A MAN FOR NO SEASON

It’s not false modesty…it’s a recognition of reality                                                 

A MAN FOR NO SEASON

One sort of nice thing that accrues with age is self realization…an ability to look at one’s self with some degree of objectivity.  There are several aspects to this exercise, some pleasant, others not so pleasant.  But they all point in the direction of honesty, self awareness and most important, I think, self  EVALUATION.

The latter can be rewarding or it can be hurtful.  But it is always enlightening.  And it may not come to a person all at once.  I am going to use myself as an example, not through any sense or delusion of infinite wisdom…just because I am the only person on earth who can relate to how it feels for ME.  I think I am probably as typical an example to which others might relate.  And in saying that I do so in an admission that I am a very common type of individual in many ways…and that in itself comes to me as a light but perceptible blow to my ego.

At this point in my life, I’ve settled into doing just a few things which give me some sense of identity.  Along the way to this point, there have been many waypoints which have taught me how to accept, reluctantly, the truths about my physical and mental limitations.  And I think that sooner or later, a person will come closer to a sense of well being and self satisfaction if he or she faces those limitations and moves on.

When I was a kid, I loved baseball.  I think I was not unique in seeing myself as a big league baseball player.  At the age of 20, I was in the Navy and stationed on the Guantanamo Naval Station.  Guantanamo is actually comprised of several distinct bases; The actual Naval Station, a Marine station, a Naval Air base, a Naval Hospital.  I might have missed one or two, but that isn’t important.  Each area had a team, and we played in this league.

I was on one of the teams…the worst one.  It’s important that I mention that.  We were to play a Cuban civilian team.  The rules were that each of the base teams must have at least one representative on our All Star team.  Well, I was the ‘best of the worst,’ and was selected.

The game began.  My baseball career ended.  I came to bat twice.  I watched and occasionally waved my bat at a total of six pitches…all strikes. 

When I was a young married man living in Caldwell, New Jersey, I was active in some fair housing civil rights organization, and was asked if I would be willing to run for Town Council.  This was a town that had not elected a Democrat since FDR…a Republican Bastion.  But my ego forced me to accept.  I had received unexpected backing from our weekly newspaper, (the only liberal entity in town) and silent backing from the Dominican Nuns whose world headquarters were in Caldwell.

So I began to think I could win.  I began diluting my wild liberal ideas in an attempt to lure some Republicans to me.  During the process, I began to see myself not just as a town councilman…no, this was the first step to the White House.

On election day, one precinct looked like the south pole…and I was reasonably certain that all those beautiful black and white penguins, (Dominican Nuns!) were voting for the only non Catholic in the race.  I won that district, but lost every other one in town.  My political career was over, although laterI did a lot of writing on behalf of others.  I was pretty good at that. 

Having my presidential ambitions pretty much shot to hell, I did the next logical thing.  I took up the five string banjo.  It was the height of the 1960’s folk revival, and I wanted to be part of it.

The two things that have lasted for me are my love of the folk banjo and the ability to put words on paper in a reasonably cogent and readable manner.  But now I must look at both of those abilities with a sense of honest and detached  realism.

I have become a competent amateur folk banjo player.  But it has been through grit and perseverance, not a particularly good sense of music or inherent talent.  That is not false modesty;  it is a statement of truth.  I know of people who seem to have those qualities built in, and it shows in their execution of music.  Again; I can do a credible performance of playing and singing folk music.  But it through painstaking effort, not inherent talent.  And to be perfectly clear, I think that’s GOOD ENOUGH!  It would be unrealistic and ultimately heartbreaking if I had not long ago let go of the idea that I was of professional quality.  Some never accept those limitations and are destined to live lives of disappointment. 

I do think I have some inherent talent in writing.  But even that has limitations…it took me years to come to the realization that my forte was the essay was my vehicle…not a novelist or a poet.  I can write an editorial with the best of them.  I can write and deliver a twenty minute talk in the guise of a sermon, and that ability has been well received.  But those come easy to me.  Trying to write a novel or a piece of poetry…not me!

Acceptance of both my limitations and my talent with the ability to discern the difference has put me in a comfort zone.

As I write this this morning, I await two visitors; a novelist and a poet.  And there is a sense of awe in hearing them.  I am incapable of jealousy…I love to play music with REAL musicians, and I love the company of REAL writers..  

AMERICA’S LAST FLIP PHONE

                                                            AMERICA’S LAST FLIP PHONE

But I’m writing this on a computer, so I’m not that behind the times.  And my abacus has 10 beads!

I live in Northern California…just a stone’s throw, (and about two and a half hours by car) from Silicon Valley, Hi Tech Capital of the World.

This makes my lack of appetite for every new gadget that comes down the pike a little more striking than it might be if I lived in, say, Vladivostok, Russia.  When I want to make a call, or receive a call, I pull out my flip phone, (Lovingly referred to my ‘dumb phone.’)  This, opposed to what, seemingly every native Californian over the age of six seemingly has, a ‘smart phone.’

Lately, to cover my shame, I have taken to seeking solitude away from prying eyes when making a call.  But one doesn’t have that option when the phone chimes an incoming call in a public setting..  A choice arises; should I answer it and subject myself to looks of derision,  sneers, or worse, pity?  Or would it be preferable to let it ring until the caller either hangs up or leaves a message. I can retrieve it later, away from all those superior humans?

Everyone I know not only has a smart phone, but feels it a moral imperative that I, too, must join the twenty first century, and that is their duty as compassionate humans, to cajole, force, or shame me into having a smart phone.  After all, if one doesn’t own a smart phone, the reasoning goes, it follows that one is not smart.

Not only is it their messianic responsibility to save my silicon based soul, I must not only acquire a smart phone, I must replace it at minimum, once a year with the latest more, sophisticated, and more expensive super model.

I will admit, it is miraculous to watch as my friends put their phones thru their many paces.  The vocal commands are, to me the stuff of science fiction.  “Smart phone, what did Babe Ruth have for breakfast the day he hit his sixtieth home run?”  Within three seconds, the answer to this and many other crucial bits of information are related back to questioner.  “Smart phone, set a route from my home to a Seven Eleven in Biloxi, Mississippi.”  Forget the fact that there are other ways to get that done.  If one own a properly modern smart phone, no other gadgets are needed, although I have yet to see one with a built in electric toothbrush, or lawn mower But I’ve learned not to rule out anything, and the manufacturers must keep adding features lest risking that people might become complacent with the units they already own.  Bad for business.

The list of possible applications for today’s smart phone seems endless.  Games of all sorts; live television streaming from home; applications to lock and unlock your car or home from any place on earth. not to speak of controlling the lights, heat, appliances and pet monitoring.  All in that little rectangular miracle.  It can take photographs superior to all but the most sophisticated professional cameras.  I have heard it said that one can even make and receive telephone calls.

So here’s a partial justification for my little flip ‘dumb phone.’  I am not making an anti technology statement.  If I were, I would probably not own any type of mobile phone.  I like the idea of being able to call the cops if I wreck my car or get a flat tire out in the boondocks.  Staying in touch to a certain degree is reassuring, especially as the pitfalls of age encroach on my physical self reliance.  Although, with all that, there are times when I just want my phone on it’s silent mode, and to be away from everything and everyone.

So, I can make phone calls with my phone.  I am able to receive calls with my phone,  I can take photos, but they probably can’t be blown up to mural size.  I can even send and receive text messages.  I actually have done this on a couple of occasions, but choose not to.  I don’t think I can make my dumb phone retrieve my emails, however.  It’s OK!  To prove I am not an anti civilization luddite, I DO have a computer, and I DO send and get emails.  It’s just that I don’t feel it pressing to read each one within milliseconds of  it’s reception.  And I use the computer almost every day.  (If I didn’t there would be even more misspelled words in this piece!)

So, facing the daily onslaught of derision, I still have no intention of getting a smart phone.  Yet, I know that if I did, I would in all likelihood wonder how I ever existed without it.  And I’d want a new one to better enable me to carry on translated communications with beings from distant planets.

As more and more people go higher and higher up the tech ladder, I’m happy to be here on my comfortable rung.  But there are a few benefits, aside from those already mentioned;  My current plan costs me a little over $100 a YEAR!  And even with that, I never use all the minutes I have purchased.  I just roll them over.  Currently I have well over three thousand unused minutes; my dumb flip phone fits in my shirt pocket, and the screen is protected when the phone is closed; Finally, and this is of supreme, (if irrational) importance.  Flip phones are becoming rarer and rarer just like antique automobiles, they will likely prove to be wonderful investments.  If you too have a flip phone, I encourage you to smash it.  This will hasten the day I can sell the last dumb phone on earth, mine, to the Smithsonian , Btitish Museum or an eccentric millionaire for an exorbitant sum. 

I don’t know how long it will take to achieve these dreams of riches.  It may be my heirs will see the benefit.  How long?  I wish I knew.  Perhaps if you have an up to date smart phone, you could calculate the date for me.

 A PIECE OF GOODBYE

Well, I don’t want to get maudlin about this.  I’ve already lived longer than anyone in my immediate family ever had.  And, I’m told that for a person of my age I’m in pretty good shape.  That’s nice, but….since the only measure of comparison I have is for the person I was all those years ago, all I can say is, “thanks, but no thanks!....... Pretty good shape?”  How come I hurt so much?  What is the measure of ‘pretty good?’

O.K., of course I recognize that statistically, the very fact that I’m still vertical and (usually) somewhat cognizant of my surroundings, and that a goodly number of my vintage are either no longer with us, or if they are, many can no longer walk unaided, or live from day to day without assistance.  Worse, (and I see this with some of my daily human contacts,)  don’t remember who they are or where they live.  That’s the scariest scenario I can think of, and I do think of it every time I have a momentary memory lapse for names of friends and everyday objects.

There are so many things that I can no longer do, or do only with extreme effort.  Many of those things I am able to simply shrug off.  Some were fragments of this stew we call life…the salt or other seasoning which, while an enhancement to that stew, their removal still leaves one with a pretty good meal.

Learning to live with the aches and pains of age, while difficult, is easiest accomplished in familiar surroundings.  One learns to adapt and accommodate in ones own home, where every room, every corner, every nook and cranny have been permanently imbedded into the person’s brain.  If I wind up kneeling or sitting on the floor in my own home, I pre plan it so that I will be near some chair or other appurtenance to grab onto to help arise.

Recently my wife and I spent 12 days on the big island of Hawaii.  In these totally unfamiliar environs, all the physical and mental aches, pains and assorted and sundry vicissitudes of what are associated with what (and I find this description laughable!) “The Golden Years.”

Hawaii Island is a glorious place, and I found it so.  But I also found myself quite unsteady walking across solidified lava beds…especially when warned, “Don’t fall…that rock is like a vegetable grater. 

And I learned that I am done trying to swim in the ocean.  Trying to regain my feet after being swept off my feet by undertow is something I used to do without thinking.  This time I felt like a turtle being placed on it’s back.  Where is the chair I use to raise myself up from a seated position?  By the way, anyone want to buy a professional grade swim mask?  Hardly used.  Will sell at sacrifice.

The botanical gardens in Hilo are magnificent, with plants from every corner of this planet. And I recommend them to everyone.  The paths are well paved.  But they are very hilly.  Some have handrails.  But the ones I remember don’t have handrails.  In what I perceive to be a nod to senior citizens (another term I despise!) there are strategically placed benches throughout the gardens.

The signs are unmistakable;  That span of what we call life, from birth to

death is, inexorably winding down.  I once was the youngest kid in class.  That was a blink of an eye ago.

This is not a cry for pity!  The only way to avoid the challenges of being old is to not becoming old.  So I’m OK with it.  I wish I had some stronger religious beliefs regarding immortality.  I often think how I’d be so happy to become reanimated into what I was.  Yet I’d want to retain the knowledge and experiences.  Can I have it both ways?  Regarding that subject of immortality, I’m open to the surprise of learning I was permanent.

This is my initial attempt to explain the inevitable ‘goodbye.’  But I realize each chapter must stand on it’s own.  I don’t know if there will be more.       

  

A Day at the Beach

The Kona coast of the big island of Hawaii is beautiful, as are most areas of our fiftieth state.  But unlike most of the beaches on the other islands, those on that west coast of Hawaii are more rugged.  There is, of course, plenty of white sand on most of the ocean front strips, but many of the beaches have boulder sized sharp, jagged remnants of long past volcanic eruptions.  One needs to look before stepping.

On our last full day of vacation, tired of planned activity we found a small piece of beach upon which to relax.  We planted ourselves about midway between the sandy entrance and the Pacific. 

I had just come out of the water, and was headed back to our blanket, when I saw a young woman negotiating her way down the fairly steep slope towards the ocean, pushing a wheelchair with a man of about her age in it.  The young man was strapped into the chair, and was obviously almost totally disabled.  Probably quadriplegic.

As she carefully made her way to the shore, I sensed she could use a little help, and offered assistance.  “Oh, thanks, but I’ve got it.”  And she did.  When she was near the spot on the beach she wanted, she untied the wheelchair bound man, faced him, and lifted him onto his feet.  As she supported his full weight with one arm around his waist, she positioned and locked the wheels of the chair, then gently, ever so gently, placed the young man into it and secured him.

I began to wonder about these two young people.  The woman reminded me of my high school cheerleaders.  Petite, blond, and full of energy…the type, I recalled, who would only date star athletes and generally walked around just looking cute. 

My first thought was that she must have been a care giver.  Certainly she knew how to deal with a wheelchair, lift someone a foot taller than herself, and do all the physical things required.

In a few minutes, the woman left the side of the chair, and ran out into the surf, diving, jumping, swimming and splashing.

She remained in the water for only a few minutes, and returned to the wheelchair.  She then put her arms around the “patient,” hugged and then kissed him several times.  This was more than a professional relationship.  This was a couple.  My mind began a race with my preconceptions.  Maybe he was injured after they met…possibly a war veteran.  And she was sticking by him out of loyalty.  But their silent interplay indicated far more than loyalty.  It was apparent that there was devotion and love between the two.  “Cheerleader, where is the football captain?  Why is not my stereotype of your superficiality in this scene?  Or is he a wealthy soon to be deceased man whose family has promised you a fortune?”

None of that rang true, and I finally realized I was tuning into some very unpleasant and bigoted thoughts.  Maybe, just maybe, what I was witnessing was what it appeared to be.  A bit of shame hit me.

In an hour or so, the young couple was preparing to leave.  The exit would be up hill.  She lifted him, and was having a little difficulty in repositioning the wheelchair.  This time she allowed me to help.  When he was again in the chair, he looked up.  “Thanks.”  She smiled and they were gone.  I have mulled that afternoon many times.  I still wonder about those two.  And I think some self examination is in order as well.