Learning What Matters

Learning What Matters

By Terry Jones

 

I stood on the lawn outside the kitchen door and listened to the voices that chopped through the air inside the crowded house on Kaviland Ave..  Those singular and familiar voices of relatives and friends who made up that Sunday’s company at the Jones house—-there was, to my memory,  always company at the Jones house on Sundays afternoons, with Papa at his usual seat of honor on one side of the porcelain-topped table, and Uncle Ed and Aunt Ann, Hylton and Alma, sometimes my parents—-always an odd collection of others who Papa brought into his house during the Depression, and never seemed to spot a door long enough to leave! 

On this day I could hear Aunt Ann’s sharp and husky voice seeping through the house walls, and telling one of her off-color jokes to the eager audience still dressed up in their Sunday best. I couldn’t make out the words, and I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to, because this was the only time of the day that a person could hear our grandmother’s voice as she pierced the roaring laughter of the crowd, and always with the same admonition: “Oh, Charlie!  Get your mind out of the gutter!”  And then she was silent again, as Papa’s long and undulating laugh rattled the knick-knacks on the shelf above. Nanny was already back in her place by the stove, when the oversized crowd would pretend to muffle their laughter, and Aunt Ann grimaced in her coy way of “just knowing things.” Uncle Ed, in the latter half of his sixties, could be seen beaming with pride at his handsome and clever new bride.

After dinner on Sunday nights the entire Jones brood would gather outside on the lawn to play a game of croquet—a tradition as long as I could remember. Papa Jones was King and Master of croquet, his favorite sport.  He could hit a ball from one end of the yard to another, smiling with glee as he teased his favorite players by knocking them out of bounds, his own croquet ball always sailing through the wickets unimpaired.  It was much like watching Minnesota Fats clear the billiard table without ever letting his opponent have a single turn at play.

And that’s what found me outdoors instead of inside the kitchen on that particular Sunday.  It was my time to practice croquet, so I could learn to be a good as Papa——someday.  After last week’s game, Papa, railroad man that he was, had suspended his blue streak of curses long enough to show me how to swing a mallet, and instructed me to practice if I wanted to get as good as he was.  Outside, I went, then, long before the crowd would leave the kitchen to start that week’s game, and found the croquet set in its place under the patio eaves.  I was proud to be following my Papa’s advice, and selected the green mallet to be my practice tool. 

Sure, I was proud of myself.  As others gossiped inside the house, I was out on the lawn——swing, swing, swing, just like Papa showed me.  Swing, swing, swat!  Distracted as only a five year old can be, I had stopped concentrating on my technique  just long enough for the mallet to hit the ground, and—–oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-hell—-it broke.  Suddenly not so proud of myself, I could not imagine being the one who broke one of Papa’s favorite toys.  I wanted to die rather than face the temper that I had heard unleash itself on little, tiny, petty things.  Things like the car not starting, or a glass of spilled juice.  Never before had I been the doer of the deed and the one responsible for the anger and rage that I knew would be coming my way.  My heart pounded so fast, I didn’t know if I could survive the punishment for my carelessness.  Scared to death, scared to death, scared to death!  This was worse than a mortal sin.

Little man that I was, I remember looking up and into the vast blue sky. Indigent birds were lined up on the telephone wires suspended above, and I was quick to remember that this enormous and all powerful man, my grandfather Papa, also had a son……someone with a lifetime of experience in facing troublesome situations with my Papa, and was still alive, which was no small thing to me at that moment in time.  I speak, of course, of my father, Keith, and was probing my imagination for what my dad would have done if he were the one standing outside Papa’s door with Papa’s million dollar croquet mallet which he used in the “game” to show no mercy to anyone.  My mind raced through a thousand tiny incidences between my father and me, and I hastened to conclude that my only chance was to get to him first, and then let him handle the temper of the raging dragon who as yet was uninformed about my transgression. But I stopped short of acting on this, for my own father had told me stories of his childhood, and how the only thing that really mattered to Papa when my father did something bad was that his children told him the truth.  Like George Washington with the cherry tree, Papa’s children were safe from harm and slow to be punished when they were the first to tell him the truth.

You can imagine how I felt as these words of my own father echoed through my mind, and wouldn’t let go.  Even so, I  simply could not picture myself holding this broken treasure in my hand, and telling Papa what I had done. I could not picture it, and I just wanted to run away, or maybe hide.  Instead, I waited for what seemed like forever just outside the kitchen door, and blanked my mind as best I could.  Finally, the door to the house opened and out stepped my grandfather, Papa Jones.  No sooner had he taken the one step down to the grass than he looked over at me standing there with the croquet mallet.  Before he could speak, I remember saying upward to the hat that he always wore when outside: “I broke it!” and handed the old man the evidence of my guilt.  I’m sure I said something more and tried to explain how the mallet came to be broken, but it is now far too long ago to remember such trivia.  The communication that I do remember, and has rested in my heart throughout my entire life since, was the silent kindness in his eyes as he looked to where I stood and said with a smile, “Well, we’ll have to ask your Uncle Ed to fix it.”  And then he continued his trek across the lawn and to the driveway, where he started the car and drove away. 

I remember as well my first feeling of disbelief at not being punished, and then the kindness in my grandfather’s eyes—the first time I felt his undeniable love for me in my happenstance of pain and indescribable fear.  As he walked away, my mind and body seemed to stretch in height at least five inches or more, and I felt a surge of self-respect and perhaps my first awareness that the Joneses were a good family to belong to.  And then, of course, that my father was a pretty smart man.  Later that day I spotted the once-broken mallet standing tall among the others with only a slight blemish of black tape along the handle.  It seemed to me that everyone loved me.  And for my part, I had learned the lesson of a lifetime.

Later in life I was a school administrator, and required by my profession to attend weekly school board meetings.  I remember a particular man who was a retired high school Speech teacher, only to become a self-described “board watcher.”  His complaints about district matters during public communications became legion. After several years of doing nothing about this, the school board brain-stormed ways to win him over, and their first strategy was to invite him to give the board a workshop on “speaking in public.”

 

  I attended the workshop, as I did all board meetings, and remember hearing from this effective troublemaker (my description) his number one rule for  elected officials when speaking to members of the public.  “Always tell the truth,” he preached in his most didactic tone of voice, “it is disarming to anyone with a personal agenda.”  I had to chuckle as I thought of my long-ago childhood experience with the broken croquet mallet. “Of course, I thought,” and for a brief moment I  saw my white-haired grandfather with a third grade education standing there at the podium, teaching what matters most whoever we are.

During Hard Times: Remain Faithful to the Golden Rule

I recently made contact with a high school classmate (1967) who I knew had years ago entered a Buddhist monastery, and had succeeded in becoming a Buddhist priest.  Greg was a good friend dating back to my grammar school days in my hometown of Fresno, Ca., and, as much as anybody, I counted him among my better “friends” for most of my “growing up” years.  We went to the same college, and maintained a loose association over the years of our lives.  I contacted Greg because I wanted to hear from an “expert” on the topic, what it means when we lay people refer to good things happening because of “karma”, and the reverse, “bad things” happening because of negative karma somehow attaching to our spiritual selves.  This notion of “karma” has become an even stronger curiosity of mine as I’ve watched events unfold in recent years, and because of the many tragedies associated with our nation’s economic downturn over the past two years.

All of us are in the same boat, so to speak, when it comes to the overriding feeling of helplessness watching home values tumble, retirement accounts disappear, and poverty due to rising unemployment scaring the pants off of thousands of families across the country.  It is during these “bad times” that even the “crustiest” among us become a bit philosophical, and wonder at why some people are forced to suffer, while others continue to profit, actually profiting even more because of others’ losses.

So, I wrote Greg and him to give me a “nutshell” description of how the Buddhist’s regard “karma” and its influence on a person’s life.  The friend that he is, Greg responded immediately to my request of some kind of definition that I could hold onto as I continue to participate in our global “hard times.”  His explanation was elegantly simple, and gave me an insight I can understand.  According to Greg and Buddhist theology, “karma” is an affinity toward positive or negative forces attaching themselves to our person.  In other words, “karma” is not a cause and effect relationship, but rather an “inclination toward” positive or negative events imposing some kind of influence on our personal lives.And thus we come to my main thesis for today. And that is the importance of people remaining faithful to the golden rule especially during hard times.  Let me offer an example from my own life.

Upon retirement I decided to return to my hometown, and in doing so, I searched for a property to “rent” that was within my financial means.Having sent inquiries via the Internet to several property managers, I received a response from one “new housing development” that was experiencing the brunt of falling prices in Fresno, and hence had made the decision to rent a house that they considered to be their “golden charm” in that it was built as a model with all of the upgrades possible and not present in other homes that they owned.  As I was moving from San Francisco, the rent of this property was considerably less than what I was paying in the City, and it offered the opportunity to live in a “home” in contrast to the apartment living that I had endured for many years while working as a teacher in the Bay area.

My experience in life has taught me to communicate all of my intentions “up front” as a means of establishing from the start good-faith relationships with the people I’m dong business with.  Hence, while still in San Francisco and before signing a rental agreement, I expressed my concern to the property manager that I was seeking a place to live for a long, long time.  As the homes in question are always “for sale”, I didn’t want to be asked to move at the end of year because the owners had decided to sell the house from under me.  I received  a “couched response” that gave me no definite confidence that I had been heard…..an open-ended response that said, “Well, who knows what will happen? Maybe you’ll want to buy the house from us.”

After reflecting upon my options, I decided to go with the property in question, because “buying” was not something that was out of the question for me, especially as house prices were leveling off after years of false appreciation. Everything that I did from the start to the present day has communicated good faith, yet I have been stunned at my own inability to get a good faith response from my landlord.

Within two months of living in the home, I was asked if I wanted to buy the property.  If I did, I could be certain I would be given a really good deal.  The prospect of being a homeowner appealed to me, and I responded positively.  As a responsible consumer, I did my research on the value of the property, deflated as it may have become, but “fair” in terms of “fair market value.”  My research informed me that comparable homes were selling for no more than $225,000.  For particulars that I won’t go into, there was window of opportunity during which a home purchase would make sense for me, so I offered to enter into an “option agreement.”  And this was the juncture that I learned that not everyone was operating according to the golden rule.  The option price I was given was $250,000, and an additional $500 per month for 4 months to be applied to the down payment.  Sitting alone and unrepresented across the desk from my landlord, I signed agreement after negotiating that at least 50% of the additional option amount would be refundable if I did not exercise the option.  As I say, I was stunned that the people I have believed in, and counted on following the golden rule were attempting to sell me a house at a price that was 40 to 50 thousand dollars higher than comparable sales;  the seller even overrode the counsel of other members of his firm that the “option amount” should be fully refundable.

It is now December, and the option agreement is a moot point.  I do not qualify for a home loan of that amount.  Last month, the house next door to me sold for $150,000, or $100,000 less than the price my landlords were offering me on a similar house.

Karma.  An affinity toward.  I believe that unanticipated things have occurred to keep me in a position such that I cannot qualify for the optioned amount of the house I’m renting.  In the bigger picture, this is a positive event for me, as the matter is out of my hands, and I will not have to experience the pressure of declining an option on my own steam.  As events would have it, I simply don’t qualify. Blame it on the banks.

But I wonder at the notion of “karma” when it comes to the property sellers.  If I had qualified for the loan, I expect they were positioned to pressure me into buying a home for a full $100,000 more than it is worth.  This is not the “good deal” they promised, not by a long shot.  So, what it is my point?  Simply put, all people need to remain faithful to the golden rule, even during hard times.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the “karmic affinities” would have been different had there been a good faith transaction on the table.  I don’t know for sure, but I am certain of my own good faith throughout all of our dealings, even to the point of paying an extra thousand dollars for the privilege of an “option agreement” that was not in my best interest. An agreement I let ride in order to seal the deal on my good faith.

We are all closely interconnected.   I suspect that the owners are not too happy, but I can hold my head high in any future dealings.  My more seasoned self speculates, let’s see:  ”A guy from San Francisco with a stable income, and accustomed to obscenely high house payments in the City would be a “best candidate” for paying too much for a house in Fresno.”  But it didn’t work out that way.

Thank you, Greg, for explaining the phenomenon of affinity, because by all rational measures, things should have worked out differently, thus positioning me in a karmic squeeze.  But they didn’t, and I’m grateful.  ”Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”  It works every time, and builds a positive affinity for good things to happen.

Thanksgiving 2009

A kaleidoscope of images come at me at warp-speed on this day dedicated to giving thanks for the blessing in our lives, on this day we call Thanksgiving. I have chosen to spend the day alone with myself, and am filled with raw images of people and events in my live. Choosing to be alone, I feel alone, and on the side of a road where so many people have passed before me, on their way to some transient entertainment, or social drama that keeps us struggling human beings occupied and sufficiently distracted during the span of our very short lives. A few years ago I was in a hospital bed recovering from open-heart surgery, just hours before my body would have died from lack of blood circulating throughout my body. Difficult and painful as it was, I stepped out of that hospital bed more confident, more determined, and more goal-oriented than ever before in my adult life. There was no second-guessing the blessing that I had been given—-a second chance at life, a bit more time to sink my feet into the earth and make a difference, or maybe just a sand-castle that was mine and mine alone. My favorite words of poetry come to me now on this Thanksgiving Day: Longfellow wrote: “Lives of great men all remind us, we can make our lives sublime; and departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time. Footprints that perhaps another, sailing o’er life’s solemn reign, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother seeing may take heart again.” My cardiac event made audible the ticking of the clock that will measure my particular life, and three years ago I planted my feet firmly on the hospital room floor with a sense of self-determination, and the feeling that comes when one finally realizes that there’s “so much to do, and so little time to do it.” My first task upon this new awakening three years ago was to wrap things up from my old way of living, and to grant myself the “room for myself” that had been missing my entire life. Until that point, I had only read from other people’s scripts about who I am, and who I should be. But don’t get me wrong, this “wrapping up” of a way of living was not a pretty sight. Messy in relationships that really “never were”, messy in anticipating a future from all the wrong vantage points. Mistake, after mistake became my newer life, but at least the mistakes were mine. A newborn infant must crawl before she walks, and that is an apt description of the “limbo years” that found me dressing and undressing until I could find the space and future and promise that was just right for me. On this Thanksgiving Day I give thanks for my God and community of angels who directed me away from the bright lights of San Francisco and back to my humble roots of Fresno—-my home. While I continue to struggle in finding the kind of meaning that “being alive” so richly deserves, I am finally engaged in a struggle that is of my own making. I am not alone, though that is the obvious conclusion that others would form about my way of living. I am, rather, in the company of my family, and all those who love me. Perhaps unaware, but I have lived a life of giving, and for that “I give thanks.” I am alive and searching, and I’m filled with gratitude for the years that have awakened in me that essential sense of purpose. I hold fast to a community of belonging where all of us will spend out eternity together—free of doubt and free of fear. On this Thanksgiving Day, I give thanks for “being alive!”

CALIFORNIA SCHOOL TOO COMPLEX FOR QUICK FIX

REPLY TO MR. ROSANDER ON EXTENDING

THE CALIFORNIA SCHOOL CALENDAR

Excuse me if I’m not overly impressed by the views expressed by Mr. Gerald Rosander in his Op Ed article published in today’s Fresno Bee.  He seems to be a nice man, and certainly well intentioned by taking the time to articulate his views on improving the quality of education for all of our demographically diverse students. By any and all norms Fresno remains sadly behind much of the state in the results we achieve for our children, and Mr. Rosander is by all social norms qualified to speak on this subject of concern to us all,  given his years of service to the Fresno Unifiied School District.

In a nutshell, Rosander asserts that Californians must change their agrarian-based school calendar  9 months in school, and 3 months on summer vacation—an effective use of students’ time when able-bodied children were needed to lend an extra hand on the farm, or ranch, or some other community resource.  Rosander even cites some impressive numbers regarding the achievement and retention white vs. non-white student groups in our demographically diverse state school system

But were I to accept Mr. Rosander’s silver-bullet conclusion to California’s long-standing “achievement gap” among peoples of different cultures and language backgrounds, I would bypass the very standard “learning result’ (spelled ESLR in educationese) that is proudly displayed in most any California school classroom as a primary goal for educated citizens:  that being the goal of “critical thinking.”  For just as Mr. Rosander’s solution to raising student achievement is seductively simple –“You mean all we have to do is change the school calendar?”—it also completely disregards the complexities that surround educating children—(1) whose primary language is different from American English; (2) whose cultural disposition toward “school” is vastly different from that of those home-land ancestors who shaped the classroom methodologies we continue to practice to this day and(3) whose status as a minority ethnic group has now replaced the once-dominant white Anglo-Saxon majority as the dominant culture in our schools,  comprising an overwhelming majority of our demographic composition.

Assuming that Mr. Rosander’s intention was to offer but one suggestion that may have a more positive effect that today’s management of school-time, I wish to give him credit for formulation the beginning of a thought, much like many of us do while driving in the car, or watching a no-plot television as a way of amusing ourselves with a topic of some greater substance.  But in all fairness to the importance of this particular topic, it’s not like we, as people and civilized society, did not see these changes in California town coming.  In all candor, the complexities of our schools have been occurring in increments over the past 30+ years, long enough for us to have formulated a series of insights than are far more promising that those offered by well-meaning Mr. Rosander.  To borrow your words, sir, “time is of the essence.”  The essence of what we do with the time we have will have a far greater impact of student learning, while respecting pluralistic family values, needs and dispositions toward learning than continuing to offer more of the same—only more of the same.  Don’t your think?

Fathers and Sons

My Dad and Me:  Unspoken Antipathy

It was a lot for my dad to bear during those years.  For all of his dreams, of which he made every member of the family a party during his short life, he had been pushed aside from the one thing he loved most:  being self-employed in a business in which he had passion, and through which he could provide a good living for his family. Dying as he did at the early age of 41, his resume was by comparison a short one. But to say his life was without substance would be a grave symptom of myopia..

 

Keith, as he  was referred to, began his professional career immediately after high school.  A subject of the family lore, I have formed in my mind the image of an 17 year-old boy who found himself one day attending Roosevelt High School in Fresno, Ca., and the next day appearing before potential employers with the impression of his father’s boot planted firmly on the seat of his pants.  For in the world that shaped Charles Keith Jones, there had been years of forwarning about my grandfather’s expectations of his son that made it only too clear that Keith would begin repaying to his father the debt of his childhood the moment he was of legal age.

 

Consequently, at age 17, Keith began a long trail of sales positions.  I note recently on my own birth certificate the profession of my father was listed as salesman for a chain link fencing company.  He dabbled in various jobs, including sales of insurance, until he finally came to rest for a decent length of time working for the Boy Scouts of America.  But my dad had vision for himself, somewhere deep down, and this vision was based on being self-employed in the sales industry, and becoming a wealthy man.

 

Providence, as it turns out, had other plans for him.  For while he strategized, and organized, and became more and more proficient at his art in sales,  his own body let him down at the early age of 37 with the event of his first heart attack.  But recoup he did.  And for several more years he lived his dream of owning his own insurance agency, and providing a good living for his family.

 

Then, a second heart attack, and then a third.  Keith’s wife always held a psychological advantage over her husband in that she was a college-educated nurse, and was chronologically older than he by three years.  So while my dad’s desire was to continue picking himself up after each of his physical downfalls, and continue the pursuit of his dreams, my mother convinced him that it was the pressure of being self-employed that was killing him.  Weakened, and reduced to a shell of the man he was, Keith allowed himself to be pushed aside inside of his own life.  He gave up his life’s dream of self-employment and a growing sales agency, at at time when there was nothing that could apparently fill the void.

 

I was sixteen years old at the time of these events;  and I hated my father for what he had allowed to happen to his life.  Please understand, I had no misgiving about his physical handicap.  I had no resentment of his need to “slow down” a bit, and perhaps engage in new habits that could extend his life.

 

But what I resented to point of painful embarrassment at “being his son” was his acquiesence to other people who thought they knew better about what would keep him alive, make him a man, infuse him with the thrill of life.  his life  My resentment bordered on hatred.

 

I was to find no consolation or relief of my immature judgment of my father in the years that he continued, on his own, to live by the rules of another, and still be a man.  After  a 6-month stint as a bank employee, my dad returned to insurance sales, only this time as one of the “low men on the totem pole” in the company for which he worked.  I watched him, as a son does, “too closely” and found new ways to feel disgust and antipathy toward him.  I recall that each morning, before the sun rose, both he and I were “up” and organizing ourselves for our respective roles that day.  And I recall how I would clench my teeth with anger as Keith Jones would push the red Volkswagen that sat parked immediately next to the window of our neighbor’s bedroom down the driveway and out of hearing range…..an overt act of self-effacement in the name of Christian charity, not wanting the sound of the car’s motor to awaken our neighbor at that early hour of the morning.  And I seethed at this attempt at invisibility. Yes, I wanted people to know how hard he was working.  He deserved it!

 

I wanted a father who would stand up for himself, and claim the injustices that had been done to him by others.  I wanted a father I could be proud of, even in the midst of personal adversity.  I wanted a father who would tell the woman who was killing him inch by inch to look upon her own evil face in the mirror, and examine the rules that governed her own life—–and leave him alone.

 

These were my feelings at the tender age of 16 toward the only man who could claim to be my dad and mentor.  And now, at 60, the carousel of life has come full circle.  And I have been that “hated man” who wanted nothing more than to be a positive role model for those who engaged in the observation of my life.  ‘Tis true: “we reap what we sow.”

 

Today, I can honestly say that I love my father.  I love him for always doing what he thought was “right.” Right for him, and right for his family.  I know him today as a man who was overwhelmed by the responsibilities imposed on him by his own father, and his wife.  I love him for the choices he made as he daily discerned the path that he was on, and the path that he, by obligation, would have to take.  I wish that I could tell him today how much I’ve learned to love him.  But I think, in God’s way, he knows.  There is an expression “like father, like son.” As God would have it, I have had the opportunity to walk more that one mile in my dad’s shoes, and I know deep in my soul that I was blessed to have him as a mentor for my life.

Read the Daily News, At Your Own Risk

It’s habit for most of us to begin our day with a kind of ritual that we’ve established over the years.  I myself am an early riser, and I look forward to brewing a fresh pot of coffee, retrieving the newspaper from the front porch, and settling back into “my special chair”  for a thorough reading of what’s new, what’s hot, and what’s not.  On some days I find an article of substance that engages me immediately–mind, heart and soul, but these days are rare indeed.  On most day’s I find myself scanning the paper’s pages from front to back, and just catching sight of the headlines brings me our of a mellow morning fog and into a state of all-too-familiar anxiety.  This morning habit, this ritual, may not be good for my overall health.  Read at your own risk.

Let me provide and example of the current day.  Today is Wednesday, November 18, and with my first stirrings of the morning, and the ritualistic trek from bedroom to kitchen, my mind was occupied with personal matters, family matters, and running through my schedule for the day.  Pleasant thoughts, neutral at their very worst, and then  a screening of the local newspaper.

Front page news cautioned women not to take yesterday’s news about their health very seriously.  Yesterday, a panel of doctors were advised against mammograms under age 50; today, local doctors refute this view, and caution women to continue with their early screenings.  Impact on me?  Uncertainty! The next page reported on the ongoing investigation of an 82 year-old local icon known for his years of philanthropy and community leadership….but reportedly caught on videotape fondling a 13 year-old girl in a local hotel. Yesterday’s hero is today’s pariah! Impact on peace of mind?  Anxiety! Next, a reporting on a fourteen year-old boy accused of fondling and murdering a 4 year-old girl.  Impact on me? Depression.  And so it continues, page after page.

On some mornings, this ritual of “keeping up with the news” is so overwhelming to my emotional health that I simply fold the paper back into its “unread position” and lay it down on the floor.  I lean back in my chair, with eyes closed, and allow the images to float through my mind as I refocus on what matters in life and what will be important for me that day. And the images of the news eventually crystallize into some form of prayer.

I already hear my critics asserting cliche’s such as “If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen,” or “It’s people like you who keep their heads in that sand who are contributing to the neglect that underlies these very human tragedies.  To these types of critics, I say, “bring it on.”  Were I to stop at the point of simply pushing the news away, then I would agree with you.  But my conscience won’t allow me to stop there.  Instead, I continue my morning ritual of inviting the events of the world into my home and hearth, and then I spend an even greater amount of time running these same events through my mind, in an attempt to  integrate them into the values and themes that make up who I am, at my essence.  Yes, I wish the world were different, but it’s not.  And yes, I wish human nature would daily celebrate the invisible people who do nothing so sensational as to “make the news”, but live honest, if not mundane, lives.  But the world isn’t so, and humans will always have a blood lust for tragedies, if not down right evil.

So, I encourage us all to read the daily newspaper, and to use it as a basis for that day’s life of prayer. Read your local newspaper.  But do so at your own risk.

Nostalgia: Blue & White in the ’50s

“Hurry!” shouted Tim, “Up here.”  I eyed my chubby toes as I criss-crossed my way toward the wide swing that took up most of Gammaw’s patio. Scared to death we were of those giant June bugs that hovered the’ round the patio lights.  Tim and I were often lookouts for one another, as we shared the same fear—oh, those warm, safe and loving summer nights on Gammaw’s patio where the family sat on whatever chair was available, but the coveted seat was always the swing.  The swing to us was like a life-boat that saved people from harm.  Once on the swing, we could relax and enjoy our desserts, simple fare—a scoop of ice cream, ( in those days shortly following the wars and hardships that came along during the 1940’s, Gammaw pampered her large family with something called “imitation ice milk”), and we loved it to that very last spoonful.

The summer nights were a haven of my childhood.  Every single person carried that warm “Christmas-like” feeling inside them, and didn’t even know it.  We laughed, and always had our look out for Gammaw—where was she now—this mistress of the divine.  The patio lights shone yellow against the newly shellacked wood of the patio roof, and Tim and I swung, and yelled warnings to anyone who got close to one of those bugs.  Gammaw used to pick them up in her hands and squish them, but she always told us not to follow her example because June bugs could “pinch” you, and so we watched in awe as our hearts grew lighter and lighter from the love that surrounded us in the people who loved us so much as to make us the center of their lives.

Anticipation was also a part of our joy, because that ivy covered patio often meant more than what appeared to the eye.  Often times it meant a surprise was coming, and we never knew what!  Tonight was one of those special nights.  “Tan’s here,” cried Gammaw, and as she said this we could all hear the muffled growl of an engine turning off on the other side of the ivy-covered fence. Tim and I scooted off the swing and ran to through the gate to greet fun-Tan. Gammaw joined us and the rest of the family  as she ushered the bunch of us through the patio gate so we could all see that new blue ’55 Buick with the hard white top.   Everybody was happy, and Tan even waited for us to flock around her new toy, an expensive machine that could form only a fantasy of future vagueness in our minds, a fantasy of new, nice and unspeakable (for us, the world was moving faster than anyone’s common vocabulary).  But we didn’t know what else to feel, because we were already so happy, and now even happier that Tan had make one of her surprise visits—which made the night a  “double scoop” surprise.

As Gammaw kept us from wandering into the streets she playfully mimicked the sound bites that were popular on the radio at the time about how the 1955 Buick “purred like a kitten.”  And Tan would tap the accelerator to give us the sound of luxury in her new car, that same sound that “purred like a kitten.”  It was a wonderful time to be alive, and no group of people could have been happier.

Fast forward to a year later at 408 S. Backer. Another typical hot and sunny day when one could be heard the latest hit, “A White Sport Coat and Pink Carnation,” through the open windows of passing cars, and yet another brand new car, blue with a hard white top, almost a clone of Tan’s flirtation with luxury, drove up to the exact same spot where Tan had driven her car just a few month’s before—and the similarity was almost too much for my seven-year-old mind to process.  No, it wasn’t night time, and we weren’t enjoying scoops of dessert and even more scoops of love,  but it seemed for an instant to be virtually impossible for yet another brand new blue and white car to drive up and stop at “my house”, my Gammaw’s house– this time, the driver of the brand new blue and white car sped to a stop leaving a puff of dust behind.  The driver was none other than Joan’s long-time boyfriend and instead of stopping short of the gate to amplify the element of surprise, Don drove his shiny new toy right up to where the gate opened, and stopped with a jerk.  Don liked to drive and was good at it, and now became one of the only two people to surprise my senses with a pink carnation inside a second brand new blue and white car with a hard white top.

Tim and I rushed through the gate to catch Don before he rushed through from his side, and, as we knew he would, he gave us a full tour of his and Joan’s wedding present.  He opened the hood, and explained the workings of the engine, which neither of us could actually follow.  But that didn’t matter.  What mattered was that he was such a proud and sturdy young man who knew so much, and he took the time to tell us things that no one else would bother.  When we got to Don’s explanation of the inside levers and pedals, I, for some reason, became fascinated with a chrome shaft that extended from the floor to just below the turn signal.  It read “overdrive.”  And I remember being so proud to actually have a question for this vital, young friend of Joanie’s, before he answered it.  And you know, to this day, I don’t understand a thing about what that “overdrive lever” does (or did)  for the car, except that you only used it driving on highways.  “Repeat,” said Don, “you only  use this gear after all the other gears have been used.  It makes the car ride smoother.”

Tour over, Tim and I waited and admired this second new car in our Elvis Presley lives, when  Don disappeared briefly into Gammaw’s house, and came out with buckets and towels. With all the earnestness and patience of a highly skilled pilot or astronaut who conveyed pride and “correctness” in every instruction he gave us, Don taught Tim and I how to wash and dry his brand new beautiful car.  We started with the by squirting the top with a hose, and when the car was wet all over, we put suds on the left head light, etc., etc., etc.  (Believe it or not, I taught my own kids how the exact same step-by-step ritual for washing cars.)

 

This was a good day for me and my brother.  We followed every instruction to the tiniest detail, and worked up a sweat in the process.  Then, for our reward, young, friendly Don took these two smudgy-handed kids that came with marrying Joanie, for a ride over to show his new car to his brother, Dan.

And now for the surprise of all, the surprise of what blue and white can and does so often mean to me.  Eleven years later, as though passing me the salt or giving me some other unremarkable “thing”, my Aunt Joan handed me the keys to her and Don’s blue and white Chevy that had been so much a part of their early years of marriage.  “Here,” she said, “Don and I want you to have it.”  And no gift to come along either before or after it has meant so much to me, especially at that time in my life.  I was eighteen.  I no longer had Tim.  I didn’t know what to say then, and still don’t know an appropriate response.  Joan and I never talked about it. So…..Thank you, Aunt Joan.  And thank you, young soldier Don, for surprising me, for teaching me, and for passing along your wedding gift that got me to and from college. Following in your footsteps:  To thine own self be true.

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As a “would be” writer, I’ve accepted the humbling Truth that I really have nothing to say that’s so very unique that another might find some value in reading it, so that’s not a topic to take on at this tender moment in my life. But it’s that other thing, students of the mind call it reflection, that sneaks up within me with the ferocity of a heavy weight fighter and knocks the breath out of me, forcing me to stop whatever I’m doing until I regain some self control by “letting it be”, and until I regain the strength to stand up once again as the person I’ve always thought myself to be—only forever changed. Anyone who knows me at this time in my life knows that I write about stuff that’s happened in my life. Some of the “stuff of my life” that I choose to address has been burdensome for a long time, so writing about it is therapeutic. Other thoughts or events that I address are as light and airy as watching a cat wag its tail in that familiar repetitive motion, the recording of which has no more merit than the joy it brings me in describing a timeless scenario of our common human experience.

At age 60 I’ve taken on a kind-of fooling around and jumping on the mattress springs stance to life, and I’m learning that I enjoy both the sheer fooling around (which I never allowed myself to do as a younger man), as well as the kind of serendipitous clarity that enters my mind about events that happened too many years ago to count, but recently enough in that they’re still jostling around and within me. I write because it’s something that I can do, and because I believe that there is a wisdom tangled up within every human being that, when untangled, can deepen the human experience—both of the writer, and the person who reads his words.

Hence, I now find myself keenly interested in this “new trend” that encompasses the entire world through the Internet—-this sharing of minds through “blogging.” As an educator for most of my life, I have encouraged others to gather information and assert a personal “point of view” about contemporary topics affecting our world. My words have sharpened themselves over the years to become like daggers, poking and prompting individuals to screen the massive amounts of information that attacks them daily, and to identify only the underlying themes that, left unwatched, may drive us humans into a destiny over which we have no conscious control—–too late!! The “identity thieves” have plundered our bank accounts, our taxes have exploded in order to pay off the toxic debts of “too big to fail” companies (huh?), Rush Limbaugh becomes a serious contender for political office, and the list goes on and on while we turn a blind eye to matters that remain within our control. Through this new kind of reflection, blogging, we take the time to formulate, and express to one another some thoughtful points of view about matters that matter! My grandmother taught me early in life that the world is filled with two kinds of people, some givers, some takers. We can be sure that the takers are busy among themselves finding newer and more innovative ways to deposit our hard-earned dollars, $4.95 at a time, while we do nothing. Likewise, we can be sure that the political alliances that influence people’s quality of life around the world are very busy shifting and forging new alliances quietly, unbeknown to the average person like you and me.

And so, I have learned to value the single point of view that encourages others to think about themselves and about their world. Blogging is the new tool for this kind of awareness, and I hope to make my own contributions to “conscious living” through the pages that follow. I invite you to join with me in thinking, analyzing, predicting and expressing your views through these Blog pages. Together, we have the power to counteract the takers by our own conscious living, one day, one blog at a time.