Category Archives: Musings

The Dandelions

If this entire post appears in the body of your email, click the title to read it in its natural blog setting.

During the grand opening ceremonies of a worldwide sporting event the other day, six military jets in tight formation roared over the stadium, low in the sky, trailing coloured vapour plumes to match the host country’s flag. Their presence lasted but an instant; they weren’t there, then they were, then they weren’t.

It occurred to me that, prior to their arrival, no one in the crowd was likely thinking about them. In the brief moment they were overhead, everyone was. But mere seconds after they were gone, most had likely forgotten all about them again, attention shifted to what was happening next.

I considered the scene analogous to the ever-shrinking attention span of our human species. We tend to focus on what is right in front of us, but only while it’s in front of us. Once it isn’t, we switch attention to whatever is next in front of us. Like scrolling.

Thinking, rather than being a critical, contemplative brain activity, is being reduced to bits and bites lasting only seconds. Reacting, in fact, not true thinking at all. Stimulus/response in place of thoughtful consideration and planning.

We would be doomed, I think, if we were required to focus our whole being on something for an extended period of time, as our distant ancestors had to while stalking game for food on distant savannahs. Had they allowed themselves to be distracted as easily as we do, they’d have starved to death, and none of us would be here today.

Life is much like the appearance of those jets in a way. As individuals, first we weren’t here, now we are, and eventually we won’t be. Collectively, going back perhaps 300,000 years, modern humans, homo sapiens, weren’t here; now we are; eventually, if the fate of other species is any indicator, we may not be.

Science tells us that more than ninety-nine percent of all species of life that have ever inhabited Earth are now extinct. When one considers the enormous number of life-forms still extant and sharing the planet with us today, the overall number of living creatures that once were here and now are not is staggering.

Individually, we are similar to dandelions, if you think of it. We might look out the window one day and spy a dandelion despoiling the pristine, green expanse of our lawn. If we leave it to its own devices, the dastardly weed will grow apace (doubtless in company with scores of comrades); then it will spread its seeds, miniature, white parachutists blown on the wind; and then finally, it will wither and die.

Or, we could choose to interrupt its life-cycle by stomping it under our heel, exposing it to toxic chemicals, uprooting it, or even turning it into wine. Either way—whether we leave it or interfere with it—it wasn’t there, then it was, then it wasn’t.

We are the same. Many of us live out our proverbial threescore-and-ten—some less, some more—spreading our seed as we go, and then die a natural death. Others of us, beaten down ‘neath the harsh heel of neglect and apathy, die prematurely. Still others, afflicted with a wasting disease, perhaps exposed to toxic chemicals intended to stem its progress, slowly wither and die. And still more are violently uprooted from their homes by violence or starvation or natural disaster, and are left to die alone.

Mortality is a subject I think about more often now than when I was younger. I contemplate my own, of course, though I do not fear it. Fearing death is like fearing the sunrise; it’s going to happen whether it’s feared or not, so why waste time dwelling on it? As I wrote in one of my poetic offerings—

I haven’t the time to dwell on life’s finish,
‘Though I know it lurks, that’s certain.
When all has been said, I still look ahead
To life’s next opening curtain.

I confess, however, that the demise of our human species is something I do think about. Not because it will affect me directly; I’ll be long-embarked on whatever journey is next for me by then.

But increasingly, it seems to me, humankind is separating itself into two broad factions: the many drones who think rarely for themselves and react self-servingly to whatever stimuli they encounter, content with the base pleasures they eke out; and the despoilers, fewer in number, who think deeply and conspire self-servingly to enrich themselves at the expense of the rest.

I’m pretty sure there is a third group, much smaller, who think first of others, not themselves, and who fight the good fight against the drones and despoilers. But alas, they are running out of time to win that fight. All harbingers are pointing to cataclysmic changes in the earth’s traditional, heretofore dependable cycles, patterns we have known and depended on for our entire lives.

But the effects of those changes aren’t here yet, not in sufficient abundance to alarm the majority of us. It seems that, as a species, we won’t admit they exist—just as that crowd in the stadium didn’t know about the jets in advance.

We’ll know when the effects begin to announce themselves fully, though—earthquakes, floods, wildfires, drought, increasing temperatures, rising sea-levels, climate-forced migration, and, of course, mass death. We’ll pay attention then.

My fear is that, unlike the other examples I’ve mentioned, where things aren’t here, then are, and then aren’t again, the massive changes rushing pell-mell at us will not disappear. They will linger to become the new normal for millennia to come.

And thus, it is we of whom some far-in-the-future, interstellar observer might say, “Human beings? Yeah, they weren’t there, then for hundreds of thousands of years they were, and then they weren’t.”

I console myself that perhaps the dandelions will survive.

Waitin’ On Janice

If this whole story appears in the body of your email, click the title to read it in its natural blog setting.

This is a piece I recently submitted to a writing contest, responding to the picture of the old man.

“Mornin’, Paulie!” Doris says, mug and coffee pot in hand. “The usual?”

“Yeah, like I got a friggin’ choice!” I grunt.

She pours the mug too full, and moments later, plunks a bowl of grayish oatmeal on the table.

If I had my friggin’ teeth, I wouldn’t be eatin’ slop like this!

“Where’s the raisins?” I complain.

“Underneath. Gotta dig for ‘em.”

I’m by the window of the cafe, my reg’lar booth lookin’ over the courtyard, waitin’ on my daughter. Ain’t seen her in years and I ain’t sure she’s comin’.

Never does. I only left that voicemail today on account of it’s my friggin’ birthday. But that won’t make no difference. Janice hates me. Got good reason, I guess.

The friggin’ bells over the door jangle and I turn to look, but it’s just a jug-eared kid with a stupid cowlick, looks to be maybe ten, and he plants his bony ass in the booth across from me. The bells jangle again, but this time it’s a fat guy, and when he waddles by, he bumps the cane I got leanin’ against my table, knockin’ it to the floor.

“Hey!” I bark, but it’s more a yip. No bite. Not no more. And the friggin’ slob just keeps goin’.

“I got it!” the kid says, slidin’ in opposite me, layin’ the cane on the table.

“Thanks, boyo, but I ain’t lookin’ for comp’ny. No offence.”

He ignores me. “Who you waitin’ for?”

“Why you think I’m waitin’ on anybody?”

“Every time them bells clatter, you turn to look. Who’s comin’?”

“Nobody!”

This little peckerhead’s sharp. Sorta reminds me of somebody.

“Happy birthday!” he says, tuckin’ into a bowl of cereal. His chin’s almost touchin’ the table when he spoons the crap into his mouth, and I feel like tellin’ him to get his elbows off the friggin’ table.

“How’d you know it’s my birthday?” I ask, scratchin’ my beard, wonderin’ where the cereal came from.

He shrugs. “You’re eighty-eight, right?”

“None of your friggin’ business!” But curiosity wins. “How d’you know how old I am?”

Before he can answer, the bells jangle again. When I twist around, it’s still not Janice. Just some greasy-lookin’ guy with a beat-up briefcase.

She ain’t comin’! Prob’ly didn’t even get my message.

“Want another bowl?” Doris asks at my elbow. She pays no never-mind to the kid still stuffin’ his face, almost like he ain’t there.

“No, I’m done. But gimme another cuppa.”

With a full mug in front of me, I turn back to the kid. “How come you ain’t in school?”

He looks at me like I’m dee-mented or somethin’. Which I surely ain’t!

“It’s Saturday.”

“So what’re you doin’ here? Why ain’t you out playin’ somewheres?”

“You oughta clean them glasses,” he says, ignorin’ me again. “They’re all smeared. Use a napkin.”

I grab one from the dispenser on the table, yank off my specs, blow stale coffee breath on the lenses. But wipin’ at ‘em only makes ‘em worse.

This kid is drivin’ me nuts! Who’s he remind me of?

And then I know. He looks like me when I was that age, a sorry lifetime ago. A lot like me! The memories flood in, and my friggin’ heart starts in to skippin’ crazy-like.

“What’s your name, boyo?”

“Paulie. Same as yours.”

There’s real pain in my chest now. “Okay, boyo, I gotta go,” I gasp.

This ain’t good!

“Yeah, it’s your time,” he says. “I came for you.”

It feels like I’m floatin’ to the front door. And just as we get close, the bells jangle, and Janice is there, lookin’ past me, searchin’ the café. She’s older’n I remember, way older, but beautiful like her mama was.

I open my arms, hardly believin’ she came, but it’s like she passes right through me. I reach after her, but she stops dead in her tracks, starin’ at the booth me and the kid just left.

My friggin’ cane is still there. And slumped over the table, one arm hangin’ limp, I see the old man I used to be only a minute ago.

With a strangled sob, Janice rushes toward him. I try to follow, but there’s an insistent tug on my sleeve.

“Time’s up, Paulie,” the kid says. “We gotta go!”

“No!” I cry too late. Way too late. “I’m waitin’ on Janice!”

But I already know the truth. The waitin’ is done.

Nothing Added?

If this whole story appears in the body of your email, click the title to read it in its natural blog setting.

It occurred to me recently that, nicely embarked upon my ninth decade, I am a man of all my parts. I have been mercifully spared the need for implants, transplants, bypasses, or replacements. In fact, almost nothing has been added to the original package. It’s true that I have endured two or three removals of bits and pieces over those years, but everything still inside or attached to me is my own.

Friends sometimes tell me how fortunate I am to have my hair, how lucky to have my own teeth, how blessed to have retained the hips and knees I was born with, and all my fingers and toes. And I always assure them that I do not take any of it lightly.

Although I need occasional assistance from a walking stick now, and do require eyeglasses for reading and writing, I have no need of hearing aids. My ears function well enough still to allow me to hear everything I choose to hear.

If I were a manufactured product, my label would probably read: Proudly made in 1943! No substitute parts. Mind you, there might also be a Best Before date, but never mind.

There can be no doubt, however, that my original parts have suffered a goodly amount of wear and tear over the intervening years.

My memory remains tip-top, both long-term and short-term. But admittedly, things that happened a good while ago are not recalled as sharply or as accurately as they might be; nevertheless, they are not forgotten. I may be guilty in the eyes of some for having a selective memory, but not a sloppy one.

Brain function, as best I can self-determine by using that brain, has not eroded to any significant degree. Reaction time—the ability to respond in a timely manner to stimuli, especially of the unexpected type—is somewhat less than it once was, but I have so far eluded onrushing juggernauts of whatever sort.

The supple muscles that always allowed me to cavort with abandon on so many fields of play have now stiffened, and they respond to my frequent stretching endeavours with painful protest. Alas, the skin that covers them has not contracted to the same degree, and now seems to hang loosely in places where once it was tight.

Gravity wins, apparently.

And speaking of skin, I find mine is now dotted all over my body with blotches, blemishes, and scaly eruptions my annoying dermatologist likes to call barnacles or carbuncles. My skin even bleeds occasionally for no apparent reason, and when I look at my hands, I see my father’s.

The strong bones I’ve ever taken for granted, which have never broken despite numerous tumbles and collisions on those same playing fields, are more brittle now, according to my physician, who has prescribed medication to offset mild osteoporosis. I no longer choose to jump down from a footstool; in fact, I rarely ever step up on a footstool now. Discretion has always been the better part of valor, after all.

I still walk a fair bit, but more slowly now. When accompanied by my wife, I often feel like the late Queen’s prince consort, doggedly trailing a few steps behind. When I speed up to catch up, momentum takes over, making me fear I’m about to pitch forward into a face-plant.

My face certainly has no need for that! I reckon it has received a hundred stitches or more during my lifetime, most from sporting endeavours, some from a head-on vehicle collision I was involved in. The earliest of these were the old, black thread type, worn almost as badges of honour, like dueling scars; the more recent were the dissolving type. And once or twice, I’ve had facial cuts glued back together.

On one long-ago occasion, I was bemoaning the ravages of the latest sewing job, and a teammate said, “Don’t sweat it, Ace! With that face, you’re not going anywhere, anyway!”

At least there was no visible scarring left behind, although the same can’t be said for my torso, where those removals I referred to earlier took place. I was opened on two different occasions—‘from stem to gudgeon’, as my mother phrased it—and I bear shiny, white scars in a capital I shape, running from just below my breastbone to just above…well, you know. Those scars don’t really bother me, not now, although I rarely take off my shirt in public.

Which is just as well, I suppose, because there was never a great demand for me to do so, even before the surgeries.

To my chagrin, the seventy-one inches of height I enjoyed during my all-too-brief prime have shrunk; either that, or I stand with a slight stoop now. Still and all, even with the depredations of aging, virtually nothing has been added to my body—save, perhaps, for a few pounds which I try to carry well. Not for me the ‘chest at rest’ my father used to joke about in his later years.

In Ecclesiastes, we are cautioned: …vanity of vanities; all is vanity. And there is some truth to that, I suppose. It is the rare person among us who can pass a mirror without at least a sidelong glance—and I am not that person. But it has come as quite a shock to see, when I do sneak a peek, an old man staring back at me.

“Are you really me?” I murmured silently on a recent occasion.

And the old man replied, “Yes I am! But don’t despair, because all of this is you. And despite what you think, a great deal has been added to your original package.”

“Only the years,” I sighed resignedly, “and the number of yesterdays.”

“And tomorrows,” the old man declared. “Don’t forget the tomorrows that are yet to be added! And don’t discount the experiences you’ve already accumulated. You are a part of all you have met!”

As I gazed reflectively at the old man, listening to his buoyant assurances, I realized there was indeed something else he was adding: an unshakable conviction that the best is yet to come.

And for that, and for however long it lasts, I’m grateful.

Making Sense

A few years ago, I wrote about a favourite high school English teacher who challenged us one day to make sense of the following sentence he’d written on the chalkboard: It was and I said not but.

It took me a while, but by adding proper punctuation, I was able to solve his riddle: “It was ‘and’,” I said, “not ‘but’.”

But that was a long time ago, as you might have reckoned, given the chalkboard reference. Making sense of situations today, however, especially when they so often seem totally out of whack, requires a modicum of common sense, comprehensive and comprehendible rules, a set of transferable skills, and the discipline to apply them.

Common sense, it seems to me, is an amalgam of accrued wisdom derived from both successes and failures—our own, from which we can learn immediately, and those of people before us, from which we can learn vicariously. Despite being labelled common sense, it can imply different things to different people.

For instance, jogging across a busy street, dodging traffic, might seem like common sense to a person who is not willing to walk further to a crosswalk, whereas another person might believe the common sense approach is to cross in safety at the crosswalk. Ironically then, common sense can be individualistic, although it does fall within a broad range. For example, no one I know would consider it common sense to race an onrushing freight train to the level crossing.

Common sense helps us make sense of our world.

The rules I mentioned—social, cultural, and legal—are learned at home, at school, in the neighbourhood, in the workplace, and in the broader community. Some are hard and fast, others optional; some are social customs, others merely personal affectations. Some bestow favourable consequences upon those who follow them, others impose dire punishment for scofflaws who violate them. And there are others, too, that seem almost whimsical or frivolous, which can be adhered to or ignored as one sees fit.

But it’s those rules that inform us, that guide us, as we wend our way through our workaday lives. Without the semblance of order the rules bring, life would be chaotic, anarchic. Imagine that same busy street without traffic lights, or that railway crossing without flashing lights and barriers. Rules, which some people consider constricting, are what free us to exist in relative safety; they guarantee the welfare of our community as a whole.

Comprehensive, comprehendible rules help us make sense of our world.

Skills have long been part of our toolbox, from ancient times right up to now. But transferable skills are more necessary than ever before if one is to succeed in navigating the perils and pitfalls of modern life. Once upon a time, a person might learn the skills of a smithy, a clockmaker, an apothecary, a harvester, and stay in that role for a lifetime. It was even possible to eke out an existence with no discernible skills at all, save the willingness to perform menial labour.

Our modern world requires more than that of most of us, although across the planet, many are unfortunately unable to acquire even the most rudimentary skills. It is safe to say, I think, that the more skilled we are, and the more skills there are in our toolbox to draw upon, the more success we will have in coping with the complexities of the increasingly bewildering world we inhabit. Both in school and in the workplace, it is incumbent upon society to provide people with opportunities to train and retrain in the skills they will need,

Transferable skills help us make sense of our world.

Discipline can mean many things, among which the dictionary lists: training or conditions imposed for the improvement of physical powers and self-control; systematic training in obedience to commonly agreed-upon behavioural rules; improved behaviour resulting from such training; punishment or chastisement; and finally, a branch of learning or instruction.

The discipline I referred to at the beginning has to do with requiring of oneself the determination to apply common sense to situations one encounters, to abide by the common rules of society, to acquire and practice the skills needed to do all that. But without self-discipline, none of those others can have much effect.  

But where does it come from, this self-discipline? Is it inherent, part of us from the moment of birth? Is it acquired? And if so, how? From whom? The nature/nurture dialogue speaks to these questions, and I (admittedly not a behavioural scientist) suspect the answer lies more on the nurture side. I favour that conclusion because a good part of my life was spent observing and interacting with children along a broad spectrum of development.

Along the way, I encountered many children who were rarely or never exposed to discipline (and I don’t mean punishment, which is reactive; by discipline, I mean a proactive modelling by parents and caregivers of restraint and consideration for others, which, if effective, will greatly reduce the need for punishment). I suspect the incidence of such cases is higher today than when I was involved.

It’s well-established that most self-disciplined people enjoy a healthy self-image. And a healthy self-image is based, at least in part, on accomplishment, on achievement. Success begets success, even from an early age. The formative years, from birth to about four, are critical to a child’s brain development and social growth, and a disciplined, supportive home environment contributes greatly to that.

Children learn through play, through discovery, through guided instruction, and in all those modes, it’s vitally important that they understand there are expectations for them, expectations in keeping with common sense and the rules that govern our coexistence. Children who are given the opportunity to rise to these expectations, and who succeed, gain a sense of self-worth. Children who are unsuccessful at first, if given more opportunities, will also respond favourably. It is only from those of whom nothing is expected that nothing will be attained.

Children left to their own devices (figuratively and literally) will, by default, have less chance of assimilating and integrating the sense of discipline they will need as they grow into adulthood. And that will severely disadvantage them as they try to make their way—to learn common sense, to learn the rules, to acquire the needed skills.

Self-discipline helps us make sense of the world.

And really, what more can we ask as we try to cope with this messy, random, tumultuous world we inhabit than the wherewithal to make sense of it all? As a species, we constantly seek order, clarity, certainty, predictability—conditions that are too often in scarce supply. Summoning order from the chaos is essential to our survival.

That’s just common sense.

Facts Matter

Words matter. The fact I declare this should come as no surprise, since I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember.

Opinions matter, too. But they’re meaningful only if they’ve been subjected to a rigorous examination of their validity before being uttered. Otherwise, they’re merely pointless, irrelevant noise, adding nothing of substance to any conversation.

Persuasion also matters. How convincingly we present our opinions goes a long way in influencing those who hear and read them. Logic, structure, and sincerity bolster the likelihood that they will be well-received.

Most importantly, facts matter. The truth. Without accurate information, nothing we utter can add value to general discourse. Absent validated facts, the things we say and write can distort a conversation beyond all salvation. Misinformation—and worse, disinformation—are fatal to an honest exchange of views.

“But what is truth?” some will ask. “How do you know what the true facts are?”

My best answer is that truth is, to paraphrase Hemingway, a movable feast. Not movable in the sense of being deceitful or misleading to accommodate or justify a preconceived situation or viewpoint, but in the sense of being open to new discoveries that advance it beyond what is presently known.

For example, before the discovery of insulin in 1921, it was true that diabetes was an oft-fatal condition. Following that discovery, a significant advancement in medical knowledge, a more perfect truth was established, and sufferers began to live longer and healthier lives.

Any truth is established through a process that generally includes observation, questioning, hypothesis, testing, and conclusion. But given the transitory nature of truth in an evolving universe, every conclusion is itself subject to further observation, questioning, and so forth, until a more plausible definition is found. And this cycle, the scientific method, is endless.

Occasionally, special-interest groups will attempt to misrepresent generally-accepted truths by substituting non-scientific alternatives that have met none of these standards. They often base their claims on ‘alternative facts’. But at any given time, for any given subject, there is only one set of facts. And there is a difference between truths that no longer hold, that have been superseded in the face of newfound evidence, and outright falsehoods proclaimed by those who would deny proven truths for reasons of their own. Mendacity is not truth.

Mind you, all of us have reasons of our own for thinking or believing things we hold dear. I value different thoughts and beliefs now than I did in my youth, but they are undoubtedly more considered and tested than those earlier ones.  

One of my favourite songs, made famous by Mary Hopkins, contains the lines: …we’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose, for we were young and sure to have our way. But over time, I learned that we didn’t always have our way, and that many of the truths we espoused back then subsequently proved to be flawed.

The critical essence of facts, of truth, is that they are forever subject to scrutiny, that they must be evidence-based, that they are constantly in a state of flux as new discoveries come to light. Deliberate falsehoods are bound by none of those.

As a little boy, I believed the sun ‘came up’ in the morning because the rooster crowed, and ‘went down’ at night so I could go to sleep. That was how it appeared to me, and that is how those events were described by those around me. I eventually discovered the truth of the matter, but at the time I would have sworn upon my mother’s life that my childish perception was the truth.

“Is that really what you think?” a scornful, unkind friend could have asked me (although none did).

And I would have exclaimed, “I don’t think! I know!”

To which my friend could have replied, “I don’t think you know, either!” And he would have been right. I only thought I knew the truth.

This fictional anecdote points out a problem that can arise when we declare we think or believe something, and then, because we’ve declared it, assume it to be true, to be factual. If I think it rained because I had just washed my car, that does not make it the reason. Because I believe it’s bad luck to walk under a ladder or break a mirror does not make either of those things true.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever came across was: Don’t believe everything you think. And I try not to, although it is sometimes hard.

In politics, when one tries to ascertain the reason why certain things happen while others do not, there is a cynical piece of advice: follow the money.

In life, as one tries to discern the facts—the truth of any matter—my advice is to follow the evidence. Think critically, identify credible sources of information, and consider that information rationally. Words matter. Opinions matter. Persuasion matters. But above all, facts matter if we are to know the truth.

And the truth shall make us…well, you know.

Making Friends

Almost a half-century ago, an older colleague advised me to surround myself with friends who were, not only my age, but younger and older, as well. “With friends your age and younger, you’ll be sharing memories you’ve made together while still able to create new ones. And when you make friends with older people, you’ll learn a lot from their sharing with you the experiences they’ve had.” He didn’t tell me one is silver, the other gold, but I got the drift.

His advice made a lot of sense to me, and to this day, my wife and I can claim friends who are in their nineties and others in their twenties. “You never want to see older friends die,” my colleague said, “but they will. And when that happens, you’ll find solace in the company of the younger ones.”

 That same colleague also told me, tongue-in-cheek, “I don’t need to make more friends. I have trouble keeping up with the friends I already have!”

I didn’t get it at the time, but nearly fifty years on, I better understand what he was saying. We have many friends we barely get to see anymore, given the obligations we all have, the distance we live away from each other, and the vicissitudes of getting older. If it weren’t for social media, I doubt we’d even be in touch with some of them. It’s not that we don’t consider them friends anymore; rather, it’s an inability to keep up.

I first met the friend I’ve known longest when we were fifteen, and sixty-seven years later, that friendship endures. But we see each other in person only two or three times a year now, and even those few meetings seem to require a good deal of advance planning. Moreover, there’s always the chance that one or other of us will have to cancel because of unexpected illness.

I remember my mother in her later years, living longer than my father and most of her friends. Near the end, there was but one longtime friend left, and their children would drive them to an afternoon get-together. Eventually, though, even that proved impossible, and they were reduced to talking by phone—a poor substitute. I dread that day’s arrival for me and my friend.

On a brighter note, my wife and I have acquired five new adult friends over the past half-dozen years. Our five grandchildren have all attained the age of majority now, and are attending university or, having graduated, are working full-time. They all live away from home—two from our eldest daughter and her husband, three from our youngest and hers—but close enough to us that we see them frequently on holidays and family occasions.

When they were children, we interacted with them lovingly, but with the slightly patronizing manner typical of conversations between elders who’ve seen and done it all and youngsters who are still finding their way. We never spoke to them in ‘baby-talk’, always recognized their unique intellect and agency, and considered them, not friends, but beloved grandchildren. And they regarded us, I think, as loving grandparents.

It’s different now, though. They’re still beloved by us, of course, and we by them; nothing could change that. But as they’ve grown into adulthood, they’ve become friends, not just grandkids. They’ve developed their own sets of values—thankfully, not identical to ours, nor to each other’s, but not in contradiction, either. They have their own viewpoints on issues facing them, and feel free to discuss those with us. They no longer accept everything we say as gospel, but they’re polite in their disagreements. And they back up their points of view with rational thought.

No longer are they participants in our world; instead, we have become participants in theirs.

As a young teacher, I remember cautioning parents of my students that, by helping children learn to think critically, we must accept the likelihood that they’ll think differently than we do about many things. It’s a delight now to find that is the case with our grandchildren. And a greater delight that it’s given us so much to talk about.

Three of them have come to visit us in Florida during the past year or so, all with boyfriends. So, we’ve been included in their conversations with each other, heard what they think about goings-on in the world, which has opened up new avenues of perspective for us. We’ve listened to their music, and they to ours. We’ve gone with them to the beach, to the mall, to restaurants, to the pool—all things we used to do with our older friends in years gone by.

When my colleague first told me the wisdom of cultivating friends of all ages, I confess I never anticipated some of those would be our grandchildren. But so it has turned out, and we are blessed.

As the familiar ditty advises, Make new friends, but keep the old…

Past, Present, Future

In 1905, George Santayana famously wrote, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. The statement is from his five-volume book, The Life of Reason: The Phases of Human Progress.

In 1943, Eugene O’Neill wrote, There is no present or future—only the past happening over and over again—now. That declaration is from his stage play, A Moon For the Misbegotten.

In his 1950 novel, Requiem For A Nun, William Faulkner echoed the notion when he wrote, The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

Although I could never be confused with those three literary giants, I too wrote on the same theme, more poetically: What’s past is the past—so quickly it passed—But it’s not where I want to stay. Those are the last two lines in the third stanza of my seven-stanza poem entitled, I Haven’t the Time—

https://ppens1blog.wordpress.com/2025/07/01/i-havent-the-time/

But I also wrote of the future in that same poem: When all has been said, I still look ahead /To life’s next opening curtain. The premises of the poem are that life marches resolutely forward, that I haven’t the time to concern myself with its past, that I eagerly embrace its future.

Nevertheless, I’ve often wondered if there even exists a past or a future. Perhaps, as James Joyce stated in a 1935 interview with Jacques Mercanton, There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.

It may be, perhaps, that my poetic curtain is opening, not on some ephemeral future, but only on more of the ever-morphing present. I’ve long appreciated the analogy that life’s progress is akin to riding a train from one’s point of embarkation to one’s final destination, with innumerable stops along the way. People get on, share the ride with me, and every now and then, some get off—perhaps because their journey has ended, perhaps to continue their journey on another train. Indeed, I change trains from time to time myself, although my journey still continues.

My train moves from whence to hence, but I, gazing through its windows at the passing parade, remain aboard in my encapsulated present. The views change constantly, but my surroundings on the train remain, for the most part, constant and familiar. Locales no sooner flash by the window into the past in one direction, than future ones appear from the other. Riding the train is like being everywhere at once while never leaving the same place—Joyce’s eternal present.

Despite these musings, however, I find myself reflecting on the past more often these days—because of my age, maybe, now that my tomorrows are vastly outnumbered by my yesterdays. Although memory is an increasingly unreliable tool, it’s still easier to remember what’s transpired than it is to predict what’s yet to come.

I recently published a short memoir for family and close friends, Being Me, and the exercise both surprised and cheered me. For instance, I re-affirmed that I have lived a blessed and privileged life to this point, surrounded by people who love me. And happily, I discovered I have almost no regrets about events from the past. The few I do have are less the consequence of my own actions and more the result of external forces acting on me, forces I could not control. With the exception of those, I realized there’s virtually nothing I would seek to change, had I the power to do so.

Writing the memoir took me back to places I’d been along the way, and I grasped anew how much I had enjoyed being there—my parents’ hearth, my own homes with my wife and daughters, our trips to foreign lands, my various career stops. I have no wish to return to any of them, to be sure, for I enjoy where I am right now too much. But I greatly appreciate that I had those experiences and opportunities—even if I see them now as only images flying past the windows of my train.

The future holds no fear for me. Curiosity? Anticipation? Of course! Those next opening curtains still claim my attention. I have no idea when my train will drop me at my final destination, but the present journey continues to be enjoyable and fulfilling. I have no clear understanding of what awaits when I shall disembark for the last time, although I do suspect the past, present, and future all will end at once. After all, Einstein held that the distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

I imagine there to be an entirely different matrix awaiting after my consciousness has ceased, where time has no meaning, where eternity reigns…well, eternally. In the meantime, I hearken to this advice from St. Luke: …live for today, because yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never come.

My journey’s end will come, however, and I look to it in this fashion—

When that day is nigh, as ‘twill be by and by,
I hope it will be widely said,
That as man and boy, I strove for the joy
Of living until I was dead.

Them and Us, They and We

It’s always them, it’s never us
We like to blame for all the fuss
We must contend with on our way---
It’s never We, it’s always They.

It’s always They, it’s never We
Who take us out on stormy sea,
Into weather, harsh and grim---
It’s never us, it’s always them.

It’s always them, it’s never us
Who make us swear, who make us cuss
The sea on which we sail each day---
It’s never We, it’s always They.

It’s always They, it’s never We
Who cause our pain and tragedy,
Shake our wee boat, gudgeon to stem---
It’s never us, it’s always them.

It’s always them and never us?
That’s what we claim.  Why is it thus?
Is there a chance the truth would say
It’s mostly We, not always They?

It’s not just They, it’s mostly We!
When will we learn, when will we see
Who rigs our sails, adjusts our trim?
The captain’s us, it’s never them.

Brown Paper Bags

My wife and I will soon be off for our annual, six-month sojourn in Florida, where we will join with our American friends on Veterans Day, 11 November, to honor the women and men who have sacrificed themselves in defence of freedom. This poem, published here once before, is intended as an homage to those brave souls. It can be read silently, read aloud, or sung to the chorus of the old, Irish ballad, ‘Black Velvet Band’.

His hair hung down to his shoulders,
His shirt was a tattered old rag.
Faded chevrons adorned both his worn, torn sleeves,
And his hands clutched a brown paper bag.

Gunny was the name we all called him,
A veteran, ‘though he never did brag.
He’d wander the streets of the neighborhood,
Snatching sips from his brown paper bag.

His only true friend was old Jarhead,
A mongrel with no leash or tag.
When he died, he left Gunny alone again,
Alone with his brown paper bag.

We never saw Gunny get angry,
He was never a scold or a nag.
When we passed him by, he would nod a sad smile,
And drink from his brown paper bag.


In the summers we often would see him,
With the kit-bag that held all his swag,
On a park bench alone in the warm sunshine,
Holding tight to his brown paper bag.

Then last winter with snowstorms a-swirling,
And temperatures starting to sag,
Gunny died forlorn in the homeless camp,
He’d drunk his last brown paper bag.

When they opened his kit, they discovered
A folded American flag,
And a Congressional Medal of Honor,
Sealed tight in a brown paper bag.

They tried hard to find Gunny’s family,
But their efforts all hit a snag.
So, they buried him with full honors,
With his Medal and brown paper bag.

Gunny rests now with his fallen comrades
‘Neath a cross in a field filled with flags.
UNKNOWN BUT TO GOD and those warriors—
Free at last from those brown paper bags.

Semper Fi, Gunny!

I Can Help With That!

Well into middle-age, I would often ask my parents questions about our family’s history.  Most of the time, those questions were based on simple curiosity, but occasionally they’d be prompted by something more important, like the medical history of family members that might impact me or my children.  Aging aunts and uncles were also a source of information, and always seemed happy to reminisce about such things.

Old photo albums were a rich source of material, too, as were scrapbooks and journals, and I remember poring over them as a child, eager to soak up the ethos and culture of my family.  Alas, when I look at some of those monochrome snapshots now, I find I recognize hardly anyone.

But now, of course, there’s no one to ask.  Both my parents and all my aunts and uncles are long departed, and I am the eldest of my family.  My three younger sisters will sometimes remember events from our shared past quite differently than I, but now we have no arbiter to call upon.

My two daughters, in their fifties now (Egad!), have taken to asking me and my wife the same sort of questions about our respective families that I used to ask my elders.  We answer them to the best of our memories, but our memories aren’t the best anymore.  I come away from some of those conversations with the uneasy feeling that I might have made stuff up to fill the gaps.

One of our daughters suggested recently that we sit down for a few interview sessions with her, where she could record our recollections.  We’ll be happy to do that, but the suggestion prompted another idea, one I immediately acted on.

I’ve written a memoir, a brief history of my life intended for family only—my wife, my daughters and their husbands, my five grandchildren, and my three sisters—plus one friend of almost seventy years.  The book, a mere 135 pages in length, is titled Being Me, and is not meant to be an exhaustive examination of my life to date.  Rather, it’s a glimpse at who I was as a boy, who I became as a husband, father, and educator, who I am well into a blissful retirement, and who I strove to be throughout my life. It deals with those events I deem significant, things that might be of interest now or in future to my limited audience.  The challenge I faced was not trying to decide what should be included, but what should be left out.

I’d love to think there’ll be enough yet to come to justify a sequel, but that seems rather unlikely.  Dying holds no fear for me, but I will harbour a sizable amount of regret if that grim reaper lurches in too soon, for I’m having too much fun to want to leave.

It’s been said no one is ever truly dead to the world until the last person who remembers her or him is gone, and I think there’s something to that.  My paternal grandfather died just before Christmas 1948, when I was five years old.  But because I still remember him, vaguely—the only one in my family who does—he’s still alive in a way.  When I finally pass, so, too, will he.

But I’m hopeful I’ll live on, as he has for me, in the memories of those precious ones I leave behind.  And I pray those memories will be fond ones, at least for the most part, and that they’ll evince more laughter than tears.

I have more yesterdays now than tomorrows, but the inevitability of aging is but one aspect of life.  If we so choose, we can relegate aging to a mere physical phenomenon, not one that has to affect our emotional outlook.  The person looking out on the world from behind my eyes today is not the man whose image I see in the bathroom mirror every morning; rather, he is still the boy I always was—

from my aging eyes,
the boy I once was looks out---
hardly changed at all.
the sails of my youth,
once hoist, are often furled now,
‘though the winds still blow.

The winds do still blow, and I welcome them and am inspired by them, even if I can no longer respond as once I did.  My children and grandchildren, thankfully, are caring enough to include me in their lives; my next adventure with Donna is always just over the horizon; my next book is already forming in my febrile  imagination.  These are the winds I speak of, and the physical frailties that age sends to plague me are unable to fully constrain me.

Prompted by our daughter’s interview idea, my wife also decided to write her memoir, titled My Story, and has asked me to help.  As I read her recollections, I find many of the events she deems significant are those I also considered important.  That shouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, considering we’ve been a couple since our first date in 1963, and married for fifty-seven years.

Neither memoir, of course, will answer all the questions our daughters or their families may ask about their heritage.  But with any luck, they’ll go some way to filling in a few of the blanks.  And who knows? Maybe on some far-off day in the future, long after I’ve gone on to my next adventure, one of my grandchildren—or perhaps one of their children—will want to know something about the old-timer who preceded them by a generation or two.  No one will likely remember, but they’ll have my memoir to refer to for the answer.

I like to think it will be as if I’m still there to hear the question.  And to answer by responding, “I can help with that!”