Don't Overthink It

In this time of quiet and reflection of past, one can venture into thoughts abandoned. While the mind is still active remembering details covered in dust or almost forgotten.

At this time thoughts of people known from long ago or recently met mix into a brew of questions.

At the same time, the little aches and pains of age ask “Should I call the doctor?” Could this be old age or something a little pill will ease?

Open the eyes in the morning and ponder what the day holds. Without an agenda or requirements, do you welcome another possibility or close your eyes? When do you climb out of bed to see if your legs will still hold you up and move you forward? Do you sit and fill your face with sugary crunch while scanning the channels? Do you go outside to meet the day?

Today, the biggest decision is what to eat for my daily meal. Same shoes, same shirt, same route, same selections and a possible choice of Coors Lite or Corona. When the beer runs out and the sun goes down and the street light turns on, it is time to climb back into bed. Easy peezy.

There was a time when everything was overthought. When we started making our own decisions, we had to figure out which kids to hang with. Do you make moves to join a team or a dance group or some nerd club to become a ‘cool kid’? Worst yet, if you find an attractive person you want to impress for a hopeful romantic encounter, are you dressed correctly? Do you have a come-on line? If that person seems interested, overthink it to the point of exhaustion.

When the basics of food, shelter, clothing and a possible partner were established, life became spontaneous. Go to a dance knowing you had a pad to crash in, go to a drinking establishment feeling you had enough bills in your wallet to pay your share, go to a movie or buy records instead of saving for the future and be rambunctious in the bedroom until a family arrives.

There were always thoughts of the unknown. Where to get employment with whatever skills you can offer for a monetary reward that will provide for your wishful lifestyle? Where to live that provides somewhat safety from crime and hopefully close enough to a workplace that won’t require a timely commute? Neighborhoods with nearby schools and churches and recreation centers are favorable, but you may have to a higher price and cut the grass under the orders of the HOA.

After you’ve left you job and your partner has died and the kids have left the state along with your friends who have disappeared into their own lives and families and memories, life turns into a field of wonder not unlike when you were born.

The future is certain. No one leaves here alive. Only time will tell when the bell rings and the game is over. Some may plan out every moment of demise with ceremonies and leftover wealth for relatives who stuck with you through the years. Others may be unaware when the grim reaper arrives suddenly, leaving others to clean up the mess. Others will slowly decay being assisted by pharmaceutical products and gentlemen and ladies in scrubs keeping the timeline going for as long as the bills are paid.

The final decision can be when to pull the plug. It may not be suicide but just the realization your time is up. If there is no one around to step in, either through court order or bloodline, you say “Goodbye” to yourself and close your eyes.

Whatever is around the corner you can’t know until you get there. You can believe all the fairy tales or fall for the propaganda, but don’t overthink it. It may be unbelievable or worse than you could ever imagine. Or it could just be ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’.

Remembering Bill

 

Woke up this morning to find another old friend had died. This is not an unusual occasion, for at this age there are more former friends in the obituaries than on the wedding page.

I usually don’t write elegies on people I knew, but Bill and I went way back.

When my family moved to Richmond, I didn’t have any friends. We didn’t interact with the neighbors so the first kids I met were through school.

Don’t know what drew us together. Bill had a stutter so he was quiet in class. I couldn’t see the blackboard so I was also quiet. We lived five blocks apart; within walking distance. He started coming over to my house and we’d play with toy soldiers on the steps. My mother couldn’t understand how we communicated, but I seemed to. We were comfortable in each other’s company so we didn’t have to say much. In the afternoon, he’d walk home.

I went to his house a couple of times. He had an older brother (just like me) but his house was much neater than mine. His father was a scientist and their house had a lounge with lots of books. His mother put jelly on a peanut butter sandwich which I’d never eaten before.

Our parents didn’t know each other. They were not members of the country club. They went to a different church. Our connection was through school.

Neither Bill or I were doing well in school so one year, we both were held back. The rest of the class moved onto another grade and we had a whole new set of classmates to repeat a year. Perhaps that strenthed our bond.

Bill and I would walk to Cary Street every Saturday to spend the day. We’d stop at High’s Ice Cream for a milk shake and a package of Nabs. We’d walk to the hardware store, stop in the bicycle shop, look at the camera store and the bakery next door. We’d finish up at Bob’s Hobby Center which held all the model cars and paints and little armies in boxes that were within our price range. There was a train running all around the store. Sometimes we’d go to the Byrd Theatre for the matinees show of cowboy movies and popcorn.

Bill didn’t go to summer camp with me. We went on separate family vacations. There were no backyard cookouts. We didn’t join any sports teams. We didn’t trade bubble gum cards.

My brother got a Santa Fe train set, but it was big and clunky. Bill got the cool small HO train set up in his bedroom. I got a race car set, but Bill got the cool HO race track.

Bill started taking music lessons on Saturday so I lost track of him. We went to different middle schools. We had fewer contacts.

We met back in high school. We were not in the same homeroom but would walk the halls until the bell rang to start classes. That is where his future girlfriend, then wife, would corner him.

Bill played clarinet in the school orchestra. Still quiet and unassuming yet attentive. Another friend told me later that Bill would correct him for being out of tune.

I was playing in garage rock bands and invited Bill to join us on saxophone. He was too disciplined to follow the black dots on the page than our free form improvisation of popular songs, so it didn’t work out.

We both took a mechanical drawing class. T-squares, triangles and lots of erasing. Bill was much more precise than I was, so his final drawings looked professional. Good thing, because he went to work for an architectural firm doing renderings.

He was spending more time with Mary and we hung out with different crowds and went to different parties, so I lost track of him again.

After high school I found out he was going to the same college I’d been accepted to. He had a dorm room on Harrison Street for his parents had moved out of state, while I commuted from home. Second semester he was moved to a ratty broken-down hotel that was too far from school to visit often. We were both majoring in art, but had different classes.

Sophomore year, our mothers decided we should get an apartment together. It would keep him in school and get me out of the house. 1024 W. Franklin Street (there is a song about that). A block away from campus, but it was the third floor. Talked some friends into hauling a bed, desk, chair and stereo up three flights of stairs. I didn’t sleep there the first night. When I finally moved in, Bill’s cat ‘Ming’ had taken over my bed. She became my sleeping buddy from there on. The first of many cats in my future.

Bill was the perfect roommate. He was never there. When he wasn’t in class, he was with Mary.

We didn’t have any wild parties or even have a drink together. Some mornings we’d go to Dutch’s for breakfast. I was working at the train station after classes and was hanging with friends in the fan, so our paths didn’t cross except to sleep.

Across the street there was an apartment full of girls. We’d turn off the lights and watch the shapes with my opera glasses. They knew we were watching.

I don’t remember any deep discussions. We did sit in on a poker game and Bill got upset by losing money. It did teach me if you are going to play a game of chance, only use the money you are prepared to lose.

The memorable event was when he and Mary made some meal and left the dirty pots in the sink. I wasn’t going to clean up their mess, so the pots and pans sat in the sink. Anyone who came over commented on the stench, but I held out. Finally, someone cleaned up the mess and we got back to a normal routine.  

There was a land lady, Mrs. Pen, who would barge her way into the apartment unannounced. She’d look around to make sure we were not performing any debauchery then sit down and smoke a cigarette. I was not fond of the interruption, so I went down to Sando’s Book Shop and bought a pile of recycled Playboy magazines. I cut out the centerfold and covered a wall. Her next invasion into our space was quick and she never came back.

Bill was seeing a doctor who was pricking him with pins to test of allergies. Seems he was allergic to just about everything, but he seemed pretty normal to me. When he went to get his selective service physical, he showed the results and got out of the draft.

After the year, the lease ran out and we moved to Monument Avenue. Again, the third floor. This was our summer refuge.

Bill had changed majors to sculpture and I’d changed majors to marketing and advertising. He grew a mustache; the first of all my associates to grow facial hair. He got a job at a bank up on Church Hill. He would come home late because he had problems balancing transactions. One day the bank was robbed. Bill quit.

I was moving into drugs, but Bill never participated. Young ladies would come by for a rousing bout of teenage exploration, but no one stayed overnight.

Bill and Mary decided to stop fooling around and get married. I was invited to participate in the ceremony. I had to rent a tux. The families had a rehearsal dinner at the Clover Room, but instead of a full meal and alcohol, we had ice cream. After the church performance, I wanted to soap his car, but his brother hid it until they left.

Mary was moving in the Monument apartment, so I was moving out. I tried to find another roommate but finally moved back home.

Again, lost track of Bill and Mary. I heard they moved out of town but couldn’t find an address.

The last time I saw Bill and Mary was at our high school 50^th reunion. He said they had two children, a boy and a girl. He said he had lost a house and a job and was working at a grocery store. He reminded me the time when I did projectile vomit in elementary school before I had my appendix taken out. It is strange what we remember.

Bill was always intense on whatever he was focused on. His hobby was shortwave ham radio and Morse code. He was a dedicated fan of the Washington Nationals, but we never discussed sports.

From the photos online, Bill was a family man and enjoyed his children and his grandchildren. He also married Mary forever.

     I won’t be attending his funeral but think of his family in this time of mourning. Bill was a nice guy.

Summer of ‘24

 

It was predicted to be HOT. It was.

Beyond the heat, what did you do this summer? Did you take a vacation? Did you read a book? Did you binge watch streaming movies in the air conditioning? Did you go to a new restaurant? Did you go to the theatre to eat popcorn and watch a movie? Did you go to a local tavern and met a new friend? Did you attend a festival? Did you attend a wedding? Did you attend a funeral? Did you shop online or go to the mall?

More important…

Did you write a novel? Did you learn to play an instrument? Did you create crafts? Did you play with your grandchildren? Did you cook a special birthday meal? Did you start exercising? Did you join in a group sing?

Or did you…

Did you drive around burning fossil fuel and adding to the climate change? Did you fly on a jet to some foreign land to look at old buildings and eat food not available at the Safeway burning fossil fuel and adding to the climate change? Did you run the air conditioning using electricity made by burning fossil fuel and adding to the climate change?

Me?

I didn’t read any books, but gave a lot away. I didn’t go to any movies after seeing the trailers on You Tube. I didn’t go to the theme park or attend any concerts or listen to any new music to my likening. I did travel on two wheels, but early in the morning. I did get a few chores done, but then the high heat was a good excuse to leave the vacuum covered in dust.

Some days were too hot to think, while a few had cooler evenings made for rocking. Listened to ole time geezer music deciphering details I’d never heard before. There was plenty of hydration.

Hope you had a fun and productive summer. Ready for sweater weather?

Unacceptable or Accountability

 

There are bad things happening all over the world. Angry people destroying property and murdering other people. If the established media misses it, social media will have videos at the ready to record the carnage.

What is the rest of the world’s response?

“These events are totally unacceptable. The perpetrators will be found and brought to justice. They will be held accountable for their actions.” That will stop ‘em.

That is the scheme of things, but reality?

If there is a threat to security, call 911. In most areas a group of men and women will arrive with sirens blaring and dressed in battle gear to eliminate the danger. It may be a power struggle, but the one’s with a badge are legally impowered to do whatever it takes. We have all agreed upon this.

Then there are these warehouses full of people behind tall walls and barbed wire. These are the ones that society and its judicial system have found to be none conformity to acceptable behavior and must be held accountable for their actions. In these concentration camps or holding pens, everyone dresses alike (except for hairdos). The armed forces do the same, except they give everyone a haircut. Forts are made to keep bad people out. Prisons are made to keep bad people in.

Once found guilty by a jury of their peers, a judge will place a time limit on how long they must stay behind bars and away from the rest of society. There are appeals and retrials and reduced time due to good behavior.  There is even a redemption for rehabilitation or reincarnation for recurring offenses.

Whether we are accountable for our sins is up to ourselves and our maker. Saint Peter is keeping records. Even Santa knows when you’ve been naughty or nice.

Regulation

Since time began, we make rules. Don’t eat that. Don’t pick that up. Don’t go there.

In school we are taught to obey the rules or be punished. Sit quietly and listen to what is demanded for passing a grade and move along or you will be humiliated in front of the class writing “I will not do bad things” over and over.

There are cultural rules of how to comb your hair and what clothing to wear or be the subject to abuse. Class rules require purchase certain brands or marry certain caste or not be accepted.

There are regulations on how our food is made to protect us from illness. There are restrictions on how fast to drive to protect our roadways. There are quality controls on how items are manufactured for the safety of the workers and the stamp of approval on the finished product.

Legislators are lobbied every day with new request for restrictions or deregulations from commerce, public health and welfare, education or just personal freedom. Can you wear a hat in the room?

If these rules are deregulated, what is the color of water that comes out of your facet? How comes the food smells funny? No speed limit and I95 can become Daytona speedway. Anyone can carry a gun and if there is an argument, you can stand your ground. Dogs can run wild in the streets and poop anywhere. There is no age limit for fooling around and no one is responsible for the outcome. Good luck if you have a disability and have to visit a restroom. Got a safety complaint at work?

There are dangerous jobs, like the armed forces, where the regulations and training are to send young people into harm’s way. Other jobs, like running electrical wire or cutting down trees or construction, will be life threatening without regulations and restrictions.

At the Tummy Temple, I select my items to fill the cart and go to the grab-and-go checkout. The first regulation is to pay for your purchase before you leave the store. A blue apron must come over with a special bar scan to tell the machine I’m older than dirt. This was acceptable for they could see I’m of the age to drink alcohol.

The Alcohol Bureau Commission cracked down on this common-sense pass through to the point even an old geezer, like me, must show my state approved identification card before being able to roll my cart out the door. I don’t mind because this is my only verbal interaction with another human being during the day. One would think with processing for speed, the consumer, aka me, could just scan in the ID and be done? With all the AI and facial recognition software, one would think the video screen that captures all your movements would see your face as a familiar consumer and pass you along. They know my name and address and what items I purchase and how much I spend, so why not file me as a frequent flyer?

Since it is back-to-school time, the regulations of carrying a clear see-through backpack and going through a metal detector or getting patted down before going to class with fewer book and the 10 commandants.

Eulogy

 

I’m at the age when most emails are links to friends’ obituaries. They are dropping like flies.

I’m not one who is fond of funerals and try to avoid the whole emotional grief thing. Whether you believe that the forementioned person is on the stairway or the highway, as John Prine said, “When you are dead, you are a dead peckerhead.”

I’ve only been asked once to add to a eulogy. This was a remembrance about a guy I worked with at the newspaper. I didn’t know him very well but they couldn’t find anyone else. I made a few comments on the fly that were published and I don’t even think they printed an obituary.

Most of my family are gone to the great beyond and what would I have said about them? Now, many of the people I’d spent special moments with are leaving. Oh, the tales I could tell, but that is not what the eulogy is about. Don’t speak ill of the dead.

Being asked to stand in front of a congregation before the grieving family and the box holding the remains, what do you say?

There are certain etiquette requirements for giving a eulogy. State your name and what relationship you had with the corpse. Give a brief, yet tearful, uplifting story about the two of you before stressing how much this person will be missed and leave the podium for the next rinse and repeat.

Sometimes the only eulogy is given by the preacher where this mournful occasion is held. The preacher might be a friend of the family but the bereaved have no information to bequeath during this moment of sorrow. A Google search may give some tidbits, but it won’t delve into the depths of who this person truly was when breathing.

Does his sister talk about how he molested her when she was 12? Does his father talk about how he vomited over having too much bourbon? Do friends talk about those intimate moments you wouldn’t confess to a priest?

Set up a PowerPoint display to view whatever selfies that might bring tears or laughter from the crowd. This is the last Good-bye, so might as well have a party.

This person whose name will be etched in stone before being dumped in a hole led a full life, flaws and all. The newspaper may list all the organizations and community participation's with those who had gone before and those who remain, but that doesn’t tell the full story.

That will be shared at the bar after all is said and done. If lucky, the tales will be expounded on and the name will become a legend.

Yes, you will be talked about after you are dead.

Holding Hands

 

Some mornings, if I get up early enough, I see this couple on my morning ride. They appear oriental and about my age. They are walking slowly down the street and acknowledge me as I pedal by. They are always holding hands.

I see lots of couples walking their dogs or pushing their babies or just jogging down the streets. The seem to be communicating to each other but they are both on their individual path and pace.

I’ve walked miles and miles with my wife and if we weren’t carrying bags and boxes, we held hands. It was just natural and a habit to hold onto each other. If we broke the connection to walk around something, we always said, “Bread and Butter. Love each other. Always”.

Now before getting all mushy, what is the meaning of holding hands?

Holding someone’s hand is the first no evasive physical contact with another. It is a continuous handshake. It could lead to a hug and maybe a lip lock and who knows where it goes from there.

Holding hands is a bond that shows everyone you are together. It is a protection for children and a way to keep going in the same direction. It can be a strange dance but you have to have a good partner who has the same pace. It is security and a sense of being a pair in the event of danger, like a nearby lightning strike, so you have someone to hold onto.

Even the Beatles found their fame by just wanting to “Hold Your Hand”.

I’ve stopped to say, “Good Morning” to the elderly couple and acknowledge my notice that they are always holding hands. I just want to give my appreciation of the sweet gesture before going on my way.

Where Do They Come From?

 

I must have that face that attracts these strangers. I learned at an early age how to converse with strangers, but those were at cocktail parties or formal dinners. Mostly small talk, but I could have a pleasant conversation.

I learned public speaking and was never afraid of the stage in front of an audience who didn’t know me. I even played my guitar to dancers, not so much to entertain them, but to play the music.

The city’s Department of Emergency Communications, Preparedness, and Response (DECPR) calls these interactions as ‘mental’ subjects. It is hard to tell these days of people walking around talking to themselves as a mental subject or on the phone? I hear the voices in my head, but don’t talk out loud to them until I get home.

I’m venerable when I’m in the open locking up my pony at the Tummy Temple. Alone and in the view of whoever wants to come up and converse. So far, I’ve not felt threatened.

If someone comes up and ask for money, I point them to the sign that says “No Soliciting” and move on. If someone ask for a donation to some cause, I explain that I make all my donations at the first of the year and then move on. If someone ask if they can have one of my beers, I point them to the door and say, “they have lots of beer in there” and then move on.

Some folks pass by and comment on an ole guy riding a bike, but they are brief comments with a pleasant smile. Some folks want to stop and tell a story.

I may shake a hand, but I’m not a hugger so I keep my distance. I’ll listen to whatever story they want to tell. I’ll compare notes but nothing personal. These are the same conversations I have with my neighbors. They don’t need to know anything about me and I don’t care to know their personal details or family drama.

So where do they come from?

Do I have a friendly face that makes the mothers pushing their babies smile on my ride? Do I have that weathered hobo look that people want to tell stories to?

I’ve always been shy and never forward enough to talk to a stranger unwelcomed. Most of my relationships I was persuaded into.

If you come up to me and start a conversation, I’ll be polite enough to listen for a while. I’ll try not to be rude, but I’ll end the endless chatter by excusing myself with another appointment and ride away.