-wise that your sense of taste is stricken as well?

Now I'm veering off into physical science and I have no business there. Let's get back to psycho-social space, a room I have now qualms about bouncing around in.

One of my favorite movies set around Christmas and the days after is The Family Man starring Nicholas Cage and Téa Leoni. It has a feeling of old scrooge being carried back and forward in time. Cage's character "Jack" is given the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what his life might have looked like and somehow magically having the chance to make a new choice.

- Please just tell me what's happening to me in plain English...without the mumbo-jumbo.

- This is a glimpse, Jack.

- A glimpse? A glimpse of what?

- You're gonna have to figure that out for yourself and you got plenty of time.

- How much time?

- As much time as it takes, which in your case is probably gonna be considerable.

That's a few lines from the movie--sort of a teaser. It's worth watching, IMHO. (As the kids say).

While my five physical senses may not be as sharp as they once were, others are serving me well: my sense of humor, my sense of authenticity vs. B.S., my sense of what's important, my sense of faith and hope, my sense of urgency.

Here's what I mean about that last one, hoping to not sound too doom and gloomish. I mentioned Jeremiah's four Christmases of memories and my seventy-three. (I wrote about Remembering in my last post.) Obviously he has years of memories to come. Me? Not as many. Just facts. The sense of urgency though of seizing moments isn't really about limited time. It's about being extra alert, listening, seeing, hearing, tasting and touching as I never have before. Soaking up as much as I can. Wringing the cloth of every drop of opportunity. Even though I may not see as well as I once did, I know for a fact that if I take the time and give the attention I will be able to see more than I ever have. Now, whether I'll be able to remember it tomorrow... Even my nearly 5 year-old grandson knows that us old men tend to forget; but only some things. Others are indelible.

Here’s one of my favorite poems, one by Walt Whitman. Some say that old Walt was gay and that this poem was about a meeting with someone he knew intimately. For me it is about the relationship of an old man and the person he was when he was young. I often remember that person--the me of my youth. A person who had a wide-eyed, sometimes naive curiosity, drawn to creativity that brought discovery and joy.

A Glimpse: Poem by Walt Whitman

A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,

late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;

Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and

seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;

A long while, amid the noises of coming and going--of drinking and

oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,

perhaps not a word.

I'll admit. Sometimes I enjoy the company of the memories of grade-school me, or high school graduate me, or newly married me, or first-time father me, or Pops me. It gives me a glimpse of what was, what might have been and what can be. Those old friends give perspective and are useful to us.

For example, recently, we took GrandGirl Nora to a gymnastics meet. As we drew close to the venue, she talked about being nervous. She didn't ask if I've ever been nervous before a big event, but I offered an unsolicited anecdote anyway--something I enjoy doing. I told her about my first accordian concert. I was six. Dressed in black pants, a white sportcoat, and little black bowtie. I squeezed my best version of "Three Blind Mice" out of that shiny black accordian. I returned to my seat next to my parents. Mom was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. I guess when you think about it, it is a sad song. These poor little mice were not only blind but they had just had there tails whacked off with a carver's knife by the farmer's wife. Anyway, the point of my story of empathy regarding pre-performance jitters was lost because I had to try to explain to Nora what an accordian was and why I was forced to take lessons on the thing. The good news: the story got us to the venue where she saw a teammate and her coach. Five gold medals and one silver, and all was well.

P.S.: At 74 I’m starting my 75th year. As I look at the world as it is, I have a few of those butterflies and jitters, however, I am not without hope. I have a glimpse and a sense that there is a plan bigger than all of us. “A plan for good and not for evil”. Here's a link to a post I wrote more than five years ago. It's still true for me. Maybe you'll find it helpful. CLICK HERE TO READ IT.

WHO'S TEAM IS GOD ON?

I watched most every game of the Women's College Softball World Series. It is a thoroughly enjoyable sport to watch; especially when the teams from your state's largest universities are in the tournament.

It's over for 2024 and the Oklahoma Sooners won their fourth championship in a row. That's never been done before and it's the cherry on top of mountain of firsts for this team. The Texas Longhorns were rated #1, but the Sooners beat them in the first two games of the best of three.

Many of the Sooners when asked about this phenomenal run, thanked God.

photo source unknown

That seemed to bother some folks.

• Do they think God actually cares about softball?

• Do they think that God favors one team over another?

• Do they really believe that if one player has a quick prayer with a team mate before she goes up to bat that God will somehow energize her and/or her bat so she hits a walk off home run to pull victory from a must-win game situation where the other team might have actually played the better game?

Time out. Let's do a closer review.

A lot of people don't like the Sooners (especially those that wear burnt orange and people who were regular orange and columbia blue and clap their hands by extending their arms and moving them together and apart vertically.) A lot of people feel like the Sooners are cocky and show-offy.

Did I mention that this team has been weirdly and wildly successful? "So are you saying that they have some sort of divine anointing?"

If God loved Oklahoma better than Texas maybe he would nudge tornado alley a bit south, say below the Red River, instead of the heart of it going right over Norman, Oklahoma, home of the Sooners.

Here are some thoughts about these holy name-droppers, for what they're worth:

Maybe there is actually an innocent, and maybe, naive humility among these super Sooner softballers. It is from that place that gratitude can spring. I'm sure these girls are grateful to their parents and grandparents for their support and sacrifice and sportly genetics. I'm sure they are grateful to their coaches--who apparently are some of the best to be found. I'm sure they are grateful to their fans and friends. But there's more gratitude to go around. Gratitude is one of those things that must be expressed. When a person or a team has worked so hard and accomplished so much there is lot of it to be expressed. There is also a lot of exuberance among this team. That's another thing that demands expression--in proportion to the depth of it.

It's easy (at least for me) to see that these young women find themselves at a sort of pinnacle so that there must be something at play here that is, well, beyond/Beyond. What I'm saying is that maybe they haven't become so jaded yet, so arrogant to be blinded by the wonder of the whole experience. What does it hurt for them to find a way to express all that gratitude and exuberance?

The words of G.K. Chesteron come to mind:

“The worst moment for an atheist is when he is really thankful and has no one to thank.
I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder. The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them. When it comes to life the critical thing is whether you take things for granted or take them with gratitude.”

RESOLUTIONS the 2024 VERSION

#1. ACT MY AGE. I'm pretty sure that when we hear this phrase we usually assume that the person is acting immaturely or pretending to be younger than they are. For me, with this resolution, I'm shooting for not acting older than I am. In a few days I'll be 73. When I have aches and pains, when I walk into a room and can't remember why, when my first instinct is to complain, I'll try to remember that I'm not 74 or more.

I'm not sure when the switch flipped for me--the change from a borderline Peter Pan Syndrome kind of guy to the stereotypical cranky curmudgeon. The point is I'm not sure I am, ever have been, or ever will be, self-aware enough to find reality, but if I ever do I'm going to get a firm grip on it. (If I like what I see that is. If not, I'll make something up,)

#2. MAKE A NEW FRIEND. Can we all agree that friendship is on a scale sort of like air temperature and humidity? There are those friendships that are long and intimate. There are those that if we met on the street we would recognize each other and maybe reminisce about shared experiences. I heard a radio program recently about the decline in friendships among men. There was a lot of speculation and presciptions, but the one thing that seemed to be true was that you have to make the effort. Friendships, like all relationships, seem to need some nurture, care and effort. Is this resolution worthy of being a resolution? For me it is, not because I don't value friendships, I'm just so strongly introverted (not shy) that friending is a challenge.

What am I looking for in a friend besides possible future pall bearer material? I suppose if I were posting something in a publication or app designed for friend-finding my list might look something like this:

• Good storyteller with good stories to tell.

• Has more than a passing interest in some form of the arts.

• Able to talk for more than an hour without getting into current politics. (Unless you agree with my worldview of course.)

• Has at some point in their past owned a turntable and a collection of albums that included at least two of the following:

The Beatles
Miles Davis
Blood Sweat and Tears
Bob Dylan
Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and/or Neil Young or The Byrds or Buffalo Springfield or The Kinks
Marvin Gaye
The Beach Boys
Led Zeppelin
Eva Cassidy

• Has at some point shot a few rolls of B&W film.

• Regularly asks to see photos of my Grand Kids.

• Doesn't complain about the cost of the cup of coffee we're visiting over.

• Is near equal parts excited and afraid of AI.

And that's pretty much it.

#3. DEFY THE MAGNETIC PULL OF LETHARGY. In all areas. Intellectually. Spiritually. Emotionally. Socially. Physically. Of course each of those are in the fabric of all of us and impact the other in a Newtonian way. Picture that little pendulum thing with the line up of steel balls hanging in a perfect row. Pull one back let it go and somehow the energy--both kinetic and potential--unleashed, transfers through each and sends the last in line swinging. I'm glad. Sometimes that first ball may be the Spiritual one. When I pull it back it impacts all the others, hopefully making me a better friend, steward, husband, dad and Pops.

I'm a full year into retirement now. We've done some traveling. We've been to basketball games, piano recitals, dance recitals, gymnastics meets, school programs, a wonderful vacation with all the kids. So far, so good. I had a friend named Grady Nutt who wrote a book where he turned that little phrase around and used it for the title, "So Good, So Far". I would rather use that version to describe this year. I had another friend named Gladys Lewis. She titled one of her books, "On Earth As It Is", obviously borrowing just enough of a phrase from the Lord's Prayer to invite us to take a realist view of life.

In that spirit, in this retirement thing, there's still been a lot of time that I haven't really known what to do with. That's fine with me. I can always read or write, listen to great music, watch an old movie, or take a nap. I start the day with peanut butter and strawberry spread, coffee and puzzles. Then I move to my little den with a second cup of coffee and read the New York Times online along with a few of my favorite writers. Often there will something there that will push me into a rabbit hole, clicking links, watching YouTube. Then, before you know it, it's time to ask My Amazing Missus, "What sounds good for lunch?" carefully avoiding a stupid question like, "What are you fixing for lunch?"

Back in the days leading up to retirement she would tell people that when I retired she planned to retire from cooking. I have actually done a good bit of that. I like to find a new recipe or spice up an old favorite.

Still. There are times when I'm like a lazy old dog just lying in the way. When my Apple Watch buzzs and tells me it's time to stand up and move around, I usually do. I meander around the house. Sometimes I'll stand in the doorway of her sewing room and ask her how it's going. For the first time in 50 years, we're here, together. I'm loving it. But I've crashed on her couch so to speak, and I'm here to stay.

Our taste in TV programming doesn't overlap much. The other day she came in and asked, "What in the world are you watching?" I explained that I was now eight episodes into something the kids call "Gilmore girls". I told her I was discovering much to my skepticism that it is some of the best writing of any series I remember. "Sit down and I'll start at the beginning." For a week now we've been watching a few episodes each night. Last night we watched Season 2, Episode 14, the one where Richard, the husband, father and grandfather to the Gilmore girls has just retired. Emily, the mother, is telling Lorelai, the daughter, how it's going so far.

"We've never really been home at the same time. He's always here. Watching me, and noticing when I move a vase."

My Amazing-Missus laughed too hard and too knowingly at that. I think I may have heard her whisper, "Amen, sister."

Later in the episode, after Richard has made himself a nuisance to each of the Gilmore girls, Lorilei, his daughter tells him to back off; he says,

"You know I never thought about retirement. I never thought about what I'd do or what I'd be once I wasn't working. I never once thought that I would go from being a productive member of the human race to a decrepit old drone sitting at the club at 3:00 PM drinking brandy and playing cards. I'm an annoyance to my wife and a burden to my daughter. Suddenly I realize what it feels like to be obsolete. I hope that you never have to learn what that feels like."

Here's my plan: when someone asks me what I'm doing in retirement I'm going to tell them that I'm defying lethargy. I'm gaining energy--both potential and kinetic: In all areas. Intellectually. Spiritually. Emotionally. Socially. Physically. Then I will quote Whitman, and that should end the discussion.

---

O Me! O Life!
Walt Whitman
1819 – 1892

O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

---

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.

---

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...