Swimming

Moving your body through water seems second nature to me. I was lucky enough to have the ocean and swimming pools available to me all my life. Throw a baby into the water and he or she will naturally start to paddle.

In the ocean I would get tossed about but always caught by an adult. In a pool, I was strapped into an orange floating vest and could splash about but I wanted to get under the water.

Showing I was really a child of an amphibian, I would unhook my restraints and dive underwater. At the end of the day I would sleep well, even with chlorine eyes.

The ocean was different. Choppy water on top turned to currents underwater. Trying to see underwater churned by waves was difficult if not impossible without a mask. Then the ocean would suck you up in its tow and roll you up on shore. Having terrible eyesight to begin with, I would always find myself some distance from my starting point.

I took a friend, who is a mountain person, to the ocean. He was knocked down a couple of time by the waves. “You’ve got to respect her.” I said. Years later, a young lady got into a rip current and started wandering out to sea. I knew what it was and brought her sobbing face back to the shore.

There are certain restrictions to swimming in a pool so I had to prove I could move through the water to be allowed in the “deep end”. Several laps back and forth and I was certified to swim in 12’ deep water under the watchful eyes of lifeguards.

Still little boys love to swim underwater. We got mask and flippers and snorkels to swim below the others in the pool. We envisioned ourselves as WWII frogmen or deep-sea scuba divers like “Sea Hunt”.

One unfortunate day, a buddy of mine and I were diving for pearls or removing mines or searching for mermaids. I came to the surface and took off my mask looking for my friend. Since my eyes don’t see well on good day, I swam over to where my brother was paying more attention to his girlfriend than me and put on my glasses. “Did you see Jack?” I asked. Then there was a scream and a blur of excitement. The lifeguards leaped from their white towers into the murky water and pulled out a limp body. It was Jack. His mother came running out of the country club bar as the panicked lifeguards tried all their life saving techniques they had never practiced.

At the end of the day, an elementary class was preparing for a funeral of a classmate.

I still appreciate being around water. Maybe, if I’m able enough, I will bury myself at sea?

Sit beside the breakfast table
Think about your troubles
Pour yourself a cup of tea
And think about the bubbles
You could take your teardrops
And drop them in a teacup
Take them down to the riverside
And throw them over the side
To be swept up by a current
And taken to the ocean
To be eaten by some fishes
Who were eaten by some fishes
And swallowed by a whale
Who grew so old, he decomposed
He died and left his body
To the bottom of the ocean
Now everybody knows
That when a body decomposes
The basic elements
Are given back to the ocean
And the sea does what it ought'a
And soon there's salty water
(Not too good for drinking)
'Cause it tastes just like a teardrop
(So we run it through a filter)
And it comes out from the faucet
(And pours into a teapot)
Which is just about to bubble
Now
Think about your troubles.

Thax Harry

Technology

Today and maybe tomorrow with all the technology that become fashionable and even necessary to our daily existence, I must think back. Back to the time of black and white television and rotary phones.

Now that might sound ancient, but just like the automobile and electricity and the telephone and radio were to my parents, the digital age came during my lifetime.

As I see people walking staring at their palms or talking out loud about whatever in the grocery line or plugged into ear plugs dazed by the blast in their head, I must remember my first real experience with new technology. There was the “portable” hi-fi record player that was the size of a small refrigerator or the 9” black and white television with rabbit ears and three stations.

One day our family was owners of a transistor radio. I believe it was just AM, since all the cars only had AM radio. It was tiny. It had a leather case with a metal snap. It had a single dial. It had a 2” speaker. It had a single ear plastic earplug. Batteries powered it.

It wasn’t great, but you could carry it with you. If you didn’t have a car you could actually receive music while you were walking. Of course there was static and weak signal but it was the only option.

Later I got a multi-band shortwave radio. It wasn’t what those guys with giants antennas were receiving, but I could hear Boston, and New York and on some good night Europe. I could even get channels like police band or foreign languages, but I wanted the music.

Today, I don’t have an iPod or an iTunes or a whatever MP3 player. I don’t have music on my phone and when away from the computer or wired stereo or boom box, I just have to imagine the songs in my head.

They sound just as I remember them, even if I don’t know the words. I can change the speed or skip to the best part and I don’t require headphones.

Paranoid

  As defined, Paranoid is..

  Paranoid personality disorder (PPD) is a mental disorder characterized by paranoia and a pervasive, long-standing suspiciousness and generalized mistrust of others. Individuals with this personality disorder may be hypersensitive, easily feel slighted, and habitually relate to the world by vigilant scanning of the environment for clues or suggestions that may validate their fears or biases. Paranoid individuals are eager observers. They think they are in danger and look for signs and threats of that danger, potentially not appreciating other evidence.

  They tend to be guarded and suspicious and have quite constricted emotional lives. Their reduced capacity for meaningful emotional involvement and the general pattern of isolated withdrawal often lend a quality of schizoid isolation to their life experience. People with this particular disorder may or may not have a tendency to bear grudges, suspiciousness, tendency to interpret others' actions as hostile, persistent tendency to self-reference, or a tenacious sense of personal right.

 

  I never thought of myself as being paranoid, but I look around my house and see all the windows are masked. I remember the discussion of why the elderly woman next door is looking through our windows. I remember the rants with the other neighbor on the boarder line.

  Sometimes it just happens. There is a point when your personal privacy is more important than appearance.

 

  Now I get along with people and can mingle, but did you ever wonder what that group over there was talking about while they were looking over at you? It is just human behavior.

 

  Being a manager of people I remember reading an interesting article about how those you supervise follow your every motion and statement. That makes sense because you control their livelihood. A brief comment or observation can bring about a review and possible termination.

 

  I was not as concerned as the neighbors because I personally didn’t have any probably with them, but I was never home. The paranoia came with lights and cameras and an 8-foot fence.

 

  I think in the long run, paranoia is not a bad thing. It is best to be aware of those who are around you at any given time. The other day when I was unlocking my bike a guy came up and asked for money. He said he needed money for gas. I had heard him ask another shopper before so was not surprised. I refused the request and he wandered off.

 

  I do look around when I walk out in public. If there is unusual activity I avoid it. My thoughts involve unlocking the bike and knowing I am holding a weapon. Watching a drug deal go down in front of me in the parking lot makes we remember carrying a knife.

 

  Those who travel in tin boxes feel somewhat sheltered than the two-wheel traveler. The ploddy ploddy foot traveler has little choice but to deal with strangers.

 

  I think of places I have been in the worst possible situations and survived, but I don’t take bets on them again.  I don’t ride much at night. I know certain areas of town I don’t travel. I’ve been lucky, so far, at encounters with people who may cause personal harm.

 

  So when I look around while packing up my grocery pack for the day, I’m not paranoid. I’m just cautious. I don’t want to relive the experience in college where a man walked up to me with a knife and I reached into my pocket and pulled out my 10-inch folding fishing knife and said, “No thanks, I already have one.”

 

Dancing

  Dance is a type of art that involves movement of the body to music. Dance may be regarded as a form of nonverbal communication between humans.

Definitions can depend on social and cultural norms and aesthetic, artistic and moral sensibilities. Definitions range from functional movement (such as folk dance) to virtuoso techniques (such as ballet). Martial arts are often compared to dances, and sports such as gymnastics, figure skating and synchronized swimming are generally thought to incorporate dance.

So with that out of the way, when did you last danced?

Dancing, at least to my generation, was a way for boys and girls to know each other. We could shake, rattle and roll to those wild rock numbers or for the first time be thrown against each other for the slow dances.

Dancing didn’t start with my generation. We were a carry over from big ballroom dancing and 20’s jazz clubs. From the first time our species hit a rock with a stick or pounded on a stretched animal pen, we started dancing.

We had war dances and formal dances and square dances and barn dances and street dances and highland dances and even river dances. We can’t help ourselves. When the beat is played, we tap our feet and the rhythm goes up through our legs and we start gyrating.

I learned how to formal dance in summer camp. I know that is weird, but learned to cha-cha and really started to listen to the music. I had done some dancing with girls at the “coming out” parties, but it was foursquare box step and very awkward in our finery.

I think the “twist” brought out some wildness to dancing and provided some South American rhythms to my generation. Looking back through history those beats had been shaking for generations before me, but one must remember, dancing was looked upon as a “questionable activity”.

Dancing, at least for me, required a partner. A dancing partner is another person who understood the music and could move to the groove. When you find a good dancing partner the result is magic.

How do you feel that rhythm?

Playing in bands I learned that everyone didn’t feel that rhythm. Our band had the same equipment and played the same songs, but some folks felt the music and some folks just played the notes. The way to tell was those silly little side slide steps made on the stage. If we all moved to the beat then we all got it. The music was better because we all were dancing.

I’ve known a few and danced the dance and even cleared the dancefloor but I can’t remember dancing with my wife.

Writing the letter you never send

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I’m fascinated with letters. As much as we communicate today, we don’t take the time to write a letter.

Before texting or emails or tweets or even cell phones, we used to write letters. It wasn’t that long ago.

Now when I would write a letter it was different from my parents. Much of the proper form had been lost with me, so I just wrote what ever came to my mind. But letter writing does not have spell-check or a delete button, so before you put pen to paper, you have to have some idea what you are going to write. You could write in pencil and allow for erasing, but who wants a letter written in pencil?

I was taught cursive writing in school, but never formal writing. Our family had a book on the different styles of writing and I would refer to it when writing a business letter, but I never learned how to write those mysteries of life that only written words can say.

Ken Burns did a good job in the “Civil War” series to show how people expressed themselves in letters. There are always stories about soldiers waiting for letters from home to keep in touch. There were certain rules to this game and it required some thought. A soldier could not give away secrets about location or mission and the family didn’t want to worry a son about his mother’s illness.

Some letters were poetic about the seasons and descriptive of occasions and activities. Some letters were more personal.

Even the “love letters” had enough mystery to them to allow the reader to read between the lines. This technique required thought and process before the ink dried. The words had to express the feelings without being misconstrued by the reader. For it would take some time to get a response hoping the meaning was clear.

To put an emotional thought onto paper and mailed was no guarantee of a reply. Even using a special pen or parchment paper and scented envelopes did not guarantee an understanding at the other end. Sometimes an explanation was requested in a following letter and another response. Sometimes this slow back and forth readings lost the original thought.

The reader could use the permanent ink as evidence or could become a fire starter. There are probably land fills full of mistaken ideas that were never sent.

The doctor says to write down your thoughts and it will organize your beliefs. The doctor doesn’t tell you to mail your writings.

The fear that someday you will come face-to-face with the reader can hesitate the mailing. So what do you get when you write the letter but do not send it?

The anticipation of opening an envelope and relishing in every word, every stroke of the pen knowing the writer took the time to sit down and prepare each sentence with the reader in mind has been lost in technology. Our microwave mentality has us comment and send without a second thought.

So I’ll open my email and see no post. I check my social media sites and see nothing of importance or relevance.

And at five o’clock I will walk to the mailbox and hope there is a letter in there amongst the bills and junk mail.

What do you do when Clifford doesn’t come home?

They had a big family. They knew what the country was going through. They all volunteered to help. And when it was over, they all came back home, except Clifford.

I don’t remember the family talking about him. I did find some letters from my mother to her mother trying to give support from across the country. I’m sure at the time it was difficult but like every other family of the time, there was a lot of support. It was a big family and they were there for my grandmother, except for Clifford.

There was a picture in my grandmother’s living room. It was my mother’s brother. He was in his white uniform. A brown metal hung on the picture. No one talked about the picture. No one went into the living room, except for Clifford.

He had a wife. Don’t know if the family ever had any contact with her. Maybe she remarried. Maybe she didn’t. No one seems to know, except for Clifford.

The military records say he was a lieutenant pilot in the navy born in 1922. The military awarded him the Navy flying cross so he must have been a good pilot. The military said he took off from an aircraft carrier. All my uncles and aunts and their spouses came home from the war, except for Clifford.

Photos show him was a smiling handsome man. No one knows what happened to him. Maybe he ran out of gas? Maybe he was shot down? No one knows, except Clifford.

I was given his name.

Plan B

Today’s subject is yet another takeaway from “This American Life” but it is an interesting subject. I refer to that program often because it is well written, full of surprises, and part of my Sunday ritual. (Ira, I expect a check in the mail anytime now.)

The idea was that we all have a Plan A. That is what we intend to do with our life. It is what we are trained and prepared to do. Supposedly our Plan A is what we do to follow our passion.

From what I remember, middle school was when everyone was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” This was done so we could plan the courses that will allow us to accomplish our dreams. Then again what did we know?

We had our basic training in elementary school of how to read, write, and arithmetic. Our parents had formed our philosophical ideas and social interaction. So what do you say when asked, “What is your passion?” Like we were not having enough trouble with our bodies and racing hormones.

Not being interested in sports and not a good reader I didn’t have a passion. I was not involved in music yet or I would have said, “I want to be a rock star” but I’m not sure there was a curricular for electric guitarist. The porn industry was still in its infancy and besides I didn’t know you could make money doing that. So the only other thing I liked to do beside watching television and eating chocolate was drawing pictures.

“Artist” was my Plan A. It didn’t seem difficult or require taking a foreign language but gave me a reason to take two art classes and work on the yearbook design. Getting into the local art institute seemed pretty easy even with poor grades and even though my counselors told me I would never graduate or make my Plan A work, I kept going.

Either by talent or deception or sheer luck, I made a career of my Plan A. It was a good thing because I didn’t have a Plan B for employment.

We all plan but sometimes it just doesn’t work out. You get the right haircut and wear the right clothes and go out with the best friends, but the girl you are attracted to likes another guy. What is your Plan B? You know how it works. A group gathers with one attractive person and the rest become the second or third choice.

Sometimes Plan B turns out better than Plan A could. Sometimes there is a Plan C.